"Wheesht, man," I hissed, "they are gaugers sure enough, and if you are
caught here with a bottle of Luckie's best, you'll be up before Provost
Coltran at the next Session in Wigtown."
"Guid help us! an' me a God-fearin' man. Let's rin for't."
As he spoke, the door of the cottage was thrown open and in the light
from it I saw one of the troopers. Placing a firm hand over my
companion's mouth I dragged him into the shadow of the hedge, and
pushing him before me wormed my way through to its other side.
Here we lay, still and silent, while I, with ears alert, heard the
troopers vault into their saddles and with a cheery "Good night,
Luckie," clatter up the lane to the high road to continue their way to
Newton-Stewart.
We lay hidden till the noise of their going died in the distance, then
we pushed our way back through the hedge and made for the cottage. Jock
beat an unsteady tattoo on the door.
"Wha's knockin' at this time o' nicht?" asked a woman's voice from
behind the door.
"Jock Tamson, Luckie, wi' a frien'."
"Jock Tomson!--he's awa' hame to his bed an 'oor sin'."
"Na, Luckie, it's me richt eneuch, and I've brocht a frien', a braw
laddie in the King's uniform, to see ye."
The King's uniform seemed to act as a charm, for the door was at once
thrown open and we entered.
With a fugitive's caution I lingered to see that the old woman closed
the door and barred it. Then, following the uncertain light of the
tallow candle which she carried, we made our way along the sanded floor
of the passage and passed through a low door into a wide kitchen. Peat
embers still glowed on the hearth, and when Luckie had lit two more
candles which stood in bottles on a long deal table I was able to make
some note of my surroundings. Our hostess was a woman far gone in
years. Her face was expressionless, as though set in a mould, but from
beneath the shadow of her heavy eyebrows gleamed a pair of piercing eyes
that age had not dimmed. She moved slowly with shuffling gait,
half-bowed as though pursuing something elusive which she could not
catch. I noticed, too, for danger had quickened my vision, that her
right hand and arm were never still.
She stooped over the hearth and casting fresh peats upon it said: "And
what's yer pleesure, gentlemen?"
"A bottle o' Blednoch, Luckie, a wheen soda scones and a whang o'
cheese; and dinna forget the butter--we're fair famished," answered
Jock, his words jostling each other. Our hostess brought a small table
and set it before us, and we sat down. Very speedily, for one so old,
Luckie brought our refreshment, and Thomson, seizing the black bottle,
poured himself out a stiff glass, which he drank at a gulp. I helped
myself to a moderate dram and set the bottle on the table between us.
Thomson seized it at once and replenished his glass, and then said as he
passed the bottle to the old woman:
"Will ye no tak' a drap, Luckie, for the guid o' the hoose?"
She shuffled to the dresser and came back with a glass which she filled.
"A toast," said Thomson. "The King, God bless him," and we stood up,
and drank. The potent spirit burned my mouth like liquid fire, but my
companions seemed to relish it as they drank deeply. I had no desire to
dull my wits with strong drink, so, as I helped myself to a scone and a
piece of cheese, I asked Luckie if she could let me have a little water.
"Watter!" cried Thomson. "Whit the deevil d'ye want wi' watter? Surely
you're no' gaun to rot your inside wi' sic' feckless trash."
"No," I said, "I just want to let down the whisky."
"Whit!" he shouted, "spile guid Blednoch wi' pump watter!--it's a
desecration, a fair abomination in the sicht o' the Lord. I thought
frae yer brogue ye were an Englishman. This proves it; nae stammick for
guid drink; nae heid for theology. Puir deevil!"--and he shook his head
pityingly.
I laughed as I watched my insatiable companion once more empty his glass
and refill it.
"An' whit are ye daein' on the road sae late the nicht, young man?" said
Luckie, suddenly. "Lag's men are usually bedded long afore noo. Are ye
after the deserter tae, like the twa dragoons that were here a bittock
syne?"
I had made up my mind that my flight and identity would best be
concealed by an appearance of ingenuous candour, so I replied without
hesitation:
"Yes, I am. He has not been here to-night, has he?"
"Certes, no," exclaimed the old woman. "This is a law-abiding hoose and
I wad shelter neither Covenanter nor renegade King's man."
My words seemed to disarm her of any suspicion she might have had about
me, and she busied herself stirring the peat fire.
Its warmth and the whisky which he had consumed were making Jock drowsy.
He had not touched any of the food, and his chin had begun to sink on
his chest. Soon he slipped from his seat and lay huddled, a snoring
mass, on the flagged floor. Luckie made as though to lift him, but I
forbade her.
"Let him be: he'll only be quarrelsome if you wake him, and he's quite
safe on the floor."
"That's as may be," said Luckie, "but ye're no' gaun to stop a' nicht,
or ye'll never catch the deserter, and ye canna leave Jock Tamson to
sleep in my kitchen. I'm a dacint widda' woman, and nae scandal has
ever soiled my name; and I'll no' hae it said that ony man ever sleepit
in my hoose, and me by my lane, since I buried my ain man thirty years
sin'."
"That's all right," I replied, "have no fear. If Jock is not awake when
I go, I'll carry him out and put him in the ditch by the roadside."
