I answered in the negative, upon which she recited the following:--

"'Cause we at Bothwell did appear,

Perjurious oaths refused to swear;

'Cause we Christ's cause would not condemn,

We were sentenc'd to death by men

Who rag'd against us in such fury,

Our dead bodies they did not bury,

But upon poles did hing us high,

Triumphs of Babel's victory.

Our lives we fear'd not to the death,

But constant prov'd to the last breath."

"And you say these men are buried in Magus Moor?" I inquired, while

noting the inscription down in my pocket-book.

"They lie in an adjacent field," replied the old woman; "and many's the

time I have stood by the stone when the winter's wind was howling along

the heath in such a wild key that I could almost have fancied the

spirits of the dead were murmuring around me, and conversing----"

"Probably with the murdered Archbishop!" I ventured to remark.

"May be," said the lady in the scarlet mantle, quite seriously; "there

is no saying what takes place in the unseen world!"

I then inquired "if she was at all acquainted with any stories relating

to the persecuting period?"

"That I am," said the old woman in reply, then passing her hand

thoughtfully across her brow, she exclaimed sadly, "No, no, I daurna

trust to my memory--that too has deserted me. Come to Fifeshire," she

added after a moment's pause, "and you will gather much information

about young Inchdarnie, that may chance to prove interesting!" On a

subsequent occasion, I acted on the old woman's suggestion, and the

following story is the result of my gleanings.

*THE MURDER OF INCHDARNIE.*

It was evening, and the rays of the setting sun were gilding the lofty

spires of the ancient city of St. Andrews, causing the windows of the

venerable university to glance like diamonds in the golden light; while

the huge waves, gradually decreasing as they rolled along, broke with a

gentle murmur on the shore, creating a harmony in unison with the

pensive beauty of the hour. Apparently enjoying this interval of calm

repose, a young man--whose extreme youthfulness of features contrasted

strangely with the dejection seated on his brow--might have been

observed seated in a musing attitude amongst the rocks on the seashore.

The eyes of this solitary being were fixed with a melancholy earnest

gaze alternately on the setting sun, which, having completed its

appointed journey, descended rapidly into the empurpled west, and on the

swiftly gliding vessels as they passed proudly on their way, their white

sails flapping in the evening breeze. This dreaming youth--for he

numbered only seventeen years of age--was Andrew Ayton, younger of

Inchdarnie, then studying at the ancient university of St. Andrews. He

was a young man possessed of graceful and winning manners--upright and

honourable in his conduct; while his constant attention to his studies,

and fervent, unobtrusive piety, endeared him alike to his instructors

and to his fellow-students. His thoughts, at the moment of his being

introduced to the reader, seemed not of that gentle kind which one might

have expected from the soft serenity of the surrounding scene, for

alternately his face flushed, and then waxed pale as death, according to

the nature of the images presented to his mind.

"Oh, my unhappy country!" at length he exclaimed aloud in impassioned

anguish, "how long are thy saints called upon to endure the miseries

heaped upon them? How long must they continue to fall beneath the

oppressor's rod----?"

At this moment a loud derisive burst of laughter grated harshly on his

ear, interrupting him in the midst of his reverie. Starting hastily

from his seat--his face covered with blushes in being thus detected in

his solitary musings--young Ayton turning an inquiring eye in all

directions in order to spy out the mocking intruder. For some little

time his endeavours proved fruitless, and he was on the point of giving

up the search, when a head cautiously protruded from behind a jutting

piece of rock disclosed to view the laughing face of his cousin, William

Auchmutie, who, perceiving himself detected, came forward and addressed

young Ayton thus:--

"Come, come, my gentle coz; art not done dreaming yet, that thou starest

so strangely on me, thy well beloved and right trusty cousin, as if

forsooth I had indeed come with the intention of shedding some of the

precious blood thou wert raving about, as I chanced, so opportunely, to

stumble upon thy secret lurking-place? for I am certainly of opinion

that another instant had seen thee plunge thyself in the boiling waters,

in order to obtain an effectual remedy for thy hapless state of mind.

Why, what new crotchet is this that has taken such forcible possession

of thy most worshipful brain, that thou seemest so utterly prostrated in

soul and body? Art thou rehearsing some bloody ode to excite the

commiseration of thy lady-love? or has she turned a deaf ear to thy

tenderly-urged suit? Speak, most valiant sir, and----"

"A truce to thy nonsense, William," interrupted his less volatile

cousin; "thou knowest right well the reason for my clouded brow--look on

this unhappy land----"

Here William Auchmutie gave utterance to a loud laugh, at the same time

exclaiming, "and what hast thou got to do with this unhappy country?

Dost thou imagine that thy single arm can in any way stay the course of

bloodshed, or turn aside the inevitable shafts of fate? Pooh, pooh;

give up thy day-dreaming--join in the sports of other young men, and

leave thy countrymen to fight it out as they best can."

"Thou talkest foolishly, William," said young Ayton mildly, "can any one

possessed of the least spark of religious feeling stand by a careless

and unmoved spectator of the fearful scenes daily enacted around him?

Look at the sufferings of the poor Covenanters; see how nobly they stand

up in defence of their rights and liberties; behold them, as it were,

with one voice, one heart, declaring their mighty purpose of suffering

death rather than yield submission to the cruel laws imposed upon them.

Oh, how I admire and venerate such noble heroism! Trusting in a

strength not their own, the brave defenders of a national Covenant go

forth from their homes rejoicing in the race set before them, and

committing their weeping wives and helpless babes to the care of One who

has promised to be a father to the fatherless, and a husband to the

widow; relying, I say, on His gracious promise, these soldiers of the

cross go forth to fight beneath the banners of the Covenant, and woe be

to the man who shall despise them, or the cause for which they fight!"

"Andrew," exclaimed his cousin, scornfully, "thou an what I have long

suspected thee to be--a heretic! No true churchman would ever espouse

the side of these canting hypocrites, men whom, for my own part, I

utterly despise. I have spent too many years in merry England not to

have arrived at pretty correct notions regarding the Puritans, and

should feel delighted beyond measure were the whole race exterminated

from the face of the earth."

"I speak not of the English Puritans," replied young Ayton; "with

Cromwell and his party I have little or no sympathy; it is of the poor

simple peasantry of Scotland, than whom a more peaceable and orderly

class of men does not exist, and yet they are represented by some knaves

in office as being all that is vile and despicable, for whom hanging is

too good. It is of such wanton cruelties as are now being perpetrated

that I complain, outrages which must yet bring a fearful retaliation on

the heads of those who so mercilessly use the lash of power----"

"Lash of power," re-echoed William Auchmutie in a deriding tone, "I

would it were in my hands for a few short hours, then I would show thee

the esteem in which I hold all such rebellious hypocrites. What

business have they, I should like to know, with laws and regulations of

their own! Anything which the King proposes for their benefit is only

too good for the like of them; a set of cropped-eared malignants, whose

long dismal faces would sour all the cream in the country----"

"Hold!" cried young Ayton warmly; "use not such intemperate language in

my presence; if thou canst not respect the privileges of dear old

Scotland, which if not the country of thy birth, is entitled to thy

esteem as being the land of thy forefathers, decry them not for love of

me. William Auchmutie," continued his cousin, "thou wert born and

reared for some few years in England, during which time thou hast

imbibed notions and adopted opinions at variance with the more simple

manners and customs of our northern clime; but for me--I glory in the

land of my birth. Every breeze that is wafted over her heath-clad hills

breathes but of freedom and renown. As I gaze on the wild emblem of my

country, surrounded by its glorious motto, and reflect, that in defence

of that country heroes and patriots died, my heart swells and throbs

within me exulting in the thought. Wallace, that mighty chieftain of

old, who perished in defence of our civil liberties, has left a glorious

example for us to follow. He rose as a giant in his strength, and,

under the guidance and protection of a far mightier arm, burst asunder

the iron shackles of slavery, which till then had crushed the souls and

weighed down the heads of his wretched countrymen. In like manner shall

the present defenders of the Covenant, trusting in the righteousness and

justice of their cause, trample once more on the tyrant's chains."

"Whom term ye a tyrant?" demanded William Auchmutie haughtily.

"Charles the Second," replied his cousin firmly.

"And wherefore?"

"On account of his base desertion of a party whom he had sworn to

protect and maintain to the best of his ability; and for the cruel and

heartless measures he has adopted for their destruction. Oh, William,"

pursued his cousin eagerly, "do not defend such iniquitous proceedings

as are now taking place at the instigation of the government! What has

Charles' conduct been throughout but one mass of treachery and deceit?

Look how the poor Presbyterians rejoiced at his return to the throne of

his fathers; who more than they were eager to testify their love and

loyalty, trusting as they did in his specious promises; and how were

they repaid? by foul treachery and calumny!"

"Thou ravest, Andrew," was the cold reply; and after a short pause,

during which each seemed engrossed with his own thoughts, William

Auchmutie continued: "And I, as thou sayest, not having been born on

Scottish soil, cannot boast of that mighty love for her glorious

institutions--since thou must needs have them termed such--which seems

to animate thy bosom; no, I was born in a more kindly, liberal land, and

feel that, to me, the fertile plains of glorious old England are fairer

and dearer than the barren hills of gloomy, fanatical Scotland. But

hark ye, Andrew," added his cousin, laughing gaily, "a truce to this

nonsense; it was not to argue on the merits of either country or cause

that I sought out thy tragedy face, O most wise philosopher! but to

acquaint thee with the glorious news that my father hath at length

consented to my becoming a soldier, and next year I am to don the

buff-coat, the lengthy rapier, the steel helmet, and the waving plume of

a Scottish cavalier! Ha, there's for you!" exclaimed the exulting

youth, tossing his cap up in the air and catching it on the point of his

foot as it fell; "oh, won't I make my good sword rattle on the backs of

these sour-faced loons, till they bellow, like so many pigs in the

shambles, for quarter, but none shall be given them, no; and if I chance

to encounter thy worthy self some of these odd mornings, cousin Andrew,"

pursued the thoughtless boy, "I shall kill thee just for thy having

espoused so rascally a cause."

As William Auchmutie gave utterance to these heedless words, a strange,

unaccountable feeling took possession of young Ayton's soul, while a

cold shiver passed through his frame, and he remained motionless and

unable to speak. His emotion was not lost upon his companion, who

instantly exclaimed--

"Good gracious, Andrew, what is the matter with thee? thou lookest as

scared as though I had spoken in good earnest."

