A fresh burst of tears was Ellen's only answer; but at length she

managed to sob out some words which whitened her master's face to the

very lips.

"They're awa', sir; a' awa' tae Haughheid. The laird cam' wi' the coach

jist efter the kirk was in, an' the mistress gaed awa' in't, wi' the

bairns, an' a' her claes an' the bairns' claes, an' she said she wasna'

comin' back. An' I, sir, what cud I dae but sit doon an' greet,

thinkin' on you comin' home tae this empty an' desolate hoose?"

The minister turned about and walked with unsteady step back to the

pleasant family room, where, with his wife and little ones, he had spent

so many happy hours. It had a desolate, deserted, dreary look, and the

very fire seemed to have died in despair in the grate. He looked about

him in a dazed manner, and then sinking into a chair, these words

escaped his lips in a deep groan of anguish:

"If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."

Verily that was a day of sharp and bitter searching for the minister of

Broomhill; nevertheless, ere the hushed silence of the night fell, he

had found peace in his desolate home.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*MR. DUNCAN MCLEAN.*

In the course of the ensuing week, the last of the honourable family who

had so long dwelt beneath the roof-tree of Inverburn manse, quitted its

shelter for ever. Pen fails me to describe fitly that sad farewell. It

was indeed a very rending of the heart-strings to the venerable minister

of Inverburn. In spite of the wording of the Act, that every ejected

minister should remove without the bounds of his Presbytery, Mr. Gray

and his daughter went no farther than Adam Hepburn's house at Rowallan,

where they were very warmly welcomed. So long as was permitted, they

would remain among their own kith and kin. The minister of Broomhill

found a shelter at Hartrigge, so that united and affectionate family

were not as yet separated one from the other.

On the next Sabbath day no kirk bell rang its sweet, familiar chimes

through the quiet Sabbath air. The gates of the churchyard remained

closed, and the only sign of life about the venerable pile was the

cawing of hoarse-throated rooks, which had assembled by scores on the

leafless boughs of the "birks of Inverburn," as if met in convocation

over this strange and sad Sabbath day. Betty McBean had gone home to

her brother Watty's house in the village; and blithe enough he was to

see her, being a bachelor, with no womenkind to make a bite for him or

to clean up his house. On the Saturday word was carried through the

parish by Watty that the Word would be preached next day in the barn at

Rowallan by their beloved shepherd, and all whose soul thirsted for the

living water were invited to attend. And, lo, at the hour of meeting,

so great was the press thronging in Adam Hepburn's barn that it was

hastily decided to hold the meeting out of doors. So a kitchen table

with a settle behind it was erected as a pulpit in the corn-yard, and

from this the minister of Inverburn preached to his flock. Something in

the unusual nature of the proceedings seemed to stir all hearts and to

imbue them with a holy enthusiasm. Never had the psalm been sung with

such deep fervour; never had the attitude of the hearers been so rapt

and reverential. There was something in the knowledge that it was

against the law that they assembled together which lent a strange,

sweet, yet fearful joy to their relish of that Sabbath day. Hartrigge,

with all his family, was there, and the minister of Broomhill also took

part in the service. When they separated, just before the twilight, all

felt that it had indeed been good for them to be there; and they said

one to another, that so long as they could get the Word by walking to

Rowallan for it, the king's decree might not prove such a hardship as

had been anticipated. But, alas for their vain hopes, their happy

congratulations! the day was near at hand when listening to, as well as

preaching, the Word was to become a crime worthy of death itself.

The Laird of Inverburn, with Lady Hamilton and the young heir, had

driven in their coach that day to Lochlee, to hear John Methven preach.

On their way home they passed so many dressed people on the roads,

especially as they neared Inverburn, that a suspicion of the truth began

to dawn upon the mind of the laird.

Just outside their lodge gates they overtook Watty McBean and his sister

Betty, leisurely wending their way homewards. At a word from the laird

the coachman pulled up his horses.

"Here, McBean," said the laird, in his peremptory fashion, "tell me why

there are so many people on the road at this hour. They look to me as

if they had been at kirk somewhere, though very sure am I that none of

them worshipped with me to-day at Lochlee."

"Did they no', Sir Thomas? but how should I ken whaur a' the folk hae

been wanderin' tae?" asked Watty, innocently. "Mebbe they've been awa'

seein' their freens or takin' a bit walk tae theirsels, like Betty an'

me."

Very red grew the face of Betty McBean, as she heard her brother utter

this deliberate falsehood, and she tugged vehemently at her cap strings,

to give some vent to her feelings.

"I believe you are telling me a lie, sirrah!" said the laird,

wrathfully, "and if you are it will be the worse for you. Here, you

woman, you were the manse maid, I think," he added, directing his

remarks to Betty. "Can you tell me whether it be true that your

minister is still in the parish, in fact that he is under the roof-tree

of Adam Hepburn, at Rowallan?"

"Oh, Sir Tammas, my lord, dinna mak me tell a lee," said Betty

piteously; "ye wudna hae me get my auld maister into trouble. He----"

"Betty, if ye dinna haud yer tongue, and come on, it'll be the waur for

ye," shouted Watty in her ear, and taking her by the arm, dragged her

right away from the coach, and past the gate of Inverburn, without so

much as making an apology to the laird.

Sir Thomas looked angry, but his wife sank back, laughing, in the coach,

not sorry that Betty had not committed herself.

Lady Hamilton's sympathies were much with the Presbyterians, but she was

of too sweet and gentle a disposition to set up her own opinions in

opposition to those of her husband.

"Eh, Watty McBean, man, hoo cud ye tell sic a barefaced lee?" queried

Betty when her brother released his grip on her arm. "Did the thocht o'

the fire and brimstane, which the Word says is the portion o' leers, no

pit the fear o' death on yer tongue?"

"Hoot ye silly crater, there's lees _an'_ lees!" quoth Watty, with an

air of superior wisdom. "Was I gaun to get the minister and the flock

into a peck o' troubles wi' my lang tongue? I see I'll need to keep an

e'e on you, Betty. Auld though you be, ye hinna muckle gumption."

"Ye're no feared either tae daur [defy] the laird," said Betty, with a

sigh.

"I'm no awn the laird naething, and he canna gar me speak against my

will," said Watty, calmly; and Betty, completely overcome by her

brother's undaunted spirit, relapsed into silence.

For several weeks the parish kirk at Inverburn remained closed, and the

people worshipped with the ministers they loved either in barn or

outhouse, or, when weather permitted, under the canopy of heaven. Such a

state of affairs, which betokened such utter disregard and contempt for

the Prelacy, could not long be allowed to continue undisturbed. The

next step taken by the bishops was to fill the places of the ejected

ministers with curates of their own, so that the parishioners might no

longer have the closed doors of the churches to point at as an excuse

for their behaviour.

Sir Thomas Hamilton, a staunch loyalist and an intimate friend of the

Bishop of Glasgow, offered his shelter and patronage to any gentleman

his lordship might elect to minister in the church at Inverburn.

It was on the third Saturday in January that a notice was posted up on

the church door intimating that public worship would be resumed next

Lord's Day by Mr. Duncan McLean, at the hour of noon.

The bellman was also sent round, and the news well circulated throughout

the parish. It occasioned no little excitement and talk; but the

people, with the exception of a few of the laird's pensioners in the

village, had not the smallest intention of attending upon the curate's

ministrations. Service was to be held at three of the afternoon in the

sheltered glen behind the house of Hartrigge, and as Watty McBean

expressed it--

"When folk could lift Presbyterian wheat for the gaun [going], it wasna

likely they wad be content wi' the curate's puir chaff."

About eleven o'clock on the Sabbath morning, Betty McBean, watching from

the window, beheld the coach from Inverburn coming rapidly over the

manse brae, towards the village.

"The laird's in't, Watty, an' a jimpy black body, wha'll dootless be the

curate, and Peter Rintoull, the bailiff, 's on the box aside the

coachman," she cried, excitedly. "I'll bet ye what ye like they'll be

comin' seekin' you tae gang up by an' ring the bell."

"Let them come, I'm ready for them," said Watty serenely. "But gang you

intae the ben-end [parlour], or yer waggin' tongue'll play mischief."

Only too thankful to be relieved from the necessity of again meeting the

laird's questioning gaze, Betty hastily retired into the ben-end just as

the coach drew up at the door.

"Watty, Watty McBean!" called out the coachman. "Coome oot; Sir Tammas

wants ye!"

Watty took his pipe from his cheek, and retired slowly out to the door,

a very uncouth looking figure in his rough homespun garb, and his

unwashed unshaven face surmounted by a dirty red night-cap!

"Why are you not more decently attired, McBean? It is time you were

getting ready for the service," said the laird sternly. "This is the

new minister of the parish, Mr. Duncan McLean."

"Ay, so I was thinkin'. I canna say I'm prood tae see Mr. Duncan

McLean," said Watty, in his canny way, and giving his somewhat loose

nether garments an expressive hitch. "If he's come tae a cauld pairt,

it's no' his blame, puir chield. I'm thinkin' he'll no' be lang afore

he gangs back tae them that sent him."

Mr. McLean looked much surprised, and not too well pleased at the man's

freedom of address.

"The man is witless, Mr. McLean, a half crazy loon, whom nobody heeds,"

the laird explained, and then he turned his stern eye on Watty's

unruffled countenance. "Look here, McBean, go into the house and put on

your Sabbath garments as fast as you can; and see that you be up to ring

the kirk bell at the usual time."

"Eh, me? they telt me the Bishop wad send a bell-ringer an' a minister's

man wi' the curate," said Watty, with well-feigned astonishment. "Sir

Tammas, it's perfectly unpossible that I could be ready at the time.

Just look at me; I've a week's dirt tae scrape aff my skin, no' tae

mention that my claes taks an hour tae aire afore I cud pit them on

without catchin' my death."

The laird bit his lip.

"This is gross impertinence, McBean, for which, as I sit here, I swear

you shall not go unpunished. Once for all, will you or will you not be

ready to perform your usual duties in the bell tower and the session

house in half an hour?"

