"Oh, ye're a' richt, and we are frien's. Ha'e nae fear. Settle
yoursel' doon, if ye can, for a sleep: and when you ha'e rested we'll
tell you everything."
Without demur the minister closed his eyes again, and we were able to
tell from his regular breathing that he had fallen asleep.
Hector rose, whispering behind his hand: "If you'll sit by the minister
I'll close the door," and he crawled noiselessly through the aperture
and returned, pushing his pack before him, and then closed the opening,
cutting off the thin shaft of daylight that had been coming through it.
About an hour later the minister stirred in his sleep, and turning over
upon his side opened his eyes and looked at me inquiringly. Hector
produced the bottle of Malvoisie with which we had refreshed ourselves
on the roadside, and held it to the minister's lips.
"This will refresh you," he said, and without protest he drank. He made
some attempt to speak, but Hector forbade him. "No, no, sir, haud yer
wheesht a wee langer. Dinna fash yoursel'. We are your frien's. Ha'e
nae fear and settle yoursel' to sleep."
Like an obedient child, the minister did so.
The day passed and still the patient slept. By and by Hector went to
the mouth of the cave and peered through one of the chinks between the
rocks.
"The nicht has come," he said. "It's time we were bedded." Taking up
the candle, he searched the floor of the cave. "Dae ye think," he
asked, "we daur lift the minister? Here's his bed," and he pointed to a
heap of withered brackens in a corner. I suggested that it might be an
easier thing to carry his bed to the minister, and, stooping down, I
gathered up an armful of the leaves, which I spread upon the floor
beside him. So gently that he did not stir we lifted the minister on to
it, and once more I slipped my folded coat under his head for a pillow.
Hector drew off his coat and spread it over the minister's chest, then
seizing a corner of his pack he pulled it up, scattering the contents in
a jumbled heap on the floor, and spread the canvas covering over the
lower part of the minister's body.
"That will keep him warm," he said. "Now you mak' your bed where ye
will. I'll keep watch for the first pairt o' the nicht and I'll waken
you by and by, and ye can tak' yer turn."
Worn out with the experiences of the previous night and day, I lay down
not far off. My neck still ached from the strangling grip of the
minister's fingers, and the floor of the cave was a hard bed. But I had
lain in many strange places ere this and soon I was fast asleep. Once
during the night I awoke and peering through the shadows could discern
the figure of the minister on his bracken couch, and, with hands clasped
round his bent knees, the packman sitting beside him. But I judged that
my time had not yet come, for Hector made no sign and soon I was asleep
again.
I awoke cold and stiff as though I had been beaten. Looking towards the
doorway I could see a thin streak of light filtering through, and I knew
that day had come. Hector still sat motionless: he had kept his vigil
the whole night through.
I ventured to upbraid him because he had not kept his word and wakened
me in the night to share the watch with him. He laughed.
"It was a kind o' penance," he said. "I ha'e twa things on my
conscience that will want a lot o' expiation. _Imprimis_, I felled the
minister; _secundo_, I gi'ed him some o' Lag's wine. In the nicht I've
been thinkin' the second is the mair serious transgression. To godless
men like you and me, Lag's wine could dae nae hairm, but hoo think ye
the wine o' a persecutor will agree wi' the body o' a saint? As like as
no it will turn to gall in his blood and dae him a peck o' hairm."
I laughed quietly. "You may set your mind at rest," I said. "The wine
was good. Even though it came from Lag's cellar, it will do the
Covenanter no harm."
While we were talking the minister began to move, and in a few seconds
opened his eyes. In a moment Hector was bending over him.
"Hoo are ye this morning, sir?" he said. "I hope ye ha'e rested weel?"
The minister raised himself upon his elbow, and looked at Hector
anxiously. "Thank you," he said, "I have had a good sleep, but my brain
is in a strange whirl and my head is very sore. Have I been ill?"
"A' in good time, sir, a' in good time," said Hector, cheerfully. "You
are in nae danger. By and by I'll tell ye a'. Meantime ye maun break
yer fast."
The packman rose and going to a shelf of rock on which the candle stood
picked up a bowl.
"Here, Bryden," he said. "I'll open the door if you crawl oot and fill
this bowl at the linn."
He gripped the movable boulder and swung it round and I crawled out into
the open air. The morning sky above me was fleecy with soft clouds; the
air was full of melody; all the feathered world was awake. Thrush vied
with blackbird, blackbird with linnet, and linnet with the far off
tremulous lark. I stood on the little sandstone platform above the pool
filling my lungs with great draughts of morning air. The haunting
beauty of the place--the mystical and impenetrable depths of the pool,
the tender foliage above me mirrored on its surface, the soft wind of
the morning throbbing with melody--all conspired to cast a spell over
me. But I woke from my dream as I remembered the stern realities that
beset me. Leaning over I filled the bowl and returned with it to the
cave. Hector had already laid out the morning meal, but at the moment a
desire more urgent than hunger was upon me.
So I crawled once more into the open air and, quickly undressing, dived
into the pool, and swam round it a dozen times. Greatly refreshed I was
about to swing myself out, when I saw the shoulders of Hector protruding
from the aperture in the wall. He shook his head and smiled at me,
saying:
"You gi'ed me a terrible fricht. I heard the splash and thocht ye had
fa'en in. Ye're a queer chiel; ye like cauld water a lot better than I
do," and he drew his head back into the cave.
*CHAPTER XXXII*
*TOILERS OF THE NIGHT*
The rest and sleep of the night had done the minister good service; and
though he still complained of considerable pain in the head and bore
upon it the protuberant evidence of Hector's skill with his weapon, he
was able to join in our conversation. In my absence Hector had told him
who we were and what had happened. He had some difficulty in
recognising Hector, beardless and lacking his tree-leg, but when the
packman had salted his conversation with an apposite quotation from
Horace, he had been compelled to admit his identity and had hailed him
as an old friend.
Hector's surmise had been correct. The inhabitant of the cave was none
other than Mr. Corsane, who, ousted from his charge and compelled to
become a wanderer, had made it his headquarters through many a weary
month. It was a hiding-place in which he could find shelter alike from
the blasts of the storm and from the persecutors. Driven from his
manse, his church and his parish, a man with a price upon his head, he
did not remain in this cave from week's end to week's end, a craven
fugitive. Constantly he had ventured out. Did sickness or sorrow visit
one of the homes of his little flock, he was instant in succour, ready
to bring to them at all times the spiritual help and consolation for
which they looked to him. Wherefore, though he was a minister without a
charge, he was not a minister without a people.