The old woman laughed quietly. "Fegs, that's no' bad; he'll get the
fricht o' his life when he waukens up in the cauld o' the mornin' and
sees the stars abune him instead o' the bauks o' my kitchen."
I had been doing justice to the good fare of the house, but a look at
the "wag-at-the-wa'" warned me that I must delay no longer. But there
was something I must discover. I took my pipe from my pocket and as I
filled it said: "I should think, Luckie, that you are well acquainted
with this countryside."
"Naebody better," she replied. "I was born in Blednoch and I've spent
a' my days between there and Penninghame Kirk. No' that I've bothered
the kirk muckle," she added.
"Then," I said, "suppose a deserter was minded to make for the hills on
the other side o' the Cree, where think you he would try to cross the
river?"
"If he wisna a fule," she said, "he'd ford it juist ayont the Carse o'
Bar. Aince he's ower it's a straicht road to the heichts o' Millfore."
"And where may the Carse o' Bar be?" I asked. "For unless I hurry, my
man may be over the water before I can reach it."
"It's no' far," she said, "and ye canna miss it. Ony fule could see it
in the dark."
"Well, I must be off," I said. "Grier o' Lag is no easy taskmaster and
I must lay this man by the heels. I'll haste me and lie in wait by the
Carse of Bar, and if my luck's in, I may catch him there. What do I owe
you, and may I have some of your good scones and a bit of cheese to keep
me going?"
She brought me a great plateful of scones, which I stowed about my
person with considerable satisfaction; then I paid her what she asked,
and, picking up Jock, bore him towards the door. He made no resistance,
and his head fell limply over my arm as though he were a person dead,
though the noise of his breathing was evidence sufficient that he was
only very drunk. Luckie opened the door and stood by it with a candle
in her hand. I carried Jock down the lane and deposited him underneath
the hedge. Then I went back to the cottage to bid my hostess good
night.
"If ye come through to the back door," she said. "I'll pit ye on the
straicht road for the Carse o' Bar."
I followed her through the kitchen, and she opened a door at the rear of
the house and stood in its shadow to let me pass.
"Gang richt doon the hill," she said, "and keep yon whin bush on yer
left haun; syne ye'll come to a bed o' bracken,--keep that on yer richt
and haud straicht on. By an' by ye'll strike the water edge. Haud up it
till ye come to a bend, and that's the place whaur the deserter will
maist likely try to cross it. Ony fule can ford the Cree; it tak's a
wise body to ken whaur. Guid nicht to ye."
"Good night," I answered, as I set out, turning for a moment for a last
look at the bent old woman as she stood in the dancing shadows thrown by
the candle held in her shaking hand.
*CHAPTER VI*
*IN THE LAP OF THE HILLS*
As I set out I saw that the moon was rapidly sinking. Much time had been
lost, and I must needs make haste. I hurried past the whin bush, and
by-and-by came to the bed of brackens. Just as I reached it the moon
sank, but there was still enough light to let me see dimly things near
at hand. I judged that the river must lie about a mile away, and to
walk that distance over unknown ground in the dark tests a man in a
hundred ways. I did not know at what moment some lurking figure might
spring upon me from the shelter of the brackens, and, clapping a hand on
my shoulder, arrest me in the King's name. I had no weapon of defence
save a stout heart and a pair of iron fists. Even a brave man, in
flight, is apt to read into every rustle of a leaf or into every one of
the natural sounds that come from the sleeping earth an eerie
significance, and more than once I halted and crouched down to listen
closely to some sound, which proved to be of no moment.
Conscience is a stern judge who speaks most clearly in the silences of
the night when a man is alone, and as I groped my way onward the
relentless pursuing voice spoke in my ear like some sibilant and
clinging fury of which I could not rid myself. The avenger of blood was
on my heels: some ghostly warlock, some awesome fiend sent from the pit
to take me thither! The horror of the deed in which I had taken part in
the morning gripped me by the heart. I stumbled on distraught, and as I
went I remembered how once I had heard among the hills a shrill cry as
of a child in pain, and looking to see whence the cry had come I saw
dragging itself wearily along the hillside, with ears dropped back and
hind-limbs paralysed with fear, a young rabbit, and as I looked I saw
behind it a weasel trotting briskly, with nose up and gleaming eyes, in
the track of its victim. I knew enough of wood-craft to realise that
the chase had lasted long and that from the time the weasel began the
pursuit until the moment when I saw them, the issue had been certain;
and I knew that the rabbit knew. Such tricks of fancy does memory play
upon a man in sore straits. I saw, again, the end of the chase--the
flurry of fur as the weasel gripped the rabbit by the throat; I heard
its dying cry as the teeth of its pursuer closed in the veins of its
neck; and there in the dark, I was seized with sudden nausea. I drew a
long breath and tried to cry aloud, but my tongue clave to the roof of
my mouth; fear had robbed me of speech. Then a sudden access of
strength came to me and I began to run. Was it only the fevered
imaginings of a disordered brain, or was it fact, that to my racing feet
the racing feet of some pursuer echoed and echoed again? Suddenly my
foot struck a boulder. I was thrown headlong and lay bruised and
breathless on the ground--and as I lay the sound of footsteps that had
seemed so real to me was no more heard.