"That I winna, Sir Tammas; seein' the lord bishop, or whatever be his

title, has made the kirk session of Inverburn null and void, he has made

the minister's man null and void too; so Maister McLean maun e'en get a

man for hissel," answered Watty, with fearless resolution. Then he

fixed his keen eye on the ill-favoured face of the curate, and addressed

a concluding remark to him. "Ye hae taen muckle upon yersel', young

man, tae step into the honoured shoon o' the Reverend Maister Gray. An'

if ye get but a cauldrife hearin' this day ye may blame no' the faithfu'

folks o' Inverburn, but them that sent ye."

With which comforting assurance Watty turned about, and entering his own

house, shut the door.

"If this is the disposition of the parish, Sir Thomas," said the curate

sourly, "I fear stronger measures will be necessary ere long."

"If necessary, doubtless they will be taken, Mr. McLean," said the

laird. "But do not be cast down by the insolent utterance of a

half-witted fellow like Watty McBean. I cannot think the people of

Inverburn will so far forget their respect to me, as well as to those in

power, as to follow such an example."

One of the laird's servants was procured to undertake Watty's duties,

and the bell was duly rung at the appointed time. But it appeared to

convey to the hearts of the people no welcome summons to the House of

God. Only a few stragglers, and these persons of no note in the parish,

came dropping into the church, and when the hour struck there were not

more than thirty persons present, and these included the laird and his

retinue from Inverburn. Nevertheless the service was proceeded with,

and conducted after the true Episcopal fashion; prayers being read from

the new book of service. The curate was humiliated and ashamed, the

laird furious, and on their way home to Inverburn the two discussed

various plans whereby the people might be compelled to attend service in

the church.

The following morning Sir Thomas started on horseback to make a tour of

the tenantry on his estate, in order to see what they had to say in

defence of their absence from the church on the previous day. His first

place of call was Rowallan, but before he reached the house he met Adam

Hepburn leading one of his work-horses to the smithy. Adam doffed his

cap to the laird, and stood still, not unprepared for what was coming.

"I have called to see for what reason you absented yourself from Divine

service yesterday, Hepburn?" the laird said briefly, and without

greeting of any kind. "Do you know that in so absenting yourself you

were guilty of a civil offence?"

"I know not as to that, Sir Thomas; but if a man's heart be not in the

service, he is better at home," replied Adam, quietly. "And the king

has no power over a man's own conscience."

"See here, Hepburn," said the laird; "is that old man, your

father-in-law, still under your roof-tree?"

"He is, Sir Thomas," answered Adam, in the same quiet tone.

"You know the wording of the Act which commands that the ejected

ministers shall remove themselves without the bounds of the Presbytery?

Rowallan is not without these bounds. I have it in my power to have

your father-in-law punished, imprisoned if I like, by simply letting my

friend the bishop know how his commands are disobeyed."

A dark red flush rose to Adam Hepburn's brow, and he bit his lip. The

hot blood of his race sprang up at the laird's threatening and mocking

words.

"And you would make betrayal of the old man the price of my

non-attendance at the curate's preaching, Sir Thomas," he said with

curling lip. "Such a threat is scarcely worthy of your name. I fear

that such measures will not avail with the God-fearing people in the

parish."

"You defy me then, sirrah; then be prepared to take the consequences,"

said the laird furiously, and digging his spurs into his horse's sides,

turned the animal's head, and rode away full gallop to Hartrigge, only

to have his ire additionally kindled there by the cool defiance and

dogged determination of Andrew Gray.

*CHAPTER IX.*

*PREPARING FOR EMERGENCIES.*

When the laird rode away, Adam Hepburn turned and walked slowly back to

Rowallan. He was somewhat disturbed by what he had heard, not on his

own account, but on that of the venerable father of his beloved Agnes.

When he entered the room where the minister sat with his daughter Jane,

Mrs. Hepburn being busy with her household work, both saw that he was

troubled about something.

"Have you heard aught about the preaching yesterday, Adam, that you look

so grave?" queried the minister.

"Yes; I met the laird down the road, and he seems sore displeased over

the thin attendance at Mr. McLean's ministrations yesterday," replied

Adam, a little quickly. "He threatened me, too, that unless I attended

the services he would get you into trouble, Mr. Gray."

"I said to you, Adam, my son, when you so nobly offered me the shelter

of your roof-tree, that it might get you and yours into trouble,

harbouring an ejected and rebellious minister," said the old man sadly.

"Better let me go forth ere that trouble comes upon your house."

"Go forth! and whither? At your age, and in the dead of winter, to

wander in the open air as some are compelled to do would mean certain

death," said Adam Hepburn. "No, no; though I am not such a red-hot

churchman as Hartrigge, still, whoever seeks to molest you, be he king's

or bishop's official, must first deal with me."

Tears started in Jane Gray's eyes as she looked with pride and gratitude

at the erect figure and manly face of her brother-in-law. At that

minute Agnes, hearing such serious voices, came in from the kitchen,

asking what was the matter. Adam Hepburn turned his blue eyes fondly on

his wife's sweet pale face, and smiled to reassure her.

"We are like to get into trouble, wife, by our dourness to attend the

curate's preaching, that is all," he answered lightly.

A slightly troubled look stole into Agnes Hepburn's gentle eyes.

"I know not why, but I have of late had many dark forebodings, Adam,"

she said. "These are sad, sad days in which we live, and especially

trying for timorous women-folk like me."

"It is your poor health, dear one, that makes you fanciful. No harm can

come upon Rowallan so long as my stout right arm retains its cunning,"

Adam answered, lightly still; but Agnes, shaking her head, stole back to

her duties with a heavy heart.

"I am concerned about Agnes, Jane," said Adam Hepburn, turning his

troubled eyes on his sister-in-law's face. "She is not well, and in her

sleep is restless and troubled, as if haunted by some strange dread; and

she is so thin and worn. Looking on her face, at times I am afraid."

"When the spring time is past she will gather strength, please God,"

said Jane, cheerfully. "Agnes never was strong in the spring time."

"No; and these exciting and troublous times are too severe a strain upon

her sensitive heart," said the minister. "As Agnes herself says, they

are not for timorous women-folk to live in."

For some weeks they heard no more of the laird or of his threats,

although report had it that severe measures were about to be taken to

compel the people to respect the authority of the bishops and to attend

upon the ministrations of their curates. Ere long these rumours became

terrible realities, and a troop of brutal and unprincipled dragoons,

under Sir James Turner, was let loose upon the western and southern

shires of Scotland, which they scoured in search of the ejected

ministers, and of their faithful flocks, who travelled miles to hear

them in the mountain solitudes, worshipping with them in temples not

made with hands, but which were consecrated to the Lord by the

faithfulness and fearless piety of these Christian people. For a time

the parish of Inverburn, although very offensive in its treatment of the

curate, escaped the severity with which many other parishes, notably

those in the shires of Galloway and Dumfries, were visited. It was at

length, however, publicly announced from the pulpit that all who failed

to attend Divine service on the following Sabbath day would be

apprehended and punished either by fine or other penalty, and that all

who gave aid to the ejected ministers or who attended upon their

services in the open air were liable to be dragged before the High

Commission Court, of which Sharp was the head, and there punished

according to the prelates' good pleasure.

Adam Hepburn heard unmoved that report, as also did his brother-in-law

at Hartrigge, where David Gray, the minister of Broomhill, was still

sheltered, almost, however, at the peril of his life. When the dragoons

at length came to Inverburn, he hid in the day-time in a

cunningly-concealed cave on the face of the hill upon which Hartrigge

stood, and the existence of which was known only to a very few. It was

in a spot so difficult of access, and was, besides, so well hidden by

brambles and nettles and other brushwood, that for a time at least the

fugitive was perfectly safe.

When Sir James Turner and his troop arrived at Inverburn, he, with his

subordinate officers, was immediately offered shelter by the laird,

while the men were drafted upon various households in the village,

notably those who were known to be very zealous Presbyterians. Watty

McBean's house was taken possession of by four coarse, swearing, drunken

soldiers, who raised Watty's ire to the utmost pitch and nearly

frightened Betty out of her wits, besides eating her out of house and

home.

At nightfall on the day of their arrival, Watty stole away through the

fields to Rowallan to give timely warning to its inmates to get the

minister removed out of the way before he should be taken prisoner. He

crept up to the room window and gave a familiar tap on the lower pane,

lest a knocking at the door might alarm the household. Adam Hepburn

himself came to the door, and, at a sign from Watty, stepped outside.

"I've jest come tae warn ye, Adam Hepburn, that Turner an' the sodgers

came this nicht," he whispered. "An' by what I hear the rascals, wha hae

taen my hoose frae me, sayin' tae ane anither, it's oor minister an' the

minister o' Broomhill they're after. Hae ye ony means o' getten Maister

Gray outen the road?"

Adam Hepburn nodded.

"We knew the soldiers were on their way to Inverburn, and I'll warrant

they'll no lay hands on the minister, or they'll be sharper than I think

them. Come in, Watty, and speak to Mr. Gray. He's still with us in the

house."

"Ye dinna mean to say so!" exclaimed Watty in consternation. "Certy

ye're no feared. If ye take my advice ye'll get him awa' intae safe

hidin' as sune as possible. I was sayin' tae Bettie I kent a bonnie

howdie hole on the Douglas Water doon the Sanquhar road a bit, that it

wad puzzle the sodgers tae find."

"Keep your secret for awhile, Watty. It may be useful some day," said

Adam Hepburn, and beckoning to Watty, he ushered him into the warm

ingle-neuk, where sat the minister of Inverburn in undisturbed serenity,

with his daughters by his side.

"Good evening to you, Watty McBean, my faithful friend," said the

minister, rising to shake hands with Watty. "What tidings have ye

brought?"

"No very braw [nice] for leddie's ears. The sodgers have come upon

Inverburn at last, an' gin they bide lang ther'll be neither bite nor

sup, nor an article o' gear in the parish," answered Watty dolefully.

"The four villains quartered on us have already pocketed my watch an' my

mither's spunes, no' tae speak o' Betty's brooch she got frae yer

lamented wife."

