CHAPTER I

[Illustration: Lady Dundee lifted up the child for him to kiss.

Pages 261-2.]

Graham of Claverhouse

By

IAN MACLAREN

Author of

_"Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush,"_

_"Kate Carnegie," "Young Barbarians,"_

_"A Doctor of the Old School,"_

_Etc., Etc._

Illustrated in Water-Colors by FRANK T. MERRILL

Copyright, 1907, by John Watson

The Sale of this book in New York and Philadelphia

is confined to the stores of

JOHN WANAMAKER.

NEW YORK AND LONDON

THE AUTHORS AND NEWSPAPERS ASSOCIATION

1907

COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY

JOHN WATSON.

_Entered at Stationers' Hall._

_All rights reserved._

Composition and Electrotyping by

J. J. Little & Co.

Printing and binding by

The Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass., U. S. A.

CONTENTS

BOOK I.

CHAPTER PAGE

I.--By the Camp Fire 11

II.--The Battle of Sineffe 31

III.--A Decisive Blow 53

IV.--A Change of Masters 72

BOOK II.

I.--A Covenanting House 93

II.--The Coming of the Amalekite 114

III.--Between Mother and Lover 133

IV.--Thy People Shall Be My People, Thy God My God 155

BOOK III.

I.--One Fearless Man 175

II.--The Crisis 194

III.--The Last Blow 216

IV.--Thou Also False 237

BOOK IV.

I.--Treason in the Camp 263

II.--Visions of the Night 284

III.--Faithful Unto Death 303

[Illustration: (FACSIMILE PAGE OF MANUSCRIPT FROM BESIDE THE BONNIE

BRIAR BUSH)]

GRAHAM OF CLAVERHOUSE

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

BY THE CAMP-FIRE

That afternoon a strange thing had happened to the camp of the Prince

of Orange, which was pitched near Nivelle in Brabant, for the Prince

was then challenging Condé, who stuck behind his trenches at Charleroi

and would not come out to fight. A dusty-colored cloud came racing

along the sky so swiftly--yet there was no wind to be felt--that it

was above the camp almost as soon as it was seen. When the fringes of

the cloud encompassed the place, there burst forth as from its belly a

whirlwind and wrought sudden devastation in a fashion none had ever

seen before or could afterwards forget. With one long and fierce gust

it tore up trees by the roots, unroofed the barns where the Prince's

headquarters were, sucked up tents into the air, and carried soldiers'

caps in flocks, as if they were flocks of rooks. This commotion went

on for half an hour, then ceased as instantly as it began; there was

calm again and the evening ended in peace, while the cloud of fury

went on its way into the west, and afterwards we heard that a very

grand and strong church at Utrecht had suffered greatly. As the camp

was in vast disorder, both officers and men bivouacked in the open

that night, and as it was inclined to chill in those autumn evenings,

fires had been lit not only for the cooking of food, but for the

comfort of their heat. Round one fire a group of English gentlemen had

gathered, who had joined the Prince's forces, partly because, like

other men of their breed, they had an insatiable love of fighting, and

partly to push their fortunes, for Englishmen in those days, and still

more Scotsmen were willing to serve on any side where the pay and the

risks together were certain, and under any commander who was a man of

his head and hands. Europe swarmed with soldiers of fortune from Great

Britain, hard bitten and fearless men, some of whom fell far from

home, and were buried in unknown graves, others of whom returned to

take their share in any fighting that turned up in their own country.

So it came to pass that many of our Islanders had fought impartially

with equal courage and interest for the French and against them, like

those two Scots who met for the first time at the camp-fire that

night, and whose fortunes were to the end of the chapter to be so

curiously intertwined. There was Collier, who afterwards became My

Lord Patmore; Rooke, who rose to be a major-general in the English

army; Hales, for many years Governor of Chelsea Hospital; Venner, the

son of one of Cromwell's soldiers, who had strange notions about a

fifth monarchy which was to be held by our Lord himself, but who was a

good fighting man; and some others who came to nothing and left no

mark. Two young Scots gentlemen were among the Englishmen, who were to

have a share in making history in their own country, and both to die

as generals upon the battle-field, the death they chiefly loved. Both

men were to suffer more than falls to the ordinary lot, and the life

of one, some part of whose story is here to be told, was nothing else

but tragedy. For the gods had bestowed upon him quick gifts of mind

and matchless beauty of face, and yet he was to be hated by his

nation, till his name has become a byword, and to be betrayed by his

own friends who were cowards or self-seekers, and to find even love,

like a sword, pierce his heart.

Scotland contains within it two races, and partly because their blood

is different and partly because the one race has lived in the open and

fertile Lowlands, and the other in the wild and shadowy Highlands, the

Celt of the North and the Scot of the south are well-nigh as distant

from each other as the east from the west. But among the Celts there

were two kinds in that time, and even unto this day the distinction

can be found by those who look for it. There was the eager and fiery

Celt who was guided by his passions rather than by prudence, who

struck first and reasoned afterwards, who was the victim of varying

moods and the child of hopeless causes. He was usually a Catholic in

faith, so far as he had any religion, and devoted to the Stuart

dynasty, so far as he had any policy apart from his chief. There was

also another sort of Celt, who was quiet and self-contained,

determined and persevering. Men of this type were usually Protestant

in their faith, and when the day of choice came they threw in their

lot with Hanover against Stuart. Hugh MacKay was the younger son of an

ancient Highland house of large possessions and much influence in the

distant North of Scotland; his people were suspicious of the Stuarts

because the kings of that ill-fated line were intoxicated with the

idea of divine right, and were ever clutching at absolute power; nor

had the MacKays any overwhelming and reverential love for bishops,

because they considered them to be the instruments of royal tyranny

and the oppressors of the kirk. MacKay has found a place between

Collier and Venner, and as he sits leaning back against a saddle and

to all appearance half asleep, the firelight falls on his broad,

powerful, but rather awkward figure, and on a strong, determined face,

which in its severity is well set off by his close-cut sandy hair.

Although one would judge him to be dozing, or at least absorbed in his

own thoughts, if anything is said which arrests him, he will cast a

quick look on the speaker, and then one marks that his eyes are steely

gray, cold and penetrating, but also brave and honest. By and by he

rouses himself, and taking a book out of an inner pocket, and leaning

sideways towards the fire, he begins to read, and secludes himself

from the camp talk. Venner notices that it is a Bible, and opens his

mouth to ask him whether he can give him the latest news about the

fifth monarchy which made a windmill in his poor father's head, but,

catching sight of MacKay's grim profile, thinks better and only

shrugs his shoulders. For MacKay was not a man whose face or manner

invited jesting.

Upon the other side of the fire, so that the two men could only catch

occasional and uncertain glimpses of each other through the smoke, as

was to be their lot in after days, lay the other Scot in careless

grace, supporting his head upon his hand, quite at his ease and in

good fellowship with all his comrades. If MacKay marked a contrast to

the characteristic Celt of hot blood and wayward impulses, by his

reserve and self-control, John Graham was quite unlike the average

Lowlander by the spirit of feudal prejudice and romantic sentiment, of

uncalculating devotion and loyalty to dead ideals, which burned within

his heart, and were to drive him headlong on his troubled and

disastrous career. A kinsman of the great Montrose and born of a line

which traced its origin to Scottish kings, the child of a line of

fighting cavaliers, he loathed Presbyterians, their faith and their

habits together, counting them fanatics by inherent disposition and

traitors whenever opportunity offered. He was devoted to the Episcopal

Church of Scotland, and regarded a bishop with reverence for the sake

of his office, and he was ready to die, as the Marquis of Montrose had

done before him, for the Stuart line and their rightful place. One

can see as he stretches himself, raising his arms above his head with

a taking gesture, that he is not more than middle size and slightly

built, though lithe and sinewy as a young tiger, but what catches

one's eye is the face, which is lit up by a sudden flash of firelight.

It is that of a woman rather than a man, and a beautiful woman to

boot, and this girl face he was to keep through all the days of strife

and pain, and also fierce deeds, till they carried him dead from

Killiecrankie field. It was a full, rich face, with fine complexion

somewhat browned by campaign life, with large, expressive eyes of

hazel hue, whose expression could change with rapidity from love to

hate, which could be very gentle in a woman's wooing, or very hard

when dealing with a Covenanting rebel, but which in repose were apt to

be sad and hopeless. The lips are rich and flexible, the nose strong

and straight, the eyebrows high and well arched, and the mouth, with

the short upper lip, is both tender and strong. His abundant and rich

brown hair he wears in long curls falling over his shoulders, as did

the cavaliers, and he is dressed with great care in the height of

military fashion, evidently a gallant and debonair gentleman. He has

just ceased from badinage with Rooke, in which that honest soldier's

somewhat homely army jokes have been worsted by the graceful play of

Graham's wit, who was ever gay, but never coarse, who was no ascetic,

and was ever willing to drink the king's health, but, as his worst

enemies used grudgingly to admit, cared neither for wine nor women.

Silence falls for a little on the company. Claverhouse looking into

the fire and seeing things of long ago and far away, hums a Royalist

ballad to the honor of King Charles, and the confounding of crop-eared

Puritans. Among the company was that honest gentleman, Captain George

Carlton, who was afterwards to tell many entertaining anecdotes of the

War in Spain under that brilliant commander Lord Peterborough. And as

Carlton, who was ever in thirst for adventures, had been serving with

the fleet, and had only left it because he thought there might be more

doing now in other quarters, Venner demanded whether he had seen

anything whose telling would make the time pass more gayly by the

fire, for as that liberated Puritan said: "My good comrade on the

right is engaged at his devotions, and I also would be reading a Bible

if I had one, but my worthy father studied the Good Book so much that

men judged it had driven him crazy, and I having few wits to lose

have been afraid to open it ever since. As for Mr. Graham, if I catch

the air he is singing, it is a song of the malignants against which as

a Psalm-singing Puritan I lift my testimony. So a toothsome story of

the sea, if it please you, Mr. Carlton."

"Apart from the fighting, gentlemen," began Carlton, who was a man of

careful speech and stiff mind, "for I judge you do not hanker after

battle-tales, seeing we shall have our stomach full ere many days be

past, if the Prince can entice Condé into the open, there were not

many things worth telling. But this was a remarkable occurrence, the

like of which I will dare say none of you have seen, though I know

there are men here who have been in battle once and again. Upon the

'Catherine' there was a gentleman volunteer, a man of family and fine

estate, by the name of Hodge Vaughan. Early in the fight, when the

Earl of Sandwich was our admiral and Van Ghent commanded the Dutch,

Vaughan received a considerable wound, and was carried down into the

hold. Well, it happened that they had some hogs aboard and, the worse

for poor Hodge Vaughan, the sailor who had charge of them, like any

other proper Englishman, was fonder of fighting than of feeding pigs,

and so left them to forage for themselves. As they could get nothing

else, and liked a change in their victuals when it came within their

reach, they made their meal off Vaughan, and when the fight was over

there was nothing left of that poor gentleman except his skull, which

was monstrous thick and bade defiance to the hogs. This is not a

common happening," continued Carlton with much composure, "and I thank

my Maker I was not carried into that hold to be a hog's dinner. Yet I

give you my word of honor that the tale is true."

"Lord! it was a cruel ending for a gallant gentleman," said Collier,

"and it makes gruesome telling. Have you anything else sweeter for the

mouth, for there be enough of hogs on the land as well as on sea, and

some of them go round the field, where men are lying helpless, on two

legs and not on four, from whom heaven defend us."

"Since you ask for more," replied Carlton, "a thing took place about

which there was much talk, and on it I should like to have your

judgment. Upon the same ship with myself, there was a gentleman

volunteer, and he came with the name of a skilful swordsman. He had

been in many duels and thought no more of standing face to face with

another man, and he cared not who he was, than taking his breakfast.

You would have said that he of all men would have been the coolest on

the deck and would have given no heed to danger. Yet the moment the

bullets whizzed he ran into the hold, and for all his land mettle he

was a coward on the sea. When everyone laughed at him and he was

becoming a thing of scorn, he asked to be tied to the mainmast, so

that he might not be able to escape. So it comes into my mind,"

concluded Carlton, "to ask this question of you gallant gentlemen, Is

courage what Sir Walter Raleigh calls it, if I mind me rightly, the

art of the philosophy of quarrel, or must it not be the issue of

principle and rest upon a steady basis of religion? I should like to

ask those artists in murder, meaning no offence to any gentleman

present who may have been out in a duel, to tell me this, why one who

has run so many risks at his sword's point should be turned into a

coward at the whizz of a cannon ball?"

"There is not much puzzle in it as it seems to me," answered Rooke;

"every man that is worth calling such has so much courage, see you,

but there are different kinds. As Mr. Carlton well called it, there is

land mettle, and that good swordsman was not afraid when his feet

were on the solid ground, then there is sea mettle, and faith he had

not much of that, a trifle too little, I grant you, for a gentleman.

So it is in measure with us all I never saw the horse I would not

mount or the wall within reason I would not take, but I cannot put my

foot in a little boat and feel it rising on the sea without a tremble

at the heart. That is how I read the riddle."

"What I hold," burst in Collier, "is that everything depends on a

man's blood. If it be pure and he has come of a good stock, he cannot

play the coward any more than a lion can stalk like a fox. Land or

sea, whatever tremble be at the heart he faces his danger as a

gentleman should, though there be certain kinds of danger, as has been

said, which are worse for some men than others. But I take it your

gentleman volunteer, though he might be a good player with the sword,

was, if you knew it, a mongrel."

"If you mean by mongrel humbly born," broke in Venner, "saving your

presence, you are talking nonsense, and I will prove it to you from

days that are not long passed. When it came to fighting in the days of

our fathers, I say not that the lads who followed Rupert were not

gallant gentlemen and hardy blades, but unless my poor memory has

been carried off by that infernal whirlwind, I think Old Noll's

Ironsides held their own pretty well. And who were they but

blacksmiths and farmer men, from Essex and the Eastern counties. There

does not seem to me much difference between the man from the castle

and the man behind the plough when their blood is up and they have a

sword in their hands."

"I am under obligation to you all for discussing my humble question,

but I see that we have two Scots gentlemen with us, and I would crave

their opinion. For all men know that the Scots soldier has gone

everywhere sword in hand, and whether he was in the body-guard of the

King of France, or doing his duty for the Lion of the North, has never

turned his back to the foe. And I am the more moved to ask an answer

for the settlement of my mind, because as I have ever understood, the

Scots more than our people are accustomed to go into the reason of

things, and to argue about principles. It is not always that the

strong sword-arm goes with a clear head, and I am waiting to hear what

two gallant Scots soldiers will say." And the Englishman paid his

tribute of courtesy first across the fire to Claverhouse, who

responded gracefully with a pleasant smile that showed his white,

even teeth beneath his slight mustache, and then to MacKay, who leaned

forward and bowed stiffly.

"We are vastly indebted to Mr. Carlton for his good opinion of our

nation," said Claverhouse, after a slight pause to see whether MacKay

would not answer, and in gentle, almost caressing tones, "but I fear

me his charity flatters us. Certainly no man can deny that Scotland is

ever ringing with debate. But much of it had better been left unsaid,

and most of it is carried on by ignorant brawlers, who should be left

ploughing fields and herding sheep instead of meddling with matters

too high for them. At least such is my humble mind, but I am only a

gentleman private of the Prince's guard, and there is opposite me a

commissioned officer of his army. It is becoming that Captain Hugh

MacKay, who many will say has a better right to speak for Scotland

than a member of my house, and who has just been getting counsel from

the highest, as I take it, should give his judgment on this curious

point of bravery or cowardice."

Although Graham's manner was perfectly civil and his accents almost

silken, Venner glanced keenly from one Scot to the other, and everyone

felt that the atmosphere had grown more intense, and that there was

latent antipathy between the two men. And even Rooke, a blunt and

matter-of-fact Englishman, who having said his say, had been smoking

diligently, turned round to listen to MacKay, who had never said a

word through all the talk of the evening.

"Mr. Carlton and gentlemen volunteers," MacKay began, with grave

formality, "I had not intended to break in upon your conversation,

which I found very instructive, but as Claverhouse" (and it was

characteristic of his nation that MacKay should call Graham by the

name of his estate) "has asked me straightly to speak, I would first

apologize for my presence in this company. I do not belong, as ye

know, to the King's guard, and it is true that I have a captain's

commission. As the tempest of to-day had thrown all things into

confusion, and it happened that I had nowhere to sit, Mr. Venner was

so kind as to ask me to take my place by this fire for the night, and

I am pleased to find myself among so many goodly young gentlemen. I

make no doubt," he added, "that everyone will so acquit himself as

very soon to receive his commission."

"The sooner the better," said Hales, "and as I have a flask of decent

Burgundy here, I will pass it round that we may drink to our luck

from a loving cup." And everyone took his draught except MacKay, who

only held the cup to his lips and inclined his head, being a severe

and temperate man in everything.

"Concerning the duel and the action of that gentleman," continued

MacKay, "my mind may not be that of the present honorable company. It

has ever seemed to me that a man has no right to risk his own life or

take that of his neighbor save in the cause of just war, when he

doubtless is absolved. For two sinful mortals to settle their poor

quarrels by striking each other dead is nothing else than black

murder. There is no difficulty to my judgment in understanding the

character of that duellist. When he knew that through skill in fencing

he could kill the other man and escape himself, he was always ready to

fight; when he found that danger had shifted to his own side, he was

quick to flee. My verdict on him," and MacKay's voice was vibrant, "is

that he was nothing other than a butcher and a coward."

"As the Lord liveth," cried Venner, "I hear my sainted father laying

down the law, and I do Captain MacKay filial reverence. May I inquire

whether Scotland is raising many such noble Puritans, for they are

quickly dying out in England. Such savory and godly conversation have

I not heard for years, and it warms my heart."

"The sooner the knaves die out in England the better," cried Collier;

"but I mean no offence to Venner, who is no more a Puritan than I am,

though he has learned their talk, and none at all to Captain MacKay,

whom I salute, and of whose good services when he was fighting on the

other side we have all heard. Nor can I, indeed, believe that he is a

Roundhead, for I was always given to understand that Highland

gentlemen were always Cavaliers, and high-spirited soldiers."

"Ye be wrong then, good comrades," broke in Claverhouse, "for all

Highlanders be not of the same way of thinking, though I grant you

most of them are what ye judge. But have you never heard of the godly

Marquis of Argyle, who took such care of himself on the field of

battle, but afterwards happened to lose his head through a little

accident, and his swarm of Campbells, besides some other clans that I

will not mention? My kinsman of immortal memory, whom I maintain to be

the finest gentleman and most skilful general Scotland has yet reared,

could have told you that there were Highland Roundheads; he knew them,

and they knew him, and I hope I need not be telling this company what

happened when they met." As Graham spoke, it may have been the

firelight on MacKay's face, but it seemed to flush and his expression

to harden. However, he said no word and made no sign, and Claverhouse,

whose voice was as smooth as ever, but whose eyes were flashing fire,

continued: "If there should be trouble soon in Scotland, and my advice

from home tells me that the fanatics in the West will soon be coming

to a head and taking to the field, we shall know that some of the

clans are loyal and some of them are not. And for my own part, I care

not how soon we come to our duel in Scotland. Please God, I would

dearly love to have the settling of the matter. With a few thousand

Camerons, Macphersons, MacDonalds, and such like, I will guarantee

that I could teach the Psalm-singing canters a lesson they would never

forget. But I crave pardon for touching on our national differences,

when we had better be employed in cracking another flask of that good

Burgundy." And Graham, as if ashamed of his heat, stretched his arms

above his head.

"May God in His mercy avert so great a calamity," said MacKay after a

pause. "When brother turns against brother in the same nation it is

the cruellest of all wars. But the rulers of Scotland may make

themselves sure that if they drive God-fearing people mad, they will

rise against their oppressors. Mr. Graham, however, has wisdom on his

side--I wish it had come a minute sooner--when he said there was no

place for our Scots quarrels in the Prince's army. Wherefore I say no

more on that matter, but I pray we all may have the desire of a

soldier's heart, a righteous cause, a fair battle, and a crowning

victory, and that we all in the hour of peril may do our part as

Christian gentlemen."

"Amen to that, Captain MacKay of Scourie, three times Amen!" cried

Graham. "I drink it in this wine, and pledge you all to brave deeds

when a chance comes our way. The sooner the better and the gladder I

shall be, for our race have never been more content than when the

swords were clashing. I wish to heaven we were serving under a more

high-spirited commander; I deny not his courage, else I would not be

among his guard, nor his skill, but I confess that I do not love a man

whose blood runs so slow, and whose words drop like icicles. But these

be hasty words, and should not be spoken except among honorable

comrades when the wine is going round by the camp-fire. And here is

Jock Grimond who, because he taught me to catch a trout and shoot the

muir-fowl when I was a little lad, thinks he ought to rule me all my

days, and has been telling me for the last ten minutes that he has

prepared some kind of bed with the remains of my tent. So good night

and sound sleep, gentlemen, and may to-morrow bring the day for which

we pray."

CHAPTER II

THE BATTLE OF SINEFFE

It was early in the morning on the first day of August, and darkness

was still heavy upon the camp, when Grimond stooped over his master

and had to shake him vigorously before Claverhouse woke.

"It's time you were up, Maister John; the Prince's guards are

gatherin', and sune will be fallin' in; that's their trumpets

soundin'. Ye will need a bite before ye start, and here's a

small breakfast, pairt of which I saved oot o' that stramash

yesterday--sall! the blast threatened to leave neither meat nor

lodgin', and pairt I happened to light upon this mornin' when I was

takin' a bit walk through the camp with my lantern."

Grimond spread out a fairly generous breakfast of half a fowl, a piece

of ham, some excellent cheese, with good white bread and a bottle of

wine, and held the lantern that his master might eat with some

comfort, if it had to be with more haste.

"Do you ken, Jock, where I was when you wakened me, and flashed the

light upon my face? Away in bonnie Glen Ogilvie, where everything is

at its best to-day. I dreamed that I was off to Sidlaw Hill, to see

what was doing with the muir-fowl, and I felt the good Scots air

blowing upon my face. This is a black wakening, Jock, but I've slept

worse, and you have done well for breakfast. Ye never came honestly by

it, man. Have ye been raiding?"

"Providence guided me, Maister John, and I micht have given a little

assistance mysel'. As I was crossing thro' a corner of the Dutch camp,

I caught a glimpse of this roast chuckie, with some other bits o'

things, and it cam into my mind that that was somebody's breakfast.

Whether he had taken all he wanted or whether he was going to be too

late was-na my business, but the Lord delivered that fowl into my

hands, and I considered it a temptin' o' Providence no to tak it, to

say nothin' o' the white bread. The wine and the ham I savit frae

yesterday."

"You auld thief, I might have guessed where you picked up the

breakfast. I only hope 'twas a heavy-built Dutchman who could starve

for a week without suffering, and not a lean, hungry Scot who needed

some breakfast to put strength in him for a day's fighting, if God be

good enough to send it. Isn't it a regiment of the Scots brigade which

is lying next to us, Jock?"