When the meal was over I besought Hector to lie down and rest; and being
satisfied that the minister was now out of danger, he needed no second
bidding.
The weeks and months that followed were full of interest and occupation.
As always, in the annals of persecution, an hour had come when the
malignity of the tyrants reached its zenith. In a wild endeavour to
break the spirit of the persecuted, they applied themselves with
increased fury and devilish ingenuity to render the lives of their
victims intolerable.
So it came to pass that more and more of the men in the parishes round
about us were driven to forsake their homes and take to the moors or the
hiding-places among the hills. Little cared the persecutors if the land
that should have laughed with rich crops sank into desolation since none
were left to cultivate it. The malevolence of the oppressors gave Hector
and myself many opportunities of service. By stratagem, and sometimes
by force, at great risk, and often after lively encounters, we rescued
more than one good man and true from the clutches of the troopers and
spirited him away in the dead of night to a safe hiding-place. I may not
here set down these high adventures. Some other pen than mine may
record them. But for the greater part our deeds were works of peace.
All through the months of summer we would steal out from the cave when
the twilight came and, making for some farm whose good man had been
compelled to flee, we would spend the hours of the night in performing
those tasks in the fields which, but for us, would have been left
undone.
Toiling all night through, we would steal back to the sanctuary of our
cave in the grey dawn, tired, but proudly conscious that we had done
something to ease the burden which was weighing upon the heart of some
desolate woman. We cut the clover, we mowed the hay, we left it for a
day or two to dry and then stacked it into little cocks upon the field,
and when the time came, we sheared the sheep and did those thousand and
one things that a husbandman does in their due season. We were careful
not to be seen, though always when the night was at its darkest, Hector
would make his way to the farmhouse or cottage nearest the field in
which we were at work and almost invariably he would find upon the
window-sill a store of food left for us. For, though the children and
the superstitious might imagine that the mysterious labourers in the
fields were creatures from another world who accomplished heavy tasks
with the wave of a magic wand, the good-wife of the house had more than
a shrewd suspicion that they were creatures of flesh and blood who
toiled with the sweat on their brows and who had appetites that required
satisfaction.
Nor did we confine our work to the farms near our hiding-place. In the
course of his wanderings among his flock, the minister would, now and
then, hear of a farm more remote that needed our care, and many a night
we walked for miles before we reached the fields where our
self-appointed tasks lay. I felt, as Hector did, that in this service
we were doing something to help the Cause of the Covenant. And as
honest work ever offers to a man the best antidote to sorrow, my heart
began to be filled with a great contentment. Mary was lost to me. That
thought and the sense of desolation which it provoked was ever before
me, but my labours for the persecuted were some token of the love I had
borne her and I knew that she would understand.
Sometimes, in the darkness, when my back ached beyond endurance as I
bent over some unaccustomed task, I would cease for a moment to feel for
that little bit of metal lying over my heart that was all that remained
of the ring I had given her. And its touch would give me courage and my
weariness would disappear.
Hector, I discovered, was a master of all the arts of agriculture. No
task seemed too heavy for him, and never have I seen a man so proficient
at shearing sheep or with such a subtle way of pacifying a querulous
dog. Dogs, indeed, were one of the dangers that beset us, for more than
once we spent the night at work on a farm which was in the occupation of
the soldiery. If the farm dog had but given the alarm, we might have
found ourselves surrounded and shot on the instant, or compelled to flee
for our lives. But no dog ever barked at Hector. There was some
indefinable understanding between him and the faithful creatures. A
startled collie would raise its head and thrust forward its snout as
though about to alarm the night, but, at a whisper from Hector, it would
steal up to him and rub its head and shoulders in comradeship against
his legs. This sympathy between himself and the dogs made for our
safety, and there was something else which helped. Most of the troopers
were creatures of the grossest superstition, thrilled with an uncanny
dread of warlocks, witches, and all the evil spirits of the night.
Their bloody deeds by day filled their nights with ghostly terrors, and
more than once I have known them desert a farm--upon which they had
descended to devour its substance like the locusts--headlong and in fear
when they found that the "brownies" had been at work in the fields by
night. To them it had become a place uncanny, and they would hastily
take their departure, to the no small joy of the farmer's wife and her
little children. To the children a visit of the "brownies" was a thing
to be hailed with delight and shy amazement.
Once, after a heavy night's work, Hector and I were resting in the early
dawn beneath a hedgerow ere we set out upon our long journey to the
cave, when I heard the voices of children on the road. I looked through
the hedge and saw a little boy leading his sister by the hand. They
climbed upon the bars of the gate and surveyed the field before them.
Then the quiet of the morning was broken by the shrill voice of the lad,
who, pointing to the mown hay, shouted:
"Aggie, Aggie, the brownies ha'e been here," and, leaping down from the
gate so quickly as to capsize his sister, who, awed by the mystery, did
not burst into tears, he rushed along the road to the house calling at
the top of his voice: "Oh, mither, mither, come and see. The brownies
ha'e been working in the hay-field and the hay is a' cut. Oh, I wish my
faither knew."
We waited till--at the urgent summons of her little son--the woman had
walked down the road to the gate and had surveyed our handiwork. We saw
her stoop, pick up her children, and kiss them fondly. Then she turned
away that they might not see her tears, and, at the sight, our own
hearts grew strangely full. We waited until she had taken her little
ones home, and then we stole away.
"Puir lassie," said Hector, "puir lassie."
During the day I rarely ventured from the cave, though now and then
Hector would fare forth in daylight on mysterious errands of his own. I
suspected that he had some tryst to keep with the widow at Locharbriggs,
but he did not take me into his confidence. But usually he and I were
birds of the night. We were busy folk, and the minister was no less
occupied. Messages would come to him mysteriously; how, I was never
able to discover; but by some means he was kept informed not only as to
the doings and welfare of his own flock, but as to the larger happenings
throughout the whole country-side. He knew what men had been compelled
to flee from their homes; which others had been haled to Edinburgh and
put to torture in the hope that the persecutors might wring from them
some confession. He knew the houses which had been touched by the hand
of sorrow, and with no thought of self he would steal forth to offer
what consolation he could. His quiet bravery impressed me deeply, and I
found myself developing a lively admiration for him which rapidly grew
into a warm affection.