Agnes Hepburn's pale cheek grew, if possible, a shade whiter, and

instinctively her husband moved to the back of her chair, and laid his

firm hand on her trembling shoulder as if to re-assure her.

"Adam, if this be so, my place is no longer here!" said the minister

rising. "My son, I have already stayed too long, not only at the peril

of my own life, but it is imperilling yours likewise. It will be better

for me to keep my hiding-place now, both night and day."

"You will lie down first, father, and snatch a few hours rest," said the

sweet voice of Adam Hepburn's wife. "At the cock-crowing Adam will

awake you, and you can hide until the nightfall."

"Oh, ye'r safe eneuch till the daw'in', sir," Watty assured him. "The

laird's wine, an' soft beds, an' routh [abundance] o' breakfast 'll keep

Sir Jeems at the big hoose, I'se warrant, till the sun be up."

"Certainly you will do as Agnes says, Mr. Gray?" said Adam, in his

decided way. "Now, Watty, if you'll say good-night, and come with me,

I'll show you a 'howdie hole' which would match yours on the Douglas

Water."

"Guid nicht, then, Maister Gray, an' may the Lord blind the e'en o' the

sodgers, and keep you oot o' their clutches," said Watty with fervour.

"Mistress Hepburn an' Miss Jean, guid nicht wi' ye baith; an' should ye

need a strong arm and a willint heart at any time, to defend ye, mind

that Watty McBean's ay ready!"

"Good night, my faithful Watty; and may the Lord give you patience to

bear the infliction of the soldiery on your abode. Provoke them not to

anger, Watty, I entreat, for I am told that they are very swift to shed

blood," said the minister, earnestly.

"I'll thole [bear] as long as I can, I never was a fechter," said the

good soul, with a comical smile, and pulling his forelock in token of

respect, he followed Adam Hepburn out of doors.

The moon had now risen, and its clear radiance struggled through the

rifts in the cloudy sky, and shone weirdly and fitfully on the wintry

landscape, making strange fantastic shadows too on the walls of the

outhouses grouped about the farmhouse. Adam Hepburn stepped across the

courtyard, and opened the barn door. He then motioned to Watty to

enter, and after carefully closing the door, lighted the lantern he had

brought with him from the house. The barn at Rowallan was a large and

commodious place, with a steep ladder-like stair ascending to the

granary above. In one corner a small door gave admittance to an inner

apartment, something resembling a closet in a house, and into which the

chaff was swept after it was separated from the wheat by the flail. At

the present time it was, however, almost empty, there being only a

slight sprinkling on the wooden floor. Into this place Adam Hepburn

threw the light of his lantern, and then looked enquiringly at Watty.

"What do you see there, Watty, anything by ordinar?" he asked.

"Naething but a common chaff-hole," answered Watty, "and no' a very safe

hidin'-place, I wad think. The Douglas Water hole beats it yet."

"Come in, though, Watty, and I'll show you something," said Adam, with a

smile, and Watty stepped into the place, in which he could scarcely

stand upright. Adam then set down his lantern, and with his hands swept

aside the chaff, but still Watty saw nothing save a moth-eaten and

discoloured wooden floor. But when Adam inserted into some of the seams

the strong blade of his gully knife, and Watty saw a distinct movement

in the flooring, he began to have an inkling of what was coming. After

some little exertion, Adam Hepburn raised a small trap-door, sufficient

to admit the body of a man, and Watty peering into the chasm, with

excited interest, saw a ladder which appeared to lead into the bowels of

the earth.

"Now creep down after me, Watty, and shut the door after you, and I'll

show you something worth seeing," said Adam, and Watty made haste to

obey. The ladder was of considerable length, but at last Watty felt his

feet on the firm earth, and looking about, saw by the light that he was

in a subterranean passage, narrow certainly, but of sufficient height to

accommodate even Adam Hepburn's tall figure. Still following his guide,

Watty walked a little way along the passage, and then found himself in a

kind of cave, a wide open space, sufficient to hold about a dozen

people. There was a rude couch composed of stones, built in one corner,

upon which now had been piled a substantial tick filled with chaff,

above which was spread plenty of blankets and thick coverings, which

would make a very comfortable resting place, even in winter. A piece of

rough matting covered the floor in front of the bed, and there were some

benches which formed a table, or could be used for seats. The floor of

the place was perfectly dry, and the atmosphere felt warm and free from

dampness. Watty gazed round him in unmitigated astonishment and

admiration, and at lasted gasped out--

"This _is_ a howdie hole, an' nae mistak'! Whaur did it come frae, an'

wha made it?"

"It has always been here. I believe my great-grandfather, who was

killed at Flodden, had something to do with it," replied Adam Hepburn.

"At any rate, not a living soul knows of its existence but our own

family and you, Watty. But you don't know half its advantages yet.

See, the underground passage continues right through here," he added,

shedding the light of his lantern into another dark recess; "and what do

you think? it runs right through the fields of Rowallan, and under the

bed of the Douglas Water, and comes out in the middle of all the

brushwood and tangle on the face of the Corbie's Cliff. Ye didna ken

there was a hole there, did ye, Watty?"

"No; although I hae speeled [climbed] the Corbie mony a time for nests

when I was a laddie," said Watty, solemnly. "It seems as if the Lord

had made the place Hissel'."

"Mr. Gray can be made very comfortable here, Watty," continued Adam

Hepburn; "and, by the simple pulling of a string I have fastened up in

the chaff-hole, I can make a noise which will warn him to escape by the

Corbie should the soldiers discover the trap. But I don't think there

can be any fear of that."

"No' likely, for I couldna see onything but the flure," said Watty, in

much glee; "an' I'm no' blind. Eh, weel, may be mair than the minister

'll be glad o' this grand shelter."

"It is likely the minister of Broomhill will come here under cover of

the night some of these days. I would think he was not very safe much

longer at Hartrigge," said Adam Hepburn. "Well, Watty, I think we'd

better get upstairs again, and you can tell Betty that we are ready for

the soldiers whenever they like to come."

"'Deed, Maister Hepburn, I'll no' tell her naething. Weemin folk are no'

to be trusted. No' that they mean tae dae mischief; it's jist their

tongues, puir craters, fashed [troubled] wi' a weakness, an' they canna

help themselves," said Watty, so seriously that his companion could not

refrain from laughing.

After some little delay, they again mounted the ladder, and, pushing up

the trap-door, emerged into the chaff-hole, and thence out into the open

air, where, after a few more words concerning the shelter of the

ministers, they parted for the night.

*CHAPTER X.*

*ADAM HEPBURN'S VOW.*

The business of life seemed to be standing still in Inverburn. Although

it was not the season of the year in which much outdoor labour could be

accomplished, the barren fields still lay waiting to be upturned by the

plough, and all interest in the ordinary routine of work seemed to be

absorbed in other things. The morning after the quartering of the

soldiery on the householders there were many strange sights and sounds

witnessed and heard in the quiet hamlet of Inverburn. Needless to say

that the inn was the chief rendezvous, and honest Mistress Lyall had to

pour out her ale and whisky, and even her small stock of wine and

brandy, without stint or payment. The swearing horde took possession of

the bar, and, in the terror of her soul, poor Katie Lyall flew to a

neighbour's house, and left them in undisturbed possession. Having

drunk their fill, the ruffians made a raid on every house, lifting what

valuables they could lay hands upon, and insulting the women, and

bringing many a burning blush to the fair cheek of youth. The unarmed

and defenceless men folk in the village were only deterred from open

resistance by the sight of the long gleaming swords and loaded pistols

of the troopers. But curses, not loud but deep, filled the quiet air,

and many a manly hand was clenched, many a manly voice uttered a deep

and ominous vow of vengeance.

About half-past nine Sir James Turner and his subordinate officers rode

down the manse brae, and, drawing rein at the head of the village

street, sounded the _reveille_. In a short time the regiment was in

marching order, and the horses' heads were turned towards Rowallan. And

then many a fervent prayer rose to Heaven that the God of Hosts would

throw the strong arm of His defence about Adam Hepburn's house, and

shelter its dear inmates from the bloody men. Early that morning Adam

Hepburn had walked across the fields to Hartrigge to warn David Gray of

his danger, and to bid the inmates of the house be prepared for a visit

from the soldiery. He arrived to find the minister of Broomhill quietly

seated at breakfast with the family, having just crept up from his

hiding-place. It was at once hastily resolved that, as it was still

early, Adam Hepburn and David Gray should creep down into the valley

behind Hartrigge, and, keeping within shelter of the trees and

brushwood, follow the course of the Douglas Water until they reached the

Corbie's Cliff; then, entering the mouth of the subterranean passage,

join the minister of Inverburn in his hiding at Rowallan.

The children at Hartrigge, all but Gavin, being too young to understand

the peril of the hour, wondered why uncle David bade them farewell so

solemnly and with tears in his eyes; and little Jeanie, listening to his

last words to her mother, pondered them long in her heart.

"Farewell, Susan, my sister. The Lord requite thee for thy sisterly

kindness to me, who, now a wanderer on the face of the earth, can never

hope either to acknowledge or repay it. And may the Lord also vouchsafe

the wings of His shelter to this house and its inmates, and shield them

in the day of trouble."

Mistress Gray wrung the minister's hand, but was unable to speak.

Andrew Gray himself accompanied them to the door, but their parting

words were interrupted by the shrill echo of the trumpets sounding the

_reveille_ in the village along the vale. Then Adam Hepburn and the

minister understanding that ominous sound, plunged into the thicket, and

scrambled down the steep into the richly wooded valley below. Meanwhile

the women folk at Rowallan busied themselves with their household tasks,

and Agnes at least longing for her husband's return. The nervous fear

had so grown upon her of late that she was never a moment at rest, save

when he was by her side. As she stepped out into the courtyard with a

basin of warm food for the poultry, the clatter of hoofs fell upon her

ears, and turning her startled eyes in the direction of the road, she

saw what appeared to be a moving mass of steel, glittering in the chill

winter sunshine, and coming rapidly towards the house.

