"Thirteen years ago, Mr. Balfour, I had a wife, who was to me the very

apple of my eye. She was my one ewe lamb, all I had upon the earth, and

in my absence they murdered her, shot her down in cold blood upon the

threshold of the home whose light she was. I came home to find her

dying, and I swore over her dead body that this sword should not be

suffered to return to its sheath until it had sucked the life blood of

as many dragoons as there were years upon her head."

Balfour, though void of any touch of sentiment, stranger as he was to

the finer feelings of human nature, felt himself deeply moved as he

listened to these hoarse, low-spoken words, and saw the terrible gleam

in the flashing eye of Adam Hepburn. "Ay, how old was she?" he asked,

curtly.

"Eight-and-twenty years had passed over her head; for the fifth part of

that time she had blessed my life," returned Adam Hepburn, drawing his

hand across his brow, which was wet with the sweat of the conflict.

"Yes, eight-and-twenty years! Seven miscreants did this right arm send

to their account not twelve months after, on the field of Rullion Green.

Other four have I encountered in single combat, surprising them when I

was in hiding in the vale of Inverburn, and always escaping miraculously

with my life."

"And to-day?" queried Balfour, curiously, much struck by his companion's

words.

"Nine fell before me in the fight this day," said Adam, with fierce

exultation. "Ay, my good and trusty blade, eight times yet hast thou to

penetrate the breast of the foe, and then, perchance, thy last

resting-place shall be found in the heart of thy poor master himself."

"She must have been a woman above the average, Adam Hepburn, that you

should thus dedicate your life to the shrine of her revenge," said

Balfour, musingly.

"She was--but there, what need is there for me to say more; was she not

my _wife_?" said Adam Hepburn. Then, as if tired of the conversation,

he abruptly turned away, and fell to the rear of the army.

They now returned to the base of the hill, where they were warmly

welcomed by those who had so anxiously watched the fray from afar,

alternately hoping and fearing, and never ceasing in their prayers.

A devout and reverent thanksgiving service was then held, and those who

had attended the Conventicle afterwards returned to their homes, with

their faith strengthened, and their hearts much encouraged by the

favourable events of the day.

*CHAPTER XXI.*

*DISUNION.*

A conference of the leaders of the victorious Covenanting army was held

that same day, to decide the next steps to be taken. Balfour of

Kinloch, and others of his fiery temperament, so strongly advocated an

immediate march to Glasgow that they set aside the more prudent counsels

of their moderate brethren, and accordingly next morning Sir Robert

Hamilton led the army towards Glasgow. They were joined on the way by

many others, encouraged by the news of the victory at Drumclog, and they

entered the town early in the day. Claverhouse, however, had already

warned out the garrison, who were ready to receive them, and after a

sharp tussle, in which seven or eight of the Covenanters were killed,

they hastily beat a retreat, and fled to the town of Hamilton, where

they pitched a camp.

The report of their success at Drumclog having already been largely

published abroad, considerable numbers of those who had held aloof from

the struggling handful who had defied the Government against fearful

odds, now came flocking to join them. The blue standard of the Covenant

was boldly unfurled on the banks of the noble Clyde, and for a time

waved proudly in the summer breeze.

Some of the ministers of the district, who, for the sake of their

families and desolate parishes had accepted the indulgence, feeling

their hearts stirred by the old enthusiasm, rose up with one accord, and

quitting their homes, voluntarily joined their brethren in arms. These

were accompanied by numbers of their parishioners, who had previously

followed the example of their ministers with regard to the indulgence.

While the less narrow-minded among the Presbyterians rejoiced

unfeignedly at the augmentation of their numbers, and gladly welcomed

these brethren to the camp, there was another party who bitterly

protested against the admission of the renegades, as they termed them,

to the ranks. Thus the days succeeding Drumclog were spent in useless

wrangling, while the Government was hastily organising the forces

intended to sweep the rebels off the face of the earth.

One evening, a few weeks after the battle of Drumclog, a number of the

officers and other leading men among the Presbyterians, were gathered

together for conference in the house of William Wylie, a well-known

gentleman, and honourable townsman in Hamilton. Among those present

were Sir Robert Hamilton, John Balfour, David Hackstoun, William

Carmichael, Adam Hepburn, and Andrew Gray of Hartrigge; the last two

mentioned being recognised as leaders among the Covenanters on account

of their faithfulness and undaunted valour, proved on many occasions

since the first rising in Kirkcudbrightshire.

There were also present a goodly number of that protesting party who had

accepted the indulgence, and who were desirous that this struggle should

be based solely upon the questions affecting religious liberty, and

that, therefore, the king's authority in matters temporal should be

acknowledged.

"I hold," said Sir Robert Hamilton, in his clear and decisive way, "that

the king has forfeited all claim upon our consideration. I therefore

emphatically declare that he has no right nor interest to be

acknowledged in our councils and actions. He is at war with the people

of Scotland, whom we represent, and therefore we cannot acknowledge his

authority in any matter whatsoever."

"Then you would that we should utterly and entirely condemn the

indulgence of 1669?" asked Mr. Welch.

"Undoubtedly," replied Sir Robert, without a moment's hesitation.

"Then by doing so, a slur is cast upon those brethren who have lately

joined us," said Mr. Welch. "Yet they were good and true men, who acted

upon the promptings of their own conscience, deeming it better to accept

the king's offer than to allow the deplorable desolation to continue in

their parishes."

"Mr. Welch, we are not met together to discuss the indulgence, and those

who partook of its humiliating benefits," said Andrew Gray rising, and

speaking with gloomy energy. "This is a council of war, and the sooner

we make arrangements whereby our forces can be fairly united, the better

it will be for us in the day of battle, now rapidly approaching."

"But it is incumbent upon us first to publish to the world some

declaration, showing our reasons for continuing in arms," protested Mr.

Welch. "And I hold that we are bound by the spirit and letter of our

Covenants, as expressed in the third article thereof, to expressly own

the authority of the king."

"It seems to me that we are wasting time in vain talking, sirs," said

David Hackstoun of Rathillet, in his mild, sweet manner. "The brethren

who are so anxious that we should declare for the king must remember

that we have never yet publicly disowned him, although we have publicly

disowned the edicts issued at his instigation. Though we may not

approve of a man's actions, brethren, we do not necessarily altogether

repudiate the man himself."

"Mr. Hackstoun expresses himself very sweetly and kindly," said Mr.

Welch. "But in these times we must use words and perform actions so

clear that they cannot possibly be misconstrued. And I make bold to

hold still that it is incumbent upon us, according to the wording of our

solemn league and Covenant, to acknowledge our loyalty to the king in

matters temporal, although we protest against the form of Church

government and public worship he would forcibly thrust upon us."

"To my mind the temporal and spiritual interests of a people are

inseparable one from the other," said Sir Robert Hamilton, and his face

betrayed his weariness of the unprofitable discussion. "And I make bold

to hold and to move, that the king having set himself in grave

opposition to our Lord Christ, and His Church, and having organised and

carried on fearful persecution against those people of God in his

Scottish dominions, and having further crowned these many grave offences

against his kingly prerogative by publicly declaring war against us, we

cannot declare ourselves in his favour. Gentlemen, we would be a

world's wonder were we first to own his supremacy and then to fight in

battle against him."

"With these finely turned phrases Sir Robert Hamilton may satisfy his

own conscience," said Mr. Welch, sourly, "but the arguments he advances,

if held to, will, I prophesy, occasion many divisions in our ranks."

"It seems to me, gentlemen," said Adam Hepburn, jumping to his feet, and

speaking with passionate eagerness, "it seems to me that we resemble a

council of madmen rather than grave and sober folk gathered together to

discuss the issues of war. With the king's forces almost within sight

of us, were it not a fitter thing that we should be either practising in

the field or encouraging each other's hands for the immediate struggle,

rather than sitting yelping at each other over trifles?"

"Well said, Adam Hepburn!" exclaimed Balfour, whose dark countenance had

worn an expression of open disgust and impatience during the discussion.

"I was just marvelling in my own mind how much longer this drivelling

was to continue. Let us end this idiotic and off-putting discussion,

and go forth as one man to the field; else I warn you that woeful will

be the retribution which will follow upon the heels of our folly."

"Mr. Adam Hepburn and the Laird of Kinloch have expressed themselves

with a force and clearness which must commend their words to the

brethren," said Sir Robert Hamilton. "I would therefore move that this

discussion be laid aside, and that, burying all differences, which have

somewhat marred the harmony of our relationships one with the other, we

go forth as one man, having only before us the spirit of these brave

words engraven on our standard--'For Christ's cause and Covenant.'"

"There is wide dissatisfaction in the ranks because of the manner in

which the chief posts in the army are distributed," said Mr. Welch,

persistently. "I would therefore move that all these posts be declared

vacant and new officers harmoniously chosen, in order that when the day

of battle comes we may not be split up by jealousies and divisions."

A dead silence followed upon this suggestion. It was broken at length

by the tones of Sir Robert Hamilton's voice, which betrayed some

sharpness and annoyance.

"I, with those present of my mind, am quite willing to agree to Mr.

Welch's proposal upon condition that the origin and nature of our

disputes and the cause of the changes be fairly and justly stated, in

order that the blame of them may rest upon the heads of those who have

kindled the quarrel."

"It is not meet that all those worthy men who, as was said before, for

conscience' sake accepted the indulgence should be utterly kept in the

background," said Mr. David Hume, who had not yet spoken. "I agree with

Mr. Welch."

"By the powers, I will listen to no more drivel about the indulgence!"

cried Sir Robert Hamilton, starting to his feet. "Gentlemen, I wish you

good day, and an amicable settlement and arrangement of these weighty

affairs. I will take no further part in such unseemly and unprofitable

discussion."

So saying he stalked out of the place, followed by many of his way of

thinking, so that the indulgence party had it all to themselves. The

trusty leader, feeling himself unjustly and ungenerously set aside,

retired somewhat sorrowfully with his immediate friends to the camp on

Hamilton Muir. They heard there that the king's forces under the Duke

of Monmouth, who had come expressly from London to command the

suppression of the rebellion, were close upon the town of Bothwell.