He was a man of large scholarship; no bigoted fanatic, but a gentle and
genial soul borne up perpetually by an invincible faith in the ultimate
triumph of the cause for which he had already sacrificed so much, and
for which, if need be, he was ready to sacrifice his all.
In little fragments I had from time to time told him my story. I
finished it one night as we sat together outside our cave on the narrow
ledge above the pool. There may have been some anger in my voice, or
some bitterness in my words, for when my tale was ended he was silent
for a time. Then he laid one of his hands upon my knee and with the
other pointed to the stream as it poured through the gorge into the
quietness of the pool.
"See," he said, "the water in turmoil catches no reflection of the sky,
whereas the stars are mirrored every one on the quiet face of the pool.
So it is with human hearts. Where bitterness and turmoil are there can
be no reflection of the heart of God. It's the quiet heart which
catches the light."
He said no more, but, ever since, when storms have risen in my soul I
have remembered his words and the memory of them has stilled the passion
within me.
When the nights were too rough for work in the fields, we would spend
them in the cave together. And sometimes Hector, who had a subtle mind,
would try to entangle the minister in the meshes of a theological
argument, and I would sit amazed at the thrust and parry of wit against
wit. These discussions usually ended in the defeat of Hector--though he
would never admit it. More than once, at their conclusion, the minister
would say:
"We must never forget this; theology is but man's poor endeavour to
interpret the will of God towards humanity. It is not for me to
belittle theology, but at the end of all things it will not count for
much. It's the life of a man that counts; the life, and the faith that
has illumined it. Theological points are but sign-posts at the
cross-roads, and sometimes not even that. Faith is the lamp that shows
the wayfaring man where to set his feet."
As the summer mellowed into early autumn, Hector began to grow restless.
I ventured to suggest to him that he was heart-sick for love.
He laughed. "Maybe ye're richt," he said; "but ye dinna imagine that I
ha'e managed to live a' these weeks withoot a sicht o' the widda. No,
no, my lad."
"And how runs the course of love?" I asked.
"Man," he answered, "I'm gettin' on fine. I verily believe Virgil was
wrang when he said 'Woman is a fickle jade.' The widda's no fickle at
ony rate. D'ye ken she wears my kaim in her hair ilka day o' the week.
It's the prood man I am."
"Then why this restlessness?" I asked.
He laughed as he replied: "Weel, to mak' a lang story short, I am
hungerin' for the road. A man that has got the wander fever in his
bluid can never be lang content in ae place. I'm bidin' wi' you a week
or twa mair, for the time o' the hairst is at hand, but when we ha'e cut
a wheen o' the riper fields I'll ha'e to leave ye for a bit. I'll be
back inside twa months, and we'll settle doon then for the winter. And
when I gang, dinna forget this, I'll keep my ears open for ony news o'
what happened at Daldowie, and maybe when I come back I'll be able to
tell ye hoo Mary deed."
The mention of Daldowie awoke in my heart a keen desire to accompany
him, and I told him so.
"No, no," he said, "no' yet. By and by, if ye like. In the meantime
yer duty lies here. You've got to look efter the minister. As ye weel
ken, he's a feckless man at lookin' after himsel'. Forby, you'll ha'e
work to dae. The hairst winna' be ower when I gang. So you'd best
juist bide here."
His arguments were not weighty, but obviously he did not want my company
and he had proved himself so good a friend that I shrank from offending
him by insisting. So, reluctantly, I agreed to remain behind.
"You will take care," I said. "I fear that Lag has begun to suspect
you, and you may run into danger unless you are wary."
He laughed as he replied: "Ah weel, as Horace said, '_Seu me tranquilla
senectus expectat, seu mors atris circumvolat alis_' which ye can nae
doot translate for yersel', but which means in this connection, that
Hector will either see a peacefu' auld age by his ain fireside wi' the
widda, or the black-winged corbies will pick his banes. Man, Horace has
the richt word every time."
We did not discuss the matter of his departure again, but continued our
nightly tasks in the fields. There was something peculiarly beautiful
about our work at this time. The nights were short and never wholly
dark. We would steal into a ripening field of corn in the twilight,
when the purple shadows lay asleep among the golden grain. As the light
of day gave place to the half-darkness of the night, the grain, pierced
by the silver shafts of the moon, grew lustrous and shone like fairy
jewels. I paused in wonder every time I bent to put my sickle between
the tall blades. It seemed almost a sacrilege to cut down such things of
beauty.
As the nights were short we could work only a few hours before the
daylight came again; but always ere it came the slumbering earth was
wakened by a burst of melody. When, in the east, one saw a little
lightening of the grey shadows, as though a candle had been lit on the
other side of some far off hill, one's ear would catch the sound of a
bird's pipe, solitary at first and strangely alone. That first
adventurous challenge would soon be answered from a myriad hidden
throats. Far off, a cock would crow, and then on every side, from the
heart of hidden lark and pipit, linnet and finch, a stream of melody
would begin to flow over the field. The music increased in volume as
bird after bird awoke from its sleep in hedge, and bush and tree, and
the choir invisible poured its cataract of song into that empty hour
that lies in the hand of time between the darkness and the dawn.
*CHAPTER XXXIII*
*THE GOING OF HECTOR*
September came with all its golden glory and each day Hector became more
and more restless. When the month was half sped he left us. One
morning on our way home to the cave after a busy night of harvesting he
said:
"I'm gaun the nicht." And though I urged upon him that he could not
have chosen a worse time, since we had many fields yet to cut, I failed
to dissuade him from his purpose. "No," he said, "I can bide nae
langer. The fever is in my bluid, and there's nae cure for it but the
road."
When night came I accompanied him down the course of the linn and on to
the high road. At the last he laid many injunctions upon me, the chief
being to take care of our companion in the cave.
"He's a guid man," he said, "but a thochtless. I blame mysel' yet for
the crack I gi'ed him on the heid. It seems tae ha'e left him a bit
confused. Ye'll tak' care o' him."