I was bruised by my fall and my limbs were still shaking when I
struggled up, but I hurried on again, and by and by the tinkle of the
river as it rippled over its bed fell on my ear like delicate,
companionable music. When I reached its edge I sat down for a moment
and peered into the darkness towards the other side; but gaze as I might
I could not see across it. It looked dark and cold and uncertain, and
though I was a swimmer I had no desire to find myself flung suddenly out
of my depth. So, before I took off my shoes and stockings, I cut a long
wand from a willow near, and with this in my hand I began warily to
adventure the passage. I stood ankle deep in the water and felt for my
next step with my slender staff. It gave me no support, but it let me
know with each step the depth that lay before me. By-and-by I reached
the other side, and painfully--because of my naked feet--I traversed it
until I came to the green sward beyond. Here I sat down in the shelter
of a clump of bushes and put on my shoes and stockings. The cold water
had braced me, and I was my own man again.
As I set out once more I calculated that the sun would rise in three
hours' time, and I knew that an hour after sunrise it would be dangerous
for me to continue my flight in the open. For, though the country-side
was but thinly peopled, some shepherd on the hills or some woman from
her cottage door might espy a strange figure trespassing upon their
native solitude. To be seen might prove my undoing, so I hurried on
while the darkness was still upon the earth.
When day broke I was up among the hills. Now I began to walk
circumspectly, scanning the near and distant country before venturing
across any open space; and when the sun had been up for an hour, and the
last silver beads of dew were beginning to dry on the tips of the
heather, I set about finding a resting-place. It was an easy task, for
the heather and bracken grew luxuriantly. I crawled into the middle of
a clump of bracken, and drawing the leafy stems over me lay snugly hid.
I was foot-sore and hungry, but I helped myself to Luckie's good
provender, and almost as soon as I had finished my meal I was fast
asleep.
When I awoke I was, for a moment, at a loss to understand my
surroundings. Then I remembered my flight, and all my senses were alive
again. I judged from the position of the sun that it must be late
afternoon. Caution made me wary, and I did not stir from my lair, for I
knew that questing troopers might already be on the adjacent hill-sides
looking for me, and their keen eyes would be quick to discern any
unusual movement in the heart of a bed of bracken, so I lay still and
waited. Then I dozed off again, and when I awoke once more, the stars
were beginning to appear.
Secure beneath the defence of the dark, I quitted my resting-place. So
far, fortune had smiled upon me; I had baffled my pursuers, and during
the hours of the night the chase would be suspended. The thought lent
speed to my feet and flooded my heart with hope. Ere the break of morn
I should have covered many a mile. So I pressed on resolutely, and when
the moon rose I had already advanced far on my way.
As I went I began to consider my future. My aim was to reach England.
Once across the border I should be safe from pursuit: but in reaching
that distant goal I must avoid the haunts of men, and until such time as
I could rid myself of my trooper's uniform and find another garb, my
journey would be surrounded with countless difficulties. I estimated
that with care my store of food would last three days. After that the
problem of procuring supplies would be as difficult as it would be
urgent. I dared not venture near any cottage: I dared not enter any
village or town, and the more I thought of my future the blacker it
became. Defiantly I choked down my fears and resolved that I should
live for the moment only. There was more of boldness than wisdom in the
decision, and when I had come to it I trudged on blithely with no
thought except to cover as many miles as possible before the day should
break.
When that hour came I found myself standing by the side of a lone grey
loch laid in the lap of the hills. On each side the great sheet of water
was surrounded by a heather-clad ridge, from whose crest some ancient
cataclysm had torn huge boulders which lay strewn here and there on the
slopes that led down to the water edge. Remote from the haunts of man,
it seemed to my tired eyes a place of enchanting beauty; and I stood
there as though a spell were upon me and watched the sun rise, diffusing
as it came a myriad fairy tints which transformed the granite slabs to
silver, and lighted up the mist-clad hill-side with colours of pearl and
purple and gold.
I watched a dove-grey cloud roll gently from the face of the loch and,
driven by some vagrant wind, wander ghost-like over the hill-side. The
moor-fowl were beginning to wake and I heard the cry of the cock-grouse
challenge the morn. Pushing my way through the dew-laden beds of
heather, I ascended to the crest of the slope which ran up from the
loch, and looked across the country. Before me rolled a panorama of
moor and hill, while in the far distance the morning sky bent down to
touch the earth. There was no human habitation in sight; no feather of
peat-smoke ascending into the air from a shepherd's cot; no sheep or
cattle or living thing; but the silence was broken by the wail of the
whaups, which, in that immensity of space, seemed charged with woe. I
descended from the hill-top and passed round the end of the loch to
reconnoitre from the ridge on the other side. My eyes were met by a
like expanse of moor and hills. Here, surely, I thought, is solitude
and safety. Here might any fugitive conceal himself till the fever of
the hue and cry should abate. For a time at least I should make this
peaceful mountain fastness my home.
When I came down from the ridge I walked along the edge of the loch till
I came upon a little stream which broke merrily away from the loch-side
and rippled with tinkling chatter under the heather and across the
moorland till the brown ribbon of its course was lost in the distance.