Young Ayton smiled faintly, and muttered some few words by way of a

reply, but they were unheard and unheeded by his thoughtless cousin, who

at that instant was threading his way up among the rocks, humming some

popular cavalier song.

Andrew Ayton remained stationary a while, gazing after the retreating

figure of William Auchmutie, until rousing himself, as with a mighty

effort, from his momentary fit of abstraction, he murmured, half aloud,

"and now for a bitter task;" then pulling his cap still lower over his

forehead, he strode off rapidly in a contrary direction to that pursued

by his cousin. After proceeding a short distance along the sea-shore,

he struck into a narrow path amongst the rocks, which led towards a fine

old avenue surrounded by aged elms, whose dusky foliage lent an air of

sadness to the scene, in keeping with the impressive silence which

reigned around.

The house approached by this avenue was an ancient, venerable-looking

edifice, which, during the time of the haughty Cardinal Beaton, had been

the residence of one of the popish dignitaries then holding office in

the cathedral of St. Andrews. There was an air of monastic seclusion

about the mansion which accorded well with the gloomy nature of the

approach. The walls were overgrown with ivy, whose luxuriant growth

almost concealed from view the windows designed to impart light to its

inhabitants, while the dreamy murmurs of a fountain stationed near the

entrance attuned the heart of the listener to melancholy yet pleasing

reflection. Andrew Ayton stood still a while beneath the shade of one

of the lofty elms, to gaze unseen on this picture of peaceful seclusion,

until finding his thoughts too painful for long indulgence, he walked

hastily onwards, and opening a wicker-gate which stood at some little

distance from the mansion, was admitted into the old-fashioned garden

belonging to the place, where a youthful maiden was seated, working

embroidery, under the umbrageous boughs of one of the apple-trees with

which the garden abounded. At sight of the intruder the young girl

uttered a cry of joy, and bounded eagerly forward, exclaiming--

"Why so late, Andrew, why so late? Here have I been seated all alone

for hours in this dreary old garden, which, with its quaint devices,

reminds me so forcibly of the one attached to the convent where I

resided in France, only"--but here, for the first time, observing the

sad, troubled expression of young Ayton's face, she paused in her

description to inquire what ailed him, adding, "I am sure you study far

too closely at that nasty university; aunt says so too, but she has been

noticing how wretchedly out of spirits you have been for some time past,

and wonders what can be the reason of it; do tell me, Andrew," she

implored, placing her hand confidingly in his, while two of the

loveliest eyes in the world were fixed on his face with a look of tender

entreaty impossible to withstand. Andrew Ayton smiled faintly, and

pleading some slight excuse for his apparent depression of spirits,

passed his hand caressingly over her luxuriant black tresses, which hung

in massy folds over her swan-like neck, while he led her towards a seat

placed beneath an old yew-tree, whose mournful hue harmonised well with

the nature of the communication he was about to make.

"Oh, not there, not there!" exclaimed the young maiden shudderingly,

dragging young Ayton away from the tree as she spoke.

"Wherefore?" was the inquiry.

"O, it is so gloomy, and there is a strange tradition told in connection

with it which makes me shudder whenever I look on it."

"And pray what is the tradition?" inquired Andrew Ayton, endeavouring by

every means in his power to delay the moment of explanation.

"I know not the circumstances which gave rise to the prediction,"

replied the maiden, "but it bodes approaching death to one or both of

those who beneath its venerable boughs breathe of aught save of that

pertaining to holy things."

"Why, then, have a seat placed there at all?" said young Ayton, smiling

at the strange superstition.

"It has been there from time immemorial," was the reply, "and no one

would be found hardy enough to attempt its removal." Then evidently

with a wish to change the subject, she said, in a livelier tone, "but

come hither, you lagging knight, and see what I have been doing for you

in your absence." So saying, she led him by the hand towards the tree

where she had herself been seated, and holding up for his admiration the

piece of embroidery she had just finished on his entrance, representing

a Venetian lady singing her evening hymn to the Virgin, said laughingly,

"I have worked this at the request of my worthy aunt, who desires that

you will immediately hang it up in your chamber at the university, in

order that, by feasting your eyes on this holy subject, and your mind

with the thoughts it must give rise to, you may be preserved from the

fatal errors of Protestantism."

The lips of her lover--for that Andrew Ayton was such the reader must by

this time have discovered--became ashen white during this playful sally

of the merry-hearted girl, and, seizing her by the hand, he constrained

her to seat herself by his side, while he exclaimed, in a voice rendered

husky by intense emotion--

"Mary Cunninghame, is it not true that we have loved each other since

the days of our childhood?"

"Yes," was the faint reply of the startled maiden, who sat with her eyes

rivetted on the pale face of the inquirer, awaiting the issue of this

strange address, in speechless anxiety.

"Ere ever you went to France," continued her lover, "when we roamed hand

in hand through the bonnie woods of Craigeholm, seeking for wild flowers

with which to adorn thy curling tresses, I sighed for the day which I

hoped would see us united. I thought of it--dreamed of it. When you

left me to go to France, then was I miserable indeed. My only happiness

consisted in re-visiting the old familiar haunts of my happier hours.

And yet they seemed changed to me, for the angel presence which diffused

a charm around these hallowed spots was gone; and I fled with an aching

heart from those scenes which reminded me so forcibly of you. Every

trifle bestowed by you on me in these halcyon days was treasured up by

me as a gem of the most priceless value. They were watered by my

tears--they were the confidants of my sorrows; and look, Mary, I have

worn this even till now." So saying, young Ayton took from off his neck

a narrow piece of blue ribbon, to which was attached a small amber

cross. Mary Cunninghame gazed on this small token of affection with

eyes suffused with tears, and, unable to speak, motioned her lover to

proceed with his disclosure, which he did as follows:--

"Such being my constancy during your absence, you will in some measure

be able to guess the intensity of my happiness on your return. You were

restored to me more beautiful than ever--my wildest dreams had never

dared to picture aught so fair; and oh, what pleased me more than all,

was the knowledge you were still unchanged towards me. I read your

affection in one glance of those sweet truthful eyes, and I was

overwhelmed with joy. As you may remember, shortly alter your return I

came hither, and you--from a desire to be near me, and to enliven with

your bright smiles the hours not devoted to study--accepted your aunt's

invitation to stay with her during the absence of your parents in

England. You came, and expressed your surprise at the change which had

taken place in me in the space of the few months we had been separated;

then, Mary, was the commencement of the struggle between duty and my

love for you. Formerly I was a sincere believer in the doctrines of the

Romish Church, and would have repelled the charge with indignation had

any one ventured to assert that I should yet be a Protestant. But now

things are altered. I chanced one day, during my leisure hours, to take

up a pamphlet entitled, 'The Sufferings of God's Children,' and opening

it carelessly, I read one or two pages, without reflecting on what I was

reading; suddenly a passage struck me with overwhelming force, and

becoming then deeply interested, I went on and on, and the farther I

proceeded, the more I was convinced of the truth of the statements

therein contained. I read of the dreadful cruelties inflicted on the

hapless members of the Church of Scotland; how her children are driven

to the wilds and fastnesses of their native country, there to worship,

in silence and in solitude, the God of their fathers. I wept over the

numberless atrocities that have been committed, and I arose from the

perusal of the book with the firm resolution of inquiring farther into

the doctrines of the Protestant Church, persuaded, as I then was, that

they must be of a truly elevating and comforting character thus to

render their holders superior to all attempts made to torn them from

their revered yet simple faith. Mary," continued young Ayton, "from

that day I have been an altered being. At first I was torn with doubts

and apprehensions as to the line of conduct I should pursue, knowing, as

I did, the love you entertained for the Romish religion; but a voice

kept always whispering in mine ear--search, search, and I did search

until I found peace and consolation in the blessed light of

Protestantism. Mary, I am now a Protestant; are we to part?"

With a sharp cry as though an adder had stung her, Mary Cunninghame

darted from her lover's side, her lips quivering with emotion, and her

face white as marble, so overcome was she by the shock she had received

on hearing this communication.

"Oh!" she wildly exclaimed, pressing her hand to her heart as though to

still its beatings, "tell me anything--anything but that. Say you are a

beggar; convince me, if you will, that you are no longer worthy of my

affection, my esteem, yet I should regard you as I have ever done, but

oh! not that you have abandoned the only true Church. Tell me," she

continued, the rapidity of her utterance attesting the intense

excitement under which she laboured, "that it is false--that you have

wilfully, cruelly deceived me, and I shall bless you for the

words--speak!"

"Mary," said her lover, calmly and sorrowfully. "I have indeed told you

the truth: I am now a convert to Protestantism; and God alone knows the

agony I have endured while telling you this, knowing, for I see it in

your eyes, that we must part. But Mary, ever fondly-beloved Mary, we

are both young; let us therefore pray to God that he may grant us time,

and a portion of his Holy Spirit, to do that required of us. You"--here

he paused for a moment overcome with emotion--"will be courted by the

rich and the great of your own faith, and may soon find one to console

you for the lover lost, while I----"

"You!" scornfully interrupted Mary Cunninghame, her eyes flashing with

indignation as she spoke, "will, I suppose, comfort yourself in a

similar manner; the recreant in religion will soon prove a recreant in

love; but learn this, fair sir, that from this day henceforward, Mary

Cunninghame ceases to regard Andrew Ayton in any other light than that

of a base apostate, and will tear him from her heart as easily as she

now tramples under foot what hitherto she had valued above anything in

her possession." So saying, the indignant girl hastily withdrew from

its hiding-place a ribbon similar to that worn by her lover, to which

was attached a small gold heart, a present from him in younger and

happier days, and dashed it with violence on the ground.