With a slight scream she dropped the basin with its contents, and fled

into the house. Jane Gray, hearing the noise, came hurrying downstairs,

and caught her trembling sister in her arms.

"Agnes, my lamb, what is it? What has so frightened you?" she asked,

anxiously.

"The soldiers, Jane! they are here!" exclaimed the terrified girl. "Oh,

Jane, hide me from them! I wish Adam had not gone away!"

Even Jane Gray's brave heart quailed at the thought of their defenceless

state, but she tried to console and assure her sister.

"Don't be afraid, my dearie, they will never harm two defenceless women,

and Adam must now be near home. It is nigh two hours since he went

away."

Before she could say more the troops swept across the stack-yard, and

drew up with a great clatter before the door. The pawing and snorting

of the horses, the rattling of their trappings, and the voices of the

men, made a strange and alarming din about the quiet house of Rowallan.

Jane Gray placed her sister in a chair, shut the sitting-room door, and

drawing herself up, as if with a sudden courage, went out boldly to the

door. She was deadly pale, but her demeanour was outwardly perfectly

unmoved.

At sight of the woman, Sir James Turner, a coarse and forbidding-looking

man, rode his horse up to the very doorstep, and fixed his insolent eyes

on the fair, calm face.

"Well, mistress, this is the rebellious house of Rowallan, is it not?

Are you the wife of that notorious Whig, Adam Hepburn, who so

persistently disavows the king's commands, and shelters the rebel

preachers?"

"This is Rowallan, sir," Jane Gray made answer in a clear, steadfast

voice. "But I am not Adam Hepburn's wife. There is none within this

house but me and my sister, who is in delicate health. May I appeal to

your honour as a soldier and a gentleman not to needlessly distress or

alarm us?"

A coarse laugh fell from Turner's lips, which was re-echoed by his

subordinates.

"A modest request, truly; I might grant it if I get a kiss from those

sweet lips for my payment. But say, is that renegade old man, Andrew

Gray, the field preacher, not hidden in the house?"

"He is _not_," said Jane Gray, calmly, while a red spot began to burn

hotly on either cheek.

"I am sorry I cannot take your word for it, mistress," said Turner,

coolly. "With your permission we will make a search of the house.

Here, Dawson and McTavish," he added, turning to a corporal and a

sergeant, "dismount, and search the house, and you, Captain Blane, and

young Drew, with the others make a thorough inspection of the outhouses.

Now, ma'am, let me have a glass of ale or wine to cool my thirst, and

show you a loyal subject of the king."

For peace' sake, as well as on the account of her sister, Jane Gray

crushed back the indignant refusal burning for utterance, and, holding

the door open, briefly bade him enter. She led the way direct to the

room where Agnes sat, judging it better that she should be present with

her, before the soldiers in their search reached the sitting-room. At

sight of the spurred and booted soldier, with his fierce aspect and

forbidding eye, Agnes Hepburn again uttered a slight scream, but Jane

hastily laid her hand on her lips.

"Hush, hush, Agnes; Sir James Turner will not harm you. He has but come

in for some slight refreshment," she said, hurriedly.

"Is this Adam Hepburn's wife, then?" asked Sir James, with insolent

curiosity. "Do not tremble so, my sweet mistress. Unless compelled by

duty, I would not lay a finger on you. But come, tell me where your

brave husband, and the old man, your father, are in hiding, and we will

go away and leave the house in peace."

"I do not know; my husband has not been at home for--for--long," Agnes

faltered back, and breathing an inward and passionate prayer that the

Lord might detain him on the way until the dragoons had left the place.

"How glibly these pretty lips can utter a falsehood!" said Turner,

mockingly. But just then he was somewhat mollified by the sight of a

cup of rich Burgundy, which Jane Gray had brought from the cupboard to

appease his wrath.

"By the powers, I never tasted the like in a Whig house before!" he

said, smacking his lips. "For your courtesy to me, mistress, I will not

insist upon your revealing the rebel hiding-place. I know your kind,

and how obstinate they can be when they choose; yet I swear that, if

Adam Hepburn or the minister be about Rowallan, they shall not escape

this day."

The two men who had been searching the house now appeared in the

doorway, saying they had met with no success, and that there was no

possible corner within the four walls where a fugitive could be hid.

Turner then rose and left the house to superintend the search outside.

With agonised eyes the two women watched from the window, trembling at

the long delay the searchers made in the barn.

But at length, to their unspeakable relief, those who had entered it

again emerged into the open air, and it was quite evident from their

faces that their search had been unsuccessful.

After some little delay and consultation, Turner gave the word of

command, and the dragoons sprang to horse once more, and stood ready in

the courtyard to depart. Then Turner again approached the door, where

the sisters now stood, for they could not rest within.

"Though we have been unsuccessful to-day, mistresses," he said, in an

angry tone, "we will yet lay hands upon the renegades. I know not what

keeps me from compelling you to divulge the secret of their

hiding-place; but, hark! I will not be so lenient when I come back.

It's not the first time I have had to make a wench confess at the point

of the sword."

At that moment, to the dismay and horror of the women, Wyllie, Adam's

collie, came running round from the stack-yard barking furiously.

Knowing he had accompanied his master to Hartrigge, they stood in

intense and silent agony, momentarily expecting to see Adam stride round

the corner, and then----. Jane's lip quivered, Agnes covered her face

with her hands, and a low moan escaped her lips.

Turner, thinking his threat had frightened them sufficiently, turned his

horse's head, and gave the order to march. The dog, now in a perfect

fury, and seeming to have taken a special dislike to the commander, ran

barking and snapping at the horse's heels.

"Some of you put a bullet through that yelping cur!" he said, with a

great oath. Almost as if understanding the brutal order, Wyllie turned

tail and ran to his mistress's side, crouching in at her skirts.

Turner's order was obeyed, and two pistols were recklessly fired towards

the door, heedless of the danger to the women. They missed their aim,

but found a mark in Agnes Hepburn's side. Without a sound she fell at

her sister's feet. For a moment Turner looked dumbfounded and as if

uncertain what to do; then, with another great oath, he repeated the

word of command, and the whole troop rode off towards Hartrigge. Before

they were well out of sight Adam Hepburn, just arrived in the

underground shelter with David Gray, pushed up the trap-door, and

stepped out into his own barn-yard. From the great confusion and marks

of hoofs, he at once saw that the dragoons had visited Rowallan in his

absence, and, with sinking heart, lest any harm should have befallen his

darling, he hurried into the house.

At the door Wyllie met him, and looked up into his face with a piteous

moan. The dread stillness in the house almost made the man's heart

stand still. He strode through the kitchen, and when he stood upon the

threshold of the sitting-room door, what a sight met his view! Upon the

couch lay the prostrate form of his wife, and Jane kneeling by her side,

apparently laving something with water. But stay; what was that

staining the whiteness of the handkerchief? Was it blood?

"My God, Jane, what is this?" he asked, hoarsely, and, with one step,

was at the side of the couch.

Then he saw the wound in his wife's side, from which her life blood was

slowly ebbing.

"They have been here! That is their work, Adam!" Jane Gray answered, in

a voiceless whisper. "The bullet intended for poor Wyllie pierced her

side! Oh, my poor sister!"

Adam Hepburn knelt down by the couch, and, folding his strong arms about

the unconscious figure, called his wife by every endearing name to look

up to tell him she was not dead. The tones of that well-beloved voice

seemed to recall for a brief space the ebbing breath of life.

The long lashes stirred on the white cheek; after a tremor of the lids

they were lifted, and the sweet eyes met his in a look of unutterable

love. It was the last effort of the feeble strength. In the moment of

agony which followed, the breath gently left the lips, the beat of the

heart was stilled for ever, and Agnes Hepburn was safe from the trouble

to come.

In the deep and awful silence which ensued a strange and terrible change

was wrought upon the face of Adam Hepburn. The pleasant lines and

curves, which had but added to its beauty, were deepened into the

furrows of a desperate resolution. Gently he laid his dead wife back

upon the pillow, and, walking over to the hearth, took down his father's

sword from its accustomed place on the wall, and returned with it to the

side of the couch.

"I call you to witness, Jane Gray, that I swear here, by the body of my

murdered wife, that this sword shall never again be allowed to dry in

its sheath until it has been wetted with the life blood of as many

dragoons as there were years upon my darling's head," he said, in slow,

deep, measured tones, and with eyes gleaming with a fierce resolve.

"And God do so to me, and more also, if I fail to stand to the very

letter of my vow!"

*CHAPTER XI.*

*UP IN ARMS.*

Twelve o'clock was the usual dinner hour at Hartrigge. In spite of the

stirring excitement of that morning, the table was spread punctually at

noon, and the family gathered about the board. Before, however, Andrew

Gray had finished asking a blessing on the food, the dragoons swept up

with a great noise to the front door. Catching sight of a gleaming

sword out of the window Jeanie screamed in affright, and her mother's

face visibly paled. But little Sandy, in all a child's delight over a

gay pageant, scrambled up on the window seat, and fairly jumped with

glee at sight of so many prancing steeds. With grave, resolute,

undisturbed face, Hartrigge rose from his chair, and turned his eyes

upon his trembling wife.

"If I lose my life this day, Susan," he said, quietly, "promise me you

will rear the bairns in the true religion, and teach them to love and

reverence the Church of Scotland and the faith of their forefathers."

Mistress Gray had no opportunity to reply, for at that moment the door

was rudely thrown open, and Turner, with a corporal and sergeant, strode

into the room.

"Andrew Gray of Hartrigge?" he said, briefly and imperiously.

"I am Andrew Gray," answered Hartrigge, with corresponding brevity.

"A vile Whig and a bigoted Presbyterian, a rebel against the king, and a

harbourer of field preachers and like vermin," continued Turner, in his

coarse fashion. "I have just come from Rowallan, but the puling

womenfolk there have lost their tongues, and could tell us nothing of

those we seek. In the king's name, Andrew Gray, I command you to

instantly tell me where your canting old father, and your brother, the

minister of Broomhill, are to be found. Remember you stand at peril of

your life."