Half-dreaming I walked along its bank. Suddenly in a little pool I saw
a trout dart to the cover of a stone. With the zest of boyhood, but the
wariness of maturer years, I groped with cautious fingers beneath the
stone and in a few seconds felt the slight movements of the little fish
as my hands closed slowly upon it. In a flash it was out on the
bank--yards away, and soon other four lay beside it. I had found an
unexpected means of replenishing my larder. With flint and steel and
tinder I speedily lit a handful of dry grass placed under the shelter of
a boulder, and adding some broken stems of old heather and bits of
withered bracken I soon made a pleasant fire over which I cooked my
trout on a flat stone. I have eaten few breakfasts so grateful since.
The meal over, I took care to extinguish the fire. Then, in better cheer
than I had yet been since the moment of my desertion, looking about for
a resting-place I found a great granite boulder projecting from the
hill-side and underneath its free edge a space where a man might lie
comfortably and well hidden by the tall bracken which over-arched the
opening. Laying a thick bed of heather beneath the rock, I crawled in,
drawing back the brackens to their natural positions over a hiding-place
wonderfully snug and safe.
I judged from the position of the sun that it was near six of the
morning when I crawled into my bed, and soon I was fast asleep. It was
high noon when I awoke and peered cautiously through the fronds of the
bracken on a solitude as absolute as it was in the early hours of the
morning. I felt sorely tempted to venture out for a little while; but
discretion counselled caution, and I lay down once more and was soon
fast asleep. When I awoke again I saw that the sun was setting.
I rose and stretched my stiffened limbs. The loch lay in the twilight
smooth as a sheet of polished glass. I went down to its edge and,
undressing, plunged into its waters, still warm from the rays of the
summer sun. Greatly refreshed, I swam ashore, dressed, and ate some food
from my rapidly diminishing store. I had found in the burn-trout an
unexpected addition to my larder, but it was evident that very soon I
should be in sore straits.
Suddenly, I heard a shrill sound cleave the air. Quickly I crawled under
the shelter of the nearest rock and listened. The sound was coming from
the heather slopes on the other side of the loch and I soon became aware
that it was from a flute played by a musician of skill. I was amazed
and awed. The gathering darkness, the loneliness of the hills, the
stillness of the loch, gave to the music a weird and haunting beauty. I
could catch no glimpse of the player, but now I knew that I was not
alone in this mountain solitude. The music died away only to come again
with fresh vigour as the player piped a jigging tune. It changed once
more, and out of the darkness and distance floated an old Scots
melody--an echo of hopeless sorrow from far off years. It ceased.
I waited until the darkness was complete, and, taking a careful note of
the bearings of my hiding-place, I set out with silent footsteps to the
other side of the loch to see if I could discover, without myself being
seen, this hill-side maker of music. Slowly I rounded the end of the
loch, and stole furtively along its edge till I came to a point below
the place from which I judged the melody had come. There, crouching
low, and pausing frequently, I went up the slope. Suddenly I heard a
voice near me, and sank to the ground. No man in his senses speaks
aloud to himself! There must be two people at least on this hill-side,
and my solitude and safety were delusions! I cursed myself for a fool,
and then as the speaker raised his voice I knew that I was not listening
to men talking together, but to a man praying to his Maker--a
Covenanter--a fugitive like myself--hiding in these fastnesses.
Silently as I had come I stole away and left the moorland saint alone
with his God.
*CHAPTER VII*
*THE FLUTE-PLAYER*
The moon was breaking through a wreath of clouds when I came to the end
of the loch again, and its light guided me to my hiding-place. As I had
lain asleep all day, I was in no need of rest, so I set out along the
hill-side to stretch my limbs and explore my surroundings further. All
was silent, and the face of the loch shone in the moonlight like a
silver shield.
The unexpected happenings of the last hour filled my mind. I had been
told once and again that the Covenanters were a dour, stubborn pack of
kill-joys, with no interests outside the narrow confines of their
bigotry. A flute-playing Covenanter--and, withal, a master such as this
man had shown himself to be--was something I found it hard, to
understand. And more than once since that fatal day at Wigtown I had
thought of winsome Margaret Wilson, whose brave blue eyes were of a kind
to kindle love in a man's heart. She, the sweet maid, and this soulful
musician of the hills, made me think that after all the Covenanters must
be human beings with feelings and aspirations, loves and hopes like
other men, and were not merely lawless fanatics to be shot like wild
cats or drowned like sheep-worrying dogs.
I wondered whether this Covenanter had been hiding on the other side of
the loch long before I came; or whether he had been driven by the
troopers from some other lair a few hours before and was but a passer-by
in the night. No man, in flight, resting for a time would have been so
unwary as this flute-player. He must have been there long enough to
know that his solitude was unlikely to be disturbed by any sudden
arrival of troopers, and, if so, he must have some means of supplying
himself with food. An idea seized me. If he, like myself, was a
fugitive in hiding I might be able to eke out my diminishing store by
procuring from him some of the food which I imagined must be brought to
him by friends. But then, how could I expect that one, whose enemies
wore the same coat as I did, would grant me this favour. Even if I told
him my story, would he believe me?