"It is," replied that worthy servitor, "and I was hopin' that it was

Captain MacKay's rations which were given into my hands, so to say, by

the higher power. I was standing behind you, Maister John, last nicht

when you and him was argling-bargling, and if ever I saw a cunning

twa-faced Covenanter, it's that man. They say he has got a good word

with the Prince through his Dutch wife, and where ye give that kind of

man an inch, he will take an ell. It's no for me to give advice, me

bein' in my place and you in yours. But I promised your honorable

mither that I wouldna see you come to mischief if I could help it, and

I am sair mistaken if yon man will no be a mercilous and persistent

enemy. May the Almichty forbid it, but if MacKay of Scourie can hinder

it there will be little advancement for Graham of Claverhouse in this

army."

"You are a dour and suspicious devil, Jock, and you've always been the

same ever since I remember you. Captain MacKay is a whig and a

Presbyterian, but he is a good soldier, and I wish I had been more

civil to him last night. We are here to fight for the Prince of

Orange and to beat the French, and let the best man win; it will be

time enough to quarrel when we get back to Scotland. Kindly Scots

should bury their differences, and stand shoulder to shoulder in a

foreign land."

"That is bonnie talk, laird, but dinna forget there's been twa kinds

of Scot in the land since the Reformation, and there will be twa to

the end of the chapter, and they'll never agree till the day of

judgment, and then they'll be on opposite sides. There was Queen Mary

and there was John Knox, there was that false-hearted loon Argyle,

that ye gave a grand nip at the fire last nicht, and there was the

head o' your hoose, the gallant Marquis--peace to his soul. Now

there's the Carnegies and the Gordons and the rest o' the royal

families in the Northeast, and the sour-blooded Covenanters down in

the West, and it's no in the nature o' things that they should

agree any more than oil and water. As for me, the very face of a

Presbyterian whig makes me sick. But there's the trumpet again,"

and Grimond helped his master to put on his arms.

"I've been awfu favored this mornin', Maister John, for what div ye

think? I've secured nae less than a baggage waggon for oorsels. The

driver was stravagin' aboot in the dark and didna know where he was

going, so I asked him if he wasna coming for the baggage of the

English gentlemen, to say naething of a Scots gentleman. When he was

trying to understand me, and I was trying to put some sense into him,

up comes Mr. Carlton, and I explained the situation to him. He told

the driver in his own language that I would guide him to the spot, and

me and the other men are packing the whole of the gentlemen's luggage

and ane or twa comforts in the shape of meat and bedding which the

fools round about us didna seem to notice, or were going to leave.

That waggon, Mr. John, is a crownin' mercy, and I'm to sit beside the

driver, and it will no be my blame if there's no a tent and a supper

wherever Providence sends us this nicht." And Jock went off in great

feather to look after his acquisition, while his master joined his

comrades of the Prince's guard.

As the day rapidly breaks, they find themselves passing from the level

into a broken country. The ground is rising, and in the distance they

can see defiles through which the army must make its way. The

vanguard, as they learn from one of the Prince's aides-de-camp, is

composed of the Imperial corps commanded by Count Souches, and must by

this time be passing through the narrows. In front are the Dutch

troops, who are under the immediate command of the Commander-in-Chief,

the Prince of Orange. The English volunteers being the next to the

Prince's regiment of Guards, followed close upon the main body of the

army, and behind them trailed the long, cumbrous baggage train. The

rear-guard, together with some details of various kinds and nations,

consisted of the Spanish division, which was commanded by Prince

Vaudemont. As they came to higher ground Claverhouse began to see the

lie of the country, and to express his fears to Carlton.

"I don't know how you judge things," said Claverhouse, "but I would

not be quite at my ease if I were his Highness of Orange, in command

of the army, and with more than one nation's interest at stake,

instead of a poor devil of a volunteer, with little pay, less

reputation, and no responsibility. If we were marching across a plain

and could see twenty miles round, or if there were no enemy within

striking reach, well, then this were a pleasant march from Neville to

Binch, for that is where I'm told we are going. But, faith, I don't

like the sight of this country in which we are being entangled. If

Condé has any head, and he is not a fool, he could arrange a fine

ambuscade, and catch those mighty and vain-glorious Imperialists and

that fool Souches like rats in a trap. Or he might make a sudden

attack on the flank and cut our army into two, as you divide a

caterpillar crawling along the ground."

"The General knows what he is about, no doubt," replies Carlton with

true English phlegm; "he has made his plan, and I suppose the cavalry

have been scouting. It's their business who have got the command to

arrange the march and the attack, and ours to do the fighting. It will

be soon enough for us to arrange the tactics when we get to be

generals. What say you to that, Mr. Graham? There's no sign of the

enemy at any rate, and Souches must be well in through the valley."

"No," said Graham, "there are no Frenchmen to be seen, but they may be

there behind the hill on our right, and quick enough to show

themselves when the time comes. Oh! I like this bit of country, for it

minds me of the Braes of Angus, and I hate a land where all is flat

and smooth. By heaven! what a chance there is for any commander who

knows how to use a hill country. See ye here, comrade, suppose this

was Scotland, and this were an army of black Whigs, making their way

to do some evil work after their heart's desire against their King and

Church, and I had the dealing with them. All I would ask would be a

couple of Highland clans and a regiment of loyal gentlemen,

well-mounted and armed. I would wait concealed behind yon wood up

there near the sky-line till those Imperialists were fairly up the

glen and out of sight and the Dutch were plodding their way in. Then

I'd launch the Highlanders, sword in hand, down the slope of that

hill, and cut off the rear-guard, and take the baggage at a swoop, and

in half an hour the army would be disabled and the third part of it

put out of action."

"What about the Imperial troops and the Dutch, my General?" said

Carlton, much interested in Claverhouse's plan of battle. "You can't

take an army in detachments just as you please."

"You can with Highlanders and cavalry, and then having struck your

blow retire as quickly as you came. Faith, there would be no option

about the retiring with your Highlanders; when they got hold of the

baggage they would do nothing more. After every man had lifted as much

as he could carry, he would make for the hills and leave the other

troops to do as they pleased. An army of Highlanders is quickly

gathered and quickly dispersed, and the great point of attraction is

the baggage. Condé has no Highlanders, the worse for him and the

better for us, but he has plenty of light troops--infantry as well as

cavalry--and if he doesn't take this chance he ought to be discharged

with disgrace. But see there, what make you of that, Carlton?"

"What and where?" said Carlton, looking in the direction Claverhouse

pointed. "I see the brushwood, and it may be that there are troops

behind, but my eyes cannot detect them."

"Watch a moment that place where the leaves are darker and thicker,

and that tree stands out; you can catch a glitter, just an instant,

and then it disappears. What do you say to that?"

"By the Lord!" cried Carlton, who was standing in his stirrups and

shading his eyes with his hand, "it's the glitter of a breastplate.

There's one trooper at any rate in that wood, and if there is one

there may be hundreds. What think you?"

"What I've been expecting for hours. Those are the videttes of the

French army, and they have been watching us all the time our vanguard

was passing. I'll stake a year's rental of the lands of Claverhouse

that if we could see on the other side of that hill we would find

Condé's troops making ready for an attack."

"I will not say but that you are right, and I don't like the situation

nor feel as comfortable as I did half an hour ago. Do you think that

the general in command knows of this danger, or has heard that the

French outposts are so near?"

"If you ask me, Mr. Carlton, I would say that those Dutch officers

don't know that there is a Frenchman within ten miles; they are good

at drill, and steady in battle, but their minds are as heavy as their

bodies. Their idea of fighting is to deploy according to a book of

drill on a parade ground; you cannot expect men who live on the flat

to understand hills. That wood," and Claverhouse was looking at the

hill intently, "is simply full of men and horses, and within an hour,

and perhaps less, you will see a pretty attack. Aren't we at their

mercy?" Claverhouse pointed forward to the crest of a little hill over

which the Dutch brigade were passing in marching formation, and

backward to the lumbering train of baggage-wagons.

"'Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad,' is a Latin

proverb I picked up at St. Andrew's University, and one of the few

scraps of knowledge I carried away from the good old place. They might

at least have thrown out some of our cavalry on the right to draw fire

from that wood, and enable us to find their position. It's not overly

pleasant to jog quietly along as if one were riding up the Carse of

Gowrie to Perth fair, when it's far more likely we are riding into the

shambles like a herd of fat bullocks going to Davie Saunders, the

Dundee butcher."

"See you here, friend," cried Carlton, "I am not in a mind to be taken

at a disadvantage and ridden down by those Frenchmen when we are not

in formation. They have us at a disadvantage in any case, but, by my

life, we ought at any rate to deploy to the right, and seize that

higher ground, or else they will send us into that marshland that I

see forward there on the left. If they do, there will be some throats

cut, and it might be yours or mine. What say you, Mr. Graham, to ride

forward and tell one of the officers in attendance on his Highness

what we have seen, and then let them do as they please?"

"I have nothing to say against that, but I know one man who will not

go, and that is John Graham of Claverhouse. It may be vain pride, or

it may not, but I will not have the shame of telling my tale to one

of those Dutchmen as if you were speaking to a painted monument, and

then have him order you back to your place as if you were a mutineer;

my hand would be itching for the sword-handle before all was done, and

so I'll just be doing. But I will be ready when the cloud breaks from

yon hill, and it's not far off the bursting now." And Graham pointed

out that the glitter was repeated at several points, as when the sun

is reflected from broken dishes on a hillside.

"You Scots are a proud race," laughed Carlton, "and quick to take

offence. We English have a temper, too, but we are nearer to those

Dutchmen in our nature. I'll not see the army ambuscaded without a

warning. If they take it we shall make a better fight, and for the

first hour it will be bad enough anyway till the vanguard are brought

back, and if they won't take it, why, we have done our duty, and we

will have to look after ourselves." And Carlton spurred his horse and

cantered forward to where the headquarters staff were riding with the

troop which was called the Scots brigade, because it was largely

officered and to some extent manned by Scotsmen, and in which MacKay

had a captain's commission.

In some fifteen minutes Carlton rejoined Claverhouse red and annoyed,

and on the sight of him Claverhouse laughed.

"Without offence, good comrade, I take it you have not been thanked

for your trouble or been promised promotion. Sworn at, I dare say, if

those godly Dutchmen are allowed to rap out an oath. At any rate you

have been told to attend to your own work and leave our wise generals

to manage theirs, eh?"

"You are right, Graham. I wish I had bitten off my tongue rather than

reported the matter. I got hold of an aide-de-camp, and I pointed out

what we had seen, and he spoke to me as if I was a boy with my heart

in my mouth for fear I would be shot every minute. For a set of

pig-headed fools----"

"Well, it would not have mattered much, for the news, as it happened,

would have come too late. See, the attack has begun; whatever be the

issue of the battle before night, it will be one way or another with

us within an hour." As he spoke Claverhouse began to put himself in

order, seeing that his pistols were ready in the holsters, his sword

loose in the scabbard, and the girths of his saddle tight.

"It will be a sharp piece of work for us, and some good sword play

before it is done."

Suddenly from the wood a line of cavalry emerged, followed by

another and still another, till at least three regiments were on

the side of the hill, and behind them it was evident there was a

large body of troops. By this time the staff had taken alarm, and

an officer had galloped up with orders that the English volunteers

and Dutch cavalry should deploy to the right, and orders were also

sent to the Spaniards in the rear to advance rapidly and cover the

baggage. The Dutch troops in front who had entered the defile were

arrested, and began to march back, and an urgent message was sent

to the Imperialists to follow the Dutch in case the French should

make a general attack. Before the Dutch troops had returned to the

open, and long before the Imperialists could be in action, the

French, crossing the hill with immense rapidity and covered by a

screen of cavalry, attacked the Spanish rear-guard before it was

able to take up a proper form of defence, and though the Spaniards

fought with their accustomed courage, and no blame could be

attached to the dispositions made in haste by Vaudemont, this

division of the army was absolutely routed, and one distinguished

Spanish general, the Marquis of Assentar, was killed when cheering his

men to the defence. The defeat of the Spaniards left the baggage

train unprotected, and the French troops fell upon it with great

zest: indeed, Claverhouse that night declared that the Highlanders

themselves could not have raided more heartily or more swiftly. Nor

did the Spaniards, when once they had been beaten and scattered,

and fighting was no longer of any use, disdain to help themselves to

the plunder. Grimond was furious as he saw his wagon in danger, and

endeavored to rally some odds and ends of flying Spaniards and

terrified wagon-drivers to defend his cherished possessions. But he

was left to do so himself, and after beating off the two first

Frenchmen who came to investigate, and being wounded in a general

fight with the next lot, he was obliged to leave the possessions of

the English volunteers to their fate and set off to discover how it

fared with his master.

The Battle of Sineffe was to last all day, and before evening the two

armies would be generally engaged; eighteen thousand men were to fall

on both sides, and there were to be many hot encounters, but the

sharpest took place at the centre and early in the day. The cavalry

with the English volunteers were thrown forward to hinder the advance

of the French cavalry who, while their infantry were dealing with the

Spanish corps, were being hurled at the centre in order to cut the

army in two and confine the Dutch troops to the defile, or if they

emerged from the defiles, to crush them before they could deploy on

the broken country.

"Where do you take it is the point of conflict?" asked Carlton as the

regiment of the guards with which they were serving went forward at a

sharp trot across the level ground, on which the French cavalry should

soon be appearing. "Where is his Highness himself, for I can get no

sight of the rest of the Dutch cavalry?"

"To the left, I take it, where the fight has already begun. Do you not

hear the firing? and I seem to catch some shouts, as if the Dutch and

the French were already meeting. Mind you, Carlton, his Highness may

have been too confident and laid the army open to attack, but he can

tell where the heart of the situation is, and his business will be to

resist the French onslaught till the infantry are in position. Just as

I thought, we are to go to his aid, and in ten minutes, or my name is

not Graham, we shall have as much as we want."

In less than that space of time the regiment, now galloping, found

themselves in the immediate rear of the fighting line, and opened out

and prepared to advance. In front of them three regiments of Dutch

cavalry were being beaten back by a French brigade, and just when the

English volunteers arrived the French received a large accession of

strength, and the Dutch, broken and ridden down by weight of men and

horses, were driven back. It was in vain that their colonel ordered

his men to charge, for in fifty yards the mass of Dutch cavalry in

front were thrown upon them and broke their line. It was now a man to

man and hand to hand conflict for a few minutes, and Claverhouse, when

he had disentangled himself from the hurly-burly, and forced his way

through the mass, was in immediate conflict with a French officer in

front of their line, whom he disarmed by a clever sword trick which he

had learned from a master of arms in the French service. A French

soldier missed Claverhouse's head by a hair's-breadth, while he,

swerving, struck down another on his right. Carlton had disappeared,

Hales had been wounded, but in the end escaped with his life. Collier

and Claverhouse were now in the open space behind the first line of

the French cavalry, and they could see more than one Dutch officer

and some of the Dutch troopers also in the same dangerous position.

Graham was considering what to do when he caught sight, a short

distance off on the left, of a figure he seemed to know: it was an

officer riding slowly along the line as if in command, and taking no

heed of the many incidents happening round him.

"Collier," cried Graham, "see you who that is among the French

soldiers alone and at their mercy? As I am a living man it is the

Prince himself. Good God! how did he get there, and what is he going

to do?"

While Graham was speaking the Prince of Orange, who was now quite

close to him, but gave no sign that he recognized him, suddenly threw

out an order in French to the regiment behind which he was riding, and

which was hewing its way through a mass of Dutch. He called on them to

halt and reform, and their officers supposing him to be one of their

generals who had arrived from headquarters, set to work to extricate

their men from the mêlée. The Prince passed with the utmost coolness

through their line as if to see what was doing in front, while

Claverhouse and Collier followed him as if they were attached. As soon

as he had got to the open space in front, for what remained of the

Dutch were in rapid retreat, and were scattering in all directions,

he put spurs to his horse, and shouting to Claverhouse and Collier to

follow rapidly, for his trick had already been detected, he galloped

forward to the place where the crowd of fugitives was thinnest, that

he might as soon as possible rejoin his staff and resume command when

above all times a general was needed. A French officer, however, had

recognized him as he passed through the line, and now with some dozen

soldiers was pursuing at full speed. The Prince's horse had been

wounded in two places and was also blown with exertion, and passing

over some marshy ground had not strength to clear it, but plunged

helplessly in the soft soil. In two minutes, the French would have

been upon them and made the greatest capture of the war. Claverhouse,

leaping off his horse, asked the Prince to mount, who, instantly and

without more than a nod, sprang into the saddle and escaped when the

Frenchmen were within a few yards. Claverhouse fired at the French

officer and missed him, but brought down his horse, which did just as

well, and Collier sent his sword through the shoulder of the French

soldier who followed next. Claverhouse, seizing this minute of delay,

ran with all his might for a hedge, over which dismounted stragglers

were climbing in hot haste, and made for the nearest gap. It was

blocked by a tall and heavily-built Dutch dragoon, who could neither

get through nor back, and was swearing fearfully.

[Illustration: Claverhouse fired at the French officer and missed him,

but brought down his horse. Page 49.]

"It's maist awfu' to see a Christian man misusing the Lord's mercies

like that," and at the sound of that familiar voice Claverhouse turned

to find Grimond by his side, who had been out in the hope of finding

his master, and had certainly come to his aid at the right time.

"Would onybody but a blunderin' fool of a Dutchman think of blockin' a

passage when the troops are in retreat? If we canna get through him,

we had better get ower him. I've helped ye across a dyke afore,

Maister John, and there ye go." Claverhouse, jumping on Grimond, who

made a back for him, went over the Dutchman's shoulders. Then he

seized the Dutchman by his arm, while Grimond acted as a battering-ram

behind: so they pulled what remained of him, like a cork out of the

mouth of a bottle, and Grimond followed his master. Collier, who had

been covering the retreat, left his horse to its fate, and ran by the

same convenient gap.

"To think o' the perversity o' that Dutchman obstructin' a right o'

way, especially on sich a busy day, wi' his muckle unmannerly

carcase, as if he had been a Highland cattle beast. Dod! he would make

a grand Covenanter for the cursed thrawnness o' him."

That night when the English volunteers, who had all escaped with some

slight wounds and the loss of their baggage, were going over the day's

work, an officer attached to the Prince asked if a Scots gentleman

called Mr. Graham was present. When Claverhouse rose and saluted him,

the officer said, with the curt brevity of his kind, "His Highness

desires your presence," and immediately turned and strode off in the

direction of the headquarters, while Claverhouse, shrugging his

shoulders, followed him in his usual leisurely fashion. On arriving at

the farm-house where the Prince had gone after the French had retired,

Graham was immediately shown into his room. The Prince, rising and

returning Claverhouse's respectful salutation, gave him one long,

searching glance, and then said: "You did me a great service to-day,

and saved my person from capture, perhaps my life from death. I do not

forget any man who has done me good, and who is loyal to me. What you

desire at my hands I do not know, and what it would be best to do for

you I do not yet know. If you determine after some experience to

remain in my service, and if you show yourself the good soldier I

take you to be, you will not miss promotion. That is all I will say

to-night, for I know not where your ambitions may lie." The Prince

looked coldly at Graham's love-locks and Cavalier air. "Your cause may

not be my cause. I bid you good-evening, Mr. Graham. We shall meet

again."

CHAPTER III

A DECISIVE BLOW

"You have the devil's luck, Graham," said Rooke, who had taken a meal

fit for two men, and now had settled down to smoke and drink for the

evening. "To get the best place in the attack to-day on the town, and

to escape with nothing more than a cat scratch, which will not hurt

your beauty, is more than any ordinary man can expect. There will be

some hot work before Grave is taken, and plenty of good men will get

their marching orders," for the Prince and his troops were now

besieging Grave keenly, and the English volunteers were messing

together after an assault which had captured some of the outworks.

"I would lay you what you like, Rooke," drawled Venner, "if I were not

a Puritan, and didn't disapprove of drinking and gambling and other

works of Satan, that Chamilly will come to terms within fourteen days.

He has no stomach for those mortars that are playing on the place, and

he knows that Orange, having got his teeth in, will never take them

out. Another assault like to-day will settle the matter. Graham here

used to say that his Highness was an icicle, but I judge him a good

fighting man. You will get as much as you want if you follow the

Prince. Ballantine that's gone to-day always said that there was no

soldier in Europe he would put before the Prince. Speaking about that,

who, think you, will get the place of lieutenant-colonel in the Scots

Brigade in succession to Sir William?"

"Don't know, and don't care," said Collier, stretching himself and

yawning. "It will go to some officer of the Scots Brigade, and though

I am a born Scot, nobody remembers that, and I pass for an Englishman.

And to tell the truth, I'm happier with you volunteers than among

those canny Scots; they are as jealous and as bigoted as a Roundhead

Conventicle, and I don't envy the man who gets promotion among them.

But it doesn't concern any of us."

"There I differ with you, comrade," broke in Carlton. "You seem to

have forgotten that one of our good company is not only a Scot,

but has done the Prince priceless service. I make little doubt that

we shall hear news in twenty-four hours. We are proud to have Mr.

Graham with us, for he is a good comrade and a good soldier, but I

expect to-morrow to drink a flask of wine to his commission as

lieutenant-colonel. What say you to my idea?"

"If promotion went by merit, I'm with you, Carlton; but, faith, it

goes by everything else, and specially back-door influence. A man gets

his step, not because he is a good soldier, but because he has got a

friend at court, or he is the same religion as the general, or I have

heard cases where it went by gold."

"That such things are done, Rooke, I will not deny, but they say that

promotion goes fairly where his Highness commands; he has an eye for a

good soldier, and you have forgotten that he would not be in his place

to-day had it not been for our comrade's help."

"I remember that quite well, and I wish to God other people may

remember, for Graham ran a pretty good chance of closing his life that

day and never seeing Scotland again, but Princes have short memories.

If Charles II. of sainted character had called to his mind that my

grandfather, more fool he, melted all his plate and lost all his land,

to say nothing of three or four sons, for the Stuart cause, I would

not be a gentleman volunteer in this army without a spare gold piece

in my pocket. Kings bless you at the time with many pretty words, and

then don't know your face next time you meet; but I wish you good

luck, Graham, and I drink your health. What think you yourself?"

"What I ought to think, gentlemen, is that I am much honored to have

your good opinion and your friendly wishes." And Graham gathered them

all with a smile that gave his delicate and comely features a rare

fascination. "You are true comrades as well as brave gentlemen. I will

not deny, though I would only say it among my friends, that I have

thought of that vacancy, and have wondered whether the appointment

would come my way. I received, indeed, a private word to apply for it

this evening, but that I will not do. The Prince knows what I have

done, though I do not make so much of saving his life as you may

think. If he is pleased to give me this advance, well, gentlemen, I

hope I shall not bring disgrace upon the Scots Brigade. But let us

change the subject. We be a barbarous people in the North, but after

all a gentleman does not love to talk about his own doings, still less

of his own glory. To bed, my comrades, we may have heavy work

to-morrow."

The Prince gave his troops a day's rest, and left the artillery to do

their work, and Claverhouse was reading for the sixth time some

letters of his mother's, when Grimond came in with the air of a man

full of news, but determined not to tell them until he was questioned,

and even then to give what he had grudgingly and by way of favor.