A warning messenger was at once sent to those who had remained in

council in the house of William Wylie, and, after some discussion, it

was agreed to send a deputation to wait upon the Duke, in order that

their grievances might be laid before him.

Early on the Sabbath morning this deputation, which had been promised

safe and patient hearing, crossed the bridge over the Clyde at Bothwell

and entered the royal camp. The deputation consisted of Mr. David Hume,

Mr. Welch, and the Laird of Kaitloch, and when they were shown into the

presence of the duke they were much struck by his noble and princely

bearing, and by the mild, benevolent expression on his countenance.

He listened courteously to their supplications, which prayed not only

for freedom to meet both in general assembly and to worship as they

willed in the churches, but also craved indemnity for all who were now

or had been in arms against the king.

The duke gave them courteous hearing, but refused them an answer until

they should lay down their arms and submit to the king's mercy.

"My Lord Duke," said Mr. Welch, "we cannot give up our liberty so

easily, nor so readily own ourselves in the wrong. If your Grace would

but give a little heed to the nature of these our supplications, I am

sure your Grace would be speedily convinced of their justice and

moderation."

"It is impossible for me to give you the promise of satisfaction, save

upon the condition that you at once lay down your arms," replied the

duke, calmly. "I am sent hither to stamp out this foolish rebellion, and

while quite willing to give you every chance to submit ere it be too

late, still I cannot delay the performance of the unpleasant but binding

duty imposed upon me by my liege, the king. Therefore go back to your

friends, and lay my conditions before them. If an answer be not returned

to me within half an hour from now I shall take up the gauntlet of

defiance you have thrown down, and order my battalions to advance."

As the duke spoke, he looked, not without compassion, upon the little

army lying on the moor upon the opposite bank of the river, close to the

bridge, which was the sole barrier betwixt it and the overwhelming

forces of the king.

The deputation thanked the duke, and withdrew with haste to their own

camp, before which they laid his conditions.

The half-hour of grace was speedily frittered away in a renewal of the

bitter and unfruitful debates which had already so weakened their unity,

and these were continuing when the alarm was given that the enemy was

making preparations for immediate battle by planting their cannon on

Bothwell bridge.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*BOTHWELL BRIDGE.*

The long, yellow rays of the June sunshine fell upon a strange, unwonted

scene that Sabbath morning, on the banks of the flowing Clyde. Upon the

Bothwell side the king's forces, to the number of 15,000, were

marshalled in proud and glittering array. Well might the leaders of the

Covenanters look upon them with sinking heart and foreboding eye, for

their own little army, poorly armed, badly trained, and split up by many

internal divisions, would, in all probability, be swept away as chaff

before the wind. Their position was their chief, nay, almost their only

strength. It was assailable only by the narrow bridge, which surely

could be held by the bravest among them long enough to give the enemy a

serious check. The Covenanters were hastily called to form to resist

the attack, but there seemed a strange coldness, an indifference and

lukewarmness in the ranks which contrasted sharply with the enthusiastic

valour on the day of Drumclog. A number of those who were least

untainted by the spirit of jealous dissension voluntarily placed

themselves under the leadership of brave Kathillet, and advanced to

defend the bridge. It was a terrible and heart-breaking sight to see

that dauntless little band, true to the last, marching on to meet the

foe, while the great body of their brethren, with sullen faces and

indifferent mien, hung back and stood about listlessly, as if quite

prepared to see them cut to pieces.

"Is it not enough, Adam Hepburn, to cause a judgment to fall from

Heaven, to see yon white-livered and obstinate crew?" exclaimed Andrew

Gray, as they were advancing to meet the enemy. "We can expect nothing

but defeat to-day. How can God's blessing go with us?"

Adam Hepburn answered not, but the more firmly grasped his trusty blade,

and gave a look to his pistols. It was sufficient for him that

opportunity was again given to measure swords with the foe, and that

to-day he might fulfil his vow to the very letter.

But to Andrew Gray this bitter disunion among the followers of the

Covenant was almost like a death-blow, for never once since he first

cast in his lot with its fortunes had he swerved from his allegiance to

the blue banner, or allowed personal feeling for one moment to interfere

with his adherence to the common cause. Bigoted, narrow, prejudiced

Presbyterian he might be, but he was at least single-hearted in his love

for the Church of his fathers, and true as steel in his upholding of her

principles and doctrine.

"I know not why, Adam, but the prevision is strong within me that my

hour is come, and that I shall fall this day," he said, in a grave but

calm voice. "If it be so you will convey my last messages to Susan and

the bairns."

"Surely; but why are you filled with such gloomy forebodings to-day?"

asked Adam. "You and I have fought together before now, and save for

that scratch you got at Rullion Green, have escaped unhurt."

"Yes, because the time was not yet come," responded Hartrigge. "You

will say to Susan, that in the hour of battle I was not unmindful of

her, and that through these many weary months of separation she and the

bairns have been ever in my thoughts and prayers. She knows my wishes

about the upbringing of the bairns. Tell you them that their father

died bravely fighting for Christ's cause and Covenant, and that he

thought the sacrifice of his life as nothing compared with that sweet

cause for which he gave it."

"Here they come!" exclaimed Adam Hepburn, setting his teeth; then the

order was given to fire upon the advancing foe, already making a bold

effort to cross the bridge. The volley was fired, but there was no time

to repeat it, for the enemy came pouring across the narrow defile, and

now it was only hand to hand combat, which could keep them back. Brave

David Hackstoun, supported by Balfour and Adam Hepburn, were in the very

fore front, and many a soldier fell before the dauntless three. Nor was

Andrew Gray idle. At the very outset of the fray he received a wound

thrust In the left thigh, but continued to fight, although nearly

fainting with the pain and loss of blood. It was a fearful sight; the

wildest confusion seemed to prevail on the bridge, which speedily began

to be rendered almost impassable by the bodies of the fallen. The

snorting and pawing of horses, the clashing of swords, the boom of

cannon, and the sharp report of musketry, the hoarse wild cries of those

maddened with the excitement, mingling with the moans and shrieks of the

wounded and dying, filled the air with a din of sound quite

indescribable. The clear summer air was obscured by the smoke of the

cannon, and at times those sullenly watching the fray from the moor

could scarcely discern how went the battle, but they _could_ see that

the Clyde ran red with blood.

[Illustration: "The wildest confusion seemed to prevail on the bridge"]

Seeing his brother-in-law engaged with a dragoon, and that he was like

to fall, Adam Hepburn stepped aside, and thrust the trooper through the

heart, just as Hartrigge fell.

"Mortal?" he inquired briefly, bending down over him, thus doubly

risking his own life by a moment's swerving from his post.

"Yes, to-night I shall sup with my Lord Jesus, and see my son. Tell his

mother," Andrew Gray gasped; then Adam had to see to himself, for he was

nearly surrounded. Step by step that brave band was driven from their

post, one by one they fell, until but a remnant remained. These at last

were finally driven from the last foot of the bridge, and Monmouth

ordered his entire battalion to mount the cannon and pass over. The

remnant turned to flee, but only those who were on horseback had a

chance to escape. Rathillet and Balfour, seeing all was lost, gave spur

to their steeds and rode rapidly off the field. Adam Hepburn, with

faithful Watty McBean, who was wounded in the shoulder, fled on foot,

but being pursued by a party of the Duke's army, were taken prisoners,

with hundreds of their brethren fleeing across Hamilton Muir. The

soldiery disarmed every man among their prisoners, divested them of half

their clothing, and ordered them to lie flat down on the ground, warning

them that any movement would be followed by instant death.

"I say, Adam Hepburn, whaur will the minister o' Broomhill be, think

ye?" queried Watty, who was lying beside Adam, and groaning grievously

with the pain of his wound.

"I have not set eyes on him since before we went into action," said

Adam. "Oh, for a horse, Watty, to get clean off this fatal field!"

"Ye may say it. I dinna believe this is mysel'," replied Watty. "I was

aye a peaceable man, an' to think I should come to this beats a'. I

maun just ease mysel' up a wee an' look roond for the minister."

"Watty, if you do, it will be your death," Adam warned him; but Watty

was not to be repressed, and accordingly raised his head. No sooner had

he done so, than a bullet came whizzing past his ears, and then another,

which did not miss its mark. A deep groan escaped Watty's lips, and he

rolled over on his side. In a few minutes all was over, and poor Watty

had gone where he would inherit that peace which had been so dear to his

soul on earth. Adam Hepburn groaned also, in the bitterness of his

soul. Of all his kindred and friends was he alone left upon the face of

the earth, a desolate outcast, for whom the prison tortures were in

reserve? With his own hand he had cut down seven troopers on Bothwell

Bridge; only one more well-aimed stroke, and he had been released from

his vow!

Oh, if he had but shot or stabbed the trooper who had disarmed him,

instead of tamely submitting, although his own life would have been

instantly forfeited, it would have but been an end of all his troubles!

But Adam Hepburn had still a desire to live. Although he had no craven

fear of death the thought of it was not so pleasant as it was to many of

the suffering remnant, whose daily prayer had been that they might be

taken from these weary troubles into the rest prepared for those who

endure for the Master's sake.

The captain commanding the battalion which made all these captive was

about to give orders for a general slaughter, when an aide-de-camp from

the Duke brought the command that as many prisoners as possible should

be spared alive. But there was a body of cavalry pursuing the fugitives

who had escaped on foot, and all they overtook were instantly cut down.

The thirst for blood and vengeance being awakened in the breasts of many

of the royal officers and men, the most horrible suggestions were made,

such as that all the country, including the towns in the west, should be

burned, and a general slaughter made of the people; but the Duke of

Monmouth very firmly and indignantly set all these infamous proposals

aside, and gave peremptory orders for the exercise of due mercy towards

the defeated rebels. He thus showed himself a generous and

noble-hearted man, and gave evidence in his actions that it had been

against his own desire that he had been compelled to suppress the

Covenanters in such a summary fashion. But he could not altogether

influence those under him, neither could he see everything with his own

eye, and the poor prisoners, at the hands of his subordinate officers,

met with but little mercy.