However, I resolved that, when the morning broke, I would try to make
friends with this man: but--my uniform? From his hiding-place he would
doubtless observe my approach, and either conceal himself the closer or
escape me by flight. Turning the matter over in my mind, I continued my
walk along the loch-side, and suddenly, because I was not paying full
heed to the manner of my going, my feet sank under me and I was sucked
into a bog. A "bottomless" bog so common in these Scottish moors would
quickly have solved my difficulties. With no small effort I raised my
head above the ooze and slime, withdrew my right arm from the sodden
morass, out of which it came with a hideous squelch, and felt all round
for some firm tussock of grass or rushes. Luckily finding one, I pulled
upon it cautiously, and it held--then more firmly, and still it held.
Clinging to it I withdrew my left arm from the morass, and, laying hold
on another tussock, after a prolonged and exhausting effort I succeeded
in drawing myself up till I was able to rest my arms on a clump of
rushes that stood in the heart of the bog. Resting for a little to
recover myself, I at last drew myself completely out; and as I stood
with my feet planted firmly in the heart of the rushes, I saw a clump of
grass, and stepped upon it, and from it, with a quick leap, to the other
side. As I stood wet and mud-drenched, it suddenly flashed upon me that
this untoward event might turn to my advantage. The brown ooze of the
bog would effectually hide the scarlet of my coat. Even if the fugitive
on the other side of the loch should see my approach, he would not
recognise in this mud-stained wanderer an erstwhile spick-and-span
trooper of Lag's Horse.
I made my way carefully to the water edge and washed the bitter ooze
from my face and hands. Then I took off my tunic--having first
carefully taken from its pockets the remains of my store of food, now
all sodden--and laid it on a boulder to dry. Then I paced up and down
briskly, till the exercise brought a grateful warmth to my limbs.
I sat down and looked wonderingly over the broad surface of the loch. A
wind had sprung up, warm and not unkindly, which caught the surface of
the water and drove little plashing waves against the gravel edge. As I
listened to their chatter I suddenly heard footsteps close at hand.
Throwing myself flat on the ground I waited. Who was it? The
Covenanter ought to be at the other side of the loch. Was there another
refugee as well as myself on this side, or was it a pursuer who had at
last found me, and had I escaped death in the bog only to face it a few
days hence against a wall in Wigtown with a firing party before me?
*CHAPTER VIII*
*A COVENANTER'S CHARITY*
The footsteps drew nearer and stopped. I had been seen. There was a
long pause, then a voice in level, steady tones said: "Are you a kent
body in this country-side?"
I rose quickly to my feet and faced the speaker. I could see him as a
dark but indistinct figure standing some yards from me on the slope of
the brae, but I knew from the lack of austerity in his tones that he was
no trooper, and I thought that in all likelihood he would prove to be
the player of the flute.
"Need a man answer such a question?" said I. "What right have you to ask
who I am?"
"I have no right," he replied, as he drew nearer--"no title but
curiosity. Strangers here are few and far between. As for me, I am a
shepherd."
"A strange time of night," said I, "for a shepherd to look for his
sheep."
"Ay," answered the voice, "and my flock has been scattered by wolves."
"I understand," I said. "You are a minister of the Kirk, a Covenanter,
a hill-man in hiding."
He came quite close to me and said: "I'm no' denying that you speak the
truth. Who are you?"
"Like you," I replied, "I am a fugitive--a man with a price on his
head."
"A Covenanter?"
"No; a deserter from Lag's Horse."
"From Lag's Horse?" he exclaimed, repeating my words. "A deserter?"
Uncertain what to say, I waited. Then he continued:
"May I make so bold as to ask if your desertion is the fruit of
conviction of soul, or the outcome of some drunken spree?"
I have not the Scottish faculty for analysing my motives, and I hardly
knew what to say. Was I a penitent, ashamed and sorry for the evil
things in which I had played a part, or did I desert merely to escape
punishment for my part in the drunken brawl in the tavern? I had not
yet made a serious attempt to assess the matter; and here, taken at
unawares in the stillness of the night among the silent hills, I was
conscious of the near presence of God before whose bar I was arraigned
by this quiet interlocutor.
"I am wet to the skin and chilled to the bone, for only an hour ago I
foundered in a bog, but if you will walk with me," I said, "I will tell
you the story and you shall judge."
"It is not for man to judge, for he cannot read the heart aright, but if
you will tell me your story I will know as much of you as you seem
already to know of me," he said, as he took me by the arm. "Like you,"
he continued, "I am a fugitive; and if you are likely to stop for long
in this hiding-place, it were well that we should understand each
other."
As we paced up and down, I told him the whole shameful tale.
When I had finished he sat down on the hill-side and, burying his face
in his hands, was silent for a space. Then he rose, and laying a hand
upon my shoulder peered into my face. The darkness was yet too great
for us to see each other clearly, but his eyes were glistening.
"It is not," he said, "for me to judge. God knows! but I am thinking
that your desertion was more than a whim, though I would not go the
length of saying that you have repented with tears for the evil you have
done. May God forgive you, and may grace be given you to turn ere it is
too late from the paths of the wicked."
As I told him my story I had feared that when he heard it he would have
nothing more to do with me: but I had misjudged his charity. Suddenly
he held his hand out to me, saying:
"Providence has cast us together, mayhap that your soul may be saved,
and mine kept from withering. I am ready to be your friend if you will
be mine."
I took his outstretched hand. I had longed for his friendship for my
own selfish ends, and he, who had nothing to gain from my friendship,
offered me his freely.
The night had worn thin as we talked, and now in the growing light I
could see my companion more clearly. He seemed a man well past middle
life; before long I was to learn that he was more than three score years
and ten, but neither at this moment nor later should I have imagined it.
He was straight as a ramrod, spare of body and pallid of face, save
where on his high cheek-bones the moorland wind and the rays of the
summer sun had burned him brown. The hair of his head was black,
streaked here and there by a few scanty threads of silver. His forehead
was broad and high, his nose was well-formed and somewhat aquiline, and
his brown eyes were full of light. It was to his eyes and to his mouth,
around which there seemed to lurk some wistful playfulness, that his
face owed its attraction. He was without doubt a handsome man--I have
rarely seen a handsomer.
As I peered into his face and looked him up and down, somewhat rudely I
fear, he was studying me with care. My woebegone appearance seemed to
amuse him, for when his scrutiny was over he said:
"Ye're no' ill-faured: but I'm thinking Lag would be ill-pleased if he
saw one of his dragoons in sic a mess."
"I trust he won't," I said with fervour, and my companion laughed
heartily.
He laid a hand upon my arm, and with a twinkle in his eye said: "The old
Book says: 'If thine enemy hunger, feed him.' Have you anything to
eat?"
I showed him what I had and invited him to help himself, as I picked up
my tunic and slipped it on.
"No, no," he replied, "I am better provided than you. The Lord that
sent the ravens to Elijah has spread for me a table in the wilderness
and my cup runneth over. Come with me and let us break our fast
together. They do say that to eat a man's salt thirls another to him as
a friend. I have no salt to offer you, but"--and he smiled--"I have
plenty of mutton ham, and I am thinking you will find that salt enough."
The light was rapidly flooding the hill-side as we took our way round to
his side of the loch.
"Bide here a minute," he said, as he left me beside a granite boulder.
I guessed that, with native caution, he was as yet averse to let me see
his resting-place, or the place in which he stored his food. In my
heart of hearts the slight stung me, and then I realised that I had no
right to expect that a Covenanter should trust me absolutely, on the
instant. In a few moments he was back again, and I was amazed at the
quantity of food he brought with him. It was wrapped in a fair cloth of
linen, which he spread carefully on the hill-side, arranging the food
upon it. There were farles of oatcake, and scones, besides the remains
of a goodly leg of mutton. When the feast was spread he stood up and
taking off his bonnet began to pray aloud. I listened till he had
finished his lengthy prayer, refraining from laying hands upon any of
the toothsome food that lay before me. When he had ground out a long
"Amen," he opened his eyes and replaced his bonnet. Then he cut a
generous slice of mutton and passed it to me.
"I never break my fast," he said, "without thanking God, and I am glad
to see that you are a well-mannered young man. I dare hardly have
expected so much from a trooper."
"Ah," I answered, "I have had advantages denied to most of the
troopers."
He nodded his head, and lapsing into the speech of the country-side, as
I had yet to learn was his wont whenever his feelings were stirred, he
said:
"That reminds me of what once befell mair than thirty years sin' when I
was daunnerin' along the road from Kirkcudbright to Causewayend. It was
a summer day just like this, and on the road I foregathered wi' a
sailor-body that had come off a schooner in Kirkcudbright. We walked
along and cracked, and I found him, like every other sailor-man, to be
an interesting chiel. By and by we cam' to a roadside inn. I asked him
to join me in a bite and sup. The inn-keeper's lass brocht us scones
and cheese and a dram apiece, and when they were set afore us, I, as is
my custom, took off my bonnet and proceeded to thank the Lord for these
temporal mercies. When I opened ma een I found that my braw sailor lad
had gulped doon my dram as weel as his ain, while I was asking the
blessing. 'What dae ye mean by sic a ploy?' says I; but the edge was
ta'en off ma anger when the sailor-man, wiping his moo' wi' the back o'
his haun', said, 'Weel, sir, the guid Book says ye should watch as weel
as pray.'"
At the memory of the trick played upon him my companion burst into
laughter, and I have rarely heard a happier laugh.
He was a generous host, and pressed me to take my fill.
"There is plenty for us both," he said. "Dinna be blate, my lad, help
yersel'." Then as he offered me another slice of mutton, he said: "I am
thinking that the ravens are kinder to me than they were to Elijah, for,
so far as I know, they never brocht him a mutton ham. But who ever
heard o' a braxy sheep in the wilds o' Mount Carmel!" and he laughed
again.
When our meal was over he looked me up and down again. I could see that
he was distressed at the condition of my clothing, but I explained to
him that I considered my fall into the bog a blessing in disguise, since
it toned down the bright colour of my garments and would make them less
easily seen upon the moorland.
