Of that loathly dread which lay most heavily upon our hearts, not one of
us spoke. Mary, her heart on fire, had spoken for us all, but
her-mother did not allow her anxiety to shake her firm common-sense.
"A' that ye say may be true, lassie," she said, "but ye'll no' be as
weel able to look for your faither if ye gang withoot your parritch.
Get the kye milket, and when ye've had your breakfast, if Andra is no'
back, ye'd better gang and look for him."
*CHAPTER XXIII*
*THE SEARCH*
During the morning meal we discussed what was to be done. None of us
knew to which hiding-place Andrew had taken the fugitive. There were,
however, two possibilities; he might have taken him to a remote corner
of the moor which Mary knew, whither, on occasion, she had aforetime
borne food to some hidden fugitive. I had never been to this
hiding-place, but I knew the way to the hill-top where my own retreat
had been. In the end, we decided that Jean should remain at Daldowie,
while Mary made her way across the moor to the one hiding-place and I
went to the other. Jean would fain have joined in the search, but we
made her see the wisdom of remaining at the farm.
"I suppose you're richt," she said, "but it's dreary wark sittin' idle."
I seized my stick, Mary threw her plaid over her shoulders, and together
we were about to set out, when Jean spoke suddenly.
"Can ye cry like a whaup?" she asked, addressing herself to me.
"Yes," said Mary, "I had forgotten; that is the sign--three whaup calls
and a pause while you can count ten, then twa whaup calls and a pause
again, then three whaup calls aince mair. That," she said, "is a signal
that we settled on long ago," and pursing her mouth she gave a whaup
call so clear and true that it might have come from the throat of a
bird.
"Yes," I said, "I can cry like a whaup. But when am I to use the
signal?"
"You had best try it every now and then; for somewhere on the way it may
reach the ears of Andra. He'll ken it an' answer ye in the same way,
and ye'll ken you've found him."
Mary took her mother in her arms and kissed her. If she had been given
to tears I know that her eyes would have brimmed over then; but the
brave old woman bore herself stoutly.
"Ye'll tak' care o' yoursels, bairns," she said, "and even if ye
shouldna find Andra, be sure to come back afore nicht. If you dinna
meet him on the hills, you'll likely find him at his ain fireside when
ye get back again."
So we set out. For a time our paths led in the same direction and when
we came to the edge of the moor Mary sent her whaup calls sailing
through the morning air. We waited, but there was no reply; then we
walked on together. She was very quiet, and anything I could find to
say seemed strangely empty: but I slipped my arm through hers and she
returned its pressure gently, so that I knew she could hear my heart
speak. All too soon we came to the place where we must separate.
"That," she said, "is where I found you," and she pointed to a green
patch among the heather.
"Come," I said, and we left the path for a moment and stood together
there. In the hush of the morning, with no witness but the larks above
us, I took her in my arms and kissed her passionately. "Here," I said,
"life and love came to me: and happiness beyond all telling,"--and I
kissed her again.
She nestled to me for a moment, then shyly drew herself away. "Has it
meant a' that to you?" she whispered. "Then what has it meant to me? It
has brocht love into my life, beloved, and love is of God."
I folded her in my arms again, and held her. A little tremor shook her
as I bent and kissed her on the brow and eyes and lips. "Flower of the
Heather, God keep you," I said. On my little finger was a silver ring.
It bore the crest of my house. I drew it off, and taking Mary's hand in
mine I slipped it upon her finger and kissed it as it rested there. "For
love's sweet sake," I said.
She gazed at her finger and then looked at me archly, her wonted
playfulness awaking. "I wonder what faither will say? He'll read me a
sermon, nae doot, on setting my affections on the things o' this world;
but I winna care. A' I want is to find him; and if he likes he can
preach at me till the crack o' doom."
I smiled at her upturned face. "And when we find him, Mary, as find him
we will, I will ask him to let me marry you."
A light flashed in her eyes that all morning had been strained and sad.
"Let's find him quick," she said. "Noo we maun awa. That is your road,
and this is mine. Good-bye, and God bless you," and she lifted her face
to me.
I would fain have prolonged the happy moment, but reason prompted me to
be strong, so I bent and kissed her fondly, little dreaming of all the
sorrow that the future held. At the end she showed herself to be more
resolute than I was, for it was she who tore herself away. I watched as
she sped lightly over the tussocks of heather like a young fawn, then I
turned and took the path she had indicated to me, a path which I had
blindly followed amidst storm and lightning once before. Ere I had gone
far I turned to follow her with my eyes, and as I watched she turned to
look for me. I waved my hand to her, and she waved back to me. The
sunlight fell on that dear head of hers and, even across the distance, I
could see the brown of her hair and the witching coil of gold set like
an aureole above her forehead.
I plodded forward steadily, looking to right and left and from time to
time uttering the whaup call. But there was no answer; nor did I
anywhere see sign of Andrew. When I turned again to look for Mary she
had passed out of sight and, though I scanned the distance eagerly, I
could catch no glimpse of her.