"What news, did ye say, Mr. John? Weel, if ye mean from Scotland, ye

have the last yersel' in the letters of your honorable mither. What I

am hearing from some Scot that cam oot o' the west country is that if

the council does na maister the Covenanters, the dear carles will

maister them, and then Scotland will be a gey ill place to live in. It

will be a fine sicht when you and me, Claverhouse, has to sign the

Solemn League and Covenant, and hear Sandy Peden, that they call a

prophet, preachin' three hours on the sins o' prelacy and dancin'. My

certes!" And at the thought thereof Grimond lost the power of speech.

"Never mind Scotland, Jock, just now; the auld country will take care

of herself till we go home, and then we'll give such assistance as in

the power of a good sword. Who knows, man, but we'll be riding through

the muirs of Ayrshire after something bigger than muir-fowl before

many years are over? But the camp, man, what's going on here this

morning, and what are the folk talking about, for, as ye know, I've

been on the broad of my back after yesterday's work?"

"If ye mean by news, laird, what wasna expected, and that, I'm

judging, is a correct definition o' news, there's naethin' worth

mentionin'. A dozen more Scots have come to get their livin' or their

death, as Providence wills, in a foreign army, instead of working

their bit o' land on a brae-side in bonnie Scotland. But that's no

news, for it has been goin' on for centuries, and I'm expectin' will

last as long as thae foreign bodies need buirdly men and Scotland has

a cold climate.

"They are saying, I may mention, that Chamilly is getting sick o'

these mortars, and didna particularly like the attack yesterday, and

the story is going about that he will soon ask for terms, and that if

he gets the honors of war the Prince may have the town. It will be

another feather in his cap, and, to my thinkin', he has got ower many

for his deservin'--an underhand and evil-hearted loon." And Grimond

spoke with such vehemence and a keen dislike that Claverhouse

suspected he had heard something more important than he had told.

"'Is that all?' ye ask, Claverhouse, and I reply no; but I wish to

gudeness that it was. If news be what has happened, even though some

of us expected it, then I have got some, although I would rather that

my tongue was blistered than tell it. It cam into my mind that the

Prince micht be appointin' the new colonel to the Scots Brigade this

mornin', and so I just happened to give a cry on an Angus man who is

gettin' his bit livin' as a servant to one of the aides-de-camp. He is

called a Dutchman, but has honest Scots blood in his veins. We havered

about this and about that, and then I threipit (insisted) that he

would never hear onything that was goin' on, and, for example, that he

wouldna know who was the new colonel. 'Div I no?' said Patrick Harris.

'Maybe I do, but maybe I wouldna be anxious to tell ye, Jock Grimond,

for ye michtna be pleased.' 'Pleased or no pleased,' I said, 'let me

hear his name.' 'Well,' he answered, 'if ye maun have it, it's no your

maister that folk thought would get it.' 'Then,' said I, 'Patrick, I

jalouse who it is; it's MacKay of Scourie.' 'It is,' said Patrick. 'I

heard it when I was standin' close to the door, and I canna say that

I'm pleased.' Naither was I, ye may depend upon it, Claverhouse, but I

wouldna give onybody the satisfaction of knowing what I thocht. So I

just contented mysel' wi' sayin', 'Damn them baith, the are for an

ungrateful scoundrel, and the other for a plottin', schemin'

hypocritical Presbyterian. I cam to tell ye, but no word would have

passed my lips if ye hadna chanced to ask me."

"Jock, you've been a faithful man to the house of Graham for many

years," said Claverhouse, after a silence of some minutes, during

which Grimond busied himself polishing his master's arms, "and I will

say to you what I am not going to tell the camp, that you might have

brought better news. Whether I was right or wrong, man, I had set my

heart upon succeeding Ballantine, and I was imagining that maybe this

very afternoon I could write home to my mother and tell her that her

son was a lieutenant-colonel in the good Scots Brigade. But it's all

in the chances of war, and we must just take things as they come. Do

ye know, Jock, I often think I was born like the Marquis, under an

unlucky star, and that all my life things will go ill with me, and

with my cause. I dinna think that I'll ever see old age, and I doubt

whether I'll leave an heir to succeed me. I dreamed one nicht that the

wraith of our house stood beside my bed and said, 'Ye'll be cursed in

love and cursed in war, and die a bloody death at the hand of

traitors whom ye trusted.'"

"For God's sake, Maister John, dinna speak like that." And Grimond's

voice, hard man though he was, was nigh the breaking. "It's no chancy,

what ye say micht come to pass if ye believe it. Whatever the evil

spirit said in the veesions o' the nicht--oh! my laddie, for laddie ye

have been to me since I learned ye to ride your pony and fire your

first shot, ye mauna give heed or meddle wi' Providence. Ye have been

awfu' favored wi' the bonniest face ever I saw on a man, so that

there's no a lass looks on ye but she loves ye, and the hardiest body

ever I kenned. Ye have the best blood of Scotland in your veins, and I

never saw ye fearful o' onything; ye have covered yersel' wi' glory in

this war, and I prophesy there will be a great place waiting you in

the North country. There's no a noble lady in Scotland that wouldna be

willing to marry you, and I'm expectin' afore I die to see you famous

as the great Marquis himsel', wi' sons and daughters standin' round

ye. I ken aboot the wraith o' the house o' Graham, a maleecious and

lying jade. If she ever comes to ye again by nicht or day, bid her

begone to the evil place in the name o' the Lord wha redeemed us."

"You're a trusty friend, Grimond, for both my mother and myself count

you more friend than servant, and you've spoken good words; but I take

it this day's happenings are an omen of what is coming. Maybe I am

ower young to take black views o' hidden days, but ye'll mind

afterwards, Jock Grimond, when ye wrap me in a bloody coat for burial,

for there will be no shroud for me, that I said the shadow began to

fall at the siege of Grave. But there's no use complaining, man; our

cup is mixed, and we must drink it, bitter or sweet. Aye, the Grahams

are a doomed house, and we maun dree oor weird (suffer our destiny)."

"Weird," broke out Grimond, with a revulsion from pathos to anger. "Ye

speak as if it were the will o' the Almichty, but I am thinkin' the

thing was worked from another quarter. Providence had very little hand

in it, unless ye call Captain Hugh MacKay Providence, and in that case

it'll be true what some folks say, that the devil rules the world.

From all I can gather, and I keep my ears open when you are concerned,

laird, I am as sure as you are Laird of Claverhouse that Scourie,

confoond his smooth face, has been plottin' aginst ye ever since ye

sat that nicht afore the Battle of Sineffe roond the camp-fire. I saw

how he looked, and I said to mysel', 'You're up to some mischief.' His

party hangit the noble Marquis and plagued him wi' their prayers on

the scaffold, and it is as natural for a Covenanter to hate a Graham

as to eat his breakfast. MacKay saw we were dangerous, and ye'll be

more dangerous yet, Claverhouse, to the black crew. He has been up the

back stairs tellin' lies aboot ye, and sayin' that though many trust

ye, for a' that ye are an enemy to Presbytery. Ye'll have your chance

yet, laird, and avenge the murder o' the Marquis, but there'll be no

place for ye here so long as MacKay is pourin' the poison o' asps, as

auld David has it, into the Prince's ear."

"Na, na, Mr. John," concluded Grimond when his master had remonstrated

with him for speaking against the Prince and an officer of the army,

and warned him to be careful of his tongue, "ye needna be feart that a

word o' this will be heard ootside. I mind the word in the Good Book,

'Speak not against the King, lest a bird of the air carry the matter.'

There's plenty o' birds in this camp that would be glad enough to work

us wrang. Gin onybody speaks to me aboot Captain MacKay being made a

colonel, I'll give him to understand that my master was offered the

post and declined to take it for special reasons o' his own; maybe

because ye wanted to stay wi' the gentlemen volunteers, and maybe

because there was a grand position waitin' for ye in Scotland. Let me

alone, laird, for makin' the most o' the situation: but dinna forget

MacKay."

Claverhouse was of another breed from Grimond, and had the chivalrous

instincts of his house, but as the time wore on and Graham went with

the Prince's guards after the surrender of Grave to The Hague, where

Colonel MacKay and the Scots Brigade were also stationed, the constant

spray of insinuations of MacKay's cunning and the Prince's prejudice

began to tell upon his mind. He was conscious of a growing dislike

towards MacKay, beyond that coolness which must always exist between

men of such different religious and political creeds. It was a

tradition among the Scots Royalists from the days of Montrose that the

Whig Highlanders, such as the Campbells, were cunning and treacherous,

and then it was right to admit that MacKay might think himself

justified in warning the Prince of Orange, who was surrounded by

Presbyterians, and already coming under the masterful influence of

Carstairs, the minister of the Presbyterian Church, and afterwards

William's most trusted councillor, that Graham belonged to a

thoroughgoing and dangerous Cavalier house, and that it would not be

wise to show him too much favor. Although they were fellow-soldiers,

and had met in camp life from time to time, they had never been

anything more than distant acquaintances. Now it seemed to Claverhouse

that MacKay looked at him more coldly than ever, and that he had

caught a triumphant expression in his eye. MacKay was getting upon his

nerves, and he had come to hate the sight of him. As a matter of fact,

and as Claverhouse granted to himself afterwards, while MacKay was not

his friend and could not be, he had never said a word against him to

the Prince, and if he had used no influence for him, had never tried

to hinder his promotion. The day was coming when Claverhouse would

acknowledge that though MacKay was on the wrong side, he had conducted

himself as became a man of blood and a brave soldier. In those days at

The Hague, disappointed about promotion, and with evil news from

Scotland, to say nothing of Grimond ever at his elbow goading and

inflaming him through his very loyalty, Claverhouse allowed himself to

fall into an unworthy and inflammatory temper. When one is in this

morbid state of mind, he may at any moment lose self-control, and it

was unfortunate that, after a long tirade one morning from Grimond,

who professed to have new evidence of MacKay's underhand dealing,

Claverhouse should have met his supposed enemy in the precincts of the

Prince's house. MacKay was going to wait upon the Prince, and was

passing hurriedly with a formal salutation, when Claverhouse, who in

this very haste found ground of offence, stood in the way.

"May I have the honor, if you be called not immediately to the

Prince's presence, to wish you good-morning, Colonel MacKay, and to

say, for it is better to give to a man's face what one is thinking

behind his back, that, although I have not the satisfaction of

speaking much with you, I hear you are busy enough speaking about

me."

"If we do not meet much, Claverhouse," replied MacKay, with a look of

surprise on his calm and composed face, "this is not my blame, and

doubtless it may be counted my loss. It is only that our duties lie

apart and we keep different company. I know not what you mean by your

charge against me, which, I take it, comes to this, that I have said

evil of you to some one, I know not whom, and in some place I know not

where. Is that why you have been avoiding me, and even looking at me

as if I were your enemy? My time is short, but this misunderstanding

between gentlemen can surely be quickly cleared. I pray you of your

courtesy, explain yourself and give your evidence."

"No doubt you have little time, and no doubt you will soon be busy

with the same work. You were born of a good house, though it has taken

an evil road in these days; you know the rules by which a man of blood

should guide his life, and the things it were a shame for him to do,

even to the man he may have to meet on the battle ground. Is it

fitting, Scourie, to slander a fellow-officer to his commander, and so

to pollute his fountain of influence that he shall not receive his

just place? You have asked what I have against you; now I tell you,

and I am ashamed to bring so foul an accusation against a Scots

gentleman."

"Is that the cause of your black looks and secret ill-will?" And

MacKay was as cold as ever, and gave no sign that he had been stirred

by this sudden attack. "In that case I can remove your suspicion, and

prevent any breach between two Scots officers who may not be on the

same side in their own country, but who serve the same Prince in this

land. Never have I once, save in some careless and passing reference,

spoken about you with the Prince, and never have I, and I say it on

the honor of a Highland gentleman, said one word against you as a man

or as a soldier. You spoke of evidence. What is your evidence? Who has

told you this thing, which is not true? Who has tried to set you on

fire against me?"

"It is not necessary, Colonel MacKay, to produce any witness or to quote

any saying of yours. The facts are known to all the army; they have

seen how it has fared with you and with me. I will not say whether I

had not some claim to succeed Ballantine as lieutenant-colonel in

the Scots Brigade, and I will not argue whether you or I had done most

for his Highness. I have not heard that you saved his life, or that he

promised to show his gratitude. I will not touch further on that

point, but how is it, I ask you, that since that day, though I had my

share of fighting at the siege of Grave and elsewhere as ye know, there

is no word of advance for me? If you can read this riddle to me and

keep yourself out of it, why then I shall be willing to take your hand

and count you, Presbyterian though you be, an honest man."

"Why ask those questions of me, especially as ye seem to doubt my

word, Captain Graham?" And for the first time MacKay seemed stung by

the insinuation of dishonorable conduct. "If you will pardon my

advice, would it not be better that you go yourself to the Prince and

ask him if any man has injured you with him, and how it is you have

not received what you consider your just reward?"

"That is cheap counsel, Hugh MacKay, and mayhap you gave it because

you knew it would not be taken. Never will I humble myself before that

wooden image, never will I ask as a favor what should be given as my

right. It were fine telling in Scotland that John Graham of

Claverhouse was waiting like a beggar upon a Dutch Prince. I would

rather that the liars and the plotters whom he makes his friends

should have the will of me."

MacKay's face flushes for an instant to a fiery red, and then turns

ghastly pale, and without a word he is going on his way, but

Claverhouse will not let him.

"Will nothing rouse your blood and touch your honor? Must I do this

also?" And lifting his cane he struck MacKay lightly upon the breast.

"That, I take it, will give a reason for settling things between us.

Mr. Collier will, I make no doubt, receive any officer you are

pleased to send within an hour, and I will give you the satisfaction

one gentleman desires of another before the sun sets."

"You have done me bitter wrong, Captain Graham." And MacKay was

trembling with passion, and putting the severest restraint upon his

temper, which had now been fairly roused. "But I shall not do wrong

against my own conscience. When I took up the honorable service of

arms, I made a vow unto myself and sealed it in covenant with God that

I would accept no challenge nor fight any duel. It is enough that the

blood of our enemies be on our souls. I will not have the guilt of a

fellow-officer's death, or risk my own life in a private quarrel. I

pray you let me pass."

"It is your own life you are concerned about, Colonel MacKay,"

answered Claverhouse, with an evil smile full of contempt, and in

the quietest of accents, for he had resumed his characteristic

composure, "your own precious life, which you desire to keep in

safeguard." Then, turning with a graceful gesture to some officers who

had been passing and been arrested by the altercation, Claverhouse

said with an air of careless languor: "May I have the strange

privilege never given me before, and perhaps never to be mine

again, of introducing you, by his leave or without it, to a Scot

whom no one can deny is by birth a gentleman, and whom no one can

deny now is also a coward--Lieutenant-Colonel MacKay, of the Prince's

Scots Brigade."

CHAPTER IV

A CHANGE OF MASTERS

When his first fierce heat cooled, and Claverhouse had time for

reflection, he was by no means so well satisfied with himself as he

had imagined he would be in the foresight of such a scene. For one

thing he had shown the soreness of his heart in not getting promotion,

and had betrayed a watchful suspiciousness, which was hardly included

in a chivalrous character. He had gone out of his way to insult a

fellow-Scot, and a fellow-officer who had never pretended to be his

friend, and who was in no way bound to advance his interest, because,

to put it the worst, MacKay had secured his own promotion and not that

of Claverhouse. As regards MacKay's courage, it had been proved on

many occasions, and to call him a coward was only a childish offence,

as if one flung mud upon a passer-by. When Claverhouse reviewed his

conduct, and no man was more candid in self-judgment, he confessed to

himself that he had played an undignified part, and was bitterly

chagrined. The encounter, of course, buzzed through the camp, and

every man gave his judgment, many justifying Captain Graham, and

declaring that he had shown himself a man of mettle--they were the

younger and cruder minds--many censuring him for his insolent ambition

and speaking of him as a brawling bravo--they were some of the staid

and stronger minds. His friends, he noticed, avoided the subject and

left him to open it if he pleased, but he gathered beforehand that he

would not receive much sympathy from that figure of common-sense

Carlton, nor that matter-of-fact soldier Rooke, and that the

ex-Puritan Venner would only make the incident a subject of satirical

moralizing. With another disposition than that which Providence had

been pleased to give John Graham, the condemnation of his better

judgment, confirmed by the judgment of sound men, would have led him

to the manly step of an apology which would have been humiliating to

his pride, but certainly was deserved at his hands. Under the

domination of his masterful pride, which was both the strength and the

weakness of Graham's character, making him capable of the most

absolute loyalty, and capable of the most inexcusable deeds, a pride

no friend could guide, and no adversity could break, Claverhouse fell

into a fit of silent anger with himself, with MacKay, with his absent

critics, with the Prince. It was also in keeping with his nature to be

that afternoon gayer than usual--recalling the humorous events of

early days with Grimond, who could hardly conceal the satisfaction he

dared not express, treating every man he met with the most gracious

courtesy, smiling approval of the poorest jest, and proposing healths

and drinking national toasts that evening with his friends as if

nothing had happened, and no care heavier than thistledown lay upon

his mind. But Claverhouse knew that the incident was not closed, and

he was not surprised when an officer attached to the Prince's person

called at his lodging and commanded his presence at the Prince's house

next morning. He was aware that in striking MacKay and challenging him

to a duel he had infringed a strict law, which forbade such deeds

within the Royal grounds.

William of Orange was a younger man than when England knew him, and

he came as king to reign over what was ever to him a foreign people,

as he was to them an unattractive monarch. He was a man of slight

and frail body; of calm and passionless nature, capable as few men

have been of silence and reserve. His mind worked, as it were, in

vacuo, secluded from the atmosphere of tradition, prejudice,

emotions, jealousies. It was free from moods and changes, clear,

penetrating, determined, masterful. Against no man did he bear a

personal grudge, for that would have only deflected his judgment and

embarrassed his action. For only two or three men had he any

personal affection; that also might have affected the balance of his

judgment and the freedom of his action. His courage was undeniable,

his spirit of endurance magnificent, his military talents and his

gift of statesmanship brilliant. Perhaps, on the whole, his most

valuable characteristic qualities were self-control and a spirit of

moderation, which enabled him to warm his hands at other men's fires

and to avoid the perils of extremes. His weakness was the gravity

of his character, which did not attract the eye or inspire devotion

in the ordinary man, and an inevitable want of imagination, which

prevented him entering into the feelings of men of a different caste.

It would, indeed, have been difficult to find a more vivid contrast

between the two men who faced each other in the Prince's room, and

who represented those two schools of thought which have ever been

in conflict in religion--reason and authority, and those two types

of character which have ever collided in life--the phlegmatic and the

empassioned.

"What, I pray you, is the reason of your conduct yesterday in the

precincts?" asked the Prince at once after formally acknowledging

Claverhouse's reverence. "I am informed upon good evidence that you

wantonly insulted Lieutenant-Colonel MacKay of the Scots Brigade, and

that you invited him to a duel, and that when he, as became an officer

of judgment and piety, as well as of high courage, declined to join

with you in a foolish and illegal act, that you called him a coward.

Have I been rightly informed?

"Then that point is settled as I expected, and in order that you may

not make any mistake on this matter I will add, though I am not

obliged to do so, that Colonel MacKay did not condescend to inform

against you. The scandal was public enough to come from various

quarters, and now to my chief question, have you anything to say in

your defence?"

"Nothing, sir," replied Claverhouse. "I judged that Colonel MacKay had

done me a personal injury for which I desired satisfaction in the way

that gentlemen give. He has a prudent dislike to risk his life,

although I endeavored to quicken his spirit. And so I allowed him to

know what I thought of him, and some officers who overheard our

conversation seemed to have been so much pleased with my judgment that

they carried it round the army. In this way I presume it came to your

Highness's ears. That is all," concluded Graham with much sweetness of

manner, "that I have to say."

"It is what you ought to be ashamed to say, Mr. Graham," said William

severely. "Neither of us are old men, but I take it you are older than

I am----"

"I am twenty-six years of age, may it please your Highness,"

interpolated Claverhouse, "and have served in two armies."

"We are, at any rate, old enough not to play the fool or carry

ourselves like headstrong boys. As regards your quarrel, I am given to

understand that the cause lies not so much with your fellow-officer as

with your general. You are one of that large company who can be found

in all armies, who are disappointed because, in their judgment,

promotion has not corresponded with their merits. Be good enough to

say if I do you an injustice? You are silent, then I am right. And

so, because another officer was promoted before you, you choose to

take offence and try to put shame upon a gallant gentleman. Is

this"--the Prince inquired with a flavor of contempt--"how well-born

Scots carry themselves in their own country?"

"Your Highness's reasoning," replied Graham with elaborate deliberation,

"has convinced me of my error, but I should like to make this plea,

that if I had not been carried by a gust of passion in the park

yester-morning, I had not disputed with Colonel MacKay. It still seems

to me that he has been treated with over much kindness in this matter of

promotion, in which--it may be their foolishness--soldiers are apt to

be jealous, and I have been in some degree neglected. But I most

frankly confess that I have been in the wrong in doing what I did,

since it was more your Highness's business than mine to have resented

this quarrel."

"What mean you by this word, for it has an evil sound?" But there was

not a flush on William's pale, immovable face, and it was marvellous

to see so young a Prince carry himself so quietly under the polite

scorn of Claverhouse's manner and the rising insolence of his speech.

"As your Highness insists, it is my pleasure to make my poor meaning

plain in your Highness's ears. If I know what happened, Colonel

MacKay, reaching the highest quarter by the back stair, persuaded your

Highness to give him the colonelcy, although it in honor belonged to

another officer, and I submit to your Highness's judgment that it was

you who should have flicked him with your cane. Colonel MacKay has

done John Graham of Claverhouse less injury in disappointing him of

his regiment, though it has been a grievous dash, than in inducing

your Highness to break your promise." And Claverhouse, whose last word

had fallen in smoothness like honey from the comb, and in venom like

the poison of a serpent, looked the Prince straight in the face and

then bowed most lowly.

"You are, I judge, Captain Graham, recalling a certain happening at

the Battle of Sineffe, when you rendered important service to me, and

it may be saved my life. If you conclude that this has been forgotten,

or that a Prince has no gratitude, because you did not obtain the

place you coveted, then understand that you are wrong, and that with

all your twenty-six years and your service in two armies, you are

ignorant of the principle on which an army should be regulated. Upon

your way of it, if any young officer, more raw in character than in

years, and not yet able to rule his own spirit, or to keep himself

from quarrelling like a common soldier, should happen to be of use in

a strait--I acknowledge the strait--to a king, his foolishness should

be placed in command of veteran officers and men. It were right to

recompense him at the cost of the Prince, mayhap, but not at the cost

of gallant soldiers whom he was unfit to govern, because he could not

govern himself."