It was decided that the prisoners be conveyed to Edinburgh. They were

accordingly tied two and two together, and driven before the soldiery,

who treated them with the greatest barbarity.

Adam Hepburn had for his companion the godly Mr. John Kid, one of the

most devoted sufferers for the cause.

"This is a grievous day for the name and cause of our sweet Lord,

friend," said Mr. Kid, when, after the march was begun, he could get a

word spoken.

"It has been a bloody day, indeed!" answered Adam Hepburn. "It had been

otherwise had there been fewer vile wranglings in our midst. Saw you

not how many stood aloof, and left a handful to defend the bridge?"

"Aye, truly my heart was riven by these sad dissensions among the

brethren," said Mr. Kid. "You were not, then, of that protesting party

which stood back because certain brethren who had accepted the

indulgence were in the ranks?"

"No, truly," replied Adam Hepburn, with a slightly bitter smile. "It

was all one to me, who or what fought beside me, so long as I got in

grips with the enemy."

"Is it so sweet to you to shed blood, my brother?" inquired Mr. Kid, in

a mild tone of surprise. But just then a dragoon rode past, and

observing that they talked, gave Mr. Kid a blow across the cheek with

the flag of his sword, which caused the blood to flow from his nostrils

in a copious stream. Being in bonds, he could not endeavour to staunch

it, and was therefore in a pitiable plight, seeing which the soldier,

with a loud and brutal laugh, bade him hold his blasphemous tongue,

unless he desired another blow to keep it company.

"Oh, that I had my good blade!" exclaimed Adam Hepburn under his breath,

and at the same time flashing a glance of intense hatred after the

trooper.

"Let him be, poor man. He is like those Jews of old that buffeted our

dear Lord, who compassionately prayed, 'Father, forgive them; they know

not what they do,'" said Mr. Kid, in a quiet voice. "Shall this poor

worm, professing to be His servant, not strive to follow that sweet

example?"

Adam Hepburn was silent, for what was there in his stormy and rebellious

soul in unison with his companion's sweet forgiveness and merciful

compassion?

"Know this, friend, that not many days from now I shall be beyond the

reach or power of those who can hurt or kill the body," whispered Mr.

Kid, after a brief interval. "In a dream my Lord bade me be of good

cheer, for these sufferings should not long continue, but should

presently have an ending in His Paradise. Oh, to be there even now!

But I would not that my Lord should call me until I have fulfilled my

testimony, and borne whatsoever may be required of me for His cause and

kingdom here."

Adam Hepburn spoke no word, and his companion, thinking him too much

occupied with his own thoughts to be disturbed, presently desisted from

his remarks, but comforted himself on the weary way by repeating in a

low voice many sweet and precious passages of Scripture calculated to

encourage the heart in these present trying circumstances.

Although night fell, the prisoners were not allowed to halt in their

march, but were mercilessly kept on foot and driven before the cavalry

towards Edinburgh.

In the grey dawning of the sweet summer morning they came within sight

of the grey towers and turrets of the city.

*CHAPTER XXIII.*

*IN CAPTIVITY.*

The prisons in Edinburgh were so full that they could hold no more.

What, then, was to be done with the twelve hundred victims brought from

the slaughter at Bothwell Bridge?

The Government ordered that they should be shut into the churchyard of

the Greyfriars, and there kept unceasing watch over day and night. So

the old burying-ground, made memorable and sacred by another great

gathering which had assembled within its boundaries forty years before,

was now converted into an open gaol, the horrors of which pen could

never describe.

In the Grass-market there abode still Edward Kilgour, the merchant,

brother-in-law to the late minister of Inverburn. Although a zealous

and worthy Presbyterian, he had never joined with his brethren in arms,

but had followed the dictates of his conscience and religion more

quietly at home, attending to his business and the affairs of his

household, and had thus escaped molestation. He was a man now stricken

in years, but was still able to perform the duties of his calling, and

attend personally in his place of business. His daughter Ailie, now a

middle-aged woman, had remained unmarried for her father's sake, and

kept his house.

When they heard of the arrival of the prisoners from Bothwell, they were

both much exercised in their minds as to whether any of their Inverburn

kinsfolk should be among them.

"I'll go up, Ailie," said the old man, "I'll go up to the kirkyard, and,

if permitted to approach the gates, see whether I can discern any of the

faces of our dear ones among that pitiful throng. Very sure am I that,

unless your cousins Andrew and David and Adam Hepburn were slain on the

field, they will be there, for they would never turn their backs upon

the foe."

"Do not needlessly expose yourself, father," said his daughter,

anxiously. "Though you find any of my cousins there, what profit will

it be but only to vex us, seeing we cannot help them?"

"You may be right, but I cannot sit still at home till I learn whether

any of them be there," said the old man, quietly, and, getting his plaid

about his shoulders, went out upon his quest.

Ailie Kilgour busied herself about the house, but as the time passed she

began to grow extremely anxious for her father's return. He had been

more than two hours gone, when, to her great relief, she at length heard

his foot on the stair. When he entered the house she at once saw that

he was greatly troubled, for seldom had she seen him look so grave and

yet so agitated.

"Well, father?" she said, inquiringly.

"Let me sit down, my daughter, for I am exhausted with sorrow over what

I have seen this day. That the Almighty does not at once interpose in

the might of His omnipotent arm is, to my mind, evidence that the Church

has required all these fearful sufferings to purify her from her

iniquity, and that not yet is she refined enough in the fire to be a

meet vessel for her Master's glory."

"Tell me what you saw, father," said Ailie, anxiously.

"Saw, lassie! Ask me rather what I did not see! Hundreds of my

fellow-countrymen penned up among the tombs like beasts, without any of

the comforts which the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air are

allowed to seek for themselves. And, more, they are at the ribald mercy

of their vile and brutal sentinels, who never cease to taunt them,

asking them what has become of their God, that He does not interpose in

their behalf," said the old man, with heaving chest and flashing eye,

which told how his whole being was stirred.

"Did they allow you to go near the gates?"

"No; I had to stand a good distance away. No man is allowed to approach

the gates, though I saw some pious and kind-hearted women enduring

patiently the jibes and insults of the soldiers, thankful that they were

allowed to pass some little comforts to the prisoners through the iron

bars. It seems that they receive no food save what is grudgingly

allowed to be given in this way."

"How terrible!" said Ailie, and her ruddy cheek blanched as the picture

of the wretched state of the captives was thus vividly presented to her

mind. "But tell me, did you see any one you know there?"

"Yes, I saw the face of your cousin, David Gray, the minister of

Broomhill, and he also recognised me. I saw, too, a figure I could swear

belongs to Adam Hepburn, though the face was so changed that I would not

have known it," returned the old man, sorrowfully.

Ailie Kilgour reflected a moment in silence, and then spoke in quiet but

decided tones.

"Since they allow women to carry necessaries to the prisoners, I will go

at once and take some food to my cousins. I am not afraid of the

insults of the soldiers, for I can bear much, and make no sign."

"My daughter, I knew your kind heart would be moved to do this thing,"

said the old man, gladly. "Make haste, then, Ailie, for if ever hunger

and want set their mark on human faces I saw it to-day on the wretched

countenances of your cousins."

Accordingly, Ailie got some food prepared, and immediately set out for

the Greyfriars. As was to be expected, there were many people about,

for the unwonted spectacle to be seen in the churchyard drew many to the

place, some out of idle curiosity, others out of sorrow and anxiety,

lest perchance any relative or friend might be among that miserable

throng. The chief entrance to the churchyard was guarded by

half-a-dozen soldiers, who alternately amused themselves with the

prisoners within and those compassionate people who sought to minister

to them from without. The captives, gaunt, hungry-eyed, and

eager-looking, were flocking near the entrance, watching with painful

intensity the meagre dole of provisions allowed to be passed within the

bars.

Ailie Kilgour stood a little back, scanning the faces in the hope that

her eyes would presently fall upon that of her cousin, David Gray. Adam

Hepburn she did not think she could recognise again, having only seen

him on the occasion of his marriage with her cousin Agnes, thirty years

before. Seeing an old, worn-looking man, with a thin, haggard face, and

flowing white hair, very earnestly regarding her, she looked more

particularly at him, and then gave a violent start, for a look of

undisguised recognition of her was on his face. Could that old, old

man, with the bent head and tottering frame, be her cousin David, whom

she had last seen in all the pride and glory of his manhood, not ten

years before? The recognition was so marked, and there was something so

strangely familiar in the glance of the eye, that she felt she could not

be mistaken. She therefore made a sign to him, and advanced towards the

gate. Her basket was then rudely snatched from her by a soldier, and

emptied of its contents. The tastiest morsels he reserved for his own

eating; then, pointing to what lay on the ground, he bade her, with an

oath and a coarse laugh, feed the dogs with the crumbs which fell from

the master's table.

A sharp retort was on Ailie's lips, for her temper was easily roused,

but she resolutely forced it back, and, meekly stooping, picked up the

despised articles he had cast down, and passed them through the bars. A

sentinel stood close by her side to see that no word was exchanged

betwixt her and the prisoners, but he could not prevent them exchanging

glances with each other. The plain loaves which the pampered soldier

had so contemptuously cast aside were greedily devoured by the starving

prisoners. David Gray distributed a portion among those about him and

retired with the remainder to a tombstone, whereon sat Adam Hepburn, a

picture of utter dejection and despair. As she walked home, Ailie

Kilgour's mind was filled with certain plans and thoughts, which as yet

she would not even communicate to her father. She was a shrewd, clever

woman, and a prudent one as well, who never got herself into any trouble

whatsoever through her tongue; therefore she kept all her thoughts that

day to herself.

In the course of the week she went down to Leith, ostensibly to visit a

kinswoman who dwelt in that town. But instead of directing her steps to

the suburbs, where the maiden lady dwelt, she took her way directly

towards that busier portion of the town which clustered about the

harbour. Arrived there, she sought out the house of an old school

companion, who had married the captain of a trading vessel, and who

lived on shore during her husband's voyaging betwixt Denmark and Leith.

