CHAPTER IV

THOU ALSO FALSE

Dundee was a man of many trials, and one on whom fortune seldom

smiled; but the most cruel days of his life were the ride from

Inverness by the Pass of Corryarrack to Blair Athole, and from Blair

Athole by Perth to Dundee. He learned then, as many men have done in

times of their distress, the horror of the night time and the

blessing of the light. Had his mind not been affected by the

universal treachery of the time, and the disappointments he had met on

every side, till it seemed that every man except himself was hunting

after his own interest, and no one, high or low, could be trusted, he

had from the beginning treated Grimond's story with contempt and

made it a subject of jest. He would no more have doubted Jean's

honor than that of his mother. He would have known that Grimond never

lied, and that he did not often drink, but he also would have been

sure that even if it was Jean who met Livingstone, that there was

some good explanation, and he never would have allowed his thoughts

to dwell upon the matter. If Jean had been told that Graham had been

seen with a lady of the Court at Whitehall, she would have scorned

to question him, and indeed she had often laughed at the snares

certain frail beauties of that day had laid for him in London. For

she knew him, and he also knew her. But he was sorely tried in

spirit and driven half crazy by the disloyalty of his friends, and it

is in those circumstances of morbid, unhealthy feeling that the seeds

of suspicion find a root and grow, as the microbes settle upon

susceptible and disordered organs of the body.

As it was, he was divided in his mind, and it was the alternation of

dark and bright moods which made his agony. Spring had only reached

the Highlands as he rode southwards, but its first touches had made

everything winsome and beautiful. While patches of snow lingered on

the higher hills, and glittered in the sunlight, the grass in the

hollows between the heather was putting on the first greenness of the

season, and the heather was sprouting bravely; the burns were

full-bodied with the melting snow from the higher levels and rushing

with a pleasant noise to join the river. As he came down from the

bare uplands at Dalnaspidal into the sheltered glen at Blair Castle,

the trees made an arch of the most delicate emerald over his head, for

the buds were beginning to open, and the wind blew gently upon his

face. The sight of habitations as he came nearer to the Lowlands, the

sound of the horses' feet upon the road, the gayety of his band of

troopers, the children playing before their humble cottages, the

exhilarating air, and the hope of the season when winter was gone,

told upon his heart and reënforced him. The despair of the night

before, when he tossed to and fro upon a wretched bed or paced up and

down before the farmhouse door, imagining everything that was

horrible, passed away as a nightmare. Was there ever such madness as

that he, John Graham, should be doubting his wife, Jean Cochrane, whom

he had won from the midst of his enemies, and who had left her mother

and her mother's house to be his bride? How brave she had been, how

self-sacrificing, how uncomplaining, how proud in heart and high in

spirit; she had given up the whole world for him; she was the bravest

and purest of ladies. That his wife of those years of storm and the

mother a few weeks ago of his child should forget her vows and her

love, and condescend to a base intrigue; that she should meet a lover

in the orchard where they often used to walk, where the blossom would

now be opening on the trees, that Livingstone, whom he knew and

counted in a sense a friend, though he held King William's commission

now, and had not stood by the right side, should take the opportunity

of his absence to seduce his wife! It was a hideous and incredible

idea, some mad mistake which could be easily explained. Dundee,

throwing off his black and brooding burden of thought, would touch his

horse with the spur and gallop for a mile in gayety of heart and then

ride on his way, singing some Cavalier song, till Grimond, who kept

away from his master those days and rode among the troopers, would

shake his head, and say to himself, "God grant he be not fey"

(possessed). Dundee would continue in high spirits till the evening

shadows began to fall, and then the other shadow would lengthen across

his soul. The night before he met his wife he spent in Glamis Castle,

and the grim, austere beauty of that ancient house affected his

imagination. Up its winding stairs with their bare, stern walls men

had gone in their armor, through the thickness of the outer walls

secret stairs connected mysterious chambers one with another. Strange

deeds had been done in those low-roofed rooms with their dark carved

furniture, and there were secret places in the castle where ghosts of

the past had their habitation. Weird figures were said to flit through

the castle at night, restless spirits which revisited the scene of

former tragedies and crimes, and the room in which Graham slept was

known to be haunted. Alas! he needed no troubled ancestor of the

Strathmore house to visit him, for his own thoughts were sufficient

torment, and through the brief summer night and then through the

dawning light of the morning he threshed the question which gnawed his

heart. Evil suggestions and suspicious remembrances of the past, which

would have fled before the sunlight, surrounded him and looked out at

him from the shadow with gibbering faces. Had he not been told that

Jean laid traps for him in Paisley that she might secure the safety of

her lover Pollock, and also of her kinsman, Sir John Cochrane? Had she

not often spoken warmly of that Covenanting minister and expressed her

bitter regret that her husband had compassed Pollock's death? She had

tried to keep him from attending the Convention, and of late days had

often suggested that he had better be at peace and not stir up the

country. After all, can you take out of the life what is bred in the

bone?--and Jean Cochrane was of a Covenanting stock, and her mother a

very harridan of bigotry. Might there not have been some sense in the

fear of his friends that he would no longer be loyal to the good

cause, and was Jock Grimond's grudge against his marriage mere

stupidity and jealousy? Everyone was securing his safety and adjusting

himself to the new regime; there was hardly a Lowland gentleman who

had irretrievably pledged himself to King James, and as for the

chiefs, they would fight for their own hand as they had always done,

and could only be counted on for one thing, and that was securing

plunder. Was not he alone, and would not he soon be either on the

scaffold or an exile? The Whigs would soon be reigning in their glory

over Scotland, and it would be well with everyone that had their

password. If he were out of the way, would there not be a strong

temptation for her to make terms with her family and buy security by

loyalty to their side? No doubt she was a strong woman, but, after

all, she was only a woman, and was she able to stand alone and live

forsaken at Glenogilvie, with friends neither among Cavaliers nor

Covenanters? Could he blame her if she separated herself from a

ruined cause and a discredited husband, for would she not be only

doing what soldiers and courtiers had done, what everybody except

himself was doing? Why should she, a young woman with life before her,

tie herself up with a hopeless cause, and one who might be called

commander-in-chief of James's army, but who had nothing to show for it

but a handful of reckless troopers and a few hundred Highland thieves,

a man whom all sensible people would be regarding as a mad adventurer?

Would it not be a stroke of wisdom--the Whigs were a cunning crew, and

he recalled that Lord Dundonald was an adroit schemer--to buy the

future for herself and her child by selling him and returning to her

old allegiance? There was enough reality in this ghost to give it, as

it were, a bodily shape, and Graham, who had been flinging himself

about, struck out with his fist as if at flesh and blood.

"Damn you, begone, begone!"

For a while he lay quietly and made as though he would have slept.

Then the ghosts began to gather around his bed again as if the

Covenanters he had murdered had come from the other world and were

having their day of vengeance. It must have been Jean who met

Livingstone in the orchard, and it must have been an assignation.

There was no woman in Dudhope had her height and carriage, and the

vision of her proud face that he had loved so well brought scalding

tears to his eyes. For what purpose had she met Livingstone, if not

to arrange some base surrender, if not to give information about

him so that MacKay might find him more easily? Was it worse than that,

if worse could be when all was black as hell? Livingstone had known

her for years; it had been evident that he admired her; he was an

attractive man of his kind. Nothing was more likely in that day,

when unlawful love was not a shame, but a boast, than that he had been

making his suit to Lady Dundee. Her husband was away, likely never

to return; she was a young and handsome woman, and Livingstone had

time upon his hands at Dundee. A month ago he had sworn that the

virtue of his wife was unassailable as that of the Blessed Virgin; he

would have sworn it two days ago as he rode through Killiecrankie; but

now, with the brooding darkness round him and its awful shapes

peopling the room, he was not sure of anything that was good and

true. Had he not lived at Court, had he not known the great ladies,

had not they tried to seduce him, and flung themselves at his

head? Was not Jean a woman like the rest, and why should his wife be

faithful when every other woman of rank was an adulteress! This,

then, was the end of it all, and he had suffered the last stroke of

treachery, and the last stain of dishonor. How he had been befooled

and bewitched; what an actress she had been, with a manner that

would have deceived the wisest! What a stupid, blundering fool he

had been! There are times, the black straits of life, when a man

must either pray or curse. If he be a saint he will pray, but Dundee

was not a saint, so he rose from his bed, and sweeping away the evil

shapes from before him with his right arm, and then with his left,

as one makes his road through high-standing corn that closes in behind

him, he raged from side to side of the room in which the day was

faintly breaking, while unaccustomed oaths poured from his mouth.

One thing only remained for him, and at the thought peace began to

come. He had planned weeks ago to visit Dundee again and give the

chance to Livingstone's dragoons to join him, for he had reason to

believe that they were not unalterably loyal. He was on his way to

Dundee now, and to-morrow he would be there, but he cared little what

the dragoons would do; he had other folk to deal with. If he found

he had been betrayed at home, and by her who had lain on his breast,

and by a man whom he had counted his friend, they should know the

vengeance of the Grahams. "Both of them--both of them to hell, and

then my work is done and I shall go to see them!"

It was characteristic of the man that, though he had no assistance

from Grimond in the morning--for Jock dared not go near him--Dundee

appeared in perfect order, even more carefully dressed than usual; but

as he rode from the door of Glamis Castle through the beautiful domain

of park and wood, Grimond was aghast at his pinched and drawn face and

the gleam in his eye. "May the Lord hae mercy, but I doot sairly that

he is aff his head, and that there will be wild work at Dudhope." And

while Grimond had all the imperturbable self-satisfaction and unshaken

dourness of the Lowland Scot, and never on any occasion acknowledged

that he could be wrong or changed his way, he almost wished that he

had left this affair alone and had not meddled between his master and

his master's wife. It was again a fair and sunny day, when the

freshness of spring was feeling the first touch of summer, as Dundee

and his men rode up the pass through the hills from Strathmore to

Dundee. There were times when Graham would have breathed his horse at

the highest point, from which you are able to look down upon the sea,

and drunk in the pure, invigorating air, and gazed at the distant

stretches of the ocean. But he had no time to lose that day; he had

work to do without delay. With all his delirium--and Graham's brain

was hot, and every nerve tingling--he retained the instincts of a

soldier, and just because he was so suspicious of his reception he

took the more elaborate precautions. Before he entered the pass his

scouts made sure that he would not be ambuscaded, for it might be that

his approach was known, and that Livingstone, taking him at a

disadvantage in the narrow way, by one happy stroke would complete his

triumph. As he came near Dundee, he sent out a party to reconnoitre,

while he remained with his troop to watch events. When the sound of

firing was heard he knew that the garrison was on the alert, and that

the town could only be taken by assault. The soldiers came galloping

back with several wounded men, having left one dead. Livingstone was

for the moment safe in his fastness, and it was evident that the

dragoons were not in a mind to desert their colors. By this time it

would be known at Dudhope that he was near, and the sooner he arrived

the more chance of finding his wife. It was possible that Livingstone

had garrisoned Dudhope, and that if he rode forward alone he might be

snared. But this risk he would take in the heat of his mind, and

summoning Grimond with a stern gesture to his side, and ordering the

soldiers to follow at a slight interval and to surround the castle, he

galloped forward to the door. The place appeared to be deserted, but

at last, in answer to his knocking, as he beat on the door with the

hilt of his sword, it was opened by an old woman who seemed the only

servant left, and who was driven speechless by her master's unexpected

appearance and his wild expression. For, although John Graham had been

a stern as well as just and kind master, and although he had often

been angry, and was never to be trifled with, no one had ever seen him

before other than cool and calm, smooth-spoken and master of himself.