Andrew Gray folded his arms across his chest, and looked his questioner

in the face with undaunted eye.

"Very well do I know that I stand at peril of my life," he made answer,

calmly. "But I can tell you nothing of those you seek."

"You will not, you mean," cried Turner, passionately. "By heavens, the

name of Gray seems inseparable from dogged obstinacy, as well as from

rebellion and treason. If I tie up your eyes and point a pistol at your

mouth it may refresh your memory."

Hartrigge spoke never a word; his wife sank weeping helplessly into a

chair, while the children, all but Gavin, who had left the room,

crouched beside her in terror.

"Woman, bid your husband obey orders, unless you want me to leave him to

you to bury!" said Turner. "I have already wasted too much precious

time among your kind."

But never a word spoke Mistress Gray. Then Turner looked towards his

subordinates--

"Bind the obstinate pig-headed Whig," he said, briefly. "If I cannot

make him speak, we will take him to those who will."

Susan Gray uttered a loud shriek, and sprang to her husband's side; but

she was rudely cast aside, while the officers pinioned Hartrigge's arms.

"Stop that howling, woman, or I will give you something to yelp about!

I've a mind to burn your house about your confounded ears, but it would

take too much time to-day. Let the prisoner to horse, and let us be

off. We have other game to bag before sunset to-day."

As Andrew Gray was about to leave the room he stepped to his wife's

side, and hastily bade her be of good cheer, for his time had not come

yet; then, looking upon the children with a strange softening in his

stern eyes, he waved them an affectionate farewell.

With the little ones clinging to her skirts, Mistress Gray followed the

oppressors to the door, and stood watching while they bound her husband

on a steed. He again turned his face towards her, and exhorted her to be

of good cheer, and keep a firm hold upon her faith in God, until they

should meet again. His words were brought to a sudden close by a blow

upon the mouth, administered by the corporal, who was fastening him

securely to the back of the horse. At sight of the blood, Susan Gray

covered her face with her hands, and was afraid to look again. Ere he

mounted his horse, Turner peremptorily ordered Mrs. Gray to bring him a

tankard of ale, or a cup of wine, a command of which she was too much

agitated to take notice. Little Jeanie, however, fearing a new

exhibition of the terrible man's wrath, with womanly thoughtfulness ran

into the house, and brought out a draught for the general. He smiled

grimly as he took it from the slim hands of the little maiden, and

having quaffed it, bade her not follow the example of her renegade

father; and, mounting his horse, gave the order to march, and the

troops, with their prisoner in the midst, rode away from Hartrigge.

Just then the lad Gavin came through the kitchen with a flushed eager

face, and bearing in his hands an old fowling-piece, chiefly used for

scaring rooks and other vermin off the crops.

[Illustration: "Little Jeanie ... brought out a draught for the

general"]

"Why, Gavin, laddie, what did ye think to do?" asked his mother, with a

mournful smile.

"Are they away, mother? If they had killed my father I would have shot

Turner with this. I have been down at the tool house, loading it with

some lead I got in my uncle Peter's shop, at Lanark, when I was there

with Uncle Adam," replied the lad, fearlessly.

"Then they would have surely killed you, too, my son," replied the

mother, shaking her head; though inwardly admiring the spirit of the

boy. "Well, well, Gavin, you will need to take care o' us all now that

your poor father is away."

"Mother, what do you think they'll do to him?"

"My son, how can I tell? But I dinna feel as if any great harm would

come to him, for he says his time is not come yet," replied Mistress

Gray. "I think the Lord in His mercy will restore him ere long to his

wife and bairns. But now, Gavin, get away by the fields to Rowallan,

and see whether all be well there."

Just at that moment, however, a messenger on horseback appeared at the

door, conveying the terrible tidings from Rowallan, and bidding

Hartrigge and his wife come over at once. Susan Gray, dumb with horror,

sat helplessly down, and wrung her hands in despair. Not having heard

the right way of the story, her hopes concerning her husband's

comparative safety swiftly ebbed away, for since they spared not a

defenceless and delicate woman, how could they allow such as Andrew Gray

to escape unhurt? So desolation and woe fell upon the houses of

Rowallan and Hartrigge, and it appeared as if the Lord had deserted

them, and removed the light of His countenance from His servants.

Meanwhile the regiment had halted on the public road, and after a brief

consultation, a portion, under command of Captain Blane, was sent back

to Inverburn, where they were to remain for several days, keeping a

sharp look-out for the fugitives. They were also empowered to compel

all upon whom they could lay hands to attend upon the ministrations of

the curate the following Sabbath day. The main body of the troops, with

Sir James at their head, then turned southwards, to scour the hill

country betwixt Douglasdale and Nithsdale, Turner being anxious to reach

his home in Dumfries, from which he had been absent for a considerable

space.

In due course they arrived at Dumfries, where Andrew Gray was kept a

close prisoner, prior to being sent or taken by Turner before the

Commissioner at Edinburgh.

It would have been a swifter and surer plan to have conveyed the

prisoner direct to Edinburgh from Inverburn, but Turner expected to lay

hands upon some other marked offenders in the southern districts, and to

send them in a body under guard to the Commissioners. However, he was

unsuccessful, and arrived in Dumfries with his one prisoner, whose only

offence was in harbouring field preachers and attending the open-air

services.

While Turner rested himself at home, his dragoons were not allowed to be

idle, but were despatched in detachments to the various villages and

hamlets, to keep the inhabitants faithful in their attendance on the

curates, and to extract fines from those who refused, the latter being a

very congenial task to the greedy and brutal soldiery.

One cold, bleak morning, when a party of soldiers were maltreating an

old man in the village of Dairy, in Kirkcudbrightshire, four of these

very wanderers, whom Turner had been seeking, arrived in desperation,

seeking shelter and food, and being indignant at the dragoons' behaviour

they set upon them, and compelled them to release the old man and give

up their arms. Encouraged by their success, they were joined by several

villagers, and surprised and overcame another party of dragoons, engaged

extracting fines by violence, some little distance away. Further

emboldened they marched into Dumfries, took Turner prisoner in his own

house, set Andrew Gray at liberty, and constituted themselves into a

small army. Thus took place the first rising against the Government,

for which Andrew Gray, and many like him, had so ardently longed. With

their unwilling prisoner they proceeded northwards, and were joined on

the way by others, both on horse and foot. Captain Wallace was chosen

as their leader, and by his side rode Andrew Gray, for he was certainly

one of the boldest and most resolute among them. Travelling the same

route as Turner had come, they entered Inverburn on a Sabbath morning

just as service was about to begin. Entering the church, they ejected

the curate, but did not take him prisoner, he being beneath their

contempt; then they shut the church doors, tore up the book of service

in the churchyard, the gates of which they then locked, and proceeded to

the village, singing a psalm as they went. At Mistress Lyall's a halt

was made for rest and refreshment, and then Andrew Gray rode off rapidly

to Hartrigge, to assure his wife of his safety, and tell her their

resolve, which was to proceed to Edinburgh, expecting to increase in

numbers as they went.

Space will not allow me to dwell long upon the happy meeting at

Hartrigge, when the husband and father was so unexpectedly restored to

his home. But upon hearing that he was again going forth, Mistress Gray

ominously shook her head.

"I'm for peace, Andrew," she said, in a low voice, "an' what's a handful

of country folk against the soldiers of the king? Ye'll be slain in

cauld blood. Better, far better, bide at hame."

Hartrigge only smiled in a lofty and superior manner at the weakness of

the woman, and then inquired concerning the fugitives as well as the

folk at Rowallan.

"Grandfather and David are safe enough, but waes me for Rowallan and

it's bonnie sweet mistress!" said Susan Gray, with fast filling eyes.

"Of course ye canna have heard that Agnes is awa' frae a' the terrors o'

these troublous times, and that Adam Hepburn sits a widower by his

desolate hearth."

Andrew Gray gave a violent start. It was indeed news to him. Then,

with many tears, his wife related the sad story to him, which he heard

in absolute silence.

"An' yet ye would still say, Peace, peace! Oh! Susan, woman, I fear ye

are a coward at heart!" he said, sternly. "I will to Rowallan; surely

Adam Hepburn will be determined to avenge his wife's death."

"Sure enough. He has made his vow, a terrible vow before God, Jane

tells me," said his wife. "And when will ye be back to your home again,

think you, Andrew?"

"Ah, that I cannot tell. Be of good cheer, Susan, and look well after

the house and the bairns. The God of Hosts will preserve me, so long as

He sees it to be His good pleasure. So again farewell."

So saying, Hartrigge again bade farewell to his own home, and turned his

horse's head towards Rowallan.

Near to the place he saw a figure in the distance, somewhat resembling

his brother-in-law, and yet the face seemed greatly changed. When he

came nearer, and the figure, recognising him, advanced to meet him, he

almost started at the terrible change upon his sister's widowed husband.

He had not shaved nor trimmed his beard since his wife's death, and his

whole aspect was that of a man whose interest in life was dead. His

face was haggard and worn, his eye restless and yearning as if looking

ever in vain for some beloved object, his appearance sad and miserable

in the extreme.

"You have managed to escape, Andrew," he said, quite quietly, and

without evincing either surprise or pleasure.

"Yes, and the Presbyterians are in arms at last; I have travelled with

the company from Dumfries, increasing as we came, and there is now an

army of nineteen hundred under Captain Wallace's command, lying in the

village of Inverburn," responded Hartrigge, slowly. "Our destination is

Edinburgh. If you still wish to avenge the murder of your angel wife,

now is your time, Adam Hepburn."

Adam Hepburn drew himself up, and the light of a passion terrible to see

sprang into his glittering eye. He clenched his right hand, and raised

it to heaven.