Whether William was angry at Claverhouse's impertinence, or was no

more touched than the cliff by the spray from a wave, only his

intimates could have told, but in this conflict between the two

temperaments, the Prince was in the end an easy victor. If William had

no boiling point, Claverhouse, though as composed in manner as he was

afterwards to be cruel in action, had limits to his self-restraint. As

the Prince suggested that, though two years older than himself, he was

a shallow-pated and self-conceited boy, who was ever looking after his

own ends, and when he was disappointed, kicked and struggled like a

child fighting with its nurse; that, in fact, in spite of thinking

himself a fine gentleman, he ought to know that he had neither sense

nor manners, and was as yet unfit for any high place, Claverhouse's

temper gave way, and he struck with cutting words at the Prince.

"What I intended to have said, but my blundering speech may not have

reached your Highness's mind, is that if a Prince makes a promise of

reward to another man who has saved his life at the risk of his own,

that Prince is bound to keep his word or to make some reparation. And

there is a debt due by your Highness to a certain Scots officer which

has not been paid. Is a Prince alone privileged to break his word?"

"You desire reparation," answered the Prince more swiftly than usual,

and with a certain haughty gesture, "and you shall have it before you

leave my presence. For brawling and striking within our grounds, you

are in danger of losing your right arm, and other men have been so

punished for more excusable doings. You have been complaining in a

public place that you have not obtained a regiment, as if it were your

due, and you have charged your general with the worst of military sins

after cowardice, of being a favorer. I bestow upon you what will be

more valuable to you than a regiment which you have not the capacity

to command. I give you back your right arm, and I release you from the

service of my army."

"May I ask your Highness to accept my most humble and profound

gratitude for sparing my arm, which has fought for your Highness, and

if it be possible, yet deeper gratitude for releasing me from the

service of a Prince who does not know how to keep his word. Have I

your Highness's permission to leave your presence, and to make

arrangements for my departure from The Hague?"

Claverhouse spoke with an exaggerated accent of respect, but the words

were so stinging that William's eyes, for an instant only, flashed

fire, and the aide-de-camp in the room made a step forward as if to

arrest the Scots officer. There was a pause, say, of fifteen seconds,

which seemed an hour, and then the Prince ordered his aide-de-camp to

leave the chamber, and William and Claverhouse stood alone.

"You are a bold man, Mr. Graham," said the Prince icily, "and I should

not judge you to be a wise one. It is not likely that you will ever be

as prudent as you are daring, and I foresee a troubled career, whether

it be long or short, for you.

"No man, royal or otherwise, has ever spoken to me as you have done;

mayhap in the years before me, whether they be few or many, no one

will ever do so. As you know, for what you have said any other Prince

in my place would have you punished for the gravest of crimes on the

part of an officer against his commander."

Claverhouse bowed, and looked curiously at the Prince, wondering

within himself what would follow. Was it possible that his Highness

would lay aside for an hour the privilege of royalty and give him

satisfaction? Or was he merely to lecture him like the Calvinistic

preachers to whom his Highness listened, and then let him go with

contempt? Claverhouse's indignation had now given way to intellectual

interest, and he waited for the decision of this strong, calm man,

who, though only a little more than a lad, had already the coolness

and dignity of old age.

"Were I not a Prince, and if my creed of honor were different from

what it is, I should lay aside my Princedom, and meet you sword in

hand, for I also, though you may not believe it, have the pride of a

soldier, and it has been outraged by your deliberate insolence.

Whether it was worthy of your courtesy to offer an insult to one who

cannot defend himself, I shall leave to your own arbitrament, when

you bethink yourself in other hours of this situation. I pray you be

silent, I have not finished. My intention is to treat your words as if

they had never been spoken. The officer in attendance has learned

better than to blaze abroad anything that happens in this place, and

you will do as it pleases yourself, and is becoming to your honor as a

gentleman. I have no fear of you. You are a brave man whatever else

you be; you will do me the justice of believing I am another."

Claverhouse remembered this was the first moment that he had felt any

kindness to the Prince of Orange.

"My reason for dealing with you after this fashion is that you have

some cause to complain of injustice, and to think that the good help

you gave has been forgotten, because I have not said anything nor done

anything. This is not so, for I have not been certain how I could best

recompense you. When a moment ago I spoke of you as not fit for

promotion, I did you injustice, for, though there be some heat in you,

there is far more capacity, and I take it you will have high command

some day." The last few words were spoken with a slight effort, and

Graham, when in his better mood the most magnanimous of men, was

suddenly touched by the remembrance of the Prince's station and

ability, his courage and severity, and his grace in making this amend

to one who had spoken rudely to him. Claverhouse would have responded,

but was again silent in obedience to a sign from the Prince.

"Let me say plainly, Mr. Graham, that you are a soldier whom any

commander will be glad to enroll for life service in his army,

but"--and here his Highness looked searchingly at Graham as he had

once done before--"I doubt whether your calling be in the Dutch army

or in any army that is of our mind or is likely to fight for our

cause.

"It is not given to man to lift the veil that hides the future, but we

can reason with ourselves as to what is likely, and guide our course

by this faint light. I have advices from Scotland, and I know that the

day will come, though it may not be yet, when there will be a great

division in that land and the shedding of blood. Were you and I both

in your country when that day comes, you, Mr. Graham, would draw your

sword on one side and I on the other.

"We may never cross one another in the unknown days, but each man must

be true to the light which God has given him. Colonel MacKay will

fulfil his calling in our army and on our side; in some other army and

for another side you will follow your destiny. It is seldom I speak at

such length; now I have only one other word to say before I give you

for the day farewell.

"Mr. Graham, I know what you think of me as clearly as if you had

spoken. Let me say what I think of you. You are a gallant gentleman,

full of the ideas of the past, and incapable of changing; you will be

a loyal servant to your own cause, and it will be beaten. To you I owe

my life. Possibly it might have been better for you to have let me

fall by the sword of one of Condé's dragoons, but we are all in the

hands of the Eternal, Who doeth what He wills with each man. You will

receive to-day a captain's commission in the cavalry, and in some day

to come, I do not know how soon, and in a way I may not at present

reveal to you, I will, if God please, do a kindness to you which will

be after your own heart, and enable you to rise to your own height in

the great affair of life. I bid you good-morning."

Few men were ever to hear the Prince of Orange use as many words or

give as much of his mind. As Claverhouse realized his fairness and

understood, although only a little, then, of his foresight, and as he

came to appreciate the fact that the Prince was trying to do something

more lasting for him than merely conferring a commission, he was

overwhelmed with a sense of the injustice he had done his Highness. He

also realized his own petulance with intense shame.

"Will your Highness forgive my wild words, for which I might have been

justly punished"--Graham, with an impulse of emotion, stepped forward,

knelt down, and kissed the Prince's hand--"and the shame I put upon a

Scots gentleman, for which I shall apologize this very day. My sword

is at your Highness's disposal while I am in your service and this arm

is able to use it. If in any day to come it be my fate to stand on

some other side, I shall not forget I once served under a great

commander and a most honorable gentleman, who dealt graciously with

me."

Two years passed during which Captain Graham saw much fighting and

many of his fellow-officers fall, and it was in keeping with the

character of the Prince that during all that time he took no

special notice of Claverhouse, and gave no indication that he had

that interview in mind. Claverhouse had learned one lesson,

however--patience--and he would have many more to learn; he had

also been taught not to take hasty views, but to wait for the long

result. And his heart lifted when, after the abortive siege of

Charleroi, he was summoned for a second time to the Prince's presence.

On this occasion the Prince said little, but it was to the point;

it was the crisis in Claverhouse's life.

"Within a few days, Captain Graham," said the Prince, with the same

frozen face, "I leave for London. I may not speak about my errand nor

other things which may happen, but if it be your will, I shall take

you in attendance upon me. At the English court I may be able to give

you an introduction which will place you in the way of service such as

you desire, and if it be the will of God, high honor. For this

opportunity, which I thought might come some day, I have been waiting,

and if it be as I expect, you will have some poor reward for saving

the life of the Prince of Orange."

It was known by this time in the army, and, indeed, throughout Europe,

that William of Orange was going to wed the Princess Mary, who was the

daughter of the Duke of York, the King of England's brother, and

likely to be herself the daughter of an English sovereign. For certain

reasons it seemed an unlikely and incongruous alliance, for even in

the end of 1677, when the marriage took place, anyone with prescience

could foresee that there would be a wide rift between the politics of

the Duke of York when he became King and those of William, and even

then there must have been some who saw afar off the conflict which

ended in William and Mary succeeding James upon the throne of England.

There were many envied Claverhouse when it came out that he was to be

a member of the Prince's suite, and be associated with the Prince's

most distinguished courtiers. But he carried himself, upon the whole,

with such graciousness and gallantry that his brother officers

congratulated him on every hand, and feasted him so lavishly before he

left that certain of his own comrades of the Prince's guard were laid

aside from duty for several days. It was to the credit of both men

that on the morning of his departure one of his last visitors was

Colonel MacKay, who wished him success, and prophesied that they would

hear great things of him in days to come, since it was understood that

Claverhouse would not return to the Dutch service.

For some time after the arrival of the Prince and his staff in London,

William gave no sign of the good he was going to do Claverhouse.

Indeed, he was busy with the work of his wooing and the arrangements

for his marriage. Claverhouse by this time had learned, however, that

William forgot nothing and never failed to carry out his plans, and

his pulse beat quicker when the Prince requested him to be in

attendance one afternoon, and to accompany him alone to Whitehall,

where the Duke of York was in residence. There was a certain

superficial likeness in character between the Prince and his

father-in-law, for both appeared unfeeling and unsympathetic men, but

what in James was obstinacy, in William was power, and what in James

was superstitious, in William was religion, and what in James was

pride, in William was dignity. His friends could trust William, but no

one could trust James; while William could make immense sacrifices for

his cause, James could wreck his cause by an amazing blindness and a

foolish grasping at the shadow of power. If anyone desired a master

under whom he would be led to victory, and by whom he would never be

put to shame, a master who might not praise him effusively but would

never betray him, then let him, as he valued his life and his career,

refuse James and cleave to William. But it is not given to a man to

choose his creed, far less his destiny, and Claverhouse was never to

have fortune on his side. It was to be his lot rather to be hindered

at every turn where he should have been helped, and to run his race

alone with many weights and over the roughest ground.

"Your Highness has of your courtesy allowed me to present in public

audience the officers who have come with me from The Hague," said the

Prince of Orange to James, "and now I have the pleasure to specially

introduce this gentleman who was lately a captain in my cavalry, and

who some while ago rendered me the last service one man can do for

another. Had it not been for his presence of mind and bravery of

action, I had not the supreme honor of waiting to-day upon your

Highness, and the prospect of felicity before me. May I, with the

utmost zeal towards him and the most profound respect towards your

Highness, recommend to your service Mr. Graham of Claverhouse, who

distinguished himself on many fields of battle, and who is a fine

gentleman and a brave officer fit for any post, civil or military. I

will only say one thing more: he belongs to the same house as the

Marquis of Montrose, and has in him the same spirit of loyalty."

Claverhouse, overcome by the remembrance of the past, is stirred to

the heart, and can hardly make his reverence for emotion. As he kisses

James's hand he registers a vow which he was to keep with his life.

And when he has left the presence of the Duke, the Prince of Orange

said to Claverhouse's new master: "You have, sir, obtained a servant

who will be faithful unto death; I make him over to you with

confidence and with regret. This day, I believe, he will begin the

work to which he has been called, and so far as a man can, he will

finish it."

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

A COVENANTING HOUSE

The glory of Paisley Castle has long departed, but it was a brave and

well-furnished house in the late spring of 1684, to which this story

now moves. The primroses were blooming in sheltered nooks, where the

keen east wind--the curse and the strength of Scotland--could not

blight them, and the sun had them for his wooing; there were signs of

foliage on the trees as the buds began to burgeon, and send a shimmer

of green along the branches; the grass, reviving after winter, was

showing its first freshness, and the bare earth took a softer color in

the caressing sunlight. The birds had taken heart again and were

seeking for their mates, some were already building their summer

homes. Life is one throughout the world, and the stirring of spring in

the roots of the grass and in the trunks of the trees touches also

human hearts and wakes them from their winter. The season of hope,

which was softening the clods of the field, and gentling the rough

massive walls of the castle, were also making tender the austere face

of a Covenanting minister standing in one of the deep window recesses

of what was called in Scots houses of that day the gallery, and what

was a long and magnificent upper hall, adorned with arms and tapestry.

He was looking out upon the woods that stretched to the silver water

of the Clyde, then a narrow and undeveloped river, and to the far-away

hills of Argyleshire, within which lay the mystery of the Highlands.

Henry Pollock had been born of a Cavalier and Episcopalian family,

with blood as loyal as that of Claverhouse; he had been brought up

amid what the Covenanters called malignant surroundings, and had been

taught to regard the Marquis of Montrose as the first of Scotsmen and

the most heroic of martyrs. Although the senior of Claverhouse by two

years, he had been with him at St. Andrew's University, and knew him

well, but in spite of his heredity Pollock had ever carried a more

open mind than Graham. During his university days he had heard the

saint and scholar of the Covenant, Samuel Rutherford, who was

principal and professor in the university and a most distinguished

preacher of his day in Scotland. No doubt Rutherford raged furiously

against prelacy as a work of the devil, and the enemy of Scots

freedom; no doubt he also wrote books which struck hard at the

authority of the King, and made for the cause of the people. His name

was a reproach among Pollock's friends, and Pollock began with no

sympathy towards Rutherford's opinions, but the lad's soul was stirred

when, in the college chapel of St. Andrew's and also in the parish

kirk where Rutherford was colleague with that servant of the Lord Mr.

Blair, he listened to Rutherford upon the love of God and the

loveliness of Christ. One day he was present, standing obscure among a

mass of townsfolk, when Rutherford, after making a tedious argument on

the controversies of the day which had almost driven Pollock from the

Kirk, came across the name of Christ and then, carried away out of his

course as by a magnet, began to rehearse the titles of the Lord Jesus

till a Scots noble seated in the kirk cried out, "Hold you there,

Rutherford." And Pollock was tempted to say "Amen." With his side he

resented the Covenanting regime, because it frowned on gayety and

enforced the hateful Covenant, but even then the lad wished that his

side had preachers to be compared with Rutherford and Blair, and the

words of Rutherford lay hidden in his heart. When the Restoration came

he flung up his cap with the rest of them, and drank only too many

healths to King Charles. For a while he was intoxicated with the

triumph of the Restoration, but there was a vein of seriousness in him

as well as candor, and as the years passed and the people were still

drinking, and as the tyranny of Cromwell gave place to the brutality

of the infamous crew, Lauderdale, the renegade, and others, who

misruled Scotland in the name of the King, Pollock was much shaken,

and began to wonder within himself whether the Presbyterians, with all

their bigotry, may not have had the right of it. If they did not dance

and drink they prayed and led God-fearing lives, and if they would not

be driven to hear the curates preach, there was not too much to hear

if they had gone. When the Covenant was the symbol of oppression,

Pollock hated it, when it became the symbol for suffering he was drawn

to it, till at last, to the horror of his family, he threw in his lot

with the Covenanters of the west of Scotland. Being a lad of parts

with competent scholarship, and having given every pledge of

sincerity, he was studying theology in Holland, while Claverhouse was

fighting in the army of the Prince, and he was there ordained to the

ministry of the kirk. When one has passed through so thorough a

change, and sacrificed everything which is most dear for his

convictions, he is certain to be a root and branch man, and to fling

himself without reserve, perhaps also, alas, without moderation, into

the service of his new cause. Pollock was not of that party in the

kirk which was willing to take an indulgence at the hands of the

government and minister quietly in their parishes, on condition that

they gave no trouble to the bishops. He would take no oaths and sign

no agreements, nor make any compromise, nor bow down to any

persecutor. He threw in his lot with the wild hillmen, who were being

hunted like wild birds upon the mountains by Claverhouse's cavalry,

and as he wandered from one hiding place to another, he preached to

them in picturesque conventicles, which gathered in the cathedral of

the Ayrshire hills, and built them up in the faith of God and of the

Covenant. Like Rutherford, who had been to him what St. Stephen was to

St. Paul, he was that strange mixture of fierceness and of tenderness

which Scots piety has often bred and chiefly in its dark days. He was

not afraid to pursue the doctrine of Calvin to its furthest extreme,

and would glorify God in the death of sinners till even the stern

souls of his congregation trembled. Nor was he afraid to defend

resistance to an unjust and ungodly government, and he was willing to

fight himself almost as much, though not quite, as to pray.

But even the gloomiest and bitterest bigots that heard him, huddled in

some deep morass and encircled by the cold mist, testified that Henry

Pollock was greatest when he declared the evangel of Jesus, and

besought his hearers, who might before nightfall be sent by a bloody

death into eternity, to accept Christ as their Saviour. When he

celebrated the sacrament amid the hills, and lifted up the emblems of

the Lord's body and blood, his voice broken with passion, and the

tears rolling down his cheeks, they said that his face was like that

of an angel. Times without number he had been chased on the moors;

often he had been hidden cunningly in shepherd's cottages, twice he

had eluded the dragoons by immersing himself in peat-bogs, and once he

had been wounded. His face could never at any time have been otherwise

than refined and spiritual, but now it was that of an ascetic, worn by

prayer and fasting, while his dark blue eyes glowed when he was moved

like coals of fire, and the golden hair upon his head, as the sun

touched it, was like unto an aureole. Standing in the embrasure of

that gallery, which had so many signs of the world which is, in the

pictures of sport upon the walls and the stands of arms, he seemed to

be rather the messenger and forerunner of the world which is to come.

As he looks out upon the fair spring view, he is settling something

with his conscience, and is half praying, half meditating, for, in his

lonely vigils, with no company but the curlew and the sheep, he has

fallen upon the way of speaking aloud.

"There be those who are called to live alone and to serve the Lord

night and day in the high places of the field, like Elijah, who was

that prophet, and John the Baptist, who ran before the face of the

Lord. If this be Thy will for me, oh, God, I am also willing, and Thou

knowest that mine is a lonely life, and that I bear in my body the

marks of the Lord Jesus. If this be my calling, make Thy way plain

before Thy servant, and give me grace to walk therein with a steadfast

heart. He that forsaketh not father and mother ... and wife for His

name's sake, is not worthy." And then a change came over his mood.

"But the Master came not like the Baptist; He came eating and

drinking; yea, He went unto the marriage of Cana in Galilee, and He

blessed little children and said, 'For of such is the Kingdom of God.'

Thou knowest, Lord, that I have loved Thy children, and when a bairn

has smiled in my face as I baptized it into Thy name, that I have

longed for one that would call me father. When I have seen a man and

his wife together by the fireside, and I have gone out to my

hiding-place on the moor, like a wild beast to its den, I confess, oh,

Lord, I have watched that square of light so long as I could see it,

and have wondered whether there would ever be a home for me, and any

woman would call me husband. Is this the weakness of the flesh; is

this the longing of the creature for comfort; is this the refusing of

the cross; is this my sin? Search me, oh, God, and try me." And again

the gentler mood returned. "Didst Thou not set the woman beside the

man in the Garden? Has not the love of Jacob for Rachel been glorified

in Thy word? Art not Thou Thyself the bridegroom, and is not the kirk

Thy bride? Are we not called to the marriage supper of the Lamb? Is

not marriage Thine own ordinance, and shall I count that unclean, as

certain vain persons have imagined, which Thou hast established? Oh,

my Saviour, wast Thou not born of a woman? My soul is torn within me,

and unto Thee, therefore, do I look for light; give me this day a sign

that I may know what Thou wouldst have me to do, that it may be well

for Thy cause in the land, and the souls of Thy servants committed to

my charge."

He is unconscious of everything except the agony of duty through

which he is passing, and his words, though spoken low, have a sweet

and penetrating note, which arrest the attention of one who has come

down the gallery, and is now standing at the opening of the alcove

where Pollock is hidden. It is his hostess, the widow of Lord

Cochrane, the eldest son of the Earl of Dundonald, who was still

living, though old and feeble, and who left the management of

affairs very much to Lady Cochrane. Like many other families in the

days of the "Troubles," the Cochranes was a house divided against

itself, although till now the strength had been all on one side. Lord

Dundonald had been a loyal adherent of the Stuarts, and had rendered

them service in earlier days, for which it was understood he had

received his earldom; but he was a broken man now, and had no

strength in him to resist his masterful daughter-in-law. She was a

child of the Earl of Cassillis, one of the stoutest and most

thoroughgoing of Covenanters; her husband had died in the year when

the Battle of Bothwell-Brig had been fought, and his last prayers

were for the success of the Covenanters. His younger brother had

been one of the Rye House Plot men, and was now an exile for the

safety of his life in Holland. By her blood and by her sympathy, by

everything she thought and felt, Lady Cochrane was a Covenanter, and

in her face and figure, as she stands with the light from the

window falling upon her, she symbolizes her cause and party. Tall and

strong-boned, with a lean, powerful face, and clear, unrelenting eyes,

yet with a latent suggestion of enthusiasm which would move her to

any sacrifice for what she judged to be righteousness, and with an

honest belief in her religious creed, Lady Cochrane was one of the

godly women of the Covenant. The old Earl had no chance against her

resolute will, and contented himself with a quavering protest

against her ideas, and bleating disapproval of her actions. When

she denounced the Council as a set of Herods, and filled the house

with Covenanting ministers and outlawed persons, his only comfort and

sympathizer was Lady Cochrane's daughter Jean. This young woman had

of late taken on herself the office of protector, and had shown a

tendency to criticise both her mother's words and ways, which led

to one or two domestic scenes. For though her ladyship was loud

against the tyranny of the government, she was an absolute ruler in

her own home. And that day she was going to assert herself and put

down an incipient rebellion.

"I give you good-morning, Mr. Pollock," said Lady Cochrane, "and I

crave your pardon if I have done amiss, but since you were, as I take

it, wrestling in prayer I had not the mind to break in upon you; I

have therefore heard some portion of your petitions. It seems to me,

though in such matters I am but blind of eye and dull of hearing, that

God indeed is giving a sign of approval when He seems to have been

turning your heart unto the thought of the marriage between the

bridegroom and the bride in the Holy Scriptures, of which other

marriages are, I take it, a shadow and a foretaste."

"It may be your ladyship is right," said Pollock after he had returned

his hostess's greeting, "but we shall soon know, for God hath promised

that light shall arise unto the righteous. For myself, I declare that

as it has happened on the hills when I was fleeing from Claverhouse,

so it is now in my affairs. I am moving in a mist which folds me round

like a thin garment; here and there I see the light struggling

through, and it seems to me most beautiful even in its dimness; by and

by the mist shall altogether pass, and I shall stand in the light,

which is the shining of His face. But whether I shall then find myself

at Cana of Galilee or in the Garden of Gethsemane, I know not."

"If it were in my handling," said Lady Cochrane, regarding her guest

with a mixed expression of admiration and pity, "ye would find

yourself, and that without overmuch delay, at a marriage feast. The

dispensation of John Baptist is done with in my humble judgment,

and I count the refusing to marry to be pure will-worship and a

soul-destroying snare of the Papists. Ye are a good man, Mr. Henry,

and a faithful minister of the Word, but ye would be a better, with

fewer dreams and more sense for daily duty, besides being more

comfortable, if you had a wife. Doubtless the days are evil, and

there be those who would say that this is not a time to marry, but if

you had the right wife it is no unlikely ye might be safer than ye

are to-day. For there would be a big house to hide you, and, at

the worst, you and she could make your ways to Holland, and get

shelter from the Prince till those calamities be overpast."