"What means it, Janet, or whatever be your name, that the door was

barred and I kept standing outside my own house? What were ye doing,

and who is within the walls? Speak out, and quickly, or I will make

you do it at your pain. Have the dragoons been here, and are there any

hid in this place? Is my Lady Dundee in the castle, and if so, where

is she?" And then, when the panic-stricken woman could not find

intelligible words before the unwonted fury of her master, he pushed

her aside and, rushing up the stair, tore open the door of the

familiar room where Jean and he usually sat--to find that she was not

there nor anywhere else in the castle, that his wife and the child

were gone. With this confirmation of his worst fears, his fever left

him suddenly, and he came to himself, so far as the action of his mind

and the passion of his manner were concerned. Sending for Janet, he

expressed his regret, with more than his usual courtesy, that he had

spoken roughly to her and for the moment had frightened her.

Something, he said, had vexed him, but now she must not be afraid, but

must tell him some things that he wished to know. Had everything been

going well at Dudhope since he left, and had her ladyship and my

little lord been in good health? That was excellent. He hoped that the

dragoons had not been troublesome or come about the castle? They had

not? Well, that was satisfactory. Their commander, Colonel

Livingstone, perhaps had called to pay his respects to Lady Dundee,

and render any kindness he could? No, never been seen at the castle?

That was strange. Her ladyship--where had she gone, for she did not

appear to be in the castle, nor her maid nor the other servants? Where

were they all? Had her ladyship taken refuge in Dundee for safety in

those troubled times? And as his master asked this question with

studied calmness and the gentlest of accents, Grimond shuddered, for

this was the heart of the matter, and there was murder in the answer.

Not to Dundee--where then? To Glenogilvie, only last night in great

haste, as if afraid of someone or something happening. Of whom, of

what? But Janet did not know, and could only say that Lady Dundee and

the household had formed a sudden plan and departed at nightfall for

the old home of the Grahams. Whereat Dundee smiled, and, crossing to a

window and looking down upon the town, said to himself: "A cunning

trap. I was to be taken at Dundee, when in my hot haste, and thinking

I had an easy capture, I rushed the town without precautions, as I

might have done. While in quiet Glenogilvie my lady waited for his

triumphant coming, victor and lover. It was a saving mercy, as her

people would say, that our scouts drew their fire and brought out the

situation. They might have baited the trap at Dudhope had they been

cleverer, and I been taken in my home with her by my side--but that

would have been dangerous. Now it is left for me to see whether the

town could be rushed, and I have the last joy of one good stroke at

Colonel Livingstone. But if that be beyond my reach, as I fear it may,

then haste me to Glenogilvie."

During the day Graham hung about the outskirts of the town searching

for some weak spot where he could make a successful entrance with his

troopers. Before evening he was driven to the conclusion that an

assault could only mean defeat and likely his own death, and he wished

to live at least for another day. So when the sun was setting he rode

away from Dudhope, and on the crest of the hill that overhangs Dundee,

he turned him in his saddle and looked down on the castle from which

he had ruled the town, and where he had spent many glad days with

Jean. The shadows of evening were now gathering, and when he reached

the home of his boyhood in secluded Glenogilvie the night had fallen.

It was contrary to his pride to practise any tactics in his own

country, and they rode boldly to the door from which he had gone out

and in so often in earlier, happier days. They had been keeping watch,

he noticed, for lights shifted in the rooms as they came near, and

almost as soon as he had crossed the threshold his wife came out from

her room to greet him. He marked in that instant that, though she was

startled to see him, and had not looked for him so soon, she showed no

sign of confusion or of guilt. Against his will he admired the courage

of her carriage and her dignity in what he judged a critical hour of

her life. It was not their way to rush into one another's arms, though

there burned in them the hottest and fiercest passion of love. In

presence of others they never gave themselves away, but carried

themselves with a stately grace. "We heard you were on your way, my

lord," she simply said, "but I did not expect so quick a meeting. Have

ye come from the north or from Perth? A messenger went to Lord Perth's

house with news of the happenings at Dundee, but doubtless he missed

you." She gave him her hand, over which he bent, and which he seemed

to kiss, but did not. "We left Perth two days ago," he replied, with a

cold, clear voice, which did not quite hide the underlying emotion,

"and we have this day paid our visit to Dundee--to get a chill

welcome and find Dudhope empty. It was a pity that we missed the

messenger, Lady Dundee, who doubtless sought for us diligently, for if

we had known where you were when we left Glamis this morning, it had

been easy--aye, and in keeping with my mind--to turn aside and visit

Glenogilvie." They were still standing in the hall, and Jean had begun

to realize that Dundee was changed, and that behind this cold courtesy

some fire was burning. When they were alone she would, in other

circumstances, have cast herself in the proud surrender of a strong

woman's love into his arms, and he would have kissed her hair, her

forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her chin, and, last, her mouth; but at

the sight of his eyes she stood apart, and straightening herself, Jean

said: "What is the meaning of this look, John, and what ails you? Ye

seem as if ye had suffered some cruel blow. Has aught gone wrong with

you? Ye have come back in hot haste."

"Yes, my Lady Dundee, something wrong with me, and maybe worse with

you. I have come quicker than I intended, and have had a somewhat cold

reception at Dundee, but I grant you that was not your blame, you had

doubtless prepared a warmer. Livingstone was the laggard."

"You are angry, John, and I now understand the cause. It was not my

blame, for what woman could do I did, and maybe more than becometh

your wife, to win him over. He almost consented, and I declare to you

that Livingstone is with us. I could have sworn two days ago that the

regiment would have joined us and been waiting for you. But that

determined Whig, Captain Balfour, discovered the plot, and I had a

message yesterday afternoon that it was hopeless. So for fear of

arrest I hurried to Glenogilvie, and tried to intercept your coming.

Blame not me, for I could do no more--and what mean you by calling me

ever by my title and not by my name, after our parting for so long and

dangerous a time?"

"You are right, Jean Cochrane, and I will do you this justice, ye

could not do more than meet him in the orchard and in the dark of the

night. Yes, ye were both seen, and word was brought me to the north by

a faithful messenger--I judge the only true heart left. That was fine

doing and fine pleading, when he confessed that you had won his heart,

but his honor was hindering him. Ye cannot deny the words, they are

graven on my heart like fire, and are burning it to the core. You, my

wife, and whom I made my Lady Dundee, as if you had been a lowborn

country lass."

"You are unjust, my lord, shamefully and cruelly unjust. It was not a

pleasant thing for me to do, and I hated myself in the stooping to do

it, but there was no other way for it, since he dared not come in the

daylight, and I dared not go to him. Now I wish to God I had never

troubled myself and never lifted my little finger to accomplish this

thing for the cause, since spies have been going and coming between

Dudhope and the north. What I did, I did for you and King James, and

if I had succeeded ye would have praised me and said that a woman's

wiles had won a regiment of horse. But because I have failed ye fling

my poor effort in my face, and make me angry with myself that I ever

tried to serve you--you who stand here reproaching me for my

condescension."

"Well acted, my lady, and a very cunning tale. So it was to serve me

ye crept out at night disguised, and it was to win his heart for King

James that ye spoke so tenderly? I never expected the day would come

when John Graham of Claverhouse would call down blessings--aye, the

richest benediction of heaven--upon a Covenanter, but I pray God to

bless Captain Balfour with all things that he desires in this world

and in that which is to come. Because, though he knew not what he was

doing, and might have served his own cause better by letting things

run their course, he saved, at least in the eyes of the world, my

honor, and averted the public shame of a treacherous wanton."

As the words fell slowly and quietly from his lips, like drops of

vitriol, Jean's face reflected the rapid succession of emotions in her

heart. She was startled as one not grasping the meaning of his words:

she was horrified as their shameful charge emerged: she was stricken

to the heart as the man she had loved from out of all the world called

her by the vilest of all names a woman can hear. Then, being no gentle

and timid young wife who could be crushed by a savage and unexpected

blow and find her relief in a flood of tears, but a proud and

determined woman with the blood of two ancient houses in her veins,

after the briefest pause she struck back at Dundee, carrying herself

at her full height, throwing back her head with an attitude of scorn,

her face pale because intense feeling had called the blood back to the

heart, and her eyes blazing with fury, as when the forked lightning

bursts from the cloud and shatters a house or strikes a living person

dead. And it was like her that she spoke almost as quietly as Graham,

neither shrinking nor trembling.

"This, then, is the cause of your strange carriage, Lord Dundee, which

I noted on your coming, and tried to explain in a simple and honorable

way, for I had no key to your mind, and have not known you for what

you are till this night. So that was the base thing you have been

imagining in your heart, as you rode through the North Country, and

that was the spur that drave you home with such haste--to guard your

honor as a husband, and to put to shame an adulterous wife? Pardon me

if I was slow in catching your meaning, the charge has taken me

somewhat by surprise." And already, before her face, Dundee began to

weaken and to shrink for the first time in his life.

"And you are the man whom I, Jean Cochrane, have loved alone of

all men in the world, and for whose love I forsook my mother and my

house, and became a stranger in the land! You are the husband whom

I trusted utterly, for whom I was willing to make the last sacrifice

of life, of whom I boasted in my heart, in whom I placed all my joy! I

knew you were a bigot for your cause; I knew you were cruel in the

doing of your work; I knew you had a merciless ambition; I knew you

had an unmanageable pride; I have not lain in your arms nor lived

by your side, I have not heard you speak nor seen you act, without

understanding how obstinate is the temper of your mind, and how fiery

is your heart. For those faults I did not love you less, and of

them I did not complain, for they were my own also. That you were

incapable of trusting, that you could suspect your wife of dishonor,

that you would be moved by the report of a spy, a baseborn peasant

man, that you could offer the last gross, unpardonable insult to a

virtuous woman, is what I never could have even imagined. The

Covenanters called you by many evil names, and I did not believe

them. I believe every one of them now--they did not tell half the

truth. They called you persecutor and murderer, they forgot to call

you what I now do. As when one strikes a cur with a whip, so to

your fair, false face I call you liar and coward. Peace till I be

done, and then you may kill me, for it were better I should not live,

and if I had the sword of one of my kinsfolk here I would kill you

where you stand. God in heaven, what an accusation! A wife of five

years, and a mother of only a few weeks, that she should sin with

an honorable man who is her friend and her husband's friend! Did

Livingstone say, according to that dastard hiding in the wood, that

his heart was with us? That was with our cause, and not with me.

Did he say honor hindered him? That was not honor towards you, it

was honor towards his colors. But honor is a strange word in your ears

now, my lord. I have never thought of Livingstone more than any

other man who has a good name and has never betrayed a trust. This

night my heart is favorable to him, for I saw him in an agony about

his honor, and I judge if he were a woman's husband, and she was such

a woman as I am before God this day, he would rather die than

insult her."

