When the ministers reached the centre of the little throng, a few

minutes were spent in mutual greetings, and then Mr. Gray the elder

stepped to the front of the huge boulder which served as a pulpit, and

upon which a white cloth was spread, with the Bible above it. Folding

his withered hands, he said, in solemn and trembling tones, "Let us

pray." It seemed as if Nature hushed her many sounds in unison with the

stillness which fell upon the assembled worshippers as the long-loved

voice of their minister, in choice and appropriate language, gave

utterance to a fervent and expressive prayer to the God of Heaven. A

portion of the seventy-ninth psalm was then read, and sung to the sweet

and mournful strain of "Martyrs." The words:

"Against us mind not former sins.

Thy tender mercies show;

Let them prevent us speedily,

For we're brought very low."

were sung with an intense and passionate fervour which told that it was

indeed the cry of every heart present, and that it was not mere lip

service which had brought them thither, almost at the very peril of

their lives.

Turning to the prophetic pages of Isaiah, the minister chose for his

text these comforting and appropriate words, "O thou afflicted, tossed

with tempest, and not comforted; beloved, I will lay thy stones with

fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires.... In

righteousness shalt thou be established; thou shalt be far from

oppression, for thou shalt not fear; and from terror, for it shall not

come near thee."

In his own earnest and persuasive manner the venerable servant of God

endeavoured to comfort his flock, assuring them that though they were

now passing through the bitter waters of affliction, the Lord would not

utterly forget his ancient Zion, but would yet restore her to liberty

and peace. As he earnestly exhorted them to continue steadfast in the

faith, and to bear manfully their light affliction, which was but for a

moment, and would work out its own exceeding weight of glory, his eyes

glowed and shone, and his face was transfigured by the light of a holy

enthusiasm which shed a warm and cheerful influence upon the hearts of

his hearers, and restored their fainting courage, until they felt indeed

able to do and dare without faltering for the sake of Him who trod

before them the weary vale of persecution and shame.

It was a moving sight to look upon the eloquent face of the preacher,

which bespoke the inmost feelings of his soul, and to see his thin white

locks fluttering in the breeze, while his wasted hands were alternately

folded or upraised to enforce his earnest words. The multitude, hushed

into rapt and breathless stillness, were unconscious of a figure

stealing swiftly up the glen, until a slight scream fell from the lips

of a woman, and Susan Gray of Hartrigge interrupted the sermon by

hastily running to meet what appeared to be a wayfaring man, whose

ragged garb and miserable appearance proclaimed that he had been long on

the road and had suffered many privations. The minister paused, and

turned his eyes towards the wanderer, in whose changed countenance he

recognised the features of his first-born son.

The unexpected arrival of Hartrigge broke up the conventicle, and his

relations, who were all present, flocked round him, while his friends

and neighbours pressed closely behind, eager to hear the story of his

adventures. But he seemed breathless, and unable to speak for a moment,

and then his words were of ominous import.

"It is surely madness to be holding a meeting here, and the dragoons so

near! They have pursued me since daybreak, and I have only escaped

through being familiar with every by-path on the way. Scatter yourselves

quickly, for they will be upon us in a moment. Father and David, let us

make haste together to our usual hiding. I have longed for the Corbie's

Cliff all day."

Just then a watcher on the western height blew a warning note on the

trumpet, and in a few moments the assemblage melted away like mist in

the noonday sun.

Jane Gray entreated her brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn, to flee with the

ministers and Hartrigge to the friendly shelter of the Corbie's Cliff,

but he stoutly refused, saying that the soldiers would not be likely to

trouble Rowallan again, seeing they had met with so little success on

their previous visit. But Jane herself was not at all sanguine, and as

they stole homewards by the most unfrequented field paths, her mind was

filled with strange misgivings regarding Martha Miller, the maid, who

had gone home to spend the Sabbath day with her parents at the North

Lodge, on Inverburn. She was walking a little in advance of Adam, and

was the first to ascend the little hill, from which a glimpse of

Rowallan could be had. She stood still there, for in the distance she

saw the gleam of steel, and a party of horsemen riding rapidly up the

road to the farm.

"See yonder, Adam!" she said, in a trembling whisper; "you must flee at

once, either to the cave at Hartrigge, or into the Corbie's Hole, if you

can reach it unseen."

"What! and allow you, a defenceless woman, to go down alone among these

brutal fellows?" inquired Adam, incredulously. "You hardly know what

you say, Jane."

"Yes, yes! I know very well; I am not afraid. They will not harm me. I

have still some of the Burgundy which wrought the charm on Turner," she

answered, hurriedly. "Oh, Adam! do make haste and flee, in case they

catch sight of us."

Involuntarily Adam Hepburn grasped his sword, as his eyes turned towards

the dragoons. Yet he hesitated; for when there were fifty to one, what

would be his chance? Nay, certain death awaited him if he ventured in

their midst.

"Run, run, Adam. I entreat you!" exclaimed Jane, in tones of keen

distress. "You know there is a price upon your head; and I would not

that I should witness a second deed of violence at Rowallan. Run, my

brother; we cannot yet spare you from our midst."

"But you, Jane? It is selfish, cowardly, to leave you like this."

"No, no! I repeat, I am not afraid. I can easily frame an excuse for

my absence from the place, should they question me. You can safely

leave Rowallan in my hands. God gives a deep and peculiar courage even

to frail women in these times, and I believe I could influence these

men, bad as they are. Only go, for every moment you stay is an agony."

"Well, I will; and God forgive me if I am in the wrong, and may He

protect you, my sister," said Adam, hoarsely. Then, with a fervent grip

of the hand, they parted; Adam to steal with caution and speed to some

safe hiding, and Jane to make her way down to Rowallan. She was a

singularly brave and fearless woman, and yet her heart quailed a little

as she made haste to get in by the back premises, hoping to reach the

house and throw off her cloak before she was observed by the dragoons.

She was greatly favoured in that respect, for the soldiers made a halt

for some reason or other on the road, and she had slipped unobserved

into the house before they rode into the farmyard. She threw off her

cloak, tied an apron about her, and busied herself in the kitchen, just

as if continuing her usual morning work. But when she heard them ride

into the yard, with a great din and clatter, she took such a violent

trembling that she was obliged to sit down in order to recover herself.

However, when she heard a foot on the step, and a hand on the latch of

the door, she regained calmness, and rose to her feet. She had

purposely unbarred the kitchen door; therefore, somewhat to his own

astonishment, he having been otherwise informed, the captain of the

detachment found nothing to impede his entrance. He was still further

amazed, on entering the kitchen, to behold a woman there, who turned her

fair, calm face to him, as if in questioning surprise.

Captain McNab, though unflinching and uncompromising in the performance

of duty, however painful or harsh it might be, was a gentleman, and did

not address Jane Gray with that insolent familiarity which had

characterised Sir James Turner's questioning.

"Sorry to disturb you, mistress," he said courteously enough. "I am

astonished to find you here; we were credibly informed that all the

inmates of the house had gone to a field-preaching about a mile distant,

and that we should find the coast clear."

"Your informer might be more zealous than trustworthy, sir," Jane Gray

made answer quickly, though her heart grew sick with apprehension.

Doubtless Martha Miller had been the informant, and how many other

secrets had she discovered and divulged?

"It was a wench, one of the serving-maids here, I believe," answered the

Captain candidly. "We are in search of four desperate Whigs, two

ministers and two farmers; but I think we will lay hands upon them here.

Come, tell me, my sweet dame, how can so comely a gentlewoman as you

countenance such disreputable rebellion?"

"What you term rebellion, sir, may convey another meaning to my mind,"

answered Jane Gray. "Pray, would you call it rebellion to desire to

exercise liberty in matters pertaining to conscience?"

"Faith, you put it glibly," retorted the Captain, with a smile. "Many

of my fellow officers would give but a rough denial to such rebellious

words, but I would scorn to make war on women. Well, have you anything

to drink in the house? I intended to force an entrance and ransack the

cupboards, but it would have a sweeter relish if poured out by those

fair hands."

"If you will be good enough to step into the inner room, sir, I will set

what I have before you," answered Jane courteously.

"Thanks. I will step out first and see what speed they are making with

their search. We have been well guided to the cunning corner which has

sheltered the renegades so long, and the parson himself is with us to

assist us in our work," said the Captain carelessly. "Faith, madam, I

do not wonder that the folk get sick of his snivelling ministrations.

He is a mean, despicable dog, whom it would do me good to thrash."

So saying, the Captain sauntered out to the yard again, and Jane Gray,

stepping into a little closet, which had a window to the back, saw him

enter the barn. Folding her hands, her white lips moved in an agony of

prayer, for without a doubt the secret of the chaff hole was a secret no

longer, and unless warned by the noise overhead, the fugitives could not

possibly escape.

Several minutes passed, and at length Jane saw McLean, the curate,

emerge from the barn with a very disgusted and chagrined expression on

his ill-favoured face. He was followed shortly by Captain McNab, who,

with his lieutenant, came slowly towards the house.

"They have found the nest, but the birds have flown," he said, in tones

of annoyance, as he entered the kitchen. "With your permission,

mistress, we will now taste your fare, while my men make a further

investigation of the secret passage, which is indeed a cunningly devised

hiding. Little wonder it has remained undiscovered so long."

Jane Gray drew a breath of relief, and a silent thanksgiving for

deliverance vouchsafed arose to heaven from her grateful heart. She

knew at once that the unusual stir and clamouring about the quiet

homestead had penetrated the ears of the fugitives in their hiding, and

given them timely warning to flee. Once out of the subterranean passage,

they were comparatively safe, for there was many a cave and snug corner

by the banks of the Douglas Water, where they could shelter till the

kindly darkness fell. In about three-quarters of an hour, those who had

followed the subterranean passage to its outlet returned to Rowallan,

reporting that there was neither sight nor sound of the fugitives to be

seen or heard.

Captain McNab, though considerably chagrined, for it would have been

greatly to his credit and advantage to have laid hands on so many marked

rebels, hid his feelings much better than the curate, who, forgetting

his holy office, swore roundly in his disappointment; and vowed

increased vengeance on the name and house of Gray. Serene and matchless

was the contempt with which Jane Gray regarded him: she never allowed

her eyes to rest on his countenance, and never betrayed, by look or

gesture, that she heard the rude remarks he addressed to her.