The lips of Andrew Ayton trembled with agitation during this proceeding

on the part of her he loved so fondly, and more than once he was on the

point of throwing himself at her feet and surrendering all save his

hopes of her, but a higher power restrained him, and he muttered half

audibly, "far better thus; if she deems me so faithless she will forget

me all the sooner. Poor Mary, she knows not what I suffer; God grant me

strength to bear the burden imposed on me." Then turning to Mary

Cunninghame, who, more than half repenting of what she had done, stood

gazing on the beloved and till that day cherished ornament, as it lay

bruised upon the ground, addressed her thus:--"God bless you, my darling

Mary, and grant you a lighter heart than I bear away with me this night;

and oh! if in his great goodness and mercy he sees fit to turn you from

that Church to which you now so fondly cling, send for me, should you

feel your heart in any degree softened towards one whose only grief at

this moment is his losing you;" so saying, he darted towards her, and

seizing her hand ere ever she was made aware of his intention, he

pressed it again and again to his lips, gazed for a moment wildly in her

face--and tore himself away. For days after this occurrence, Andrew

Ayton remained shut up in his chamber, permitting no one to intrude on

his privacy save William Auchmutie, who came to take leave of him before

quitting St. Andrews. This latter personage was as gay and lively as

ever, but not even his brilliant sallies of wit could extract from his

cousin the faintest shadow of a smile, so that he soon withdrew in

indignation at his failure. Young Ayton was indeed almost

broken-hearted at what had taken place. He felt as many others do when

similarly situated, that he never knew the real extent of his love for

Mary Cunninghame until she was lost to him for ever. The circumstance

of her having so carefully preserved the little golden heart he had

placed round her neck on the morning of her departure for France,

affected him deeply, and the look of indignant grief with which she tore

it from its sanctuary during their last interview, was indelibly

engraven on his imagination. His only resort now was the sea-shore,

where he would sit for hours gazing with vacant eyes on the mighty waves

as they dashed with violence against the rock on which the ancient

castle of St. Andrews is situated.

One day, while indulging in his wonted reverie, he observed an aged man

coming swiftly down amongst the rocks who, when he had seated himself on

a neighbouring stone, fixed his eyes with a melancholy gaze on the

brilliant sunbeams as they danced on the heaving waters. There was

something in the appearance of the stranger at once striking and

commanding. In figure he was tall and slender, while a slight stoop at

the shoulders indicated a tendency to constitutional delicacy, in some

measure counteracted by the bronzed hue of his cheek, which betokened

constant exposure to the elements; while the vigorous strides with which

he had descended the tortuous path leading to the shore, proved his

capabilities for undergoing great and enduring fatigue. Andrew Ayton

felt as if attracted by some invisible power towards the venerable

stranger, and he gazed on him with a feeling of awe and reverence for

which he was in some measure unable to account. After the lapse of a

few moments spent thus in meditation, the stranger turned his mild yet

penetrating eye full on the face of his companion, and pointing with the

stick which he held in his hand towards the glittering sunbeams,

addressed him thus:--

"Young man, these sparkling messengers resemble the hopes and joyful

aspirations of youth, gladdening with their presence the dull waters of

life. The spring-time of existence beneath their bright influence is

indeed as a beautiful dream, but ah! how different the awakening. The

youthful traveller goes forth into the world eager to run the race and

win the goal. All nature seems to rejoice with him in his sweet

anticipations regarding the future. The blue sky smiles above him--the

green earth teems with glowing beauties around him--the song of the

birds is more thrilling and tender; all serves as it were, to feed the

fond delusions of youth. But soon there comes a change. Dark

threatening clouds obscure the bright sunbeams. The aspect of the

heavens is changed; fierce storms arise, the smooth waters swell into

mighty billows, and man awakes from the dreams of his youthful hours to

arm him for the combat--is it not so?"

"Yes, father," said young Ayton with a deep-drawn sigh, for he felt the

full force of the simile.

The dejected air with which these simple words were uttered did not

escape the observation of the stranger, for he quickly resumed, eyeing

his companion keenly as he spoke: "But, on the other hand again, youth

is prone to be easily dejected. According to the bright and sanguine

anticipations of that season of hope, so is there a corresponding amount

of depression, should anything occur to mar or lessen the amount of

happiness we expected to enjoy in our progress through life. But he is

not worthy of the prize who thus faints and succumbs at the outset of

his career; no, the youthful warrior, like the Christian of old, must

arm him for the fight. He must rise superior to all the crosses and

afflictions he is called upon to endure. He must fix his thoughts on

the mighty end to be achieved, which will guide him as a beacon through

the darkness and difficulties which surround his path; and although the

object to be attained may seem far beyond his reach, yet assuredly he

will triumph in the end."

Andrew Ayton recognised the justice of the stranger's observations, and

being desirous to repose implicit confidence in one who seemed, from the

wisdom of his counsels, to be able to direct him as to his future walk

in life, he recounted to him the history of his love and subsequent

conversion to Protestantism.

"My son," exclaimed the stranger, warmly grasping the hand of his

companion, "God has indeed been gracious to you in bringing you thus

early in life to a knowledge of what is to be desired above all earthly

things, and although the sacrifice of your youthful affections may

appear at first a burden hard and grievous to be borne, yet He is

faithful who promised we will not be tempted above that we we able to

bear. We are all called upon to suffer; and it is the duty of the

Christian to say with resignation, 'The Lord's will be done.' None of

us are exempted from sorrow and trial, and it is wisely ordained that it

should be so, in order that we may be prepared for another and a

brighter world."

Here the stranger paused for a moment, and then resumed with inquiry,

"perhaps you are not aware, my son, that I am a minister of the

suffering Church of Scotland?"

"I deemed, father, that you belonged to the Covenanting body," said

young Ayton, "from the air of deep sadness seated on your brow."

"Yes," said the stranger sadly; "every true member of the Presbyterian

religion must, in these fearful times, bear on their countenances the

tokens of a sorrowing heart within. Oh! my son," continued the aged

man, "unite with me in prayer that the destruction which at present

menaces our beloved Church may be averted, and that God in the greatness

of his strength may visit and relieve his people."

Andrew Ayton, deeply overcome at sight of the old man's sorrow, knelt

with him on the sand, and prayed that He who had promised grace to help

in every time of need might look down from his throne on high, and

strengthen those about to go forth in defence of their Covenants.

"O God of Battles," exclaimed the venerable stranger aloud, in the

fervour of his devotion, "behold and visit us in our affliction; stretch

out thy right hand and save us from the dangers which threaten us, that

a remnant may be saved to worship thee according to the ways of our

fathers. O heavenly Father, the mighty ones of the earth are arrayed

against us, but if thou, our Father, art with us, what have we to fear

from the hate and malice of our enemies." The petitioner then went on

to pray for those appointed to suffer martyrdom in the cause of their

religion, that their faith might be strengthened in the last hours of

their sojourn on earth, that no tortures inflicted on them by their

merciless persecutors might have the power of inducing them in their

agony to yield up their glorious privileges; that those ministers

unjustly deprived of their churches might be enabled to preach the

blessed doctrine of salvation with comfort and edification to those who

hungered and thirsted after the truths of the gospel amongst the

mountains and valleys of Scotland; and that the Almighty would be

graciously pleased to hear the prayers and petitions of his children.

Towards the conclusion of his supplication, he besought the blessing of

the Lord on the head of him who had so recently become a convert to

Protestantism--that he might long be spared to labour in the Lord's

vineyard, and his hands be strengthened for the work he had yet to

perform; but if the Almighty, in his wisdom, was pleased to remove him

from thence in the spring-time of life, that there might be laid up for

him a crown of glory, such as is promised to those who have fought the

good fight. Thus prayed the venerable stranger; and it was an affecting

sight to view the grey-haired soldier of the cross, who had grown aged

in the battles of the Lord, and the golden-haired youth, who had newly

donned his armour for the fight, kneeling side by side on the solitary

shore, with no ear to hearken to the voice of their petition, save His

to whom all hearts are open--all desires known; and no sound to disturb

the tenor of their thoughts save the wild roar of ocean, as it rolled

along, obedient to the commands of its creator--"Thus far shalt thou

come and no farther."

"By what name shall I for the future address one with whom I have become

so singularly acquainted?" inquired the stranger on rising from his

kneeling posture.

"I am Andrew Ayton; and you?"

"Am styled Walter Denoon."

Young Ayton was delighted beyond measure at having formed a friendship

with one whom he had so frequently heard, and expressed an earnest

desire that the acquaintanceship so auspiciously commenced might be

continued during their lifetime. Mr. Denoon save utterance to a similar

wish, adding that he had but a few days to remain in St. Andrews,

whither he had come for the purpose of visiting some near and dear

friends, before proceeding to Morayshire, where he had much labour to

accomplish. In the course of conversation, Andrew Ayton ventured to

express a hope that the cause of the Church of Scotland was not so

desperate as they had been led to imagine; but in reply to this, Mr.

Denoon informed him that, instead of the accounts they had received

having been exaggerated, they had in many cases come far short of the

sad reality; and the sanguinary acts on the part of the government had

everywhere filled men's minds with terror and consternation. As an

example of what he alluded to, Mr. Denoon proceeded to make his

companion acquainted with much that had taken place during the time he

had remained in retirement; how government had placed the price of four

hundred pounds sterling on the heads of the most celebrated

field-preachers, and issued letters of intercommuning against all those

persons who had neglected or declined to appear in court and take the

oath of abjuration. How the father was forced to give evidence against

the son, and the son against the father--the daughter against the

mother, and the husband against the wife; and that driven to madness by

the inveterate persecution of the government, the people had forsaken

their homes and fled to the wilds and solitudes of their country, or

sought in a foreign land that peace and safety no longer to be found in

Scotland; preferring to encounter any degree of hardship, even death

itself, to the horrors of miserable incarceration in dungeons, or the

tortures of perpetual apprehension. "The King," continued Mr. Denoon,

"is evidently dreadfully embittered against the Covenanting party,

regarding them as morose, sullen, blood-thirsty fanatics, on whom all

his benefits are entirely thrown away. He has been led to believe by

the prelatic body that the hierarchy is in danger, and is therefore

determined to bear the Presbyterians down by every means in his power.

They are, as he terms them, the enemies of his unhallowed pleasures, and

must needs suffer for being so."

Young Ayton sighed deeply on being made aware of the gloom and dejection

which pervaded his beloved country. "Alas!" he cried, "that such things

are permitted to take place; but surely," he continued, "sooner or later

there must come a day of reckoning."

"There will come a day of retribution," said Mr. Denoon solemnly, "and

the consequences thereof may be dreadful. The persecuted adherers of

the Covenant may indeed suffer long, but in the end they will turn on

their oppressors, and a general rising take place throughout Scotland to

repel the invaders of their rights; but God grant that such a fearful

alternative may be avoided, and Scotland spared the horrors of a bloody

civil war."