"Ye wished for some weapon wherewith to take a coward's life. Here is

my sword, Jean, and here is my heart. I would not be sorry to die, and

I would rather take the last stroke from you than from my enemies. It

is not worth while to live, for I have no friend, and soon shall have

no possessions. My cause is forlorn, and my name is a byword, and now,

by my own doing, I have lost my only love. Strike just here, and my

blood will be an atonement to thee for my sin, and generations unborn

will bless the hand which slew Claverhouse.

"Ye hesitate for a moment"--for she was holding the sword by the hilt,

and her face was still clouded with gloom, although the fire was dying

down. "Then I will use that moment, not to ask your pardon, for I

judge you are not a woman to forgive--and neither should I be in your

place--but to explain. I shall not speak of my love for you, for that

now ye will not believe, nor of my shame in having received those evil

thoughts for a moment into my heart. I have never known the bitterness

of shame before, but I would fain tell how it happened, that the

remembrance of me be less black after we have parted forever. Had I

been in my natural state it had been impossible for me to doubt thee,

Jean, and if I had seen thee sin before mine eyes, I would have

thought it was another. But my mind has been distraught through

weariness of the body on the long rides, and nights without sleep as I

lay a-planning, and the desertion of friends in whom I trusted, and

the refusals of men of whom I expected loyalty, and the humiliating

helplessness before William's general, my old rival MacKay. I was

almost mad. In the night-time, I think, I was mad altogether. But I

had always one comfort, like a single star shining in a dark sky, and

that was the faithfulness of my wife. When a cloud obscured that

solitary light, then a frenzy passed into my blood. I ceased to

reason, and according to the measure of my love was my foolish,

groundless hate."

"Take back your sword, Dundee, for I am not now minded to use it. Five

minutes ago it had been dangerous to give it me. If ye fall, it shall

be by another hand than your wife's, and in another place than your

home. We have said words to one another this night which neither of us

will lightly pardon, for we are not of the pardoning kind. I do not

feel as I did: my anger has turned into sorrow; the idol of my

idolatry is broken--my fair model of chivalry--and now I can only

gather together the pieces. Even while I hated you I was loving

you--this is the contradiction of a woman's heart--and I knew that

love of me had made you mad. Whatever happens, I will always remember

that you loved me, but my dream has vanished--forever."

They spent next day walking quietly in the glen, and the following

morning he left for his last campaign. They said farewell alone, but

after he was in the saddle Lady Dundee lifted up the child for him to

kiss--which was to die before the year was out. He turned as they were

riding down the road and waved his plumed hat to his wife, where she

stood, still holding the child in her arms. And that was the last Jean

Cochrane saw of Claverhouse.

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I

TREASON IN THE CAMP

Since the day Dundee rode away from Glenogilvie, after the scene with

Jean, he was a man broken in heart, but he hid his private wound

bravely, and gave himself with the fiercer energy to the king's

business. Hither and thither through the Highlands he raced, so that

he was described in letters of that day as "skipping from one hill to

another like wildfire, which at last will vanish of itself for want of

fuel," and "like an incendiary to inflame that cold country, yet he

finds small encouragement." Anything more pathetic than this last

endeavor of Dundee, except it be his death, cannot be imagined. The

clans were not devoured with devotion to King James, and were not the

victims of guileless enthusiasm; they were not the heroes of romance

depicted by Jacobite poets and story-tellers: they were half-starved,

entirely ignorant, fond of fighting, but largely intent on stealing.

If there was any chance of a foray in which they could gather spoil,

they were ready to fling themselves into the fray, but as soon as they

had gained their end, they would make for the glens and leave their

general in the lurch. Whether they would rise or not depended neither

on the merits of William or James, but in the last issue upon their

chiefs--and the chiefs were not easy to move. Some of them were

hostile, and most of them lukewarm; and Dundee drank the cup of

humiliation as he canvassed for his cause from door to door. By

pleading, by arguing, by cajoling, by threatening, by promising and by

bribing, he got together some two thousand men, more or less, and he

had also the remains of his cavalry. His king had, as usual, left him

to fend for himself, and sent him nothing but an incapable Irish

officer called Cannon and some ragged Irish recruits, while MacKay was

watching him and following him with a well-equipped force. Now and

again the sun shone on him and he had glimpses of victory, driving

MacKay for days before him, and keeping up communication with

Livingstone, who had come from Dundee with his dragoons, and was

playing the part of traitor in MacKay's army--for Jean was still

determined, with characteristic obstinacy and indifference to

suspicion, to reap the fruit of her negotiation with Livingstone. It

seemed as if Dundee would at least gain a few troops of cavalry, which

would be a great advantage to him and a disquieting event for MacKay's

army. But again the Fates were hostile, and misfortune dogged the

Jacobite cause. MacKay got wind of the plot, Livingstone and his

fellow-officers were arrested, and Jean's scheming, with all its weary

expedients and bitter cost, came to naught.

When Claverhouse, in the height of summer, started on his last

campaign and descended on Blair Athole, he carried himself as one in

the highest spirits and assured of triumph. He sent word everywhere

that things were going well with the cause, and that the whole world

was with him; he made no doubt of crushing MacKay if he opposed his

march into the Lowlands, and of entering Edinburgh after another

fashion than he had left it. He kept a bold front, and wrote in a

buoyant style; but this was partly the pride of his house, and partly

the tactics of a desperate leader. Though a bigot to his cause, Graham

was not a madman. He was a thorough believer in the power of guerrilla

troops, but he knew that in the end they would go down before the

regulars. He hoped, by availing himself of the hot courage of the

clansmen, to deal a smashing blow at his old rival, but unless the

Lowlands and the regulars joined James's side, there was not the

remotest chance of unseating William from his new throne. His words

were high, but his heart was anxious, as he hurried with his little

army to strike once at least for the king, and to make his last

adventure. He had decided on the line of march to be taken next

morning, and the place where he would join issue with MacKay, who was

coming up from Perth with a small army of regular troops, many of whom

were veterans. He had discussed the matter with his staff, and settled

with the jealous and irascible chiefs as best he could the position

they were to take on the battle-field, and he had fallen into a fit of

gloomy meditation, when Grimond entered the room in Blair Castle,

where Dundee had his headquarters for the night.

If Grimond, for pure malice or even for jealousy, had invented that

unhappy interview between Lady Dundee and Livingstone, or if it had

been shown that he had by a word perverted the conversation, then

his master, who had sent many a Covenanter to death, because he loved

his religion more than King James, would have shot even that

faithful servant without scruple and with satisfaction. But it was

in keeping with the chivalry of Dundee--his sense of justice, his

appreciation of loyalty, and his admiration for thoroughness--that

he took no revenge for his own madness upon the unwitting cause

thereof. During the brief stay at Glenogilvie, Grimond hid himself

with discretion, so that neither his master nor mistress either saw

or heard of him, and when Dundee left his home with his men,

Grimond was not in the company. But as a dog which is not sure of a

welcome from its master, or rather expects a blow and yet cannot leave

him or let him go alone, will suddenly join him on the road by which

he is making his journey, and will follow him distantly, but ever

keep him in sight, so Jock was found one morning among the troopers.

He kept as far from his master as he could and was careful not to

obtrude himself or offer to resume a servant's duty. Dundee's face

hardened at the sight of him, but he said no word, and Jock made

no approach. With wise discretion he remained at a distance, and

seemed anxious to be forgotten, but he had his own plan of operations.

One morning Dundee found his bits and stirrups and the steel work of

his horse furnishing polished and glittering as they had not been

since he rode to Glenogilvie, and he suspected that an old hand had

been at work. Another day his cuirass was so well and carefully

done, his uniform so perfectly brushed and laid out, and his lace

cravat so skilfully arranged that he was certain Grimond was doing

secret duty. Day by day the signs of his attention grew more

frequent and visible, till at last one morning he appeared in person,

and without remark began to assist his master with his arms. Nothing

passed between them, and for weeks relations were very strained,

but before the end Grimond knew that he had been forgiven for his

superfluity of loyalty, and Dundee was thankful that, as the

shadows settled upon his life blacker and deeper every day, one

honest man was his companion, and would remain true when every

fair-weather friend and false schemer had fled. One can make

excuses for jealousy when it is another name for love; one may not

quarrel with doggedness when it is another name for devotion. There

are not too many people who have in them the heart to be faithful unto

death, not too many who will place one's interest before their own

life. When one's back is at the wall, and he is not sure even of his

nearest, he will not despise or quarrel with the roughest or plainest

man who will stand by his side and share his lot, either of life or

death. So Jock was reinstated without pardon asked or given, and

with no reference to the tragedy of Glenogilvie, and Dundee knew that

he had beside him a faithful and fearless watchdog of the tough old

Scottish breed. As Grimond busied himself with preparations for the

evening meal--among other dark suspicions he had taken into his head

that Dundee might be poisoned--his master's eye fell on him, and

at the sight memory woke. John Graham recalled the days when Grimond

received him from the charge of his nurse, and took him out upon

the hills round Glenogilvie. How he taught him to catch trout with

his own hands below the big stones of the burn, how he told him the

names of the wild birds and their ways, how he gave him his first

lesson in sport, how one day he saved his life, when he was about to

be gored by an infuriated bull. All the kindness of this hard man

and his thoughtfulness, all his faithfulness and unselfishness,

touched Dundee's heart--a heart capable of affection for a few,

though it could never be called tender, and capable of sentiment,

though rather that which is bound up with a cause than with a person.

"Jock," said Graham, with a certain accent of former days and kindly

doings. Now, a person's name may mean anything according to the way in

which it is pronounced. It may be an accusation, a rebuke, an insult,

a threat, or it may be an appeal, a thanksgiving, a benediction, a

caress. And at the sound of the word, said more kindly than he had

ever heard it, Grimond turned him round and looked at his master; his

grim, lean, weather-beaten face relaxed and softened and grew almost

gentle.

"Maister John, Maister John," and suddenly he did a thing incredible

for his undemonstrative, unsentimental, immovable granite nature. He

knelt down beside Dundee, and seizing his hand, kissed it, while tears

rolled down his cheeks. "My laddie, and my lord, baith o' them, this

is the best day o' my life, for ye've forgiven me my terrible mistake,

and my sin against my mistress. It's sore against my grain to confess

that I was wrang, for it's been my infirmity to be always richt, but I

sinned in this matter grievously, and micht have done what could never

be put richt. But oh! my lord, it was a' for love's sake, for though I

be only a serving man to the house of Graham, I dare to say I have

been faithful. With neither wife nor child, I have nothing but you,

my lord, and I have nothing to live for but your weel. When ye were

angry wi' me I didna blame you, I coonted ye just, but 'twas to me as

when the sun gaes behind the clouds. I cared neither to eat nor

drink--had it not been for your sake, I didna care to live. But noo,

when ye've buried the past and taken me back into your favor, I'm in

the licht again, and I carena what happens to me, neither hardship nor

death. Oh! my loved lord, will ye call me Jock again? When the severe

and self-contained Lowland Scot takes fire, there is such strength of

fuel in him, that he burns into white heat, and there is no quenching

of the flame. And at that moment Graham understood, as he had only

imagined before, the passion which can be concealed in the heart of a

Scots retainer.

"Get up, Jock, you old fool and--my trusty friend." Claverhouse

concealed but poorly behind his banter the emotion of his heart, for

Jock had found him in a lonely mood.