"That's as may be, but ye're an awfu' sicht. However, I've no doubt
that when the glaur dries it winna look so bad."
As he talked I was divesting myself of my uniform, and as I stood before
him in my shirt he looked me over again and said: "You might disguise
yourself by making a kilt out o' your coat, but twa sic' spindle shanks
o' legs would gi'e you awa' at once. I know well, since ye're an
Englishman, ye werena' brought up on the carritches, and I can see for
myself ye got no oatmeal when ye were a bairn."
I laughed, as I tossed my last garment aside, and running to the edge of
the loch plunged into its depths. He watched me as I swam, and when I
came to the shore again I found him drying my outer garments over a fire
which he had kindled.
"It'll be time for bed," he said, "in a few minutes. You take your ways
to your own hidie-hole and I will take my way to mine; and may God send
us sweet repose. No man can tell, but I am thinking there will be no
troopers up here the day. They combed this loch-side a fortnight sin',
and when they had gone I came and hid here. Maist likely they'll no' be
back here for a long time."
I thanked him for his hospitality, and as I turned to go I said: "Where
shall I find you to-night, for I should like to have more of your
company?"
"Well," he answered, "I always sleep on this side of the loch; and when
night falls and a' thing seems safe, it is mair than likely ye'll hear
me playing a bit tune on the flute. When ye hear that, if ye come round
to this side and just wait a wee, ye'll likely see me again. Good
morning! and God bless you!"
*CHAPTER IX*
*THE STORY OF ALEXANDER MAIN*
I made for my hiding-place, and, snugly covered up in my lair, I was
soon asleep. In the late afternoon I awoke. What it was that woke me I
know not, but as I lay half-conscious in the dreamy shallows that lie
around the sea of sleep, I heard something stir among the brackens not
far from me. I raised myself on an elbow, and separating the fronds
above me gazed in the direction from which the sound came. Less than a
score of paces away a winsome girl was tripping briskly along the
hill-side. Her head was crowned with masses of chestnut-brown hair
which glistened with a golden sheen where the sunlight caught it. Over
her shoulders was flung lightly a plaid of shepherd's tartan. Her gown
was of a dull reddish colour, and she walked lightly, with elastic step.
I was not near enough, nor dare I, lest I should be seen, crane my neck
beyond my hiding-place to see her features clearly, but I could tell
that she was fair to look upon. My eyes followed her wistfully as she
rapidly ascended the slope, but in a moment she was out of sight over
its crest. I wondered who she could be. This mountain fastness was a
place of strange surprises. I pondered long but could find no light, so
I settled myself to sleep again; but ere I slept there flitted through
my waking dreams the vision of a winsome maid with hair a glory of
sun-kissed brown.
On waking, my first thought was of her, and anxiously and half-hopefully
I peeped into the gathering darkness to see if she had come back again;
but there was nothing to see except the beds of heather, purple in the
gathering twilight, and the grey shadows of the granite rocks scattered
along the hill-side.
I judged that the time had come when I might with safety issue from my
hiding-place, so I ventured forth. Sitting down upon the hill-side I
helped myself to some of my rapidly diminishing food. As I did so, I
thought with gratitude of the hermit on the other side of the loch, who,
of his large charity, had made me free of his ample stores.
And then the truth flashed upon me--the little bird which brought his
food was no repulsive, croaking raven, but a graceful
heather-lintie--the girl whom I had seen that afternoon.
When I had finished eating, I went down to the edge of the loch and,
stooping, drank. Then I returned to my seat and waited. The stars were
coming out one by one, and the horn of the moon was just appearing like
the point of a silver sickle above a bank of clouds when I heard the
music of the flute. It pulsated with a haunting beauty, like some elfin
melody which the semi-darkness and the intervening water conspired to
render strangely sweet. Evidently the player was in a happy mood, for
his notes were instinct with joy, and, though they lacked that mystic
sadness which had so thrilled me a night ago, they cast a glamour over
me. When the music ceased I tarried for a space, for I had no desire to
break in upon the devotions of my friend; but by and by I made my way
round to the other side of the loch.
I found the hermit awaiting me. He bade me "Good e'en" and asked if I
had had anything to eat. I told him that I had already satisfied my
hunger.
"That is a pity," he said, "for the ravens have been kind to-day and
have brought me a little Galloway cheese forby twa or three girdles-fu'
o' guid, crisp oatcake; by the morn they'll no' be so tasty, so just try
a corner and a wee bit o' cheese along with me."
Little loth, I assented, and soon I was enjoying some of his toothsome
store. I ate sparingly, for I had already blunted the edge of my hunger
and I had no wish to abuse his generosity. As I nibbled the crisp
oatcake I thought of the girl I had seen on the hill-side, and in a fit
of curiosity said: "I have been thinking that though the Lord sent the
ravens to feed Elijah, he has been sending somebody bonnier and blither
to feed you--in fact no raven, but a heather-lintie!"
He looked at me quickly, and replied: "I am no' sayin' yea or nay; and
at any rate you have no call to exercise your mind with what doesna
concern you."
The rebuke was a just one and I was sorry for my offence.
When our meal was over, he took me by the arm. "What say you to a walk
by the light o' the moon?" he asked. "I'll guarantee you will fall into
no more bogs, for I know every foot of these hills as well as I know the
palm of my hand."