"Amen," said his companion; "but should necessity require it, may every

true Scotchman be found enrolled beneath the banner of the Covenant!"

then he quickly added, while the faltering tones of his voice betrayed

his agitation, "Reverend father, I would to heaven you could ever meet

with Mary Cunninghame, so persuaded am I that you might under the mercy

of God, be the instrument of her conversion. She is young and

enthusiastic; ardent and zealous, it is true, in favour of her religion,

but then, what other has she ever known? All her friends are Roman

Catholics, and have early inculcated in her youthful mind the doctrines

of their Church, to the exclusion of all others: but were she instructed

by some sincere and devoted servant of God in the pure and glowing

truths of our simple faith, she might indeed become a sincere

Protestant. Oh, father," he continued, "do this, and you will overwhelm

me with gratitude, for every moment that passes over my head is fraught

with sweet remembrance of her!"

"My son," said Mr. Denoon in a tone of tender sympathy, "you are very

young, and your heart and affection still retain all the exquisite

tenderness of one's early days, while the generous feelings of your

nature are aroused within you at the thought that she whom you so deeply

love must regard you as faithless, and unworthy of the confidence

formerly reposed in you; but who amongst us have not, at some period of

their lives, been liable to misconception? In many cases all has been

made right in the end; and please God, should I have an opportunity,

Mary Cunninghame shall not remain long in ignorance of your real worth

and steadfast devotion towards her. Remember, however, as I told you

before, affliction falls to the lot of every man on earth; and as for

me, sorrow has been my companion since childhood. I too loved a maiden

with all the fervour of youth, but it pleased the Almighty to remove her

from this scene of trial ere ever I had called her mine; while one by

one my parents and brethren fell around me, until I stood alone, even as

the oak survives the stormy blast which laid its companions prostrate in

the dust. But," continued the venerable patriarch, raising his hat

reverently as he spoke, and allowing his grey hairs to float in the

breeze, "even in the midst of my afflictions I recognised the wisdom and

goodness of the hand that smote me; for, deprived at one fell stroke of

all whom I loved, perchance too well, on earth, I but clung the more

closely to Him who sticketh closer than a brother. Yes, my son, it is

when bowed down beneath a load of sorrow, such as seemeth to mortal eyes

too grievous to be borne, that the real confiding Christian experiences

the unspeakable blessings to be derived from a firm belief in the

doctrines of Christianity. Amid the darkness and gloom which surrounds

him, he beholds his Father's face bright with pitying love; he

recognises the benevolence of the motive even while smarting under the

weight of the infliction, and is supported amid the dangers and

difficulties which encompass his path through life by the comforting

assurance to be derived from the gracious words, 'whom the Lord loveth

he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.'"

Just at the moment Andrew Ayton had framed a suitable reply to this

address on the part of his companion, the hour of three rung out from

the city churches. Uttering an exclamation of regret at the arrival of

the hour when he must return to the university, he darted hastily from

his seat, and expressing his disappointment at this unseasonable

interruption to their conference, ventured to express a hope that it

would be resumed on the following day. Mr. Denoon having cheerfully

responded to the wish, they shook hands and parted.

At an early hour on the following morning, Inchdarnie once more retraced

his steps to the sea-shore, where he was shortly afterwards joined by

Mr. Denoon. In the course of conversation, Andrew Ayton informed his

companion that it was his intention at once to quit the university of

St. Andrews, and to endeavour, by every means in his power, to aid those

whose cause he now so warmly espoused; adding that it was his most

earnest desire that Presbyterian ministers might be induced to visit

Fifeshire, in order that those poor people who were deprived of all

opportunity of hearing Episcopalian clergymen, might not be altogether

left without a preacher. Mr. Denoon replied to this wish on the part of

his young friend, by placing in his hands a letter that morning received

from the Rev. Mr. Blackader, in which he made known his intention of

presiding over a meeting shortly to be held at Divan.

"Oh, merciful Father!" cried Inchdarnie in a transport of joy, "and

shall I then have an opportunity of seeing that good and holy man whose

noble bearing during his great and unmerited misfortunes has already

filled my soul with admiration and esteem, and awakened in my breast the

most ardent desire to know him, and if possible receive from him some

counsel necessary for the guidance of my own steps through the dark and

tangled mazes of life?"

"Yes, my young friend," said Mr. Denoon; "he has indeed given us a

bright example to follow. Never shall I forget the holy, pious

resignation depicted on his countenance that morning when, with many

others of his brethren, he was constrained to abandon the flock the Lord

had committed to his care. It was on a Sabbath morn--the last on which

he should ever address his parishioners from the pulpit of Traquair

Church. Saddened but not utterly cast down, he entered his little

garden, there to strengthen himself to bear the burden imposed upon him

by private communion with his Maker. In a little while I ventured forth

to join him. He was standing in a contemplative attitude, his head

leaning on his hand, and his eyes rivetted on the ground. My dear

friend!" I exclaimed.

"Hush, hush," he said; "list to these bells--these sacred bells now

inviting those to enter the house of God who may never again worship

within its walls."

I stood and listened. There they came pealing through the air, these

hallowed chimes, the heavy stillness of the atmosphere rendering them

painfully distinct, as they knelled forth the expiring liberties of the

Church of God. Mr. Blackader remained mute and motionless while they

lasted, and then when the last faint note died away on the passing

breeze, he started suddenly from his reverie, and ringing my hand

convulsively, withdrew to his chamber, there to fortify himself by

earnest prayer for the coming trial.

"All the surrounding heights," continued Mr. Denoon, "were thronged with

people, eager, and yet afraid to press into the church, lest it might

chance to hurt their minister, as it would be termed by their enemies a

breach of good order. At length many of them gathered together in small

groups in the church-yard, and conversed in whispers, while they

anxiously awaited the appearance of their beloved pastor. The object of

their solicitude soon came forth from the manse, his step firm, his

bearing erect, as that of one who had nought to fear from the malice of

men. True, there was deep sorrow written on his brow, but it was mingled

with an expression of almost cheerful serenity, for he had placed his

faith and hopes in Him whom he had chosen as his guide and ruler even

unto death. He ascended the pulpit; he gave forth the psalm in a loud

clear voice, and his prayer was delivered with his wonted firmness and

composure. As he proceeded with his discourse every eye was moist with

tears, and many gave way to involuntary bursts of sorrow. In the midst

of the sermon an alarm was raised that a party of soldiers were on their

way from Dumfries to seize him, and that already they had crossed the

bridge. Upon receipt of this intelligence, Mr. Blackader hastily

pronounced the benediction, dismissed the congregation, and withdrew to

his manse, there to await the arrival of the soldiers. They came, but

contented themselves with merely taking down the names of those who were

absent from their own churches, and then returned to head-quarters.

After their departure, Mr. Blackader collected the remains of the

congregation in his own house, and finished the sermon. The people

remained lingering about the door, unwilling to leave their pastor while

in danger of being arrested. Some of them implored his b;essing, while

others again expressed their willingness to die in his defence. Mr.

Blackader thanked them for their ready zeal in his behalf, but conjured

them to avoid giving their enemies cause of offence."

"Go," said he, "and fend for yourselves: the hour is come when the

shepherd is smitten, and the flock shall by scattered. Many are this

day mourning the desolations of Israel, and weeping, like the prophet,

between the porch and the altar. God's heritage has become the prey of

the spoiler; the mountain of the house of the Lord as the high places of

the forest. When the faithful pastors are removed, hirelings will

intrude whom the Great Shepherd never sent, who will devour the flock,

and tread down the residue with their feet. As for me, I have done my

duty, and now there is no time to evade. I recommend you to him who is

able to keep you from falling, and am ready, through grace, to be

disposed of as the Lord pleases."

"During the following week," continued Mr. Denoon, "a party of rude

soldiers attacked the manse of Traquair, and Mr. Blackader was forced to

seek safety in flight; since which time he has been wandering through

Scotland, preaching the gospel of peace, and everywhere exhorting the

people to sobriety and gentleness of conduct."

Young Ayton's face flushed, and he enthusiastically exclaimed, "O that I

were accounted worthy to stand at the helm with those mighty leaders who

present so dauntless a front to the furious waves which threaten every

instant to overwhelm them in destruction!"

"Courage, Inchdarnie," replied his reverend friend; "there is that in

you which, through the grace of God, must yet render you distinguished;

but be watchful and diligent, and follow the counsels of those who

possess knowledge and wisdom sufficient to guide you in the way

everlasting."

After much interesting conversation regarding the disturbed aspect of

affairs, it was finally agreed upon between them that Mr. Denoon should,

on the following Saturday, proceed to Kirkcaldy, there to meet Mr.

Blackader and conduct him to Inchdarnie, where young Ayton should be in

attendance to receive him. All being thus arranged for their future

meeting, the two friends bade each other farewell for the present, as

Mr. Denoon was about to proceed to Cupar, there to meet with some other

devoted friends of the cause.

While on his way hack to the university, Inchdarnie encountered a young

man whom he had frequently seen in the house of Mrs. Cunninghame, the

aunt of Mary Cunninghame, and who immediately inquired if he could

afford him any information respecting their mutual friends, who had

suddenly quitted St. Andrews, and gone, no one knew whither. Young

Ayton stammered forth some incoherent reply, and greatly to the

astonishment of his friend, who stood staring after him in speechless

amazement as if utterly at a loss to comprehend such extraordinary

conduct, he broke from him and darted into an adjoining street, where he

stood for some minutes leaning against the wall, pale and motionless as

a statue. Having at length summoned up strength sufficient to proceed

on his way, he regained his apartments, where he gave way to a

passionate burst of grief. Mary Cunninghame was gone--gone from him for

ever. She had willingly deserted him, and cast him from her thoughts as

a thing too worthless to be remembered. It was indeed a bitter pang to

hear. He felt his own weakness, and offered up an earnest supplication,

in the deep solitude of his chamber, that grace might be given him from

above. The hours flew on in their rapid flight, unmarked, unheeded in

their progress, for he was seeking for comfort where it alone may be

found--at the foot of the cross of Christ.

