I had no need to reply, for at that moment he emerged from the cave.

Our first greetings over, we hustled the packman into the cave. We

spread food before him, and as he ate we plied him with questions. One

question was burning in my heart: but I knew the answer, and had not the

courage to put it; and as the minister was hungering for news, I gave

place to him and held my peace.

How fared the Cause in the west country, and were the hill-men standing

firm? That was the essence of his questioning. And Hector, with eyes

glowing so that they shone like little lamps in the darkness of his

face, told him all. The cruelties of the persecutors had reached their

zenith: but neither shootings, nor still more hideous tortures

threatened, could break the proud spirit of the Covenanters. As he

talked, Hector's voice thrilled until his last triumphant words rang

through the cave like a challenge and a prophecy.

"Ay," he cried, "though the King's minions heap horror upon horror till

every hill in the South o' Scotland is a heather-clad Golgotha, the men

will stand firm: and generations yet unborn will reap the harvest o'

their sacrifice."

He ceased, and so deep a silence fell upon us that through the rock wall

I could hear the splash of an icicle as it fell into the pool. The

minister's bowed head was in his hands. Awe and reverence fettered my

tongue. Then Hector spoke again. He had taken his pipe from his

pocket, and was filling it with care.

"And noo," he said, turning to me, "I ha'e news for you." A question

sprang to my lips, but before I could shape a word Hector held up his

hand. "You maun ask nae questions till my tale is done. You can talk yer

fill by and by: but hear me in silence first." I nodded my head, and he

began.

"You mind I tellt ye, before I left, that when I went west I should try

to fin' oot what happened at Daldowie. Weel, on the road to Wigtown, I

held away up into the hills, and by and by I cam' to the auld place. It

stood there--what had been a bien hoose and a happy home--a heap o'

ruins, ae gable-end pointin' an angry finger tae the sky. I looked

amang the ruins, for I minded what you had seen there; but I saw

naething but ashes and charred stanes, save that Nature, a wee mair

kindly than man is, had scattered a flooer or twa oot o' her lap in the

by-gaun and they were bloomin' bonnily there. By and by I took the road

again, and though I go as far West as the rocks below Dunskey, where the

untamed waves hammer the cliffs like an angry stallion, I gathered nane

o' the news I was seekin'. But on the hame-comin' I dropped into the

Ship and Anchor at Kirkcudbright, and as I sat ower a pot o' yill I

heard a couple o' troopers haein' high words. What the quarrel was aboot

I dinna ken, but it ended by ane o' them springin' up and ganging oot o'

the door. As he went, he half turned and said, wi' a laugh: 'Ye deserve

what the guid-wife o' Daldowie gied Claver'se.' Whereat the dragoon

left behin' let a roar o' laughter oot o' him and took a lang pull at

his yill. When he set it doon he laughed again, and I jaloused that his

anger had passed. So I drew oot my pipe and tobacco, and I offered him

a fill. He took the weed gledly, and then I drew in to his table and

asked him to ha'e a drink. I ordered 'Solway waters,' for I ken hoo

they can lowse the tongue, and when they cam' I clinked glasses wi' him,

and by way o' settin' suspicion to rest, I drank to the King. Soon I

had him crackin' away merrily. But I didna learn muckle frae him till I

had plied him wi' mair drink, and then his tongue got the better o' his

discretion. Suddenly he said wi' a laugh, 'I deserve what the guid-wife

o' Daldowie gied to Claver'se, dae I? We'll see aboot that, my lad!' and

he laughed again. I had got my opening.

"'That seems to be a guid joke,' I said. 'If it's worth tellin' I

should like to hear it.'

"'Oh,' he answered, 'it's a graun' joke; but for guidsake dinna be

lettin' on tae Claver'se I tellt ye. It's a sair point wi' him.'

"Little by little I got the story frae him in fragments mair or less

disjointed. But since then I've put it thegither, and I'll tell it in

my ain way.

"Ae morning last April Claver'se and his troopers were oot on the moors

a mile or twa to the west o' Dairy, when they saw twa men comin' towards

them. Ane o' the men was chasin' the other up and doon amang the

moss-hags, and the troopers put spurs to their horses and sune had them

surrounded. When Claver'se looked at them he recognised in ane o' them

a young Covenanter wha' had escaped twa nichts afore frae a barn near

New Galloway where he had been flung after a dose o' the thumbikins. The

other was a much aulder man. The younger o' the twa was clean demented:

and they could get nae sense oot o' him--juist a screed o' haivers

whenever they questioned him. The auld man was as dour as a rock--and

would gie nae account o' himsel', but it was enough that he had been

seen chasin' the daft lad on the moors, belike wi' the intention o'

concealin' him in some hidie hole. Weel, Claver'se was for shootin' the

auld man oot o' hand if he wouldna speak, and said as much; but a' the

answer he got was 'I'm ready, sir. Ye can dae nae mair than kill my

body,' and he took off his bonnet and looked undaunted up at the sky.

Weel, just then ane o' the troopers drew up alangside Claver'se and

spoke to him. He had recognised the man as Andrew Paterson o' Daldowie,

and tellt Claver'se as much. 'O, ho!' said Claver'se, 'the old fox! So

this is the guid-man o' Daldowie. I think we had better tak' him hame

to his ain burrow. Maybe we'll find other game there.' So wi' that

they tied Andrew and the lad to the stirrup leathers o' twa troopers and

made for Daldowie--maybe ten miles awa.

"As they drew near to Daldowie they saw a woman standin' in the doorway

lookin' into the distance under the shade o' her hand. She dropped her

hand, and made a half turn, and then she saw them comin'. Wi' that she

rushed into the hoose and closed the door: but nae doot she was watchin'

through a crack, for when they were near enough for her to see that her

guid-man was a prisoner, she cam' oot again and stood waitin'. When

they drew up she threw oot her airms, and like a mither that rins tae

keep her bairn frae danger, she ran towards her man, callin', 'Andra!

Andra!' But at a sign frae Claver'se ane o' the dragoons turned his

horse across her path and kept her off. Then Claver'se louped frae his

horse, and tellin' ane o' the dragoons to lay hold on the woman, and

calling half a dozen to follow him, drew his sword and walked in at the

open door.

"Inside they made an awfu' steer, pokin' here and searchin' there,

nosin' even into the meal barrel and castin' the blankets off the beds

after Claver'se himsel' had driven his sword through and through them.

Then ane o' the troopers spied a ladder in the corner, and up he goes

into the loft, and Claver'se follows him. Then they cam' doon again,

Claver'se leadin' and no' lookin' pleased like. He stalked oot o' the

kitchen into the open air. Juist then the daft laddie let a screech oot

o' him, and Claver'se flung up his heid. 'What the devil is he yelling

about?' he cried. 'I'll stop his girning!' and wi' that he shouted an

order and twa sodgers ran forward and cuttin' the thongs frae his

wrists, dragged him tae the wall o' the hoose. They cast their hands

off him, but stood near enough to keep him frae runnin' away. He looked

at the dragoons wi' a simple look on his face, and then his e'en

wandered away to the blue hills in the distance,--'From whence cometh

mine aid,' he said. But he spoke nae mair, for, wi' a quick 'Make

ready: present: fire!' Claver'se let his sword drop, the muskets

crashed, and the boy fell deid. 'A good riddance,' said Claver'se,

spurning the body with his foot. 'There's enough daft folk in the

world,' and he laughed.

"There was a sudden turmoil among the men, and the soond o' a woman's

voice. The guid-wife was strugglin' to free hersel', and as she did so

she shouted, 'Inhuman deevils! Is there nae milk o' mercy in yer herts?

What has the puir lad done that ye should murder him?' But a word frae

her husband quieted her, 'Jean,' he said--that was a'; but she stood

quite still and struggled nae mair, though the tears streamed doon her

face. Then Claver'se made a sign and Andra was unbound and led before

him, and at the same time the troopers let go their hold o' the woman

and she cam' and stood beside her man. 'Daldowie,' says Claver'se, 'you

have long been suspected of consorting with and harbouring the hill-men.

I have caught you red-handed to-day in the act of succouring one of

them; and in your house I have found proof that you have sheltered

fugitives from justice. What have you to say for yourself?' Andra

looked his judge straight in the face. 'The facts are against me, sir;

but I ha'e dune naething for which my conscience rebukes me, and I am

ready to answer to God.'