"Your pleasure is mine," I said. So we set out, and as we went he
talked.
"Last night," he said, "you told me your story; to-night, if you care to
listen, I will tell you mine.
"I am an older man by far than you are, and I will never see the
three-score and ten again. As my days so has my strength been. I have
seen a feck of things and taken part in many a deed that will help to
make history. You may think I boast myself, but listen. My name is
Alexander Main, and, as you ken, I am a minister of the Kirk of
Scotland. The year 1638 saw me a student in the Glasgow College--that
is long syne, and they were stirring times. Ye may have heard of that
great gathering in the Greyfriars Kirk at Edinburgh on the last day of
February 1638, when we swore and put our names to the National Covenant.
It was a great day. The crowd filled kirk and yard. Well do I mind the
gallant Warriston reading the Covenant, much of which had come glowing
from his own pen--but most of all I mind the silence that fell upon us
when the reading was over. Then the good Earl of Sutherland stepped
forward and put his name to it, and man followed man, each eager to
pledge himself to the bond. Some of us, I mind well, wrote after their
names the words 'Till death,' and others signed it with their blood."
"And what might this Covenant be?" I asked.
"Ah," he said, "I had forgotten. Briefly the bond was this: 'to adhere
to and defend the true religion of Presbyterianism, and to labour to
recover the purity and liberty of the Gospel as it was established and
professed in the Kingdom of Scotland.' It was to put an end to all
endeavours to foist prelacy upon us and to signify our adherence to the
Presbyterian form of Church-government which King James himself had
sworn to uphold in this Kingdom of Scotland, that we put our names to
the bond. Not that we were against the King, for in the Covenant it was
written plain that we were ready with our lives to stand to the defence
of our dread sovereign, the King's Majesty. The wave of fervour spread
like a holy fire from that old kirkyard through the length and breadth
of Scotland, and the noblest blood in the land and the flower of its
intellect signed the Covenant. Later on there came a day when those who
stood for liberty of conscience in England as well as Scotland made a
compact. That was the Solemn League and Covenant, whereby we bound
ourselves to preserve a reformed religion in the Church of Scotland.
The memory of man is short, and it has almost been forgotten that the
solemn league was a joint Scottish and English affair, and that it was
ratified by the English Parliament. These things were the beginning,
but since then this puir kingdom has passed through the fire."
He paused and sighed deeply, then picking up the thread of his words
again he told me the chequered history of the Covenanters for close on
fifty years. It was a story that thrilled me--a record of suffering, of
high endeavour, of grievous wrong. Of his own sufferings he made
little, though he had suffered sore, and I, who had never felt the call
to sacrifice myself for a principle, was humbled to the dust as I
listened. He spoke in accents tense with emotion, and sometimes his
voice rang with pride. I was too spell-bound to interrupt him, though
many questions were upon my lips.
At last he ceased, as though the memories he was recalling had
overwhelmed him, then he resumed:
"So, in some sort, my story is the story of puir auld Scotland, for the
past fifty years. It is a tragedy, and the pity is--a needless tragedy!
If the rulers of a land would study history and human nature, it would
save them from muckle wrong-doing and oppression. It has been tried
before and, I doubt not, it will be tried many a time again, but it will
never succeed--for no tyrant can destroy the soul of a people by brute
force. They call us rebels, and maybe so we are, but we were not rebels
in the beginning. Two kings signed the bond: the Parliament passed it.
We remained true to our pledged word; the kings forgot theirs, and they
call us the law-breakers. And some call us narrow-minded fanatics.
Some of us may be; for when the penalty of a man's faith is his death,
he may come to lay as much stress on the commas in his creed as on the
principles it declares. No man has the right to compromise on the
fundamentals.
"Sometimes I wonder if I had my life to live over again whether I would
do as I have done. Maist likely I should, for all through I have let my
conscience guide me. I have no regrets, but only a gnawing sorrow that
sometimes torments me. I have been in dangers many, and I have never
lowered my flag, either to a fear or to a denial of my faith, and yet
the Lord has not counted me worthy to win the martyr's crown." His
voice broke, and he hesitated for a moment, then went on: "I have fought
a good fight; I have almost finished my course, but whether I have kept
the faith is no' for me to say. I have tried.
"The night of Scotland's woe has been long and stormy; but the dawn of a
better day is not far off, and she will yet take her place in the
forefront of the nations as the land in which the battle for liberty of
conscience was fought and won.
"Look ye," and he pointed to the east, where the darkness was beginning
to break as the sun swung up from his bed.
*CHAPTER X*
*THE FIELD MEETING*
A week passed uneventfully. Each night I joined my friend and the glad
notes of his flute were still our signal: each morning we parted to
sleep through the daylight hours each in his own hiding-place.
I was strangely attracted by this old man. He was a gentle spirit,
quick to take offence, often when none was meant, but equally quick to
forget. He had a quaint humour, flashes of which lightened our converse
as we walked together in the night, and he had all the confidence of a
little child in the abiding love of God. As I parted with him one
morning, he said:
"I doubt you'll no' ken what day of the week this is."