My path had begun to lead me up the hills and as I went I was conscious
that the strength of my injured limb was not all that I had thought. On
the level it served me well enough, but on the slopes the strain began
to tell. I was not to be beaten, however, by mere physical pain and
struggled on with all the spirit I could command, though my progress was
hindered seriously. It was close to noon when I came to the place of
the hill-meeting where I had first seen Mary face to face. I clambered
down into the hollow. It was a place of hallowed memories. In the hope
that Andrew might be near, I uttered the whaup call: but there was no
reply. I sat down, and took from my pocket some of the food with which
Jean had provided me, and as I ate I pondered. I was not yet half way to
my destination and the portion of the road that lay before me was harder
far than that along which I had come. I judged that in my crippled
state it would be evening before I could reach the loch-side, and to
return to Daldowie again that day would be impossible. I dared not go
back without having completed my search. To fail of accomplishing my
part of the quest would be disloyalty to the friends to whom I owed my
life.
My absence for a night would doubtless cause them anxiety, and as I
thought of Mary's pain I was sore tempted to abandon my search and turn
back to Daldowie at once. But I remembered my debt to Andrew and
determined that at all costs I should see this matter through to the
end.
Possibly Andrew was lying somewhere in my path with a broken limb such
as I myself had sustained, and if I abandoned the search, his death
would be upon my head. When I considered what Mary would think of me in
such a case, shame smote me; so, without more ado, I set out again and
battled on until, as the sun began to climb down the western sky, I
found myself within sight of the loch.
Always the twilight hour is the hour of memories, and as I made what
haste I could towards the great sheet of water they crowded in upon me.
There, on the right, was the hiding-place which had afforded me shelter
for so many nights: there on a memorable day I had caught sight of Mary,
remote yet bewitching: there, on the other side, was the place where
Alexander Main lay sleeping. Then I remembered the mission upon which I
had come and uttered the whaup call. The sound was flung back by some
echoing rock, but there was no response from any human throat. Again I
uttered it, but no answer came; Andrew was not here. I made my way
round the end of the loch and sought the little cairn of stones beneath
which rested the body of my friend. Taking my bonnet off, I bent
reverently above the little mound. He had given his life for me. Had I
yet shown myself worthy of such sacrifice? I plucked a handful of early
heather, purple in the dying light, and laid it among the grey stones of
the cairn. Purple is the colour of kings. Then I stole away, and once
more uttered the whaup call; but there was no answer, save that some
mere-fowl rose from the surface of the lake and on flittering, splashing
wings, furrowing the water, fled from my presence.
I sought the place where I had hidden aforetime and where but for my
friend I should have been captured by the dragoons. It was undisturbed.
No one, apparently, had made use of it since I had been there. In my
weary state and with my aching limb, it was useless to try to return to
Daldowie in the darkness. Haply Andrew was already safe, with Mary and
Jean, by his own fireside. I pictured them sitting there; I saw them at
the taking of the Book; I heard Mary's voice leading the singing, and I
knew that to-night they would be singing a psalm of thanksgiving. I
heard again, as I had so often heard when lying in the garret above the
kitchen, the scrape of the chairs upon the flagged floor as the
worshippers knelt to commit themselves to the care of the Eternal
Father: and I knew that somewhere in his petitions Andrew would remember
me; and his petition would rise on the soft wings of Mary's faith and
soar above the high battlements of heaven, straight to the ear of God.
I wondered whether my absence would distress them. Mary, I knew, would
be on the rack of anxiety. Her mother, no doubt, would be anxious too:
but their anxiety would be tempered by the wise counsel of Andrew who
would point out to them, no doubt with emphasis, and possibly with some
tart comment on the witlessness of women, that it was not to be expected
that I, a lamiter, could accomplish such a long journey in the space
between daylight and sunsetting. I could hear him say: "I could ha'e
tellt ye afore he started. The lad's a' richt; but it's a lang road,
and would tax even me, an' auld as I am I'm a better man than Bryden ony
day."
As I pondered these things the darkness fell, lit by a myriad
scintillant stars which mirrored themselves in the depths of the lake so
that as I sat there I seemed to be in the centre of a great hollow
sphere, whose roof and floor were studded with innumerable diamonds.
For a time I sat feasting my eyes on this enchanting spectacle; then I
crawled into my hiding-place and pillowing my head on a sheaf of dead
bracken leaves I composed myself to sleep. I slept heavily and when I
awoke the hour of dawn was long past. Some old instinct made me push
aside the overhanging fronds with a wary hand and peep out cautiously;
but there was nothing to be seen except the great rolling hillside. As
of old, the laughing waters of the loch called to me, and soon I was
revelling in their refreshing coolness.
When I had clambered out I scampered along the edge of the loch till I
was dry, then putting on my clothing I sat down and breakfasted. I had
not much food left; hardly enough to blunt my appetite, but I hoped that
I should be able to make good speed on the homeward journey, and that in
a few hours I should once again rejoin the expectant household at
Daldowie.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*BAFFLED*
My meal over I went to the loch-side, and dropping on my hands and knees
took a long draught of the cool water. Then, raising myself, I uttered
the whaup call, but I did not expect any answer and I received none. I
looked across the loch to the little cairn that stood sentinel above the
sainted dead, and then I turned and made for home and Mary.
I climbed up the slope to my left and scanned the moor. For miles and
miles it spread before me, but far as the eye could reach there was no
one to be seen. Then the spell of the solitude fell upon me, and I began
to understand how, in the dawn of the world, the dim-seeing soul of man
had stretched out aching hands in the lone places of the earth if haply
it might find God.
The mood passed, and I prepared to haste me on my journey. Taking my
bearings carefully, I decided to make straight for Daldowie. The ache
in my injured limb had abated and I found that I could make fair speed.
My heart was light; I was going back to Mary, and I should find Andrew
safe. The larks above me were storming the heavens with their song; my
heart was singing too; and soon my lips were singing as well. I sang a
love-song--one of Mary's songs--and as I sang I smiled to think that I
was practising the art of what Andrew had called "speaking like a
ceevilised body."
Midday came, as the sun above me proclaimed, and I judged that already I
was half-way home, when suddenly, in the distance, I saw some moving
figures. The wariness of a hill-man flung me at once upon my face, and
peering through a tuft of sheltering heather, I looked anxiously towards
them.
They were mounted men, and I saw that they were troopers. I counted
them anxiously. They were searching the moor in open order and I was
able to make out a dozen of them. They were between me and Daldowie.
Had they seen me? Were they coming in my direction? Breathless I
watched. I knew that if they had seen me, they would put spurs to their
horses and come galloping towards me. They made no sign--I had not been
noticed. I was lying in the open with nothing to hide me but the tuft
of heather through which I peered. There was not enough cover there to
hide a moor fowl, but close at hand was a bush of broom, and worming
myself towards it, I crawled under it and lay hidden.
To the unskilled eye, the distance across the rolling face of a moor is
hard to measure, but I judged the dragoons were at least a mile from me.
As I watched I saw them gather together in a cluster. Had they found
Andrew, or might it be the poor demented lad whom Andrew had risked his
life to hide, or was it some other hunted hill-man? My ears were taut
with expectation as I waited for the rattle of muskets; but I was wrong.
I saw the troopers fling themselves from the saddles and in a moment a
little column of smoke began to steal into the air, and I knew that they
had off-saddled to make their mid-day meal. That gave me a respite, and
I thought hurriedly what I had best do. Should I endeavour to worm my
way further afield until I might with safety rise to my feet and race
back to my old hiding-place beside the loch?
Almost I felt persuaded to do so, then I remembered that this would
place a greater distance between myself and Mary, and she herself might
be in danger. A chilling fear seized me. What was it I had heard of
Lag? Was it not that he and his dragoons had gone further west, and
were quartered again at Wigtown? If that were so, then possibly the
dragoons before me were Winram's men, and the promise of protection
given by Lag to the good folk of Daldowie would no longer hold. The
horror of it! What could I do? My fears had taken such hold on me that
my strength ebbed, and I was as water poured out upon the ground. It was
not fear for myself that unmanned me, but a torturing anxiety for Mary's
safety. The hour of their midday meal seemed endless. So long as they
rested I was safe, and yet, with a strange perversity, I longed for the
moment when once again they should mount their horses and continue their
quest. Anxiously I looked up at the sun. Already he was past the
meridian and I breathed a sigh of relief. In his haste lay my safety,
for the close of day would bring the search to an end, for a time at
least, and then I could return to my loved one.
At last I saw the troopers climb into their saddles. Was it fancy, or
did my eyes deceive me? They seemed to have altered the direction of
their search. Spreading out across the moor, trampling every bit of
heather under foot, they searched eagerly, but their backs were towards
me. I breathed again, for if they did not change their course once
more, I should remain undiscovered.
The moments went by on leaden feet, but the sun marched steadily on
through the sky. Still the troopers quartered and requartered the same
tract of moor, and still, to all seeming, their quest was fruitless. I
found myself wondering what they were looking for. Was it a quest at a
venture, or were they searching for the boy who, two days ago, had found
shelter at Daldowie? Two days ago! Was that all? It seemed far
longer. What was Mary doing now? It was drawing near the time of the
milking. Perhaps at this very moment she was out on the hill-side
bringing in the cows. Dear little Mary: I could hear her call them
home: see her tripping winsomely along the hill-side. My heart cried
out to her.
The sound of a whistle cut the air and the dragoons turned their horses.
It was the signal for their home-going, and a strange voice which I did
not know for mine, though it issued from my lips, said "Thank God."
I watched till the last scarlet coat had disappeared before I ventured
to bestir myself and it was not until nearly an hour had elapsed that I
ventured to resume my journey. With all wariness, I hurried through the
gathering dusk. Ere long I came to the place where the black remnants
of the dragoons' fire still lay like an ugly splash upon the moor. I
passed it by and hurried on. Only a few short miles now separated me
from Daldowie. Before me lay a little hill. Bravely I breasted it,
full of hope that once over it I should be within eye-range of home, but
when I reached its summit I saw a sight that once again made me fling
myself flat on my face. Some two miles away a fire was burning, and
clearcut against its light I could see the dark shadows of men and
horses. Danger still confronted me. For some reason the troopers were
bivouacking upon the moor, right upon the path which I must follow if I
would reach Daldowie, There was nothing for it but to steal down the
hill-side and seek a resting-place. As I stole away, I bethought myself
that in all likelihood they were camping there in order to continue
their search on the morrow. With this in mind, it seemed to me that my
chief hope of safety lay in hiding myself somewhere on that portion of
the waste which they had examined with such care already. So I made for
the place where their fire had been, and, using it as a landmark, I
struck off at a right angle. A mile away, where the trampled heather
proclaimed that it had been well searched, I found a resting-place and
lay down to sleep.
Soon after dawn I was awake again. I turned over and peered out
cautiously. Nowhere could I see any trace of the troopers, but the
morning was yet young, and I judged that it was too early for them to be
far afield. I had little doubt that ere long they would come again and
I dared not stir from my place lest I should be seen. The morning hours
dragged wearily by. The moor was still, save for a trailing wind, and
all was silent but for the song of the lark, the cry of the peewit and
the melancholy wail of the whaup.
At last the sun reached the meridian, and I ventured forth from my
hiding-place. Stealthily I crept along until I reached the crest of the
hill, from which I had descried the bivouac of the dragoons. I
stretched myself flat upon its summit, and looked anxiously down. The
bivouac fire was quenched; there was no sign of horse or trooper. I
looked to every point of the compass, but all was vacant moor. Whither
the troopers had gone I could not tell, nor did I care so long as they
had gone from the path that led me to my Mary.
So, with heart uplifted, I proceeded on my way, slowly at first and
cautiously, but gradually gaining speed. By and by I came to the place
where they had bivouacked and found close at hand a rush-grown deep pool
of water. On hands and knees I lapped the cool liquid, and then I laved
my face and hands and felt refreshed and clean. In less than an hour
now, Mary would be in my arms. The thought lent new strength to my
limbs. Almost I ventured to burst into song again, but I knew that
would be madness. So, though my heart was singing a madrigal, my lips
kept silence.
At last I came within sight of the hill where the sheep were pastured.
I looked at it lovingly. It was the first thing to welcome me home; but
as I looked I saw no sheep upon it. But what of that? Probably during
the three days of my absence, Andrew had taken them to some other
hill-side. I hastened on. Before me lay the green slope from which many
a time I had helped Mary to gather in the cows. I scanned it eagerly,
half expecting to see her, sweet as a flower, but she was not there.
Mayhap at this moment she was busy at the milking. In fancy I heard her
singing at her task. Only a few more steps and I should see the kindly
thatched roof of that little moorland farm that sheltered her I loved.
O Mary mine!
*CHAPTER XXV*
*THE SHATTERING OF DREAMS*
Love smote me and I ran. In a moment I was within sight of the house.
Then horror struck me; the house was gone, and there was but a pointed
gable wall, blackened by smoke, and beside it a great dark mass which
still smouldered in the afternoon sunlight.
I stood for a moment turned to stone, then dashed forward. The air was
acrid with the smell of burning straw. What devil's work had been afoot
while I was on the moors? Had Lag been false to his promise, or had
Winram done this thing? What had happened to Mary, to her mother, to
Andrew? Where could they be? Were they alive or dead? As these
questions flamed in my tortured mind I walked rapidly round the still
smouldering ruins of the house. If murder had been done, surely there
would be some sign. Eagerly I looked on every side; then I peered into
the heart of the ruins. Horror of horrors! God in heaven!--what did I
see? Half buried among the grey-black ashes was a charred and grinning
skull. The lower jaw had dropped away and the socket where the eyes had
been gaped hideously. I sprang upon the smouldering mass. My feet sank
into the thick ashes, which burned me, but I cared not. There was
mystery here, and horror! I stirred the ashes with my stick, and
beneath them found a charred skeleton, so burned that no vestige of
clothing or of flesh was left upon it. As I stood aghast, the wind
descended from the hills and lifted a great cloud of black dust into the
air. It swirled about me and blew into my eyes so that, for a moment, I
was blinded. Then the wind passed, and with smarting eyes I saw two
other skeletons.
Mary!--the heart of my heart, the light of my life, my loved one--Mary
was dead! Tears blinded me. I tried to call her name--my voice was
broken with sobbing: my whole body trembled. I stooped and reverently
separated the ashes with my hands. What though they burned me, I cared
not. Was not Mary dead? Nothing else mattered.
The fire had done its work thoroughly. There was no vestige of clothing
or flesh left upon the bones; but on one of the skulls, which was surely
that of Mary's mother, there was a hole drilled clean, and I knew then
that the cruelty of the persecutors had been tempered with mercy. I
knew what had happened: Andrew and Jean and Mary--sweet Mary--had been
shot in cold blood, and then their bodies had been cast into the blazing
furnace of their old home. So this was the King's Justice! Oh, the
cruelty insensate, vile and devilish. I continued blindly to rake among
the ashes. Then as they dropped through my fingers something remained
in my hand. I looked. It was a ring, half melted by the flames; the
ring I had given to Mary. I pressed it to my trembling lips. My sobs
choked me: my heart was breaking.
Half mad with grief I stepped from among the ashes on to the scorched
grass. A fit of hopeless desolation seized me. All the dreams which,
but a week ago, I had so fondly cherished had vanished into nothingness.
Had I anything to live for now? Would it not be better to go out into
the hills and seek some company of fiendish dragoons and declare myself
to be a Covenanter--and die as my friends had done? If there were
anything in the faith of Alexander Main and of Andrew and Jean and Mary,
that would mean reunion with her whom I loved. But what was the good?
There was no heaven. It was all an empty lie. There was no
God!--nothing but devils--and the earth was Hell.
The mood of anger passed, and there came a storm of grief such as I have
never known. Physical pain I knew of old, but this torture of the
spirit was infinitely more cruel than any bodily suffering I had ever
experienced. I threw myself down on the ground and for a long space lay
with my face buried in my hands. I tried to think that as I lay there
Mary's spirit was beside me. I spoke to her in little whispers of love
and stretched out aching arms to enfold her; but no answering whisper
came out of the void, and my arms closed about the empty air. I lay long
in my agony.
Then I bethought myself of my state. Here I had found life and hope and
love; and now hope and love had been rudely stolen from me, and only the
ashes of life remained. Let me up and away and forget! But could I
ever forget? Would I ever wish to forget the spell of Mary's voice, the
roguish witchery of her eyes, the sweet tenderness of her lips? So long
as life should last, I should remember.
I lifted my face to the sky. A myriad stars sparkled there, like the
dust of diamonds, and one star shone brighter than all the rest. I
called it Mary's star. It was a childish fancy; but it gave me comfort,
and of comfort I had sore need. Then I began to consider what I had
best do. I should remain no longer in this tortured and persecuted
country. It would avail me nothing to remain. Mary was dead: Scotland
was nothing to me now.
I rose to my feet. I was chilled to the bone and grief had sapped my
strength. My ears caught the sound of trickling water. I was parched
with thirst. I made my way to the water-pipe where many a time I had
helped Mary to fill her pail, and bending down I let the cool jet splash
into my mouth, and washed my hands and face.
I had grown calmer now and was able to think more clearly and to fix my
mind upon my purposes. At daybreak I should set out. In a few days I
should be over the Border. And if, on my way, I met a company of
dragoons, the worst they could do would be the best for me and I should
be content to die.
Slowly I made my way to the stack-yard. Here I scooped out a
resting-place in one of the stacks, and covering myself up with the warm
hay I tried to sleep. But with my spirit on the rack of agony sleep was
denied me so, after a time, I climbed out of my hiding-place and kept
vigil beside the ashes of my beloved. As I sat with the tears stealing
down my cheeks memory after memory came back to me. I recalled the
sweet sound of Mary's voice--her dainty winsomeness. I thought of
Jean--the warm-hearted, shrewd, and ever kindly: and of Andrew--dour,
upright, generous. These were my friends--no man ever had better: and
Mary was my beloved. And now I was bereft and desolate. Just there--I
could see the place in the dark--she had stood, a dainty shadow poised
on tip-toe, and had blown me a kiss with either hand. And now I was
alone, with none but the silent stars to see my anguish. What was it
Mary had said?--"I wouldna lose the love for the sorrow that may lie in
its heart." I had tasted the chalice of love--now I was drinking the
bitter cup of sorrow to the dregs.
When morning broke I made ready for my journey. I turned to go, then
torn by love stood in tears beside the dear dust of her whom I had lost.
Then, as though an iron gate had fallen between my past and me, I strode
down the loaning.
*CHAPTER XXVI*
*HECTOR THE PACKMAN*
When the rude hand of calamity has blotted the light from a man's life
all things change. The sun shone over me--but I resented his
brightness. The birds, sang cheerfully--but there was dirge in my
heart. Now and then a wayfarer passed me--but he seemed to belong to
another world than mine. I had nothing in common with him. My soul was
among the blackened ruins of Daldowie, where Mary, the light of my eyes,
and Jean and Andrew my loyal friends slept, united in death as they had
been in life. I envied their peace.
Sometimes as I walked I stumbled--tears blinding me. My life was a
barren waste--my heart a desolation. Nothing mattered--Mary was dead.
So, in a maze of torturing thoughts I journeyed till, some four days
after leaving Daldowie--I have no memory of the precise time--I gathered
from a passer-by that I was only seven miles from Dumfries. Before me,
huddled together on the left side of the road, was a cluster of
cottages. From their roofs steel-blue clouds of smoke were rising. The
atmosphere was one of quiet peace, and with my eyes set upon the brown
road before me I plodded wearily on. The highway was bordered on each
side by a low hedge, when suddenly that on my right hand came to an end
and gave place to a green tongue of grassy lawn, which divided the road
upon which I was walking from another that swept away to the right. When
I came abreast of this grassy promontory, I saw that it was occupied by
a man. He sat under the shade of a beech tree; a pipe was between his
lips and in his left hand he held a little leather-covered book. An
open pack lay beside him. The sound of my footsteps caught his ear and
he turned towards me and looked at me with a pair of cold grey eyes.