Captain McNab bade Miss Gray a polite farewell, and even apologised for

so disturbing her on a Sabbath morning, a courtesy which she gratefully

acknowledged with an expressive glance from her fine eyes and a low bow.

Mounting his horse at the door, Captain McNab gave the word of command,

and the troop rapidly rode away.

Then Jane Gray, unable to bear the unspeakable relief following upon the

great strain upon her nerves, sank down on her knees and burst into

tears.

*CHAPTER XV.*

*BRAVE TO THE LAST.*

Meanwhile Adam Hepburn had stolen across the fields to the glen with the

intention of entering the hole in the Corbie's Cliff. He was making his

way down the hill-side, keeping cautiously in shelter of the whins and

bracken, for the dragoons were in sight, when, to his no small

amazement, he saw the two ministers and Andrew Gray of Hartrigge emerge

from the mouth of the subterranean passage with a haste which proclaimed

that they were pursued. And now truly the poor fugitives were betwixt

two fires, for there were dragoons scattered all over the surrounding

hills, and some were so near that it was a marvel they were not at once

discovered. They had to thank the luxuriance of the brushwood and

tangle for affording them a shelter, and, if they could but remain

unobserved till nightfall, they could then seek a safer hiding. Adam

Hepburn crawled upon his hands and knees down through the thicket, and

came up with the others, as they were creeping slowly along, hoping to

reach the steep hill behind Hartrigge, where the cave was still

undiscovered.

"We were betrayed in our hiding, and were only warned in time to flee by

the noise overhead," whispered Andrew Gray. "See yonder!"

Lifting their heads the fugitives saw three dragoons emerge from the

mouth of the Corbie's Cliff and look all round them, as if expecting to

see those for whom they sought. In mortal terror the miserable

Covenanters laid themselves flat down on their faces and pulled the

friendly bracken over them, and waited breathlessly, thinking the

dragoons would be certain to scour the entire glen.

"If they come I think I could silence the three," said Adam Hepburn,

grimly; "only they might, by their cries, bring some of their mounted

comrades upon us. They are not far distant, I trow, for I can hear the

neighing of their horses even here."

After a few minutes' suspense, the anxious fugitives saw the dragoons

re-enter the mouth of the cave; then they slowly crept yet a little

farther along the glen, for every moment spent in this comparatively

exposed place was not only precious, but laden with deadly peril. At

length they arrived unmolested at the base of the steep hill behind

Hartrigge, and, as it was crowned with a thick belt of fir trees, there

was no fear of them being seen from above.

The minister of Inverburn, whose feeble strength was now utterly spent

through excitement and suspense, had to be half carried up the rocky

ascent, but at length all landed safely in the cave. It was but a small

place, and very damp; a great contrast in every way to the comfortable

hiding at Rowallan. After having recovered a little from his fatigue,

the minister of Inverburn folded his hands and returned thanks for their

deliverance; but Adam Hepburn sat gloomily in a corner, his hands

grasping his sword, for it was foreign to his nature to flee before the

enemy, and he felt as if he had sullied his manhood by deserting

Rowallan, and leaving Jane Gray to encounter the dragoons alone. And

yet there are times when even the bravest soldier is forced to admit

that discretion is the better part of valour.

Meanwhile the body of dragoons, under command of Captain Ingram, who had

ridden up to the glen to disperse the conventicle, baulked of their

prey, had proceeded to Hartrigge, it being the only house in view.

Captain Ingram was a very different man from his brother officer, who

had so peaceably performed his duty at Rowallan. He was of a short,

burly figure, with a countenance much swollen and disfigured by his

drunken excesses, and his fiery eye gave some expression to the fierce

and choleric nature of his temper. He was utterly void of one kindly

feeling or generous impulse, and his troops were famous for their brutal

and disgraceful behaviour, it being said of them that they showed no

mercy to man, woman, or child.

Mistress Gray, who with her son, Gavin, had been present at the

conventicle, had been in the house some little time before the dragoons

surrounded Hartrigge.

The little ones, who had remained at home under charge of Jeanie, who

was growing more sensible and womanly every day, began to cry at sight

of the soldiers, remembering the occasion of their former visit, and how

their father had been carried off as a prisoner. Gavin, however,

exhibited his usual fearless spirit, and ran to the kitchen cupboard for

the old fowling-piece; yet, poor lad, what could he do with it, against

the powerful arms of a company of dragoons? Captain Ingram did not

trouble to alight, but thundered at the door of the house with the

butt-end of his musket, a summons which brought Mistress Gray

tremblingly to the threshold.

"Hey, mistress! is this not the house of that vile renegade, Andrew

Gray, son of the notorious field-preacher, the minister of Inverburn?"

he asked, fiercely.

"It is the house of Andrew Gray," she made answer, sadly. "And I would

that he were within its walls. They have not sheltered him these many

weary days."

"Are you his wife? and are these his brats?" asked the Captain, pointing

to the little ones clinging to her skirts.

She bowed her head, but made no verbal reply.

"Come, tell me, mistress, were you at the field preaching down in the

glen yonder, listening to the snivelling of that old renegade, your

husband's father?"

"I was there, sir," Susan Gray made answer, firmly, for she saw that it

would be useless to deny it.

"Good! we have come upon one Whig dame at last who can speak the truth,"

said the Captain, in tones of satisfaction. "Come, oblige me still

further, mistress, and give me the names of those who were present

besides yourself."

"I went to listen to the preaching of the Word, sir, and not to count

those who were present," answered Susan Gray, with fearless firmness.

"Well, if you will not tell me that, let me know the secret hiding of

those who conducted the service. Come, now, mistress, you are completely

in my power, and if you do not speak of your own free will, I may take

measures to make you," said the Captain, significantly.

"I cannot tell whither they have fled, sir. I was too much taken up

making my own escape, to look to them," she answered quietly.

"Just so. With your permission, mistress, we will have a look through

the house, and if any of the renegades be found within, by the powers, I

will punish them for your obstinacy," said the Captain, with an oath,

and dismounting, he flung his reins to a dragoon, ordered some of them

to follow him into the house, and others to make a complete search of

the out-houses. Entering the kitchen, the Captain beheld young Gavin

standing with the old fowling-piece in his hand, which sight caused him

to burst into a loud laugh.

"So, my young friend, you are going to show fight. You are Andrew

Gray's son, I take it. Here, Dawson, bind the young chip; we may have

to screw the truth out of him by-and-by."

Gavin presented his gun, and drew the trigger, but it was dashed out of

his hand, and he was bound hand and foot, and laid on the floor. Then

the ruffians continued their search through the house, lifting many

valuables as they went, but found no traces of the fugitives, nor any

corner where they could possibly be hid. Those searching outside were

equally unsuccessful, and Captain Ingram got into a great rage, and

swore some dreadful oaths, which made Susan Gray tremble, and marvel

that judgment did not overtake him at once.

Stepping out to the door, he again addressed Mistress Gray, and brutally

demanded that she should at once divulge all she knew concerning the

movements and probable hiding of her husband and his kindred. But Susan

Gray resolutely shook her head, and maintained that she knew not whither

they had fled.

"Here, Dawson, bring out that young branch of the rebel tree, and we

will try to refresh his memory," said the captain, peremptorily, and

young Gavin was presently brought out, and set up against the beech tree

in front of the house.

At sight of her first-born son, the dearest of all her children to her

heart, Susan Gray grew as pale as death, and leaned against the lintel

of the door for support.

Captain Ingram then stepped forward, and pointing his sword at the young

lad, swore at him, and bade him at once reveal his father's hiding, or

suffer the consequences.

"Think you I would betray my father to save myself, sir?" asked the

young Gavin, in a clear and steadfast voice, and his fine eye fearlessly

looked into the face of his cruel questioner. "Not though I had twenty

lives. I would lose them all rather than be guilty of such black

treachery and cowardice."

In her boundless admiration of the courage of the boy, Susan Gray half

forgot the agonising fear which rent her motherly heart.

"Sure, we have an out-and-out Covenanter here, boys!" said the Captain,

looking round upon his dragoons. "Faith, I have shot many a man for

less! but on account of his tender years we will give him another chance

for his life."

At these ominous words Susan Gray gave a loud scream, and rushed forward

as if to protect her son, but she was rudely pushed back, and sank down

on her knees on the ground, uttering broken prayers to God, and almost

beside herself in her agony.

"Now, my blithe young rebel," said Captain Ingram, fixing his mocking

eyes on Gavin's pale yet steadfast face, "I give you twenty seconds to

make up your mind. Reveal your father's hiding, or bear the penalty of

your contempt for an officer of the King. Dawson, Baird, and Luttrell,

have your muskets charged."

The lad winced slightly at the last words, but only for a moment; then

he drew himself up as well as his bonds would allow.

"Life would be no boon at the price you ask," he then made answer, in a

low yet firm voice. "You can only kill the body, and my blood will be

on your head."

"You hear, mistress?" said Ingram, turning then to the kneeling figure

of the mother. "Ten seconds of the twenty are gone. If you will yield

the required information his life will be spared."

Susan Gray hesitated a moment. It was an awful moment for her, to be

called upon to choose, as it were, betwixt husband and child.

"Mother, mother, don't be tempted!" cried Gavin. "What is my life

compared with that of my father and grandfather, and uncle David? Let

them shoot. I am not afraid to die. I remember Mr. Guthrie's

fearlessness on the scaffold. I understand it now, for God is with me

here, close beside me, and I will go straight to glory."

The sublimity of the lad's courage, the pathetic and beautiful faith

with which he spoke, moved more than one of these hardened hearts to

pity, but it only further enraged their brutal Captain.

"Get into the house, mistress, and shut the door," he said, curtly;

"unless you want to see the young rebel receive his baptism of fire."

Susan Gray spoke not, but remained kneeling, with her face hidden in her

hands; all feeling seemed to be frozen in her broken heart.