When the moment of parting came he took off his bonnet, and gripping me
fervently by the hand said:
"I'll be back ere lang, but if I dinna return, I should like ye noo and
then to gie a kindly thocht to the memory o' the packman. Maybe I may
find a grave under the open sky on the purple moorland; and if that be
my lot and ye should be spared for happier days and can fin' the place
where I lie, maybe ye'll see that my cairn is no' left withoot a name.
But dinna be carvin' ony extravagant eulogy on the stane. Juist put the
words 'Hector the packman.' That'll be enough for me--but it's the
prood man I wad be, lying in the mools beneath, if ye wad add a line or
twa o' Latin juist to let the unborn generations ken that I was a
scholar. There are twa bit legends that come ready to my min'; ane is,
"Sciro potestates herbarum usumque medendi
Maluit, et mutas agitare inglorius artes.
'He was skilly in the knowledge o' herbs and o' their healing powers,
and wi' nae thocht o' higher glory he liked to practise that quiet
art'--that's frae Virgil, as ye will nae doot remember an' of course
refers to my salve. But there's anither word frae my auld frien'
Horace; it's a fit epitaph for a man like me wha's life has never been
what it micht ha'e been:
"... Amphora coepit
Institui: currente rota cur urceus exit?
'The potter was minded to make a bonnie vessel; why does naething but a
botchery come frae the running wheel?'"
Before I could make a fitting reply he dropped my hand and left me. I
stood in the dusk watching him go. He glided into the shadows and soon
he had become as incorporeal as one of them. With a sense of desolation
upon me, I made for the field where my night's task awaited me, and
laboured steadily till the dawn.
As I made my way back to the cave I could not help wondering where
Hector might be.
There had been something almost ominous in the manner of his parting.
Had he felt the shadow hovering over him?--or was his farewell and his
reference to his possible death nothing more than an expression of his
curiously sentimental nature?
I could not decide: but I trusted that his natural caution and his
mother-wit, of which I knew something, would carry him safely through.
Consoling myself with this thought, I entered the wood and proceeded to
make my way up the bed of the stream.
A week or two passed undisturbed by any eventful happening. Night after
night I continued my work in the fields. More than once the minister
joined me, lending me what aid he could. But his spirit was greater
than his strength, and at last I had to ask him for his own sake, and
for the sake of those who counted upon his ministrations, to reserve his
energies for their own special work. Recognising his physical
limitations, he took my advice.
"Maybe," he said, "you're right. Perhaps it was given to me to be a
sower only, and not a harvester. The fields you are reaping were sown by
other hands than yours, and mayhap the ripe fruit which in the good
Providence of God may spring from the seed I have sown will be gathered
by other hands than mine. But it matters little. The thing is to sow
honestly and to reap faithfully, so that at the end of the day when we
go home for our wages we may win the Master Harvester's 'Well done.'"
Even had he been physically capable of doing useful work in the fields,
it would have been unfair to expect him to do it at this time. His days
were already full. He was making preparations for a great Conventicle to
be held among the Closeburn hills early in October. It was to be a very
special occasion--a gathering together of all the faithful to unite in
that simple love feast which has inspired with fresh courage and
inflamed with new devotion men and women throughout the ages. It was a
brave, a hazardous thing to venture on.
I was more than a little uplifted when he honoured me by asking me if I
would care to be a sentinel.
His request touched me deeply, and I felt that Mary was smiling upon me
with radiant eyes out of the unknown.
A few more days elapsed. Another Sunday came and went, the last before
the great occasion. I had spent the day in the coolness of the cave,
and the minister had been out about his spiritual duties. I stole out
and sitting on the ledge above the pool sat dreaming in the twilight.
Far off in the fields beyond the wood I heard a corncrake rasping out
his raucous notes. There was a twitter of birds in the trees above me
as they settled down to sleep.
As I sat there I was joined by Mr. Corsane, who came through the narrow
defile below the pool. He looked weary and somewhat distraught; but
though I surmised that some anxiety oppressed him, he did not offer to
share it with me, so I held my peace. Soon he retired to rest and when
midnight came I set off to my labours. I did not see him on my return
to the cave in the morning, nor had he come back by evening when I left
again. But when on the morning of Tuesday I came in sight of the pool,
I discovered him waiting for me on the ledge outside the cave. He hailed
me at once:
"I have been watching anxiously for your return. I am in sore
perplexity."
"Can I help you, sir?" I asked.
"If I were younger," he replied, "and could perform the task myself, I
would gladly do it; but it is past my power. It is an urgent
matter--for it concerns the safety of one dear to me and very precious
to the Cause."
"Command me," I exclaimed. "I am ready to do anything I can; only tell
me how I may help."
"I have a friend in Edinburgh," he said, "Peter Burgess by name. His
life is in danger. I must get a message to him ere Friday. Will you
take it?"
"Gladly," I cried. "Trust me--and all the persecutors in Scotland shall
not prevent me."
A smile flickered upon his face. "That is a reckless boast," he said.
"But I trust you, and thank you."
"I am ready to start at once," I said.
"What?" he exclaimed. "Weary as you are!"
"Certainly," I answered, "one must needs haste. I'll have a plunge in
the pool while you write your letter, and after a mouthful of food, I'll
be off."
By the time I had bathed and eaten, his message was ready, and with a
few last words of instruction I was about to set off. But he called me
back.
"Have a care to your goings, my son. Be wary! be brave! I trust you
will succeed in reaching my friend ere it is too late; but you cannot be
back in time for the great Assembly on Sabbath. I shall miss you."
He raised his hand in blessing, and, secreting the letter about me, I
turned, and was gone.
*CHAPTER XXXIV*
*THE FLIGHT OF PETER BURGESS*
When night fell I was far away among the hills. I had made good
progress and was well content. I should accomplish the journey in good
time--of that I was confident--so I crawled into a bed of heather and
slept soundly.
In the early morning I was awakened by the call of the moor birds.
Before starting on my journey again, I thought it wise to secrete the
letter with greater care, so I took off one of my shoes, and, making a
hollow in the heel, folded the letter tightly and placed it there. Then
I took to the road again.