"'More cant! More cant!' roared Claver'se. 'You have to answer to me,

the representative of the King. God only comes into the question

later,' and he laughed as though he had said a clever thing. 'Will ye

tak' the Test? Will ye swear allegiance to the King?'"

"'Time was,' said Andra, 'that I would gladly ha'e sworn fealty to the

King in things temporal; but in things spiritual I am answerable to a

Higher than ony Stuart. I was a loyal subject, like a' the hill-folk,

till the Stuarts broke their ain pledged word: and ye canna' expect a

Scot, least o' a' a Galloway man, tae turn aboot like a weather-cock,

when it pleases the King to turn.'

"'Damnable treason,' shouts Claver'se. 'Don't you know that the King is

above the law, and reigns by Divine Right?'

"Andra shook his head, but his wife answered: 'Ay, so the Stuarts say,

but they waited till they got to England before they blew that bubble.

Weel they kent there were ower mony jaggy thistles in Scotland for that

bag o' win' tae last long this side o' the border.'

"'Woman,' says Claver'se, angrily, 'be silent,' and turning to Andra he

said: 'You know you have forfeited your life: many a man has died for

less; but I would not be hard on you. Will you be done with the

Covenanters? Say the word and you are free. Refuse'--and he waved his

hand towards the body o' the lad. Andra followed the gesture wi' his

e'en. Then he looked at Claver'se again--wi' nae sign o' fear on his

face. 'You ken my answer, sir, I canna.' And as Claver'se turned

angrily away the guid-wife threw her airms aboot her husband's neck and

sobbed, 'Oh, Andra, my ain brave man!' The dragoons had loosened their

hold o' him, and he put his airms aboot her, and patted her heid.

'Dinna greet, lassie,' he murmured, 'dinna greet. Death is naething:

only a doorway that lets us ben the Maister's hoose. I'll wait for ye

yonder; the pairtin' will no be lang.'

"Claver'se had turned to the dragoons and was rapidly gi'eing them

orders. Twa sodgers laid hold on the woman and tried to drag her awa'

frae her man, but wi' her face buried on his shoulder she clung to him

sobbing. Wi' his ain hands he took her airms frae his neck, and haudin'

her face between his palms, kissed her. 'My ain Jean,' he said, 'God

keep you. You ha'e been a guid wife tae me,' and kissing her again he

left her and took his place by the wall o' the hoose. The firing party

was ready. Claver'se half raised his sword to gi'e the signal; then he

checked himsel' and turned to Andra.

"'An' you will,' he said, 'you may have five minutes to make your peace

with your Maker.'

"'I thank you,' replied Andra, 'but that's settled lang syne.'

Claver'se's blade rose sharply in the air. 'Ready,' he shouted--and the

sword fell, and as its point struck the ground, Andra Paterson o'

Daldowie passed ower unafraid.

"The smoke had no' had time to blaw frae the muzzles o' the muskets ere

Jean had broken frae her captors, and flung hersel' on her knees beside

the body o' her man. She raised his heid and held it in her lap: and

bendin' ower kissed his face. 'Andra,' she cried, 'Andra--my ain bonnie

man! Waken, Andra! waken! and speak to me. Andra! Andra! Canna ye

hear me? It's me--Jean, yer ain wee lass: ye mind, Andra, ca'in' me

that lang syne afore Dauvit was born. Andra, speak to me! Juist ae wee

word, Andra!' She paused, and stared wildly at the upturned face. Then

bursting into tears she sobbed, 'Oh, Andra, my ain dear man, the faither

o' my bairns, they ha'e killed ye.' As the tears streamed doon her

cheeks she took her kerchief frae her neck and spread it ower his face.

Then lovingly and tenderly she laid his heid doon and spreadin' her open

hands abune it said, 'Ane o' the elect noo.'

"Then she rose tae her feet. As she did so she noticed the body o' the

lad, and wringing her hands knelt doon beside it. 'Puir wee laddie,'

she said. 'God comfort your mither, wherever she may be,' and she bent

ower and kissed his broo. Then springing up she faced Claver'se and the

dragoons. He was pacing up and doon restlessly, sword in hand. Clenching

her fists she shook them angrily at him. 'May God in heaven pey ye for

this day's wark. Inhuman fiends! Are ye men born o' women--or spawn o'

the de'il?' and leaping forward sae suddenly that Claver'se hadna time

to throw himsel' on guard, she seized his sword and wrenched it frae his

grip afore he knew that she was on him. She swung up the blade, and

brocht it wi' a crash upon his heid. It was sic a blow as would ha'e

cleft him to the chin, if she had had skill wi' the weapon. But it

turned in her haun' so that she struck him wi' the flat o't, and he fell

senseless to the ground. And then she turned on the troopers--ae woman

against twenty armed men--striking richt and left, stabbing, lunging,

and thrusting till she had scattered the hale troop, aghast at her

onslaught, and the mischief she had dune their leader. But her triumph

was short. Four o' the troopers plunged their spurs into their horses

and rode her down, and as she lay stunned ane o' the troopers

dismounting put his musket to her heid and fired."

*CHAPTER XXXIX*

*FALSE HOPES*

The tears were streaming down my cheeks.

I could contain myself no longer. "Then, Mary is alive," I cried.

"Thank God! thank God!"

The packman raised a warning hand, and in a steady voice which, to my

fevered ears, sounded harsh and cold, said: "Haud yer wheesht till I

feenish the story." And with the sudden hope that had sprung up in my

breast quenched like a watered flame, I knitted my hands together and

waited.

"Weel," he went on, "after they had murdered the guid-wife, the troopers

gathered roond Claver'se anxious-like, for he looked deidly. But when

they had sprinkled water on his face, he began to come tae himsel'. By

and by he opened his e'en and looked aboot him dazed like.

"'What has happened?' he said; then, memory coming back, he cried:

'Whaur the devil is the old hell-cat? Blow her brains out.' The

sergeant saluted and said, 'Your orders ha'e already been carried out,

sir.' Wi' that Claver'se pulled himsel' thegither and sat up. But he

was a' o' a dither. He couldna staun' by his lane, but there was enough

o' the de'il left in him to gi'e orders to set the steadin' on fire and

burn it to the ground. When the place was a' in a blaze and the roof

had fallen in, he sent off others to round up the cattle and the sheep

and drive them to Kirkcudbright.

"'Nothing like making a clean job o't,' he said. Then wi' the help o'

the sergeant he mounted his horse, but his heid went licht again and he

couldna sit in the saddle. So there was naething for it but to cairry

him back to heidquarters. The sergeant and maybe a dozen dragoons were

left behind to see that the fire didna gang oot till the bodies were

completely destroyed. The rest set oot for heidquarters, taking it in

turns to cairry Claver'se on a stretcher they had knocked thegither,

while others drove the cattle behin'.

"That is the story," said Hector, "as the trooper telled it to me.

Though my heart was heavy, I forced up the ghost o' a laugh when he had

feenished and said, 'So that was what the guid-wife o' Daldowie did to

Claver'se. Weel, weel, a bonnie tale!' Then I plied him wi' mair

drink, for there was something else I wanted to ken, aboot which he had

said naething. And when he had primed his pipe aince mair I said

switherin'-like, as though I were tryin' to mind something: 'Let me see.

I think in my traivels I ha'e visited Daldowie. If I'm no wrang I aince

sold a ribbon to a bonnie lass there, wha I took for the dochter. Did

ye see onything o' her when ye were up by?' The trooper shook his heid.

"'No,' he said, 'I saw naething o' ony bonnie lass, and it was as weel

for her, for in the mood that Claver'se was in he would ha'e made short

work o' her tae. Are ye sure ye're no' mistaken?' he asked.

"'No, no,' I said, 'I'm no mistaken. If I min' richtly the lassie's

name was Mary.'

"'Weel,' he replied, 'I saw naething o' her while I was at Daldowie.

But I'm thinkin' that if she happened to be hidin' onywhere aboot she

wad be discovered by the sergeant and the men that were left behin', and

mair than likely they'd mak' a clean job by feenishing her tae.