"Now, O Almighty God, for the fulfilling of my vow," he said, solemnly;

then, turning to Hartrigge, briefly announced his willingness and

immediate readiness to accompany him. They returned first to inform

Jane Gray of their intention; bade her either go to Hartrigge or get

young Gavin to abide with her awhile, and not having time to seek the

ministers in their shelter, they returned hastily to Inverburn. But Jane

Gray immediately proceeded to the hiding-place, and informed her father

and brother of the rising of the Covenanters. Then David Gray's eye

kindled, and the whole expression of his countenance indicated his

desire to go forth with his brethren in defence of the Covenant. Seeing

that, the old man blessed him, and bade him go. So David Gray stole by

the field paths to the village, and joined the army just as it was

setting forth upon its adventurous march.

*CHAPTER XII.*

*RULLION GREEN.*

Late on the Sabbath evening the Covenanters reached Lanark, where they

were well received by the sympathising inhabitants, who made haste to

give them food, and offer them shelter for the night. Early on the

following day the army assembled in the High Street, preparatory to

setting out on their march to Edinburgh. At request of the leaders, the

minister of Broomhill ascended the stairs of the Tolbooth, and conducted

a religious service, in which the army and the townsfolk took part.

After sermon, the Covenant was read, and also a declaration to the

effect that it was simply in defence of their liberties that the

Presbyterians had taken arms. Then, amid much enthusiasm, and many

fervent God-speeds, the little army turned their faces towards the

Lothians. It was now the dead of winter, and the weather was dreary and

bitterly cold, being alternated by heavy rain storms and blasts of snow.

The roads were in a wretched condition, and as the army endeavoured to

march straight as the crow flies, they were led through many deep

morasses, and had to cross many a swollen and turbid stream, as well as

over bleak and exposed hills, where they received the full force of the

blast.

To their disappointment and sorrow, they found the folk in the east not

so enthusiastic and sympathising as their more impulsive neighbours in

the west. In some villages they were received very coldly, and candidly

told they were silly fanatics, and as they approached Edinburgh it

seemed as if the influences of the Privy Council had extended far beyond

the city boundaries, for the people looked yet more askance at the

draggled and wayworn Covenanters, and even refused in some instances to

relieve their wants. It was to be expected that such receptions would

considerably damp the ardour of many, and as they marched, their number

visibly decreased. Some stole away under cover of the night, to make

what haste they could back to the comparative safety of their homes, and

others less cowardly openly avowed their discontent and disappointment,

and deserted their brethren in the broad light of day. But the

dauntless and resolute spirit of such as Wallace, their leader, Gray of

Hartrigge, and the minister of Broomhill, seemed to be only further

strengthened and deepened by these reverses, and cheering the little

company on, they bravely continued their march until they came within a

few miles of Edinburgh. A halt was then made, and two horsemen

despatched to ascertain the disposition of the citizens towards them.

It was yet early in the day when these horsemen returned, with grave

countenances and downcast air, telling that they had met with but little

cheer. Wallace and Hartrigge hastily rode forward to meet them, and were

informed that the city was hostile towards them, the gates being closed,

and guns mounted on the walls to resist their entrance.

In some doubt as to the next step to be taken, they rode back to the

camp, and a grave consultation was held.

"I am for going on, and forcing an entrance into the city," said

Hartrigge, dauntlessly. "It is like playing at warfare to retreat

before closed gates and a few guns."

But others, whose discretion was not blinded by zeal, shook their heads,

and said it were best to return quietly, and with as much speed as

possible, to their homes.

Adam Hepburn took no part in the discussion, but it was easy to see that

his soul yearned to shed blood. A look of deep disappointment came upon

his haggard face when the majority decided in favour of retreat.

Not being in the slightest degree apprehensive of pursuit by the

Government troops, they proceeded leisurely round the eastern slopes of

the Pentland hills to the southern side, to begin their march homewards.

The day was now closing in; the feeble wintry sun had sunk behind a bank

of ominous cloud on the western horizon, and the grey bleak shadows of

the night were darkening down. The north wind swept mournfully round

the desolate mountain sides, sometimes raising its voice to a wail, as

some sharp peak or projecting rock impeded its course.

But suddenly another sound much more ominous than the moaning wind broke

upon the startled ears of the faithful band, and to their astonishment

they saw what appeared to be a great army pressing rapidly on their

rear. Hurriedly the Covenanters set themselves in the order of battle.

It was what many among them longed for, and yet unless the God of

battles held over them the banner of His defence, and aided them to

discomfit their foes, what chance had they, weary, wayworn, with

strength far spent by exposure and lack of food, against the dragoons,

fresh from the drill and comfortable training of the barracks?

The minister of Broomhill led in fervent prayer, craving victory for the

Covenant from the King of Heaven. Then they stood erect, calm, and

steadfast, waiting the onslaught of the enemy. The face of Andrew Gray

of Hartrigge glowed with the deep enthusiasm of religious zeal, but that

of his brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn, was dark with the furious passion

of revenge. His eye glittered, his hand trembled as it grasped his

father's sword, and in that breathless instant his vow was repeated that

the blade should not return to its sheath until it had sucked the

life-blood of more than one dragoon.

Like the rush of a mighty wind Dalziel's cavalry came sweeping down upon

the right wing of the insurgents' army, which was protected by a party

of horse. They were manfully received, and after a vigorous struggle,

completely repulsed. The general was amazed at the fighting power of

the rebels, whom he had contemptuously imagined to be a gathering of raw

country folk, who would turn tail at the first attack of practised

soldiery. He hastily organised and led a second attack, which was met

and repulsed as before, with considerable loss. Had the insurgents

possessed a reserve of cavalry, victory had assuredly been theirs, in

spite of the odds against them, but these repeated attacks had slain

many of their horse, and those on foot were unequal to a lengthened

struggle.

Wildly the din of battle roared in the mountain solitudes, and swiftly,

as if in pity, the shadows of the night crept over the bleak hill tops,

and up the sombre valleys, until it wrapped conquerors and conquered in

its kindly folds. The Covenanters were completely routed, and had the

night not speedily fallen, they must have been totally cut to pieces.

As it was, fifty of their number lay dead upon the field, besides many

wounded, whom they had to leave to their fate. There were also more

than a hundred taken prisoners, who envied the untroubled sleep of those

who had fallen in the fray. Adam Hepburn, although fighting in the very

hottest forefront of the battle, marvellously escaped unhurt.

Dalziel had kept an eye upon him, for he was the most desperate fighter,

as well as the surest marksman among the insurgents. He never missed

his aim. Twice Dalziel ordered a subordinate to engage him in single

combat, or shoot him down from a distance; but the man seemed to bear a

charmed life. When the fray was over, Dalziel examined the faces of the

prisoners minutely, hoping to find Hepburn among them, but was

disappointed. Fleeing among the very last of his brethren from the

field, Adam Hepburn came up with his brother-in-law, the minister of

Broomhill, whom he recognised in the darkness by his ministerial garb.

"Is that you, David, safe and sound?" he asked, breathlessly.

"Yes! how is it with you, Adam Hepburn?" asked the minister, anxiously.

"All well; I have found my first taste of warfare very sweet this day,

David Gray."

"You fought valiantly, Adam, so much so that I was amazed. How did you

escape, being ever, as you were, in the thickest of the fray?"

"I know not; I had no thought of anything but cutting down the enemy and

of avenging the blood of my murdered Agnes," said Adam Hepburn, his eyes

gleaming in the darkness.

The minister sighed. The blessing of God could not rest upon warfare

conducted under such a revengeful spirit, and yet he could scarcely

blame the man for the bitterness of his wrath.

"I would much rather that you fought for the Covenant than for revenge,

Adam," he said, sadly. "Will it restore to you your beloved? Nay; think

for a moment, is the spirit you are cherishing one which her gentle

heart would have blessed and approved?"

"You speak as a minister, not as a man, David," said Adam Hepburn,

fiercely. "Had your wife been murdered in cold blood, as mine was,

think you your soul would not thirst for revenge?"

"Your wife died loving you; you have the comforting assurance that her

heart was knit to yours in the bonds of no ordinary affection, and that

you will meet in glory," said the minister. "My case is sadder than

yours, for my wife, while yet alive, has proved herself dead to me."

Adam Hepburn, though silenced, was not convinced.

"Have you seen Andrew?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"No; I have been anxiously looking out for him, for I saw him wounded in

the shoulder. I trust he has not fallen into the hands of the enemy."

"I think not. His horse was spared, and I fancied I saw him ride off

the field. Well, our first battle is not such as to encourage our

hearts, David," said Adam, with a grim smile.

"No; there will be weeping and desolation in many a home over Rullion

Green," the minister answered, sadly. "I saw brave John Neilson of

Corsac laid hands upon by the enemy and taken prisoner."

"Ay, and many others, whom God defend and deliver, since no human being

can," said Adam. "But hark! what is that?"

The rapid sound of hoofs warned them of the approach either of some

flying fugitive or a pursuing enemy, and they hastily crept in among

some whin bushes, and held their breath until they should be past. To

their great joy, however, it proved to be a couple of their brethren,

who had been the last to leave the field of battle. Mutual

congratulations were exchanged, and then one of the horsemen, a stout

yeoman from the upper part of Nithsdale, urged the minister of Broomhill

to take his steed, since his slender frame and not too robust

constitution rendered him less fit for a long and toilsome march by

foot. David Gray yielded to these entreaties and thankfully mounted the

animal, for his strength was already far spent. They then separated,

the two horsemen riding forward, as before, and Adam Hepburn and the

Nithsdale yeoman, by name Matthew Riddell, following more slowly on

foot. It was not safe for more than two to be together, on account of

the pursuing and watching dragoons, whom they would be certain to

encounter on the way. Thus the broken up and scattered army, who but a

few days before had set out from Lanark with high hope beating in their

breasts, returned to their homes.

Arrived in the parish of Inverburn, David Gray left his horse at the

house of a friendly farmer outside of the village, and lest the dragoons

should lay hands upon him, he crept up the valley to Hartrigge, and was

the first to carry tidings of Rullion Green to Andrew Gray's wife. He

found her about her usual tasks, for though her heart was heavy with

foreboding fears, Susan Gray continued mindful of her husband's last

words, to look well to her household, and put her trust in God. At

sight of the minister, who was wofully weather-beaten and wayworn, she

at once guessed that some evil had befallen the little army, of which

her husband had been one of the chief supporters.