At a late hour on the same evening a young man, whose form was closely

enveloped in the folds of a large cloak, and his cap drawn over his

brow, so as in some measure to conceal his features, might have been

seen slowly wending his way up the long dark avenue which led to the

Priory, the late residence of Mary Cunninghame. This, as the reader may

have already conjectured, was no other than Andrew Ayton, who had come

in order to take a farewell look at a place linked with so many sad and

tender memories. The hour and the scene were alike attuned to

melancholy. The rays of the sun, now rapidly sinking behind the distant

hills, were transmitted through the leafy boughs of the aged elms, and

threw a dim cathedral light over the otherwise darkened avenue. On

approaching the house, Inchdarnie was painfully struck with the air of

desolation which reigned around. The Naiad still threw upwards a

silvery shower of crystal drops from each uplifted hand, but the flowers

which once bloomed in rich and grateful profusion now hung their

graceful heads disconsolate and forlorn, as if they too were aware that

the kind hand which formerly cherished them was gone. The casements

were no longer open to admit the grateful breeze which wantoned amongst

the ivy-clusters clinging to the walls, and an ill-omened magpie,

rendered bold through long possession, now croaked forth a fierce

defiance at the unwelcome intruder, from the jessamine bower where

formerly he had held sweet converse with Mary Cunninghame. His heart

wrung with untold anguish. Inchdarnie advanced with faltering steps

towards the little gate which led into the garden. He opened it

gently--he entered. All was unchanged, and yet, to him, how changed.

Although the garden lay bathed in the glorious light of sunset, it

seemed as though light had in reality departed, no more to cheer him

with its gladdening beams. There was the seat from which Mary

Cunninghame had started with a joyous exclamation to greet him on his

entrance that fatal night. The chair remained, but the occupant--where

was she? The funereal boughs of the old yew-tree waved noiselessly in

the breeze, and seemed, to the excited imagination of young Ayton, like

so many demons tossing their great arms to and fro, as if inviting him

to enter within the charmed circle of the traditionary yew. At this

instant the noise created by the opening of the gate caused Inchdarnie

to turn suddenly round, when his eyes fell on the stooping form of an

aged woman, who had evidently came with the intention of making all

secure for the night.

"Holy Mary!" she exclaimed, crossing herself devoutly on observing the

tall shrouded form of Andrew Ayton, who, recognising in her a retainer

of the Cunninghames, advanced towards her for the purpose of making

inquiries regarding her absent employers.

"The saints above he praised!" cried the aged domestic, "that it is you,

Mr. Ayton, and no midnight marauder; oh, how you did startle me! When

first I saw you standing beneath the shade of the trees I took you for

some robber, who being made aware of the absence of the lady of the

house, had taken advantage of the circumstance to steal into the garden

with the intention of making his way into the priory. Holy St.

Jerome,----"

"Whither has Mrs. Cunninghame gone?" impatiently interrupted Inchdarnie.

"Have you not been made aware?" exclaimed the old woman with an air of

astonishment; "but I forget," she added; "you had ceased coming about

the house for some little time before Miss Mary took so badly----"

"What!" cried young Ayton in an agonised tone of voice, "was Mary--I

mean Miss Cunninghame--ill before she left the priory?"

"Holy mother! yes," was the reply; "so much so, that at one time we

feared she never should have been able to quit the house alive."

Inchdarnie smote his hand on his forehead, and paced hurriedly to and

fro for the space of a few moments. When he returned, he was, to all

appearance, calm and collected, but his voice was husky with emotion,

and sounded deep and hollow as he again demanded "whither they had

gone?"

"To England," replied his informer, "there to join Miss Cunninghame's

parents, who propose taking her to Italy on account of her weak state of

health. I this morning," she continued, "received a letter from her

aunt, which contained this intelligence, as also that poor Miss Mary was

still very weak and languid."

"O God! and have I then killed her?" groaned forth young Ayton, almost

frantic at the thought. At this instant he raised his eyes; they

encountered the dark green boughs of the sepulchral-looking yew; he

started, for the sight of that tree recalled to his memory the doom

which, as Mary Cunninghame had informed him, was denounced on the person

who ventured within its sacred precincts, or vowed aught save holy vows

beneath its hallowed shade. The old woman perceived the steadfast gaze

with which he was regarding the gloomy-looking tree, and again she

crossed herself devoutly and mumbled over some half-dozen Paternosters,

as if for protection against some unseen foe.

"Knowest thou aught concerning the legend told in connection with that

yew?" at length inquired young Ayton.

"The saints be between us and harm! for it is not good to speak of

things above our comprehension, but still----" Here the old woman

paused as though in doubt as to whether she should proceed or not. At

length her love for relating aught pertaining to the marvellous overcame

all prudential resolves, and she commenced thus:--"You must know that

once upon a time it pleased the blessed Mary to appear in a vision by

night to St. Regulus, a holy man of Achaia, and inform him that he must

instantly set sail for this then benighted country--bearing with him the

arm-bone, three fingers, and three toes of the most holy apostle St.

Andrew--where work should be given him to do. Delighted beyond measure

at having been the instrument chosen by his most blessed patroness to

execute so mighty a mission, St. Regulus set sail with some chosen

companions in obedience to the celestial mandate. For some days,"

continued the narrator, "they were wafted on their way by a favouring

breeze, but during the latter part of their voyage the foul fiend

(jealous no doubt of the devout saint and his precious relics) caused

such a hurricane to sweep over the deep that all on board speedily gave

themselves up for lost, with the exception of St. Regulus, who again in

the watches of the night, was visited by our holy mother, who addressed

him in the most comforting terms, and assured him of her gracious

protection, adding as she touched the three fingers of the martyred St.

Andrew, which glowed at the contact with a lambent flame, 'I have much

labour for these to accomplish.' Overcome with joy at this renewed

proof of his favour with heaven, St. Regulus lost no time in making his

companions aware of his second visitation, who immediately thereupon

regained their ancient courage and faith in their leader's mission.

After being tossed for many days by the winds and the waves, the ship at

length struck on these shores, then named Otholania, but all on board

were saved. The then King, on being made acquainted with the arrival of

these holy men with their precious relics, instantly gave orders for

their being received with all possible honours. Indeed he afterwards

bestowed his own palace, which then occupied the present site of the

priory, on St. Regulus, and built the church which still bears the name

of the saint. Perhaps you are not aware," she continued, "that at that

remote period of time all round here was one vast forest, abounding with

boars, noted for their immense size and uncommon ferocity. Well, one

night as the blessed St. Regulus (Holy Mary protect us!) was walking in

the garden which surrounded the house, praising the saints with a joyful

voice for their watchful care in bringing him through so many dangers

into so safe and comfortable a haven, all of a sudden he was started by

observing two large fiery eyes gleaming on him from among the trees.

Unable to seek for safety in flight, and no one being within call, the

reverend father gave himself up for lost, when, just as the boar was

about to spring forth on him, there rose up from his very feet (so the

tradition says) this miraculous yew with branches growing down to the

ground, so that the saint, recovering his presence of mind, was enabled

to ascend the tree, where he remained seated in safety, while an armed

warrior, hitherto invisible, darted forth as it were from the root of

the tree, at once finished the enraged animal by a stroke from his

spear, and then disappeared ere ever St. Regulus had time to recover his

astonishment; so sudden had been the whole proceeding. On that same

night the blessed Mary again visited the reverend father in a dream, and

warned him that that tree must be consecrated and dedicated to the most

holy St. Andrew, who had himself appeared in his defence and slain the

boar, adding that the yew was possessed of the most miraculous

qualities; and that by applying a small piece of one of its branches to

any wound or bruise, the sufferer, after having fasted two days and two

nights, and given to the Church a portion of his worldly goods, should

immediately be cured; but that whenever aught but holy vows had been

breathed beneath its hallowed shade, its virtue should depart. St.

Regulus, as legends tell, rose in an ecstacy of delight, and lost no

time in proceeding at the head of a splendid procession to the tree,

which was at once consecrated and dedicated to St. Andrew, who thereupon

testified his gratitude by causing the yew to perform the most

miraculous cures; indeed to such celebrity did it afterwards attain that

pious pilgrims traversed sea and land to obtain evidence of its virtues,

having heard in far distant countries that the good and pious King

Hergustus had himself been cured, through its wonderful properties, of a

malady hitherto deemed incurable. Well, centuries after the blessed St.

Regulus had received his heavenly crown, the prior of the holy

establishment founded here by order of the departed saint, was one night

aroused from slumber by a terrible cry proceeding from the garden. Lost

in amazement, he listened for a few seconds in order to hear if it would

be repeated, but no, all continued silent; and fancying himself the

sport of some evil dream, he returned to his pallet, from whence he was

summoned at the dawn of morning by a loud knocking at the door of his

chamber. In answer to his invitation, a pious brother entered,

apparently overcome with horror, for he remained motionless and unable

to speak. The heart of the prior misgave him, and he eagerly demanded

what had happened. Father Anselmo said nought, but pointed with his

finger to the garden. Fearing he knew not what, the prior rushed forth,

in his anxiety oblivious of the fact that the wind was cold and his

shaven head defenceless. Holy Mary! and what a sight greeted the eyes

of the aged prior! There lay his own nephew, a youth of great promise,

and hitherto deemed possessed of superior sanctity, cold and stiff, his

hand clasping that of a young and beauteous lady who had shared his fate

under the boughs of the sainted yew. The pious men, who then crowded

round the sorrow-stricken prior, informed him that when found they were

standing upright, and seemed as though they had been struck by a bolt

from heaven, as all around the ground was blackened and scorched. Since

that sad day," said the old woman with a sigh, "all sacred virtue has

departed from the tree; but it is still affirmed and believed that some

terrible doom awaits those who dare to murmur vows of earthly love

within its consecrated precincts."

"Truly a gloomy enough tale," said young Ayton at the conclusion of the

legend, the bare narration of which had chased all colour from the

cheeks of the old woman, who again made the sign of the cross, as if in

atonement for having yielded to the temptation of relating so horrible a

story. Both remained silent for a little while, each being busy with

his and her own individual thoughts, until at length the silence was

broken by young Ayton's inquiring, in a low tone of voice, "if Miss

Cunninghame seemed sorry on leaving the priory?"

"Oh, yes! the poor sweet creature," said the garrulous dame, "she was

indeed overwhelmed with sorrow; and just before setting off she came

hither and wept, and sobbed most bitterly for longer than I can

remember, and always kept exclaiming, 'Farewell happiness! Farewell to

all trust and confidence in mankind.' Then she would take something

that hung from her neck--probably some sainted relic--kiss it

passionately, and then weep more bitterly than before. (This was when

she thought no one was observing her.) On her return she seemed

crushed-like and broken, but still calm and collected, until entering

the carriage, when she again gave way to tears. All this time Mrs.