I had hoped to reach Edinburgh by noon on Thursday, but when I came in
sight of the city it was past five o'clock. The journey had proved more
arduous than I expected; but I was still in time. The last long mile
accomplished, I reached the city. The moon had risen, and as I swung
round beneath the grey shadow of Holyrood I caught a glimpse of the
noble brow of Arthur's Seat towering high behind it. I passed the guard
of soldiers at the Canongate without challenge, for, apparently, they
saw in me nothing more than a travel-stained and dusty wanderer--some
gangrel body.
I did not wish to draw suspicion upon myself by asking anyone to direct
me to Halkerstone Wynd where Peter Burgess dwelt. But, meeting a boy, I
stopped him to ask where I could find the Tron Kirk, which Mr. Corsane
had given me as a landmark. His reply was explicit enough, if somewhat
rude. "Follow yer nose," he said, "and ye'll be there in five meenutes,"
which I took to mean that I was to continue my journey up the hill.
Very shortly a large church came into view, and as it took shape in the
moonlight a clock in its tower struck ten. I counted the strokes, and,
turning, retraced my steps and found at no great distance from the
Church, as the minister had told me, the Wynd which I sought. The
minister had given me careful instructions, so that when I entered the
Wynd I had no difficulty in finding the house in which his friend lived.
The outer door stood open, and I entered, passing at once into the
confusion of darkness; but I had learned from Hector the wisdom of
carrying a candle in one's pocket, and lighting it, I looked around me.
I knew that I should find Peter Burgess on the top floor of the house,
so, shading the candle with one hand, I began the ascent. Up, and up
and up, in never ceasing spirals wound the stair. To me, weary with my
journey, it seemed interminable. Between two of its flights I paused,
and leaning over the balustrade looked downwards. A chasm, black as
pitch and unfathomable to my straining eyes, gaped below me. After a
moment's rest I continued my ascent, and by and by, breathless, I came
to the top. An oaken door barred my further progress. An iron knocker,
shaped like a lady's hand, hung gracefully upon its middle beam. I
remember that as I seized it to knock, I held it for a second while I
looked at the delicate metal filigree of lace that adorned the wrist.
Then I knocked three times--first gently, then more firmly and, as no
answer came, more loudly still. At last I heard movements on the other
side, and in the flickering candle-light I saw a little peep-hole open,
and a voice said "Who is it?" I bent my head to the tiny aperture and
said in a whisper "Naphthali," the password I had been told to use.
Instantly the peep-hole was closed, and the door was thrown open.
"Enter and welcome," said the voice, and I needed no second invitation.
I found myself in a narrow passage at the end of which was a room
through whose open door a light shone. The man who had admitted me
closed and barred the door and then led the way to the room. Then
turning to me he said:
"To what do I owe this late visit?"
"I bring," I replied, "a message from a friend, but before I give it to
you I must know who you are."
He went to a bookcase that stood against one of the walls and from it
withdrew a little calf-bound volume. Opening it he pointed to the
book-plate within.
On the scroll I read the legend "Ex libris Petri Burgess," and I saw
that the book was a copy of Rutherford's _Lex Rex_. I sat down at once
on a high-backed oak chair, and, taking off my shoe, found the letter
and handed it to him. He took it with a grave bow, and, breaking its
seal, sat down at the black-oak table in the centre of the room.
As he did so, I looked about me. The room was furnished with
considerable taste and was lit by two candles which stood in silver
candlesticks on the table. Between the candlesticks lay a sheet of
paper. Beside them stood an ink-horn and a little bowl of sand in which
was a small bone spoon. The light was somewhat uncertain, and to read
with greater ease he drew one of the candlesticks nearer to him.
When he had read the letter through, he sat in a fit of meditation,
beating a gentle tattoo with the fingers of his left hand upon the top
of the table. He read it again, and went towards the fireplace where he
tore the missive into tiny pieces and dropped them into the fire. Then
he came back to the table.
"Forgive," he said, "my seeming lack of hospitality; you must be worn
out and famished. Let me offer you some refreshment."
I thanked him heartily, and in a few minutes he had set food and wine
before me.
He joined me in the repast, and as we sat at the table I had an
opportunity of studying him with some care. I judged him to be a man
over sixty. His face was refined and the delicate line of his mouth
which his beard did not conceal bespoke a sensitive nature. He treated
me with a courtly grace, asked interestedly as to my journey, and
inquired earnestly as to the progress of the Cause in the South. I told
him all I knew, and when he heard from my lips how Mr. Corsane, though
evicted from his Church, still regarded himself as the shepherd of his
people and was constant in his devotion and instant in his service to
them, he said:
"Good! good! But how he must have suffered! As for me," he continued,
"I have no cave in which to take refuge, so I must steal away like a
thief in the night. Please God, ere morning I may find a boat in which
to escape to the Low Countries. But you must have bed and lodging; and
ere I leave the city I shall see you safely housed with a friend in the
Lawn Market."
When our meal was over my host pushed back his chair and said:
"Now I must go." He went to the bookcase, and taking from it two or
three volumes put them in the pockets of his coat. Turning to me with a
smile, he said: "A fugitive had best go unencumbered; but I should be
lost without a book."
He made up a small parcel of food, and then, extinguishing one candle
and taking the other from its candlestick, he led the way to the door,
and together we passed out. He locked the door from the outside, and
lighting the way with the candle, which he still held in his hand, he
conducted me downstairs.
When we entered the High Street, we turned and walked up past the Tron
Kirk.
The streets were deserted, save for ourselves, for midnight was at hand.
"The Castle," he said, "is just ahead of us, but we are not going so
far. This is our destination," and he turned into a narrow Wynd on the
right side of the street and passed through an open door just beyond its
mouth. In the shadow of the doorway he lighted his candle and proceeded
to climb the stair. On the second floor he knocked gently at a door
which, after a pause, was opened noiselessly by an old woman.
We entered. My companion whispered a word or two in her ear, and taking
a leathern pouch from one of his pockets pressed some money into her
hand.
"Be kind to the lad," he said, "he has travelled far."
The old woman looked at me, and with the coins still gleaming in her
open palm, said: "Ye can trust me, Maister Burgess. He's no' to peety
if he has ane o' my guid cauf beds to sleep on, and a bowl o' parritch
in the morning."