"Oh, David! I like not the way in which you have come back!" she said,

in sad and anxious tones. "But have you not brought Andrew with you?"

The minister shook his head.

"Dalziel with his army fell upon us in the Pentland hills, Susan, and

swept away our little band like chaff before the wind. Many lie dead

upon the field of Rullion Green; Adam Hepburn and I escaped unhurt.

Andrew was slightly wounded, but Adam assured me he saw him ride safely

off the field. I doubt not the Lord will bring him in safety to his

home. But he will need to travel slowly, and with extreme caution, for

the entire route between Edinburgh and Lanark is infested with

dragoons."

Susan Gray sank into a chair and burst into tears.

"I warned Andrew that peace was aye better than war, and said that an

army like yours could have no chance before the king's soldiers," she

said mournfully. "I wonder at you, David, a minister of the Gospel,

encouraging them to shed blood."

"I believed that the time had come when resistance was demanded of us by

the God of the Covenant, else I had not gone forth with them, Susan,"

answered the minister. "But now I must away to my hiding, for it is as

much as my life is worth to be seen here in the light of day. How is it

with my father, and poor Jane, left desolate in the house of Rowallan?"

"Your father is keeping well, and is safe in his hiding yet. Gavin is

with his aunt, they were both here yester'een," answered Mistress Gray.

"The maids have all run away in terror from Rowallan, and Jane came to

tell me she had hired one who came seeking a place two days ago. She

has been in the service of the laird, but was dismissed for some

offence. Gavin says he likes not her appearance, but Jane seems pleased

with her, for she is a good worker, and a prudent person, who is never

heard about the place."

"Ah, well, the master himself, I hope and trust, will be home to his own

house in a day or two, and yet, he will need to keep himself in hiding,

for very sure am I, Susan, that after the valiant front he showed at

Rullion Green, and the many dragoons he caused to lick the dust, Adam

Hepburn will be a marked man henceforth."

Susan Gray very mournfully shook her head.

"Had ye all bidden peaceably at home, there had been none of this," she

said, regretfully. "But men folk maun aye have their way."

The minister smiled; then bidding her and the little ones farewell, he

stole away down the glen, and along the bank of the stream, to the hole

in the Corbie's Cliff.

Looking carefully round to see that none was in sight, he scrambled up

the rocky steep, brushed aside the overhanging branches, and plunged

into the darkness of the subterraneous passage. Being now very familiar

with the way, he had no difficulty in following the many peculiar

windings of the passage, and at length he caught sight of the dim

reflection of a lighted lamp in the distance, which warned him that he

was nearing his father's shelter.

Lest his sudden appearance in the cave should alarm the old man, he

called out "Father!" several times, as he quickly approached, and at the

sound of the familiar voice, the old man sprang hastily to his feet, and

ran to the mouth of the passage.

"My son, David! praise the Lord!" he exclaimed, while tears of joy

coursed down his withered cheeks.

After the first glad greetings were over, David Gray sat down, and

briefly rehearsed all that had befallen him since he set out with the

Covenanting army for Edinburgh. As was natural, the recital greatly

saddened the heart of his aged father, for he had solaced himself in his

solitary captivity with glowing visions of the success which would

attend his brethren in arms, and of the happy results which might accrue

from their vigorous upstanding for the truth.

"It is the Lord's will. Unless of His good pleasure, such things could

not be," he said. "The Church requires yet further refining in the fire

ere she can be purged from all her iniquities, and can stand with clean

hands before her God. But now, my son, you are weary, and stand in much

need of rest and refreshment. Both are here."

The cave was indeed now a very comfortable place of abode. By degrees

Jane Gray had conveyed many little comforts to her father, among the

greatest of which was the lamp, and a store of books. Provisions in

plenty were also at hand, and the minister of Broomhill partook of his

repast with a keen relish, for he had not broken his fast for many

hours. Immediately thereafter he stretched himself on the bed, and soon

all his troubles were forgotten in the heavy, dreamless sleep of utter

exhaustion.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

*THE NEW MAID.*

"What are you doing in the barn at this hour of the day, Martha Miller?

Putting off your time loitering about, and all the milk pans standing in

the dairy wanting to be scalded. Get about your work without more ado!"

It was Jane Gray who spoke, and her voice and manner were both unusually

sharp. Ordinarily, even when reproving, she spoke in a tone of habitual

gentleness, holding it unbecoming for a gentlewoman to exhibit any

violence of temper. It was not that she was particularly annoyed at the

woman putting off her time, for indeed there was nothing pushing in the

house of Rowallan now, but this was the second time she had caught her

in the barn, when she had no call to be there, and her suspicions were

roused lest she should be trying to discover, or had already discovered,

the secret of the chaff hole.

Martha Miller was the new maid, and in appearance a comely,

pleasant-looking person, about whom there was nothing suggestive of

treachery or double-dealing. She looked straight into the face of her

mistress, and dropped an apologetic curtsey.

"I beg pardon, Miss Gray; I was seeking a bite for the hens. I canna

get peace about the doors for them," she answered, glibly, and at the

same time pointing to the feathered flock, gathered expectantly round

the barn door.

"That is just nonsense, Martha Miller. If you run for a bite to them

every time they gather at your heels, you'll have your work," retorted

Miss Gray, still sharply. "And, you know, I feed them myself every

morning; and that they need, and get no more till bedtime."

"I didna' ken, bein' a hoose-servant, ma'am," answered Martha, with

apparent humility. "I'll no' dae it again."

Afraid lest, in her turn, she should arouse the suspicions of the maid,

Jane Gray did not then enter the barn, but returned to her household

duties. In the afternoon, however, when she went for the customary feed

of com for the poultry, she hastily looked into the chaff-hole to see if

there were any signs of it having been disturbed. But no; the chaff was

scattered over the floor, there was no mark of either hand or foot, and

the trap-door had evidently not been disturbed.

Considerably relieved, and somewhat blaming herself for her suspicions

of the maid, Jane Gray went back to the house; and yet a vague,

inexplicable distrust of Martha Miller continued to oppress her soul She

knew her perfectly well. She was the daughter of one of the foresters

on the estate of Inverburn, and, before the persecutions, had regularly

attended the church with her parents. Jane had not attached any weight

to the fact that she had served for two years in the family of the

laird, not imagining that Sir Thomas was so bigoted an Episcopalian as

to seek to influence his dependents.

She was sitting by her lonely hearth pondering these things in her mind,

when there came a low tap at the window. Hastily rising, she peered

out, and, with great joy, beheld the face of her brother-in-law, Adam

Hepburn.

"Is all safe? Can I come in?"

"All is safe. Inverburn has been quiet for days, and there is not a

soldier in the district," she whispered back. "Better go round and

enter boldly by the kitchen door, as a master should; it will better

impress Martha Miller, the new maid, whom I would not should think we

had anything to hide."

Adam Hepburn nodded, walked round about to the barn-yard, where he was

joyfully greeted by his faithful collie, and, opening the kitchen door,

stalked in. Martha Miller was knitting a stocking by the kitchen

hearth, and looked round in no little amazement at sight of the master

of Rowallan, whom she knew very well by sight.

"Well, Martha, so you have come to serve at Rowallan," he said,

pleasantly. "I heard of it in my absence. I hope we will get on as

master and servant. Is your father well?"

"Yes, sir, thank ye," answered Martha, considerably confused by Adam

Hepburn's easy manner, and his evident familiarity with all that had

transpired during his absence.

"Get on the pot and make me a basin of milk porridge, Martha. I have

had a long journey, and am very hungry," he said, quietly, and then

joined his sister-in-law in the adjoining room, the door of which he

carefully closed.

As Jane Gray was already fully acquainted with the details of Rullion

Green, it was not necessary for Adam Hepburn to say anything concerning

it, but he had to tell her the story of his own journey home, which had

been marked by many perilous vicissitudes and marvellous escapes out of

the hands of the enemy. Matthew Riddell, the yeoman, with whom he had

travelled, had been laid hands on near Biggar, his own incautiousness

and haste to get home having induced him to continue his journey by day,

instead of hiding till the friendly darkness fell.

"Is Hartrigge home yet?" Adam asked, suddenly breaking in upon his own

narrative.

"No; we were in hopes that you would come together. Susan, poor soul,

is in a very anxious frame of mind," answered Jane.

Adam Hepburn looked grave indeed.

"Then I fear he has either been captured or succumbed to his wound. In

no other way can I account for his protracted absence. It may be,

however, that he is sheltering, for his health's sake, in some friendly

household. We will hope so. But tell me, Jane, have you been

sojourning in this lonely house alone since my departure?"

"No; Gavin is with me at night. He went home to-day to see his mother,

and, knowing I have no fear, may possibly remain till morning. Adam, do

you think it will be safe for you to remain quite publicly at your own

house? David seemed to think you would be marked."

"Marked or not, I shall not go into hiding, Jane," he said, quietly. "I

have but to slay a few more of these miscreants, and then what is life

worth to me?"

"Hush! Adam; the Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away. Save of His

will, Agnes could not have died," she said, gently. "The thought that

she is safe in our Father's house should be a great comfort to you, as

it is to me, for, amid the terrors and anxieties of these days, she

suffered a perpetual martyrdom."

Adam Hepburn rose and restlessly paced to and fro the room, his face

betraying the many conflicting emotions which surged in his soul. His

cruel and ruthless bereavement had shaken his faith to the very

foundations, and he could well-nigh have exclaimed with the fool, "There

is no God." "Other men have fathers, and mothers, and children, Jane,"

he said, in quick rebellious tones. "I had only her, and the Almighty

knew how dear, how necessary she was to my existence. Wherein had I so

grievously sinned that I required such a terrible punishment? Willingly

would I have given up houses and lands, cattle and oxen, all, _all_ I

have in the world, if only _she_ had been spared."

"Dear Adam, we may not question the ways of the Lord," said Jane Gray in

a low voice. "I think sometimes it is the things we most set our hearts

upon in this evil world that are not good for us to have. There is such

a thing as making an idol of a human being, my brother, and you know the

command is, 'Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.'"