There was a moment's dread silence; then the sharp report of three

musket shots, simultaneously fired, rang through the quiet Sabbath air.

Then the order was given to march, and the dragoons, having finished

their deadly work, turned their horses' heads away from Hartrigge. As

they did so, a volume of smoke began slowly to arise from behind the

house; they had finished their work of destruction by setting fire to

the barn and granary ere they left. Little knew the brave men in hiding

what was being enacted at so little a distance from them. The cave was

too far away to admit of the sound of voices, or even the trampling of

the horses to penetrate their ears, but they heard quite distinctly the

report of musketry, and involuntarily all started to their feet.

"That sound comes from the house," said Hartrigge. "I must go and see

what is being done there. I cannot sit here while these miscreants

murder my wife and children in cold blood."

Adam Hepburn, only too ready to accompany his brother-in-law, grasped

his sword, and the two stole cautiously up the hill in the friendly

shelter of the trees. The two ministers, who were unarmed, followed at

a little distance, so that, in case of alarm, they might yet make good

their escape. The hearts of all four were filled with foreboding and

anxious fears, for too well they knew the meaning of that portentous

report. Arrived at the summit of the hill, Hartrigge stole a little in

advance of Adam Hepburn, and thence could see the road, at the far end

of which he caught a glimpse of the rear of the dragoons ere they

emerged out upon the public highway. Satisfied that there was nothing

to apprehend from them, he went boldly forward, and, emerging from the

shadow of the trees, saw a sight which almost made his heart stand

still. There on the greensward lay the prostrate form of his firstborn

son, with his mother kneeling motionless by his side; the two little

bairns were holding each other close and weeping bitterly; and Jeanie,

with white face and dry eyes, was bathing a ghastly wound in her

brother's left temple.

A moment more and those following more slowly up the hill were startled

by the sound of a hoarse and bitter cry. Andrew Gray's iron composure,

his absolute self-control were swept away, and, darting forward, he

knelt by his murdered boy, calling him by every loving name, in accents

of anguish and entreaty. It was in vain: life was gone!

Then there arose upon the wings of the soft September wind the echo of

that desolate and anguished cry with which David of old bewailed his

firstborn: "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would to God I had

died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!"

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*AT THE DAWNING.*

Shortly after midnight upon the Monday following that sad Sabbath day,

Watty McBean rose up out of his bed, so quietly as not to disturb Betty

asleep in the ben-end, and, hastily putting on his clothes, stole out of

doors. The harvest moon was at its full, and a light almost as clear as

day lay upon the silent earth. The moonlight was very favourable for

Watty's purpose, and his face wore a well-pleased expression as he

entered the stable where his faithful nag was peacefully asleep. She

looked round whinnying at her master's step, but he paid no heed to her.

Striking a light, he took from an empty stall which he used as a

tool-house a pick and shovel. These he hoisted on his shoulder, and,

leaving the stable, stole swiftly up the village street. As he passed

Mistress Lyall's he shook his doubled fist at the darkened windows, for

in that house several of the dragoons were stationed, under command not

to leave the place until they had captured the notorious rebels, who

were known to be in hiding in the neighbourhood; also certain words fell

from his lips which were scarcely in keeping with his profession as a

Christian, or with his old occupation of bell-ringer and minister's man

in the parish. Once clear of the village, Watty somewhat slackened his

pace, and leisurely ascended the manse brae to the churchyard. On this

gentle eminence the air was scarcely so still, for a light breeze

stirred the yellow leaves on the birks of Inverburn, and sighed with a

mournful cadence through the long grasses waving above the last

resting-place of the dead. Passing the manse gate Watty again shook his

fist and applied a very expressive epithet to its unconscious inmate,

which would have roused the ire of the Reverend Duncan McLean had he

heard it. But he was enjoying his well-earned repose, for he had been

very zealous for several days in assisting to ferret out rebellious

insurgents.

Watty entered the churchyard and stepped lightly over the turf to the

green enclosure where slept so many of those who had first seen the

light in the manse of Inverburn. Laying down his implements, Watty

paused a moment by the double head-stone and wiped his eyes, as he read

the name of Gray, so oft repeated--husband and wife, parent and child,

one after the other--until certain newly-chiselled words recorded that

here also slept--

"AGNES GUTHRIE GRAY,

THE DEAR WIFE OF ADAM HEPBURN, OF ROWALLAN,

WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE UNTIMEOUSLY,

IN THE FLOWER OF HER AGE,

BEING SHOT BY DRAGOONS AT HER OWN DOOR,

ON THE NINTH DAY OF MARCH,

SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE,

LEAVING HER SORROWING HUSBAND DESOLATE UPON THE

FACE OF THE EARTH."

As he slowly spelled out these pathetic words, for Watty was no great

scholar, tears chased each other down his rugged face, and the heaving

of his broad chest told how deep was his emotion. But suddenly

recovering himself, and as if ashamed of his weakness, he dashed the

tears aside, and stepping back for his pick, began his work--that of

digging a grave. It was a strange and weird occupation for that

mysterious hour following upon midnight, and Watty might have been

excused had he felt a little nervous over his task. But no such foolish

fears disturbed him as he quickly and deftly shovelled out the earth;

his mind was filled with sad regretful thoughts of the past, mingled

with foreboding and anxious previsions of the future. And thus busily

occupied, he made great speed with his work. The bell in the tower rang

one, and then two, and still Watty did not halt, but ere the solemn

hands moved round to three his work was done, for his spade had struck

with a dull sound on Agnes Hepburn's coffin lid. Then he jumped out of

the new-made grave, put on his coat again, and walked down to the

churchyard gate. Just then he heard the first cock-crowing from the

curate's hen-roost, and its echo was taken up by chanticleer on a

neighbouring farm, announcing to whomsoever might be awake to hear, the

dawning of another day. Stepping out of the gate, Watty looked

anxiously up the road, and as anxiously down towards the village,

fearing lest the marauders under Mistress Lyall's roof-tree should have

obtained a scent of this morning's work. For about fifteen minutes

Watty endured an agony of impatience and suspense. However, to his

unspeakable relief, he beheld something moving at a considerable

distance up the road. He at once advanced to meet it, and as he drew

nearer he could distinguish four figures walking two abreast, and

carrying something between them. They also breathed a sigh of relief at

sight of Watty, for in these times, though appointments were made, none

could predict what might transpire to prevent their being kept.

"All ready, Watty?" inquired the voice of Andrew Gray, of Hartrigge, the

moment they were within speaking distance.

"A' ready," Watty whispered back, and walking to the rear of the little

party, he relieved the minister of Inverburn at the end of the coffin.

Then slowly, and with measured tread, they moved on to the churchyard

gate, up the broad walk, and across the turf to the new-made grave. The

coffin was then laid gently down on the grass, and Watty, bending

forward, read the name on the plate,

"GAVIN GRAY, AGED 17."

Meanwhile, Adam Hepburn had moved over to the open grave, and was gazing

down upon the coffin, which contained the remains of his beloved, with a

strange far-off expression on his face. They saw that he had forgotten

himself and them, and after waiting a moment, David Gray stepped forward

and lightly touched his arm.

"We wait for you, Adam," he said gently. "Will you take the cord at the

feet with me?"

Adam Hepburn started violently, and then stepping forward, took the cord

held out to him; the minister of Inverburn and Hartrigge himself being

at the head. Then very gently they lowered it into the grave, and when

it grated upon the other, Adam Hepburn let go his hold, and turned aside

with a deep groan. The minister of Inverburn took up a handful of

earth, and let it fall loosely on the coffin lid. "Earth to earth, dust

to dust, he has changed the corruptible for the incorruptible, and what

is our loss is the lad's great gain," he murmured half dreamily. Then he

laid his hand on the arm of the bereaved father, over whose rugged face

a tremor had passed, like the first wave of a great sea, adding, with

gentle force, "My son, come, let us go hence."

"Not yet; I will wait and help Watty," said Andrew Gray, in a hoarse

whisper; but already Watty, with strong and willing arm, was rapidly

filling up the grave.

"I wonder whose murdered body will next lie here," said Hartrigge, with

strange, deep bitterness. "Truly, I think, father, we had need soon to

extend our burial space."

"Do not speak so bitterly, my son. Let us be thankful that we have been

permitted to give the dear lad honourable and Christian burial, with his

forbears," said the old man gently. "If the Lord will, may I be the

next to be laid here in peace."

"We'd better get out o' this unless we be tired o' life," said Watty,

grimly, pointing with his forefinger to the first streak of dawn on the

eastern horizon. "If we dinna get clear off afore the daw'in', some o'

the manse folk will be sure to see us."

Mindful of Watty's warning, they prepared to leave the churchyard, and

yet they were fain to linger, for many hallowed memories bound them to

the place. Ere he turned to go, Andrew Gray took up the spade and gently

beat down the turf on the grave, and his last look at his son's loved

resting place was blinded by unwonted tears.

"Watty," said Adam Hepburn, as they walked out to the road, "you had

better come with us now, and let us see that boasted hiding of yours on

the Douglas Water. If we are to remain in this district it will take a

securer shelter than the cave at Hartrigge to hold us."

"I'm willint eneuch to let ye see't; but what if I be catched comin'

hame?" queried Watty, cautiously.

"You can gather some grass on the roadside, and say you were seeking a

bite for old Kirsty, if they question you," said Adam. "But you can

easily be home by half six at the latest, unless indeed the place be all

the farther up the water."

"Na, na, it's no' that faur. Weel, I'll just hide my pick and shovel in

the hedge, and gang," answered Watty; so the little party once more

turned their faces to Hartrigge, where the bereaved mother sat in her

desolate house, like Rachel, weeping for her children, and refusing to

be comforted.