Cunninghame endeavoured to soothe and comfort her to the best of her

ability, and whispered words of consolation, but in vain; she seemed

deaf to them all. Never while I live shall I forget the look of agony

with which she gazed on the house; it was like that of one who should

never more behold it."

Here the feelings of Andrew Ayton overcome him; he could listen no

longer, and dashing away the tears which almost blinded him, he fled

from the spot, greatly to the astonishment of his informer, who gazed

after him as if in doubt whether he would return or not. At length she

exclaimed, "Holy Mary! could it be that----"

Here she paused for a moment as if lost in thought. Whatever was the

result of her cogitations to this day remains a mystery, for on

recovering in some measure from her surprise, she simply shrugged her

shoulders, and muttering an ave, proceeded leisurely to lock the gate,

and with many a weary sigh retraced her steps to the house.

Early on the following morning young Ayton quitted St. Andrews and

repaired to Inchdarnie, there to await the coming of Mr. Blackader, who

arrived on the day appointed in company with Mr. Denoon. On the ensuing

morning (Sunday) they set out for Divan, distant about eight miles,

where a great concourse of people were assembled to greet one of whom

they had heard so much. Greatly to the astonishment of Mr. Blackader,

on arriving at the place of meeting he perceived a large pile of arms

lying ready in case of necessity. On demanding the reason for such

unusual preparation, he was informed that Prelate Sharpe--at the mention

of whose name a groan of execration passed through the assembly--had

ordered out a band of militia to apprehend any minister who had the

temerity to venture within his bounds. The service then commenced, and

while Mr. Blackader was dispensing the holy communion, there arose a cry

that the militia were upon them, upon which Balfour of Burly placed

himself at the head of a small party of horse, and went forth to obtain

a view of the soldiers, who, apprehensive of the Covenanters being

armed, kept themselves aloof with the intention of capturing some of the

people on the dismissal of the congregation. When the service was

finished, and the hearers dispersed, with the exception of the

body-guard headed by Inchdarnie, who remained to protect Mr. Blackader,

a new alarm was raised that the soldiers were again advancing upon them.

On receipt of this intelligence, the Laird of Kinkel and Balfour of

Burly, with some few horsemen, rode up the face of the hill where the

militia were pouring down in the expectation of making an easy prey of

those remaining. The alarm having reached the ears of the young men,

who, fancying all danger at an end, were quietly wending their way

homewards, they instantly returned and joined themselves to the party

commanded by Andrew Ayton, who earnestly entreated Mr. Blackader to be

allowed to pursue the soldiers, who had immediately taken to flight on

perceiving the preparations made to receive them, which, had he agreed

to, the Covenanters must have gained a complete victory, as the

militiamen had resolved, if overtaken by their enemies, to throw down

their arms and surrender at discretion. But Mr. Blackader strongly

opposed all hostile measures, and at length dissuaded them from it. "My

friends," said he, "your part is chiefly to defend yourselves from

hazard, and not to pursue: your enemies have fled--let their flight

sheath your weapons and disarm your passions. I may add, without

offence, that men in your case are more formidable to see at a distance

than to engage hand in hand. But since you are in a warlike and

defensive posture, remain so, at least till your brethren be all

dismissed. Conduct them through their enemies, and be their safeguard

until they get beyond their reach; but, except in case of violence,

offer injury to none." On receiving assurance that the soldiers had

fled towards Cupar, the armed Covenanters quietly retired to their

homes, with the exception of nine, who remained to conduct Mr.

Blackader, to his sleeping quarters, at an inn situated in the parish of

Portmoak. Here the three friends parted. Mr. Blackader returned to

Edinburgh, Mr. Denoon, after an affectionate farewell with his young

friend, set off for Morayshire, and Andrew Ayton, sore distressed at

having lost his kind preceptor, once more retraced his steps to

Inchdarnie. His parents soon afterwards returned from Perthshire, where

they had been visiting some relations; and grieved as they were at the

step their son had taken, they forbore addressing him on the subject,

being convinced that he had done so from a sincere belief in its

rectitude. He was, as his amiable dispositions merited, fondly beloved

by them, and in return he strove by every means in his power to testify

his filial love and reverence towards the authors of his being. But

their domestic happiness was soon to be invaded. The names of those

present at so celebrated a conventicle as that recently held at Divan

could not, nor was it wished that they should, long remain a secret; and

young Ayton was specially mentioned as having been foremost among the

hearers on that day. Since then he had made the most strenuous efforts

to bring other holy men to Fifeshire, firmly persuaded of the

incalculable benefits it would confer on the people in whom he took so

deep an interest; consequently he must be punished. One evening on his

return from his accustomed ramble in the romantic woods of Inchdarnie, a

packet was placed in his hands. He opened it; it contained one of those

letters of intercommuning then so fearfully common throughout Scotland.

He must therefore fly; the doors of his father's house must henceforward

be closed against him--the light of his mother's countenance openly

withdrawn from him for ever; for according to these terrible missives,

not only the individuals mentioned therein, but those of their relations

who showed them the least kindness, or sheltered them when oppressed,

were treated with equal severity. In one letter alone, as we read in a

book written on these times, "above ninety clergymen, gentlemen, and

even ladies of distinction, were interdicted from the common intercourse

of social life. All who received them or supplied them with sustenance,

intelligence, or relief--who conversed or held communication with

them--were made equally criminal." In order to procure evidence of the

guilt of those they wished to criminate, all persons were forced, under

the highest penalties, to inform against offenders, and made to swear

upon oath whatever they knew regarding them. If they refused to do so,

they were subject, at the pleasure of the counsel, to fines,

incarceration, or banishment to the American plantations. Immediately

on receipt of this letter, Andrew Ayton determined upon setting out for

Morayshire, where he thought he should be safe from pursuit. In an

agony of grief his mother clasped him in her arms, and besought him, for

her sake, not to expose himself to needless danger. This be faithfully

promised, and after a sad farewell, set out on his journey.

The friends with whom Inchdarnie resided during his sojourn in

Morayshire lived near Pluscardine, a ruined priory founded by Alexander

the Second in the year 1230. It was dedicated to the honour of St.

Andrew, and named Valles St. Andrea. Amongst its sacred ruins did young

Ayton love to wander, when the moon's bright beams sparkled like

diamonds on the bosom of the river Lossie, which seemed like some silver

mirror, so still, so placid were its waters. One lovely morning, while

rambling along the soft green walks which surrounded the ancient gardens

attached to the priory, he was startled by hearing a footstep behind

him. He turned hastily, and perceived Mr. Denoon advancing towards him.

Overcome with joy on again beholding his reverend friend, Inchdarnie

eagerly advanced to meet him, his eyes sparkling with pleasure, and his

hand extended to grasp the one outstretched to meet it. After an

interchange of warm and affectionate greetings, Mr. Denoon informed

Andrew Ayton that he had been apprized of his arrival in Morayshire

while visiting in Elgin, and had lost no time in coming to see him, as

he had longed much to converse with him again on the subject that lay

nearest his heart; whereupon he gave Inchdarnie a long and

circumstantial account of all that he had done and laboured to do since

his arrival in Morayshire. How he had frequently preached, both in rooms

and on open moors, greatly to the delight of the poor people, who had

assembled in crowds to hear him; and that everywhere much sympathy had

been expressed and felt on behalf of those of their brethren who had

been called upon to suffer for their adherence to the Covenant; and

prayers were daily offered up that the Lord might strengthen their

hearts and hands, adding, "that both in Cromarty and Morayshire many of

the inhabitants evinced a fellow-feeling for the persecuted Covenanters,

and that he trusted they would not be backward when the time came for

their testifying their faith and determination to do that which was

right."

In answer to an inquiry on the part of Mr. Denoon as to how things had

fared with himself since last they met, Andrew Ayton informed him

regarding the letter of intercommuning which had forced him to visit

Morayshire much sooner than he otherwise would have done, being desirous

of remaining in Fifeshire some little time longer, in order that he

might, if possible, labour in conjunction with others in behalf of those

who desired to have the pure gospel preached unto them.

"You are now," said Mr. Denoon with a sigh, "called upon to share in the

trials and sorrows of those who have as it were cast the world behind

them. But fear not; there is One who will guide thy bark upon the

waters, and still the waves which threaten to engulph thee. Cast,

therefore, thy care upon Him, and should thy path through life be

compassed with thorns, yet thy reward hereafter will be great."

As they walked to and fro amongst the venerable ruins, Mr. Denoon

attracted the attention of his youthful companion towards the beautiful

and elaborate carving with which the walls of the interior were adorned.

"See," said he, "that exquisite tracery on yonder cornice; mark that

curiously-defined cross; how strange that such things should still

exist, when those who grudged not the time and labour bestowed on

perishable works such as these have long been mouldering in the dust.

What changes are produced by the flight of years! At no very distant

period," he continued, "this priory was inhabited by a body of monks,

who, according to their constitution, were obliged to lead a lonely and

austere life. For some time they religiously adhered to the rules of

their order, until at length grown weary of so restricting themselves,

they gave way to riotous excesses, and from being an independent house,

Pluscardine was degraded to a cell dependent on the Abbey of

Dunfermline. Years rolled on, and the tide of Reformation resistlessly

rushed over the hills and valleys of Scotland. All gave way before it.

The walls of the monasteries and cathedrals then existing in our country

were razed to the ground, the monks fled to less hostile shores, and

now"--here Mr. Denoon paused for a moment, as if overwhelmed by painful

thoughts--"this green turf once pressed by the sandalled foot, is trod

by the feet of those who are at this moment trembling for the safety of

that Church our fathers strove to establish in our land."

"Was it not," said Andrew Ayton, "in reference to the gay doings of the

monks of Pluscardine that the verses I am about to repeat were written?"

So saying, he recited the following:--

A right merry set were the monks of old,

They lived on the best of cheer;

They drank the red wine out of cups of gold,

And hunted the fallow-deer.

Quoth father Anselmo, "I wot that we,

Thrive right well on the faithful's charity."

As they gazed on the walls of their Abbey,

All fair with carved work within,

"'Tis better to live where one may pray,

Than dwell in proud tents of sin."

Quoth father Anselmo, "Yes," said he,

"And thrive on the faithful's charity."

The Prior he raised his glass on high,

With the grape's juice mantling o'er;

He view'd the red wine with a critical eye.

And laughed as he call'd for more.

"Yes, Brother Anselmo, yes," said he,

"We thrive on the faithful's charity!"