"My fear," continued her ladyship, "is not that ye will do wrong in

marrying, but that ye may fail to win the wife ye told me yesterday

was your desire. No, Mr. Henry, it is not that I am not with you, for

I am a favorer of your suit. In those days when the call is for

everyone to say whether he be for God or Baal, I would rather see my

daughter married to a faithful minister of the kirk, than to the

proudest noble in Scotland, who was a persecutor of the Lord's people.

As regards blood, I mind me also that ye belong to an ancient house,

and as regards titles, it was from King Charles the earldom came to

the Cochranes, and the most of the nobles he has made have been the

sons of his mistresses. There will soon be more disgrace than honor in

being called a lord in the land of England."

"It may be," hazarded Pollock anxiously, "that the Earl then does not

look on me with pleasure, and as the head of the house----"

"As what?" said Lady Cochrane. "It is not much his lordship has to say

on anything, for his mind is failing fast, and it never, to my seeing,

was very strong. He says little, and it's a mercy he has less power,

or rather, I should say, a dispensation of Providence, for if the

misguided man had his way of it, Jean would be married to-morrow to

some drinking, swearing officer in Claverhouse's Horse, or, for that

matter, to that son of Satan, Claverhouse himself."

"While I am here," continued this Covenanting heroine, "you need

not trouble yourself about the Earl of Dundonald, but I cannot speak

so surely for my daughter. Jean's name was inserted in the Covenant,

and she has been taught the truth by my own lips, besides hearing

many godly ministers, but I sorely doubt whether she be steadfast

and single-hearted. It was only two days ago she lent her aid to

her grandfather when he was havering about toleration, and before

all was done she spoke lightly of the contendings of God's remnant in

this land, and said that if they had the upper hand Scotland would

not be fit to live in. So far as I can see she has no ill-will to

you, Mr. Henry, and has never said aught against you. Nay, more, I

recall her speaking well of your goodness, but whether she will

consent unto your plea I cannot prophesy. Where she got her proud

temper and her stubborn self-will passes my mind, for her father

was an exercised Christian and a douce man, and there never was a

word of contradiction from him all the days of our married life. It

may be the judgment of the Lord for the sins of the land, that the

children are raising themselves against their parents. Be that as it

may, I have done my best for you, and now I will send her to the

gallery and ye must make your own suit. I pray God her heart may be

turned unto you."

When the daughter came down the middle of the gallery, with an easy

and graceful carriage, for she was a good goer, it would seem as if

the mother had returned, more beautiful and more gentle, yet quite as

strong and determined. Jean Cochrane--whose proper style as a lord's

daughter would be the Honorable Jean, but who, partly because she was

an earl's granddaughter, partly in keeping with the usage of the day,

was known as Lady Jean--was like her mother, tall and well built,

straight as a young tree, with her head set on a long, slender neck,

and in conversation thrown back. Her complexion was perfect in its

healthy tone and fine coloring; she had a wealth of the most rich and

radiant auburn hair, somewhat like that of Pollock, but redder and

more commanding to the eye; her eyes were sometimes gray and sometimes

blue, according to their expression, which was ever changing with her

varying moods. This is no girl of timid or yielding nature who can be

coaxed or driven, or of clinging and meek affection. This is a woman

full grown, not in stature only, but in character, of high ambition,

of warm passion, of resolute will and clear mind, who is fit to be the

mate for a patriot, in which case she would be ready to accompany him

to the scaffold, or for a soldier, in which case she would send him to

his death with a proud heart. Her mobile face, as flexible as that of

a supreme actress, is set and hard when she enters the gallery, for

she and her mother had just crossed swords, and Lady Jean knew for

what end she had been asked to meet the Covenanter. Lady Cochrane was

an unhappy advocate for such a plea, and with such a daughter,

although she might have been successful with a helpless and submissive

girl. With that look in her eyes, which are as cold as steel and have

its glitter, one could not augur success for any wooer. It was a

tribute not so much to the appearance of Pollock as to the soul of the

man shining through his face in most persuasive purity and sincerity,

that when they met and turned aside into that window space and stood

in the spring sunlight, her face softened towards him. The pride of

her carriage seemed to relax, and the offence went out of her eyes,

and she gave him a gracious greeting, and no woman, if she had a mind,

could be more ingratiating. Then, still standing, which suited her

best, and looking at him with not unfriendly gravity, she waited for

what he had to say.

"Lady Jean," he began, "your honorable mother has told you for what

end I desired speech with you this day, and I ask you to give me a

fair hearing of your kindness, for though I have been called of God to

declare His word before many people, I have no skill in the business

to which I now address myself. In this matter of love between a man

and a maid I have never before spoken, and if I succeed not to-day,

shall never speak again. Bear with me when I explain for your better

understanding of my case, that I began my life in the faith of my

family, and that I came into the Covenant after I was a man. I was

called, as I trust of God, unto the ministry of the Evangel, and I

have exercised it not in quiet places, but in the service of God's

people who are scattered and peeled among the hills. It seemed

therefore of my calling that I should live as a Nazarite and die

alone, having known neither wife nor child, and indeed this may be my

lot." Having said so much, as he looked not at the girl but out of

the window, he now turned his face upon her, which, always pale, began

now to be ashen white, through rising emotion and intensity of heart.

"Two years ago I first came to this castle and saw you; from time to

time upon the errands of my master or sheltering from my pursuers I

have lived here, and before I knew it I found my heart go out to you,

Lady Jean, so that on the moors I heard your voice in the singing of

the mountain birds, and saw your face with your burning hair in the

glory of the setting sun. The thought of you was never far from me,

and the turn of your head and your step as you have walked before me

came ever to my sight. Was not this, I said to myself, the guidance of

the Lord in Whose hands are the hearts of men, and Who did cause Isaac

to cleave to Rebecca? But, again, might it not be that I was turning

from the way of the cross and following the desires of my own heart? I

prayed for some token, and fourteen days ago this word in the Song of

Solomon came unto me, and was laid upon my heart. 'Behold thou art

fair, my love, behold thou art fair, thou hast dove's eyes within thy

locks, thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead.'

Wherefore I make bold to speak to you to-day, and on your reply will

hang the issue of my after life." His eyes had begun to shine with

mystic tenderness and yearning appeal, so that she, who had been

looking away from him, could not now withdraw her gaze.

"Is there in your heart any kindness and confidence towards me, and

have you been moved to think of me as one whom you could wed and whose

life you could share? It is not to wealth nor to honor, it is not to

ease and safety that I invite you, Lady Jean; you must be prepared to

see me suffer, and you must be willing that I should die. What I could

do to protect and cherish you, if God gave you to me, I should, and

next to the Lord who redeemed me, you would be the love of my heart in

time and also in eternity, where we should follow the Lord together,

unto living fountains of waters."

It was not the wooing of quieter days or gentler lives; it was not

after this fashion that a Cavalier would have spoken to his ladylove,

but his words were in keeping with the man, and streamed from the

light of his eyes rather than from his lips. And the girl, who had

come to say no as briefly and firmly as might be consistent with

courtesy, was touched in the deepest part of her being, and for the

moment almost hesitated.

"Ye have done me the chief honor a man can offer to a woman, Mr.

Pollock, and Jean Cochrane will never forget that ye asked her in

marriage. It cannot be, and it is better that I should say this

without delay or uncertain speech, but I pray you, Mr. Henry,

understand why, and think me not a proud or foolish girl. It is not

that I do not know that you are a holy and a brave man, whom the folk

rightly consider to be a saint, and whom others say would have made a

gallant soldier. It is not that I doubt the woman ye wedded would be

well and tenderly loved, for, I confess to you, ye seem to me to have

the making of a perfect husband. And it is not that I"--and here she

straightened herself--"would be afraid of any danger, or any suffering

either, for myself or you. I should bid it welcome, and if I saw you

laid dead for the cause ye love, I should take you in my arms and kiss

you on the mouth, though you were red with blood, as I never kissed

you living on our marriage day." And she carried her head as a queen

at the moment of her coronation.

"No," she went on, while the glow faded and her voice grew gentle; "it

is for two reasons, but one of them I tell you only to yourself, in

the secrecy of your honor. I admire and I--reverence you as one lifted

above me like a saint, but this is not the feeling of a woman for the

man that is to be her husband. I do not love you as I know I shall in

an instant love the man who is to be my man when I first see him, and

for whom I shall forsake without any pang my father's house, or else,

if he appear not, I shall never wed. That mayhap is reason enough, but

I am dealing with you as a friend this day. Though my name be in the

Covenant, I am not sure--oh, those are dark times--whether I would

write it to-day with my own hand. I might be able to do so when I was

your wife, but that I may not be. Yet it is left to me, Mr. Henry, to

have your name in my prayers, that God may keep you in the hard road

ye have chosen, and give you in the end a glorious crown. And I will

ask of you to mention at a time Jean Cochrane before the throne of

grace. For surely ye will be heard, and blessed shall she be for whom

ye pray."

For an instant there was silence, and then, before she left, Lady

Jean, as Pollock stood with head sunk on his breast and lips moving in

prayer, bent forward and kissed him on the forehead. When an hour

later the minister descended to Lady Cochrane's room, he told her that

his suit was hopeless, but that he was thankful unto God that he had

spoken with Lady Jean.

CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF THE AMALEKITE

It would have been hard to find within the civilized world a more

miserable and distracted country than Scotland at the date of our

history, and the West Country was worst of all. The Covenanters, who

were never averse to fighting, had turned upon Claverhouse and his

dragoons when they came to disperse a field-meeting at Drumclog, and

had soundly beaten the King's Horse. Then, gathering themselves to a

head and meeting the royal forces under the Duke of Monmouth at

Bothwell Bridge, they had in turn been hopelessly crushed. What

remained of their army was scattered by the cavalry, and since that

day, with some interludes, Claverhouse had been engaged in the

inglorious work of dispersing Presbyterian Conventicles gathered in

remote places among the hills, or searching the moss-hags for outlawed

preachers. It was a poor business for one who had seen war on the

grand scale under the Prince of Orange, and had fought in battles

where eighteen thousand men were left on the field. War was not the

name for those operations, they were simply police work of an irksome

and degrading kind. There were some who said that Claverhouse gloried

in it, and that the inherent cruelty of his nature was gratified in

causing obstinate Covenanters, who had not taken the oath, to be shot

on the spot, and haling others to prison, where they were treated with

extreme barbarity. Others believed that being a man of broad mind and

chivalrous temper, he absolutely disapproved of the government policy

and loathed the butcher work to which he and his troopers were set.

Upon one way of it he was a bloodthirsty tyrant, and upon the

other he was an obedient soldier, but the truth was with neither

view. There is no doubt that, like any other ambitious commander,

he would much rather have been engaged in a proper campaign, and it

may be granted that as a brave man he did not hanker to be the

executioner of peasants; but he absolutely approved of the policy

of his rulers, and had no scruple in carrying it out. It was the only

thing that could be done, and it had better be done thoroughly; the

sooner the turbulent and irreconcilable Covenanters were crushed

and the country reduced to peace the better for Scotland. And it

must be remembered that, though they were only a fraction of the

nation, the hillmen were a very resolute and harassing fraction,

and kept the western counties in a state of turmoil. No week passed

without some picturesque incident being added to the annals of this

lamentable religious war, and whether it was an escape or an

arrest, an attack or a defeat, the name of Claverhouse was always in

the story. The air was thick with rumors of his doings, and in every

cottage enraged Covenanters spoke of his atrocities. No doubt the

king had other officers quite as merciless and almost as active, and

the names of men like Grierson of Lag and Bruce of Earleshall and

that fierce old Muscovite fighter, General Dalziel, were engraved for

everlasting reprobation upon the memory of the Scots people. But

there was no superstition so mad that it was not credited to

Claverhouse, and no act so wicked that it was not believed of him.

During the hours of day he ranged the country, a monster thirsting

for the blood of innocent men, and the hours of the evening he

spent with his associates in orgies worthy of hell. His horse,

famous for its fleetness and beauty, was supposed to be an evil

spirit, and as for himself, everyone knew that Claverhouse could not

be shot except by a silver bullet, because he was under the

protection of the devil. Perhaps it is not too much to say that during

those black years--black for both sides, and very much so for

Claverhouse--he was, in the imagination of the country folk, little

else than a devil himself, and it was then he earned the title which

has clung to him unto this day and been the sentence of his infamy,

"Bloody Claverse."

Although there were not many houses of importance in the west which

Graham had not visited during those years, it happened that he had

never been within Paisley Castle, and that he had never met any of the

family except the earl and his aged countess. Lady Cochrane and the

Covenanting servants could have given a thumb-nail sketch of him which

would have done for a mediæval picture of Satan, and an accompanying

letter-press of his character which would have been a slander upon

Judas Iscariot. Her heroic ladyship had, however, never met

Claverhouse, and she prayed God she never would, not because she was

afraid of him or of the devil himself, but because she knew it would

not be a pleasant interview on either side. But it was not likely in

those times that the Dundonalds should altogether escape the notice of

the government, or that Graham, ranging through the country seeking

whom he might devour, as the Covenanters said, should not find himself

some day under their roof. The earl himself was known to be well

affected, and in any case did not count, but Lady Cochrane was a

dangerous woman, and her brother-in-law, Sir John, had been plotting

against the government and was an exile. No one was much surprised

when tidings came to the castle early one morning that Claverhouse

with two troops of his regiment, his own and the one commanded by Lord

Ross, Jean Cochrane's cousin, was near Paisley, and that Claverhouse

with Lord Ross craved the hospitality of the castle. It was natural

that he should stay in the chief house of the neighborhood, and all

the more as Lord Dundonald was himself notoriously loyal, but it was

suspected that he came to gather what information he could about Sir

John Cochrane, and to warn Lady Cochrane, the real ruler of the

castle, to give heed to her ways.

"The day of trial which separates the wheat from the chaff has come at

last, as I expected it would," said Lady Cochrane, with pride

triumphing over concern; "it would have been strange and a cause for

searching of hearts if the enemy had visited so many of God's people

and had passed us by as if we were a thing of naught, or indeed were

like unto Judas, who had made his peace with the persecutors. Have ye

considered what ye will do, my lord?" she said to the earl, who was

wandering helplessly up and down the dining-hall.

"Do, my lady?" It was curious to notice how they all called her my

lady. "I judge that Claverhouse and any servants he brings must be our

guests, and of course Ross. But you know more about what we can do

than I. Do you think we could invite the other officers of his troop?

There will be Bruce of Earleshall and--" Then, catching Lady

Cochrane's eye, he brought his maundering plans of hospitality to a

close. "Doubtless you will send a letter and invite such as the castle

may accommodate. I leave everything, Margaret, in your hands."

"_I_ invite John Graham of Claverhouse and his bloody crew, officers

or men it matters not, to cross our threshold and break bread within

our walls--I, a daughter of the house of Cassillis and the widow of

your faithful son? May my hand be smitten helpless forever if I write

such a word, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth if I welcome

this slayer of the saints to my home!" And Lady Cochrane rose from her

place and stood like a lioness at bay. "Receive that servant of the

Evil One into Paisley Castle? Yea, I would receive him if I could. If

early word had been sent of his approach and it were in my power, I

would call together every man in this region who is true unto God and

the Covenant, and I would close the gates of the castle and bid the

persecutor take it by force. I should count it an honor before the

Lord to shed my own blood in its defence. But I doubt that may not

be."

"What shall I do, then?" in answer to a quavering question from the

earl, who was now huddled in a chair before the huge open fireplace.

"I would leave the castle if it were not too late, and seek some

lodging till Claverhouse be gone, for I fear to dwell beneath the same

roof with this man of blood lest the Lord smite us with a common

destruction. See him or speak with him I will not; I will to my own

rooms, and there I will seclude myself, praying that God may speedily

judge this man, and cast him from his place. Lord Dundonald, I will

leave it to you to play the host: very likely ye will not have much

sorrow over it, for ye have more than a friendly heart to the

Malignants."

"It seems to me, if I be not too bold in saying it, that ye are taking

a wise course, my lady, for there might arise some slight debate

between you and Claverhouse, and that in the present circumstances

would not be convenient. Not quite, as I said, convenient. You are a

brave woman, Margaret, and worthy of your honorable house, but

Claverhouse is the king's officer, and I forget--my memory is not what

it was--the number of men in a troop, but he has two troops with him.

Apart from that," rambled on the earl, "we must remember John, who is

in danger, and we may not give offence if we can speak a canny word

which will get the right side of Claverhouse."

"Ye have learned your lesson well, my lord, and ye will do your part

in this day of expediency when men are more concerned about their

safety and that of their children than that of the kirk of God and the

cause of righteousness. I make sure that there will be much fair talk

between you and your guests, but I cannot breathe this air, and so you

will excuse me from your company. Jean, you will come with your

mother and stay with me till this plague has left the house, for I

count a visit of Claverhouse worse than leprosy or the black death."

"Craving your pardon, mother," said Jean, who had been listening to

this conversation with intense sympathy, and entering keenly into the

contrast between the earl and Lady Cochrane, "I will not go with you

and hide myself till Colonel Graham be gone. There should, it seems to

me, be some woman by the side of the head of the house, especially

when he is no longer young, to receive Claverhouse, for whether we

hate or love him he is our guest while underneath this roof. I am not

afraid of him, and I will make free to confess that I desire to see

this man of whom we have heard so much ill. It may be, after all, that

he is not what those foolish people think. At any rate, by your leave,

I shall stand by the earl's side if he will have me."

"Ye speak boldly, girl. Though you have often debated with me more

than was becoming, I do not recall till this day that ye have

disobeyed me. But be it so, since this gives pleasure to his

lordship" (who had crept over and was standing, as it were, under

the shield of his bold granddaughter). "Only, one word of warning,

if ye be not too proud and high-minded to take it. Albeit this man

has the heart of Pontius Pilate, and will be the curse of everyone

that has to do with him, yet the story goes that the master whom he

serves has given him a fair face and beguiling words, and I bid you

beware. But from what I hear outside it is time I left. Your guest

is at your gate: I pray you may have comfort in him, and that he may

not bring a shadow to this home." And Lady Cochrane swept her

majestic way out of the dining-hall; and retired to her apartments

in another wing.

As she left, the earl, with Jean, went to the public door of the hall

to meet Lord Ross and Claverhouse, who, without waiting for any

invitation to stay in the castle, had come to pay their respects to

the earl. They were already ascending the narrow stone stairs by which

visitors came from the courtyard to the hall, and almost as soon as

the earl and Jean had taken their places, Lord Ross came through the

doorway, and having bowed to the earl turned aside to present

Claverhouse. Jean saw him for the first time framed in the arch of the

door, and never while she lived, even after she was the loyal wife of

another man, forgot the sight. Ten years had passed since Graham

jested at the camp-fire with his comrades of the English Volunteers,

on the night before the battle of Sineffe, but war, with many

anxieties, had left only slight traces upon his face. He was no longer

a soldier of fortune, but the commander of "His Majesty's Own Regiment

of Horse," and a colonel in the king's army. By this time also he was

a member of the Privy Council, and a favorite person at Court; he had

held various offices and taken part in many public affairs. Yet he was

the same gracious and engaging figure, carrying on his face the

changeless bloom of youth, though now thirty-six years of age. He was

in the handsome uniform of his regiment, completed by a polished and

gleaming breastplate over which his neckerchief of white lace

streamed, while his face looked out from the wealth of brown hair

which fell over his shoulders. His left hand rested on his sword, and

Jean marked the refinement and delicacy of his right hand, which was

ungloved, as if for salutation. The day had been cloudy, and the hall,

with its stone floor, high roof, oaken furniture, and walls covered by

dark tapestry, was full of gloom, only partially relieved by the

firelight from the wide, open hearth. While Claverhouse was coming up

the stairs to the sound of his spurs and the striking of his sword

against the wall, the sun came out from behind a cloud, and a ray of

light streaming from an opposite window fell upon the doorway as he

entered. It lingered but for a moment, and after touching his

picturesque figure as with a caress, disappeared, and the eyes of John

Graham and Jean Cochrane met.

They were the opposite of each other: he slight and graceful, she tall

and strong; he dark and rich of complexion, with hazel eye, she fair

and golden, with eyes of gray-blue; he a born and convinced Cavalier,

and she a born and professed Covenanter; he a kinsman of the great

marquis whom the Covenanters beheaded, and she on her mother's side

the daughter of a house which hated Montrose and all his works. There

was nothing common between them; they stood distant as the east from

the west, and yet in that instant their hearts were drawn together.

They might never confess their love--there would be a thousand

hindrances to give it effect--it was in the last degree unlikely that

they could ever marry, but it had come to pass with them as with

innumerable lovers, that love was born in an instant.

"I thank you, my lord," said Claverhouse, bowing low to the earl,

"for this friendly greeting, and for the invitation you now give to be

your guest during my short stay in the district. It is strange that

through some ordering of circumstances, to me very disappointing, I

have never had the honor of offering to you an assurance of my respect

as a good subject of the king, and one whom the king has greatly

honored. As you know, my lord, I come and go hastily on the king's

business. I only wish, and I judge his Majesty would join in the wish,

that my visits to those parts were fewer. One is tempted, preachers

tell us, to think well of himself, overmuch indeed, maybe, but I have

been wonderfully delivered from the snare of imagining that I am a

beloved person in the west of Scotland." As he spoke, a sudden and

almost roguish look of humor sprang from his eyes and played across

his face. And he smiled pleasantly to Lady Jean, to whom he was now

introduced, and whose hand he kissed.

"You will give your indulgence to a poor soldier who must appear in

this foolish trapping of war, and whose time in these parts is spent

in the saddle rather than in a lady's rooms. I trust that it is well

with the Lady Cochrane, of whom I have often heard, and whom I dared

to hope I might have the privilege of meeting." And a second time the

same smile flickered over Claverhouse's face, and he seemed to

challenge Jean for an answer.

"My mother, Colonel Graham," responded Jean, with a careful choice of

words, "does not find herself able to receive you to-day as we would

have wished, and I fear she may be confined to her room during your

visit. It will, I fear, be the greater loss to you that you have to

accept me in her place, but we will try to give you such attention as

we can, and my good cousin here knows the castle as if it were his own

home."

"Yes, and he has often spoken of our fair hostess of to-day"--and

Claverhouse led Lady Jean to the table, where a meal was spread--"and

everyone has heard how wide is the hospitality of Paisley Castle. Am I

too bold in asking whether Lord Ross and I are the only guests, or

whether we may not expect to have a blessing on this generous board

from some minister of the kirk, even perhaps from the worthy Mr. Henry

Pollock? I think, my lord, he favors you sometimes with his company."

Again the smile returned, but this time more searching and ironical.