"You and me are no made for kneeling, except to our Maker and our

king. Faith, I judge we are better at the striking. Aye, we are

friends again, and shall be till the end, which I am thinking may not

be far off. Ye gave me a bitter time, the like of which I never had

before, and beside which death, when it comes, will be welcome, but ye

did it not in baseness, but in all honesty. It was our calamity. Life,

Jock, is full o' sic calamities, and we are all for the maist part at

cross purposes. It seemeth to me as if we were travelling in the

darkness, knowing not whether the man beside us be friend or foe, and

often striking at our friends by mistake. But we must march on till

the day breaks.

"It'll break for us soon, at any rate," went on Dundee, "for by

to-morrow night the matter will be settled between General MacKay and

me. Div ye mind, Jock, how I fain would have fought with him at The

Hague, and he wouldna take my challenge?"

"Cowardly and cold-blooded Whig like the lave o' them," burst out

Jock, in a strong reaction from his former mood of tenderness. "Leave

him to look after himsel', he micht have stood mair nor once thae last

weeks and faced ye like a man, but would he? Na, na, he ran afore ye,

and I doot sair whether he will give you a chance to-morrow."

"Have no fear of that, Jock, we've waited long for our duel, but, ye

may take my word for it, it will come off at Killiecrankie before the

sun goes down again behind the hills. There will be a fair field and a

free fight, and the best man will win; and, Jock, I will not be sorry

when the sun sets. What ails you, Jock, for your face is downcast?

That didna used to be the way with you in the low country on the

prospect of battle. Div ye mind Seneffe and the gap in the wall?"

"Fine, my lord, fine, and I'll acknowledge that I've nae rooted

objection in principle or in practice to fechtin'--that is, when it's

to serve a richt cause and there be a good chance o' victory, to say

nothing o' profit. But a' thing maun be fair and aboveboard, and I'm

dootin' whether that will be the case the mornin'. What I'm feared o'

is no war, but black murder." And there was an earnestness in

Grimond's tone which arrested Dundee.

"My lord," said Jock, in answer to the interrogation on his master's

face, "I came here to speak, if Providence gave me the chance, for

aifter all that has happened, I didna consider your ear would be open

to hear me. When a man has made as big a mistake as I have dune, and

caused as muckle sorrow, it behooves him to walk softly, and this is

pairt of his judgment that them he loves most may trust him least.

"Na, na, my lord," for the face of Dundee was beginning again to

blacken. "I've no a word to say against her ladyship. I gather she

has been doing what she can for the cause wi' them slippery rascals o'

dragoons and their Laodicean commander, of whom I have my ain

thoughts. I fear me, indeed, to say what I have found, and what I am

suspecting, for ye hae reason to conclude that my head is full o'

plots, and that broodin' ower treachery has made me daft."

"What is it now, Jock?" in a tone between amusement and seriousness.

"Ye havena found a letter from Lochiel to the Prince of Orange,

offering to win the reward upon my head, or caught General MacKay,

dressed in a ragged kilt, stealing about through the army? Out with

it, and let us know the worst at once."

"Ye are laughin', Maister John, and I will not deny ye have

justification. I wish to God I be as far frae the truth this time as I

was last time, but there is some thin' gaein' on in the camp that

bodes nae gude to yersel', and through you to the cause. It was not

for naethin' I watched two of our new recruits for days, and heard a

snap o' their conversation yesterday on the march."

"I'll be bound, Jock, ye heard some wild talk, for I doubt our men are

readier with an oath than a Psalm and a loose story than a sermon.

But we must just take them as they come--rough men for rough work, and

desperate men for a wild adventure."

"Gude knows, my ears are weel accustomed to the clatter of the camp,

and it's no a coarse word here or there would offend Jock Grimond. But

the men I mean are of the other kind; they speak like gentlefolk, and

micht, for the manner o' them, sit wi' her ladyship in Dudhope

Castle."

"Broken gentlemen, very likely, Jock. There have always been plenty in

our ranks. Surely you are not going to make that a crime at this time

of the day. If I had five hundred of that kidney behind me, I would

drive MacKay--horse, foot and bits of artillery--like chaff before the

wind. A gentleman makes a good trooper, and when he has nothing to

lose, he's the very devil to fight."

"But that's no a' else. I wouldna have troubled you, my lord, but the

two are aye the-gither, and keep in company like a pair o' dogs

poachin'. They have the look o' men who are on their gaird, and are

feared o' bein' caught by surprise. According to their story they had

served with Livingstone's dragoons, and had come over to us because

they were for the good cause. But ain o' Livingstone's lads wha

deserted at the same time, and has naethin' wrong wi' him except that

he belongs to Forfar and has a perpetual drouth, tells me that our twa

friends were juist in and oot, no mair than a week wi' the dragoons.

My idea is that they went wi' Livingstone to get to us. And what

for--aye, what for?"

"For King James, I should say, and a bellyful of fighting," said

Dundee carelessly.

"Maybe ye're richt, and if so, there's no mischief done; and maybe

ye're wrang, and if so, there will be black trouble. At ony rate, I

didna like the story, and I wasna taken wi' the men. No that they're

bad-lookin', but they're after some ploy. Weel, they ride by

themsel's, and they camp by themsel's, and they eat by themsel's, and

they sleep by themsel's. So this midday, when we haltit, they made off

to the bank o' the river, and settled themsel's ablow a tree, and by

chance a burn ran into the river there wi' a high bank on the side

next them. Are ye listenin', my lord?"

"Yes, yes," said Dundee, whose thoughts had evidently been far away,

and who was attaching little importance to Jock's groundless fears.

"Go on. So you did a bit of scouting, I suppose?"

"I did," said Jock, with some pride, "and they never jaloused wha was

lying close beside them, like a tod (fox) in his hole. I'm no

prepared to say that I could catch a' their colloguing, but I got

enough to set me thinkin'. Juist bits, but they could be pieced

togither."

"Well," said Dundee, with more interest, "what were the bits?"

"The one asks the other where he keeps his pass. 'Sown in the lining

of my coat,' says he. 'Where's yours?' 'In my boot,' answers he, 'the

safest place.' Who gave them the passes, thinks I to myself, and what

are they hiding them for? So I cocks both my ears to hear the rest."

"And what was that, Jock?" And Dundee now was paying close attention.

"For a while they spoke so low I could only hear, 'This underhand work

goes against my stomach.' 'Aha, my lad, so it's underhand,' says I in

my hole. 'It's worth the doing,' says the other, 'and a big stroke of

work if we succeed. It might be a throne one way or other.' 'Not to

us,' laughs the first. 'No,' says his friend, 'but we'll have our

share.' 'This is no ordinary work,' says I to mysel', and I risked my

ears out of the hole. 'It's no an army,' says one o' them, 'but juist

a rabble, and a' depends on one man.' 'You're right there,' answers

the other, 'if he falls all is over.' Then they said something to one

another I couldn't catch, and then one stretched himself, as I took it

by his kicking a stone into the river, and rose, saying, 'By heaven!

we'll manage it.' The other laughed as he rose too, and as they went

away the last words I heard were, 'The devil, Jack, is more likely to

be our friend.' Notice this, my lord, every word in the English

tongue, as fine and smooth spoken as ye like. Where did they come

from, and what are they after? Aye, and wha is to fall, that's the

question, my lord?"

Dundee started, for Jock's story had unloosed a secret fear in his

mind, which he had often banished, but which had been returning with

great force. As a band holds together the sheaf of corn, so he alone

kept King James's army. Apart from him there was no cohesion, and

apart from him there was no commander. With his death, not only would

the forces disperse, but the cause of King James would be ended. If he

were out of the way, William would have no other cause for anxiety,

and he knew the determined and cold-blooded character of his former

master. William had given him his chance, and he had not taken it. He

would have no more scruple in assassinating his opponent than in

brushing a fly off the table. Instead of gathering an army and

fighting him through the Highlands and Lowlands, just one stroke of a

dirk or a pistol bullet and William is secure on his throne. "Jock may

be right for once," said Claverhouse to himself, "and, by heaven! if I

am to fall, I had rather be shot in front than behind." He wrote an

order to the commander of the cavalry, and in fifteen minutes the two

troopers were standing before him disarmed and guarded.

The moment Dundee looked at them he knew that Jock was correct in

saying that they were not common soldiers, for they had the

unmistakable manner of gentlemen, and as soon as they spoke he also

knew that they were Englishmen. One was tall and fair, with honest

blue eyes, which did not suggest treachery, the other was shorter and

dark, with a more cautious and uncertain expression.

"For certain reasons, gentlemen," said Dundee, with emphasis upon the

word, "I desire by your leave to ask you one or two questions. If you

will take my advice, you had better answer truthfully. I will not

waste time about things I know. What brought you from Livingstone's

dragoons to us? why were ye so short a time with them? and why did ye

leave the English army? Tell no lies, I pray you. I can see that ye

are soldiers and have been officers. Why are you with us in the guise

of troopers?"

"You know so much, my lord," said the taller man, with that outspoken

candor which is so taking, "that I may as well tell you all. We have

held commissions in the army, and are, I suppose, officers to-day,

though they will be wondering where we are, and we should be shot if

we were caught. You will excuse me giving our names, for they

could not be easily kept. We belong to families which have ever been

true to their king, and we came north to take a share in the good

work. That is the only way that we could manage it, and we do not

fancy it overmuch, but we have taken our lives in our hands for the

adventure."

"You are men of spirit, I can see," said Dundee ironically, "but ye

are wise men also, and have reduced your risks. Would you do me the

favor of showing the passes with which you provided yourselves before

leaving England? Save yourselves the trouble of--argument. One of you

has got his pass in his coat, and the other in his boot. I'm sure you

would not wish to be stripped."

The shorter man colored with vexation and then paled, but the other

only laughed like a boy caught in a trick, and said, "There are quick

eyes, or, more likely, quick ears, in this army, my lord." Then,

without more ado, they handed Lord Dundee the passes. "As I expected,"

said Dundee, "to the officers of King William's army, and to allow the

bearers to go where they please, and signed by his Majesty's secretary

of state." And Dundee looked at them with a mocking smile.

"Damn those passes!" said the spokesman with much geniality. "I always

thought we should have destroyed them once we were safely through the

other lines, but my friend declared they might help us afterwards in

time of need."

"And now, gentlemen, they are going to hang you, for shooting is too

honorable for spies and, worse than spies, assassins, for," concluded

Dundee softly, "it was to shoot me you two loyal Cavaliers have

come."

The shorter man was about to protest, in hope of saving his life, but

his comrade waved him to be silent, and for the last time took up the

talk.

"We are caught in a pretty coil, my lord. Circumstances are against

us, and we have nothing to put on the other side, except our word of

honor as gentlemen. Neither my comrade nor I are going to plead for

our lives, though we don't fancy being hung. But perhaps of your

courtesy, if we write our names, you will allow a letter to go to

General MacKay, and that canting Puritan will be vastly amused when he

learns that he had hired us to assassinate my Lord Dundee. He will be

more apt to consider our execution an act of judgment for joining the

Malignants. We got our passes by trickery from Lord Nottingham, and

they have tricked us, and, by the gods! the whole affair is a fine

jest, except the hanging. I would rather it had been shooting, but I

grant that if MacKay had sent us on such an errand, both he and we

deserve to be hung." And the Englishman shrugged his shoulders as one

who had said his last word and accepted his fate.