This woman, Mrs. Barclay by name, was strongly attached to Ailie

Kilgour, because she had shown her much real kindness in a time of

distress, having herself come from Edinburgh to nurse her through a

serious illness. Mrs. Barclay was unfeignedly glad to see her, and bade

her a warm welcome. After the usual greetings, the talk turned, as was

natural, upon the grievous condition of affairs, and the woeful

sufferings of the Presbyterians, and especially of those lately taken on

the field of Bothwell. In the course of their talk, Ailie informed Mrs.

Barclay that her two cousins were among those imprisoned in the

Greyfriars, and then asked when Captain Barclay was expected in port.

"On Sabbath morning, if the wind favour him," responded Mrs. Barclay.

"And he will be at home for a few days before leaving to fill a cargo at

Queensferry for Copenhagen."

"You can guess my interest in enquiring about your husband, Effie," said

Ailie Kilgour, with a slight smile. "You have often said you wished you

could repay what I did for you. It is in your power now, not only to

repay me, but to place me for ever in your debt, if you will persuade

your husband to assist my cousins to escape from the country, that is,

if they can by any means get out of their present wretched prison."

"It is a great risk to attempt such a thing, and is accounted a grave

offence," said Mrs. Barclay. "Nevertheless, I will very gladly do my

utmost. I do not think William will be very difficult to persuade, for

he is a real Covenanter at heart."

"Then if I come down again, say upon the Sabbath night, I will see

Captain Barclay himself, and get his advice," said Ailie. Then warmly

thanking her friend, she went away home. That same day she again

prepared a basket of food for the prisoners, and about the sunset

proceeded with it to the Greyfriars. Being now known to the sentinels,

they did not seek much to molest her, and she was allowed to pass the

food through the bars, though one kept guard as formerly, lest any words

should pass betwixt them. As Ailie took one small loaf out of the

basket, she lifted her eyes to her cousin's face, with a look of such

deep and peculiar meaning, that he at once understood he was to keep it

to himself, there being something of special importance about it.

Having, as was his wont, distributed a portion among a few of his less

favoured fellow-sufferers, David Gray rejoined his brother-in-law, who

occupied his usual position of listless despairing dejection on one of

the tombs. So utterly impossible was it to arouse for a moment his

extreme apathy, that David Gray sometimes feared lest Adam's mind had

become unhinged by too long dwelling upon one morbid idea. Looking

round, to see that none was particularly watching him, David Gray broke

in two halves the loaf to which Ailie had directed his attention, and

found in the inside a small slip of paper, whereon were some written

words, which he immediately perused with feverish eagerness. They ran

thus:--

"There are steps being taken for your flight from the country, in the

vessel of a friend now lying at Leith. If you can make good your

escape, and come here, we will assist you."

"See, here, Adam Hepburn, say, did ever such a thought occur to you?"

queried David Gray, furtively slipping the paper into his

brother-in-law's hand.

"Yes, the thought of my escape has never once left my mind since we came

here," said Adam. "I have gotten the plan matured now, and if you will

join me, I think it could be done."

"I am willing and ready," said the minister, eagerly. "What is your

plan?"

"I have two, either to boldly scale the wall yonder under cover of the

night, and trust to our speed to make good our escape," said Adam, "or

else by stratagem creep down to the little gate at the north side, where

they consider two guards sufficient. Surely, David, you and I yet could

silence a man apiece."

"Desperation lends a new courage to a man when he is in straits," said

the minister, thoughtfully. "I would be for trying the north gate in

the darkness, but we will wait till Ailie comes again."

On the Sabbath evening, Ailie Kilgour again journeyed to Leith, and

found Captain Barclay at home. She also found him sympathetic, and

willing to assist, although quite conscious of the risk he incurred in

aiding and abetting the escape of Government prisoners. There was one

thing in his favour, however, that he was first to convey a cargo from

Leith to Hamburg, the Queensferry commission being set aside, so that

his passage would be direct from one port to the other.

The harbour and other officials in the employment of the Government were

strictly enjoined to rigorously inspect every outward bound vessel, in

quest of fugitives, but Captain Barclay did not despair of being able to

steal a march upon them in some way or other. He was a bold man, and

loved a spice of adventure by sea or land, so Ailie Kilgour knew the

matter was safe in his hands.

She was to carry another message to the prisoners next day warning them

to try and make good their escape the following night, as Captain

Barclay expected to be ready to sail at daybreak on Tuesday morning, and

unless they were at hand, could not possibly delay voyaging on their

account. Late on the Sabbath evening, Ailie Kilgour and her father were

sitting by the kitchen fire, discussing the probability of the

prisoners' escape, when they heard a great scuffling on the stair, and a

low knocking at the door.

Both started to their feet in alarm, and Ailie, recovering herself

first, at once went and undid the bolts. What was her unutterable

amazement to behold upon the threshold David Gray and Adam Hepburn!

"Are you pursued?" she asked, in a breathless whisper, and at the same

time holding the door wide open.

"Not here; they have lost the scent, and are following us out the Lanark

road," they responded. "Except God had veritably helped us this night,

by sending down a thick mist when we leaped the wall, we had been both

dead men," added David Gray, reverently; then suddenly, in the painful

intensity of his feelings, he bent his head on his hands and burst into

tears. Looking upon his emaciated frame, guessing the weakness which

encompassed him, they marvelled not at his lack of self-control.

The old man now came forward, and being assured that they were indeed

there in the body, and not pursued, he bade them, with tears of joy,

welcome to his house.

The night was spent in earnest discussion, as to the next step to be

taken on the morrow. Adam Hepburn expressed his readiness to go aboard,

since it mattered not what became of him, but David Gray shook his head.

"The Almighty, who covered us this night with the wings of His mist,

must have some other work for me here," he said. "My soul does not bid

me leave Scotland, and my heart cleaves to mine own kindred, upon whose

faces I have not looked for many weary days. Therefore I will travel

westward as opportunity offers, knowing that except of my Lord's will

the enemy shall not again lay hands on me."

On the morrow Ailie Kilgour produced a seaman's dress, which Captain

Barclay had given her for a disguise to one of the prisoners, and when

Adam Hepburn had shorn off his beard, and attired himself in this garb,

his nearest kindred could not have recognised him. It was then agreed,

that instead of stealing to the port in the darkness, he should walk

boldly down in the broad light of day, and present himself at the abode

of Captain Barclay, who might then take him on board publicly as one of

his crew.

So Adam Hepburn bade farewell to his friends in the Grass-market, walked

without molestation over to Leith, and was duly taken on board the

_Bittern_. The vessel was rigorously inspected before she sailed, but no

suspicion being attached to the crew, she was allowed to quit the

harbour, and in the dawning of Tuesday morning was out in the open sea.

*CHAPTER XXIV.*

*DELIVERED.*

As it was by no means safe for David Gray to sojourn with his kinsfolk

in Edinburgh, he was anxious to get away as soon as possible. Ailie

Kilgour, with a true woman's ingenuity, had decided upon a plan whereby

he might make the journey by easy stages, and without molestation, to

Inverburn. Nevertheless, she was somewhat afraid to lay it before her

cousin, lest he might laugh at her for her pains. After Adam Hepburn's

departure, her father and cousin were sitting discussing ways and means

by the kitchen fire, when she came in, bearing in her hand an old

linsey-woolsey gown and a faded tartan plaid, which had belonged to her

mother.

"All these plans you speak of are too dangerous to be undertaken, Cousin

David," she said. "What do you say to disguising yourself as a female

hawker, and thus pursue your journey, not only with safety, but with

profit?"

In spite of the gravity of his position, David Gray burst into a hearty

laugh, such as had not passed his lips for many a day.

"Oh, Cousin Ailie, give me a woman for ingenuity!" he exclaimed. "But

what would I make of my beard and my white hair?"

"Follow Adam's example and shave your face smooth and clean," said

Ailie. "As for your hair, after it is fastened up under a white cap, it

will the better help your disguise."

"Are you in earnest, Ailie, woman?" queried her father, in no little

amusement.

"Father, I am in dead earnest," she said, soberly. "I have everything to

dress him with, and when I run out for needles and cotton, and buttons

and other sundries to plenish his basket with, the disguise will be

complete."

David Gray had for a moment fancied his cousin merely joking, but seeing

she was in earnest, the feasibility and even the wisdom and cleverness

of her suggestion appeared to him quite plainly.

"Cousin Ailie, I believe I will try your plan," he said, suddenly. "I

will at least put on the disguise and see what manner of a woman I

present."

Much pleased, Ailie ran to the adjoining room for the other articles of

attire, and brought also her father's shaving things, in order that her

cousin might remove his beard. She then retired, and after about

half-an-hour they called to her to come and see the disguise. When she

looked upon the complete and wonderful transformation it had made, she

nearly clapped her hands with delight. The minister was certainly a

tall woman, but in every other respect he was the exact picture of what

he wished to represent.

Ailie took her little tartan neckerchief from her shoulders, tied it

above the white cap, and then retired back to admire the effect.

"Cousin David, that is just the finishing touch!" she exclaimed, in no

small glee. "Your appearance would deceive the cleverest person in the

world, I am sure. You look exactly like an aged dame who has weathered

a good many storms on the road. If you don't reach Inverburn in safety

in my mother's old gown, my name isn't Ailie Kilgour."

"What say you, Uncle Edward?" asked David Gray, turning to the old man.

"Truly, lad, the deception is most wonderful," he replied. "Of course

it is hardly a fitting thing for a minister of the kirk to tramp the

country in an old wife's gown, but desperate ills need desperate

remedies. So I would say, take the lassie's advice, and God go with

you."

"Well, I will," said David Gray, "for in my own person and garb I am

convinced I should never reach Inverburn alive, nor, indeed, get beyond

the environs of Edinburgh."

"You said the pursuers went by the Lanark road," said Ailie. "Your plan

will be to go to Stirling, and then across the moors. I daresay you

will find the way."

"Easily," responded David Gray, cheerfully. "You are a clever,

far-seeing woman, cousin; the thought of such a disguise would never

have entered my head."

"It will be a great joy to me, Cousin David, if I am rewarded by saving

your life," she said, with a smile and a tear, and so the matter was

settled.