"A very good day to you," he said, and I halted to return his
salutation. "I wonder if you can help me," he continued. "Ha'e you the
Latin?" The unexpected nature of the question startled me, awaking me
from my torpor, and I asked him to repeat himself. "It's this wey," he
said: "this wee bookie is the work o' a Latin poet ca'd Horace, a quaint
chiel, but ane o' my familiars. Now I was juist passin' a pleasant
half-'oor wi' him, and I ha'e come across a line or twa that I canna get
the hang o' ava. But if ye ha'ena the Latin, ye'll no' be able to help
me."
"Maybe I can help," I answered, and walking towards him I seated myself
by his side.
"It's this bit," he said, laying his forefinger on the place. I took
the little volume, and, after pausing for a moment to pick up some
knowledge of the context, I suggested a rendering.
"Dod, man," he said, "ye've got it. That mak's sense, and is nae doot
what Horace had in his heid. Let's hear a bit mair o't." I proceeded to
translate a little more when he stopped me saying, "No, no, let's ha'e
the Latin first; and then I'll be better able to follow ye."
With memories of Balliol swelling within me, I proceeded to do as he
bade me. I read to the end of the ode and was about to translate it
when he broke in:
"I see," he said, "you're an Oxford man; sic' pronunciation never fell
frae the lips o' ane o' Geordie Buchanan's school."
I felt my disguise drop from me before the piercing intuition of this
strange wayfarer and for a moment I was at a loss how to protect myself.
"Possibly," I said, "my pronunciation may be of the Oxford school, but,
be that as it may, you surprise me. One hardly expects to come across a
packman who reads the classics."
"No," he said, "there is only ae Hector the packman, and that's me.
Ever since I took to the road I have aye carried a volume o' Horace in
my pack. Mony a time I ha'e found comfort in his philosophy. I am only
a packman, but I ha'e ambitions. Can ye guess the greatest o' them?"
"To own a shop in Dumfries," I said.
A look of distress crossed his face.
"Na, na," he said. "Something far better." He bent towards his open
pack and rummaged among its contents, and as he did so I observed--what
hitherto had escaped my notice--that he had a wooden leg. His right knee
was bent at an angle and his foot was doubled up behind his thigh, as
though his knee-joint had been fixed in that position by disease or
injury; and the bend of his knee was fixed in the bucket of a wooden
stump. "Here they are," he said, and he held up a bundle of small
paper-covered books tied together with a tape. "Here they are. Now can
ye no' see the degradation it is for a man like me to hawk sic trash
aboot the country."
I took the bundle and, looking at the title-page of the uppermost book,
read _The Lovers' Dream-Book, being a True and Reliable Interpretation
of Dreams by Joseph the Seer_. I looked at the second. It was _The
Farmer's Almanac_, and the third was _The Wife of Wigtown_.
"They're what we ca' chap-books," he said. "I sell them at a penny the
piece, but they're awfu' rubbish. Now my ambition is to improve the
taste in letters o' the country folk. For mony a year it has been my
hope and intention to lay mysel' on and produce a _magnum opus_. Now
hoo dae ye think this would look on a title page?--'Selections from Odes
of Horace done into braid Scots by Hector the Packman,' or 'The Wisdom
of Virgil on Bees and Bee-keeping by the same author.' Man, I'm
thinkin', for a work like that, I micht get a doctorate frae ane o' the
Universities. Ay, I maun lay masel' on when next winter comes." He
rummaged once more among the contents of his pack, and picked out a pot,
the mouth of which was covered with a piece of parchment. "You'll ha'e
heard tell o' my magical salve; an infallible cure for boils or blains
in man or beast--it cures as it draws: a soothing balm for burnt
fingers: and a cream that confers upon a lassie's cheek the tender
saftness o' the rose." He removed the parchment and exhibited the
ointment. With his forefinger he transferred a piece of the unguent to
the back of his left hand and rubbed it in. In a moment he held his hand
up to me--"Did ye ever see onything like that? Every particle o' it is
gone. Think o' the benefit that sic' a salve maun confer upon the human
epiderm. I sent the King a pot last year up to London, but I'm thinkin'
it has miscarried, for I ha'e never heard frae him yet. Man, there's a
widda woman in Locharbriggs: she's maybe thirty-five, but to look at her
you would say she was a lassie o' eighteen. What has done it? Hector's
magical salve! Her complexion is by-ordinar. Nae doot she was bonnie
afore, but my salve has painted the lily."
How long he might have rambled on I know not. Our conversation was
suddenly interrupted by the clatter of horses approaching at a trot. To
our right I could see dimly the waters of a loch behind a fringe of
trees. The sound came from the road which bordered the water. In a
moment there swept round the corner of the loch and bore down upon us a
little company of grey-coated troopers mounted on grey horses.
So this is the end, I thought, and braced myself for the ordeal well
content. At the head of the cavalcade rode a man with a long beard that
reached below his belt. I noticed that he wore no boots, but that his
feet, thrust through his stirrups, were covered with coarse grey
stockings. As he drew abreast of us, the packman, with wonderful
alacrity, sprang up and, bonnet in hand, advanced to the edge of the
road.