He carried himself so bravely, with such an ingenuous countenance and

honest speech, that Claverhouse was interested in the man, and the

reference to MacKay arrested him in his purpose. They were not likely

to have come on such an errand from MacKay's camp without the English

general knowing what they were about. Was MacKay the man to sanction a

proceeding so cowardly and so contrary to the rules of war? Of all

things in the world, was not this action the one his principles would

most strongly condemn? Certainly their conversation by the riverside

had been suspicious, but then Grimond had made one hideous mistake

before. It was possible that he had made another. Graham had insulted

his loyal wife through Grimond's blundering; it would be almost as bad

if he put to an ignominious death two adventurous, blundering English

Cavaliers. He ordered that the Englishmen should be kept under close

arrest till next morning, and he sent the following letter by a swift

messenger and under flag of truce to the general of the English

forces.

BLAIR CASTLE, _July 26, 1689_.

_To Major-General Hugh MacKay, Commanding the forces in the

interests of the Prince of Orange._

SIR: It is years since we have met and many things have happened

since, but I freely acknowledge that you have ever been a good

soldier and one who would not condescend to dishonor. And this

being my mind I crave your assistance in the following matter.

Two English officers have been arrested in disguise and carrying

compromising passes; there is reason to believe that their errand

was to assassinate me, and if this be the case they shall be hung

early to-morrow morning.

Albeit we were rivals in the Low Country and will soon fight our

duel to the death, I am loath to believe that this thing is true

of you, and I will ask of you this last courtesy, for your sake

and mine and that of the two Englishmen, that ye tell me the

truth.

I salute you before we fight and I have the honor to be,

Your most obedient servant,

DUNDEE.

CHAPTER II

VISIONS OF THE NIGHT

Upon the highest floor of Blair Castle there was a long and

spacious apartment, like unto the gallery in Paisley Castle, where

John Graham had been married to Jean Cochrane, and which to-day is

the drawing-room. To this high place Claverhouse climbed from the room

where he had examined the two Englishmen, and here he passed the

last hours of daylight on the day before the battle of Killiecrankie.

Seating himself at one of the windows, he looked out towards the

west, through whose golden gates the sun had begun to enter.

Beneath lay a widespreading meadow which reached to the Garry;

beyond the river the ground began to rise, and in the distance were

the hills covered with heather, with lakes of emerald amid the

purple. There are two hours of the day when the soul of man is

powerfully affected by the physical world in which we live, and in

which, indeed, the things we see become transparent, like a thin

veil, and through them the things which are not seen stream in upon

the soul. One is sunrise, when there is first a grayness in the

east, and then the clouds begin to redden, and afterwards a joyful

brightness heralds the appearing of the sun as he drives in rout the

reluctant rearguard of the night. The most impressive moment is

when all the high lands are bathed in soft, fresh, hopeful sunshine,

but the glens are still lying in the cold and dank shadow, so that

one may suddenly descend from a place of brightness, where he has

been in the eye of the sun, to a land of gloom, which the sun has not

yet reached. Sunrise quickens the power that has been sleeping,

and calls a man in high hope to the labor of the day, for if there

be darkness lingering in the glen, there is light on the lofty

table-lands, and soon it will be shining everywhere, when the sun

has reached his meridian. And it puts heart into a man to come over

the hill and down through the hollows when the sun is rising, for

though the woods be dark and chill, the traveller is sure of the

inevitable victory of the light.

Yet more imperious and irresistible is the impression of sunset as

Dundee saw the closing pageant of the day on the last evening of his

life. When first he looked the green plain was flooded with gentle

light which turned into gold the brown, shaggy Highland cattle

scattered among the grass, and made the river as it flashed out and

in among the trees a chain of silver, and took the hardness from the

jagged rocks that emerged from the sides of the hills. As the sun

entered in between high banks of cloud, the light began to fade from

the plain, and it touched the river no more; but above the clouds were

glowing and reddening like a celestial army clad in scarlet and

escorting home to his palace a victorious general. In a few

minutes the sun has disappeared, and the red changes into violet

and delicate, indescribable shades of green and blue, like the

color of Nile water. Then there is a faint flicker, sudden and

transient, from the city into which the sun has gone, and the day is

over. As the monarch of the day withdraws, the queen of the night

takes possession, and Claverhouse, leaning his chin upon his hand

and gazing from the sadness of his eyes across the valley, saw the

silver light, clear, beautiful, awful, flood the mountains and the

level ground below, till the outstanding hills above, and the

cattle which had lain down to rest in the meadow, were thrown out as

in an etching, with exact and distinct outlines. The day, with

its morning promise, with its noontide heat, with its evening glory,

was closed, completed and irrevocable. The night, in which no man can

work, had come, and in the cold and merciless light thereof every

man's work was revealed and judged. The weird influence of the

hour was upon the imagination of an impressionable man, and before

him he saw the history of his life. It seemed only a year or so

since he was a gay-hearted lad upon the Sidlaw hills, and yesterday

since he made his first adventure in arms, with the army of France.

Again he is sitting by the camp-fire in the Low Country, and crossing

swords for the first time with Hugh MacKay, with whom he is to

settle his warfare to-morrow. He is again pledging his loyalty to

King James at Whitehall, whom he has done his best to serve, and who

has been but a sorry master to him. His thoughts turn once more to the

pleasaunce of Paisley Castle, he hears again the jingling of the

horses' bits as he pledges his troth to his bride. Across the

moss-hags, where the horses plunge in the ooze and the mist encircles

the troopers, he is hunting his Covenanting prey, and catches the

fearless face of some peasant zealot as he falls pierced with bullets.

Jean weaves her arms round his neck, for once in her life a tender

and fearful woman, pleading that he should withdraw from the fight

and live quietly with her at home, and then, more like herself, she

rages in the moment of his mad jealousy and her unquenchable

anger. To-morrow he would submit to the final arbitrament of arms

the cause for which he had lived, and for which the presentiment

was upon him that he would die, and the quarrel begun between him

and MacKay fifteen years ago, between the sides they represent

centuries ago, would be settled. If the years had been given back to

him to live again, he would not have had them otherwise. Destiny had

settled for him his politics and his principles, for he could not

leave the way in which Montrose had gone before, or be the comrade of

Covenanting Whigs. It would have been a thing unnatural and

impossible. And yet he feared that the future was with them and

not with the Jacobites. He only did his part in arresting fanatical

hillmen and executing the punishment of the law upon them, but he

would have been glad that night if he had not been obliged to shoot

John Brown of Priest Hill before his wife's eyes, and keep guard at

the scaffold from which Pollock went home to God. He had never loved

any other woman than Jean Cochrane, and they were well mated in

their high temper of nature, but their marriage had been tempestuous,

and he was haunted with vague misgivings. What light was given him

he had followed, but there was little to show for his life. His king

had failed him, his comrades had distrusted him, his nation hated

him. His wife--had she forgiven him, and was she true-hearted to him

still? Behind high words of loyalty and hope his heart had been

sinking, and now it seemed to him in the light of eternal judgment,

wherein there is justice but no charity, that his forty years had

failed and were leaving behind them no lasting good to his house or to

his land. The moonlight shining full upon Claverhouse shows many a

line now on the smoothness of his fair girl face, and declares his

hidden, inextinguishable sorrow, who all his days had been an actor

in a tragedy. He had written to the chiefs that all the world was

with him, but in his heart he knew that it was against him, and

perhaps also God.

Once and again Grimond had come into the gallery to summon his master

to rest, but seeing him absorbed in one of his reveries had quietly

withdrawn. Full of anxiety, for he knows what the morrow will mean,

that faithful servitor at last came near and rustled to catch his

master's ear.

"Jock," said Claverhouse, startling and rising to his feet, "is that

you, man, coming to coax me to my bed as ye did lang syne, when ye

received me first from my nurse's hands? It's getting late, and I am

needing rest for to-morrow's work, if I can get it. We have come to

Armageddon, as the preachers would say, and mony things for mony days

hang on the issue. All a man can do, Jock, is to walk in the road that

was set before him from a laddie, and to complete the task laid to his

hand. What will happen afterwards doesna concern him, so be it he is

faithful. Where is my room? And, hark ye, Jock, waken me early, and be

not far from me through the night, for I can trust you altogether. And

there be not mony true."

Worn out with a long day in the saddle, and the planning of the

evening together with many anxieties, and the inward tumult of his

mind, Claverhouse fell asleep. He was resting so quietly that Grimond,

who had gone to the door to listen, was satisfied and lay down to

catch an hour or two of sleep for himself, for he could waken at any

hour he pleased, and knew that soon after daybreak he must be

stirring. While he was nearby heavy with sleep, his master, conscious

or unconscious, according as one judges, was in the awful presence of

the unseen. He woke suddenly, as if he had been called, and knew that

someone was in the room, but also in the same instant that it was not

Grimond or any visitor of flesh and blood. Twice had the wraith of the

Grahams appeared to him, and always before a day of danger, but this

time it was no sad, beautiful woman's face, carrying upon its weird

grace the sorrows of his line, but the figure of a man that loomed

from the shadow. The moon had gone behind a cloud, and the room was so

dark that he could only see that someone was there, but could not tell

who it was or by what name he would be called. Then the moon struggled

out from behind her covering, and sent a shaft of light into the

gloomy chamber, with its dark draping and heavy carved furniture. With

the coming of the light Claverhouse, who was not unaccustomed to

ghostly sights, for they were his heritage, raised himself in bed, and

knowing no fear looked steadily. What he saw thrown into relief

against the shadows was the figure of a hillman of the west, and one

that in an instant he knew. The Covenanter was dressed in rough

homespun hodden gray, stained heavily with the black of the peat

holes in which he had been hiding, and torn here and there where the

rocks had caught him as he was crawling for shelter. Of middle age,

with hair hanging over his ears and beard uncared for, his face bore

all the signs of hunger and suffering, as of one who had wanted right

food and warmth and every comfort of life for months on end. In his

eyes glowed the fire of an intense and honest, but fierce and narrow

piety, and with that expression was mingled another, not of anger nor

of sorrow, but of reproach, of judgment and of sombre triumph. His

hands were strapped in front of him with a stirrup leather, and his

head was bare. As the moon shone more clearly, Claverhouse saw other

stains than those of peat upon his chest, and while he looked the red

blood seemed to rise from wounds that pierced his heart and lungs, it

flowed out again in a trickling stream, and dripped upon the whiteness

of his hands. More awful still, there was a wound in his forehead, and

part of his head was shattered. The scene had never been absent long

from Claverhouse's memory, and now he reacted it again. How this man

had been caught after a long pursuit, upon the moor, how he had stood

bold and unrepentant before the man that had power of life and death

over him, how he refused to take the oath of loyalty to the king, how

he had been shot dead before his cottage, and how his wife had been

spectator of her husband's death.

"Ye have not forgot me, John Graham of Claverhouse, nor the deed which

ye did at Priest Hill in the West Country. I am John Brown, whom ye

caused to be slain for the faith of the saints and their testimony,

and whom ye set free from the bondage of man forever. Behold, I have

washed my robes and made them white in better blood than this, but I

am sent in the garment o' earth, sair stained wi' its defilement, and

in my ain unworthy blude, that ye may ken me and believe that I am

sent."