Hooever,' he said, 'if it'll be ony satisfaction to ye, I'll speir at

ane o' the men wha' was left behin' wi' the sergeant. And if ye're here

the morn, at this time, it will gi'e me pleasure tae drink the health o'

the King wi' ye again and I'll then be able to tell ye what ye want to

ken.'

"Wi' that he rose, and I pressed anither truss o' Virginia weed in his

hand and promised to wait for him in the inn the next day. So off he

went, but at the door o' the parlour he turned and flung a kiss to the

servin'-maid wha was keekin' through the ither door after him. When I

had had anither pipe, I found a bield bit in a field, and, wi' my heid

on my pack, I settled myself to sleep. I was in great hopes o' hearin'

mair when I met the trooper again: but in the grey dawn I heard the

soond o' horses coming alang the road, and peepin' through the hedge I

saw Claver'se at the heid o' his dragoons makin' for the hills. The

trooper I had cracked wi' was among them. That is the last I ever saw

o' him, and as they didna come back tae the toon that nicht, I didna

learn what he had to tell. But I turned the thing ower in my mind and

said to mysel', 'Ane o' twa things has happened--either Mary cam' back

and was ta'en by the troopers and martyred like her father and mother,

or she escaped and is somewhere in hidin'.' And I said to myself,

'Hector, if the lassie's leevin', it's for you to find her.' So I

shouldered my pack and set oot for the west again. I wandered frae

hoose to hoose, frae cottage to cottage, frae clachan to clachan, aye

wi' the ae quest in my mind, aye wi' the same question on my lips, and

keepin' my ears wide open to hear some whisper if I could o' bonnie Mary

Paterson.

"I went west as far as the sea. On my road back again I passed here and

there and everywhere. But frae Portpatrick to the brig end o' Dumfries

I saw neither sign nor heard a word o' her."

He ceased, and a silence fell upon us, so heavy that our hearts were

crushed and not one of us dared speak. At last I rose, and crept out of

the cave. I stood on the ledge above the frozen pool and felt the ice

gather about my heart. Was Mary dead or not? This awful uncertainty

was harder to bear than the knowledge I had believed was mine. I

slipped my hand into the pocket over my heart and drew from it the

fragment of her ring. It lay glistening faintly in the light in my open

hand, and then I could not see it for my tears. Mary was dead! I sat

down and buried my face in my hands. My soul was in the depths.

*CHAPTER XL*

*I SEEK A FLOWER*

Many a time in the weeks that followed I pondered over Hector's story.

Andrew--dour, stout-hearted, and faithful--and Jean--shrewd, loving, and

whimsical--had borne themselves valiantly in the hour of doom, and the

darkness of the tragedy was illumined by the thought of their high

heroism. My sorrow was flushed with pride, though the pride was akin to

tears; but ever in my mind there was a torturing doubt. Reason urged me

to believe that Mary was dead. But love, and desire which is the child

of love, bade me hope on.

More than once I laid bare my heart to the minister, and from his wise

words I gained much solace; but, though he would not say so, I knew that

in his heart he believed that Mary had fallen into the hands of the

troopers and been done to death like her father and mother.

A day came when I could bear the suspense no longer. Inaction served

only to increase my torture of mind. I must seek Mary myself.

I told my companions what I purposed. With one voice they tried to

dissuade me. They pointed out that such an enterprise was beset with

hazard and might lead to death. Little did they know that death had no

terrors for such a love as mine, and that I would have counted it a

pleasant thing when weighed against the unquenchable torment that burned

in my breast. So I beat down all their objections until, convinced that

I was set in my purpose, they ceased to oppose me and planned means

whereby I might the better carry out my quest. It was from Hector that

the most useful suggestion came.

"Ye micht," he said, "gang through the country as a packman, but frae

what I mind o' your puir success at New Abbey, you wouldna fill the

pairt." His eyes twinkled. "Besides," he continued, "I feel that I

ha'e a proprietary richt to ony customers there are to be had in

Galloway, and you micht be interferin' wi' my business--an affront I

couldna weel thole. Better pose as a puir gangrel body, wounded, if ye

like, in the wars. Yer game leg is evidence eneuch o' that, and when ye

come to a toon or a wee bit clachan, ye can aye turn an honest penny by

singin' a sang. I mind ye tellin' me Mary was a bonnie singer. Belike

ye min' some o' the songs she sang--dootless weel-kent auld Scots sangs.

If she were to hear ye singin' ane or ither o' them, mair than likely,

oot o' curiosity, she would come oot to see wha it was that was singin'

ane o' her ain sangs. If ye keep yer e'en open as weel as yer ears, wha

kens but what ye may find her. Besides, the disguise o' a puir gangrel

body is hardly likely to be seen through by ony dragoons ye may come

across, for ye can aye, if ye like, if ye imagine there are troopers

aboot, sing a King's song, sic as 'Awa, Whigs, awa!' and they'll never

suspect ye o' bein' a Covenanter. And dinna forget this; if ye ever want

word o' Hector the packman, ask at Phemie McBride's. She'll no hae

forgotten ye, and she'll aye be able to tell ye where ye'll find me. If

ye will gang, gang ye must; but ae last word o' advice I would gi'e

ye--dinna be runnin' yersel' into needless danger and aye remember that

a guid ash stick laid on tae the heid o' a trooper will mony a time

thwart an evil deed devised in his black he'rt. There's nae ither man I

would dae it for, but I'm makin' ye a present o' 'Trusty,'" and he

pressed his own stick into my hand.

So, just as the darkness had closed in, one January night I set out.

Hector and the minister accompanied me to the edge of the wood and, with

many good wishes and the blessing of the saintly man still ringing in my

ears, I took the road. Before morning broke I was close to Lincluden

Abbey, and, under the shelter of its hoary walls, I lay down and rested

for a while. I slept till the late afternoon and, having refreshed

myself with food, which I procured from a cottage near, I took the road

again in the twilight and, avoiding the town of Dumfries that lay on the

other side of the river, I made for the heart of Galloway.

Day after day I wandered--hither and thither--not blindly, but of set

purpose. Sometimes I travelled upon the high road, and at other times I

would leave it and take to the less frequented by-paths in order that no

little sequestered cottage might escape me. Here, there and everywhere I

sought--one day close down by the sea, the next far back in the solitary

places of the hills, questing--questing--questing--but ever without

avail. Sometimes, when in a village street I would essay to sing one of

the sweet old songs which I had heard so often fall golden from the lips

of her I loved, memories of happier days would surge over me, and for

very pain my voice would falter and I would cease to sing.

And though, over and over again, the sound of my singing would bring

women, old and young, to the open doors of their cottages, my hungering

eyes never caught a sight of that face for which they longed. Sometimes

a girl, standing in the doorway, pitying my poor attempt at melody,

would join her voice to mine and lend to my singing a beauty that it

lacked; but though my ears were ever alert for the lute-like voice of

Mary, they were never gladdened by the sound for which they ached.

And once on a day I stood blinded by tears beside the ruins of Daldowie.

Day followed day, and still I wandered on. Week after week found my

quest still fruitless, and at last I stood upon the confines of the land

where the sea expends its futile thunder upon the black rocks by

Corsewall point. I had reached the uttermost limit of the journey I had

set myself, and my journey had been in vain. So, with a heavy heart, I

turned, crushing down the sudden desire that had risen within me to make

an end of it all by hurling myself into the sea. The temptation was

sore upon me--for life gaped empty before me--but something within me

shouted "Coward," and I crushed the impulse down.

On my homeward way I made greater speed than I had done upon my

outgoing. Still I searched, and still my search was vain. At last when

April had come with laughter and tears and all her promise of summer, I

was within sight of Dumfries once more.

I had cause to remember Dumfries. I knew that within its gates danger

might await me, but danger had ceased to have any terrors for my

stricken heart. At the most, discovery could only mean death, and death

was preferable to a life without her whom I loved. When the town came

within view I quickened my steps and in the late afternoon I descended

the hill that led down to the bridge. As I approached it I was tempted

to turn aside and seek the house of Phemie McBride at once, for I

remembered Hector's parting words; but some impulse to stand again upon

the spot where Fate had descended upon me, all bloody in the uniform of

a Sergeant of Dragoons, drove me onward.