They spoke but little as they walked, for the burden of his thoughts was

sufficient for each. The air was now raw and chill, and the light

struggling over hill and dale dispelled the tender radiance of the moon

and gave an aspect almost wintry to the face of nature. The minister of

Inverburn several times shivered and his hacking cough and attenuated

appearance indicated that exposure was beginning to tell upon his aged

frame. Looking at him, Watty more than once ominously shook his head,

and whispered within himself that the minister was not long for this

world. Thinking they might with safety venture into the house of

Hartrigge for some warm breakfast, Andrew Gray, with his father and

brother, turned up the road to the farm, while Adam Hepburn and Watty

took their way by a near cut to the glen, which formed the bed of the

Douglas Water. Relieved from the slight restraint of the minister's

presence, Watty found his tongue, and launched forth into a very

vehement tirade against the oppressors of the land, using terms and

expressions which in happier times would not have failed to amuse his

companion, but which now he passed unheeded. It was seldom indeed that

a smile was seen on the face of Adam Hepburn, and since his wife's death

no man or woman had ever heard him laugh. The keen and pleasant sense

of humour which had given such a relish to his company and speech in

days gone by, had deserted him now, and he was in every respect an

altered man. None was more mournfully conscious of this change than

Watty, who had been wont to have many a bantering jest with the farmer

of Rowallan, for whom he had a great liking and respect.

In the glen the sleepy birds were beginning to stir among the boughs,

and already the air was full of twitterings, and of the hum of insects

early on the wing. A heavy dew had fallen in the night, and hung

sparkling like diamonds in the hedgerows and on every blade of grass,

making the footing very wet, especially where it grew long and rank,

close to the water's edge.

As they passed the mouth of the Corbie's Cliff Watty McBean looked

mournfully at the now visible entrance, for the dragoons with their

swords had shorn away all the branches and the clinging tangles which

had so securely hidden it before. So that no man could possibly hide

there now and expect to be undisturbed.

"Eh, that limmer Martha Miller, if I had her I'd pay her out for her

treachery!" muttered Watty. "It's just as weel she gaed awa' to her

sister in Glesca. She wadna hae been safe muckle longer in the place.

It was gettin' ower hot for her."

"Ay, she'll never prosper, Watty. She may grow rich for a time on the

spoiling of the neighbours she betrayed, but her punishment will come

by-and-by," said Adam, quietly.

"I'm sure I hope sae," returned Watty, fervently. "Weel, here we are.

Are ye sure there's naebody in sicht?"

"Scarcely here, before five in the morning, Watty," said Adam, with a

faint smile. "It is a dark and gloomy retreat this."

He spoke the truth. They had now reached a very deep and narrow part of

the glen, the sides of which rose precipitously from the edges of the

stream. These abrupt heights were so densely covered with trees, chiefly

those dark and gloomy firs common to the mountainous portions of

Scotland, that they looked like a solid and impenetrable mass. The

water, though narrow, was very deep, and made a hoarse and hollow

roaring as it rushed among its rough boulders, which looked as if they

had become detached from the rocky heights above and rolled into the bed

of the stream. The light admitted from the narrow space between the

heights was very insufficient, and only seemed to add to the gloom.

Even in summer the sunshine never penetrated the dark retreat,

consequently the common wild flowers did not bloom, although ferns and

mosses of rich and varied hues and rare and delicate form grew in

beautiful luxuriance.

"D'ye see ony place whaur a body micht hide?" queried Watty, with a

twinkle in his eye.

"Faith, Watty, I believe anybody might be safe enough where we are

standing at this moment. No mounted pursuer, at least, could reach this

spot," answered Adam Hepburn.

"Weel, follow me as best ye can, for there's nae road, no' even a

sheep-track, to guide ye," said Watty and, immediately plunging into the

thicket on the left, he began to scramble up the face of the steep.

It was with some difficulty that his companion followed, but, by

swinging himself up by the strong undergrowth, he managed to keep Watty

in sight. At length Watty altogether and mysteriously disappeared, and,

though he called out to guide his companion to his whereabouts, Adam

could not discover him. It was intensely dark, and there was scarcely

room to stand upright, so densely did the trees grow together.

Presently Watty appeared again, and then Adam saw that he stood in front

of an overhanging bank almost concealed by long grass and bracken.

"Crawl in efter me," cried Watty, and, getting down on his hands and

knees, he crept under the bank and disappeared. Adam followed his

example, and, as Watty immediately struck a light, he saw, to his

astonishment, that he was in a roomy cavern, where he could stand

upright with the greatest ease.

"Well, Watty, this is a splendid place, and will doubtless be invaluable

to us," he exclaimed. "It is well-nigh impossible that any one should

discover this. But tell me, how many in Inverburn could point it out?"

"No' a leevin' soul but mysel'. I'll tell ye wha shewed it to me, auld

Robbie Harden, mony a year afore he deed, an' I never telt a cratur,"

Watty assured him, solemnly.

"Ah, that is good! Well, Watty, I am certainly obliged to you for

bringing me here," said Adam. "The thing is, I hope I can make my way to

it again by myself."

"Oh, that's easy enough. If ye come down noo I'll let ye see the clue,"

said Watty, and, accordingly, they again scrambled through the thicket

to the edge of the stream.

"Ye see that muckle black rock jist like a table," said Watty, pointing

to a huge mass lying in the bed of the water. "It's jist directly

opposite that. If ye keep straicht up ye canna' miss it."

"All right; I'll remember," said Adam, and the twain then left the

ravine and rapidly retraced their steps towards the haunts of men.

It was now about half-past five, so Watty, in alarm lest he should be

stopped and questioned, left Adam Hepburn just behind Hartrigge, and

taking to his heels, fled with the utmost speed back to the village.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*A SHOCK OF CORN FULLY RIPE.*

The body of dragoons stationed in the village of Inverburn were so

constantly upon the alert, and swept so wide a range of the surrounding

district, that it was well-nigh impossible for the fugitives to leave

their hiding either by night or day. They had removed to the safer

hiding of Watty's hole in the Witches' Cleugh [glen or ravine], and

thither Jane Gray, courageous as usual, carried their provisions, either

in the very early morning, or after the moon was up at night. They had

made the place as comfortable as it was possible under the

circumstances, having formed themselves couches of dried leaves over

which were spread the substantial coverings which Jane had carried to

them by degrees. She was now abiding constantly at Hartrigge, where all

Adam Hepburn's most valuable goods had been removed, and Rowallan shut

up. As for the stock, the soldiers had relieved him of any anxiety

regarding it by removing it all for their own use and profit. So

Rowallan was now a deserted and desolate homestead, about which the owls

screeched mournfully at night, and the bats flapped their weird wings

unheeded and undisturbed against the shuttered windows.

The people of the village were now driven to church at the point of the

sword, consequently the curate's services were no longer disgraced by

meagre attendances. As the people listened to the mockery of worship he

conducted within the now desecrated walls, they bowed their heads in

sorrow and shame, knowing very well that directly the services were over

he would be away drinking with the officers of the regiment. His

excesses, which were not confined to week-days, had now become a public

scandal, so much so, that Sir Thomas Hamilton in disgust had ceased to

attend the church of Inverburn, and had returned to the ministrations of

John Methven, at Lochlee.

The dragoons, being under command not to quit the place until they had

laid hands on the four obstinate and cunning insurgents, who were

lurking in the neighbourhood, growing tired of their quarters, began a

more vigorous raid on the outlying farmhouses and homesteads, as well as

a more thorough exploration of the woods and hills. But though they

rode along the very heights above the hiding place of the wanderers they

sought, and, dismounting, even made an attempt to explore the very

thicket sheltering the cave, their search was unsuccessful.

Being quite aware of the very strict search going on, the fugitives were

compelled to abide yet more closely in their shelter. It was now the

end of the year, and though as yet little snow had fallen, there had

been heavy rain storms accompanied by wild and bitter winds which almost

froze the marrow in their bones. It being considered unsafe to make a

fire, the fugitives suffered much from the cold, and from the dampness

of their hiding-place. The minister of Inverburn, especially, suffered

from its effects, and grew so weak that he was scarcely able to stand

upright. He also complained of great pain and uneasiness of the chest,

which indicated that the long exposure had wrought very evil effects

upon his aged and delicate frame.

Towards midnight, one evening early in January, a slight snow being on

the ground, and the roads rendered easy footing by a touch of frost,

Mistress Gray of Hartrigge, accompanied by Jane, set out to carry

provisions to the fugitives. Since her son's death, Susan Gray's

feelings concerning the Covenanters and their persecutions had undergone

a change. In times gone she had not been a very zealous Churchwoman,

and had often remonstrated with her husband concerning what she

considered his bigoted and unwise zeal; but now her hatred against the

oppressors equalled, if not excelled, that of Andrew. Yet his was the

outcome of true religious zeal, while hers was the result of outraged

human feelings. And I fear that very many of those who followed the

fortunes of the Covenanters were actuated by like feelings with Mistress

Gray.

No thought of fear troubled these two women as they traversed their

lonely way through the wilds to the Witches' Cleugh. They spoke but

little as they went, for the time had now come when talking over

troubles only made them seem worse to bear. They found it better to

shut them up in their own hearts, and make no moan to the world. The

bright light of the moon made the surrounding landscape indescribably

beautiful, yet what eye had these two for what in happier times would

have afforded them pleasure and delight? To them the beauty of Nature

was obscured by the pall of bitter personal sorrow. When they reached

the cleugh, Jane Gray put a whistle to her mouth and blew the signal,

which those in hiding had learned to know and welcome. Andrew Gray

hastened through the thicket to guide them up to the cave; and Jane

walked on a little in front, guessing that her brother would have many

things to say to his wife, whom he had not seen for some weeks. When

they together entered the cavern, which was dimly lighted, quiet but

expressive greetings passed between them, but somewhat to Jane's

surprise and alarm, her father did not offer to rise and speak to them.

She advanced to the side of the low bed, and holding the flickering

light above it, saw such a deep and significant change in the dear

features, that she could not repress a cry of anguish.

"My father seems very ill. How long has he been thus?" she exclaimed,

turning to her brothers. The tones of her familiar and much-loved voice

seemed to awaken the old man to struggling consciousness, for he

presently stirred, and opened his eyes.

"Is that my daughter's voice?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes, father, I am here," answered Jane, and dropping on her knees, she

took the wasted hands in her firm gentle clasp. "Tell me, do you feel

much distressed? Do you suffer much pain?"