All that day David Gray remained in hiding in his uncle's abode, and

early on the following morning he bade them both a warm farewell, and

set out upon his journey back to his native place. As Ailie watched the

gaunt, uncouth-looking figure with the basket and the big cotton

umbrella stalking down the street, the very picture of a practised

peddling woman, she scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry. So a woman's

ingenuity twice outwitted the sharpness of the Government.

We have been long absent from the vale of Inverburn, yet truly nothing

of note was happening there, only a dreary and despairing waiting for

the dawning of a brighter day, occasionally deepened and intensified by

some deed of violence or brutal pillage executed by the dragoons, who

infested the entire west of Scotland. Since the fateful day of Bothwell

severities had been increased, greater licence given to the soldiery,

and less mercy extended to the suffering country folk, whether there

were anything against them or not. Along the entire course of the Clyde

the country presented a most dismal aspect. In place of smiling

homesteads and rich and fertile fields, there was nothing to be seen but

smouldering ruins and tract upon tract of desolate wastes, which had not

been upturned by the plough for many a year. The population, though now

sadly thinned, was in a state bordering upon starvation, everything they

had formerly possessed having been stolen from them, and every means of

subsistence removed. Yet still it seemed as if the words of Scripture

must needs be literally fulfilled, since from him that had not was taken

even that which he had. Hundreds had no shelter in the wide earth save

that afforded by glens and caves and mountain fastnesses, and even there

they were not safe.

The farm of Hartrigge had not escaped these later desolations, for now

all that remained of that once substantial and even imposing homestead

was one cot-house, which had escaped the flames on account of it being

detached from the main buildings, and having thus been overlooked by the

ruffians, who, after pillaging the entire place, had set it on fire.

In this humble abode dwelt the widow of Andrew Gray, his sister Jane,

and a young lad with his sister, the Sandy and wee Nannie, who had been

so dear to their father's heart. Jeanie was now safe with her father

and Gavin in that land where eternal peace abides. The bairn's heart

seemed to be weighed down by the things happening around her, and she

just faded away.

Strange as it may seem, the few yet remaining who loved her on earth saw

her depart with gladness, for it had come to that pass in poor stricken

Scotland that he who lay down to die was accounted much more to be

envied than he who was preserved alive.

One beautiful evening towards the end of July, Susan Gray and her

sister-in-law, Jane, were sitting together on the bench outside their

cottage door, with their hands lying idle on their laps, a thing they

would have accounted a sin in the days of the happy past. But now there

was nothing for hands to do, and life was at times a very weariness.

These troublous years had wrought a woeful change upon both those women,

and had aged them long before their time. Also upon the face of Susan

Gray there appeared at times a vague, wandering kind of expression,

which seemed to indicate a weakness of the mind, and verily it was not

greatly to be wondered at that the nerves of women-folk should be unable

to bear the awful strain upon them.

They were not conversing together, for such sorrows as theirs will not

bear to be spoken of by the lips; there was a hopeless, purposeless look

about them, which was painful in the contrast it presented to their

busy, cheerful energy of long ago.

"See Jane!" said Susan Gray, presently. "Is not that a figure on the

road? Is it Sandy or the bairn Nannie? They should be on their way

home from the village now."

"No; it is a taller figure than either of the bairns," replied Jane.

"It is a woman, and she has a basket on her arm."

"Is she like a gangerel [tramp], Jane? She need hardly come here

seeking now," said Susan, listlessly.

"Yes, she looks like that. There are not many of her kind on the roads

now," said Jane. Then they relapsed into silence, and so sat until the

woman with the basket appeared on the path in front of the cottage door.

Susan Gray only gave her a careless look, and then went into the

cottage, leaving Jane to deal with her.

"My woman, ye need hardly have come this length with your basket," said

Jane Gray, kindly, and looking compassionately at the evidences of

fatigue on her face. "The wherewithal is much lacking here now. But

sit down on the bench here and rest a while, till I bring you a piece of

bread, which, thanks be to God, we can still offer to those in greater

need than ourselves."

So saying, she pointed to the bench, and retired into the house. The

woman set down her basket, and dropping on the seat, covered her face

with her hands, and uttered a low but passionate prayer of thankfulness.

In this attitude Jane Gray found her when she again stepped out of

doors. She laid her hand on the bent shoulders, and said kindly, "You

seem quite overcome. Have you travelled many miles this day?"

Slowly the stranger's head was raised, and a pair of eyes fixed

themselves on the kind, womanly face with a glance which stirred her

very soul; and, without knowing why, she began to tremble from head to

foot.

"Sister Jane, do you not know me?" said the voice of one she had mourned

as dead. "Then indeed my disguise is as complete as Ailie Kilgour

assured me. I am your brother David!"

Jane Gray uttered a low cry, which brought Susan hurrying out to the

door. The moment, however, that her eyes rested keenly and sharply on

the stranger's face, they penetrated the disguise, and she exclaimed--

"David Gray, as I am a living woman!"

"Even so; thus far the Almighty has brought me through many perils to my

native parish," said the minister of Broomhill, fervently.

Jane, having now recovered her first shock of surprise, embraced her

brother with great joy, the tears chasing each other down her cheeks in

her emotion. So the name of Gray was not entirely swept off the face of

the earth, as they had bitterly imagined, and there was hope for the old

house yet. They hastened to take him in, and set refreshment before

him, after partaking of which he related to them all that which had

befallen him and his brethren since they had last met.

Greatly rejoiced were they to learn of Adam Hepburn's escape, but they

shed many tears over their hardships in the prison yard at Edinburgh.

As David in low and earnest tones delivered his brother's last message

to his widow, the tears flowed from her eyes, but in a gentle rain which

brought healing with it. It was for these precious words her widowed

heart had long and sorely hungered. It was decided that so long as it

was considered safe, he should abide under his disguise with them,

though a few trusty brethren in hiding in the district would be duly

informed of his safety.

So a little sunshine penetrated the dark cloud, and shed a measure of

brightness on the hearth of the poor little cottage at Hartrigge.

*CHAPTER XXV.*

*AIRSMOSS.*

Poor Watty McBean's hole in the Witches' Cleugh had indeed been of great

benefit to many fugitives, and it had never been empty since the fleeing

after the slaughter at Bothwell. During the next day the minister of

Broomhill repaired in his disguise to that safe hiding, in order to see

the brethren there, and so commune with them regarding their present

state, and the future fate or welfare of them and such as them. As he

pursued his way leisurely along the sequestered and lonely paths which

led to the cleugh, he mused much on the wonderful way in which the Lord

had led him hitherto. He also marvelled within himself that he had been

so long spared, and in his heart there was a petition that he might be

made willing and glad to continue his suffering and weary way through

life, until the Lord should see fit to call him to Himself. These

profitable and godly communings were interrupted somewhat summarily by

the abrupt appearance of two dragoons, who came rapidly riding up from

the direction of the cleugh, and who immediately drew rein at the sight

of the woman, as they imagined the wayfarer to be.

"Hulloa, mistress! do you know anything of that confounded lair where so

many Whigs sleep in safety?" queried one, fixing his piercing eye on the

face of David Gray.

"Truly the Whigs have had many hiding places in this district," he

answered, mildly. "To what one do you specially refer?"

"Faith, I hardly know; it is somewhere about these hills or in the

valley between," said the dragoon, pointing backward to the cleugh. "We

are creditably informed that several very noted rebels were concealed

there, and me and my mate swore an oath that we should find the place,

which has baffled the king's soldiers so long. We have made a thorough

search, but can find no clue."

"I never heard of any place of concealment among those hills," said

David Gray. "Those who are so eager to inform sometimes overreach

themselves, and----"

"Leave the hag in peace, Munro!" interrupted the younger man,

impatiently. "I believe she is right enough, and we were told lies to

beguile us. I for one will get away out of this confounded district

with what speed I can. My horse is dead lame, see, stumbling through

that accursed ravine."

Marvelling much at the very easy manner in which he had escaped

questioning, David Gray watched the two ride away, but did not then

pursue his way to the cleugh, lest he should unwittingly betray his

brethren. But his soul, long separated from such as had suffered like

persecutions with him, was yearning for the sweet fellowship of

brotherly counsel, both for the strengthening of his own hands and

heart, and also to learn, if possible, whether any of the more noted

saints were still alive. He felt himself deeply and peculiarly blessed

in the communion he was privileged to obtain with that poor remnant of

his kinsfolk still dwelling in the parish of Inverburn, and during the

evening of that day the women and the young folk at Hartrigge were much

edified with his conversation and with his exposition of the Word. It

was long, indeed, since such a joy had been vouchsafed to them. Owing

to the somewhat limited accommodation of the humble dwelling which now

sheltered the Grays, the lad, Sandy, went down to Inverburn to sleep in

the house of an old woman, who gladly gave him shelter for his father's

sake. Nannie, with her aunts, abode in the kitchen, and the best end

was given up to the minister. They retired early to rest, and in spite

of the troubles and anxieties which encompassed them, very soon all

beneath the roof-tree of the cottage were asleep. The atmosphere had

been dull and heavy all day, and the night was dark and starless; the

low-hanging, sullen presaging rain, of which the parched earth stood in

sore need. About midnight Susan Gray, who slept lightly, was awakened

by a sound she had heard so often during these past weary years, that

she could not mistake it now. It was the tramp of hoofs, and in a

moment a wild fear that even already the minister was betrayed took

possession of her soul. Hastily awaking Jane, both strang up, threw on

their outer garments, and stealing over to the casement, which was a

little ajar to admit the fresh air, they peered fearfully out. The

night was utterly, intensely dark, and they could see nothing, but they

could hear now both the trampling and the snorting of horses, and also

at a little distance the low, eager voices of men. Through the still,

soundless air their strained ears caught these words:--

"He shall not escape us this time, I swear! Egad! it was a clever

disguise!--a wench's idea, without doubt. To think that old hag we met

peddling her wares in Walston was that veritable heretic David Gray, and

we knew it not! It is enough to make a man ashamed of himself!"

Swiftly and silently Jane Gray stole across the narrow passage to the

inner room, and awakened her brother, who was enjoying a very sound and

refreshing repose. By the time she had made him aware of the danger at

hand, the troop had quite surrounded the house, and a great noise broke

the stillness of the summer night.

David Gray sprang from his bed to the floor, thinking his hour was come.

And yet, was it but to be slain in cold blood like this that the Lord

had let him get clear away both from the slaughter at Bothwell and the

wearisome captivity of the Greyfriars?

In that moment of agonising suspense and apprehension, when he was

striving to prepare for death, even with a soul yearning for life, his

eye, as if guided by some unseen power, fell upon the wide,

old-fashioned chimney, and in a moment his resolution was taken. Even

when the foot of the enemy was on the very threshold of the outer door,

the fugitive wrapped a plaid about his white night-clothes, and,

committing himself to the God who had so often delivered him, he hastily

scrambled up the chimney and out on to the roof. Jane Gray did not see

him perform this extraordinary action, she having gone to accost, and,

if possible, conciliate and delay, the officer at the outer door.

Without hesitating a moment, knowing he would speedily be observed on

the roof, David Gray lay himself flat down, and, sliding down to the

eaves, dropped to the ground in front of a mounted dragoon. The

apparition in waving white garments terrified the horse, and caused him

to rear and plunge wildly, so that his rider was almost unseated. In

the momentary confusion that ensued the fugitive took to his heels, and

in a brief space was out of sight and beyond pursuit. Meanwhile, quite

unconscious of this miraculous escape, Jane Gray was endeavouring to

parley with the officer at the door.

"Sorry to disturb your repose, sweet mistress," he said. "If you will

but deliver up that renegade, David Gray, who is sheltering here, we

will go away and leave you in peace."

"David Gray!" ejaculated Jane Gray, faintly; "what men-folk have we

under this roof-tree, sir? The only stranger here is a relative, who has

travelled a great distance on foot to sojourn awhile with us, if that be

a fault in your eyes."

"Does the stranger wear a linsey-woolsey gown, a tartan plaid, and a

white cap, and peddle ribbons and laces to the country lasses, eh?"

queried the captain, with grim humour. "To show you that we do not

doubt your word, bring out the old lady, so that we may pay our respects

to her. Methinks we have met before."

At her wits' end, Jane Gray turned about and went into the room, which,

to her astonishment, seemed to be empty. The captain followed her, and,

not finding the fugitive there, strode into the kitchen. Susan Gray and

Nannie were there, and it needed but one glance at their faces to tell

him that neither was the person he sought.

"Your kinswoman has hidden herself, I perceive," he said, grimly. "You

had better bid her come forth, or I will give orders to set the place on

fire. I have no time to dally here; it is time all honest folk were in

bed."

"We are guiltless of hiding him you seek, sir," said Jane Gray, no

longer attempting to deny that her brother had been sheltering with

them. "And, truly, where in this small abode could he hide? It is a

mystery to me where he has gone, unless, indeed, the Lord hath

miraculously aided his escape."

At that moment one of the dragoons came hurrying in to say that the

prisoner had without doubt made his escape from the roof, and was

already beyond pursuit. Then the captain fell into a great rage, and

cursed and swore in a manner which made the women-folk tremble. And

truly it was a sore disappointment to the man to have had so valuable

and notable a Covenanter within his very reach, and yet to be baulked so

simply. In his fury he was like to have taken the lives of the

fugitive's kinswomen, but was persuaded by a more merciful subordinate

to let them be in peace. Nevertheless, he caused lighted brands to be

held to the thatched roof of the cottage, and, being dry as tinder, it

immediately took fire.

In a short space of time the darkness of the night was illumined by the

flames of the burning cottage, and the three defenceless women, now

rendered indeed utterly homeless, hastily gathered such small but

valuable things as they could carry, and, withdrawing themselves a

little, watched the rapid destruction of the only shelter they could

call their own on the face of the earth. Yet they could not feel

utterly cast down, since God had so marvellously delivered the dear

fugitive out of the hands of the pursuer once more. The captain and his

troop immediately rode away down to the village, to inflict themselves

on such of the inhabitants as could yet give them bite and sup and

shelter for the night. Meanwhile David Gray fled, under the grateful

cover of the darkness, by the familiar field-paths to poor Watty's

famous hiding, where he knew he should find both shelter and comforting

welcome from his brethren. His long residence in the cleugh had made

him so familiar with it, that even in the darkness he had no difficulty

whatever in finding the thicket which hid the cave. And yet he had to

creep slowly and with caution, for the nettles and brambles and

brushwood proved very formidable to his uncovered limbs, and his feet

were already bleeding from coming into contact with the stones as he

made his rapid flight from the cottage. As he came up nearly to the

mouth of the cave, he gave a long, low whistle, which Jane had told him

was a signal understood by those in hiding. In a few minutes it was

answered by a similar sound, and the brushwood was carefully swept aside

from the mouth of the cave, and he saw the figure of a man.

"Who comes?" a voice said, in an anxious whisper.

"A brother in sore straits, whom the Lord, of His good pleasure, hath

this night marvellously delivered," answered David Gray, and at that the

man standing at the mouth of the cave stretched out his hand and drew

the new-comer into the dimly-lighted recess beyond. In this place there

were no fewer than seven persons, both old, young, and middle-aged,

whose faces were thin and worn, as if they had suffered much privation.

They looked with no little astonishment upon the strangely-attired

figure which appeared so suddenly in their midst, and one, an elderly

man, of very grave and reverent aspect, after looking intently on his

face, jumped up and grasped him by the hand.

"David Gray, an I mistake not, whom I last saw in grips with the enemy

at Bothwell Brig!" he exclaimed.

"And whom the Lord hath marvellously preserved from that woeful day to

this," supplemented David Gray. "Little did I think last time we met,

Mr. Donald Cargill, that we should look upon each other's faces again,

and in this place of all places."

"Verily, strange are the vicissitudes of the scattered remnant of the

Lord's Zion," said Mr. Cargill. "I have been obliged to keep in hiding

these few days, being sore pursued by a troop of dragoons for preaching

at Lanark and at various other places in Clydesdale; but come, tell us

what hath befallen thee of late, and by what means thou art come hither

in this strange attire."

Nothing loth, David Gray entered upon the recital of his exciting

experiences during the last two months, and when he had finished, Mr.

Cargill had his story to tell, and in this pathetic and mournfully

interesting talk the night speedily wore away. Although Mr. Cargill had

been obliged to flee for his life to the shelter of the cleugh, it was

impossible for one of his ardent and restless spirit to remain long

inactive. As soon as they heard from a trusty reporter, who carried

them both provisions and news from Inverburn, that the hot pursuit was

slackened in the neighbourhood, he announced his intention of going

forth once more to the preaching of the Word.

Fired by the eloquence and zeal of the old man, and feeling himself much

persuaded to testify in public once more, David Gray petitioned that he

might be allowed to go forth in company with him. So the twain quitted

their hiding, and travelled eastwards towards Edinburgh, preaching as

they went, and meeting with many perils, out of which they had many

marvellous deliverances, which would occupy too long a space to recount.

In the spring of 1680, new life was infused into the scattered and

sometimes fainting remnant, by the return to Scotland of that eloquent

preacher and godly man, Richard Cameron, who had been persuaded to

retire to Holland for a time previous to the Battle of Bothwell.

In his exile his heart had never ceased to yearn over his suffering

native land, and the desire to cast in his lot with his persecuted

brethren became so strong at length, that it could not be set aside. It

was with great joy that the few earnest souls still left welcomed him

back to their midst, and Donald Cargill and David Gray immediately

joined themselves to him, and the three went about continually preaching

and exhorting the people to hold fast to their faith, for the cause for

which they suffered was just and righteous, and must in the end prevail.

It was not long ere these faithful and undaunted men became specially

observed of those in high places, and they were vigorously and

relentlessly pursued from place to place, but managed to elude the

vigilance of those following so continuously in their track. Among

Cameron's most close and faithful adherents was brave Hackstoun of

Rathillet, who, since Bothwell, had been a wanderer on the face of the

earth, having given up all for Christ's sake.

One summer's day a small party of horsemen rode into the little town of

Sanquhar, and startled the good folk both by their wayworn and haggard

appearance and by their proceedings.

They drew rein at the market cross, and Richard Cameron, their leader,

dismounted and slowly read a declaration denying the right of Charles to

the throne of Scotland, stigmatising him as a tyrant and perjurer, and

solemnly declaring war against him for all time coming.

That done, they rode away as rapidly and mysteriously as they had come,

and did not halt till they reached a lonely spot among the hills, where

they ventured to rest awhile.

"After what we have done this day," said Mr. Cameron, wiping the

midsummer heat from his brow, "I fear it will no longer be safe for us

to continue together; and besides, I cannot but think that were we to

separate away in different directions we could the better break the

bread of life to our starving brethren. What say you, Mr. Cargill? Were

it not better that each man of us should go his own way, preaching and

exhorting wherever the Lord giveth time and opportunity?"

"Truly, brother, your suggestion savours of wisdom and prudence," said

Mr. Cargill, with approval. "But ere we separate we had better agree as

to a time when we can again meet together to compare our experiences and

strengthen each other's hands for renewed conflict."

"I fear me, brethren, that the end is nigh at hand for more than one of

us," said the sweet voice of David Hackstoun. "I, at least, have been

visited of late with very precious presentiments of a speedy release

from these troubles. Therefore I would say it matters little whether we

be together or separate, seeing that, save it be the Lord's time, no

evil can befall us."

"Strange that Mr. Hackstoun's presentiments should have visited me

likewise," said Richard Cameron. "I am convinced that my race is nearly

run; therefore, during what little space is still vouchsafed to me on

this earth, I would continue my Lord's work with renewed vigilance, lest

when He cometh He should find his unworthy servant asleep."

"As regards Mr. Cargill's proposal that we should make an agreement to

meet, I fear that would be useless," said David Gray. "I think we

should but wish each other God speed, and leave our future meeting in

God's hands. Doubtless, if it be His good pleasure, He will bring us

together again in due season, if not here, in His own kingdom, whither

we are all hastening with more or less speed."

This latter suggestion was approved, and, after holding a solemn

farewell service together, they parted, not knowing whether they should

look upon each other's faces again. Mr. Cameron travelled westward to

New Monkland, preaching boldly as he went, to the no little comfort of

the few to whom the pure Word was yet precious. Hackstoun and David

Gray, with a few others, kept together in the south; but hearing, not

many days after, that a heavy price was set on Cameron's head, and that

he was being vigilantly pursued, they conferred together and decided to

retire to the west and band themselves about him, so that, in the event

of the enemy falling upon him, there might be some to defend him and

render him deliverance out of their hands. Accordingly, a guard under

Rathillet travelled across the familiar, and now sacred, ground in the

south-western district, and came up with Cameron in Avondale, near the

memorable field of Drumclog. To their joy, they found Mr. Cargill with

him, and on the Sabbath day a solemn service was held, in which all the

ministers took part. Mr. Cameron preached the sermon from the words,

"Be still, and know that I am God," and as the eloquent and stirring

words fell from his lips, it was noted that his countenance seemed

lighted with a radiance not of earth. After the service Mr. Cargill

went his way farther west, after agreeing that he should meet Cameron

and the rest at Dermeid Muir on the following Sabbath day. During the

next few days Cameron's conversation was that of a man who was not long

for this world, and he never ceased to exhort those with him to continue

steadfast yet a while, for Scotland's deliverance was at hand. He

prophesied that the reign of bloodshed and terror would speedily be

over, and that the Lord's Zion would ere long be rebuilt upon the ruins

of her past and present desolation. On the Wednesday of that week he

was sojourning in the house of a godly man at Meadowhead, on the Water

of Ayr, and to him and the folk with him in the house he expressed his

conviction that the Lord would, in a few hours' time, require him to

seal his testimony with his blood. Hearing some report of a troop under

Bruce of Earlshall making vigilant search for him and his party, Cameron

and his friends agreed to retire to the wild moorland which stretched

for many miles between Cumnock and Muirkirk. It was a vast and dreary

wilderness, covered with heather and bracken, unrelieved by a green tree

or a nodding floweret even in the midsummer time, when all Nature was

rejoicing in her wealth and beauty. Towards the east end of this moor

Cameron and his friends, being sore fatigued with a long march in the

burning heat of the day, lay themselves down awhile to rest. In this

solitude they were surprised by the enemy--a large number of soldiers

under Earlshall--who came sweeping across the moor with a fury and speed

which made it quite impossible for the faithful little band to escape.

There was nothing for it but to fight, which the brave remnant

immediately decided to do, and quietly but resolutely looked to their

arms, and set themselves in order for the fray. It was a pitiable sight

upon which the summer sun beat that July afternoon--that handful of

God's people dauntlessly facing a goodly regiment of dragoons, all fresh

and eager for the fight. Ere the enemy was quite upon them, Cameron led

the devotions of his brethren, and in his prayer said, with great

fervour, "Lord, spare the green and take the ripe."

Then they exchanged a hand clasp and a solemn farewell, pledging each

other to meet in glory.

It was a desperate fight.

The Covenanters fought with conspicuous gallantry, and, even after brave

Cameron fell, they continued the conflict over his dead body.

Seeing that there was no hope of victory, and that Rathillet and some

others were already taken captive, David Gray, in a last extremity,

leaped upon the back of a horse whose rider had been slain, and, rapidly

galloping off the field, made his escape. Only one or two others were

equally fortunate, and so once again the Covenanters were swept away

before the oppressors like chaff on a windy day.

Richard Cameron's remains were carried to Edinburgh, and his head was

fixed on the Netherbow port, where it was left to moulder and blacken in

the sun. Rathillet, after the usual mockery of a trial, was subjected to

terrible and searching tortures, which he bore with a firmness which

astonished those who had seen evidence of his sweet yielding nature.

His troubles were finally ended on the scaffold, and he went to receive

his exceeding great reward. Thus it seemed as if this most precious

blood of the Covenant, yea, every drop of it, must be spilled upon the

ground, ere the hour of Scotland's deliverance had come.

By slow degrees, and through many strange perils, David Gray wandered

wearily back to his native parish. There were times when the weight of

his many sorrows was like to overwhelm him, and when he could have cried

out for the inheritance in heaven, to which so many of his brethren had

already been admitted.

Lurking in the wild solitudes of the mountains, depending for his

sustenance upon a few ears of corn, or some of the wild fruits of the

earth, it was little wonder if at times his soul fainted within him, and

he felt impelled to question the wherefore of these tribulations. In

his weakness he was also frequently tempted fiercely by Satan to abjure

the cause for which he suffered, and to purchase life and immunity from

persecution at the Government price. But by God's grace he was enabled

to pass unscathed through these fiery trials, and when at last he crept,

a worn and wasted shadow, up his native vale, and sought the shelter of

the witches' cleugh, his heart was once more at rest, and abiding

steadfastly on the Lord Christ. There were yet some fugitives in Watty's

hiding-place, and out of her undying love for the cause, Jane Gray

still, when opportunity offered, and when she possessed the wherewithal,

stole thither with some relief. Great was her astonishment and joy to

behold there her brother David, whom they had of late quite given up as

dead. The sight of a familiar and loved face restored anew David Gray's

courage and confidence, and he prayed earnestly to be forgiven his

temptations to backsliding, with which he had been so sore beset in his

desolation.

In spite of the increased vigilance of the oppressors, meetings were

still held on the hill-sides and in sheltered nooks, for there yet

remained some who would do and dare anything to hear the faithful

preaching of the Word.

Very often David Gray led these services, and at last it got noised

abroad that he was at large in the district of Inverburn, which, coming

to Claverhouse's ears, made him swear a great oath that he should have

his head. But although on several separate occasions he had him almost

in his clutches, the Lord interposed, and in many marvellous ways

vouchsafed deliverance to His faithful servant. About that time it

became almost an impossibility to hold a conventicle, for it was certain

to become a massacre, so largely were the country districts infested

with dragoons, yet there was indeed very little of the old leaven of the

Covenant now left in the flesh, for the new generation which had arisen

since the first glorious upstanding for the cause was lukewarm and

indifferent, and too much taken up with the things of the world to

concern themselves much with religious matters.

Within two years after Bothwell a great grief fell upon the few yet

remaining faithful to the old cause.

When James II. ascended the throne, after the death of Charles, he

published an Act of Toleration, on the conditions of which many

persecuted wanderers were induced to return to their homes, and even

some ministers to their parishes. It was as deep a snare in its way as

the indulgence of Charles had been, its ultimate object being to

establish Papacy in Scotland. Into this net many fell, and it indeed

seemed as if the martyrdom of the saints were to have no good harvest in

the land. But it being now the darkest hour, the dawning was at hand.

Grown somewhat weary of life in their native land, and being sore

exercised and perplexed by the condition of religious affairs therein,

David Gray, with some others, made it a matter of prayerful

consideration whether they should not retire to the Continent for a

space, and labour for the Master there. The conventicles, which could

only now be held at long intervals, and under strict secrecy, were

thinly attended, and not productive of any wide-spreading good, also the

end of the struggle seemed at hand, in the utter extermination of the

scattered remnant still faithful to the old doctrines and principles, so

that it indeed appeared as if there were no more work left for them to

do in Scotland.

After due deliberation, therefore, David Gray resolved to escape out of

the country. Attiring himself in his former disguise, with which his

sister Jane provided him, he travelled on foot without molestation to

Newcastle-on-Tyne, where, after some little delay, he obtained shipment

in a trading vessel to Rotterdam, and there we lose sight of him for a

while.

*CHAPTER XXVI*

*REST.*

The golden radiance of a summer sunset lay upon the vale of Inverburn.

The year was in its prime, and everywhere the wealth of her beauty was

scattered with no stinted hand. The harvest was ripe for the sickle in

the fertile lowlands, and even on the bleaker uplands there was a lovely

yellow tinge on the standing corn, which promised an early reaping.

Yes, there were peace and plenty in the smiling land once more, for the

long reign of bloodshed and terror was over, the house of Stuart had

fallen to rise no more, buried in the ruins of its own iniquity, and a

wise, just and upright ruler now wielded the sceptre on the throne of

England.

There were not altogether lacking evidences of the dark days which had

been. Here and there, on some sunny slope or in some sheltered valley,

a black and mouldering ruin indicated where the spoiler had waved his

destroying brand, and there yet remained many a broad acre left

untilled, because those whose inheritance it was had been destroyed,

root and branch, old and young, until not a living representative was

left.

But in the main, Scotland had returned to her old-time peace and

prosperity; again the voice of the husbandman was heard in the fields,

again the women folk went about their daily tasks without fear or

trembling, and last, and best of all, the kirks were open on the Sabbath

Day once more, for the free and pure worship of the Most High.

The village of Inverburn that summer evening presented much the same

appearance as it did when first we made acquaintance with it. The

pleasant voices of the children at their play filled the summer air, on

the cottage doorsteps or in the trellised porches the women sat at their

knitting or spinning, while the broad benches in the doorway of the

hostelry had each their complement of sturdy yeomen discussing, over

their foaming tankards, the events of the day or the graver memories of

the past. About the hour of sundown there was observed, coming slowly

along the wide and pleasant road from Lanark, two pedestrians, for whose

coming the villagers waited with that keen curiosity so characteristic

of country folk. They walked very slowly, as I said, and though one

appeared to be of tall and erect figure, the other was much bent, and

walked leaning heavily on his companion's arm. Just as they entered upon

the village street, and speculation began to run higher regarding them,

the attention of the idlers was distracted for a little space by the

clatter of hoofs in the opposite direction, and presently a horse and

rider came rapidly down the slope and drew rein in front of the inn.

The horseman was a young man of goodly stature and fine appearance, with

a boyish, open countenance, and a winning, fearless eye.

"Guid e'en, Sandy Gray!" cried one or two with familiarity which was

pardonable, seeing they had known the lad from his infancy, and some of

them his godly forbears before him.