"What I did was according to law," answered Claverhouse, unshaken by

the sight, "and in the fulfilling of my commission, though God knows I

loved not the work, and have oftentimes regretted thy killing. For

that and all the deeds of this life I shall answer to my judge and not

to man. What wilt thou have with me, what hast thou to do with me? Had

it been the other way and I had fallen at Drumclog, I had not troubled

thee or any of thy kind."

"Nor had I been minded or allowed to visit thee, John Graham, if I

had fallen in fair fight, contending for Christ's crown and the

liberty of the Scots Kirk, but these wounds upon my head and breast

speak not of war, but of murder. Because thou didst murder Christ's

confessors, and the souls of the martyrs cry from beneath the altar, I

am come to show thee things which are to be and the doing of Him who

saith, 'I will avenge.' Ye have often said go, and he goeth, and come

and he cometh, but this nicht ye will come with me, and see things

that will shake even thy bold heart." And so in vision they went.

Claverhouse was standing in a country kirkyard, and at the hour of

sunset. Round him were ancient graves with stones whose inscriptions

had been worn away by rough weather, and upon which the grass was

growing rank. They were the resting-places of past generations whose

descendants had died out, and whose names were forgotten in the land

where once they may have been mighty people. Before him was a

burying-place he knew, for it belonged to his house. There lay his

father, and there he had laid his mother, the Lady Magdalene Graham,

to rest, taken as he often thought from the evil to come. The ground

had been stirred again, and there was another grave. It was of tiny

size, not that of a man or woman, but of a child, and one that had

died in its infancy. It was carefully tended, as if the mother still

lived and had not yet forgotten her child. At the sight of it

Claverhouse turned to the figure by his side.

"Ye mean not----"

"Read," said the Covenanter, "for the writing surely is plain." And

this is what Claverhouse saw:

"JAMES GRAHAME,

Only son and child of my Lord Dundie.

Aged eight months."

"Ye longed for him and ye were proud of him, and if the sword of the

righteous should slay thee, ye boasted in your heart that there was a

man-child to continue your line. But there shall be none, and thine

evil house shall die from out the land, like the house of Ahab, the

son of Omri, who persecuted the saints. Fathers have seen their sons'

heads hung above the West Port to bleach in the sun for the sake of

the Covenant, and mothers have wept for them who languished in the

dungeon of the Bass and wearied for death. This is the cup ye are

drinking this night before the time, for, behold, thou hast harried

many homes, but thy house shall be left unto thee desolate."

For a brief space Claverhouse bent his head, for he seemed to feel the

child in his arms, as he had held him before leaving Glenogilvie. Then

he rallied his manhood, who had never been given to quail before the

hardest strokes of fortune.

"God rest his innocent soul, if this be his lot; but I live and with

me my house."

"Yea, thou livest," said the shade, "and it has been a stumbling-block

to many that thou wert spared so long, but the day of vengeance is at

hand. Come again with me."

Claverhouse finds himself now on a plain with the hills above and a

river beneath and an ancient house close at hand, and he knows that

this is the battle-field of to-morrow. They are standing together on a

mound which rises out of a garden, and on the grass the body of a man

is lying. A cloth covers his face, but by the uniform and arms

Claverhouse knows that it is that of an officer of rank, and one that

has belonged to his own regiment of horse. A dint upon the cuirass and

the sight of the sword by his side catch his eye and he shudders.

"This--do I see myself?"

"Yes, thou seest thyself lying low as the humblest man and weaker now

than the poorest of God's people thou didst mock."

"It is not other than I expected, nor does this make me afraid, and I

judge thou art a lying spirit, for I see no wound. Lift up the cloth.

Nor any mark upon my face. I had not died for nothing."

"Nay, thou hadst been ready to die in the heat of battle facing thy

foe, for there has ever been in thee a bold heart, but thy wound is

not in front as mine is. See ye, Claverhouse, thou hast been killed

from behind." And Claverhouse saw where the blood, escaping from a

wound near the armpit, had stained the grass. "Aye, some one of thine

own and riding near beside thee found that place, and as thou didst

raise thine arm to call thy soldiers to the slaughter of them who are

contending for the right, thou wast cunningly stricken unto death. By

a coward's blow thou hast fallen, O valiant man, and there will be

none to mourn thy doom, for thou hast been a man of blood from thy

youth up, even unto this day."

"Thou liest there, and art a false spirit. It may be that your

assassins are in my army, and that I may have the fate of the good

archbishop whom the saints slew in cold blood and before his

daughter's eyes. But if I fall I shall be mourned deep and long by

one who was of your faith, and had her name in your Covenant, but

whose heart I won like goodly spoil taken from the mighty. If I die by

the sword of my Lady Cochrane's men, her daughter will keep my grave

green with her tears. If, living, I have been loved by one strong

woman, and after I am dead am mourned by her, I have not lived in

vain."

"Sayest thou," replied the shadowy figure, with triumphant scorn.

"That was a pretty catch-word to be repeated over the wine cup at the

drinking of my lady's health. Verily thou didst deceive a daughter of

the godly, and she was willing to be caught in the snare of thy fair

face and soft words. Judge ye whether the child who breaks the bond of

the Covenant and turns against the mother who bore her, is likely to

be a true wife or a faithful widow. Again will I lift the veil, and

thou wilt see with thine own eyes the things which are going to be,

for as thou hast shown no mercy, mercy will not be shown to thee. Dost

thou remember this place?"

Claverhouse is again within the gallery of Paisley Castle, and he is

looking upon a marriage service. Before him are the people of five

years ago, except that now young Lord Cochrane is Earl of Dundonald,

and is giving away the bride, and my Lady Cochrane is not there

either to bless or to ban. For a while he cannot see the faces of the

bride or bridegroom, nor tell what they are, save that he is a

soldier, and she is tall and proud of carriage.

"My marriage day!" exclaimed Claverhouse, his defiant note softening

into tenderness, and the underlying sorrow rising into joy. "For this

vision at least I bless thee, spirit, whoever thou mayest be, Brown or

any other. That was the day of all my life, and I am ready now or any

time in this world or the other to have it over again and pledge my

troth to my one and only love, to my gallant lady and sweetheart,

Jean."

"Thou wilt not be asked to take thy marriage vow again, Claverhouse,

nor would thy presence be acceptable on this day. It is the wedding of

my Lady Viscountess Dundee, but be not too sure that thou art the

bridegroom. She that broke lightly the Covenant with her living

heavenly bridegroom, will have little scruple in breaking the bond to

a dead earthly bridegroom. Thy Jean hath found another husband."

From the faces of the bride and bridegroom the mysterious shadow,

which hides the future from the present in mercy to us all, lifted.

It was Jean as majestic and as youthful as in the days when he wooed

her in the pleasaunce, with her golden hair glittering as before in

the sunshine, and the love-light again in her eye. And beside her, oh!

fickleness of a woman's heart, oh! irony of life, oh! cruelty to the

most faithful passion, Colonel Livingstone, now my Lord Kilsyth. And

an expression of fierce satisfaction lit up the Covenanter's ghastly

face.

"This then was thy revenge, Jean, for the insult I offered at

Glenogilvie, and I was right in my fear that thy love was shattered.

Be it so," said Claverhouse, "I believe that thou wast loyal while I

lived, and now, while I may have hoped other things of thee, I will

not grudge thee in thy loneliness peace and protection. When this

heart of mine, which ever beat for thee, lies cold in the grave, and

my hair, that thou didst caress, has mingled with the dust, may joy be

with thee, Jean, and God's sunshine ever rest upon thy golden crown.

Thou didst think, servant of the devil, to damn my soul in the black

depths of jealousy and hatred, as once I damned myself, but I have

escaped, and I defy thee. Do as thou pleasest, thou canst not break my

spirit or make me bend. Hast thou other visions?"

"One more," said the spirit, "and I have done with thee, proud and

unrepentant sinner."

Before Claverhouse is a room in which there has been some sudden

disaster, for the roof has fallen and buried in its ruins a bed

whereon someone had been sleeping, and a cradle in which some child

had been lying. In the foreground is a coffin covered by a pall.

"She was called before her judge without warning, prepared or

unprepared, and thou hadst better see her for the last time ere she

goes to the place of the dead." And then the cloth being lifted,

Claverhouse looked on the face of his wife, with her infant child, not

his, but Kilsyth's, lying at her feet. There was no abatement in the

splendor of her hair, nor the pride of her countenance; the flush was

still upon her cheek, and though her eyes were closed there was

courage in the set of her lips. By an unexpected blow she had been

stricken and perished, but in the fullness of her magnificent

womanhood, and undismayed. Lying there she seemed to defy death, and

her mother's curse, which had come true at last.

"So thou also art to be cut off in the midst of thy days, Jean. Better

this way both for you and me, than to grow old and become feeble, and

be carried to and fro, and be despised. We were born to rule and not

to serve, to conquer and not to yield, to persecute if need be, but

not to be persecuted. Kilsyth loved thee, it was not his blame, who

would not? He did his best to please thee. Mayhap it was not much he

could do, but that was not his blame. He was thy husband for awhile,

but I am thy man forever. Thou art mine and I am thine, for we are of

the same creed and temper. I, John Graham of Claverhouse, and not

Kilsyth, will claim thee on the judgment day, and thou shalt come with

me, as the eagle follows her mate; together we shall go to Heaven or

to Hell, for we are one. Slain we may be, Jean, but conquered never.

We have lived, we have loved, and neither in life or death can anyone

make us afraid."

Outside the trumpets sounded and Claverhouse awoke, for the visions of

the night had passed and the light of the morning was pouring into his

room.

CHAPTER III

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH

It is written in an ancient book "weeping may endure for a night,

but joy cometh in the morning," and with the brief darkness of the

summer night passed the shadow from Claverhouse's soul. According,

also, to the brightness and freshness of the early sunshine was his

high hope on the eventful day, which was to decide both the fate of

his king and of himself. The powers of darkness had attacked him on

every side, appealing to his fear and to his faith, to his love and

to his hate, to his pride and to his jealousy, to see whether they

could not shake his constancy and break his spirit. They had failed at

every assault, and he had conquered; he had risen above his ghostly

enemies and above himself, and now, having stood fast against

principalities and powers of the other world, he was convinced

that his earthly enemies would be driven before him as chaff before

the wind. He knew exactly what MacKay and his army could do, and

what he and his army could, in the place of issue, where, by the

mercy of God, Who surely was on the side of His anointed, the

battle would be fought. What would avail MacKay's parade-ground

tactics and all the lessons of books, and what would avail the

drilling and the manoeuvring of his hired automatons in the pass of

Killiecrankie, with its wooded banks and swift running river, and

narrow gorge and surrounding hills? This was no level plain for

wheeling right and wheeling left, for bombarding with artillery and

flanking by masses of cavalry. Claverhouse remembers the morning of

the battle of Seneffe, when he rode with Carleton and longed to be on

the hills with a body of Highlanders, and have the chance of taking

by surprise the lumbering army of the Prince of Orange and sweeping it

away by one headlong charge. The day for this onslaught had come,

and by an irony, or felicity, of Providence, he has the troops he

had longed for and his rival has the inert and helpless regulars. News

had come that MacKay was marching with phlegmatic steadiness and

perfect confidence into the trap, and going to place himself at the

greatest disadvantage for his kind of army. The Lord was giving the

Whigs into his hand, and they would fall before the sun set, as a

prey unto his sword. The passion of battle was in his blood, and

the laurels of victory were within his reach. Graham forgot his

bitter disappointments and cowardly friends, the weary journeys and

worse anxieties of the past weeks, the cunning cautiousness of the

chiefs and their maddening jealousies. Even the pitiable scene at

Glenogilvie and his gnawing vain regret faded for the moment from

his memory and from his heart. If the Lowlands had been cold as death

to the good cause, the Highlands had at last taken fire; if he had not

one-tenth the army he should have commanded, had every Highlander

shared his loyalty to the ancient line, he had sufficient for the

day's work. If he had spoken in vain to the king at Whitehall and

miserably failed to put some spirit into his timid mind, and been

outvoted at the Convention, and been driven from Edinburgh by

Covenanting assassins and hunted like a brigand by MacKay's troops,

his day had now come. He was to taste for the first time the glorious

cup of victory. He had not been so glad or confident since his

marriage day, when he snatched his bride from the fastness of his

enemy, and as Grimond helped him to arm, and gave the last touches to

his martial dress, he jested merrily with that solemn servitor,

and sang aloud to Grimond's vast dismay, who held the good Scottish

faith that if you be quiet Providence may leave you alone, but if you

show any sign of triumph it will be an irresistible temptation to the

unseen powers.