Adam Hepburn remained silent, but was not convinced.

Jane Gray looked sorrowfully into his face, deploring the change this

blow had wrought, not only upon the outward man, but upon the inner

spirit, sweeping away all the sunny-heartedness, the blithe and kindly

charity which had ever characterised him, making him so lovable in every

way. She could but pray that God, to whom all things are possible,

would temper the wind, and show to the stricken and rebellious heart the

sweet bow of promise behind the bitter cloud.

"And how is the curate performing his pastoral duties now?" enquired

Adam presently, in a somewhat mocking tone. "Has his eloquence,

combined with the more rugged persuasions of the dragoons, induced many

more to attend upon his ministrations?"

"Watty McBean was here the other night, and he told me there was a

goodly attendance in the kirk last Sabbath Day, chiefly of those timid

and not very steadfast folks, whom fear has moved against their wills,"

Jane made answer. "I wonder now that Watty did not join with the army;

he is a very staunch upholder of the Covenant."

"Ay, but he never was a fechter [fighter], as he says," replied Adam,

with a slight smile. "Watty is a sly dog. He'll keep himself out of

mischief, yet follow the dictates of his own conscience."

At that moment Martha Miller knocked at the door, and entered bearing a

small server, on which stood her master's evening meal, a steaming basin

of milk porridge, and a bowl of new milk beside it.

At her entrance Adam Hepburn looked keenly into the woman's face, and

when she was gone, he turned to his sister-in-law, and said briefly, "I

mistrust the countenance of that woman, Jane. Under what circumstances

was she dismissed from the services of the laird?"

"I did not pursue the subject with her, Adam. She said she could not

agree with her neighbours in the kitchen, and that her ladyship had

blamed her for the disturbances there," replied Jane Gray. "Knowing her

to be a capable worker, I engaged her gladly; for though she might be of

a quarrelsome temper, she could not well fall out with herself, and I am

not one to bandy words with a serving woman."

"Keep an eye on her, Jane, and be careful of your words in her hearing.

I misdoubt me very much if she be not a spy sent hither by Sir Thomas

Hamilton, who in the zeal of his loyalty to the king will not be slow to

forget his honour as a gentleman," said Adam slowly. "I lost faith in

the laird from that day he threatened me with danger to your father, if

I did not turn out to McLean's preaching."

Jane Gray sighed. If foes were to be found in the very household, among

those who broke and ate bread at the table, on whom could trust be

stayed? Her brother-in-law's words were simply a re-echo of her own

doubts and fears, which, however, she kept as yet to herself.

After some further conversation they separated for the night, but Adam

Hepburn did not close an eye, for, under his own roof-tree, his heart

was torn anew by the violence of his sorrow, and ached with intolerable

yearning for the "touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice

that was still!"

On the morrow he went about his duties as usual, superintending the work

on the farm, it having been almost at a standstill for many weeks. It

was more to keep himself in occupation than out of any interest in the

thing, for even the ordinary business of getting and spending had ceased

to occupy the minds of men.

That afternoon, when Jane Gray went out as usual to feed her poultry,

she had occasion to step round to the corn-yard in search of some young

chickens which had deserted their usual roost, and which she feared

might become the prey of the foxes that frequently paid a visit to

Rowallan, and which that very spring had made off with some of the

lambs. Her soft shoes made no noise on the turf, therefore she did not

alarm two people sheltering behind a stack of straw, and busily

engrossed in conversation. She came upon them quite suddenly, and to

her astonishment, who should it be but Martha Miller, the maid, and the

curate of Inverburn! Both looked considerably confused, and Martha

threw her apron over her head, and turned to go.

"I shall have a word to say to you for this wasting of my time, Martha,"

her mistress said, pointing towards the house; then turning to the

curate, she added, with quiet, yet courteous dignity, "Sir, is it

consistent with the gospel you are supposed to preach, to wile a

servant-maid away from her household duties almost in the middle of the

day, to confer with you in secret like this?"

The curate's sallow face flushed under the scathing rebuke which fell so

quietly from those calm, proud lips.

"When I am not permitted to visit members of my flock at their masters'

houses, I must perforce see them outside," he answered, with rude

boldness, and yet his eyes instinctively sought the ground.

"Sir, I am not aware that the master of Rowallan has ever forbidden you

his house," said Jane Gray, still calmly. "The members of the flock

surely are ashamed of their shepherd, for Martha Miller has never ceased

to disclaim all connection with your ministrations, and I am made aware

to-day, for the first time, that she is on speaking terms with you."

"Madam, know you to whom you speak so disrespectfully?" quoth Mr. McLean

in wrathful tones. "Know you that it is chiefly owing to my long

forbearance with you and yours that the name and the house of Gray have

not been totally extinguished?"

A slight smile curved for a moment Jane Gray's resolute lips, and the

mild scorn it implied made the spirit of the curate chafe within him.

"Truly grateful are we for your forbearance towards us, Mr. McLean," she

answered courteously. "I bid you good afternoon."

So saying, Jane Gray turned about and returned to the house. Upon

second thoughts, she took no further notice of the occurrence to Martha

Miller, deeming it more prudent to let her imagine it of no importance

in the eyes of her mistress. Nevertheless, she redoubled her

watchfulness, and took care that there was nothing in her actions to

arouse the maid's suspicions. Hitherto, when conveying provisions to

the dear ones in hiding, Jane Gray had simply been content to lock the

barn door from the inside, and shut herself into the chaff-hole, so that

none could possibly be witness to her descent into the cave. But now,

after conference with her brother-in-law, they agreed that the safest

plan would be for him to rise in the middle of the night and take down

the food himself.

These precautions, however, were taken too late; for already the cunning

eyes of Martha Miller had penetrated the secret of the chaff-hole.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*BETRAYED.*

The soft and beautiful radiance of a mild September morning lay upon the

vale of Inverburn. The sky, though not so cloudlessly blue as in the

summer time, was bright and clear, and masses of soft, dove-coloured

clouds were piled up on the horizon, foretelling the approach of a

gentle rain. The rich hues of autumn were now upon the trees. Beech

and hazel-nuts were already falling ripely to the ground, the rowans

hung rich and red among their graceful leaves, blackberry and wild

raspberry were plentiful and luscious, and in very sheltered early nooks

the bramble was black upon the bough. Yes, the fruits which Dame Nature

provides with such free and generous hands were not lacking, but what of

the more substantial harvest, what of the yellow corn, which in

September was wont either to be stacked upon the fields, or standing in

rich and golden fulness, awaiting the sickle of the reaper. Ah! what

indeed? Had some terrible dearth come upon the land, had a woeful

drought withered and parched the fertile Clydesdale acres, and hushed

the reapers song into the stillness of despair?

I said in a former chapter that the business of life seemed to be at a

standstill in Inverburn. So it was still, and not in Inverburn alone,

but throughout the length and breadth of Clydesdale, Liddesdale, and

Nithsdale. For miles and miles the fields lay bleak and desolate, their

only harvest being a wealth of weeds and thistles, which gave to the

once fertile lands the appearance of a wilderness. What devastating

breath had passed over the smiling land, what evil scourge had wrought

this woeful desolation? The reason was not far to seek.

The emissaries of the Government, into whose hands full power over

Scotland had been given, had swept the southern and western counties

with a devastating host, who burned, killed, and plundered as they went,

and left nothing but a trail of blood behind. And the tillers of the

soil, left destitute in many instances of the barest necessaries of

life, could only bow their heads over the desolation which had come upon

them, and be thankful if they escaped with their lives.

And yet, in those days it came to be a question not easily answered,

whether life could be called a boon.

It was a Sabbath morning, and that deep, solemn stillness peculiar to

the Sabbath seemed to hallow the very air. The birds had hushed their

songs of gladness as if in reverence for the holy day, the very voice of

the river, rippling on its way, seemed to be subdued into a tender and

melancholy cadence, instead of brawling noisily in its rocky bed, and

the brown and yellow leaves upon the trees scarcely stirred to the

response of the whispering breeze.

While it was yet early, long before the long rays of the noontide sun

fell aslant the hills, there might have been seen in various by-paths

and unfrequented ways, straggling little groups of two or three

individuals all moving in the same direction. Following them, we come

at length to a sweet and sheltered glade, by the side of the clear,

swift-running Douglas Water. This sylvan retreat, which might have been

a fairy's dressing-room, so rich was it in fresh green beauty, was

warmly and safely protected by high hills, rising abruptly on either

side, but was open at either end, a narrow path going westward to

Inverburn, and another eastward, until it converged into what was called

the Sanquhar road.

Upon the sloping banks at the base of the hill, and also seated on the

greensward and the boulders nearer the edge of the stream, were gathered

a goodly company of men, women, and children, of almost every rank, age,

and calling. There were shepherds in their tartan plaids, uncouth

figures in the homely garb of the outdoor labourer, well-dressed

farmers, and a sprinkling of stalwart soldiers, who had escaped the

slaughter at Rullion Green. There were also present Graham of Pitoy,

with his wife and daughter, and Baxter of Thornilee, both gentlemen of

considerable estate in the neighbourhood. Foremost amongst those seated

on the hill might have been observed the red head of Watty McBean, which

showed in full contrast against the spotless hue of Betty's white cap.

Several horses, which had brought people from a distance, were quietly

enjoying a dainty bite at the fresh grass, which grew in luxuriance by

the stream, and upon the heights there were some mounted horsemen

apparently keeping watch, in order to give timely alarm if any marauders

likely to molest the company should appear in sight.

There might have been about five hundred people gathered together, when

there appeared round one of the windings of the stream the familiar

figure of the minister of Inverburn, leaning upon the arm of his son

David. They had just emerged from their hiding in the Corbie's Cliff in

order to conduct the service in the glen. Many eyes filled with tears

at sight of their beloved minister, and they shook their heads

mournfully at the visible change wrought in his appearance by the long

months of anxiety and solitary confinement. The minister of Broomhill

also looked worn and thin, and his hair was now as white as snow.