"Not much pain, only great uneasiness and oppression, my daughter," he

answered. "If it be the precursor of my summons home, how gladly do I

bear it all, if only my Lord sees fit to call me speedily from these

troubles, which I fear I bear with but a poor measure of cheerfulness

and patience. But being old and stricken in years, I have not the same

endurance with these young men, your brethren."

Jane Gray's eyes filled with bitter tears, and for a space sobs

prevented her from speaking. Susan Gray now moved over to the bed, and

after looking steadfastly at the old man's face for a brief space, she

said decidedly, "Grandfather is very ill. What say you to having him

moved to a comfortable bed at Hartrigge?"

For a moment they looked somewhat surprised at her proposal, which

involved considerable risk, but she hastened to reassure them.

"The dragoons have grown weary of searching through Hartrigge, and,

indeed, I hear, that having become convinced that you are not in the

district, they are about to shift their quarters. So I think we needna'

fear for them. You could carry him home this very nicht between you,

and be back safe in hiding afore the first peep o' day."

"God bless you for your suggestion, Susan," said Jane Gray, gratefully.

"It is kind of you to risk your own safety, and that of your bairns and

house, for our sakes."

After a brief hesitation it was resolved to act upon Mistress Gray's

plan.

The old man being too weak to understand what they were talking about,

lay perfectly still, only keeping his eyes fixed upon his daughter's

face, as if they loved to dwell there. He seemed surprised when

presently they began to roll the coverings round him, but did not ask

any questions, nor did they tell him what was about to be done. He was

so thin and attenuated that his light weight was as nothing to Andrew

Gray, who carried him in his arms as easily as if he had been a child.

After a little Adam relieved him, and thus that strange and mournful

procession wended its way to the house of Hartrigge. The women-folk

hurried on in front, and reaching the house considerably before the

others, Jane made haste to get something hot prepared for them, while

the mistress hung sheets and blankets at the cheerful kitchen fire, and

carried up a shovelful of blazing peats to a little garret room, which

was situated in the most remote and the safest part of the house. The

bed was ready when the wanderers arrived, and the old man was at once

undressed, and having had warm, dry, comfortable underclothing put on,

was laid in the clean and cosy bed, where he stretched his limbs gladly,

and wearily laid his head on the soft pillow, too thankful to ask where

he was, so sweet and grateful was the unwonted comfort to his exhausted

and pain-racked frame. His daughter held a warm drink to his lips,

which when he had taken, he lay down and fell asleep. Meanwhile, in the

chamber below the others were partaking of a hasty repast, wondering

much at their own temerity in venturing within the house of Hartrigge,

which, in spite of its familiarity, had a strange look, so long was it

since their eyes had dwelt upon the interior of a dwelling made with

hands. Leaving his food unfinished, Andrew Gray stole up to the chamber

where he knew he should find his little ones asleep. As he looked upon

the sweet, chubby faces of the two younger ones, and then on Jeanie's

paler and more womanly features, his eyes grew strangely dim, and

stooping he kissed them one after the other, so lightly that they did

not even stir in their sleep. His wife presently joined him, and moving

to his side, she leaned her head on his shoulder and he put his arm

about her, and they stood for a brief space in utter silence.

The thoughts of each were too deep for words or tears.

"God will take care of you, wife, and keep our bairns," he said at

length. "Fain would I tarry, but it is time we were going hence."

She nodded, and leaving the room, they rejoined David Gray and Adam,

waiting with some impatience below. Then after many fervent farewells,

and many injunctions to send word if any danger were likely to come near

Hartrigge, so that, if possible, they might again remove the old man,

the wanderers left the cheerful warmth and comfort of Hartrigge, and

betook themselves to their bleak hiding in the dens and caves of the

earth.

Next morning mistress Gray took little Jeanie aside, and told her that

her grandfather was in the garret, and said she had trusted her with the

secret, lest she should discover it, and unthinkingly speak of it

outside.

Jeanie looked up into her mother's face with a wise, womanly expression,

almost sad to see in so young a child.

"Oh, mother, you needna fear for me," she said quietly. "Though you

hadna told me, I would have known very well not to tell any one of

grandfather being here. But, mother, did he come in the middle of the

night, and was father with him? I dreamed that father was standing by

my bed last night, and that he kissed me, and was crying when he did

it."

"It was nae dream, lassie," said her mother, through her tears; "your

poor father was indeed here last night, and kissed and blessed you, and

Sandy, and Nannie too."

For several days it seemed as if the minister of Inverburn were likely

to recover, under the kind nursing of his daughter at Hartrigge. But

the pain in the chest did not abate its severity, and though they did

the utmost for him within their knowledge and skill, there was no

visible improvement in his condition. They dared not send for a doctor,

but had just to use their own means, and pray for a blessing.

In the course of a week, however, it became quite evident to the anxious

watchers that death was not far off.

The day came at last when the old man, conscious himself of his

approaching end, desired that his children might be gathered about his

bed. Jane Gray ran in haste to the Witches' Cleugh, and in the

darkening those in hiding stole up to Hartrigge.

When the dying servant of God saw all the faces beloved best on earth

gathered round him, a well-pleased expression stole into his face.

Looking at his first-born son, he desired him to raise him a little in

the bed, in order that he might better utter his words of blessing and

farewell. Then fixing his eyes on Andrew's face, he said, in low and

solemn tones:--

"You have ever been a faithful and dutiful son to me, Andrew, for which

the Lord will reward you. I have but one word of warning to give

regarding the part you will take in the struggle which will shortly rage

with hotter violence than it has hitherto done in the land. See to it

that you fight for the Covenant with singleness of heart and purpose,

out of pure love for its sweet and simple doctrines, and do not allow

any personal spleen to mingle with your nobler aim, lest the blessing of

the Most High be withheld. To you, David, my son, I have also a word to

say. I bid you be of good courage, and fail not to strengthen and

encourage your brethren in arms with the ministrations of your holy

office whenever time and opportunity permit. And fear not those who can

kill the body, for it is written, 'Whosoever shall lose his life for My

sake shall find it.' To you, Adam Hepburn, the widowed spouse of my

sweet Agnes, and dear to me as my own sons, my words will also be brief.

I would seek to remind you that vengeance belongs only to the Lord, and

that from high Heaven alone cometh sure retribution for deeds of blood.

Therefore I would warn you that you strive to overcome your evil and

revengeful passion, reminding you that it is not a spirit which the

ransomed soul of your beloved could approve. It is written that he that

slayeth with the sword shall perish by the sword. To you, my sweet and

well-beloved daughter, Jane, who have indeed followed closely in your

mother's footsteps, since the mournful day when that dear saint left

this world for a better, I have simply to leave my gratitude and

fatherly blessing. Your reward for many deeds and words of love will

come by-and-by. And, last of all, Susan, my daughter, I would but call

to your remembrance that our God can bind up the broken heart, and that

your tears are treasured up against that day when He cometh to judge the

quick and the dead. And the parting is but for a little while.

Farewell, my children; save for your sakes I am not sorry to quit this

earthy tabernacle, and enter upon the inheritance which my sweet Lord

has kept for me since before the foundation of the world."

With these words the minister sank back exhausted among his pillows. It

must not be supposed that he was able to utter the foregoing sentences

as connectedly as they are written. Nay, they were spoken with much

difficulty, and many long pauses, and his parched lips had to be

continually moistened with the stimulant Jane kept ready at hand. He

lay so still after the last words passed his lips that they almost

feared he was gone. But at length his eyelids quivered slightly, and

then they saw a seraphic smile dawning upon his face, as if some lovely

vision had appeared to his soul. His lips moved slightly, and Jane,

hastily bending down, caught the faintly whispered words:--

"Coming, O my sweet Lord Jesus!"

So, quietly and painlessly, he fell asleep.

"It is all over," said Hartrigge, huskily.

"For this present life only, Andrew," quietly answered the minister of

Broomhill. "And, thanks be to His name, He has spared the green, and

taken the ripe."

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*AT HAUGHHEAD.*

In the grey twilight of a sweet spring evening, a figure, wearing the

garb of a minister, entered the policies surrounding Haughhead, and

keeping well within the shadow of the trees, stole across the park to

the mansion house. The face of the wanderer was not that of an old man,

and yet his hair was as white as snow. He looked worn and delicate, and

walked slowly and with a somewhat lingering step, as if he had travelled

far, and was very weary.

The house of Haughhead was a building of considerable pretension, and

was beautifully situated on a richly wooded slope, directly facing the

picturesque village of Broomhill. The grounds were ample and well kept,

and looked their best that spring evening, for the trees were bursting

into leaf, and the early spring flowers were blooming in the trim

borders and among the smooth-grown turf. The wanderer looked about him

with a sad and tender interest, for his surroundings were peculiarly

familiar, and recalled to his mind many memories of the past. To this

place, in the early days of his settlement in Broomhill, he had often

come, lured by the sunny gleam in the blue eyes of Lilian Burnet.

Through these very green and bosky glades he had wandered, with her

light hand clinging to his arm, in the happy, careless days of their

courtship; across that very threshold he had led his fair bride,

accounting himself that day the happiest man in broad Scotland.

Recalling these happy days, and contrasting them with the desolation

which was his to-day, he could have fancied them but the vagaries of his

own imagination. Although it was not yet dark outside, lights gleamed

in the lower windows of the house, and all the shutters were closed,

telling that the inmates had settled themselves within for the night.

The minister hesitated for a moment at the base of the broad flight of

steps which led up to the door, wavering in his purpose to seek

admittance. Finally he stepped aside to one of the lower windows, at

which the shutters had not been carefully closed, there being a broad

chink left, through which a very good view of the interior of the room

might be had. It was a large, pleasant, well-lighted chamber, with a log

fire burning cheerfully on the hearth, and giving one the idea of

comfort and homeliness. There were several persons in the room.

Sitting in her high-backed chair was the prim-looking mistress of

Haughhead, busy upon some embroidery. Opposite her, on the hearth, sat

Burnet of Haughhead himself, with a small table drawn up before him, and

a ponderous volume lying thereon, in whose pages he seemed engrossed.