"Pollock? Henry? That name sounds familiar. One of the leaders of the

hillmen, isn't he, who were giving such trouble to the government? I

am not sure but he was in this district not long ago, maybe a month

since. Last Monday, was it? Well, you will know better than I do,

Colonel. My Lady Cochrane and I don't perhaps quite agree in this, but

I can't approve of any trafficking with persons disaffected to the

government. Gone! what, did any man say that Pollock was here?" And

the earl shuffled in his chair beneath Claverhouse's mocking eyes.

"If you desire to know the truth," Jean Cochrane said, with severe

dignity, "it were better not to ask my lord, because many come and go,

and he sometimes forgets their names. Mr. Henry Pollock was our guest

three days ago, as you are ours to-day, but next day he left, and we

know not where he is. If, as I judge, you have surrounded the castle,

I think you might let your troopers go to their dinner."

"It is good advice," laughed Claverhouse, concealing his disappointment,

and nodding to Lord Ross, who rose and left the table, to send off

the soldiers. "For one thing, at any rate, I have come a day behind

the fair, and I shall not have the pleasure this time of hearing

some gracious words from that eminent saint, and introducing my

unworthy self to his notice. We have met once or twice before, but at a

distance, and he had no leisure to speak with me. Some day I hope to be

more fortunate."

"When you do meet, Colonel Graham," retorted Jean, stung by this

mockery, for she knew now that one of the ends of Claverhouse's visit

was the arrest of Pollock, and if it had not been the accident of her

refusal, Pollock would have been Claverhouse's prisoner, "you will be

in the company of a good man and a brave, who may not be of your way,

but who, I will say in any presence, is a gentleman of Christ."

"Whatever else befall him, Pollock is fortunate in his advocate."

Claverhouse looked curiously at Jean. "God knows I do not desire to

say aught against him. Had I found him in Paisley Castle I should have

done my duty, and he would have done his. We were together in the old

days at St. Andrew's, and he was a good Cavalier then; he is a man of

family and of honor. Pardon me if I think he has chosen the wrong

side, and is doing vast evil in stirring up ignorant people against

the government and breeding lawlessness. But there, I desire not to

debate, and none grieves more over the divisions of the day than an

unhappy soldier who is sent to settle them by the rough medicine of

the sword. Henry Pollock has chosen his side and taken his risk: I

have chosen mine and taken my risk, too. If it be his lot when the

time comes he will die as a brave man should, for there is no

cowardice in Pollock, and when my time comes, may heaven give me the

same grace. But I fear, Lady Jean, it is a struggle unto life or

death." Claverhouse's face grew stern and sad, and he repeated, "Unto

life or death."

Then suddenly his face relaxed into the old polite, mocking smile as

he turned to Lord Dundonald. "The Lady Jean and I have fallen upon

much too serious talk, and I take blame, my lord, that I have not been

inquiring for the welfare of your family. I congratulate you on my

Lord Cochrane, who well sustains the fame of your house on all its

sides for turning out strong men and fair women. Some day I hope

Cochrane will ask for a commission in his Majesty's Regiment of Horse

and join his kinsman Ross under my command. But what news have you

from Sir John? It came to my ears somehow that he was travelling

abroad; is that so, my lord? Some one told me also that you had a

letter from him a week ago."

"John! We have not seen him for a year. He was in London, but he is

not there now. Yes, I seem to remember that he had some business which

has taken him out of the country for a little. We hope he will soon

return, and when he knows that you have done us the honor of coming

beneath our roof he will be very sorry that he was not here to

meet you." The earl havered to the end of his breath and his

prevarications, like a clock which had run down.

"It would have been more good fortune than I expected from my

information if I had found Sir John here, for unless rumor be a

wilder liar than usual he is in Holland, where there is a considerable

gathering of worthy Presbyterians at present, taking council

together, no doubt, for the good of their country. When you are

writing to Sir John, would you of your courtesy give him a message

from me? Say that I know Holland well, and that the climate is

excellent for Scotsmen--more healthy sometimes, indeed, than their

native air--and that some of his well-wishers think that he might be

happier there than even in Paisley Castle. If he wishes service in

the army, I could recommend him to the notice of my old fellow-officer

MacKay of Scourie, who is now, I hear, a general in the Prince's

service. You will be pleased to know, my lord, that the Rye House

Plot against his Majesty was a very poor failure, and that all

engaged in it, who were caught, will be soundly trounced."

"If anyone says that my son had anything to do with that damnable

proceeding, which all loyal subjects must detest, then he is

slandering John, who is----"

"Your son, my lord, and the brother of my late Lord Cochrane cut off

too soon. I am curious to get any gossip from the low country. Would

it be too great a labor for you to let your eyes rest again on Sir

John's letters, and to learn whether he has anything to tell about my

old commander, his Highness of Orange, or anything else that would

satisfy my poor curiosity. Burned them, have you? Strange. If I had a

son instead of being a lonely man, I think his letters would be kept.

But you are a wise man, my lord, no doubt, and I seem to be doomed to

disappointment to-day in everything except the most gracious

hospitality. Now, with your permission, Lady Jean, I must go to see

that those rascals of mine are not making your good people in the town

drink the king's health too deeply."

CHAPTER III

BETWEEN MOTHER AND LOVER

For no less a time than fourteen days did Claverhouse and his men

remain in Paisley, to the amazement of the district and the fierce

indignation of Lady Cochrane. During that time the soldiers made

sudden journeys in various directions, but if they arrested any

Covenanters they were never brought to Paisley, and although Lady

Cochrane prophesied the murder of the saints every day, no new

atrocity was laid to her guest's charge. Once or twice he went out

with his men himself, but he mostly contented himself with directing

their operations, and he occupied his time with writing long

despatches on the case of Sir John Cochrane and the state of affairs

in Scotland. He was not so busy, however, that he had no leisure for

the duties of a guest, and now that he had missed Pollock and had

found out all he wanted about Sir John, he never came a thousand miles

within controversy. He was studiously courteous to the servants at

the castle, who had regarded his coming with absolute terror; he

calmed and gentled the timid old earl, and drew him out to tell

stories of the days of the Commonwealth, when one of Cromwell's

troopers pulled the minister out of the pulpit of the Abbey kirk, and

held forth himself on the sins both of Prelacy and Presbytery,

declaring that he was as good a priest as any man. Claverhouse made no

objection when the minister of the Abbey, who had taken the indulgence

and was on good terms with the government, but whom Lady Cochrane

detested and considered to be a mere Gallio, came up to hold family

worship in the castle. He attended the service himself, and explained

that he always had prayers when he was at home, and that he generally

had a chaplain with him. When he was not shut up in his room reading

or writing despatches, he mingled freely with the family and suited

himself to each one's taste with great tact and good nature. It was

not long since he had returned from Court at London, where he was now

a popular and influential person, and he had many good tales for young

Lord Cochrane, about hunting with the Duke of York, cock-fighting and

other sports in vogue, and all the doings of the royal circle. For

Jean he had endless interesting gossip from the capital about the

great ladies and famous men, and the amusements of the Court and the

varied life of London. But he was careful never to tell any of those

tales which buzzed through the land about the ways of Charles, but

which were not fit for a maiden's ears. From time to time, also, as

they walked together in the pleasaunce of the castle, they touched on

deeper things, and Jean marked that, although this man had lived a

soldier's life, and had been much with people who were far removed

from Puritanism, he was free from the coarseness of the day, and that,

although he might be capable of severity and even cruelty, he was of

more fastidious and chivalrous temper than anyone else she had met

among the Covenanters except Henry Pollock. Unconsciously Jean began

to compare the two men, and to weigh their types of character. There

was nothing to choose between them in honor or in manliness, though

the one was a minister of the Evangel and the other a colonel of his

Majesty's Horse, but they were different. Pollock, with all his

narrowness of faith and extravagance of action, was a saint, and no

one could say that of Claverhouse, even though they might admit he was

not the devil of the Covenanting imagination. But John Graham was

more human: he might not see visions, and there never came into his

face that light of the other world which she had seen on Pollock's,

but he knew when a woman was walking by his side, and his eyes

caressed her. His voice never had that indescribable accent of

eternity which thrilled Henry Pollock's hearers, and was to them as a

message from God, but Graham's speech could turn from grave and

courteous mockery, which was very taking in its way, to a gentle

deference and respectful appeal, which, from a strong man with so

dazzling a reputation, was irresistible to a woman's heart. Then, no

one could deny that his person was beautiful--a rare thing to say of a

man--or that his manner was gracious, and Jean began to admit to

herself that if he set himself he would be a successful lover. The

very contradiction of the man--with so graceful a form and so high a

spirit, with so evil a name for persecution and so engaging a

presence, with such a high tone of authority among the men in power

and so modest a carriage towards maidens--made him a captivating guest

and dangerous to women's hearts. There was also a natural sympathy

between John Graham and Jean Cochrane, because, though they had been

brought up under different traditions and were on opposite sides, they

were both resolute, honest, independent, and loyal. No word or hint of

love passed between them during those days, but Jean knew that for the

first time her heart had been touched, and Claverhouse, who had seen

all kinds of women and had been indifferent to them all, and who for

the beauty of him had been tempted at Court quite shamelessly and had

remained cold as ice, understood at last the attraction of a maid for

a man, and also realized that Jean Cochrane was a fit mate for him

because her spirit was as high as his own.

They were trying days for Lady Cochrane in her self-enforced

seclusion, and her temper was not improved by the news, brought

diligently to her by her waiting-maid, that her daughter was doing her

utmost to make the persecutor's time pass pleasantly. Her mother had

no suspicion at this point that Jean was really wavering in loyalty to

the good cause, but as a woman with insight and discernment she knew

the danger to which Jean was exposed, and blamed herself for her own

inconvenient pride. What if by way of putting a slight on this arch

enemy she were to sacrifice her own child? It was impossible, of

course, that any daughter of hers should ever allow her affections to

be entangled by the murderer of the saints, and Claverhouse dared not,

if he would, marry a Cochrane, for he might as well throw up his

commission and join Henry Pollock at the next preaching on the moors.

But foolish ideas might come into the girl's head, and it was said

that Claverhouse could appear as an angel of light. It might be as

well to strengthen and safeguard her daughter against the wiles of the

wicked one, so she summoned her to her room, and, as her manner was,

dealt with Jean in a straightforward and faithful fashion. Lady

Cochrane had, however, learned that her daughter could not be

browbeaten or captured by direct assault, but that, however thorough

might be her own mind and uncompromising her will, she would have to

walk warily with Jean.

"It was an ill wind that blew that evil man to this castle, and an ill

work, I make no doubt, he has been after in this district. He came

like a bloodhound to catch Henry Pollock, and like a fox to get what

news he could about Sir John. What he lingers for his master only

knows, but it grieves me, lassie, that ye have had the burden of him

on your shoulders. They are too light, though they may be stronger

than most, for such a weight; I will not deny your spirit, but he, as

the Proverb goes, must have a lang spoon to sup wi' the deil. Has he

spoken civilly"--and Lady Cochrane eyed her daughter keenly--"or has

he been saying evil of our house and the cause?"

"Claverhouse has said no evil of any man that I can mind of, mother,"

replied Jean coldly; "and what he did say about Mr. Henry Pollock

would have rather pleased than angered you. He does not discourse

without ceasing, as certain do when they come to the castle, about the

times and all the black troubles; he seems to me rather to avoid

matters of debate, I suppose because they would give offence. I doubt

whether you could quarrel with him if you met him."

"What, then, is the substance of his talk--for, if all stories be

true, it is not much he knows of anything but war and wicked people?

What has he for a godly maiden to hear?"

"Nothing worth mentioning, mayhap"--and Jean spoke with almost studied

indifference--"what is going on in London, and how the great ladies of

the Court are dressed, and the clever things the king says, and how

the Duke of York loves sport, and suchlike. It would please you to

hear him, for ye have seen the Court."

"Once, Jean, and never again by God's mercy, for it is a spring of

corruption from which pours every evil work, where no man can live

clean, and no chaste woman should ever go. The like of it has not been

seen for wickedness since the daughter of Herodias danced before Herod

and his lewd courtiers, and obtained the head of John the Baptist on a

charger for her reward. Black shame upon John Graham! Cruel he is, but

I thought he would not pollute any girl's ears with such immodest

tales." And Lady Cochrane was beginning to lose control of herself.

"Colonel Graham said never a word which it were unbecoming a maiden to

hear, and especially a daughter of Lady Cochrane." And Jean grew hot

with indignation. "His talk was about the ceremonies and the dresses;

there was no mention of any wrongdoings. Nor was his speech always of

London, for he touched on many other things, and seemed to me to have

right thoughts, both of how men should live and die. For example, he

said, that though Mr. Henry Pollock and he differ, Mr. Henry was a

good and brave gentleman."

"Did he, indeed?" and Lady Cochrane was very scornful. "Doubtless that

was very cunning on his part, and meant to tickle your ears. But ye

know, Jean, that if by evil chance, or rather, let us say, a dark

ordering of the Lord, he had caught Mr. Henry here, like a bird in the

snare of the fowler, he would have given him a short trial. If ye had

cared to look ye would have seen that godly man shot in our own

courtyard by six of Claverhouse's dragoons. Aye, and he would have

given the order in words as smooth as butter, and come back to tell

you brave tales of the court ladies with a smile upon his bonnie face.

May God smite his beauty with wasting and destruction!"

"Mother," said Jean, flushing and throwing back her head, "ye speak

what ye believe to be true, and many hard things are done in these

black days on both sides; but after I have spoken with Claverhouse, I

cannot think that he would have any good man killed in cold blood."

"What does it matter, Jean, what you think, for it is weel kent that a

young lassie's eye is caught in the snare of a glancing eye and a

gallant's lovelocks. Listen to me, and I will tell you what three

weeks ago this fair-spoken and sweet-smiling cavalier did. He was

hunting for the hidden servants of the Lord in the wild places of

Ayrshire, and he caught near his own house a faithful professor of

religion, on whose head a price was set, and for whose blood those

sons of Belial were thirsting. Claverhouse demanded that he should

take the oath, which no honest man can swear, and of which ye have

often heard. And when that brave heart would not, because he counted

his life not dear to him for the Lord's sake, Claverhouse gave him

three minutes to pray before he died. You are hearing me, Jean, for I

have not done?

"The martyr of the Lord prayed so earnestly for his wife and children,

for the downtrodden Kirk of Scotland, and for his murderer, that

Graham ordered him to rise from his knees, because his time was come.

When he rose he was made to stand upon the green before his own house,

with his wife and bairns at the door, and Claverhouse commanded so

many of his men to fire upon him. Ah! ye would have seen another

Claverhouse than ye know in that hour. But that is not all.

"His dragoons are ignorant and ungodly men, accustomed to blood, but

after hearing that prayer their hearts were softened within them and

they refused to fire. So Graham took a pistol from his saddle, and

with his own hands slew the martyr. Ye are hearing, Jean, but there is

more to follow. With her husband lying dead before her eyes,

Claverhouse asked his wife what she thought of her man now. That brave

woman, made strong in the hour of trial, wrapt her husband's head in a

white cloth and took it on her lap, and answered: 'I have always

honored him, but I have never been so proud of him as this day. Ye

will have to answer to man and God for this.' This is what he gave

back to her: 'I am not afraid of man, and God I will take into my own

hands.' That is how he can deal with women, Jean, when he is on his

errands of blood, and that is what he thinks of God. But his day is

coming, and the judgment of the Lord will not tarry."

[Illustration: "Ye will have to answer to man and God for this." Page

143.]

"My lady," said Jean, who had grown very pale, and whose face had

hardened through this ghastly story, "that, I am certain as I live, is

a lie. Colonel Graham might order the Covenanter to be shot, and that

were dreadful enough. He would never have insulted his wife after such

a base manner--none but a churl would do that, and Claverhouse is not

base-born."

"He is base, girl, who does basely, it matters not how fair he be or

how pleasing in a lady's room. And I am not sure about his respect for

ladies and the high ways of what ye would call his chivalry. Mayhap ye

have not heard the story of his courting--then I have something else,

and a lighter tale for your ears, but whether it please you better I

know not. Though I begin to believe ye are easily satisfied." At the

mention of courting Lady Cochrane searched the face of her daughter,

but though Jean was startled she gave no sign.

"There be many tales which fly up and down the land, and are passed

from mouth to mouth among the children of this world, and some of

them are not for a godly maiden's ears, since they are maistly

concerned wi' chambering and wantonness. But this thing ye had better

hear, and then ye will understand what manner of man in his walk and

conversation we are harboring beneath our roof. For a' he look so

grand and carries his head so high, he has little gold in his purse,

but the black devil of greed is in his heart. So, like the lave of the

gallants that drink and gamble and do waur things at the king's

court, he has been hunting for some lass that will bring him a tocher

(dowry) and a title. For this is what the men of his generation are

ever needing. Ye follow me, Jean? This may be news to a country lass

wha has not been corrupted among the king's ladies.

"Weel, it's mair than three years ago our brave gentleman scented his

game, and ever since has been trying to trap this misguided lass, for

like the rest o' them, when he is not persecuting the saints, he is

ruining innocent women soul and body. I would have you understand

that, daughter, and maybe ye will walk with him less in the

pleasaunce." Both women were standing, and Lady Cochrane was watching

Jean to see whether she had touched her. Her daughter gave no sign

except that her face was hardening, and she tapped the floor with her

foot.

"Ye may not have heard of Helen Graham, for she belongs to another

world from ours, and one I pray God ye may never see the inside of,

for a black clan to Scotland have been the Grahams from the Marquis

himself, who was a traitor to the Covenant and a scourge to Israel, to

this bonnie kinsman of his, who has the face of a woman and the dress

of a popinjay and the heart of a fiend. Now, it happens that this fair

lass, whom I pity both for her blood and for her company, for indeed

she is a daughter of Heth and hath the portion of her people, is

heiress to the Earl of Monteith, and whaso-ever marries her will

succeed to what money there is and will be an earl in his own richt. A

fine prize for an avaricious and ambitious worldling.

"For years, then, as I was saying, Claverhouse has been scheming

and plotting to capture Helen Graham and to make himself Earl o'

Monteith. It wasna sic easy work as shootin' God's people on the

hillside, and for a while the sun didna shine on his game. Some say

the Marquis wanted her for himself, and then John Graham of

Claverhouse would have to go behind like a little dog to his

master's heel. Some say that her father had some compunction in

handing over his daughter into sic cruel hands. Some say that the

lass had a lover of her own, though that is neither here nor there

with her folk. But it's no easy throwing a bloodhound off the

track, and now I hear he has gained his purpose, and afore he left

the Court and came back to his evil trade in Scotland the contract

of marriage was settled, and ane o' these days we will be hearing

that a Graham has married a Graham, and that both o' them have gotten

the portion that belongeth to the unrighteous. Ye ken, Jean, that I

have never loved the foolish gossip which fills the minds o' idle

folk when they had better be readin' their Bibles and praying for

their souls, but I judged it expedient that ye should know that

Claverhouse is as gude as a married man."

"If he were not," said Jean, looking steadily at her mother, and

drawing herself up to her full height, "there is little danger he

would come to Paisley Castle for his love, or find a bride in my Lady

Cochrane's daughter. Ye have given me fair warning and have used very

plain speech, but I was wondering with myself all the time"--and then

as her mother waited and questioned her by a look--"whether miscalling

a man black with the shameful lies of his enemies is not the surest

way to turn the heart of a woman towards him. But doubtless ye ken

best." Without further speech Jean left her mother's room, who felt

that she would have succeeded better if her daughter had been less

like herself.

Jean gave, truth to tell, little heed to the stories of Claverhouse's

savagery, partly because rough deeds were being done on both sides,

and they were not so much horrified in the West Country of that time

at the shooting of a man as we are in our delicate days; partly, also,

because she had been fed on those horrors for years, and had learned

to regard Claverhouse and the other Royalist officers as men capable

of any atrocity. Gradually the dramatic stories had grown stale and

lost their bite, and when she noticed that with every new telling it

was necessary to strengthen the horrors, Jean had begun to regard them

as works of political fiction. But this was another story about

Claverhouse's engagement to Helen Graham. Jean would not admit to

herself, even in her own room or in her own heart, that she was in

love with Graham, and she was ready to say to herself that no marriage

could be more preposterous than between a Cochrane and a Graham. It

did not really matter to her whether he had been engaged or was going

to be engaged to one Graham or twenty Grahams. She had never seen him

till a few days ago, and very likely, having done all he wanted, he

would never come to Paisley Castle again. Their lives had touched just

for a space, and then would run forever afterwards apart. They had

passed some pleasant hours together, and she would ever remember his

face; perhaps he might sometimes recall hers. So the little play would

end without ill being done to her or him. Still, as she knew her

mother was not overscrupulous, and any stick was good enough wherewith

to beat Claverhouse, she would like to know, if only to gratify a

woman's curiosity, whether Claverhouse was really going to marry this

kinswoman of his, and, in passing, whether he was the mercenary

adventurer of her mother's description.

This was the reason of a friendly duel between that vivacious woman

Kirsty Howieson, Jean Cochrane's maid and humble friend, and that

hard-headed and far-seeing man of Angus, Jock Grimond, Claverhouse's

servant and only too loyal clansman.

"It's no true every time 'Like master like man'"--and Kirsty made a

bold opening, as was the way of her class--"for I never saw a woman

wi' a bonnier face than Claverhouse, and, my certes, mony a lass would

give ten years o' her life, aye, and mair, for his brown curls and his

glancing een. I'm judgin' there have been sair hearts for him amang

the fair Court ladies."

"Ye may weel say that, Kirsty," answered Jock; "if Providence had been

pleased to give ye a coontinance half as winsome, nae doot ye would

have been married afore this, my lass. As for him, the women just rin

after Claverhouse in flooks. It doesna matter whether it be Holland or

whether it be London, whether it be duchesses at Whitehall or

merchants' daughters at Dundee, he could have married a hundred times

over wi' money and rank and beauty and power. Lord's sake! the

opportunities he has had, and the risks he has run, it's been a

merciful thing he had me by his side to be, if I may say it, a guide

and a protector."

"If the Almichty hasna done muckle for your face, Jock, He's given you

a grand conceit o' yoursel', and that must be a rael comfort. I wish

I'd a share o' it. So you have preserved your maister safe till this

day, and he's still gaeing aboot heart-free and hand-free."

"Na, Kirsty"--and Grimond looked shrewdly at her--"I'll no say that

Claverhouse isna bound to marry some day or ither, and, of course, in

his posseetion it behove him to find a lady of his ain rank and his

ain creed. Noo, what I'm tellin' ye is strictly between oorsel's, and

ye're no to mention it even to your ain mistress. Claverhouse is

contracted in marriage to Miss Helen Graham, the daughter of Sir James

Graham, his own uncle, and the heiress to the Earl of Monteith. Ye

see, Miss Helen is his kinswoman, and she brings him an earldom in her

lap. Besides that she's verra takin' in her appearance and manner, and

I needna say just hates a Covenanter as she would a brock (badger).

It's a maist suitable match every way ye look at it, and it has my

entire approbation. But no a word aboot this, mind ye, Kirsty--though

I was juist thinkin' this afternoon of recommendin' Claverhouse to let

this contract be known. He's an honorable man, is the laird, and, by

ordinary, weel-livin'; but there's nae doot he is awfu' temptit by

women, and I wouldna like to see their hearts broken."

"A word in season to my Lady Jean, if I'm no sair mistaken"--and Jock

chuckled to himself when Kirsty had gone--"and a warning to the laird

micht no be amiss. It would be fine business for a Graham o'

Claverhouse to marry a Covenantin' fanatic and the daughter o' sic a

mither. Dod! it would be fair ruin for his career, and misery for

himsel'. I'll no deny her looks, but I'll guarantee she has her

mither's temper. What would Claverhouse have done without me--though I

wouldna say that to onybody except mysel'--he would have been just an

object--aye, aye, just a fair object."

As Grimond had communicated the engagement of Claverhouse to Helen

Graham under the form of a secret, he was perfectly certain that

Kirsty would tell it that evening to her mistress and in the end to

the whole castle. But he thought it wise to reinforce the resolution

of the other side, and when he waited on his master that evening he

laid himself out for instruction.

"Ye would have laughed hearty, Mr. John, if you had heard the officers

over their wine this afternoon in the town. Lord Ross wasna there, and

so they had the freedom o' their tongues, and if Sir Adam Blair wasna

holdin' out that you had fallen in love wi' Lady Jean, and the next

thing they would hear would be a marriage that would astonish

Scotland. Earleshall nearly went mad, and said that if ye did that you

would be fairly bewitched, and that you might as well join the

Covenanters. I tell ye, laird, they nearly quarrelled over it, and I

am telt they got so thirsty that they drank fourteen bottles o' claret

to five o' them besides what they had before. Ye will excuse me

mentionin' this, for it's no for me to tell you what the gentlemen

speak aboot, but I thought a bit o' daffin' (amusement) micht lichten

ye after the day's work."

"It is no concern of mine what the officers say between themselves,

and I've told you before, Grimond, that you are not to bring any idle

tales you pick up to my ears. You've done this more than once, and I

lay it on you not to do it again."

"Surely, Mr. John, surely. I ken it's no becoming and I'll no give ye

cause to complain again. But as sure as death, when I heard them

saying it as I took in your message to Earleshall I nearly dropped on

the floor, I was that amused. Claverhouse married to a Covenanter! It

was verra takin'.

"Na, na, Mr. John, I kent better than that, but I'm no just

comfortable in my mind sae lang as ye are in Paisley Castle and in the

company o' Lady Jean. Her mither is an able besom, and her young

ladyship is verra deep. What I'm hearin' on the ither side o' the

hedge is that she's trying to get round ye so as to get a pardon for

Sir John, and to let him come home from Holland. No, Claverhouse, ye

maunna be angry wi' me, for I've waited on ye longer than ye mind, and

I canna help bein' anxious. Ye are a grand soldier, and ye've been a

fine adviser to the government. There's no mony things ye're no fit

for, Mr. John, but the women are cunning, and have aye made a fule o'

the men since Eve led Adam aff the straicht and made sic a mishanter

o' the hale race. They say doon stairs that Lady Jean is getting roond

ye fine, and that if it wasna that her family wanted something from

you, you would never have had a blink o' her, ony mair than her auld

jade o' a mither. For a hypocrite give me a Covenanter, and, of

course, the higher they are the cleverer.

"Just ae word more, Claverhouse, and I pray ye no to be angry, for

there's naebody luves ye better than Jock Grimond. I hear things ye

canna hear, and I see things ye canna see. Naebody would tell you that

Lady Jean and Pollock, the Covenantin' minister, are as gude as man

and wife. They may no be married yet, but they will be as sune as it's

safe, and that's how he comes here so often. She has a good reason to

speak ye fair, laird, and she has a souple tongue and a beguilin' way,

juist a Delilah. Laird, as sure as I'm a livin' man this is a hoose o'

deceit, and we are encompassed wi' fausehood as wi' a garment." And

although Claverhouse's rebuke was hot, Grimond felt that he had not

suffered in vain.

CHAPTER IV

"THY PEOPLE SHALL BE MY PEOPLE, THY GOD MY GOD"

A month had passed before Claverhouse returned to Paisley, and this

time he made his headquarters in the town, and did not accept the

hospitality of the castle, excusing himself on the ground of his many

and sudden journeys. His real reason was that he thought it better to

keep away, both for his own sake and that of Jean Cochrane. During his

lonely rides he had time to examine the state of his feelings, and

he found himself more deeply affected than he thought; indeed he

confessed to himself that if he were to marry he should prefer Jean

to any other woman he had ever met. But he remembered her ancestry,

especially her mother, and her creed, which was the opposite of

his, and he knew that either she would not marry him because he

was the chief opponent of her cause, or if he succeeded in winning

her, he would most likely be discredited at Court by this suspicious

marriage. It was better not to see her, or to run any further risks.

He had made many sacrifices--all his life was to be sacrificed for

his cause--and this would only be one more. He tried also to think

the matter out from her side, and although he hated to think that

she was a traitress trying to ensnare him for her own ends, yet it

might be that her family were making a tool of her to seduce him from

the path of duty, and although he doubted whether she was betrothed

to Pollock, yet it might be true, and he certainly was not going to

be Pollock's unsuccessful rival. Altogether, it was expedient that

they should not see one another, and Claverhouse contented himself

with sending a courteous message by Lord Ross to the earl and Lady

Jean, and busied himself with his public and by no means agreeable

task of Covenanter-hunting. As, however, he had received the very

thoughtful and generous hospitality of the castle on his last

visit, and as Lord Ross was constantly saying that the earl would

like to see him, he determined to call on the afternoon before his

departure. Lady Cochrane, as usual, did not appear, and neither did

her daughter, and after a futile conversation with Dundonald, who

seemed feebler than ever, Claverhouse left, and had it not been for a

sudden whim, as he was going through the courtyard, he had never

seen Jean Cochrane again, and many things would not have happened.

But there was a way of reaching the town through the pleasaunce,

and under the attraction of past hours spent among its trees

Claverhouse turned aside, and walking down one of its grass walks,

and thinking of an evening in that place with Jean, he came suddenly

upon her on her favorite seat beneath a spreading beech.

"I crave your pardon, my Lady Jean," said Claverhouse, recovering

himself after an instant's discomposure, "for this intrusion upon your

chosen place and your meditation. My excuse is the peace of the garden

after the wildness of the moors, but I did not hope to find so good

company. My success in Paisley Castle has been greater than among the

moss-hags."

"It is a brave work, Colonel Graham, to hunt unarmed peasants"--and

for the first time Claverhouse caught the ironical note in Jean's

speech, and knew that for some reason she was nettled with him--"and

it seems to bring little glory. Though, the story did come to our

ears, it sometimes brought risk, and--perhaps it was a lie of the

Covenanters--once ended in the defeat of his Majesty's Horse. I seem

to forget the name of the place."

"Yes," replied Claverhouse with great good humor, "the rascals had the

better of us at Drumclog. They might have the same to-morrow again,

for the bogs are not good ground for cavalry, and fanatics are dour

fighters."

"It was Henry Pollock ye were after this time, we hear, and ye

followed him hard, but ye have not got him. It was a sair pity that

you did not come a day sooner to the castle, and then you could have

captured him without danger." And Lady Jean mocked him openly. "Ye

would have tied his hands behind his back and his feet below the

horse's belly, and taken him to Edinburgh with a hundred of his

Majesty's Horse before him and a hundred behind to keep him safe; ye

would have been a proud man, Colonel Graham, when ye came and

presented the prisoner to your masters. May I crave of you the right

word, for I am only a woman of the country? Would Mr. Henry Pollock

have been a prisoner of war--of war?" she repeated with an accent and

look of vast contempt.

Never had Claverhouse admired her more than at that moment, for the

scorn on her face became her well, and he concluded that it must

spring from one of two causes. Most likely, after all, Pollock was her

lover.

"'Tis not possible, my Lady Jean," softening his accent till it was as

smooth as velvet, and looking at the girl through half-closed eyes,

"to please everyone to whom he owes duty in this poor world. If I had

been successful for my master his Majesty the King--I cannot remember

the name of any other master--then I would have arrested a rebel and a

maker of strife in the land, and doubtless he would have suffered his

just punishment. That would have been my part towards the king and

towards Mr. Henry Pollock, too, and therein have I for the time

failed. To-morrow, Lady Jean, I may succeed."

"Perhaps," she said, looking at him from a height, "and perhaps not.

And to whom else do you owe a duty, and have you filled it better?"

"I owe a service to a most gracious hostess, and that is to please her

in every way I can. Whether by my will or not, I have surely given you

satisfaction by allowing Mr. Henry Pollock to escape, instead of

bringing him tied with ropes to Paisley Castle. So far as my

information goes you may sleep quietly to-night, for he is safe in

some rebel's house. Yet I am sorry from my heart," said Claverhouse,

"and I am sorry for your sake, since I make no doubt he will die some

day soon, either on the hill or on the scaffold."

"For my sake?" said Jean, looking at him in amazement. "What have I to

do with him more than other women?"

"If I have touched upon a secret thing which ought not to be spoken

of, I ask your pardon upon my bended knees. But I was told, it seemed

to me from a sure quarter, that there was some love passage between

you and Henry Pollock, and that indeed you were betrothed for

marriage."

As Claverhouse spoke the red blood flowed over Jean's face and ebbed

as quickly. She looked at Claverhouse steadily, and answered him in a

quiet and intense voice, which quivered with emotion.

"Ye were told wrong, then, Claverhouse, for I have never been

betrothed to any man, and I shall never be the wife of Henry Pollock.

I am not worthy, for he is a saint, and God knows I am not that nor

ever likely to be, but only a woman. But I tell you, face to face,

that I respect him, suffering for his religion more than those who

pursue him unto his death. And when he dies, for his testimony, he

will have greater honor than those who have murdered him. But they did

me too much grace who betrothed me to Henry Pollock; if I am ever

married it will be to more ordinary flesh and blood, and I doubt

me"--here her mood changed, and the tension relaxing, she smiled on

Claverhouse--"whether it will be to any Covenanter."

"Lady Jean," said Claverhouse, with a new light breaking on him, for

he began to suspect another cause of her anger, "it concerns me to see

you standing while there is this fair seat, and, with your leave, may

I sit beside you? Can you give me a few minutes of your time before we

part--I to go on my way and you on yours. I hope mine will not bring

me again to Paisley Castle, where I am, as the hillmen would say, 'a

stumbling-block and an offence.'" Jean, glancing quickly at him, saw

that Claverhouse was not mocking, but speaking with a note of sad

sincerity.

"When you said a brief while ago that mine was work without glory, ye

said truly. But consider that in this confused and dark world, in

which we grope our way like shepherds in a mist, we have to do what

lies to our hand, and ask no questions--and the weariness of it is

that in the darkness we strike ane another. We know not which be

right, and shall not know till the day breaks: we maun just do our

duty, and mine, by every drop of my blood, is to the king and the

king's side. But mind ye, Lady Jean, it will not be always through the

moss-hags--chasing shepherds, ploughmen and sic-like; by and by it

will be on the battle-field, when this great quarrel is settled in

Scotland. May the day not be far off, and may the richt side win."

As Claverhouse spoke he leaned back in the corner of the seat and

looked into the far distance, while his face lost its changing

expressions of cynicism, severity, gracious courtesy and keen

scrutiny, and showed a nobility which Jean had never seen before. She

noticed how it invested his somewhat effeminate beauty with manliness

and dignity.

"That is true"--and Jean's voice grew gentler--"nane kens that better

than myself, for nane has been more tossed in mind than I have been.

Ilka man, and also woman, must walk the road as they see it before

them, and do their part till the end comes; but the roads cross

terribly on the muirs in the West Country. If I was uncivil a minute

syne I crave your pardon, for that was not my mind. But if rumor be

true it matters not to you what any man says, far less my Lady

Cochrane's daughter, for ye were made to gang yir ain gait."

"Ye are wrong there, Lady Jean, far wrong," Claverhouse suddenly

turned round and looked at her with a new countenance. "I will not

deny that I am made to be careless about the strife of tongues, and to

give little heed whether the world condemns or approves if I do my

devoir rightly to my lord the king. But it would touch me to the heart

what you thought of me. They say that a woman knows if a man loves

her, even though his love be sudden and unlikely, and if that be so,

then surely you have seen, as we walked in this pleasaunce those fair

evenings, that I have loved you from the moment I saw you in the hall

that day. Confess it, Jean, if that be not so. I, with what I heard of

Pollock, was bound in honor to be silent."

"Was Pollock the only bond of honor?" and Jean blazed on him with

sudden fury. "Is there no other tie that should keep you from speaking

of love to me and offering me insult in my father's house? Is this the

chivalry of a Royalist, and am I, Jean Cochrane, to be treated like a

light lady of the Court, or some poor lass of the countryside ye can

play with at your leisure? Pleased by your notice and then flung

aside like a flower ye wore till it withered."

"Before God, what do ye mean by those words?" They were both standing

now, and Graham's face was white as death. "Is the love of John Graham

of Claverhouse a dishonor?"

"It is, and so is the love of any man if he be pledged to another

woman. Though we go not to Court, think you I have not heard of Helen

Graham, the heiress of Monteith, and your courting of her--where, the

story goes, ye have been more successful than catching ministers of

the kirk? Ye would play with me! I thank God my brother lives, and

they say he is no mean swordsman."

"If it were as you believe, my lady, and I had spoken of love to you

when I was betrothed to another woman, then ye did well and worthy of

your blood to be angry, and my Lord Cochrane's sword, if it had found

its way to my heart, had rid the world of a rascal. Rumor is often

wrong, and it has told you false this time. I deny not, since I am on

my confession, that I desired to wed Helen Graham, and I will also say

freely, though it also be to my shame, that I desired to win her, not

only because she was a Graham and a gracious maiden, but because I

should obtain rank and power, for I have ever hungered for both, that

with them I might serve my cause. My suit did not prosper, so that we

were never betrothed, and now I hear she is to be married to Captain

Rawdon, the nephew of my Lord Conway. I would have married Helen

Graham in her smock if need be, though I say again I craved that

title, and I would have been a faithful husband to her. But I have

never loved her, nor any other woman before. Love, Jean"--he went on,

and they both unconsciously had seated themselves a little apart--"is

like the wind spoken of in the Holy Gospel. It bloweth where it

listeth, and is not to be explained by reasons. In my coming and going

to Court I have seen many fair women, and some of them have smiled on

me and tried to take me by the lure of their eyes, but none has ever

been so bonnie to me as you, Jean, and your hair of burnished gold.

Doubtless I have met holier women than you, though my way has not lain

much among the saints, but though one should show me a hundred faults

in you, ye are to me to-day the best, and I declare if ye had sinned I

would love you for your sins only less than for your virtues. I love

you as a man should love a woman: altogether, your fair body from the

crown of your head to the sole of your foot, your hair, your eyes,

your mouth, your hands, the way you hold your head, the way you walk,

your white teeth when you smile, and the dimple on your cheek.

Yourself, too, the Jean within that body, with your courage, your

pride, your scorn, your temper, your fierce desires, your fiery

jealousies, your changing moods. And your passion, with its demands,

with its surrenders, with its caresses, with its pain. You, Jean

Cochrane, as you are and as you shall be, with all my heart and with

all my body, with all my loyalty, next to that I give my king, I love

you, Jean." He leaned towards her as he spoke, and all the passion

that was hidden behind his girl face and Court manner--the passion

that had made him the most daring of soldiers, and was to make him the

most successful of leaders--poured from his eyes, from his lips, from

his whole self, like a hot stream, enveloping, overwhelming and

captivating her. Strong as she was in will and character, she could

not speak nor move, but only looked at him, with eyes wide open, from

the midst of the wealth of her golden hair.

[Illustration: She could not speak nor move, but only looked at him.

Page 166.]

"Do I not know the sacrifice I am asking if you should consent to be

my wife? Jean, I will tell you true: not for my love even and your

bonnie self will I lie or palter with my faith. You will have to come

to me, I will not go to you; you will have to break with the Covenant,

leave your father's house and face your mother's anger, and be

denounced by the godly, up and down the land, because ye married the

man of blood and the persecutor of the saints. I will not change, ye

understand that? No, not for the warm, soft clasp of your white arms

round my neck; no, not though ye tie me with the meshes of your

shining hair. I judge that ye will not be a temptress, but I give you

warning I am no Sampson, in his weakness to a woman's witchery, when

it comes to my faith and my duty. I will love you night and day as a

man loveth a woman, but I will do what I am told to do, even though it

be against your own people, till the evil days be over. And it may be,

Jean, that I shall have to lead a hopeless cause. Ye must be willing

to give me to death without a grudge, and send me with a kiss to serve

the king.

"Can you do this"--and now his voice sank almost to a whisper, and he

stretched his hands towards her--"for the sake of love, for love's

sake only, for the sight of my face, for the touch of my lips, for the

clasp of my arms, for the service of my heart, for myself? If ye

should, I will be a true man to you, Jean, till death us do part. I

have not been better than other men, but women have never made me play

the fool, and even your own folk, who hate me, will tell you that I

have been a clean liver. And now I will never touch or look on any

other woman in the way of love save you. If I have to leave your side

to serve the king, I will return when the work is done, and all the

time I am away my love will be returning to you. If you be not in my

empty arms, you shall ever be in my heart; if I win honor or wealth,

it will now be for you. If I can shelter you from sorrows and trouble,

I will do so with my life, and if I die my last thought, after the

cause, will be of you, my lady and my love.

"Jean Cochrane, can you trust yourself to me; will you be the wife of

John Graham of Claverhouse?"

They had risen as by an instinct, and were facing one another where

the light of the setting sun fell softly upon them through the fretted

greenery of the beech tree.

"For life, John Graham, and for death," and as she said "death" he

clasped her in his arms. The brown hair mingled with the gold, they

looked into one another's eyes, and their lips met in a long,

passionate kiss, renewed again and again, as if their souls had flowed

together. Then she disentangled herself and stood a pace away, and

laying her hands upon his shoulders and looking steadfastly at him,

she said: "Whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will

lodge, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God."

The sooner they were married the better pleased John Graham and Jean

Cochrane would be, for life in Paisley Castle could not be a paradise

for Jean after that betrothal. Three weeks later Claverhouse rode down

one Saturday from Edinburgh to Paisley against his marriage day on the

following Tuesday. His love for Jean had steadily grown during those

days, and now was in a white heat of anticipation, for she was no nun,

but a woman to stir a man's senses. Yet there were many things to

chasten and keep him sober. No sooner was it known that he was to

marry Lady Cochrane's daughter and the granddaughter of Lord Cassillis

than his rivals in the high places of Scotland and at Whitehall did

their best to injure him, setting abroad stories that he was no longer

loyal, and that in future he would play into the hands of the enemy.

His young wife would certainly get round him and shake his integrity,

and it would not be wise to trust Claverhouse with secrets of grave

affairs. It was prophesied that this amazing and incongruous marriage,

the mating of opposites, would only work ruin to his career, and that

indeed this was the beginning of the end for Claverhouse. Lady

Cochrane, raging like a fiend in Paisley Castle, did not fail, in the

interludes of invective against her daughter for disgracing their good

name and giving herself into the hands of the cruelest enemy of the

kirk, to remind Jean also that she was doing the worst injury to the

man she professed to love, and that in the end Claverhouse would be

twice damned--for his sin against the Covenanters and for his

disloyalty to his own cause. Jean was, of all women, most capable of

holding her own even with her masterful mother, and Claverhouse was

perfectly confident that neither Lady Cochrane nor her family would be

able to shake Jean's fidelity. But there were times, and they were her

bitterest hours, when Jean was not sure whether she had not done

selfishly and was not going to satisfy her love at the expense of her

lover. On his part, he could not help being anxious, for it seemed as

if every man of his own party had turned his hand against him. With

all his severity, Claverhouse had a just mind, and he offended

Queensberry by protesting against the severity of the law; while the

Duke of Perth, an unprincipled vagabond, ready to play traitor to

either king or religion, hated Claverhouse because he was an honorable

man. Claverhouse thought it necessary to write to the Duke of York,

explaining the circumstances of his marriage and assuring him of his

continued loyalty, and to the Duke of Hamilton, whose daughter was to

be married to young Lord Cochrane, testifying to the integrity of

Jean. "For the young lady herself, I shall answer for her. Had she

been right principled she would never in despyt of her mother and

relations made choyse of a persecutor, as they call me. So, whoever

think to misrepresent me on that head will find themselves mistaken;

for both the king and the church's interest, dryve as fast as they

think fit, they will never see me behind."

Lord Dundonald himself was pleased because the marriage secured

Claverhouse's influence, and so were his personal friends, such as

Lord Ross, who knew and admired Jean; Claverhouse could not hide from

himself, however, that the world judged the marriage an irreparable

mistake, and Grimond, so far as he dared--but he had now to be very

careful--rubbed salt into the wound. All the omens were against them,

and when on the Sunday Claverhouse sat beside his bride in the Abbey

church, the people gave them a cold countenance, and as they went up

the street true Presbyterians turned their faces from Claverhouse. The

marriage service was performed in the gallery of the castle, and the

minister officiating was one who had taken the indulgence and was

avoided by the stricter people of the kirk. The contract was signed by

Lord Dundonald and the old countess with weak and feeble hands, but

the bride and bridegroom placed their names with strong and

unhesitating characters. Lord Ross stood beside his commanding officer

as best man, and young Lord Cochrane was also present, full of

good-will and sympathy, for was he not himself about to marry the

daughter of the Duke of Hamilton? But neither Dundonald's weakly

approval nor the gayety of the young men could lift the shadow that

fell within and without, both in the gallery and in the courtyard of

the castle, upon the marriage of Claverhouse and Jean Cochrane. News

had come two days before that there had been a rising among the

Covenanters, and Claverhouse was ordered to pursue them with his

cavalry. His regiment was in the district, and while the service was

going on in the castle, his horse was saddled in the courtyard, and a

guard of troopers were making ready to start. The sound of the

champing of bits and the clinking of spurs came up through the quiet

summer air and mingled with the prayer of the minister. Lady Cochrane

was not supposed to be present, but when the minister asked if anyone

could show just cause why this marriage should not be performed, she

appeared suddenly from an alcove where she had been sheltered behind

the servants. Stepping forward, she said, with an unfaltering voice,

vibrant with solemn indignation, "_In the name of God_ and in my own,

I, the mother of Jean Cochrane, forbid this marriage, because she is

marrying against my will, and joining herself to the persecutor of

God's people; because she is turning herself against her father's

house and forsaking the faith of her father's God." The minister

paused for a moment, for he was a quiet man and stood in awe of Lady

Cochrane; he looked anxiously at the bride and bridegroom. "I have

made my choice," said Jean, "and I adhere to it with my mind and

heart," and Claverhouse, with a smile and bow, bade the minister do

his duty. When they were married there was a moment's stillness,

during which the bridegroom kissed the bride, and then Lady Cochrane

spoke again. "Ye have gone your own way and done your own will, John

Graham and Jean Cochrane, and the curse of God's kirk and of a mother

goes with you. The veil is lifted from before my eyes, and I prophesy

that neither the bridegroom nor the bride will die in their beds.