When I reached the bridge I stepped into the little alcove where

aforetime my destiny had been so strangely moulded, and leaning over

looked down upon the rushing stream. My eyes followed the water as it

flowed into the distance. Suddenly my gaze was arrested by a crowd

which I saw coming along the Sands. At such a distance I was unable to

see clearly, but I could make out mounted men and the gleam from their

trappings told me they were dragoons. In their wake was a crowd, and as

I watched I saw it grow steadily. Men and women and children dashed out

of the streets and alleys which opened on to the Sands and joined the

rabble behind the troopers. Discretion bade me have a care, but

curiosity impelled me and I crossed the bridge and descended to the

Sands. Already a throng of folk who had seen, in the distance, the

approaching company of troopers, had begun to assemble and I mingled

myself with them. The soldiers were advancing at a walking pace and

from this and the presence of the rabble at their heels I knew that they

had prisoners. Ere long the sound of the horses' hoofs was audible and

rumour began to be busy among the people around me.

"What's a' the steer?" asked a woman who had just joined the crowd, her

shawl slipping back from her head on to her shoulders. Her question was

addressed to the crowd, and out of it somebody made answer.

"It's the troopers. They say they've ta'en twa Covenanters, a man and a

woman, somewhere ayont the Kingholm."

Steadily at a march the soldiers approached us. With necks craned

eagerly forward we tried to get a glimpse of the prisoners.

"Wha are they?" asked a voice; but to this there was no answer, for the

cavalcade was almost upon us. Just as it came to the Port of Vennel the

officer turned in his saddle and rapped out a few words of command. The

company divided into two, the front half coming to a halt, and I saw

that tied to the stirrup leather of one of the troopers was a man.

Wheeling to the right, without pause, the second half of the company

continued its march. The crowd broke and ran across the intervening

space to catch a closer glimpse of the female prisoner. Almost against

my will I was carried on by the surge of the people. I could not see

the woman's face, but the sunlight fell upon her hair, and--God in

heaven! it was chestnut brown, and over her forehead, where the light

struck it, it shone like burnished gold. My heart shouted within me,

but something--was it the finger of God?--was laid upon my lips and they

were still. Rudely flinging men and women aside, I sprang forward that

I might see the woman's face. It was Mary in very deed--Mary, in the

hands of the persecutors, beautiful as a flower, pride in the poise of

her head, courage in her dauntless eyes.

*CHAPTER XLI*

*IN THE HANDS OF THE PERSECUTORS*

I reined in the impulse that seized me to spring forward and attempt a

rescue. That way lay madness, and the failure of all hope to effect my

purpose. If I adventured it I knew that I should be shot down like a dog

and that Mary would go to her fate unsuccoured. Wisdom lay in waiting

to see how events would shape themselves. If, at the last, I found that

Mary was being taken to Christie's Mount to be martyred on one of the

gibbets there, then I should not stand quietly by and see a merciless

vengeance wreak itself upon her. If I could not rescue her, I should

die with her.

I mixed with the crowd again and was borne onward as it surged up the

Vennel. In the press I was thrust so near to Mary that, had I stretched

out my hand, I could have touched her, and though my eyes sought her

face and feasted upon it, I tore myself away lest she should see me and

in a moment of recognition betray us both. The cavalcade breasted the

hill up to the High Street and as we went the crowd grew as every shop

door added its unit. Here and there a high window was thrown open

suddenly and the head of a man or woman would appear, with eyes

downcast, to see what was going on in the street below. More than once

I heard a word of pity fall from unseen lips.

The company swung into the High Street. Eager new-comers thrust

themselves forward and broke the line of my vision so that it was

difficult to keep Mary in sight, but I watched for the aureole of gold

set among her chestnut hair, and seeing it my heart beat high again.

By and by we came to the Tolbooth and the cavalcade halted. There was a

loud knocking at the door which, in a moment, was thrown wide open, and

two of the dragoons rode in with Mary between them. Then the door was

shut in our faces. The crowd hung uncertain for a little space, then it

began to disperse slowly till only a handful of curious idlers was left

gazing vacantly at the prison. Of them I was one, but though my body

was idle my mind was working at fever heat. Mary was in the Tolbooth!

That meant, at the very least, that no immediate travesty of justice was

to be perpetrated upon her. Perhaps, like the women at Wigtown, she

would be given a trial, and it might come to pass that she would be

found blameless and set free.

As though in answer to this thought the great oaken door swung open

again. With eyes almost starting from their sockets, I watched to see

her come forth. But no; my hopes that had been soaring in the sky

crashed headlong to the earth. The dragoons that had led her in rode

forth and the door closed behind them. The company formed up and set

out for its quarters and I was left gazing at the door as though a spell

were upon me. Suddenly it flashed upon me that to stand there with eyes

riveted upon the Tolbooth was to draw attention to myself; so I turned

slowly away and walked, as though I were a casual wayfarer, down the

High Street again. By the time I had reached the head of the Vennel my

mind was set. Mary must be saved. I should rescue her or perish in the

attempt. A hive of schemes swarmed in my brain, and my mind was

perplexed and divided. Then I thought of Hector. He, if anyone, could

aid me: but time was precious and where could I find him? Then I

remembered Phemie McBride, and quickening my pace I hurried down the

Vennel. Near the Vennel Port a crowd was assembled and when I came to

the edge of it I found that my way was blocked by the press of the

people. As I stood waiting for a break through which to worm myself, I

overheard two boys talking together on its outskirts:

"Ay, I'm tellin' ye, I ha'e juist seen a man shot."

"Get awa'!"

"Ay."

"Tell me aboot it."

"They stood him up on the Sands and six sodgers stood afore him and took

aim at his breist."

"Was he feart?"

"De'il a bit!"

"Get on."

"He never even trem'led. But ane o' the young sodgers was gey shaky.

Then the captain cried 'Fire' and they a' shot thegither. The man gied

a kin' o' jump in the air and fell in a heap."

"Deid?"

"Ay, deid, but no quite, for ane o' his legs gied a bit shake, and

scraped the grun'. Weel, the captain took a lang pistol oot o' his belt

a' covered wi' siller, and bendin' doon pit it to his heid and fired."

"Behin' his lug?"

"Ay, behin' his lug."

"Eh, I wish I had been there!"

"Weel, never mind, ye'll come the morn wi' me."

"Whaur tae?"

"Tae the College pool and see them droonin' the woman."

"Are they gaun to droon a woman?"

"Ay, they are that."

"As shair as daith?"

"Ay, as shair as daith," and he drew a wet finger across his dirty neck.

"Hoo will they droon her?"

"They'll pit her in a poke wi' twa channel stanes and they'll fling her

richt into the pool."

"Will she sink?"

"Ay, richt eneuch."

"I'm comin'."

"Come on, and I'll show ye the bluid o' the man they shot; maybe we'll

fin' a bullet."

My fingers itched to be at the throats of these carrion-crows of the

streets, to whom Mary's extremity and mine was nothing more than an

occasion of amusement.

My heart cried within me--"O my beloved!" and I pulled myself together

and began to force a path through the rabble and by and by succeeded in

reaching the Vennel Port. Quickly I crossed the bridge and made for the

cottage of Phemie McBride.

I knocked anxiously at the door. Would she remember me and--would she

know where Hector was? As these doubts and fears were racing through my

mind, the door was opened just far enough to allow the good woman to

protrude an inquiring face. She looked at me penetratingly; then

recognition dawned:

"It's you, is it?"

"Where's Hector?" I answered brusquely.

"Come awa' ben," she said, "and see for yersel'," and with that she

threw the door wide open to allow me to enter. I sprang past her, and

there, sitting by the kitchen fire, his pipe aglow and his well-thumbed

copy of Horace in his hand, sat the packman. He sprang to his feet and

grasped me warmly by the hand.

"Man," he said, "ye couldna ha'e come at a better time. I'm fair

graivelled by this passage in Horace. Can ye gie me the sense o't?"

"To perdition with Horace," I shouted. "Mary's in the Tolbooth of

Dumfries and I want your help."

The book fell spinning from his hand and lay face down on the floor.

"In the Tolbooth o' Dumfries!" he exclaimed. "Wha tellt ye that?"

"I saw her enter less than an hour ago with my own eyes," I said.