"I'm judging my lord, that we'll win the day, and that it will be a

crownin' victory. I would like fine to see MacKay's army tumble in are

great heap into the Garry, with their general on the top o' them. I'm

expectin' to see ye ride into Edinburgh at the head o' the clans, and

the Duke o' Gordon come oot frae the castle to greet you, as the

king's commander-in-chief, and a' Scotland lyin' at yir mercy. But for

ony sake be cautious, Maister John, and dinna mak a noise, it's juist

temptin' Providence, an' the Lord forgie me for sayin' it, I never saw

a hicht withoot a howe. I'm no wantin' you to be there afore the day

is done. Dinna sing thae rantin' camp songs, and abune a' dinna

whistle till a' things be settled; at ony rate, it's no canny."

"Was there ever such a solemn face and cautious-spoken fellow living

as you, Jock Grimond, though I've seen you take your glass, and unless

my ears played me false, sing a song, too, round the camp-fire in

days past. But I know the superstition that is in you and all your

breed of Lowland Scots. Whether ye be Covenanters or Cavaliers, ye are

all tarred with the same stick. Do ye really think, Jock, that the

Almighty sits watching us, like a poor, jealous, cankered Whig

minister, and if a bit of good fortune comes our way and our hearts

are lifted, that He's ready to strike for pure bad temper? But there's

no use arguing with you, for you're set in your own opinions. But I'll

tell you what to do--sing the dreariest Psalm ye can find to the

longest Cameronian tune. That will keep things right, and ward off

judgment, for the blood in my veins is dancing, Jock, and the day of

my life has come."

Claverhouse went out from his room to confer with the chiefs and his

officers about the plan of operation, "like a bridegroom coming out of

his chamber and rejoicing as a strong man to run a race." Grimond, as

he watched him go, shook his head and said to himself, "The last time

I heard a Covenanting tune was at Drumclog, and it's no a cheerfu'

remembrance. May God preserve him, for in John Graham is all our hope

and a' my love."

Through the morning of the decisive day the omens continued

favorable, and the sun still shone on Claverhouse's heart. As a rule,

a war council of Highland chiefs was a babel and a battle, when their

jealous pride and traditional rivalry rose to fever height. They were

often more anxious to settle standing quarrels with one another than

to join issue with the enemy; they would not draw a sword if their

pride had in any way been touched, and battles were lost because a

clan had been offended. Jacobite councils were also cursed by the

self-seeking and insubordination of officers, who were not under the

iron discipline of a regular army, and owing to the absence of the

central authorities, with a king beyond the water, were apt to fight

for their own hand. Dundee had known trouble, and had in his day

required more self-restraint than nature had given him, and if there

had been division among the chiefs that day, he would have fallen into

despair; but he had never seen such harmony. They were of one mind

that there could not be a ground more favorable than Killiecrankie,

and that they should offer battle to MacKay before the day closed.

They approved of the line of march which Dundee had laid out, and the

chiefs, wonderful to say, raised no objection to the arrangement of

the clans in the fighting line, even although the MacDonalds were

placed on the left, which was not a situation that proud clan greatly

fancied. The morning was still young when the Jacobite army left their

camping ground in the valley north of Blair Castle, and, climbing the

hillside, passed Lude, till they reached a ridge which ran down from

the high country on their left to the narrow pass through which the

Garry ran. Along this rising ground, with a plateau of open ground

before them, fringed with wood, Dundee drew up his army, while below

MacKay arranged his troops, whom he had hastily extricated from the

dangerous and helpless confinement of the pass. During the day they

faced one another, the Jacobites on their high ground, William's

troops on the level ground below--two characteristic armies of

Highlanders and Lowlanders, met to settle a quarrel older than James

and William, and which would last, under different conditions and

other names, centuries after the grass had grown on the battle-field

of Killiecrankie and Dundee been laid to his last rest in the ancient

kirkyard of Blair. Had Dundee considered only his own impetuous

feelings, and given effect to the fire that was burning him, he would

have instantly launched his force at MacKay. He was, however,

determined that day, keen though he was, to run no needless risks nor

to give any advantage to the enemy. The Highlanders were like hounds

held in the leash, and it was a question of time when they must be let

go. He would keep them if he could, till the sun had begun to set and

its light was behind them and on the face of MacKay's army.

During this period the messenger came back with an answer to the

despatch which Dundee had sent to MacKay the night before. He had

found William's general at Pitlochry, as he was approaching the pass

of Killiecrankie, and, not without difficulty and some danger, had

presented his letter.

"This man, sir, surrendered himself late last night to my Lord

Belhaven, who was bivouacking in the pass which is ahead," said an

English aide-de-camp to General MacKay, "and his lordship, from what I

am told, was doubtful whether he should not have shot him as a spy,

but seeing he had some kind of letter addressed to you, sir, he sent

him on under guard. It may be that it contains terms of surrender, and

at any rate it will, I take it, be your desire that the man be kept a

prisoner."

"You may take my word for it, Major Lovel," said young Cameron of

Lochiel, who, according to the curious confusion of that day, was with

MacKay, while his father was with Dundee, "and my oath also, if that

adds anything to my word, that whatever be in the letter, there will

be no word of surrender. Lord Dundee will fight as sure as we are

living men, and I only pray we may not be the losers. Ye be not wise

to laugh," added he hotly, "and ye would not if ye had ever seen the

Cameron's charge."

"Peace, gentlemen, we are not here to quarrel with one another," said

General MacKay. "Hand me the letter, and do the messenger no ill till

we see its contents."

As he read his cheek flushed for a moment, and he made an impatient

gesture with his hand, as one repudiating the shameful accusation, and

then he spoke with his usual composure.

"You are right," he said, addressing Cameron, who was on his staff,

"in thinking that Lord Dundee is ready for the fight. I had expected

nothing else from him, for I knew him of old, the bigotry of his

principles, and the courage of his heart. We could never be else than

foes, but I wish to say, whatever happens before the day is done, that

I count him a brave and honorable gentleman, as it pleases me to know

he counts me also.

"This letter"--and MacKay threw it with irritation on the table of the

room in which he had taken his morning meal, "is from Dundee

explaining that two English officers have been arrested, who were

serving as privates in his cavalry, and who are suspected of being

sent by us to assassinate him. If no answer is sent back they will be

hung at once, but if the charge is denied, they will be released,

which, I take it, gentlemen, is merciful and generous conduct.

"I will write a letter with my own hand and clear our honor from this

foul slander. Spying is allowed in war, though I have never liked it,

and the spy need deserve no mercy, but assassination is unworthy of

any soldier, and a work of the devil, of which I humbly trust I am

incapable, and also my king. Give this letter"--when he had written

and sealed it--"to the messenger, Major Lovel, and see that he has a

safe conduct through our army, and past our outposts." Lovel saluted

and left the room, but outside he laughed, and said to himself, "Very

likely it's true all the same, and a quick and useful way of ending

the war. When Claverhouse dies the rebellion dies, too, and there's a

text somewhere which runs like this, 'It is expedient that one man

should die than all the people.' I wonder who those fellows are, and

if they'll manage it, and what they're going to get. They have the

devil's luck in this affair, for, of course, MacKay would be told

nothing about it; he's the piousest officer in the English army."

Dundee received MacKay's letter during the long wait before the

battle, and this is what he read:

_To My Lord Viscount Dundee, Commanding the forces raised in the

interest of James Stuart._

MY LORD: It gives me satisfaction that altho' words once passed

between us, and there be a far greater difference to-day, you have

not believed that I was art and part in so base a work as

assassination, and I hereby on my word of honor as an officer, and

as a Christian, declare that I know nothing of the two men who are

under arrest in your camp. So far as I am concerned their blood

should not be shed, nor any evil befall them.

Before this letter reaches your hand we shall be arrayed against

one another in order of battle, and though arms be my profession,

I am filled with sorrow as I think that the conflict to-day will

be between men of the same nation, and sometimes of the same

family, for it seemeth to me as if brother will be slaying

brother.

I fear that it is too late to avert battle and I have no authority

to offer any terms of settlement to you and those that are with

you. Unto God belongs the issue, and in His hands I leave it. We

are divided by faith, and now also by loyalty, but if any evil

befel your person I pray you to believe that it would give me no

satisfaction, and I beg that ye be not angry with me nor regard me

with contempt if I send you as I now do the prayer which, as a

believer in our common Lord I have drawn up for the use of our

army. It may be the last communication that shall pass between

us.

I have the honor to be,

Your very obedient servant,

HUGH MACKAY.

Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty's Forces.

And this was the prayer, surely the most remarkable ever published by

a general of the British army:

O Almighty King of Kings, and Lord of Hosts, which by Thy Angels

thereunto appointed, dost minister both War and Peace; Thou rulest

and commandest all things, and sittest in the throne judging

right; And, therefore, we make our Addresses to Thy Divine Majesty

in this our necessity, that Thou wouldst take us and our Cause

into Thine Own hand and judge between us and our Enemies. Stir up

Thy strength, O Lord, and come and help us, for Thou givest not

always the Battle to the strong, but canst save by Many or Few. O

let not our sins now cry against us for vengeance, but hear us Thy

poor servants, begging mercy, and imploring Thy help, and that

Thou wouldst be a defence for us against the Enemy. Make it

appear, that Thou art our Saviour, and Mighty Deliverer, through

Jesus Christ Our Lord. Amen.

Dundee ordered the English officers to be brought before him, and for

thirty seconds he looked at them without speaking, as if he were

searching their thoughts and estimating their character. During this

scrutiny the shorter man looked sullen and defiant, as one prepared

for the worst, but the other was as careless and gay as ever, with the

expression either of one who was sure of a favorable issue, or of one

who took life or death as a part of the game.

"If I tell you, gentlemen, that your general refuses to clear you from

this charge, have ye anything to say before ye die?"

"Nothing," said their spokesman, with a light laugh, "except that we

would take more kindly to a bullet than a rope. 'Tis a soldier's

fancy, my lord, but I fear me ye will not humor it; perhaps ye will

even say we have not deserved it."

When Dundee turned to the other, who had not yet spoken, this was all

he got:

"My lord, that it be quickly, and that no mention be made of our

names. It was an adventure, and it has ended badly."

"Gentlemen, whoever ye may be, and that I do not know, and whatever ye

may be about, and of that also I am not sure, I have watched you

closely, and I freely grant that ye are both brave men. Each in his

own way, and each to be trusted by his own cause, though there be one

of you I would trust rather than the other.

"I have this further to say, that General MacKay declares that, so far

as he knows, ye are innocent of the foul crime of which we suspected

you. I might still keep you in arrest, and it were perhaps wiser to do

so; but I have myself suffered greatly through mistrusting those who

were true and honorable, and I would not wish to let the shadow of

disgrace lie upon you, if indeed ye be honest Cavaliers. You have your

liberty, gentlemen, to return to your troop, and if there be any

gratitude in you for this deliverance from death, ride in the front

and strike hard to-day for our king and the ancient Scottish glory."

"Thank you, my lord, but I expected nothing else. I give you our word

that we shall not fail in our duty," said the taller soldier, with a

light-hearted laugh. But the other grew dark red in the face, as if a

strong passion were stirring within him. "My lord," he said, "I would

rather remain as I am till the battle be over, and then that ye give

me leave to depart from the army."

Dundee glanced keenly at him, as one weighing his words, and trying to

fathom their meaning, but the taller man broke in with boisterous

haste:

"Pardon my comrade, general, we Englishmen have proud stomachs, and ye

have offended his honor by your charges, but to-day's fighting will be

the best medicine." And then he hurried his friend away, and as they

left to join their troop he seemed to be remonstrating with him for

his touchy scruples.

"What ye may think of those two gentlemen I know not, my lord," said

Lochiel, who had been standing by, "but I count the dark man the truer

of the two. I like not the other, though I grant they both be brave.

He is fair and false, if I am not out in my judgment, with a smooth

word and a tricky dirk, like the Campbells. God grant ye be not

over-generous, and trustful unto blindness."

"Lochiel, I have trusted, as ye know, many men who have betrayed our

cause; I have distrusted one who was faithful at a cost to me. On this

day, maybe the last of my life, I will believe rather than doubt, in

the hope that faith will be the surest bond of honor. There is

something, I know not what, in that tall fellow I did not like. But

what I have done, I have done, and if I have erred, Lochiel, the

punishment will be on my own head."

"On many other heads, too, I judge," muttered Lochiel to himself, and

for an instant he thought of taking private measures to hinder the two

Englishmen from service that day, but considering that he would have

enough to do with his own work, he went to prepare his clan for the

hour that was near at hand.

Dundee dismissed his staff for the time on various duties, and

attended only by Grimond, sat down upon a knoll, from which he could

see the whole plateau of Urrard--the drawn-out line of his own army

beneath him, and the corresponding formation of the English troops in

the distance. He read MacKay's prayer slowly and reverently, and then,

letting the paper fall upon the grass, Dundee fell into a reverie.

There was a day when he would have treated the prayer lightly, not

because he had ever been a profane man, like Esau, but because he had

no relish for soldiers who acted as chaplains.

To-day, with the lists of battle before his eyes, and the ordeal of

last night still fresh in his experience, and his inexcusable cruelty

to Jean, his heart was weighed with a sense of the tragedy of life and

the tears of things. He was going to fight unto death for his king,

but he was haunted by the conviction that William was a wiser and

better monarch. MacKay and he were to cross swords, as before they had

crossed words, and would ever cross principles, but he could not help

confessing to himself that MacKay, in the service of the Prince of

Orange, had for years been doing a more soldierly part than his, in

hunting to the death Covenanting peasants. His Highlanders below,

hungering for the joy of battle and the gathering of spoil, were brave

and faithful, but they were little more than savages, and woe betide

the land that lay beneath their sword; while the troops on the other

side represented the forces of order and civilization, and though they

might be routed that evening, they held the promise of final victory.

Was it worth the doing, and something of which afterwards a man could

be proud, to restore King James to Whitehall, and place Scotland again

in the hands of the gang of cowards and evil livers, thieves and liars

who had misgoverned it and shamefully treated himself? What a confused

and tangled web life was, and who had eyes to decipher its pattern? He

would live and die for the Stuarts, as Montrose had done before him;

he could not take service under William, nor be partner with the

Covenanters. He could do none otherwise, and yet, what a Scotland it

would be under James, and what a miserable business for him to return

to the hunt of the Covenanters!

The buoyancy of the morning had passed, and now his thoughts took a

darker turn. MacKay, no doubt, had told the truth, for he was not

capable of falsehood, but if those Englishmen were not agents of the

English government, did it follow that they were clear of suspicion?

There was some mystery about them, for if indeed they had been

Cavalier gentlemen who had abandoned the English service, would they

be so anxious to conceal themselves? Why should they refuse to let

their names be known? They had come from Livingstone's regiment. Was

it possible that they had been sent by him, and if so, for what end?

It is the penalty of once yielding to distrust that a person falls

into the habit of suspicion, and the latent jealousy of Livingstone

began to work like poison in Dundee's blood. Jean was innocent, he

would stake his life on that, but Livingstone--who knew whether the

attraction of those interviews was Dundee's cause or Dundee's wife? If

Livingstone had been in earnest, he had been with King James's men

that day; but he might be earnest enough in love, though halting

enough in loyalty. If her husband fell, he would have the freer

course in wooing the wife. What if he had arranged the assassination,

and not William's government; what if Jean, outraged by that

reflection upon her honor and infuriated by wounded pride, had

consented to this revenge? Her house had never been scrupulous, and

love changed to hate by an insult such as he had offered might be

satisfied with nothing less than blood. Stung by this venomous

thought, Dundee sprang to his feet, and looking at the westering sun,

cried to Grimond, who had been watching him with unobtrusive sympathy,

as if he read his thoughts, "Jock, the time for thinking is over, the

time for doing has come."

He rode along the line and gave his last directions to the army.

Riding from right to left, he placed himself at the head of the

cavalry, and gave the order to charge. That wild rush of Highlanders,

which swept before it, across the plain of Urrard, the thin and

panic-stricken line of regular troops, was not a battle. It was an

onslaught, a flight, a massacre, as when the rain breaks upon a

Highland mountain, and the river in the glen beneath, swollen with the

mountain water, dashes to the lowlands with irresistible devastation.

Grimond placed himself close behind his master for the charge, and

determined that if there was treachery in the ranks, the bullet that

was meant for Dundee must pass through him. But the battle advance of

cavalry is confused and tumultuous, as horses and men roll in the

dust, and eager riders push ahead of their fellows, and no man knows

what he is doing, except that the foe is in front of him. They were

passing at a gallop across the ground above Urrard House, when

Grimond, who was now a little in the rear of his commander, saw him

lift his right arm in the air and wave his sword, and heard him cry,

"King James and the crown of Scotland!" At that instant he fell

forward upon his horse's mane, as one who had received a mortal wound,

and the horse galloped off towards the right, with its master helpless

upon it. Through the dust of battle, and looking between two troopers

who intervened, Grimond saw the fair-haired Englishman lowering the

pistol and thrusting it into his holster, with which he had shot

Dundee through the armpit, as he gave his last command. Onward they

were carried, till one of the troopers on his right fell and the other

went ahead, and there was clear course between Grimond and the

Englishman. They were now, both of them, detached from the main body,

and the Englishman was planning to fall aside and escape unnoticed

from the field. His comrade could not be seen, and evidently had taken

no part in the deed. Grimond was upon him ere he knew, and before he

could turn and parry the stroke, Jock's sword was in him, and he fell

mortally wounded from his horse. Keen as Grimond was to follow his

master, and find him where he must be lying ahead, he was still more

anxious to get the truth at last out of the dying man. He knelt down

and lifted up his head.

"It is over with ye now, and thou hast done thy hellish deed. I wish

to God I'd killed thee before; but say before thou goest who was thy

master--was it Livingstone? Quick, man, tell the truth, it may serve

thee in the other world, and make hell cooler."

"Livingstone," replied the Englishman with his dying breath, and a

look of almost boyish triumph on his face, "what had I to do with him?

It was from my Lord Nottingham, his Majesty's secretary of state, I

took my orders, and I have fulfilled them. Did I not lie bravely and

do what I had to do thoroughly? Thou cunning rascal, save for thee I

had also escaped. You may take my purse, for thou art a faithful

servant. My hand struck the final blow." Now, his breath was going

fast from him, and with a last effort, as Grimond dropped his head

with a curse, he cried, "You have--won--the battle. Your cause

is--lost."

Amid the confusion the cavalry had not noticed the fall of their

commander, and Grimond found his master lying near a mound, a little

above the house of Urrard. He was faint through loss of blood, and

evidently was wounded unto death, but he recognized his faithful

follower, and thanked him with his eyes, as Jock wiped the blood from

his lips--for he was wounded through the lungs--and gave him brandy to

restore his strength.

"Ye cannot staunch that wound, Jock, and this is my last fight. How

goes it--is it well?"

"Well for the king, my lord--the battle is won; but ill for thee, my

dear maister."

"If it be well for the king, it's well for me, Jock, but I wish to God

my wound had been in front. That fair-haired fellow, I take it, did

the deed. Ye killed him, did ye, Jock? Well, he deserved it, but I

fain would know who was behind him before I die. If it were he whom I

suspect, Jock, I could not rest in my grave."

"Rest easy, Maister John, I wrung the truth frae his deein' lips. It

was Lord Nottingham, the English minister, wha feed him, the

black-hearted devil. Livingstone had naethin' to do wi' the maitter,

far less onybody--ye luved."

"Thank God, and you too, Jock, my faithful friend.... Tell Lady Dundee

that my last thoughts were with her, and my last breath repeated her

name.... For the rest, I have done what I could, according to my

conscience.... May the Lord have mercy on my sins.... God save the

King!"

So, after much strife and many sorrows, Claverhouse fell in the moment

of victory, and passed to his account.

THE END

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Transcriber's Note:

Illustrations have been moved closer to their relevant paragraphs.

Author's archaic and variable spelling and hyphenation is

preserved.

Author's punctuation style is preserved.

Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_.

Passages in bold indicated by =equal signs=.

Typographical problems have been changed and are listed below.

Transcriber's Changes:

Frontispiece caption: Was 'Page 265' (Lady Dundee lifted up the

child for him to kiss. =Pages 261-2=.)

Page 143, illustration caption: Was '145' ("Ye will have to answer

to man and God for this." Page =143=.)

Page 158: Was 'hundrel' (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)

Page 166, illustration caption: Was '168' (She could not speak nor

move, but only looked at him. Page =166=.)

Page 226: Was 'Mackay' (more than when hounds run a fox to his lair.

=MacKay= would be arranging how to trap him, anticipating

his ways of escape, and stopping)

Page 299: Was 'brown' (joy. "For this vision at least I bless thee,

spirit, whoever thou mayest be, =Brown= or any other. That

was the day of all my life,)

Page 318: Was 'perpare' (enough to do with his own work, he went to

=prepare= his clan for the hour that was near at hand.)