It was not upon these two, however, that the yearning eyes of the

minister dwelt On the hearthrug two little children were busy at their

play: two lovely children, a boy and girl, the former, having been very

delicate in infancy, only able to toddle on his little legs, and his

baby tongue only yet learning the mysterious language of words. A little

apart, also busy with her sewing, sat their mother, a lovely creature,

to all appearance scarcely yet out of her girlhood, with a round sweet

innocent face, as delicate in hue as the tint of the lily and the rose

combined, and clear liquid blue eyes, which had evidently never yet been

dimmed by bitter tears. She was a picture of serene and happy repose,

not a shadow crossed her fair face, and her low humming of a familiar

melody seemed to indicate a heart at rest.

Familiar though he was with the shallowness of his wife's nature, David

Gray, looking on her face, was amazed. He had expected to see her a

little changed; he thought that a small measure of anxiety, a shadow of

regret concerning him, might have left its impress on her face. But no,

she looked younger, fairer, more free from care than he had ever seen

her before. If there had been any lingering hope in his mind that the

wife whom he still loved, thought of, or longed for him in her

separation, it was dispelled at once and for ever. But for the two

little ones playing at her feet, the years of her wifehood might have

seemed only the shadow of a dream, so unchanged was she from the light

and giddy girl who had ruled the house of Haughhead since her babyhood.

Pleasant and suggestive as was the picture in that family room, it

caused a deep, deep shadow to come upon the sad face of the minister of

Broomhill. He felt himself utterly forgotten by those bound to him by

the nearest and dearest of ties. They had put him away out of their

hearts and lives as one undeserving of their love. Presently his

painful thoughts were interrupted by the gruff voice of Gilbert Burnet,

and every word was distinctly audible.

"Give your song words, Lily," he said; "this is just the time of night

for music. Is the harp there?"

"Yes, father," the sweet, careless tones made answer, blithely, and

David Gray saw her throw aside her work, and approach the corner of the

room where the harp stood. Then she sat down, ran her white fingers

lightly over the strings, tossed back her sunny ringlets in the

coquettish fashion he remembered so well, and then began the sweet,

stirring strains of an old ballad, which had ever been a favourite in

days gone by. Listening to these sweet strains, the minister of

Broomhill seemed to forget himself and his surroundings, until the

abrupt cessation of the music, and a loud clapping of hands, caused him

to start, and cast another look into the room. The children had now

risen from their play, and were clapping their baby hands in glee over

the music.

Looking upon their winsome faces, the faces of his own children, given

to him by God, taken from him by man, a great wave of anguish, of

unutterable yearning, swept over his soul. But he crushed it down, and

turning about, stole away from the house by the way he had come. They

had forgotten him, they had no need of him; henceforth he was without

wife, or children, or home, a wanderer on the face of the earth. They

were safe and sheltered under that roof-tree, because its heads had not

identified themselves with rebellion and treason, while he was hunted,

pursued, and tracked to the dens and caves of the earth, with a price

set upon his head. And yet what of that? what though perils by sea and

land, perils by persecution, encompassed him, when he possessed the

sweet approval of his own conscience, and the ever-present consciousness

of the presence and blessing of the Most High? To be accounted worthy

had been his earnest cry ere these desolations had fallen upon him, and

now was he one to shrink and stand back from the bearing of his cross,

however heavy it might be? Nay, but a sweet peace stole into his heart,

as these precious words of promise were whispered to him: "And every one

that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sister, or father, or mother,

or wife, or children, or lands, for My name's sake, shall receive an

hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life."

Henceforth God and the Covenant were all he had to live and suffer for,

all he could call his own indeed upon the earth. Therefore he would go

forth gladly with his brethren on the morrow to join the Covenanting

army assembling in the south.

Not many days after that, the women folk at Hartrigge were busy about

their usual tasks, when a horse and rider came up to the front door, the

latter loudly demanding admittance. Jane Gray went out at once, and

great was her astonishment to behold Gilbert Burnet, the laird of

Haughhead.

"Well, Jane Gray, 'tis a long time since we met," he said, grimly.

"It is, indeed, Mr. Burnet," answered Jane, quietly.

"And many ups and downs have taken place since then, eh?" he asked, more

grimly still.

"You speak the truth," said Jane, coldly, not liking very well the

manner in which he spoke. "Will you be pleased to alight from your

horse, and step in? In my brother's name I can bid you welcome to his

house, and his wife will speak to you within. She has been in poor

health these few weeks, and is confined to her own chamber."

"I'll not come in to-day," said Haughhead, bluntly. "My business can be

done here well enough. It will not take up much of your time."

"My time is at your disposal, Mr. Burnet. We are not hard pressed in

these times," she said, with a faint smile.

"No, there is a mighty difference in Hartrigge since I saw it last. A

great fool Andrew Gray was to leave his substantial holding and

comfortable life for his present precarious existence," said Haughhead.

"I suppose he is not about the place."

"No; nor has been for many, many months," answered Jane, briefly.

"Ah, I thought not. It was you I expected to see. Well, I suppose you

have heard of the most gracious indulgence granted by the king to the

outed and rebellious ministers?"

"Yes; we heard of it some days ago," answered Jane Gray, in a calm and

unreadable voice.

"You know the generous terms it offers?" said Burnet, inquiringly. "If

they will acknowledge the bishops, they are to be forgiven for past

rebellion and inducted into the full enjoyment of their former

benefices. If not, they are still to be allowed to preach in the kirks,

and can come back to their manses and glebes."

"Yes; we heard that such were the king's terms, Mr. Burnet," said Jane

Gray, but did not offer the information he was anxious to obtain.

"What, what are your brothers saying to it? What--in fact, hang it,

woman!--will your brother David come back peaceably to Broomhill? You

know very well what I want to be at!" said Haughhead, losing his temper

and raising his voice.

Jane Gray looked him straight in the face with clear, calm, steadfast

eyes.

"I fear not; in fact, Mr. Burnet, I know that the indulgence will make

no difference whatsoever to my brother David. On no account will he now

accept a living from the hands of a king who has proved himself so

utterly unworthy of trust or loyal service. My brother, in common with

many other thoughtful men, regards the new proclamation simply as a trap

set to ensure the complete downfall of Presbyterianism in Scotland."

It was curious to watch the varying expressions on Gilbert Burnet's face

as he listened to Jane Gray's fearless and unmistakable words.

"Gad, Jane Gray! you are not afraid! I should not wonder to see your

proud head roll in the dust yet," he said, sarcastically. "Then your

brothers will still keep themselves rebels at large, liable to be shot

or hanged any day?"

"Until God sees fit to restore to the Church of Scotland a glorious

liberty, crowned and sanctioned by His own blessing and approval, my

brothers are content to undertake the risks involved by their firm

upstanding for the Covenant," answered Jane Gray, with quiet but

striking eloquence.

"Then you brothers are arrant fools, and deserve whatever fate may

befall them!" fumed Haughhead. "Is David Gray in the neighbourhood?

Could I see him? Although I am no bigoted zealot, I can pass my word of

honour and keep it, as a gentleman should. He will come by no harm

through me. I only desire to speak with him for a little space."

"It is impossible, Mr. Burnet. My brothers, and also my brother-in-law,

Adam Hepburn, have left this district, and I know not where they may now

be."

"I see you speak the truth. I had a message from my daughter, his

wife," said Haughhead, carelessly. "I can deliver it to you. Possibly

you may have some opportunity of communicating with him at no very

distant date."

"I shall be very pleased to receive your message, Mr. Burnet, and to

deliver it to David when opportunity offers."

"Well, it is just this, that if he will accept the king's generous

indulgence and return to the manse of Broomhill, she will come back to

him with her children, thus showing herself willing to overlook his long

desertion."

Jane Gray drew herself up, and a slight colour rose in her cheek.

"Truly, Mr. Burnet, I think Lilian Gray cannot be a changed woman when

she sent such a message to my brother," she said, proudly. "She should

rather have couched her message in terms of humility, seeing she so

wrongly and unkindly quitted him in the hour of his need."

"That is _your_ way of looking at it. We hold that, by his folly, David

Gray forfeited all claim on his wife's consideration," retorted

Haughhead, angrily. "But it is no use arguing with a Gray, so I will be

off, Jane Gray, wishing you a very good day."

"Stay, Mr. Burnet; will you tell me, please, how it is with the little

ones, my brother's bairns?" said Jane, laying a pleading hand on his

bridle rein. "I have a great yearning to see or hear something of

them."

"Oh, they are well, and as bonnie bairns as eyes could wish to see--true

Burnets both of them," answered Haughhead, stretching a point just to

vex the heart of the woman before him. "Tell David that, and tell him

that they'll soon forget they have a father at all."

With which parting shot, which brought an unbidden tear to Jane Gray's

eye, the Laird of Haughhead gave his horse the rein and rode rapidly

away.

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*UNLOOKED-FOR NEWS.*

In spite of the many stringent measures taken by the Government to

suppress the field preachings and break the spirit of the Covenanters,

the persecuted people continued to meet for worship in the mountain

solitudes or in the moorland wilds, thus strengthening each others'

hearts and hands, and renewing the bond of their precious Covenant, for

which these hardships were endured.

Now no conventicle was held unless protected by an armed band ready to

give the alarm and fight, if need be, the soldiers who might seek to

disturb or disperse them. Consequently skirmishes were of very frequent

occurrence, sometimes resulting in victory for the Presbyterians,

sometimes in their utter defeat. In these encounters many lost their

lives. Often were the heather and the mountain streams dyed with their

blood, and yet the army never seemed to diminish in numbers, for there

were ever some ready to fill the vacant places of those who had fallen.

The curates still continued to conduct Episcopal services in the kirks,

but the supremacy of the bishops seemed no nearer being established in

the last, because, with some exceptions, those who attended the

ministrations were people of little note or reputation, with perhaps a

few whom terror compelled to take their unwilling places in the kirks.

The struggles betwixt the Government and the Scottish Presbyterians had

now extended over several years, and seemed yet no nearer a satisfactory

termination. The Covenanters, with their intimate knowledge of their

native hills and dales, had the advantage over the troopers sent to hunt

and destroy them, and some of their mountain fastnesses were more

impregnable than a fortified city. In open warfare they might easily

have been cut to pieces, but time went on, and except the few skirmishes

already referred to, the opponents had never met in battle. Such a

state of affairs could not be satisfactory to the King of England, much

less so to Lauderdale and the Archbishop of St. Andrews, who were his

executors in Scotland.