Hector stooped, and, before replying, picked up his book. "In the

Tolbooth o' Dumfries," he said slowly. "Guid sakes! I thocht the

lassie was deid. Ye're sure it's her?"

"As sure," I answered, "as I am that I am speaking to you."

"Weel," he replied, "if that's so Horace maun juist bide a wee. This is

a maitter that wants considerin'. Come awa' to my room," and he led the

way to the chamber in which, close on a year ago, I myself had slept.

*CHAPTER XLII*

*IN THE TOLBOOTH OF DUMFRIES*

That night, as the town clock spoke the hour of nine with its silver

tongue, any casual wayfarer passing the Tolbooth might have seen an old,

bowed woman knocking timorously at its oaken door. Under the shawl which

covered her head and enveloped her to the feet she held a letter, sealed

with a large seal. After she had knocked for a second time, the door

was partially opened and a hurried conversation took place between her

and the jailer. She handed him the letter and, in order the better to

read it, he admitted her within the door. Its contents satisfied him,

for, at once, he led the way to a cell and taking the great key from a

chain that hung at his belt, he unlocked the door and threw it open.

"Mary Paterson," he called, "are ye sleeping? Here's yer auntie come to

see ye wi' the special warrant o' the Shirra' himsel'. I never kent the

like o' this afore, but I ha'e his warrant for it sealed wi' his ain

seal."

There was no response. So, seizing the old woman rudely by the

shoulder, the jailer thrust her forward and closed the door behind her.

As the key grated in the lock he growled through an iron grille set in

the solid wood: "Ye ha'e half an' 'oor thegither: no ae minute langer."

I listened anxiously until I heard his footsteps die gradually away:

then with arms outstretched I stepped forward into the darkness.

"Mary, Mary," I cried, in a loud whisper, and out of the darkness a

voice spoke:

"What trick is this? Wha are ye? I ha'e nae aunt that would visit me.

In a' the world I am alane."

The sadness of that dear voice, once sweet with witchery, unmanned me,

but I knew that every minute was precious and that there was need to

make haste. "Mary," I said, "it is Walter, your own beloved."

There was a pause, then a sob, and the sweet voice said brokenly: "It

canna be. My loved ane is deid lang syne. Are ye someane come here for

his ain ill ends?"

"Mary," I said, "where are you? Come to me! come and lay your hand on

my face and you will know that it is I indeed."

There was a movement in the cell, and in the darkness a little hand

touched me timidly. I seized it in both my own, and smothered it with

kisses. Then I drew a shrinking figure towards me and took Mary, my own

loved one, in my arms. She nestled to me sobbing gently, for she knew

that I was in very deed her lover come again.

"Beloved!" I whispered. "Little flower of the heather." Oh the rapture

of that long embrace for which my heart had hungered through so many

weary months! "Dear heart," I whispered, with my lips set close to her

little ear, "I have come to save you. Be brave, do what I bid you and

all will be well."

"To save me?" she said. "Oh, it's no' possible."

"Yes," I answered, "all things are possible to love."

Quickly, in whispers, for the minutes were rapidly fleeing, I explained

my plans to her. Wrapped in the great shawl with which I had disguised

myself, she was to impersonate the old woman who had come to visit her,

and, when the jailer returned, to quit the dungeon with him and make her

way to freedom and to safety.

"Once you are out of the Tolbooth," I said, "hurry to the Townhead Port.

By the side of the Moat Hill you will find an old man waiting for you.

He will be smoking a pipe. Trust him; and he will take you to a place

of safety."

I wrapped the shawl about her. It covered her, from head to foot. Then

she clung to me once more while I hurriedly whispered the little words

of love with which my heart was full, and heard her sweet whispers in

return. Suddenly she disengaged herself from my arms, and seizing me by

the hand, said:

"My love, my love, it canna be. Why did I no' think o' it afore. I am

escaping, and you are to be left behin'. No, I wunna, I canna dae it."

"What a foolish little Mary you are!" I murmured, as I clasped her to me

once again. "Feel this," and I guided her fingers along the rough edge

of a file I had concealed about me. "Within an hour of your escape I

shall be with you. There is only one iron bar to file." I turned her

head and made her look at the little window set in the wall high up near

the roof of the cell, through which the uncertain light of the moon sent

a faint beam. "I knew all about this cell before I came into it. The

friend to whom I am sending you has been here himself. He remembered

that there was but one bar to the window. He it was who told me how I

should escape. So, sweetheart, be brave. On you all depends. If you

love me, do what I ask and we shall both soon be free."

She gave her promise as the silence was broken by the sound of the

approaching footsteps of the jailer.

"Be brave," I whispered, as I kissed her lips. She clung to me in a

brief storm of sobbing, but let her arms fall as the key grated in the

lock. The door was thrown open, and the light of a lamp trembled

athwart the darkness.

"Come on, auld wife," growled the jailer: "the time's up. Ha'e ye ta'en

yer fareweel o' the lass? I jalouse you'll no' see her again till she's

swingin' at the end o' a tow."

There was no answer but a burst of sobbing from Mary, who turned from

me. I sank back into the darkness of the cell, while she walked bowed

as though with age and sorrow towards the open door. She passed

through, the door clanged behind her and the key grated in the lock.

With ears pressed tight against the door I listened eagerly to the sound

of their retreating footsteps. Would she escape, or would some mishap

reveal her to the jailer? My heart, that was in a tumult of suspense,

bounded for joy when at last I heard the massive oak door close with a

hollow clang on the doorposts. My loved one was free, and I--well, what

did it matter? I had held her in my arms once again: I had kissed her

sweet lips and with that memory to uphold me I could go bravely to my

death. But hope beats high in the heart of youth. I ran my finger over

the stout file which I had brought with me. In an hour--or at most

two--I should be at liberty.

I had learned from Hector that the jailer would make a round of the

Tolbooth at ten o'clock, now near at hand. On the last stroke of the

hour on the town clock a beam of light came through the grille in the

door and a voice said: "Is a' richt wi' ye?" I answered in a whisper.

Whether all was right or not the jailer did not trouble to ascertain,

for, with a grunt, the light was withdrawn from the grille and the sound

of his footsteps faded away in the distance. I threw off the woman's

garments that encumbered me.

The moment had come for action. The window, with its solitary bar, was

set high above my head, and groping anxiously over the wall below for

any means by which I might raise myself up to it, I found a few chinks,

but none of them large enough for the purpose. Rapidly and noiselessly

I scooped some of the mortar from between several of the great stones,

and in a few minutes had succeeded in clambering up to the window and

laying hold of the upright bar with my left hand. The wall was a thick

one, and the outer sill of the window sloped down at a sharp angle from

the bar. I recognised that once the bar was severed I should have

little difficulty in squeezing myself through the window. Confidently I

set to work, beginning at the top of the bar and filing on the inner

side. I soon discovered that the iron was weather-beaten and rusty, and

as the dust of it fell upon my left hand, tightly clasped about the base

of the stanchion, I rejoiced to find that my task was proving easier

than I anticipated. But when the bar was filed nearly half through at

the top, the cramped position in which I was compelled to work began to

weary me, and I dropped down upon the floor of the cell to rest. When I

climbed up again, I passed the file to the outer side of the bar and set

to work on it at the base. My hope was that when I had filed the

stanchion half through, top and bottom, I might be able to break it.

The tool bit into the iron, and I worked feverishly. Suddenly there was

a snap--the handle of the file was left in my hand--the blade slid down

over the sloping sill ere I could catch it, and I heard it drop with a

tinkle in the street below.

For a moment I hung there in despair. I was left with nothing but my

naked hands, and what could they do against a stout iron stanchion and

thick stone walls. I threw my whole weight upon the bar and sought to

break it through; but strive as I might it would neither bend nor break.

A second time I tried, but still without avail. Its sharp edges tore my

hands so that they were wet with blood, but, hardly conscious of

physical pain, I continued to struggle with it. My efforts were

fruitless, and from sheer exhaustion I was compelled to desist. I hung

for a moment on the edge of the sill, and then dropped down into the

cell. My shaking legs refused to support me and I sank in a heap on the

ground, bathed in perspiration, with panting breath and parched tongue.