Mr. Denoon could scarcely forbear smiling at the satirical nature of the

song, as he answered, "that they might indeed be so; the monks no doubt

having afforded, by their luxurious style of living, much cause for

censure amongst those who were in some measure acquainted with the

revelries held within the walls of Pluscardine;" adding, "ay, even

within the walls of a sanctuary such as this, where men profess to

devote themselves exclusively to the service of God, worldly thoughts

and human feelings will intrude."

Inchdarnie, while gazing on the remains of former grandeur, could not

help expressing his admiration of the buildings these men erected in

honour of their God, and his regret that such splendid cathedrals as

existed in Scotland at the time of the Reformation should have been so

recklessly destroyed.

"It is certainly to be regretted," said Mr. Denoon in reply; "but at

that time strong measures were deemed necessary for the expulsion of the

Romish faith from Scotland, and the destruction of all connected

therewith was deemed a proceeding requisite for the safety of the

people. But, my son," he continued, "it is not the place where one

worship, but the heart of the worshipper that God values. Believe me, a

heart-felt prayer uttered by a soldier on the bloody field of battle, a

few words of earnest supplication breathed on the solitary moor or

sequestered glen, are more acceptable in his sight than the prayers of

those kneeling in the lofty cathedral aisle, if their souls are not in

unison with the scene around them."

In company with his reverend friend, Andrew Ayton visited numbers of the

poorer class of people inhabiting the shire of Moray, and attended

several meetings where Mr. Denoon officiated as clergyman. Before

quitting Elgin, the latter, in accordance with a wish expressed to that

effect, made known his intention of holding a conventicle in the ruins

of Pluscardine. The morning of the day appointed for the meeting having

arrived, Mr. Denoon and Andrew Ayton set off for the ruined priory. The

day was beautiful, and on their arrival they found the interior of the

ruins thronged with an eager multitude in readiness to receive them.

Inchdarnie was impressed beyond imagination with the touching solemnity

of the scene, as Mr. Denoon, taking his stand on a huge fragment of

stone dislodged from the building by the relentless hand of time,

proceeded to address the congregation. The rays of the sun at this

moment penetrating through the ivy-clad windows, tinged with a golden

lustre his venerable locks, and imparted an air of majesty to his

countenance, in harmony with the heavenly messages he was entrusted to

deliver. He spoke, and as his voice resounded through the vast space

with the force of a trumpet, arousing his hearers to a sense of their

danger, young Ayton felt the incapacity of the most gorgeous pageantry

to add to the grandeur of words like these. While all eyes and ears

were fixed on the preacher with an earnestness that precluded all other

sights and sounds, Inchdarnie was startled on observing a strange face,

almost shrouded beneath a brass helmet, gazing in at one of the windows.

Unable to credit his senses, he kept his eyes fastened on the spot with

an eagerness that was almost painful. His suspense was not of long

duration. Again the same form presented itself, but this time

accompanied by several others, who stationed themselves near every

possible outlet, so as to shut out all hopes of escape. His worst fears

realised, Andrew Ayton sprung from his seat, and shouting, "Betrayed,

betrayed!" he drew his sword, and dashing through the midst of the

terror-stricken congregation, placed himself by the side of Mr. Denoon

as though determined to share his fate. The latter stood calm and

resolute, while those by whom he was surrounded evinced their readiness

to fight in their own and his defence. At this instant a soldier, who

from his proud bearing and superior style of dress appeared to be the

leader of the party, entered, and approaching Mr. Denoon, politely

uncovered his head, while he expressed his regret that so unpleasant a

duty as that of arresting Mr. Denoon should have devolved upon him; but

that, however repugnant it might be to his own feelings to do so, yet

his orders must be obeyed, and Mr. Denoon must therefore prepare to

accompany them, adding that no harm was intended to any of the

congregation, who were at liberty to retire if so inclined.

"Arrest Mr. Denoon!" cried Inchdarnie, "never!" so saying, he raised his

sword on high, and was about to rush on the officer, when Mr. Denoon,

throwing his arms around him, besought him to forbear; then turning to

the commander, he demanded of him whither he had orders to take him?

"To Dundee," was the reply, "there to await further instructions."

"The Lord's will be done!" piously exclaimed Mr. Denoon, raising his

hands and eyes to heaven as he spoke; then turning to the people, who

loudly expressed their sympathy, he bade them be of good cheer, as the

Lord would soon find them another and more zealous pastor.

While parting with Inchdarnie, many tears were shed on both sides, but

to all his young friend's entreaties that he would permit him to strike

one blow in his defence, he simply replied: "My son, it is the duty of a

Christian to suffer, and to suffer meekly; if it please the Lord we

shall meet again, and till then farewell;" so saying he expressed his

readiness to depart, whereupon the officer, his head still uncovered,

courteously led the way to the spot where his men stood armed to receive

the prisoner.

For some little time after the departure of the soldiers, Andrew Ayton

remained motionless, and apparently overwhelmed with grief. He had lost

his kind, sympathising friend, and that at the very moment when he stood

most in need of his assistance. What was to be done? At this moment the

thought darted through his head, could he not be rescued? Regarding the

suggestion as a sunbeam sent by the Almighty to comfort him in the midst

of his affliction, and heedless of the numbers who stood around watching

his every motion, Inchdarnie knelt for one moment in silent prayer, and

then starting to his feet, hurried from the ruins. His resolution was

taken; he would follow the soldiers until such time as he could meet

with some friends who would aid him in the attempted rescue. Having

informed the relations with whom he had been staying, of his intentions,

Andrew Ayton threw himself on horseback, and galloped off in the

direction pursued by the dragoons. He soon came within sight of the

party, and observed, to his great satisfaction, that they were few in

number, and evidently not over-anxious regarding the safety of their

prisoner, whose venerable form young Ayton could plainly descry

stationed in midst of the dragoons. As an Indian unceasingly follows in

the track of his intended victim, so Andrew Ayton kept in the wake of

the soldiers, riding when they rode, halting when they halted, until at

length they arrived at Dundee. After having carefully marked the house,

to which Mr. Denoon was conducted, Inchdarnie put spurs to his horse's

sides and galloped straight to Cupar, where he expected to obtain the

necessary assistance. Having speedily collected together a number of

young men eager to undertake anything that promised them some amusement,

he retraced his steps to Dundee. All remained the same as when he had

left. The two soldiers still kept guard before the house in which Mr.

Denoon was confined. Leaving his companions in a little wood near the

entrance to the town, Andrew Ayton, having disguised himself so as to

preclude all possibility of recognition, proceeded to reconnoitre the

premises, in order to discover the most feasible plan for effecting Mr.

Denoon's escape. He soon satisfied himself that the back part of the

house, which looked into a little garden, was totally defenceless. No

soldier was stationed there to keep watch, and the windows were easy of

access and without protection of any kind. Having made himself

acquainted with these particulars, Inchdarnie rejoined his friends in

the wood, where they determined to remain until night should further

their scheme. When the shades of evening had closed around them, the

party issued from the wood, and advanced singly, so as to excite no

suspicions of their real purpose in the breasts of those they might

chance to encounter towards the back of the house indicated by

Inchdarnie, which, standing as it did a little apart from the others,

occupied a position highly favourable for their purpose. Having

stationed all his companions save one at the foot of the garden, so as

to be ready in case of danger, Andrew Ayton advanced towards one of the

lower windows, and with the assistance of his friend succeeded in

reaching it. After pausing a moment to recover breath, he gently

endeavoured to raise the sash. This was an anxious moment with them

all, and the beatings of Andrew Ayton's heart were painfully audible, so

fearful was he lest their plan should prove a failure. To their

inexpressible delight, however, it yielded to his touch. The first step

was now gained, but the worst remained behind. He entered and found

himself in a small unfurnished room, having a door at the extreme end;

this he also perceived to be open, and marvelling much at the

carelessness of those in charge, he threaded his way along a narrow

passage, on both sides of which were stationed doors. This was rather

puzzling to one unacquainted as young Ayton was with the geography of

the house, but summoning up all the courage of which he was possessed,

he placed his hand on the handle of the one nearest him; it opened, and

he saw at one glance that it was also uninhabited. In like manner he

tried another equally yielding to his touch; he entered, and seated by a

small wooden table, on which burned a solitary candle, he beheld his

venerable friend. With difficulty suppressing a cry of joy at sight of

one whom he almost feared was lost to him for ever, Andrew Ayton rushed

forward, while Mr. Denoon, equally delighted and astonished at the

unexpected appearance of one whom he regarded in the light of a son,

started from his seat, and clasping him to his bosom, mingled his tears

with his.

"Father!" at length said young Ayton in a whisper, "you must this

instant fly with me--all is in readiness; I have faithful friends, who

are at this moment waiting my return with anxious impatience. Oh, do

not delay, but hasten to gladden their eyes with your presence!"

Mr. Denoon sadly shook his head while he replied, "Would it not be a

cowardly action, and unlike that of One who gave up his own life as a

ransom for many, were a minister to fly from his earthly foes? Would it

not seem as if----?"

"Oh, do not say no, reverend father!" interrupted Inchdarnie: "do not

neglect the opportunity God hath given you of making your escape from

the hands of your enemies, in order that you may yet preach to those in

need of a shepherd. Of what use are you here?" he continued. "What

lost souls are there you can reclaim from perdition? and were you once

to regain your liberty, what unspeakable comfort might you not be able

to render those who require consolation?"

"My son, in that you say truly; there may be much for me to do, and the

word liberty soundeth sweet in the ears of a captive;" so saying, Mr.

Denoon expressed his willingness to depart.

Rejoicing in the success which had hitherto attended his plan,

Inchdarnie conducted Mr. Denoon to the window where his friend was

stationed, who received the aged man in his arms and placed him in

safety on the ground. Treading as noiselessly as possible, the party,

employing the same precautionary measures in their retreat as during

their approach, retraced their steps to the wood where horses were ready

saddled and bridled to conduct them to Cupar, whither Inchdarnie

determined at once to proceed. On their way thither Andrew Ayton

apprized Mr. Denoon of all that had taken place since the morning of his

capture in the priory, and in his turn was made acquainted with what had

befallen his reverend friend since his imprisonment.

"How fortunate," said Mr. Denoon in continuation, "that you should have

fixed on this night for effecting my deliverance. Had you delayed

another day, I should have been removed from Dundee, to go I know not

whither; and to that circumstance is to be attributed the fact of there

being so few precautions taken as regarded my safety; for in general

every door and window was carefully fastened ere night had closed in."