When every troop of marauding dragoons was empowered to take captive,

torture, or kill any man, woman, or child whom they even suspected of

being a Covenanter, or of attending the Conventicles; when the property

of unoffending individuals was confiscated and distributed among the

spoilers; when the dwellings of peaceable country folk were robbed, and

often burned to the ground without explanation or excuse; when those who

were supposed to have afforded shelter or refreshment to the fugitives

were fined and imprisoned without mercy, it might have been thought that

there were no severer measures left in the Government repertoire, and

that they might have abandoned the persecutions in despair of ever

rooting Presbyterian principles out of Scotland. But as yet the

Government had no such intention. Those in power met to discuss, and

finally issued orders for the infliction of yet more stringent and cruel

treatment upon the rebels. Every forgotten and long-abhorred torture

was revived, and used as punishments by the unholy Courts, which made a

mockery of administering justice in the land.

Well might the endurance of God's people quail beneath the yoke of the

oppressor; well might their hearts be uplifted to Heaven in that

despairing cry, "O Lord, how long!"

One evening about the middle of May, in the year 1679, several men were

gathered together in a lonely farmhouse among the wilds of Lanarkshire.

Among them we recognise Andrew Gray of Hartrigge, and his brother,

David, the minister of Broomhill, also other two familiar faces, those

of Adam Hepburn of Rowallan, and Watty McBean, the carrier of Inverburn.

Having had his houses burned about his ears, his faithful nag and all

his valuables stolen, Watty had become, instead of a man of peace, a man

of war, and had joined the army lying in the Vale of Avondale. Betty had

retired to Hartrigge, which was now entirely left to the women-folk, and

was at the utter mercy of the soldiery. But as yet the homestead

remained untouched, though fair Rowallan was razed to the ground.

From the appearance of the company gathered in the room, as well as from

their remarks, it could be gathered that they were (with the exception

of Watty, who would on no account let Adam Hepburn out of his sight)

leaders among the insurgents. They were discussing the next steps to be

taken by the army, and Sir Robert Hamilton, brother to the Laird of

Inverburn, and a staunch, though moderate Presbyterian, was counselling

cautious measures, to which Andrew Gray, Adam Hepburn, and some other

fiery spirits listened with but a small show of patience, when there

came a loud and peremptory knocking at the door. Involuntarily all

sprang to their feet, and grasped their swords. If they were

discovered, and the soldiers were without, there were twenty valiant and

desperate men of them, who would fight dearly for their lives.

Adam Hepburn, sword in hand, fearlessly went to the outer door, and

threw it open. In the faint and uncertain beams of the young May moon

he saw only a solitary horseman, whose steed was panting and covered

with foam, as if it had galloped many miles that day.

"Is this Windyedge, the house of Gideon Dickson?" the horseman asked in

a thick whisper.

"Is it friend or foe?" queried Adam, briefly.

"Friend," replied the horseman, as briefly. "Is Sir Robert Hamilton

within?"

"He is; but be good enough first to give me your name as a guerdon of

your honour," said Adam.

"Tush! man," said the horseman impatiently; "well, John Balfour of

Kinloch, synonymous with liberty at any price, is it not?"

Those within, hearing the whispered conference, now came crowding out to

the door, and Sir Robert Hamilton, at sight of the figure on the horse,

uttered an exclamation of surprise, and at once stepped across the

threshold.

"John Balfour! What on earth brings you from Fife to this remote place?

No paltry reason, I could swear."

"You speak the truth," returned Balfour grimly. "Is there any fellow who

can put up my steed, who is in a sorry plight, poor wretch, as well he

may, after his desperate ride. And is there any refreshment to be had

within, for I am fainting with hunger and fatigue."

Gideon Dickson, the farmer of Windyedge, came out himself, and taking

the exhausted animal's bridle-rein, led him away towards the stable.

Then Balfour was conducted into the house, and refreshment immediately

set before him. While he partook of his repast he spoke not, and those

in the room who had hitherto only known him by hearsay as a fearless

soldier, who would fight under the most desperate circumstances, now

looked, not without astonishment, upon his person. In figure he was

considerably under the middle height, but his frame was powerfully knit,

and evidently possessed of great strength. His countenance was by no

means prepossessing, being dark and forbidding, while a cast in his eye

gave him a peculiarly fierce and unpleasant aspect. When he had

finished his repast he looked round upon the assembled company, and then

fixing his eyes on the face of Sir Robert Hamilton, briefly asked the

question:--

"Are these present to be trusted?"

"Ay, truly," answered Sir Robert. "They are the picked men of our

forces; therefore you may fearlessly open your mouth in their midst,

John."

"And there are no traitors or spies within hearing?" further queried

Kinloch, looking suspiciously round him.

"None; we are gathered here for consultation," replied Sir Robert. "Our

forces are lying about a mile distant, under cover of the Loudon hill."

"That is well. But, tell me, have you had no news, of a very

comfortable and pleasant nature, conveyed hither from Fife?" queried

Balfour grimly.

Sir Robert shook his head and made answer that they had received no

communication whatsoever from the shire of Fife.

"Nothing relating to that arch-fiend, James Sharp, of St. Andrews?"

"Nothing. Come, John, do not keep us in suspense. Can it be that the

Lord has permitted judgment to fall on him at last?"

"Even so," said Balfour. "Know, then, that certain faithful servants of

the Covenant, meeting the archbishop's carriage on Magus muir, on the

third day of this present month, sent the perjured traitor to his just

and righteous doom."

Sir Robert Hamilton was struck dumb in the intensity of his surprise and

horror, for in a moment the consequences of that rash and indefensible

act were made clear to his well-balanced mind. One or two others,

notably the minister of Broomhill, also exhibited dismay, but the

majority of those present received the news with a lively satisfaction,

and even with a species of fierce joy which told that in their zeal they

thirsted for blood.

"Who authorised, or led them to such a rash and unwise attack?" queried

Sir Robert Hamilton. "They must have been blind and blood-thirsty

zealots, surely, who killed a man in cold blood, without giving him a

chance to defend himself."

An expression of fierce and bitter scorn crossed the dark face of

Balfour as he made answer contemptuously.

"What of the many thousands who have been murdered in cold blood at

Sharp's instigation and with his approval? The like mercy he showed to

others was meted out to him. For my part, I would that he had ten other

lives, to be taken from him in the same summary fashion."

"I am of your opinion, Mr. Balfour," said the deep voice of Adam Hepburn

of Rowallan, and Kinloch immediately turned his deep-set eyes with

approval on the speaker. Something in the dogged and resolute

expression on his fine face, and in the gleam of his keen blue eye,

riveted Balfour's attention and caused him to mentally resolve that they

should become better acquainted with each other.

"And I, also," chimed in Andrew Gray in his quiet but weighty manner.

"There could be no fate too harsh for such a traitor. Verily he has

been a Judas in the Kirk of Scotland all his days, and his hands are

dyed with the blood of hundreds of innocents whom he has betrayed."

Still Sir Robert Hamilton shook his head, and a troubled and anxious

expression continued to dwell on his face.

"Come, tell me, John, who were the perpetrators of this deed of

violence?" he asked. "Are any of them personally known to you?"

A grim smile stole into Kinloch's face as he made answer--

"Faith, they were all as well known to me as my own brothers, seeing I

was in their midst, as also was my brother-in-law, David Hackstoun of

Rathillet."

"David Hackstoun of Rathillet!" ejaculated Sir Robert in tones of utter

amazement. "Very sure am I that so sweet and kindly a soul would not

lay a hand even on the archbishop."

"Well, like Saul, he looked on, consenting unto his death," said

Balfour. "I myself gave the traitor a sword thrust, just to wipe off

old scores, but it was not these hands that finished him. Nevertheless,

the crime is wholly charged upon my brother-in-law and myself, and I

take it there will be a heavy ransom set upon our precious heads. After

the deed was done we separated, David Hackstoun and I agreeing to join

the forces here; but he would go home to see his wife first, else he had

been here with me. It may be that his silly dallying may cost him his

life."

"You are right in saying there will be a heavy price set on your heads,"

said Sir Robert Hamilton; "and, what is more, we will all need to gird

about our swords and see to our armour, for now there will be no quarter

for any professing Covenanting principles. I prophesy that the king

will take steps to terribly avenge his primate's death."

"What of that?" queried Balfour, carelessly. "What ingenuity or revenge

could suggest more terrible and bloody oppression than has been pressed

on Scotland these past ten years?"

"Well, well, what's done can't be undone," said Sir Robert, with a

somewhat mournful smile. "Now, lads, we had better to our discussions

again. We were but planning a great field meeting for Sabbath week, at

which a Communion Service might be held, and we were somewhat divided as

to a suitable place of meeting."

"Are there many soldiers in the district?" asked Balfour.

"Ah, that we cannot tell. They rise mysteriously, as it were out of the

bowels of the earth, when least expected," replied Sir Robert. "But I

heard on good authority that that miscreant--for I can call him nothing

else--John Graham of Claverhouse is in the west."

"Right well would I like to measure swords with him," said Balfour, with

feverish eagerness. "Such a man is not fit to live."

"It's no' very easy gettin' at him," piped the shrill voice of Watty

McBean. "I'm tell he rides a muckle black horse the deevil sent him,

an' that nae man can owertak' him."

Balfour immediately turned his piercing eyes on Watty's face with a

glance which covered him with confusion, for he had been surprised into

speech without thinking.

"Be quiet, Watty," said Adam Hepburn promptly, which rebuke caused Watty

to slink behind the door, chiefly to escape the gaze of Balfour, whom he

had regarded with terror ever since his entrance.

"Those who are best acquainted with the district should be the fittest

to choose a place of meeting," said Balfour. "What numbers have you at

Loudon Hill?"

"About three hundred, and at a short notice we could speedily double or

treble the number. There having been no fighting of late, very many

have returned to their homes. Indeed, those with us are chiefly men

whose goods have been confiscated and their dwellings pillaged and

burned."