As I lay there I remembered how I often watched a bird beating its wings

vainly against the bars of its cage, and a great pity for all wild

things made captive rose within me. Picking myself up I groped my way

round till I reached the door. I felt for the grille. Its bars were

thin and rickety, but even if they were removed my arm alone would

scarcely go through that tiny aperture. I began to examine the door,

passing my hands carefully over it in the hope of finding the lock. The

lock was upon the other side! Escape in this direction was impossible,

so I fumbled my way round until I stood beneath the window once more. I

climbed up to make another attack upon the stanchion. Still it resisted

me, and, at last, for very weariness I was compelled to desist and drop

down to the floor again. The town clock struck one. A few short

hours--I could count them up on the fingers of one hand--and I should be

discovered, and discovery meant death. Well, Mary, my Mary, was safe,

and my sacrifice was a very little price to pay for that. I had held

her in my arms; I was content to die. As I sat in the dark, memory

after memory of the things that had befallen me chased each other

through my brain. Some were memories of unspeakable happiness, others

were memories touched by pain, but even those of pain were made fragrant

by the knowledge that my loved one was free.

In Hector's keeping she would be safe from harm. Hector--warm-hearted,

beloved adventurer--I could trust her to him.

Once again the silence was broken as the town clock pealed out the hour

of two. As its last note was dying I heard a muffled thud above me. I

looked up quickly, but could see nothing except the faint beam of light

which came through the window, blocked by that tantalising bar. What

had the sound been? Was it some phantasm of my disordered brain? My

senses were alert again, and I dragged myself once more up to the

window. I peered out. Across the street I could see the roofs of the

houses, but of the street itself I could catch no glimpse.

My ears had deceived me; there was nothing to be seen or heard. I had

taken hold of the iron stanchion to steady myself, and the grip of my

hand upon it awoke in me a fresh desire to put it to the test. Perhaps

it needed only one more effort to break it! I would try. With legs

wide apart I planted both my feet flat against the wall, and, bracing

the muscles of my thighs until they were tight as bowstrings, I flung

the whole weight of my body upon my outstretched arms, and, with breath

held, pulled. Suddenly the beam of light that came through the window

was broken by a moving shadow, as though a bird had flown across it, and

almost in the same instant something struck me sharply on the chin, then

fell between my extended limbs to the floor. In an instant I had

dropped down into the cell and on hands and knees was groping for the

missile. As I did so, something touched my face, and putting my hand

out I caught a piece of cord. This guided me at once to the object of my

search, and seizing it I discovered, to my amazement, that it was a

book. The cord was firmly tied about it so that I could not open it;

but there was no need for that. Its size and the smoothness of its

leather cover told me that it was the copy of Horace which was Hector's

constant companion. The darkness about me glistened with a thousand

stars. Hope sprang on tip-toe in my heart again. Hector was just

outside, and I should yet escape.

The cord ran up from the volume into the air towards the window, and,

instinctively, I began to pull it in. From the weight of it I knew that

there was something upon the other end. Foot by foot, yard by yard, as

a seaman passes a cable through his hands, I hauled in the string until

I heard a little metallic click as the object attached to it struck the

stanchion set in the window, and the string became taut. Seizing the

cord in my teeth, I scrambled up the wall. There on the sloping sill,

one edge touching the iron bar, lay my file. I gripped it and would

have fallen to work upon the stanchion at once, but I saw that I had not

yet come to the end of the cord, which ran over the outer edge of the

sill and disappeared from sight. So, unlooping the file from the

running knot in which it was held, I continued to draw in the cord. As

it came up I saw it thicken and knew that my faithful henchman in the

street below was sending me a rope. Placing the file between my teeth,

I hauled the rope in feverishly till at last the lower end of it was in

my grip. I dropped it into the cell behind me and with new strength,

but with infinite care, I set myself again to my task upon the bar. Now

at the bottom, and now at the top I worked, the iron dust falling in

little jets and trickling over the sill. Was it fancy, or was I working

with greater skill?--the file seemed to bite more deeply and more easily

into the iron. First on one side of the bar, then on the other, I

worked, changing from top to bottom, or from bottom to top, as too long

work in one position cramped me. Rasp, rasp ... I felt the bar vibrate

like a violin string in the hand that held it. Rasp, rasp, rasp ... and

a puff of wind from the outside blew the iron dust into my mouth and

eyes. What cared I for that? Rasp, rasp, rasp ... and the top of the

bar was cut so thin that I could break it through. I gripped the file in

my teeth and, seizing the stanchion high up with both my hands, threw

all my weight upon it. It bent just above its base, but did not break,

and where its iron fibres were at tensest strain in the bottom of the

groove which I had already cut, I set the file to work once more. The

iron gave like crumbling bread before the teeth of the file, till the

bar was so thin that with one hand I could bend it in whichever

direction I pleased. One strong pull towards me, one mighty thrust

outwards, and the stanchion broke with a snap so sudden that the hand

which held it shot out through the window. I steadied myself with my

left hand on the inner edge of the sill; then I dropped down on tip-toe

and seized the rope. As I did so, my fingers touched the volume which

had brought me to safety. Breaking the string which bound it, I slipped

it into my pocket. It would never do to leave it, neither would it do

to leave behind me the disguise I had worn. I gathered up the bundle

and tied it tightly about with the cord, the end of which I took in my

teeth. Then with the rope round my neck I swarmed up the wall to the

window. To my joy, when I reached it, I found that in my efforts to

break the bar I had bent the lower end inwards. The stump, thus curved,

would give a securer hold to the rope upon which I was about to trust

myself. It seemed hardly strong enough to bear my weight, but its

length was ample, far greater than I should need. So I doubled it over

the stump of the stanchion and having passed it out over the sill, began

to worm myself through the window. Slowly and painfully I pushed my way

through, and at last my head and the upper part of my body were beyond

the aperture. I bent forward, gripping the rope as far off as my arms

could reach, and throwing my weight down upon my hands so that the rope

was taut, I wriggled myself through until I felt my toes were touching

the inner edge of the sill.

Now had the moment come for all my courage. Slowly moving my hands one

beyond another, I disengaged my feet from the inner edge of the sill and

for a moment hung head downwards. Would the rope hold? If not, I

should crash upon the pavement beneath me, a broken, lifeless mass. But

it held! As I felt my toes slipping down the slope of the sill, I

twisted my body to one side so that my feet and legs described a

half-circle, and for a moment I swung to and fro against the wall like

the pendulum of a clock. Then I lowered myself quickly. Before the

last of the rope had run through my hands my feet were upon the ground,

and I was free. Somewhere a voice, close beside me, whispered, "No sae

bad. No sae bad." Turning, I saw Hector. He patted me on the back,

and then whispered anxiously, "I hope you ha'ena forgot to bring my

Horace?" I could have screamed with laughter, but all I did was to nod

my head with vigour. Then I took the cord from between my teeth and

proceeded to haul upon it. The bundle at its end caught for a moment as

it was passing through the window, and then fell, a dark mass out of the

heights above, and I caught it as it fell. Hastily I put it into

Hector's hands, and seizing the lower end of the rope jerked it

once--twice--thrice. The loop above disengaged itself from the

stanchion, and in its fall struck me upon the upturned face.

The town-clock struck once. "Half-fower," whispered Hector. "For God's

sake let us hurry." Quickly I coiled the rope up into a hank. Hector

seized me by the arm and half dragged me across the street to a close

mouth. When I tried to thank him he stopped me.

"There's nae need o' that. Awa' wi' ye to Lincluden. Haste ye! Below

the big window ye'll fin' a flicht o' steps. The second moves when ye

step on it: but never mind--that's naething. The fifth seems firm: but

it's no'. I'm the only man that kens that. Shove hard at the left-hand

bottom corner--and crawl in when it swings roun', and stop there till I

come for ye. Mary's a' richt and in safe hands. Dinna fash yersel'

aboot her; but gi'e me the rope. I lifted it off the Provost's

drying-green, and though I may be a liar, I'm no' a thief yet and I maun

put it back. Awa' wi' ye like a hare."

I needed no second bidding. Hurrying along under the shadow of the

houses, I soon found myself in a little lane which ran down to the edge

of the water. I made for the Staked Ford, crossed the river hot-foot

there, and hot-foot raced on my way. Dawn had not yet begun to break

when I reached the Abbey. Once within the shelter of its walls I had no

difficulty in finding the steps of which Hector had told me. The second

moved as I trod upon it, but I remembered his caution and hastened to

the bottom. Then I turned, and kneeling on the last step I pushed hard

against the fifth as he had bidden me, and it swung round. I crawled

into the cavity beneath it and, turning, drew the step into place again.

Then on my hands and knees, for there was not sufficient room to do

more, I crawled on until I found myself in a spacious passage.

*CHAPTER XLIII*

*BY THE TOWER OF LINCLUDEN*

Under my feet was dry crisp sand, and knowing that I was in perfect

safety I lay down at full length. I could sleep here undisturbed. Mary

was in good hands: I had Hector's word for that, and ere long I knew

that I should see her again and be able to claim her for my very own.

When I was able to tear my thoughts away from the enchanted dreams of

our reunion, I fell upon sullen doubt. We should be in daily peril so

long as we continued to remain in Scotland. There was nothing for it

but to escape from this tortured land. But how? I knew the ports were

watched, and I had heard how the roads that led to the border were

patrolled by the dragoons. Mary's escape and mine would spur the

persecutors to measures more stern. At whatever risk, we must attempt

to get to England. There lay safety. And then I thought of Hector.

Hector, the resourceful, the indomitable, would find a way; and with

this thought in my mind, I settled down to sleep.

How long I slept I cannot tell, but when I awoke and felt the sand

beneath me and, reaching out, touched upon either hand rough walls of

stone, I thought for a moment that I had been buried alive. Then I

remembered where I was.

I crawled along the passage until I was beneath the steps. A faint

little feather of light came through the chinks between them and from

its tenuousness I judged that it was night. I must have slept all

through the day. Cautiously I swung round the step and crawled out

until I stood within the precincts of the Abbey beneath the Gothic

window.

The sky was studded with stars. I judged that I might with safety go

further afield to stretch my limbs, so I stole out of the Abbey and

walked across the level lawn until I came to the edge of the river. It

moved silently through the darkness, so slowly as to seem asleep, and I

thought of my own quiet Avon. I walked along the bank to the point where

the Cluden steals silently into the bosom of the shining Nith, to flow

on with it, one and indivisible, to the sea.

I followed the course of the stream downward until the black, still

surface of the College pool lay at my feet. As I stood there I listened

to the faint murmur of the river as it flowed at the foot of the banks

beneath. There was love in its language, and I, whose heart was aglow

with love, could hear and understand. The Nith was whispering to the

Cluden, adrowse in its arms, such little tender messages as soon I

should be whispering to my beloved. I drifted away upon the soft wings

of reverie to a land of dreams, but I was brought back suddenly by

hearing afar off the sound of the town clock. I counted its strokes. It

was midnight. Midnight! and there was no sign of Hector; nor had I yet

seen Mary! What could have happened to them? Had disaster befallen

them, and were all the high hopes which I had formed doomed yet to be

brought to the ground? I dared not think so, and, to rid myself of my

fears, I threw off my clothing and with a running leap plunged head

foremost into the College Pool. The coldness of the water stung me like

a lash, but there was refreshment in it, and with hope once more on

tip-toe, I yielded myself to the enjoyment of the moment, and swam until

the stiffness left my limbs. Then I made for the bank again, and when I

had dressed sought my hiding-place. Sometime ere dawn, I imagined,

Hector would come to me, with news of Mary. With this hope in my mind I

sat in my gloomy vault waiting patiently. Hour after hour went by, and

still he did not come, and at last sleep overcame me and I sank into

dreamland again. When love sits on the throne of a man's heart,

dreamland is his empire, and on winged feet I wandered with Mary at my

side, through the meads, flower-dappled, of that bewitching land. Then I

woke again, and realised that it was a dream and that nothing surrounded

me but darkness.

Once more I crawled beneath the stair and peeped out. It was broad day,

but still Hector had not come. Then fear seized me. Had he fallen into

the hands of Lag and been done to death? Was the price of my freedom to

be his life, and if he had been taken, where was Mary? I had his

assurance that she was in a place of safety. There was comfort in that

knowledge. But the comfort was alloyed by the thought that I had no

knowledge whatever of her whereabouts and that she was lost to me. I

was almost tempted to throw caution to the winds, and quit my

hiding-place in broad daylight to go in search of them both. I

stretched out my hand to seize the step and swing it back, and then

discretion returned to me and I refrained. Any rashness now might bring

to nothing all we had accomplished. I must wait. There was nothing for

it but patience and unwavering trust. Every hour that dragged its weary

length along was leaden with torpor. Would the day never come to an

end? Hector, I knew, was not likely to come to me save under the screen

of the darkness, and the darkness seemed very far off. The longest day,

however, draws sometime to a close, and at last the rays of light

stealing through the chinks in the staircase ceased to be burnished

spears and were transmuted into uncertain plumes of smoke. The hour of

twilight had come; soon darkness would envelop the earth, and with the

darkness Hector might come. I crawled out of the confined space in which

I was lying and sought the deeper part of the passage. As I did so, I

heard a grating sound. Someone was moving the step. It must be Hector!

Yet in that moment of tense expectation I kept a grip upon myself and

did not move. If, instead of Hector, it should prove to be some

murderous pursuer on my track, I knew that in this darkness, to which my

eyes through long imprisonment had become accustomed, I should have the

advantage and might fall upon him unawares. A voice spoke and my fears

were set at naught. The packman had come!

"Are you there?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"Ha'e you got my Horace?"

"Confound Horace and all his works! Where is Mary?"

"Mary, the bonnie lass! she's a' richt. Ye micht trust me for that.

Ye'll be seein' her in less than half an 'oor. Where's my book?"

I handed him the volume, and though I could not see him I guessed from

the sound of the leaves fluttering through his fingers that he was

examining it carefully.

"It seems to be nane the waur, except that the corner o' ane o' its

braids is broken. Man, it's a lucky thing for you that I'm a scholar,

and carry Horace wi' me. When I got tired o' waitin' for ye at the

trysting-place, I thocht that something must ha'e gane wrang, so I gaed

doon to the Tolbooth to ha'e a look for mysel'. I got a terrible shock

when I struck my foot on the file you had dropped. I thocht a' was up

then; but it didna tak' me lang to mak' up my mind. At first I thocht

o' flingin' the file through the window, then I thocht that if I missed

it would mak' an unco' clatter and micht waken somebody, so I fell back

upon Horace and he served. I put the book through the window at the

second shot, which is no' bad for an auld man, as ye will dootless

admit; and here ye are in safety. Mony a time Horace has fetched me oot

o' the dungeons o' despondency, but I never kent him help a body oot o'

the Dumfries Tolbooth afore."

The garrulous fellow would doubtless have continued longer in a like

strain, but I would have none of it. My heart was crying for my loved

one. "Tell me," I exclaimed, "where is Mary?"

"Come on," he said with a laugh, "and see for yoursel'."

He led the way out into the open and I followed close behind him. As we

emerged a man approached us out of the darkness. I started and laid a

hand upon Hector's arm.

"There's naething to fear," he said. "It's only the minister frae the

cave at the Linn. He's come to mairry you."

"To marry me," I exclaimed. "Who has arranged it?"

"I ha'e nae doot," answered Hector, "Mary and you arranged it lang syne

on the braes at Daldowie. A' I ha'e dune is to mak' your arrangements

possible."

My heart was full.

The minister greeted me warmly, and together the three of us made for

the summit of the little knoll beside the Abbey. While Mr. Corsane was

congratulating me upon my escape and upon the rescue of Mary, the

packman had turned his back upon us and was gazing earnestly towards the

mouth of the Cluden. As we talked he interrupted us suddenly by saying:

"They're coming noo, I can see them." Along the edge of the bank below

us, three figures were moving. Soon they had begun to ascend the knoll.

"Mary's there," said Hector, "and the twa wi' her are the good-man o'

Nunholm and his better three-quarters."

I sprang towards the advancing figures and calling "Mary," clasped her

in my arms. There are moments too sacred for speech. I could only kiss

her. Then linking my arm through hers I helped her to the top of the

mound.