"A very good day to you, Sir Thomas, a very good day," he said.
The horseman drew rein. "Well, Hector," he said, "turning up again like
a bad penny! What news have you?"
"Nane but the best, sir, nane but the best. I'm juist makin' for hame
frae the Rhinns o' Gallowa', and a' through the country-side there is
but ae opinion--that the iron hand o' Lag is crushing the heart oot o'
the Whigs."
"That is good news, Hector, but juist what I expected. Rebels
understand only one argument, and that is the strong hand. It is the
only thing I put faith in, as mony a Whig kens to his cost."
"Ye're richt, ye're richt, they ken ye weel. May I mak' sae bold as to
offer you a truss o' Virginia weed, Sir Thomas," and returning to his
pack he picked up a little bundle of tobacco and offered it to the
horseman, who took it and slipped it into his pocket.
"A welcome gift, Hector, and I thank you for it. I hope it has paid
duty?"
"Sir," said the packman deprecatingly, "and me a King's man!"
The rider smiled, and turning his fierce eyes upon me, said, "Who is
your companion, Hector?"
The fateful moment had come, and at that instant my life hung on the
thread of a spider's web. But my heart was glad within me. I should
find my Mary on the other side. The packman turned towards me: "Oh,
Joseph," he said, "he's a gangrel body like masel'. I ha'e been takin'
him roond the country wi' me to teach him the packman's job, so that
when I retire to devote masel' to the writin' o' books I can hand ower
the pack to him."
The quick lie took my breath away.
"Umph!" grunted the horseman, "and what's he readin' there?" Suddenly I
remembered that I still held the packman's Horace in my hand. "I hope
he's a King's man and that he is no' sittin' there wi' some Covenantin'
book in his kneive? Let me have a look at that book, young fellow."
I rose and, approaching him, held out the little leather-bound volume.
As I did so I noticed his sharp-cut, flinty features, and a pair of
thick and surly lips half-hidden by the masses of hair on his face. He
turned the book over and found its title page.
"Oh, I see, somebody's opera! Weel, he canna' be a Covenanter if he
reads operas."
"Na," said Hector, "he's a King's man, and nae Whig. But I maunna delay
ye, Sir Thomas, I hope ye'll enjoy the Virginia weed. Guid day to ye,
sir."
"Good day, Hector." The horseman urged his horse with his knees, and
the company, breaking into a trot, swept past and turned on to the main
road which led towards the village.
As the last of the troopers swung round the corner, the packman donned
his bonnet, and sitting down spat after the departing cavalcade.
"Bloody Dalzell," he said, "the Russian Bear--a human deevil. Damn him!"
The sudden change in the packman's demeanour astonished me. I looked at
him searchingly, but he had begun to arrange the contents of his bundle
before binding it up.
"Why did you tell Sir Thomas such a string of lies about me?" I said.
He chuckled softly and looked at me, his left eyelid drooping, his right
eye alertly wide. "I had ta'en a fancy to ye," he said, "and I was loth
to run the risk o' partin' wi' a scholar when a lee micht keep him. Hoo
dae I ken that ye're no a Covenanter? I was takin' nae chances. I
nearly laughed in his face when Sir Thomas, the ignorant sumph, thocht
ye were readin' a book o' operas. That's a guid ane! Mony a laugh I'll
ha'e in the lang winter nichts when I remember it. I'm no' askin' ye
wha or what ye are. You ha'e the Latin and I jalouse ye're an
Englishman: but till it pleases ye to tell me something aboot yersel', I
ken nae mair."
As he talked he was pulling his coarse linen covering over his pack. He
buckled the broad strap which held it together, and continued: "I
suppose ye're makin' for Dumfries. So am I, but I'm no' travellin' the
direct road. I'm haudin' awa' roon' by the loch to New Abbey. I aye
like to visit the Abbey. They ca' it the Abbey o' Dulce Cor--a bonnie
name and it commemorates a bonnie romance."
My interest was awakened, and I asked him to tell me more.
"Ay," he said, "it's a bonnie tale, and guid to remember. I wonder if
the widda at Locharbriggs would dae as much for me as Devorgilla did for
her man. Nae doot ye ha'e heard o' her. I am credibly informed that
she built a college at Oxford, and dootless ye ken she built the brig at
Dumfries. But she did better than that, for when her man deid she
carried his heart aboot wi' her in a' her travels in a silver casket.
She built the Abbey o' Dulce Cor to his memory and she lies there
hersel', wi' the heart o' her husband in her bonnie white arms. As the
poet has it:
"In Dulce Cop Abbey she taketh her rest,
With the heart of her husband embalmed on her breast."
A memory of Mary flamed like a rose in my heart. I choked down my tears
and said:
"I have often heard of Devorgilla. If I may, I would gladly accompany
you and visit her tomb."
"I'll be gled o' your company," he said. "It's no' every day I ha'e the
chance o' a crack wi' a scholar. Come on,"--and slinging a stick through
the strap round his pack, he swung it on to his shoulder and we set out.
