"Sir, I count it a high honour to suffer for Christ's truth. He alone
is King and Head of His Church."
It was a brave answer, but it was not the answer that Lag required, so
he turned on his heel and rejoined the Sheriff and the Provost. I did
not hear what passed between them, but it was not to the advantage of
the prisoners, for the next moment I saw that the gaoler was fastening
the old woman's left wrist to the stirrup leather of one of the troopers
who had been ordered to bring his horse up nearer the Town Cross. Many
a time since I have wondered whether it was ill-luck or good fortune
that made them hit on me to do such a disservice for Margaret Wilson.
It may have been nothing more than blind chance, or it may have been the
act of Providence--I am no theologian, and have never been able to
settle these fine points--but, at a word from Lag, her gaoler brought
the girl over beside me, and shackled her wrist to my stirrup leather.
I dared not look at her face, but I saw her hand, shapely and brown,
close round the stirrup leather as though she were in pain when the
gaoler tightened the thong.
"Curse you," I growled, "there's no need to cut her hand off. She'll
not escape," and I would fain have hit the brute over the head with the
butt of my musket. He slackened the thong a trifle, and as he slouched
off I was conscious that my prisoner looked up at me as though to thank
me: but I dared not meet her eyes, and she spoke no word.
There was a rattle of drums, and we wheeled into our appointed places,
and began our woeful journey to the sea. Heading our procession walked
two halberdiers, their weapons glistening above their heads. Followed
them the Sheriff and the Provost: and after these Winram and the
troopers in two lines, between which walked the prisoners. Lag rode
behind on his great black horse. It was a brave sight for the old town
of Wigtown--but a sight of dule.
Down the street we went, but this time there were no glances of
admiration cast upon us: nothing but silent looks of awe, touched with
pity. Ahead I saw anxious mothers shepherding their children into the
shelter of their doors, and when we came near them I could see that some
of the children and many of the women were weeping. I dared not look
Margaret Wilson in the face, but I let my eyes wander to her hair, brown
and lustrous in the sunshine. My hand on the reins was moist, my lips
were dry, and I cursed myself that ever I had thrown in my lot with such
a horde of murderers. Agnew's words about conscience kept ringing in my
ears, and I felt them sear my brain. Conscience indeed! What kind of
conscience had I, that I could take part in such a devilish ploy? If I
had had the courage of a rabbit I would have swung the girl up before
me, set spurs to my horse, broken from the line and raced for life. But
I was a coward. I had no heart for such high adventure, and many a time
since, as I have lain in the dark before the cock-crowing, I have been
tortured by remorse for the brave good thing I was too big a craven to
attempt.
The procession wound slowly on, then wheeled to the left and descended
to the river bank. I believe the Blednoch has altered its course since
that day. I have never had the heart to revisit the scene, but men tell
me so. Then, it flowed into the sea over a long stretch of brown sand
just below the town. It was neither broad, nor yet very deep: but when
the tide of Solway was at its full it flooded all the sand banks, and
filled the river-mouth so that the river water was dammed back, and it
became a broad stream.
Far out on the sand I saw a stake planted: and another some thirty paces
nearer shore. They led the old woman, weary with her walk, to the
farther stake, and tying her to it left her there. Down the channel one
could see the tide coming in--its brown and foam-sprinkled front raised
above the underlying water. Cruel it looked, like some questing wild
beast raising its head to spy out its prey. A halberdier came and
severed the thong that fastened Margaret Wilson to my stirrup leather,
and led her away. My eyes followed her, and as she passed my horse's
head she looked at me over her shoulder and our eyes met. I shall see
those eyes until the Day of Judgment: blue as the speedwell--blue, and
unafraid.
They led her to the nearer stake, and bound her there. There was a kind
of mercy in their cruelty, for they thought that if the younger woman
should witness the death of the elder one she might be persuaded to
recant before she herself was engulfed. Quickly, as is its wont, the
Solway tide rushed over the sand. Before Margaret Wilson was fastened
to the stake, the water was knee-deep where Margaret Lauchlison stood:
and soon it was at the maiden's feet. As the first wave touched her
there was a murmur like a groan from some of the town folk who had
followed us and stood behind us in little knots upon the river bank.
The tide flowed on, mounting higher and higher, until old Margaret
Lauchlison stood waist deep in a swirl of tawny water. She was too far
out for us to hear her if she spoke, but we could see that she had
raised her head and was looking fearlessly over the water. And then the
younger woman did a strange thing. Out of the fold of her gown over her
bosom she drew a little book, opened it and read aloud. A hush fell
upon us: and our horses, soothed by the music of her voice, stopped
their head-tossing and were still. She read so clearly that all of us
could hear, and there was a proud note in her voice as she ended: "For I
am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor
principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor
height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us
from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." Then she
kissed the open page, and returned her testament to her bosom, and in a
moment burst into song:
"My sins and faults of youth
Do Thou, O Lord, forget!
After Thy mercy think on me,
And for Thy goodness great."
She sang like a bird, her clear notes soaring up to the blue vault of
heaven, out of the depths of a heart untouched by fear. I heard Agnew,
who was ranged next me, mutter "This is devil's work," but my throat was
too parched for speech. Would she never cease? On and on went that
pure young voice, singing verse after verse till the psalm was finished.
When she had ended the tide was well about her waist, and had already
taken Margaret Lauchlison by the throat.
"What see ye yonder, Marget Wilson?" shouted Lag, pointing with his
sword to the farther stake.