Mr. Burgess held out his hand to me in farewell. "God keep you," he
said. "And when you see my friend again, tell him I thank him with all
my heart. If God will, I shall communicate with him when I reach a place
of safety. If not----" and he raised his eyes to the low ceiling and,
dropping my hand, turned and was gone.
*CHAPTER XXXV*
*WITHIN SIGHT OF ST. GILES*
The old woman closed the door, and lighting a candle led me to a room
and left me. I found that the bed was all that she had claimed for it;
and after my many months of fitful sleep on my bracken couch on the hard
floor of the cave, and my weary journey, this mattress of chaff, into
which I sank as soon as I lay down, seemed a couch for a king. As I
turned over on my side and composed myself to sleep, I had but one
regret. Weary as I found myself, it would be impossible for me to get
back to the cave in time for the great Conventicle which was to be held
among the Closeburn hills upon the coming Sabbath.
My sleep was dreamless, and when I awoke the torch of the sun was
blazing outside my narrow window. Having dressed myself, I made for the
kitchen, where I found the good-wife busy over the fire. She turned as
she heard my footsteps and asked:
"Are ye weel rested? Ye maun be, for ye've sleepit the better pairt o'
twal 'oors. I knocked at your door at ten o'clock; syne I tappit again
at half-eleeven, but for a' the answer ye gi'ed, ye micht ha'e been the
Castle Rock. So I juist left ye your lane, and here ye are at lang
last, famished nae doot!" I was surprised to learn that I had slept so
long, but the rest had done me good service and I felt greatly
refreshed. "There's ae virtue aboot parritch, forby ithers," she
said--"a wee bit extra boilin' does nae hairm, which is mair than can be
said for ony ither dish except sheep's-heid broth."
When my meal was over I rose to go, and as I did so I offered to pay the
good woman for her hospitality.
"No, no," she said, as she shook her head. "Maister Burgess paid your
lawin' for ye; and indeed there was nae necessity, for ony frien' o'
that saint o' God is aye welcome to a bed and a sup o' parritch frae
Betty Macfarlane."
As I had given up all intention of trying to reach Closeburn by the
following Sunday, I thought I might with advantage spend the rest of the
day in rambling round the historic town. Such an opportunity might not
offer again, and I knew that Scotland's story was graven upon the face
of her Capital. Under the cover of the night I would begin my journey
home. So I walked down the Lawn Market, and descended the Canongate
until I came within sight of Holyrood. As I went I admired the lordly
houses which flanked each side of the thoroughfare--some of them gaunt,
grey and forbidding; others finely timbered; others again turreted and
adorned with stone-fretwork that proclaimed the high skill of the
carvers' art. I lingered for a time in front of Holyrood, thinking of
the tragic career of her whose spirit still seemed to haunt the pile.
Then I made my way by the Cowgate to the Grassmarket, where, sombre and
menacing--the symbol of the dark days through which this tortured land
was passing--stood the scaffold. On that forbidding gibbet I knew that
many a brave martyr had met his end. The walls around me had heard the
intrepid challenge of their testimonies, while the grim Castle rock,
towering above, looked down silent and frowning as though it scorned the
cruelties of man to his brother man.
From the Grassmarket I climbed up a tortuous and steep wynd to the Lawn
Market again. By this time the afternoon was far advanced, and evening
was at hand. In the High Street, not far from the church of St. Giles,
I entered a tavern, and having supped I looked at the clock in the
Church Tower and saw that it was close upon six. I judged it would be
well to set out in another hour. By so doing I should have left the
city behind me and be far in the open country ere it was time to sleep;
so I settled myself comfortably on a chair in the inglenook and called
for another pot of ale.
When the clock in the church tower struck seven I called for my score,
and, having settled it, made my way out into the High Street. As I came
out of the tavern door two officers passed me. I was less than a couple
of paces behind them as they walked down the street. Had I willed it
so, I could not have failed to catch some fragment of their talk, but my
ears were pricked to a lively attention when I heard one of them say:
"... Among the hills ... Closeburn." I caught a few disjointed words.
"Sabbath ... three or four thousand ... a great occasion ... Claver'se,
Lag, ... something complete ... no miserable failure ... Drumclog ...
stamp out... no quarter ... woman or child." A horror so sudden seized
me that I stood stock still, and the officers, unaware that I had
overheard them, walked on.
What had I heard? The fell purport of the stray words I had caught
blazed before me in letters of fire. I knew of the great Conventicle
that was to take place among the hills above Closeburn. I knew that
every little cottage and every homestead for miles around that held a
soul who professed allegiance to the Cause would have its witness there.
By some mischance the enemy had learned of the intended gathering, and
had plotted a master-stroke to destroy the Covenanters.
The Cause was in jeopardy! Destruction threatened it. And I, Walter de
Brydde--one-time moss-trooper, could save it! I alone. My hour had
come.
The clock struck, and, startled, I awoke to action.
Forgetful that the news must be carried far, I began to run. Down past
the Tron Kirk and on past Halkerstone Wynd and on down the Canongate I
ran, until as I drew near the Town Port and saw the scarlet colour of
the soldier's uniforms, some gleam of caution returned to me, and I
slowed down to a walking pace lest my speed should excite suspicion. I
shambled past the sentinels unchallenged, but when I had put a
sufficient distance between them and myself, I broke into a run once
more and headed for the hills. As I sped along I made a hasty
calculation. It was now eight o'clock on Friday evening. To prevent
the massacre, I must reach Closeburn not later than midnight on
Saturday. That would give time for a message to be spread broadcast by
willing couriers in the darkness of the night, and faithful men could be
posted to give warning at every cross-road by which the worshippers must
pass as they made their way, in the early dawn, to the appointed
trysting-place.
*CHAPTER XXXVI*
*FOR THE SAKE OF THE COVENANT*
I had twenty-eight hours in which to reach Closeburn--time sufficient to
cover the distance, if I made an average of three miles an hour. And
three miles an hour was well within the compass even of a man lame like
myself. Already I saw my task accomplished, and the joy that filled my
heart lent wings to my feet. With hands clenched, and chest thrown
forward, I raced along until my breathing became a torment and I had to
stop. I leaned against a wall by the roadside panting violently, and as
I rested, soberer thoughts came to me. This was foolishness!
Not in this way would I ever complete the journey; nor was there need of
such impetuous haste. A moderate speed on the level, a steady struggle
up the hills and all the speed I could command down them would bring me
safely to my goal within the allotted time. I looked back along the way
I had come. Far off I could see the light gleaming in the windows of
the city, and high up, where a great black mass threw its bulk towards
the sky, I saw the red glare of the brazier upon the Castle walls.
Already I had travelled far, and when I had recovered my breath, I took
to the road again. This time I did not run, but walked steadily.
The moon climbed the heavens, and all the sky was glad with little
stars. A gentle breeze had arisen and white clouds were scurrying
overhead; but the cool of the wind was as refreshing balm and I plodded
steadily on. Hour followed hour, and the moon sank to rest and still I
followed the winding road. The first rosy streaks of dawn were warming
the eastern sky when I sat down to rest. I was well content. My steady
pace had carried me far and though I was weary I was confident. In the
daylight I should be able to make better progress than during the
darkness. As I rested I became aware that the strength of the wind had
increased, and great leaden clouds were beginning to sweep across the
sky. Rain began to fall upon my upturned face. The cooling drops were
welcome; it would be but a passing shower! Thinking thus I rose and
continued my journey. Then the heavens opened and the rain came down in
a flood. Blown by the wind it struck my face and hands with missile
force and to shelter myself I left the road and crawled under a
whin-bush on the hill-side. For a time this gave me protection; but as
the storm increased the rain-drops beat their way through the palisade
of thorns, and poured mercilessly upon me once more. There was nothing
to be gained by resting here. I was losing time. Better up and on! So
I took to the road again. The wind had waxed to a tempest and beat
direct upon me, so that I had to bend my head and put forth all my
strength to fight it. I had not looked for this, but with dogged
determination I clenched my teeth and battled on.
On I struggled, unable to see more than a few paces ahead of me; for the
rain was like a cloud--so wet that with every step the water streamed
from my shoes. Should I ever reach the end of the journey? I would
though I fell dead! It was for Mary's sake.
Hour after hour passed, and at last the storm began to abate. The fury
of the rain lessened, and the downpour settled into a drizzle. The sky
began to clear. There were breaks in its leaden vault through which a
white tuft of cloud thrust an infrequent pennon, and by and by the sun
broke through the dull veil that had hidden it, and the rain ceased.
Still the wind blew upon me with such force that every now and then I
was brought to a standstill. When a lull came between one and the next
more stern blast, I would run a pace or two; but only to be baffled
again when the wind had gathered strength. I cast an anxious look up to
the sky; the sun was visible now, but there was no vigour in his rays.
It seemed as though the rain had quenched his fire, and that instead of
looking into the heart of a furnace I gazed upon a ball of grey ashes.
But what gave me pause and filled me with sudden dread was his place in
the sky. He was already well past the meridian. The steady progress of
the night, in which I had taken such satisfaction, counted for little
set against the small tally of the miles covered since the dawn. The
agony in my heart whipped me to greater effort, and I tried to run. But
the wind seized me, and smote me with mighty buffets so that I had to
desist and content myself by making what poor speed I could. On and on
I trudged--hour after hour boring my way head downwards against the
relentless wind, ashamed to count my paces, for I knew that the tale of
them, as each minute slipped past, was less than a quarter of what it
would have been if fortune had not turned against me. I had left the
moorland track now and was upon a stretch of better road, sheltered in
some fashion by trees upon either side. They broke the sterner fury of
the blast and the better surface of the road made speedier progress
possible. Spurring myself to the effort I sprang forward. Suddenly, to
my joy, I saw on the hill-side above the road a little white cottage. I
dragged myself up the slope, sodden and weary, and as I drew near I
noticed the iron tyre of a cart-wheel leaning against the side of the
house, and near by a rusty anvil. I knocked at the door, which was
opened immediately by a young woman.
"What's yer pleesure?" she asked.
"Something to eat--and the time o' day," I answered.
"It's past five on the nock, an' if ye'll come awa' ben ye can ha'e some
provender."
She led the way into a large kitchen, and as she busied herself in
setting oat cakes and ale before me I warmed myself by the fire. I was
in no mood for delay, so I ate some of the food hastily, stored a little
in my pockets, drank my ale, and called for my score. As I paid her I
asked the distance to Moffat.
"Eight miles and a bittock, and the first bit is a' uphill--an awfu'
road: but easy after ye pass the Beef-tub."
My heart sank, the hour was late--far later than I had thought, and I
had still far to go.
Bidding my hostess good day I hurried to the door, threw it open--and
walked into the arms of two troopers. Taken unawares I was startled,
but quickly recovering myself I bade them good day and tried to pass
them.
"No' sae fast, young man--no' sae fast. Ye're in a de'il o' a hurry,"
said one of the troopers--a towering brawny giant--as he seized me by
the coat.
"Unhand me," I cried. "What right have you to interfere with a loyal
subject, engaged on his lawful occasions?"
"Hear tae him, Sandy," said my captor. "He talks like a mangy lawyer.
'Lawful occasions!' We'll see aboot that. What are ye daein' here?"
Eager to satisfy the man, and in the hope that by doing so I should be
permitted to continue on my way, I answered:
"I am a traveller on my way to Dumfries--I have been caught in the
storm, and sought shelter and refreshment in this house"--and I tried to
wrench myself from his grasp.
"A gey thin tale. Whit think ye, Sandy? As like as no' he's a
Covenanter." And Sandy grunted "Umphm."
Again I tried to shake myself free--but the giant flung his arms about
me, and lifting me up, struggle how I might, as though I had been a
child he carried me back into the kitchen and thrust me roughly on a
chair.
The woman of the house looked on open-eyed.
"Whit ken ye o' this man?" said the trooper, turning towards her, but
all the while keeping a firm hold of me.
"Naething mair than yersel," she answered. "He cam' tae the door a
bittock syne, and asked for something tae eat--and he peyed his lawin'
like a gentleman."
"Umphm," growled my tormentor; and Sandy standing beside him answered
"Umphm."
"Bring us something tae drink, Mirren, Solway waters if ye hae them.