There are those here present who will witness one day that I have

spoken true."

Claverhouse led his bride to the wing of the castle, where she lived,

and from which she could look down on the courtyard. At the door of

her room he kissed her again and bade her good-by. "This is what ye

have got, Jean, by marrying me," and his smile was dashed with

sadness. Two minutes later he rode out from the courtyard of the

castle to hunt the people of Lady Cochrane's faith, while her daughter

and his bride waved him God speed from her window.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

ONE FEARLESS MAN

Above the town of Dundee, and built to command the place, stood, at the

date of our tale, Dudhope Castle, a good specimen of Scots architecture,

which in its severity and strength is, like architecture everywhere, the

physical incarnation of national creed and character. The hardness of

Dudhope was softened in those days by what was not usual in the case of

keeps and other warlike buildings, for Dudhope was set in the midst of

sloping fields where cattle browsed, and had also round it rising

plantations of wood. Before the castle there was a terrace, and from

it one looked down upon the little town, nestling under the shelter of

the castle, and across the Firth of Tay to Fifeshire, where so much

Scots history had been made. It was to Dudhope Claverhouse brought his

bride, after that stormy honeymoon which she had to spend under the shadow

of her mother's hot displeasure in Paisley Castle, and he occupied

with the weary hunt of Covenanters up and down the West Country. Their

wedding day was the 10th of June, but it was not till August that

Claverhouse and his wife came home to Dudhope. Since then four years have

passed, during which the monotony of his duty in hunting Covenanters had

been relieved by the office of Provost of Dundee, in which it is said he

ruled severely, and the sameness of Jean's life at Dudhope by a visit

to the Court of London, where she produced a vast impression, and was

said to have been adored in the highest quarter. There were hours when

she felt very lonely, although she would not have confessed this, being

a woman of invincible spirit and fortified by the courage of her love.

She never knew when her husband would be called away for one of his

hunts, and though there were many Loyalist families in Forfarshire, it

was not a time for easy social intercourse, and Jean was conscious that

the Carnegies and the rest of them of the old Cavalier stock looked

askance at her, and suspected the black Covenanting taint in her blood.

Claverhouse, like a faithful gentleman, had done his best to conceal

from her the injury which his marriage had done him, but she knew that his

cunning and bitter enemy, the Duke of Queensberry, had constantly

insinuated into the mind of the Duke of York and various high personages

in London that no one who had married Lady Cochrane's daughter could, in

the nature of things, be perfectly loyal. It was really for this love

that he had lost the post of commander-in-chief in Scotland, to which he

was distinctly entitled, and had experienced the insult of having his

name removed from the Scots Council. It might be her imagination, but

it seemed as if his fellow officers and other friends, whom she met

from time to time, were not at ease with her. She was angry when they

refrained from their customary frank expressions about her mother's

party, just as she would have been angry if they had said the things

they were accustomed to say in her presence. Claverhouse assured her on

those happy days when he was living at Dudhope, and when they could be

lovers among the woods there, as they had been in the pleasaunce at

Paisley Castle, that he never regretted his choice, and that she was

the inspiration of his life. It was pleasant to hear him repeat his

love vows, with a passion as hot and words as moving as in the days of

their courtship, and the very contrast between his unbending severity

as a soldier and his grace as a lover made him the more fascinating to

a woman who was herself of the lioness breed. All the same, she could not

forget that Claverhouse would have done better for himself if he had

married into one of the great Scots houses of his own party--and there

were few in which he would not have been welcome--and that indeed he

could not have done much worse for his future than in marrying her. It

was a day of keen rivalry among the Royalists, and a more unprincipled

and disreputable gang than the king's Scots ministers could not be

found in any land; indeed Claverhouse was the only man of honor

amongst them. His battle to hold his own and achieve his legitimate

ambition was very hard, and certainly he needed no handicap. Jean

Graham was haunted with the reflection that Claverhouse's wife, instead

of being a help, was a hindrance to her husband, and that if it were not

for the burden of her Covenanting name, he would have climbed easily to

the highest place. Nor could she relish the change of attitude of the

common people towards her, and the difference in atmosphere between

Paisley and Dundee. Once she had been accustomed to receive a

respectful, though it might be awkward, salutation from the dour West

Country folk, and to know that, though in her heart she was not in

sympathy with them, the people in the town, where her mother reigned

supreme, felt kindly towards her, as the daughter of that godly

Covenanting lady. In Dundee, where the ordinary people sided with the

Presbyterians and only the minority were with the Bishops, men turned away

their faces when she passed through the place, and the women cried "Bloody

Claverse!" as she passed. She knew without any word of abuse that both she

and her husband were bitterly hated, because he was judged a persecutor

and she a renegade. They were two of the proudest people in Scotland,

but although Claverhouse gave no sign that he cared for the people's

loathing, she often suspected that he felt it, being a true Scots

gentleman, and although Jean pretended to despise Covenanting fanaticism,

she would rather have been loved by the folk round her than hated.

While she declared to Graham that her deliverance from her mother's

party, with their sermons, their denunciations, their narrowness and

that horrible Covenant, had been a passage from bondage to liberty, there

were times, as she paced the terrace alone and looked out on the gray

sea of the east coast, when the contradictory circumstances of her

life beset her and she was troubled. When she was forced to listen to

the interminable harangues of hill preachers, sheltering for a night in

the castle, and day by day was resisting the domination of her mother,

her mind rose in revolt against the Presbyterians and all their ways.

When she was among men who spoke of those hillmen as if they were

vermin to be trapped, and as if no one had breeding or honor or

intelligence or sincerity except the Cavaliers, she was again goaded

into opposition. Jean had made her choice both of her man and of her

cause--for they went together--with her eyes open, and she was not a

woman to change again, nor to vex herself with vain regrets. It was

rather her nature to decide once for all, and then to throw herself

without reserve into her cause, and to follow without question her man

through good report and ill, through right, and, if need be, wrong. Yet

she was a shrewd and high-minded woman, and not one of those fortunate

fanatics who can see nothing but good on one side, and nothing but ill on

the other. Life had grown intolerable in her mother's house, and Jean

had not in her the making of a convinced and thoroughgoing Covenanter,

and in going over to the other party, she had, on the whole, fulfilled

herself, as well as found a mate of the same proud spirit. But she

was honest enough to admit to herself that those Ayrshire peasants were

dying for conscience' sake, though she might think it a narrow

conscience, and were sincere in their piety, though she might think it an

unattractive religion. And she could not shut her eyes to the fact that

there was little glory in shooting them down like muirfowl, or that the

men of Claverhouse's side were too often drunken and evil-living bravos.

Jean was feeling the situation in its acuteness that evening as she

read for the third time a letter which had come from Edinburgh by the

hands of Grimond. At the sight of the writing her pulse quickened, and

Grimond marked, with jealous displeasure (for that impracticable Scot

never trusted Jean), the flush of love upon her cheek and its joy in

her eyes. She now drew the letter from her bosom, and this is what she

read, but in a different spelling from ours and with some slight

differences in construction, all of which have been translated:

SWEETHEART: It is my one trouble when I must leave you, and save

when I am engaged on the king's work my every thought is with you,

for indeed it appeareth to me that if I loved you with strong

desire on the day of our marriage, I love you more soul and body

this day. When another woman speaks to me in the daytime, though

they say that she is fair, her beauty coming into comparison with

your's, is disparaged, beside the sheen of your hair and the

richness of your lips, and though she may have a pleasant way with

men, as they tell me, she hath no lure for me, as I picture you

throw back your head and look at me with eyes that challenge my

love. When the night cometh, and the task of the day is done, I

hold you in my embrace, the proudest woman in Scotland, and you

say again, as on that day in the pleasaunce, "For life, John

Graham, and for death."

It has not been easy living for you, Jean, since that marriage-day,

when the trumpets were our wedding-bells, and your mother's curse

our benediction, and I take thought oftentimes that it has been

harder for thee, Sweetheart, than for me. I had the encounters

of the field with open enemies and of the Council with false

friends, but thou hast had the loneliness of Dudhope, when I was

not there to caress you and kiss away your cares. Faithful have

you been to the cause, and to me, and I make boast that I have not

been unfaithful myself to either, but the sun has not been always

shining on our side of the hedge and there have been some chill

blasts. Yet they have ever driven us closer into one another's arms,

and each coming home, if it has been like the first from the work of

war, has been also like it a new marriage-day. Say you is it not

true, Sweetheart, we be still bridegroom and bride, and shall be

to the end?

When I asked you to be my wife, Jean, I told you that love even

for you would not hinder me from doing the king's work, but

this matter I have had on hand in Edinburgh has tried me

sorely,--though one in the Council would guess at my heart. I have

also the fear that it will vex you greatly. Mayhap you have

heard, for such news flies fast, that we lighted upon Henry

Pollock and a party of his people last week. They were going

to some preaching and were taken unawares, and we captured

them all, not without blows and blood. Pollock himself fought as

ye might expect, like a man without fear, and was wounded. I saw

that his cuts were bound up, and that he had meat and drink. We

brought him on horseback to Edinburgh, treating him as well as we

could, for while I knew what the end would be, and that he

sought no other, I do not deny that he is an honest man and I do

not forget that he loved you. Yesterday he was tried before the

Council, and I gave strong evidence against him. Upon my word

it was that he was declared guilty of rebellion against the king's

authority, and was condemned to death. None other could I do,

Jean, for he that spared so dangerous and stalwart an enemy as

Pollock, is himself a traitor, but when the Council were fain

to insult him I rebuked them sharply and told them to their

face that among them there was no spirit so clean and brave.

This morning he was executed and since there was a fear lest

the people who have greatly loved him should attempt to rescue, I

was present with two troops of horse. It needeth not me to tell

you that he died well, bidding farewell to earth and welcome to

heaven in words I cannot forget, tho' they sounded strange to me.

Sweetheart, I will say something boldly in thine ear. I have had

little time to think of heaven and little desire for such a

place, but I would count myself fortunate if in the hour of death

I were as sure of winning there as Henry Pollock. So he died

for his side, and I helped him to his death; some day I may die

for my side, and his friends will help me to my death. It is a

dark day and a troubled nation. Henry Pollock and John Graham

have both been thorough. God is our judge, wha kens but He may

accept us baith? But I cannot deny he was a saint, as ye once

said of him, and that I shall never be, neither shall you, Jean

Graham, my love and my heart's delight

This is sore writing to me, but I would rather ye had it from my

hand than from another's, and I fear me ye will hear bitter words

in Dundee of what has been done. This is the cup we have to drink

and worse things may yet be coming, for I have the misgiving that

black danger is at hand and that the king will have to fight for

his crown. Before long, if I be not a false prophet, my old

general, the Prince of Orange, will do his part to wrest the

throne from his own wife's father. If he does the crown will not

be taken without one man seeing that other crowns be broken, but I

fear me, Jean, I fear greatly. In Scotland the king's chief

servants be mostly liars and cowards, seeking every man after his

own interest, with the heart of Judas Iscariot, and in London I

doubt if they be much better. These be dreary news, and I wish to

heaven I had better to send thee. This I can ever give, unless ye

answer me that it is yours before, the love of my inmost heart

till I am able to give you it in the kiss of my lips, with your

arms again flung about me, as on that day. Till our meeting and

for evermore, my dearest lady and only Sweetheart first and last,

I am your faithful lover and servant,

JOHN GRAHAM.

So it had come to pass as she had often feared, that Pollock would die

by Claverhouse's doing, and now she had not been a woman if her heart

were not divided that evening between her lovers, although she had no

hesitation either then or in the past about her preference. Jean knew

she was not made to be the wife of an ascetic, but never could she

forget the look in Pollock's eyes when he told her of his love, nor

cease to be proud that he had done her the chief honor a man can

render to a woman. She knew then, and she knew better to-day, that she

had never loved Pollock, and never indeed could have loved him as a

woman loves her husband. But she revered him then, and he would have

forever a place in her heart like the niche given to a saint, and she

hoped that his prayers for her--for she knew he would intercede for

her--would be answered in the highest. Nor could she refrain from the

comparison between Pollock and Graham. In some respects they were so

like one another, both being men of ancient blood and high tradition,

both carrying themselves without shame and without fear, both being

fanatics--the one for religion and the other for loyalty--and, it

might be, both alike to be martyrs for their faith. And so unlike--the

one unworldly, spiritual, and, save in self-defence, gentle and meek;

the other charged with high ambition, fond of power, ready for battle,

gracious in gay society, passionate in love. Who had the better of it

in the fight--her debonair husband, with his body-guard of dragoons,

striking down and capturing a minister and a handful of shepherds, or

that pure soul, who lived preaching and praying, and was willing to

die praying and fighting against hopeless odds? She had cast in her

lot with the Royalists, but it came over her that in the eternal

justice Pollock, dying on the scaffold, was already victor, and

Graham, who sent him there, was already the loser. If it had been

cruel writing for Claverhouse, it was cruel reading for his wife, and

yet, when she had read it over again, the passage on Pollock faded

away as if it had been spiritualized and no longer existed for the

earthly sense. She only lingered over the words of devotion and

passion, and when she kissed again and again his signature she knew

that whether he was to win or to be beaten, whether he was right or

wrong, angel or devil--and he was neither--she belonged with her whole

desire to Claverhouse.

Claverhouse's letter to his wife was written in May, and by October

his gloomy forebodings regarding the king were being verified. During

the autumn William of Orange had been preparing to invade England, and

it was freely said he would come on the invitation of the English

people and as the champion of English liberty. From the beginning of

the crisis James was badly advised, and showed neither nerve nor

discernment, and among other foolish measures was the withdrawal of

the regular troops from Scotland and their concentration at London.

From London James made a feeble campaign in the direction of the west,

and Claverhouse, who was in command of the Scots Cavalry, and whose

mind was torn between contempt for the feebleness of the military

measures and impatience to be at the enemy, wrote to Jean, sending

her, as it seemed to be his lot, mixed news of honor and despair.

_For the fair hands of the Viscountess of Dundee, and Lady Graham

of Claverhouse._

MY DEAREST LADY: If I have to send ye evil tidings concerning the

affairs of the king, which can hardly be worse, let me first

acquaint you with the honor His Majesty has bestowed upon me, and

which I count the more precious because it bringeth honor to her

who is dearer to me than life, and who has suffered much trouble

through me. Hitherto our marriage has meant suffering of many

kinds for my Sweetheart, though I am fain to believe there has

been more consolation in our love, but now it is charged with the

King's favor and high dignity in the State. Whatever it be worth

for you and me, and however long or short I be left to enjoy it, I

have been made a Peer of Scotland by the titles written above, and

what I like best in the matter, is that the peerage has been

given--so it runs, and no doubt a woman loves to read such things

of her man--for "Many good and eminent services rendered to His

Majesty, and his dearest Royal brother, King Charles II, by his

right trusty and well-beloved Councilor, Major-General John Graham

of Claverhouse; together with his constant loyalty and firm

adherence upon all occasions to the true interests of the crown."

Whatever befalls me it pleases me that the king knows I have been

loyal and that he is grateful for one faithful servant. So I kiss

the hand of my Lady Viscountess and were I at Dudhope I might

venture upon her lips, aye, more than once.

When I leave myself and come unto the King I have nothing to tell

but what fills me with shame and fear. It was not good policy to

call the troops from Scotland, where we could have held the land

for the King, but one had not so much regret if we had been

allowed to strike a blow against the Usurper. Had there been a

heart in my Lord Feversham--it hurts me to reflect on the

King--then the army should have made a quick march into the West,

gathering round it all the loyal gentlemen, and struck a blow at

the Prince before he had established himself in the land. By God's

help we had driven him and his Dutchmen, and the traitors who have

flocked to him, into the sea. But it is with a sore heart I tell

thee, tho' this had better be kept to thy secret council, that

there seemeth to be neither wisdom nor courage amongst us. His

Majesty has been living in the Bishop's Palace, and does nothing

at the time, when to strike quickly is to strike for ever.

Officers in high place are stealing away like thieves, and others

who remain are preaching caution, by which they mean safety for

themselves and their goods. "Damn all caution," say I, to

Feversham and the rest of them, "let us into the saddle and

forward, let us strike hard and altogether, for the King and our

cause!" If we win it will be a speedy end to rebellion and another

Sedgemoor; if we are defeated, and I do not despise the Scots

Brigade with Hugh MacKay, we shall fall with honor and not be a

scorn to coming generations. For myself, were it not for thee,

Jean, I should crave no better end than to fall in a last charge

for the King and the good cause. As it is, unless God put some

heart into our leaders, the army will melt away like snow upon a

dyke in the springtime, and William will have an open road to

London and the throne of England. He may have mair trouble and see

some bloodshed before he lays his hand on the auld crown of

Scotland. When I may get awa to the North countrie I know not yet,

but whether I be in the South, where many are cowards and some are

traitors, or in the North, where the clans at least be true, and

there be also not a few loyal Lowland Cavaliers, my love is ever

with thee, dear heart, and warm upon my breast lies the lock of

your golden hair.

Yours till death,

DUNDEE.

God was not pleased to reënforce the king's advisers, and his cause

fell rapidly to pieces. Claverhouse withdrew the Scots Cavalry to the

neighborhood of London, and wore out his heart in the effort to put

manhood into his party, which was now occupied in looking after their

own interests in the inevitable revolution. And again Claverhouse, or,

as we should call him, Dundee, wrote to Jean:

DEAREST AND BRAVEST OF WOMEN: Were ye not that, as I know well, I

had no heart in me to write this letter, for I have no good thing

to tell thee about the cause of the King and it seems to me

certain that, for the time at least, England is lost. I am now in

London, and the days are far harder for me than when I campaigned

with the Usurper, and fought joyfully at Seneffe and Grave. It is

ill to contain oneself when a man has to go from one to another of

his comrades and ask him for God's sake and the King's sake to

play the man. Then to get nothing but fair and false words, and to

see the very officers that hold the King's commission shuffling

and lying, with one eye on King James and the other on the Prince

of Orange. Had I my way of it I would shoot a dozen of the

traitors to encourage the others. But the King is all for

peace--peace, forsooth! when his enemies are at the door of the

palace. What can one man do against so many, and a King too

tolerant and good-natured--God forgive me, I had almost written

too weak? It is not for me to sit in judgment on my Sovereign, but

some days ago I gave my mind to Hamilton in his own lodgings,

where Balcarres and certain of us met to take council. There were

hot words, and no good came of it. Balcarres alone is staunch, and

yesterday he went with me to Whitehall and we had our last word

for the present with the King. He was gracious unto us, as he has

ever been to me when his mind was not poisoned by Queensberry or

Perth, and ye might care to know, Jean, what your man, much

daring, said to His Majesty: "We have come, Sir, to ask a favor of

your Majesty, and that ye will let us do a deed which will waken

the land and turn the tide of affairs. Have we your permission to

cause the drums to be beat of every regiment in London and the

neighbourhood, for if ye so consent there will be twenty thousand

men ready to start to-morrow morning. Before to-morrow night the

road to London will be barred, and, please God, before a week is

over your throne will be placed beyond danger." For a space I

think he was moved and then the life went out of him, and he sadly

shook his head. "It is too late," he said, "too late, and the

shedding of blood would be vain." But I saw he was not displeased

with us, and he signified his pleasure that we should walk with

him in the Mall. Again I dared to entreat him not to leave his

capital without a stroke, and in my soul I wondered that he could

be so enduring. Had it been your man, Jean, he had been at the

Prince's throat before the Dutchman had been twenty-four hours in

England. But who am I to reflect upon my King? and I will say it,

that he spake words to me I can never forget. "You are brave men,"

said the King, and, though he be a cold man, I saw that he was

touched, "and if there had been twenty like you among the officers

and nobles, things had not come to this pass. Ye can do nothing

more in England, and for myself I have resolved to go to France,

for if I stayed here I would be a prisoner, and there is but a

short road between the prison and the graves of Kings. To you," he

said to Balcarres, "I leave the charge of civil affairs in

Scotland," and, then turning to me, "You, Lord Dundee, who ought

before to have had this place, but I was ill-advised, shall be

commander of the troops in Scotland. Do for your King what God

gives you to do, and he pledges his word to aid you by all means

in his power, and in the day of victory to reward you." We knelt

and kissed his hand, and so for the time, heaven grant it be not

forever, bade goodbye to our Sovereign. As I walked down the Mall

I saw a face I seemed to know, and the man, whoever he was, made a

sign that he would speak with me. I turned aside and found to my

amazement that the stranger, who was not in uniform, and did not

court observation, was Captain Carlton, who served with me in the

Prince's army and of whom ye may have heard me speak. A good

soldier and a fair-minded gentleman, tho' of another way of

thinking from me. After a brief salutation he told me that the

Prince was already in London and had taken up his quarters at Zion

House.

"Then," said I to him, "it availeth nothing for some of us to

remain in London, it were better that we should leave quickly."

"It might or it might not be," he replied, being a man of few and

careful words, "but before you go there is a certain person who

desires to have a word with you. If it be not too much toil will

you lay aside your military dress, and come with me this evening

as a private gentleman to Zion House?" Then I knew that he had

come from the Prince, and altho' much tossed in my mind as to what

was right to do, I consented, and ye will be astonished, Jean, to

hear what happened.

There was none present at my audience, and I contented myself with

bowing when I entered his presence, for your husband is not made

to kiss the hands of one king in the morning and of another in the

evening of the same day. The Prince, for so I may justly call him,

expected none otherwise, and, according to his custom--I have

often spoken of his silence--said at once, "My lord," for he knows

everything as is his wont, "it has happened as I prophesied, you

are on one side and I am on another, and you have been a faithful

servant to your master, as I told him you would be. If it had been

in your power, I had not come so easily to this place, for the

council you gave to the King has been told to me. All that man can

do, ye have done, and now you may, like other officers, take

service in the army under my command." Whereupon I told the Prince

that our house had never changed sides, and he would excuse me

setting the example. He seemed prepared for this answer, and then

he said, "You purpose, my lord, to return to Scotland, and I shall

not prevent you, but I ask that ye stir not up useless strife and

shed blood in vain, for the end is certain." I will not deny,

Jean, that I was moved by his words, for he is a strong man, and

has men of the same kind with him. So far I went as to say that

if duty did not compell me I would not trouble the land. More I

could not promise, and I reckon there is not much in that promise,

for I will never see the Prince of Orange made King of Scotland

with my sword in its sheath. If there be any other way out of it,

I have no wish to set every man's hand against his neighbour's in

Scotland. He bowed to me and I knew that the audience was over,

and when I left Zion House, my heart was sore that my King was not

as wise and resolute as this foreign Prince. The second sight has

been given to me to-day, and, dear heart, I see the shroud rising

till it reaches the face, but whose face I cannot see. What I have

to do, I cannot see either, but in a few days I shall be in

Edinburgh, with as many of my horse as I can bring. If peace be

consistent with honor then ye will see me soon in Dudhope for

another honeymoon, but if it is to be war my lot is cast, and,

while my hand can hold it, my sword belongs to the King. But my

heart, sweet love, is thine till it ceases to beat.

Yours always and altogether,

DUNDEE.