Inwardly returning thanks to the Almighty for the kindness he had

evinced towards them in thus disarming the soldiers of all suspicion of

danger, they pursued the rest of their journey in silence. On arriving

at Cupar, the two friends deemed it essential for their safety to part.

Mr. Denoon determined upon going to St. Andrews, where he had some

trusty friends; while Inchdarnie, fearful of remaining longer in

Fifeshire, expressed his intention of at once proceeding to Perth, there

to visit Mr. Wellwood, whose acquaintance he was most anxious to make.

"God bless and prosper you! my dear young friend," said Mr. Denoon,

warmly grasping Andrew Ayton by the hand as he bade him adieu; "under

the providence of God I this night owe my life to you; and oh, that I

may spend it in the service of Him to whom it by right belongs!"

"Farewell, my noble, kind preceptor," replied Inchdarnie, "and should we

never meet again in this valley of time, God grant I may so follow in

your steps that we may spend eternity together;" so saying, they

parted--and for ever. As Andrew Ayton pursued his solitary way towards

Perth, he was attracted by sounds of lamentation which appeared to

proceed from a house situated at a short distance from the road along

which he was proceeding. Always ready to hearken to the voice of

suffering--and judging that in this case some assistance might be

necessary--he leapt from his horse and knocked gently at the door.

Finding that no notice was being taken of his repeated demands for

admission, he fastened the impatient animal to a ring in the wall, and,

raising the latch, entered the house, where he beheld a sight that made

him tremble. Stretched on the cottage floor lay the apparently lifeless

body of a man bathed in a pool of blood, while at his head sat an aged

female ghastly with despair. No wail of sorrow burst from her bloodless

lips, but her eyes were fixed on the face of the dead man with that

stony gaze which bespeaks the bitterest anguish, and near her was seated

the wife of the deceased, whose passionate bursts of sorrow had first

attracted the notice of Andrew Ayton.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, on beholding this terrible spectacle; "what

means this?"

On hearing the voice of a stranger, the younger female lifted her head,

but unable to speak, she merely pointed to the deceased, and then

burying her face in her hands, gave way to fresh bursts of sorrow.

"O do not grieve thus," said Inchdarnie, "but tell me, in heaven's name,

who has been the author of this bloody outrage; and if it should be in

my power to render you any assistance----"

"Assistance!" screamed the old woman in a shrill voice of agony, and

starting to her feet as she spoke, "can you restore us the dead? Can

you bring back light to the eyeballs, and life to the stiffening frame?

Can you blast with heaven's lightning----?"

"Oh, hush mother, hush! use not these awful words!" exclaimed the

anguished wife; "it is not for us to curse our----"

[Illustration: "Stretched on the cottage floor lay the apparently

lifeless body of a man, bathed in a pool of blood, while at his head sat

an aged female, ghastly with despair."]

"Interrupt me not!" cried the aged matron. "Can you blast with heaven's

lightnings," she continued, "the mitred head of him who ordered the deed

to be done--that rendered me childless in my old age? O may the curses

of a bereaved mother cling to his soul, and drag him down--down! But I

will be avenged," she continued, the frenzied light of madness blazing

in her sunken eyes, "I will be avenged, and that right soon; God has

promised it; the heavens frown not in wrath when I cry for revenge! And

when that day comes, when he, the bloody prelate, kneels in the very

dust begging for that mercy he this day denied to me, then--then will he

know the bitterness of kneeling at the foot of man, and kneeling in

vain." Here, thoroughly exhausted by her own violence, the

heart-stricken mother threw herself on the body of her child, screaming

aloud, "My son! my son!"

Overcome with horror at the wretched scene, and perceiving that

assistance could not be of any avail, Andrew Ayton, after he had thrust

some money into the passive hand of the more gentle mourner, quickly

regained the door, and mounting his horse, which stood pawing the ground

with impatience to be gone, galloped hastily onwards to Perth. Now that

the excitement which had hitherto sustained him had in some measure

subsided, Andrew Ayton began to experience the effects of the fatigue

arising from the scenes through which he had passed, and to realise the

necessity there was of his obtaining some repose; accordingly he

alighted at the first public-house that afforded hopes of entertainment

for man and beast. In the course of the following morning he resumed his

journey, and entered the "Fair City" as the light of day was departing.

Being very desirous of seeing Mr. Wellwood, who was then thought to be

dying, he made at once for the house in which he resided. It was a

humble apartment into which he was ushered; no signs of luxury, barely

of comfort, greeted the stranger's eye. The ceiling was low and dark,

and the casement small; yet through that narrow aperture the sun's rays

entered wooingly and kissed the pallid brow of a young man--sole tenant

of the solitary apartment--who instantly rose from his chair and

advanced a few steps, although with apparent difficulty, so much was he

wasted by sickness, to welcome Andrew Ayton. As each of the young men

had heard frequent and favourable mention made of the other, both paused

for one moment as if by mutual consent, and earnestly gazed in each

other's face. What a contrast did they at this moment present! There

stood young Ayton, his long fair hair hanging in waving masses on his

shoulders; youth written on his brow--his blue eyes bright with

enthusiasm, and his tall elegant figure erect and bold; while opposite

to him was one on whose forehead the cold band of death had set its

seal. Although comparatively young in years, he was old with anxiety

and suffering; his flushed cheek and lustrous eye, his damp forehead and

short dry cough, all attesting the fatal presence of consumption. To

gaze on them thus was to imagine a meeting between life and death, or

that between two warriors; the one bravely arming for the coming fight,

and the other, weary of the strife, about to repose after having borne

the burden and heat of the day. At length Mr. Wellwood spoke, and his

voice was low and sweet as he expressed the pleasure it gave him to see

Mr. Ayton; while the latter grieved beyond measure on beholding Mr.

Wellwood so feeble and attenuated, could scarce command his voice

sufficiently to make a suitable reply. After the lapse of some little

time, during which both sat silent, Mr. Wellwood, who had been gazing in

a dreamy manner on the few blighted flowers adorning his window, emblems

of his own untimely fate, demanded of Andrew Ayton if Archbishop Sharpe

had committed any further outrages on the Presbyterians.

"Oh! Mr. Wellwood," burst forth Inchdarnie, "words cannot paint the

deep hatred that haughty prelate bears towards us; he would, if

possible, blot our names from the book of life; the wholesale murders

committed by his orders are terrible beyond imagination; and not

contented with what has been already done, he daily devises fresh means

of torture. Had you seen what I witnessed while coming hither, it would

never have been effaced from your memory; the lifeless corpse, the

bereaved wife, and the maniac mother--all are before me even now. That

such men are permitted to live only to commit crimes revolting to

humanity is indeed strange!"

As Mr. Wellwood gazed on the countenance of the noble youth, which

glowed with a beauty almost unearthly in its brightness, and marked as

it was by an expression of melancholy sometimes seen on the faces of

those who are not destined to remain long in this world, the mysterious

veil which conceals the future from our sight was for one moment drawn

aside. His dying eyes beheld what was soon to be accomplished, and he

exclaimed, "You will shortly be quit of him; he will get a sudden and

sharp off-going, and you will be the first to take the news of his death

to heaven."

Inchdarnie reverently bowed his head in token of submission to the

decrees of the Almighty. So pleased was he with the gentle bearing and

pious exhortations of Mr. Well wood, that he remained with him until

pretty near his decease, which occurred not long afterwards, when he was

obliged to return to Inchdarnie, there to comfort with his presence his

beloved mother, then labouring under severe indisposition. In danger of

being imprisoned should his presence be discovered in the neighbourhood,

Andrew Ayton durst not continue long in his father's house; but during

the winter months and the ensuing spring he kept himself concealed in

one of the cottar's houses, where he ran little risk of being detected.

It was now the fifth of May, 1679, and Andrew Ayton still lurked in the

neighbourhood of Inchdarnie. On the morning of the day in question, a

letter was placed in his hands; he glanced at the superscription, turned

pale as death, and tearing it open, perused its contents with eyes whose

wild expression would have terrified the beholder, while the trembling

of the paper attested the agitation under which he laboured. The

contents were as follows:--

MY DEAREST ANDREW,--I have struggled, and struggled in vain, to banish

your image from my heart; wherever I have been, in England or in Italy,

still you were present, and the words you last uttered on that fearful

night have rung in my ears till they almost maddened me. All this weary

time, in spite of my better judgment, I indulged in the fond delusion

that you would endeavour to find me out, and that all should be made

right again--vain hope. Months rolled on without any proof on your part

of continued affection, and at last I was constrained to believe you had

indeed forgotten me. In spite of all my assumed composure, despair took

possession of my heart. Numberless suitors addressed me in all the

glowing language of the sunny south, but I turned a deaf ear to their

honied vows, and sighed in secret over the remembrance of one still too

dear to me. At length, greatly to my delight, we returned to Scotland;

and in the expectation of seeing you, I accompanied my aunt to the dear

old priory. You were gone, but I heard from Deborah of your grief in

the garden, and my heart melted within me at the recital. Again, I

encountered one day during my accustomed walk a dear friend of yours,

named Mr. Denoon (here Andrew Ayton's face glowed with delight); he

seemed to know me--how I cannot tell--for he stopt and spoke to me of

you. O! what sweet words of comfort he breathed to my anguished soul!

He did not seek to undermine my faith (and for that I love him), but he

told me of your love, your sorrow, and unaltered constancy, and prayed

me to relent. Dear old man; he said although he grieved for my sake

that I was not a Protestant, yet that should not prove an obstacle to

our earthly happiness, for (and this rejoiced me more than anything)

although the outward forms of our religion were so wholly at variance

with each other, yet if our hearts were right in the sight of God, and

we were sincere in our love towards him, they should always be

acceptable in his sight. O Inchdarnie! whether it was that I really

believed him or wished to do so for your dear sake, I know not, but I

wept from joy; and he, dear, kind old man, was almost as much affected

as myself. He then told me of your having aided his escape, and I

listened with pride to the narration. We parted, soon to meet again.

With the knowledge of my friends, I flew to your dear, venerable aunt,

the Lady Murdocairnie (in whose house I am now residing), and told her

of all that had passed between us, upon which she took me in her arms

and blessed me, and advised me to write you, stating my unaltered love

and anxiety to behold you. Come then, Inchdarnie; gladden me once more

with your presence, and tell me with your own lips whether you will

forgive, your loving