We're fair drookit," said my captor. "As for you," he said, tightening
his grip on my arm, "we'll ha'e to look into your case. Sandy--fetch a
tow."
Sandy followed the woman into another room, and in a moment returned
with a rope in his hand.
"What does this mean?" I shouted. "You have no right to interfere with
me--and when I reach Moffat I shall lodge a complaint with the Officer
Commanding."
"Shut yer jaw," bellowed the giant, and shook his fist at me.
I sprang up--my clenched left fist smashed into his face, and the blood
streamed from him--but still he held me.
Sandy sprang to his aid, and though I struggled like one possessed I was
quickly overpowered, flung roughly on the chair and bound there. The
rope that surrounded me, and held my arms close to my sides, was drawn
so tightly that I could hardly breathe. They ran it round the back of
the chair and under the legs shackling each ankle. I was helpless. As
he bound me the giant cursed me soundly, pausing only to spit blood from
his foul mouth.
"Ye blasted hound! Ye're no' what ye pretend. We'll mak' ye talk in a
wee. Eh, Sandy?" And Sandy, binding my ankles, answered "Umphm."
When I was tied securely they stood away from me and surveyed their
handiwork.
"Umphm," said Sandy--as he poured out a glass of Solway waters from the
bottle which the woman had brought, and raised it to his lips. The two
sat down by the fire--the bottle between them--and for a time turned all
their attention to its contents. I tried to move--=but I was gripped as
in a vice. I was in sore case. I cared not what happened to myself,
but there was my message. I alone could prevent the massacre on the
morrow, and now the proud hope I had cherished of doing service to the
Covenant was brought to naught. Was there a God in heaven, that such
things could be? I was not left long to my thoughts.
Suddenly the giant rose, and standing over me glowered into my eyes as
he shouted:
"Are ye a Covenanter?"
Temptation assailed me. If I denied the Covenant, I could with a firmer
claim demand to be set free--and then I might yet carry my message
through. "No" was upon my lips--but it died unspoken there. I heard the
notes of a flute on a heather-clad hill-side: saw again a heap of
smouldering ashes where a home of love had been. I could not deny the
Covenant.
Firmly I answered "I am"--and in the gathering shadows I saw the radiant
face of Mary smiling upon me--as she blew me a kiss with either hand.
"Umphm," said Sandy, "I thocht as muckle."
"So ye're a Covenanter, are ye?" roared the giant. "I'll learn ye! Wull
ye say 'God save the King?'"
"God save the King," I answered promptly. "I am a loyal subject and a
Covenanter."
"Ye lie," he shouted. "The Covenanters are a' rebels. Wull ye tak' the
Test?"
In the cave at the Linn I had heard Hector repeat the involved sentences
of the Test with scorn upon his lips, and I knew that this half-drunken
trooper could not possibly find his way through them; so I answered:
"If you can put the Test to me you shall have my answer."
Sandy--with the bottle in his hand--looked over his shoulder and laughed
softly. The giant turned upon him. "Whit the deevil are ye lauchin'
at"--and then turning to me, "I'm nae scholar--and I canna min' the
words, but if I canna pit the Test to you I can pit you tae the
test--and by heaven I will." A look of fiendish cruelty swept over his
hard face.
"Try him wi' the match," said Sandy.
"Ay--that'll test him."
While Sandy busied himself about my fastenings to free my left arm for
the ordeal, the other trooper was trying to make the long match he had
unwound from his head-gear take light. It was damp and would not burn.
I watched in a strange state of abstraction. Only a few minutes ago the
vision of Mary had smiled upon me. Pain and torture were nothing to me
now. Let them do their worst!
"It winna burn: it's wat," said the giant. Throwing the match on the
floor, he gripped my left arm savagely and pushed back the sleeve of my
coat.
"Rax me a live peat," he said, and Sandy picked one up with the tongs
and handed it to him. He seized the tongs, and held the peat against my
arm just above the wrist where the blue veins showed. "That'll mak' ye
talk, ye dog," he shouted. But no word escaped my lips. My eyes sought
the distance--and there I saw the face of Mary--twin tears upon her
eyelids. The pain was swallowed up by the joy.
"He's a dour deevil," growled Sandy.
"Ay: but we'll ha'e him yelling for mercy yet. The peat's gaen cauld.
Gar it lowe, Sandy."
Sandy bent his head and blew upon the peat. It began to glow again--but
I did not flinch.
"Rax me anither," said my tormentor, letting the first fall and relaxing
his grip of my arm. For a moment he turned to watch his companion pick
up another glowing peat--and in that moment I eased the ropes about my
right arm with my left hand. They slipped upwards and my right arm was
free.
My tormentors did not observe it when they came to me again and applied
the torture to my left arm once more.
Again Sandy lowered his head to blow upon the peat--and in that instant
my right arm shot out like a steel spring, my fist crashed into his jaw
and he fell in a heap, knocking the legs from under the giant, who fell
heavily upon him.
"Ye clumsy lout!" he cried, as he rose in drunken fury, and as Sandy lay
motionless he kicked him savagely with his heavy boots in the chest.
The kitchen door opened softly, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of
the woman's frightened face: then she withdrew.
"Get up--I tell ye," roared the giant, kicking the recumbent figure
again.
My blow could have caused him only temporary damage--but this savagery
of the giant would kill him.
My eyes were on Sandy. His pallid face grew ashen: his chest was raised
from the ground in a curve like a bow as he took a convulsive breath:
blood and froth bubbled at his lips--and he lay still, his ashen pallor
deepening.
Fear seized the giant. He dropped on his knees beside the body. "Get
up, Sandy my lammie"--he said, drunken tears falling down his cheeks.
"Ye're no' deid. Ye'll be a' richt in a meenute. Get up, lad. Say
ye're no' deid."
But Sandy lay motionless.
"You have killed him," I said.
"You lie," roared the trooper, springing to his feet and facing me.
"You did it--an' ye'll pey for 't."
He seized me by the throat, and readjusted my fastenings--binding me
cruelly tight. Then he took a long draught from the bottle, and sat
down. I watched him as he took a knife from his pocket, and ran his
thumb along its edge.
"I'll bluid him like a sheep," he muttered, as he bent down and tried to
sharpen the blade on the hearth-stone.