As I walked beside him I studied him. He was tall and thin, and walked
with a stoop, his head thrust forward, his neck a column of ruddy
bronze.
"Ye're walking lame," he said, "but you are no' sae handicapped as me.
This tree-leg o' mine is a terrible affliction. How cam' ye by your
lame leg?"
"I was a soldier once," I said. The answer seemed to satisfy him,
though I was conscious that, as I spoke, the colour mounted to my
cheeks.
The road upon which we found ourselves wound gently, under the cover of
far-stretching trees, by the side of a beautiful loch. On the other
side of the road the ground rose steeply up to the summit of a
heather-clad hill. Suddenly through a break in the green trees we had a
vision of the loch. Its waters lay blue and sparkling in the sunlight.
Far off we could see undulating pastures, and beyond them a belt of
trees in early foliage. As we stood feasting our eyes the packman
exclaimed:
"Noo there's a pictur' that Virgil micht ha'e done justice to. It's a
bit ootside the range o' Horace, but I'm thinkin' Virgil wi' his e'e for
a bonnie bit could ha'e written it up weel."
"It's a bonnie place the world," he continued, "fu' o' queer things, but
to my thinkin' the queerest o' them a' is man, though maybe woman is
queerer. Now there's the widda at Locharbriggs; onybody would think that
a woman would be proud to be wife to Hector the packman--a scholar and
the discoverer o' a magical salve, wha' some day may ha'e a handle to
his name, forby maybe a title frae the King himsel'; but will ye believe
me, though I ha'e speired at her four times, I ha'e got nae further
forrit wi' her than a promise that she'll think aboot it."
I expressed sympathy and due surprise, and my answer pleased him, for he
said: "Man, I'm glad I met ye. Ye're a lad o' sense, and wi' some
pairts as weel, for ye ha'e the Latin."
For a time we walked in silence.
Soon we had left the pleasant loch behind us and the road wound in the
distance before us. To our left the land was low lying, with here and
there a clump of trees. To our right a lower range of hills stretched
away to end in a great blue mass that dominated our horizon.
"That's Criffel," he said, pointing to the hill, "and juist at its foot
nestles the Abbey o' the Sweet Heart. I ha'e little doot that doon in
the village I'll sell a chap-book or twa. Sic trash they are. I maun
lay masel' on and get that book o' mine begun."
He was talking on, good-humouredly, when suddenly a shrill cry for help
came from a clump of trees on our left. Startled I rushed forward. I
reached the edge of the copse and peered in, but could see nothing. The
cry came again, with an added note of agony; and, heedless of danger, I
rushed into the wood in the direction from which it proceeded. The
packman had apparently stayed behind me, for he was no longer by my
side. Making what speed I could among the clustering trees, I hurried
on. Suddenly I heard footsteps racing behind me. I turned. Close
behind me was the fast-running figure of a man. At a first glance I
thought it was the packman, but as he rushed past me I saw that this was
a beardless man sound in both legs. I could not imagine where he came
from, and yet his clothing was strangely like that of my recent
companion. I followed the rushing figure and saw that in his hand was a
stout stick. Then through between the tree-trunks I saw the cause of
the alarm. In an open space in the heart of the wood were four troopers
in grey uniform, and I knew that I was about to burst upon some scene of
devilry. A few steps more, and I saw a girl tied to a tree. About her
stood the troopers. Two of them were holding one of her arms with her
hand outstretched: the other two were busy lighting a long match. From
the agonising scream I had heard, I knew that the torture had already
been once applied. I could see the little spurt of flame as the match
flared up, and as I dashed forward my ears were alert to hear her cry of
pain. But deliverance was at hand. Into the open space leaped the man
who had passed me. His stick swung in the air. Strongly and surely it
fell on the temple of the nearest soldier, who dropped like an ox,
bringing down a comrade in his fall.
Startled, the others sprang aside, but they were too slow. Twice, with
lightning speed, the stick rose and twice it fell, and two more troopers
went down. I quickened my pace. The trooper who had been knocked down
by the fall of the first soldier sprang to his feet, and flung himself
upon the man. Taken from behind he was at a disadvantage and the
soldier, lifting him with a mighty effort, hurled him to the ground.
Ere he could draw his pistol, I was upon him. My clenched fist caught
him full on the chin, and he crashed on his back and lay breathing
stertorously.
"A bonnie blow, lad! I couldna ha'e done it better mysel'," cried the
stranger.
While I turned to the terrified girl and severed the cords that bound
her to the tree, the stranger was kneeling beside the soldiers.
"They're no deid, nane o' them, worse luck! and it will be a wee while
before the three o' them that felt the wecht o' my cudgel will come tae,
but the fourth would be nane the waur o' a langer sleep," and swinging
his stick he struck the recumbent figure a sickening thud upon the side
of the head. "That's the proper medicine to keep him quate."
I had been so absorbed in his doings that I had turned my back upon the
girl, and when I looked for her again she was nowhere to be seen. When
my companion saw that she had gone, he shook his head gravely, saying:
"What was I tellin' ye? Arena women the queerest things on God's
earth?"