"I see no better spot than where our army now lies," said Adam Hepburn.

"It is a sheltered and suitable place, and from the top of the hill our

watchers could readily descry the enemy approaching from one side, while

upon the other that wide and dreary morass is a bulwark in our defence."

"I agree with you," said Sir Robert. "Then we can fix upon the place

and day, and send word through the surrounding district."

"Have you forgotten that the anniversary of the king's restoration is to

be celebrated throughout Scotland on the 29th of this present month?"

asked Balfour.

"No: we have had that under discussion likewise, John," replied Sir

Robert, "and we intend to celebrate it in our own fashion. But of that

more anon. And now we must separate for the night. My quarters in the

meantime are here, John. You had better remain with me in case

Rathillet should come hither seeking you. He should be here by the

latest to-morrow."

Balfour acquiesced, and, being much fatigued, gladly retired to rest,

while the others separated to the various places where they were to

obtain shelter for the night.

*CHAPTER XX.*

*DRUMCLOG.*

All the following day, David Hackstoun of Rathillet was anxiously

expected by his brethren in arms, in the vale of Avondale. And when

night closed, and there were yet no signs of him, they began to tremble

lest some evil had befallen him. Early upon the second morning,

however, when that good man and faithful supporter of the Covenanters,

Gideon Dickson, the farmer of Windyedge, was leading out his horses as

usual to water, he beheld a horseman coming, but slowly and dejectedly,

up the road. He at once ran into the house, awakened his distinguished

guests, who speedily dressed and got out of doors, just as the horseman

rode into the yard.

"David Hackstoun! verily, glad am I to behold your face," said Balfour,

advancing to meet him. "We feared, and not without cause, that your

unwise delay had cost you dear."

"It was like to be my end," answered Rathillet, with a faint smile, and

he was so weary that they had to assist him to alight; then he very

cordially greeted Sir Robert Hamilton, with whom he had some slight and

very agreeable acquaintance.

"I had a desperate ride, especially betwixt Stirling and Avondale," he

said, in answer to their inquiries. "There is a price of 10,000 marks

upon my head, and you can readily imagine that there are many greedy

vultures on my track. But, truly, I think that as yet the direction of

my flight is not known."

"Is there no price upon my head also?" queried Balfour.

"Yes, we are accounted equal prey, but the proclamation is so worded

that the rewards fall to whoever shall lay hands on any one of those who

were present at or took part in Sharp's assassination," returned

Rathillet. "But, come, tell me how is it you are abiding in such

apparent ease here? I thought it would have been unsafe to shelter

under any man's roof-tree."

"So it is, but this is a very remote place, and difficult of access, and

there are many ways of escape from it," returned Sir Robert Hamilton.

"And our brethren in arms are not far distant."

"Ah well, very gladly will I rest awhile with you, for I am as sore

spent as ever man was," said Hackstoun. "And never did I expect to

reach this place alive. The last place I ventured to ask concerning you

was a little moorland shieling, where a woman was dwelling alone. She

told me her husband was with the army, and that she was making

preparations to retire to her kinsfolk in Hamilton, being in daily

terror of a visit from the dragoons, who had shot her sister not many

weeks ago, when she was returning from a preaching."

At that moment the mistress of the house, a kindly and hospitable dame,

appeared, and bade them come in, as breakfast was prepared on the table.

She looked compassionately at the worn and weather-beaten appearance of

the new comer, and hastened to get him some cool water from the spring,

in which to lave his dusty face and hands. Very grateful were all these

comforts to the weary fugitive, and, after heartily partaking of the

good dame's fare, he lay down to snatch a few hours' much-needed rest.

Later in the day Sir Robert Hamilton and he, after long and earnest

discussion, set themselves to compile a declaration, which it was their

intention to publish on the day of the king's restoration. On the 28th

of May, the day before the celebration, eighty men were chosen from

among the ranks of the Covenanters, and with Sir Robert Hamilton at

their head marched westwards to Glasgow. Andrew Gray and Adam Hepburn

were of the number, and the expedition was much to their liking, but the

minister of Broomhill remained behind with the forces, as did Balfour

and David Hackstoun, for great risk attended their appearance, seeing so

high a price was on their heads. About noon, on the 29th, Sir Robert

Hamilton's band rode into the burgh of Rutherglen, where a great

semblance of rejoicing was going on over the anniversary of the king's

restoration. Many of the people merely took part in the proceedings

through fear of the consequence, if they refused, but when the

Presbyterians rode so boldly into the town, they took heart, and at once

revealed their true principles, by heartily approving and taking part in

their proceedings. The little company gathered about the ancient cross,

and after burning in the very bonfire which had been kindled in honour

of the king, all the Acts he had issued against the Covenanters, Sir

Robert Hamilton published to all those gathered together, the

declaration which Rathillet and he had drawn up against the Government.

They then proceeded to extinguish the bonfires, and sweep away all

outward tokens of rejoicing with a fearless boldness, which surprised

the trembling burghers of Rutherglen not a little.

They then rode away by the route they had come, but the day now being

far spent, several of them proposed to remain over night in Hamilton,

calculating that next day, being Saturday, they would have ample time to

return to Loudon hill in time for the Conventicle on the Sabbath. They

were divided, however and the more prudent among them judging that the

troops would speedily follow up to avenge the insult to the king,

elected not to halt until they rejoined the army. Fifteen of the bolder

spirits held on to Hamilton, and sought quarters there, but at day-break

they were hastily roused, and informed that Claverhouse, with his troop

in pursuit of them, was close upon the town, and was in a great rage,

swearing that not a man of them would escape with his life.

By the time they were accoutred and ready to march, the pursuers had

entered the town, but the fugitives escaped by another road, and so

obtained a little advantage.

In Hamilton Claverhouse learned of the field meeting to be held the

following day at Loudon hill, whereat he chuckled with delight, for the

dispersion of a conventicle was work after his own heart.

Fair, calm, and sweet broke that summer Sabbath morning over the

beautiful vale of Avondale. The watchers stationed on the hill tops

since daybreak could see no sign of the approaching foe, and it was with

untroubled and reverently thankful hearts that the faithful people came

flocking to hear the preaching of that precious Word, for which all

these dangers and anxieties were cheerfully endured. It was a strange,

striking, and very pathetic scene, to look upon that gathering of simple

country folk, denied the privilege of hearing the pure Gospel preached

in its simplicity within the walls of their own kirks, reverently

assembled to worship the God of their fathers in a tabernacle of which

men could not rob them, even the green slopes of their dear native

hills.

The inner circle was composed of women and children, and those among the

older men not so well able to defend themselves. Below that was a ring

of stout country men, armed with halberds, forks, and other weapons,

which they had hitherto used in more peaceable pursuits; while beyond

these again was a band of sturdy, well-armed foot-soldiers, finally

encompassed by a party of horse. Sir Robert Hamilton, calm, dignified,

and self-possessed, sat erect upon his steed, ready at a moment's notice

to take command of the little army, while near to him sat David

Hackstoun, his fine face wearing an expression of deep and heavenly

serenity, which told how passing sweet to his soul was this hour of

communing with his God. Side by side, on a rocky ledge, sat Balfour of

Kinloch, and Adam Hepburn of Rowallan, and, I fear me, their hearts were

occupied by far other thoughts than the reverent worship of the God of

the Covenant. Yet their outward demeanour was decorous enough. There

were also several ministers present.

After the singing of a psalm David Gray led the devotions of the

assembly, and as his beautiful and appropriate petitions, the deep

breathing of his own pure and reverent soul, fell from his lips, tears

rolled down the faces of many present, and more than one voice fervently

re-echoed his amen.

The reverend Mr. Douglas, who was to preach the sermon, gave out his

text, and had but newly addressed himself to his subject, when a

carabine shot was fired from the hill-top, a warning salute which had

been agreed upon before the service commenced.

They were speedily informed that Claverhouse, with a considerable body

of dragoons, was rapidly approaching. Without the faintest sign of

confusion, or any exhibition of terror, the little army prepared

themselves for battle.

Sir Robert Hamilton took the command, and was assisted by Balfour and

Rathillet, as also by some other gentlemen of rank, present on the

field.

To their joy they beheld the enemy advancing towards the morass, which

would prove a very considerable barrier in their way. Had Claverhouse

been familiarly acquainted with the nature of a Scottish morass, or bog,

as the country folk term it, he would without doubt have rather taken a

more circuitous route to avoid it. The Covenanters stood perfectly

still until the dragoons were well into the moss, then singing the

favourite seventy-sixth psalm, to the familiar strains of "Martyrs,"

they steadfastly advanced to engage the foe in conflict. Those left

behind prostrated themselves in prayer to the God of Heaven,

supplicating victory for the blue banner of the Covenant, waving in the

light summer breeze, its white letters, "For Christ's Cause and

Covenant," made resplendent by the brilliance of the summer sun. The

first volley fired by the Covenanters emptied many a saddle in

Claverhouse's ranks, and without giving them time to rally, the brave

little band plunged into the morass, and then began a terrible

hand-to-hand conflict, which must ensure either complete victory or

total defeat.

Sir Robert Hamilton kept to his horse, encouraging his men with his

calm, cheerful demeanour, as well as by his steadfast words. As was to

be expected, Adam Hepburn fought with desperate valour, and caused

Balfour to regard him anew with a peculiar interest. After a brief, but

terrible struggle, Claverhouse, seeing the field was utterly lost,

hastily retreated with the exhausted remnant of his troops, narrowly

escaping with his own life.

Many dead and wounded lay in the morass, but the Covenanters

miraculously lost only one man, while five were wounded.

With thankful and triumphant hearts they prepared to return to the base

of the hill.

Balfour of Kinloch, finding himself near Adam Hepburn, as they turned to

go, touched his arm and said, in his brief fashion, "What is it in you,

Adam Hepburn, which makes you fight like Lucifer himself? Where did you

get that desperate courage?"

Adam Hepburn stooped to wipe his reeking sword upon the already

blood-stained heather, and after a brief pause made answer, grimly: