"Good heavens, it's you!" I exclaimed.
"Ay," he replied with a smile, half-closing his left eye: "But haud your
wheesht. As the Latin has it: '_Non omnes dormiunt qui clausos habent
oculos._' A trooper can sleep wi' an e'e open. Tak tent, but lend me a
haun'."
From one of his pockets he produced a roll of tarred twine. Quickly
cutting lengths from it, he tied the feet of the unconscious men, whom
we dragged and laid starwise, on their backs, round one of the
tree-trunks. He pulled the arms of each above their heads and brought
them round the tree as far as possible, tying a cord firmly round their
wrists, and carrying it round the bole. The skill he displayed amazed
me. Long after they should regain consciousness they would have to
struggle hard before they would be able to free themselves. I felt some
satisfaction as I thought of their plight. When he had finished his
work he surveyed each severely, laying his hand upon their hearts.
"No, there is no' ane o' them deid. They'll a' come tae by and by. But
I'm thinkin' they'll be sair muddled. Come awa', lad."
"Let us look for the girl first," I suggested.
"Na, na," said he. "By this time the lassie, wha nae doot can rin like
a hare, is half road to Kirkbean. Now if it had been the widda--but
that's a different story."
Together we made our way to the edge of the copse. Just inside it I
discovered the discarded pack, and beside it the wooden leg and long
grey beard.
As my companion adjusted the wooden stump to his knee, he said: "Ay, sic
ploys are terribly sair on a rheumatic knee." Then he proceeded to put
on his beard, producing from one of his pockets a little phial of
adhesive stuff with which he smeared his face. I watched, with an
ill-concealed smile. "Noo," he said, "did ye ever see onything cleaner
or bonnier? I'm a man o' peace, but when I'm roused I'm a deevil.
Juist ae clout apiece, and they fell like pole-axed stirks--the three o'
them. Bonnie clouts, were they no'?"
I assured him that I had never seen foes so formidable vanquished so
rapidly and completely.
"Ye're a lad o' sense," he said; "that wasna' a bad clout ye hit the
last o' them yersel'; but he needed a wee tap frae my stick to feenish
him. I like a clean job. Come on," and swinging his pack on to his
shoulder he led the way to the road.
The afternoon was drawing to a close when the village of New Abbey
appeared in sight. Criffel now stood before us, a great mountain,
heather clad and beautiful, like a sentinel above the little township.
By the side of the stream, which divided our path from the village, we
stopped, and Hector putting down his pack and taking off his coat
proceeded to wash his face and hands. Nothing loth I followed suit.
As he was about to hoist his pack on to his shoulder again, he picked up
his stick, and handing it to me said: "Feel the wecht o' that." I took
it and found it strangely heavy. "It's loaded, ye see," he said--"three
and a half ounces o' guid lead let into the heid o't. Juist three and a
half ounces--fower is ower muckle; three would be ower little--and ye
saw for yersel' what it can dae. A trusty frien', I can tell ye.
Naebody kens it's loaded but me and you and the Almichty, forby a wheen
sodgers that ha'e felt the wecht o't. I ca' it 'Trusty.' Come on,"
and, slipping the weighted head of the stick through the strap, he swung
the pack on to his shoulders and we made for the village.
When we came to the inn the packman led the way through a flagged
passage into a garden at the back. There, underneath a pear-tree, stood
a green-painted bench with a table before it. Laying his pack upon the
end of the bench, he sat down and pushed his bonnet back; I seated
myself beside him.
"Noo," he said, "we maun ha'e something to eat. What will ye ha'e?"
Not knowing what might be available, I hesitated. Guessing the cause of
my hesitation, he said: "Dinna be feared: it's a guid meat-hoose and its
'tippenny' is the best in the country-side. As for me, I'm for a pint
o' 'tippenny,' and a fry o' ham and eggs. The King himsel' couldna dae
better than that."
As he spoke a young girl had come through the door and now stood before
us.
"What ha'e ye got for twa tired travellers?" asked Hector. "We want the
best; we're worthy o't, and quite able to pay for it forby."
As the packman had foretold, ham and eggs were forthcoming; and having
given our order Hector produced his pipe and proceeded to fill it.
When it was drawing satisfactorily he proceeded to point out the
beauties of the scene. To the right were visible great grey walls,
moss-grown in places, with here and there a bush springing among their
ruins.
"That," he said, "is part o' the wall o' the old Abbey. There,"
pointing to the right, "is a' that remains o' the Abbey itsel'. By and
by we'll gang and tak' a look at it."
Soon the girl returned with our food. When we had finished our meal
Hector said:
"And noo I maun go and see my frien' the miller. Meantime, I'll leave
you in chairge o' the pack, and if onybody should want to buy, you can
mak' the sale. I hope ye'll prove yersel' a guid packman,"--with which
he stumped off.
In a moment or two the girl came to clear the table. When she had done
so, she returned, and looking at me half shyly, said: "Are ye a packman
tae?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Oh," she said, "then I wonder if ye ha'e sic a thing as a dream-book in
your pack?" I opened the pack, and spread its contents before her.
"No, I dinna want onything else but a dream-book," she said. I found
one, and, lifting a corner of her apron, she produced a penny which she
laid upon the table, and with a finger already between the pages of the
book disappeared into the inn.
Left to myself, I drifted into a reverie. Love--the love of a man for a
woman, and the love of a woman for a man--seemed the greatest thing on
the earth. The packman with his loved one at Locharbriggs; this tavern
maid with her sweetheart--for did not her desire for a dream-book tell
me that she had a lover--were all under its spell. I, too, had my
memories of love,--memories of infinite tenderness--bitter--sweet--torn
by tragedy. I tried to banish such thoughts from nay mind, for they
brought naught but pain, but, try how I might, I found they would
return. Nor was it to be wondered at, for at that moment I was within a
stone's throw of Devorgilla's monument to her own enduring affection. I
was within sight of the place where her haunting love-story had seen its
fulfilment. Within the hoary walls of that great fane Devorgilla was
sleeping her eternal sleep with the heart of her husband upon her
breast. Yes, of a truth was it well said: "Many waters cannot quench
love, neither can the floods drown it." Hector would go to the widow,
the tavern maid would dream of her lover, while for me, love was nothing
but a memory. But what a memory! I was conscious of Mary's
presence--her spirit seemed to enfold me in the warm breath of the
evening. I almost felt her kiss upon my cheek. Never before, since
that day when we had parted upon the moors, had she seemed so near. I
slipped my hand into my pocket and caressed the fragment of her ring. I
drew it out and pressed it to my lips, and as I did so I heard the
stumping footsteps of the packman. Quickly I slipped the ring out of
sight and looked towards the door.
Hector came through, carrying a tankard of ale in each hand.
"Drouthy work, carryin' the pack," he said. "Ha'e ye sold onything while
I ha'e been away?"
"Only a dream-book to the little maid," I answered.
"Sic trash," he groaned, "sic trash, but they will ha'e them. But wait
a bit; I'm gaun to lay masel' on in the back end o' the year. Did ye
no' try to sell a pot o' salve?" I confessed that I had not. "Man," he
said, "ye'll no' mak' a guid packman. I could aye sell a pot o' the balm
to a lassie that buys a dream-book. But come on: the licht's juist
richt for seein' the Abbey at its best."
*CHAPTER XXVII*
*ON THE ROAD TO DUMFRIES*
We drank our ale, and leaving the Inn turned into the precincts of the
Abbey, where for the first time I had an opportunity of gazing upon its
ruined splendour. Rarely have I seen such beauty in decay--the mellow
light of the evening lending to the red sandstone of the aisles, the
choir and the great square tower a rosy hue that made them singularly
beautiful. The packman led the way and halted before a richly ornate
stone that rested on a pedestal below the great Gothic window. He took
his bonnet off reverently and I followed suit, and together we stood in
silence. "She lies here," he said, with a break in his voice, and when
I looked at him there were tears in his eyes. He sighed as though the
stone covered the remains of someone very dear to him. I knew what was
in his mind. This brave follower of the open road, this deliverer of
maidens in distress, this egotistical packman, and self-styled scholar
was an incorrigible sentimentalist. He was thinking, I knew, of
Devorgilla's beautiful devotion to her husband, but the widow at
Locharbriggs was in his thoughts as well. He turned and laid a hand
upon my arm as he donned his bonnet.
"Whaur are ye sleepin' the nicht?" he asked.
The question surprised me, for I had taken it for granted that we should
stay at the village inn. "I suppose," I said, "that I can get a bed in
the tavern."
"Nae doot, nae doot," he said, "if so you like, but I never sleep in a
bed when I'm oot on the road. It's safer to sleep in the open,
especially when ye wear a wooden leg that ye dinna exactly need. Folks
are inquisitive. Come awa back to the inn wi' me. You can sleep there
if ye like, but I'll come back here. It'll no' be the first time I ha'e
slept by the graveside o' Devorgilla."
We returned to the inn where I had no difficulty in procuring a bed.
Hector shouldered his pack and took his way back to the Abbey, but he
was up betimes and was hammering at my door with his heavy-headed stick
before I was awake. We breakfasted and set out for Dumfries.
Hector had lit his pipe and trudged along beside me in silence. Left to
my own thoughts, I began to study him. Since we had joined company, he
had shown several phases of character difficult to reconcile. In the
presence of Sir Thomas Dalzell he had seemed to be an avowed enemy of
the Covenanters, yet, when Dalzell and his troopers were at a safe
distance, he had displayed contempt and bitter hatred for them. Then
there was the attack on the soldiers in the little copse by the roadside
on our way to New Abbey. What was he? Was the calling of a packman,
like his false beard and his unnecessary wooden-leg, merely a mask? I
was puzzled, but I determined that ere our journey should come to an end
I would do my utmost to unravel his secret.
When the packman's pipe was empty he returned it to his pocket and broke
into song. The mood of sentiment was upon him, and he sang a quaint old
song of unrequited love. I failed to make out the words; but I heard
enough to know that he was thinking, as always, of the widow.
About an hour after leaving the village we came to the end of a long
ascent.
"It's been a stiff clim'," said the packman, "we'd better sit doon and
rest a wee." He threw off his pack and we sat down upon some rising
ground by the roadside. For a time I sat and drank in the beauty which
spread itself before me, but my reverie was disturbed by Hector, who
laid his hand upon my knee and said, "I want to talk to you." All
attention, I turned towards him, but he was slow to begin. Patiently I
waited, and then, half turning so that he looked me straight in the face
with his piercing right eye wide open, his left half shut, he said:
"Nae doot ye're puzzled aboot me." I wondered whether he had been able
to read the thoughts that had flitted through my mind as we climbed the
hill from New Abbey. "I think it is only richt," he continued, "that
before we gang ony further, I should mak' masel' clear to you. Maybe
when I ha'e opened my heart to you, you'll tell me something aboot
yersel' for, if I ha'e kept my counsel, so ha'e you. Rale frien'ship
maun be built on mutual confidence; withoot that, frien'ship is naething
mair than a hoose o' cairds. Ye ken already that I am no' a'thegither
what I seem. I'd better begin at the beginnin'. I'm an Ayrshire man,
articled in my youth to the Law and at ae time a student o' Glasgow
College; an' lang syne, when my blood was hot and I was fu' o' ideals, I
threw in my lot wi' the Covenanters. And I've suffered for it." He
pushed down the rig-and-fur stocking on his left leg. "Look at that,"
he said. I looked, and saw, where the skin ran over the bone, a long,
ugly brown scar. "Ye'll no' ken what that means?" I shook my head.
"Weel," he said, "that's what the persecutors did for me. I've had 'the
boot' on that leg, and until my dying day I'll carry the mark. But I'm
no' what they ca' a guid Covenanter. I'm a queer mixture, as maybe you
yersel' ha'e already noticed. I canna say that I'm a religious man, and
though my heart is wi' the lads that are ready to dee for the Covenant,
I fear that I masel' lack grace. Hooever, that's by the way. Lang
years sin' I cam' to this country-side whaur naebody knew me, as a
packman wi' a tree-leg, and as such I am kent to maist o' my
acquaintances. Wi' my pack on my shoulder I wander through the
country-side back and forrit frae Dumfries to Portpatrick, and frae
Portpatrick back again to the Nith, wi' chap-books, and ribbons, and
pots o' salve, but a' the while I keep my e'en and my ears open. I get
to ken the movements o' the troopers, and I hear tell in the hooses o'
the Covenanters o' comin' hill-meetings and sic-like, and mony a time I
ha'e been able to drop a hint in the richt place that has brocht to
nought some crafty scheme o' the persecutors and saved the life o' mair
than ane hill-man. If ye like to put it that way, I rin wi' the hare
and hunt wi' the hounds. I'm hand in glove, to a' ootward seeming, wi'
the persecutors themselves. I foregather wi' sodgers in roadside inns,
and it's marvellous hoo a pint or twa o' 'tippenny' and a truss o'
Virginia weed will loosen their tongues and gaur them talk. I've
listened quately, and mony a time I've let fa' a remark that mak's them
believe that a' my sympathies are wi' them and that I'm no' in wi' the
Covenanters ava. As a matter o' solid fact, I am sae weel thocht o' by
men sic as Sir Robert Grier, Dalzell himsel' and Claver'se, that mair
than aince I ha'e been sent by them on special commissions to find
things oot; and I've come back and I've tellt them what they wanted to
ken, and riding hell for leather they've gane off wi' their dragoons to
some wee thackit cottage on the moors. But they've never caught the
bird they were after. Somebody--maybe it was me, I'm no' sayin'--had
drapped a timely warnin'; and though I tellt the persecutors nae lee, I
ha'e mair than aince gi'en them cause to remember that truth lies at the
bottom o' a very deep well. That's my story. I'm a spy, if ye like--an
ugly word, but I ha'e na man's blood upon my haun's or on my conscience.
And it's dangerous wark, as you may weel ken. Some day ane or other o'
my schemes will gang agley, and the heid and haun's, and maybe the
tree-leg as weel, o' Hector the packman will decorate a spike on
Devorgilla's brig at Dumfries. I wadna muckle mind; for life is
sometimes a weary darg, but I'd like, afore that day comes, tae ha'e
feenished my _magnum opus_. I maun really lay masel' on and get it
begun. It would be a monument by which I micht be remembered.
"Sometimes as I walk my lane alang the roads I think o' things. Here
and there I come across a wee mound on the moorland, or maybe by the
roadside, and I ken it covers the body o' some brave man wha has died
for his faith. Desolate, lonely, and scattered cairns they are. And
then I think, that though this is the day o' the persecutors, and though
they be set in great power, a day is comin' when a' their glory will be
brocht to naething. By and by Grier o' Lag, Dalzell and Claver'se, and
a' the rest o' them will pay the debt to Nature, and nae doot they will
be buried wi' muckle pomp and circumstance, and great monuments o'
carved stane will be set abune them. But in time to come, I'm thinkin',
it will no' be their tombs that will be held in reverence, but the
lonely graves scattered aboot the purple moors and the blue hills. It's
them that will be treasured for ever as a precious heritage. We're a
religious folk in Scotland, or at least we get that name--but religion
or no', we love liberty wi' every fibre o' oor being, and in days to
come, generations yet unborn, wha may be unable to understaun the faith
for which the hill-men died, will honour them because they were ready to
lay doon their lives in defiance o' a tyrant king. Noo," he said,
letting his eyes fall, "ye ken a' aboot me that there's ony need to ken,
and it's for ye to say whether we pairt company here or whether we gang
on thegither." He drew out his pipe and proceeded to fill it.
For a moment I was at a loss. Was he seeking to entrap me into an open
declaration of sympathy with the Covenanters; or was he telling the
truth? His confession had been an absolutely open one, so open that if
my sympathies were with the persecutors he had placed himself completely
in my hands. He had looked me straight in the face with one piercing
eye as though to read my soul, while the other was half veiled as though
to hide his own. But his voice had rung with fervour as he spoke of the
lone graves of the hill-men, and I remembered the fight in the wood. He
must have spoken the truth; so I took courage and without further delay
told him my story. He listened attentively, and when I had finished he
said:
"Ay, the auld packman is richt again. I thocht aboot ye last nicht.
Man, I can read fowk like a coont on a slate, and I'm richt gled to hear
frae your ain lips, what I had already guessed, that you're for the
Cause. If I had thocht onything else, I wu'd ha'e held my tongue."
*CHAPTER XXVIII*
*FOR THE SWEET SAKE OF MARY*
When with characteristic self-satisfaction the packman had extolled his
own intelligence, he lapsed into silence. As for me, the telling of my
tale had reawakened so many sad memories that for a time I sat gazing
before me, unable through my tears to see the other side of the road.
Hector knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and sighed.
"It is," he said, "ane o' the saddest stories I ha'e ever heard. Sic an
experience is enough to mak' a man bitter for the rest o' his days. But
if Mary was only half o' what you ha'e tellt me she was, that's no' what
she wu'd like to see. It's the prood woman she wu'd be if she knew ye
were minded to throw in your lot wi' the Cause. What are ye gaun to
dae?"
"I am making for England," I answered.
Hector shook his head sadly. "I've noticed the same afore," he said,
and paused.
"What have you noticed?" I asked. "I do not understand you."
He looked into the distance, and spoke as though to himself.
"Ay! It's the auld story. Queer but awfu' human. There was Moses and
Peter: the ane the meekest o' men, but he lost his temper twice; the
ither the bravest and lealest o' the disciples, but he turned coward."
"Explain yourself," I said. "I cannot follow you."
"I mean nae offence, but I thocht ye wad hae been quicker i' the uptak'.
D'ye no see that men fail maist often on their strongest point? Man,
when a man prides himsel' on his strong points it's time to get down on
his knees. Ye tell me ye lo'ed the lass--and nae doot ye did. But
ye're turning yer back on love, and rinnin' awa'. I'm surprised at ye.
If sic a fate as has befallen Mary were to befa' the widda at
Locharbriggs, dae ye think I should rest until I had dune something to
avenge her. Mind ye I'm no' counsellin' violence, for I'm a man that
loves peace. Bloodshed is the revenge o' the foolish. There are better
ways than that, and if ye'll throw your lot in wi' mine, I'll show ye
hoo ye can dae something for the sake o' her ye loved and for the cause
o' the Covenant." I listened in silence and shame. His words were
biting into my heart.
He looked at me with eyes that seemed to peer into the depths of my
soul. Then I found speech. "Mary," I said, "was to me the most
precious thing in all the world. If you can show me how I can render
service to the Cause she loved, I am ready to do your bidding."
He thrust out his right hand: "Put your haun' there," he said; "you've
spoken like a man. Dae ye mind what Horace says: '_Carpe diem, quam
minimum credula postera._' 'Tak' time by the forelock and never trust
to the morn.' A wise word that. Fegs, he was a marvel! In fact he's
gey near as fu' o' wisdom as the guid Book itsel'. We'll tak' time by
the forelock, and between us, if the Lord wills, we'll dae something for
the persecuted hill-folk and strike a blow for Scotland and for liberty.
But we'll ha'e to be gettin' on; the day'll no' tarry for us. Let us
awa'."
Refreshed by our rest, we rose and took to the road again.
A long descent lay before us and till we had completed it neither of us
spoke. But when we reached the foot of the hill Hector suddenly said:
"I've been thinkin' aboot your story. It's wonderfu' what bits o'
gossip a packman can pick up on his roonds. Noo, you may be surprised
to hear that I kent a' aboot the shootin' o' the minister up on the
hills. I heard the story frae a trooper in the inn at Gatehouse. To
him it was a great joke, for he saw naething in it but the silly action
o' a daft auld man wha's ain stupidity brocht aboot his death. I
wonder, if he had kent the hale story as you and me ken it, whether he
would ha'e seen the beauty o't. I'm thinkin' maybe no', for to size up a
thing like that richtly it maun be in a man's heart to dae the like
himsel'. Ay, what a welcome the martyr would get on the ither side!"
He paused for a moment, then continued: "And it's queer that I heard
aboot you yersel' frae the same trooper. He tellt me that they cam' on
the minister quite accidental-like; and that they werena' lookin' for
him ava. They were oot on the hills huntin' for a deserter, wha I'm
thinkin' was yersel'. They didna find you, he said. As a matter o' fact
they believe that ye're deid--he said as muckle. So you may haud yer
mind easy, for unless an' ill win' blaws and ye're recognised by ane o'
yer fellow-troopers, ye're safe."
We trudged on steadily towards Dumfries. My heart was with Mary, and I
did not speak. The packman was silent too--but while I was living in
the past he apparently was looking into the future, for he said
suddenly:
"It's a dangerous job I'm invitin' ye to tackle--a job that calls for
the best wit o' a man, and muckle courage. I'm thinkin' you dinna lack
for either, but time will show. Ay: it will that. As for me," he
continued, after a pause, "I'm no' a religious man, but hidden in a
corner o' my soul I ha'e a wee lamp o' faith. But it doesna aye burn as
brichtly as it micht, and mony a time I sit by the roadside and compare
the man I wad like to be wi' the man that I ken masel' to be; and it
mak's me gey humble. But I aye tak' courage when I think o' Peter. He
found the road through life a hard path and he tripped sae often ower
the stanes that I sometimes think, like me, he maun ha'e had a tree-leg.
But at the end he proved himsel' to be gold richt through, as dootless
the Maister kent a' the while." His voice broke, and, looking at him, I
saw tears streaming down his cheeks.
"But noo, a word in your ear. We're very near Dumfries noo. We'd
better separate there, it will be safer. It behoves ye to ken where ye
will fin' a lodgin'.
"In Mitchell's Close at the brig' end there lives a widda woman. She
kens me weel. Her door is the second on the left frae the mooth o' the
close. Her name is Phemie McBride, and when ye tell her ye're a frien'
o' Hector the packman's she'll gie ye a welcome and ask nae questions.
We should reach the toon before twa o'clock. You can ha'e bite and sup.
I'll leave my pack at my lodgings and syne I'll be awa oot to
Locharbriggs to pay my respects to the widda. At six o'clock or
thereabouts I'll look for ye at the Toon Heid Port and we'll tak' a walk
up the banks o' the Nith thegither. But, a word in yer lug. Dumfries
is a stronghold o' the Covenanters; forby it is ane o' the heidquarters
o' the persecutors. Lag himsel' has a hoose there--so ye maun be
carefu'. Tak' a leaf oot my book, and oot o' the book o' even a wiser
man than me--Be all things to all men, and mix neither yer politics nor
yer drink. Haud your tongue, and if ye ha'e to speak, keep half yer
counsel tae yersel'."
I thanked him and promised to exercise all caution. "And noo," he said,
"for appearance' sake, I maun be Hector the packman, again," and going
to a cottage by the wayside he knocked loudly at the door. I walked
slowly on and in a moment or two he rejoined me.
With a twinkle in his eyes, he said: "Trade's bad the day. The
guid-wife wanted neither a dream-book nor a pot o' salve. But that
reminds me, it's gey near three months sin' I saw the widda. Noo you
yersel' ha'e kent the spell o' love. I dinna want to touch ye on a sair
spot, but if ye were in my place, what wad ye tak' tae yer sweetheart?"