"Guid e'en!" he answered back frankly. "Here, Willie, my man," he added

to a curly-headed urchin playing on the step, "run in and tell your

mother I want to see her about ale for the reapers."

"Ay, man, is the hairst [harvest] ready on Hartrigge?" queried one of

the older men. "Mony a day I bound a stent [sheaf] behind your faither

on the rigs o' Hartrigge."

"Ay, Robin, ye'd better come up and bind a stent after me, then, just

for auld lang syne," said the young man and a slight shade crossed his

sunny face.

At that moment the two pedestrians came directly opposite the inn door

and there stopped. Sandy Gray wheeled round his horse, and regarded

them with a curiosity almost as great as that exhibited by his

neighbours. Their attire was such as these simple villagers had never

before seen, being distinctly foreign in its fashion, a thing sufficient

in itself to invest the strangers with extraordinary interest. Sandy

Gray courteously saluted them, and then one spoke, and it seemed to the

young man that the first word awakened some chord in his heart which had

long been asleep.

"Pray, can you tell me, young sir, if there be any of the name of Gray

still to the fore in this parish?"

The young man gave a violent start, and a wild hope sprang up in his

heart.

"Yes, I am a Gray; I am Alexander Gray of Hartrigge, son of that Andrew

Gray who fell at Bothwell, and whose forbears were so long ministers of

this parish," he said, with trembling eagerness. "And you! you! I am

not mistaken now that I see your faces. I remember you quite

well--Uncle David and Uncle Adam, thank God!"

"Can it be possible that I look upon the face of my brother's son? Now

the Lord be praised!" exclaimed the more aged and infirm of the two,

and, advancing, he held out two trembling hands to his nephew, which the

young man, alighting from his horse, warmly grasped, while the tears

rained down his cheeks. Then he turned to Adam Hepburn, whose face

betrayed his deep satisfaction, though his joy did not find such ready

expression.

The villagers, who had watched this scene with consuming interest, now

rose with one accord, and with a cheer came flocking about the returned

wanderers, for those who had not been personally acquainted with these

two sufferers knew their names as household words.

"And now tell me, lad," said the aged minister, when he could free

himself from these friendly welcomes and again speak with his nephew,

"you spoke of Hartrigge. Can it be that I have returned to find a Gray

in Hartrigge still?"

"Yes, yes; I live there, Uncle David; and my mother and dear Aunt Jane

also are in the place," he answered, and the minister did not notice

that he did not say they dwelt in the house. "Nannie is married now,

and, Uncle Adam, she is living at Rowallan, of which her husband, Walter

Fleming, is the farmer."

"And there is an Agnes Gray at Rowallan as well as a Gray in Hartrigge!"

said the minister. "You hear that, Adam? the old stock is not dead yet,

but has developed once more into a goodly tree, for which, O my God, I

thank Thee."

"An Agnes Gray at Rowallan yet, did you say?" asked Adam Hepburn,

dreamily. "But there was no Rowallan when I left, only the blackened

ruins of the homestead. What changes are these?"

"The old laird is dead, and that dear, blessed saint, Lady Hamilton, has

rebuilt Hartrigge and Rowallan and would not let a foot but ours upon

their thresholds," said the young man. "But come; we cannot stand here

all night. Come away home. Oh, what a night this will be beneath the

roof-tree of Hartrigge! Here, Uncle David, get on Jess's back, and

Uncle Adam and I will walk beside you, and so we will soon be home."

The minister accordingly gladly mounted the animal, and Sandy took the

bridle rein over his arm, and the little party moved off up the manse

brae, followed by the cheers of the delighted villagers.

As they passed the manse and the kirk they involuntarily stood still,

and the minister took his hat from his waving white locks and bent his

head a moment on his breast, while Adam Hepburn fixed his eyes on one

green spot under a spreading yew tree, as if they would fain dwell there

for ever. Then they went on again, and the minister told his nephew in

a few brief words how they had been blessed to meet in Holland, and had

been vouchsafed a measure of prosperity and usefulness there, but how

their hearts had ever yearned for their native land, until the time came

they could return to it without fear.

This talk occupied all the way to the farm, at which young Sandy was not

sorry, for he did not desire as yet to be more closely questioned

regarding his own household at Hartrigge.

The farm at Hartrigge now presented a very fine and striking appearance,

the new steading [farm buildings] and commodious dwelling-house,

standing so imposingly on the brow of the hill, being thrown into strong

relief by the brilliant green of the summer foliage and the bright

golden hue of the ripening grain.

At the foot of the little hill, sheltering cosily under the fir-wood,

there stood a neat cottage with a garden-plot in front, which was gay

with summer bloom. Just as the little party came in sight on the

private road a woman's figure came to the door, and shading her eyes

with her hand, looked long and intently at it, greatly wondering what it

meant. She was a sweet and comely-looking person, though long past her

prime, and her fair, calm face bore the impress of many sorrows, yet

peace dwelt abidingly upon it now.

She presently turned about, called to some one within, and another

figure, much older and feebler looking, and wearing a widow's garb,

joined her on the step. And thus they were standing when the party came

up.

"Susan! Susan! it is the answer to our many prayers!" said Jane Gray,

tremblingly. "If these be not David and Adam, our exiled wanderers, my

eyes strangely deceive me."

Then she sat down on the bench at the door and burst into tears.

Why should I linger over that sacred meeting? Could any human pen do it

justice? I think not.

After a little Sandy touched the arm of his Uncle David, and begged him

to come away up with him to the house, and the others would follow. He

gave the old man his arm, and they ascended the hill, walked slowly (too

slowly for Sandy's impatient feet) through the fir-wood, and round to

the front of the house. Then, with trembling hand, Sandy opened the

door and led his uncle in. In the pleasant family room in the ruddy

evening glow there was a sweet and restful picture. On the hearth there

stood a cradle, and in a low chair near to it the figure of a woman--a

young woman--too young almost, one might have thought, to be a wife and

mother.

"Is that you, Sandy? Don't make a noise, dearie, for baby has been so

troublesome, and is just asleep."

It was a voice of winning and exquisite softness, and when presently the

speaker rose, the old man saw a sweet and lovely young creature, with a

fair, rose-tinted face, and deep, tender blue eyes, which reminded him

of those blue eyes which had charmed him long ago.

"Is this your wife, my lad? You kept this pleasant surprise to the

last," said he, with a sweet smile, and advanced with extended hands.

"Yes, my wife, Uncle David, but something, nay a great deal more," said

the young man, hardly knowing what he said. "Oh, uncle, uncle! it is

your own daughter Lilian who is my wife, and our little son yonder is

named David Gray, out of our love for you. Lily, my dear, my love, this

is your father, come home from exile, as we have so long hoped and

prayed he would."

For a moment father and daughter stood still, and then these words fell

from the old man's lips, in accents of trembling joy--

"It is enough. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!"

* * * * *

I cannot linger over these happy moments, so fraught with deepest joy,

and yet so shadowed by undying memories and unutterable yearnings for

those who were not! Before many minutes were passed they missed Adam

Hepburn from their midst, and looking from their southern window they

saw him wending his solitary way towards Rowallan. And they let him go

in peace, knowing the unutterable yearnings of his soul.

* * * * *

So gleams of sunset joy were vouchsafed to these beaten pilgrims, whose

way through life had been so long under shadow of the cloud. And there

were Grays again in Hartrigge and Rowallan, and it was hoped that there

would be a Gray again in the manse and kirk of Inverburn, when the

little David, destined from his birth for the ministry, should be grown

to manhood. The family of Burnet of Haughhead was now extinct, save for

Sandy Gray's wife. The spoiled daughter of the house had not long

survived the death of her boy, who succumbed to his constitutional

weaknesses at the age of fifteen. Gilbert Burnet and his wife were dead

also, and Haughhead in the hands of a distant connection, who was proved

to be the nearest male heir. While any of her Burnet kindred lived,

Lilian Gray would never have been permitted to follow her mother's

example, and marry a Gray. Her happy home was a haven of peace and rest

to her father, who grew young again in heart in her blithe

companionship. How dear each was to the other, or what unutterable

thanksgiving dwelt continually in their hearts, I cannot tell you. Adam

Hepburn spent his time betwixt Hartrigge and Rowallan, but as was

natural, was oftenest at the latter place. He was a quiet, gentle,

unobtrusive old man, who seemed to live much in the past. He appeared

like one who had no hold upon this present life, but who was simply

sojourning at a wayside inn, waiting and waiting for a summons to come

farther on. But is it not so with us all? The old fiery spirit seemed

to be utterly quenched, but no man or woman ever heard him allude to the

stormy or terrible past, and when the events of these stirring times

were made the subject of conversation, or even distantly alluded to, he

never failed to at once separate himself from the rest. He spent much of

the time in the churchyard, and would sit for hours upon his wife's

grave, with his well-worn Bible for a companion, an object of strange

compassion to all who saw him there, and who knew the story of his

life-long faithfulness to the memory of one woman.

One sweet summer evening they missed him from among the happy circle at

Hartrigge, and knowing he was not at Rowallan, they grew alarmed at last

at his long absence, and went in search of him. As was natural, they

turned their steps first to the "auld kirk-yaird." He was sitting

there, in a down-bent posture, his head almost touching his knees, and

his face hidden on the pages of the open Book. David Gray stepped to

his side, and touching his arm, said very gently--

"Adam, my brother, it is growing late; come away home."

There was no motion in the silent figure, which sat so still as to alarm

them. Then David Gray slipped his hand beneath the bent head, and

lightly laid it on the breast, but there was no motion there.

"He has passed away from us," said the minister, tremblingly, "and this

night has looked once more upon the face of his beloved, after these

forty weary years. It was the hour and the place he longed for. I have

often heard him say it. Let us give thanks to our God for His abundant

lovingkindness vouchsafed to our weary brother this night."

Ended now the storm of life, ended the long desolation, the bitter

yearnings, which had these many years riven that lonely heart. Ended,

too, his brief lingering in the sunset at the wayside inn; and for Adam

Hepburn now came the eternal enjoyment of that sweet rest which

remaineth for the people of God.

THE END

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LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.