There in the aisle of the trees with the light of the kindly stars

filtering through and falling on the ground with a holier radiance than

ever streamed through the east window of a cathedral, the minister made

us one. He could not unite our hearts. That had been done long ago.

He could only join our hands.

Hector, as ever, proved himself to be a friend in need, for, when the

moment came for me to place a ring upon Mary's finger, I realised with a

pang that I had none. But Hector slipped one into my hesitating hand,

whispering, "It was meant for the widda." The simple service was soon

over, but ere he gave us his blessing the minister said:

"In quieter times, when I, please God, am restored to my parish, your

marriage will be registered in the records of my church at Minniehive:

meantime I declare you man and wife in the sight of God and according to

the laws of this realm." Then he raised his hand to bless us.

I turned to embrace my wife; but Hector was before me. He kissed her

loudly upon both cheeks, and as he yielded her shrinking form to me

said: "Nae need o' my salve there. They're as saft as the damask rose."

"For ever, dearest," I whispered, as she clung to me.

"My ain dear man," she breathed; and on her warm cheek close pressed

against my own I felt a tear. I folded her in my arms.

"My children," said the minister, drawing near is, "I must leave you

now, and get me back to my hiding-place: but may He who brought joy to

the wedding feast at Cana of Galilee company with you all the days of

your lives. Good-bye." He turned, and was gone.

"Now," said Hector, "we maun hurry. We ha'e a lang road to travel afore

daybreak. Come on."

Together we began to hasten down the hill, and soon were at the edge of

the river close to the mouth of the Cluden. The good wife of Nunholm

and her husband led the way. I took Mary in my arms and carried her

through the water behind them. No man ever bore a burden more precious.

Her arms were about my neck. In mid-stream I paused and, bending,

kissed her. I had forgotten Hector behind us.

He sighed. "Ay. It mak's me jealous. I wish the widda was here. But

ye've a hale life-time o' that afore ye, so haste ye, for we're no oot

o' danger yet."

Mary smiled proudly up at me in the moonlight. "Nae danger maitters noo.

But let us haste."

When we came to the bank on the other side, the farmer led the way to a

hedge and we passed through a gap into a field across which we hurried

together. In a few minutes we found ourselves beside a little

farm-house.

"Come awa' ben," said the farmer's wife, throwing the door open. "It's

no' a very grand wedding feast, but it'll dae to set you on the road,

and it shall never be said that the guid-wife o' Nunholm lacks in

hospitality."

We entered the kitchen and found an ample supper awaiting us. Mary had

endeared herself, and little wonder, to these good folks during the two

days she had spent with them, and they were full of anxiety for her

safety.

We made all the haste we could through the meal, and when it was nearly

over the door was thrown wide to the wall and a shock-headed lad thrust

his body in. The farmer turned to him: "Is a' richt, Ebenezer?" he

asked.

"Ay, faither, there's no' a trooper between here and Dumfries."

We finished our meal, and bade the good wife and her husband an

affectionate farewell, the former insisting on Mary's wrapping herself

in her own best plaid.

"Ye've a long road to travel, lassie," she said, "and ye maunna catch

cauld. Tak' it as a keepsake, and if ye're ever back in these pairts,

dinna forget tae come and see me."

I thanked the good man and his wife for their kindness to us, and,

Hector leading, we went out into the night.

*CHAPTER XLIV*

*"QUO VADIS, PETRE?"*

Ere the darkness had given place to the dawn we three were lying in a

copse of hazel bushes not far from the Castle of Caerlaverock within a

stone's throw of the sea. On leaving Nunholm we had made a detour so as

to avoid the town, and struck the road to Glencaple far outside its

boundaries.

The journey, made in stealth, had been without adventure. Hector led

the way; Mary and I followed close behind him arm in arm. We had spoken

little; Mary and I hardly at all, for the touch of her arm in mine,

tender as a caress, was more eloquent than speech; but Hector found time

to tell all he had done since the moment of my escape from the Tolbooth.

For him the intervening hours had been crowded. He had gone to the cave

at the Linn to fetch the minister to marry us: but he had also devised a

means to help us back to England, and it was for this end that he had

brought us to the place where we were.

"There was juist ae thing I failed to do, for I hadna the time," he

said. "I intended to speir again at the widda, for I should ha'e been a

prood man tae ha'e been mairried at the same time as yoursels. But the

widda maun juist bide my time. She's kept me waitin' lang enough.

She'll maybe appreciate me a' the mair if I keep her waitin' in turn.

Nae doot she'll miss me, for I'm comin' wi' ye as far as the Isle o'

Man. Ye see this affair will mak' a terrible steer in the toon o'

Dumfries; and it will be safer for me to be oot o' the road till the

storm blaws by. Forby, it will gi'e me the chance o' introducin' my

magical salve to the Island. Anthony Kerruish, the maister o' the

_Sea-mew_, tells me that it is no kent there, and besides if I had a

quate six months in the island I micht get on wi' that _magnum opus_ o'

mine."

Mary and I were delighted to learn that he was coming with us, for well

we knew that he could stay behind only at grave risk. As we thanked

him, with full hearts, for all he had done, he held up a deprecating

hand.

"Hoots," he said, "I've dune naething: and in ony case I took my fee o'

Mistress Bryden's cheeks." He laughed quietly as he stole out of the

copse.

Dawn was breaking. The dark shadow of Criffel was turning to a ghostly

grey, and on the face of the water we could see, about half a mile away,

a little barque lying at anchor. Hector lit a candle, and taking off

his bonnet passed it in front of the light twice. Then he blew the

candle out. His signal had been seen; a little answering light flashed

for a moment on the deck of the barque, and was gone. Then a man dropped

into the boat that nestled under the lee of the barque, and began to

pull towards the shore. As he drove the boat on to the sand we slipped

out of our shelter. I took Mary in my arms, and, wading out into the

tawny water, I placed her in the boat. Then I jumped in. Hector, close

behind me, flung a leg into the boat: then I heard him sigh so deeply

that I thought he had bruised himself. I turned, and saw him withdraw

his leg, and seize the boat by the prow. With a mighty shove he sent

her off the sand into the deep water, and stood erect gazing after her.

"Good-bye," he said, with a tremor in his voice, as he took off his

bonnet.

"Good-bye?" I exclaimed doubtingly. "What do you mean? I thought you

were coming with us?"

"So I was," he answered. "But I remembered Peter: and I'm gaun back.

My work's no' feenished yet." And with that he splashed out of the

water and disappeared into the copse.

But we saw him again. When we were safely on board the barque, and the

anchor was up, and the skipper and his men were setting their sails to

the breeze, Mary and I stood on the poop and looked anxiously back to

the little wood by the water-side. A figure came out of the shadows and

waved a hand. We waved back in answer, and the figure disappeared.

*CHAPTER XLV*

*ON THE WINGS OF THE SEA-MEW*

The wind and the tides favoured us, and the little barque took to the

sea like the bird whose name she bore.

Before us a rosy path, painted by the rising sun, stretched into the

distance. The soft winds of the dawn filled the brown sails and carried

us onward, and the little waves patted the sides of our boat as though

they were the hands of the sea-maidens, come from out of the deep to

cheer us on our way.

We sat together in the stern of the boat, our feet resting on a heap of

tarry cordage. I had wrapped her plaid about her to keep my Mary

warm--and under its folds I had made her hands captive in one of mine.

"I can hardly believe it," she said. "It is amaist ower guid to be

true: to ha'e you by my side, my ain man, when I thocht you were deid."

"And I," I answered, "thought that I had lost you for ever. Many a

time, of a night, I have looked up at the stars and chosen the brightest

of them, and called it Mary's star: because I thought it must be your

dwelling-place. And all the while you were not dead at all."

"And were you really very, very sorry when you thocht that I was deid?"

she asked, with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Mary!" I exclaimed, "how can you?" And as there was no one to see but

a following gull which hung above us, I kissed her. "But tell me," I

continued, "what happened to you after we parted on the moors--and how

came I to find this among the ashes of Daldowie," and I drew out the

fragment of her ring and showed it to her.

"My ring!" she cried. "The ring you gave me! Did you fin' it there?

Oh, laddie!" and she nestled against me so tenderly that, in that happy

moment, the weary months of pain through which I had lived seemed as

nothing.

Then she told me what had befallen her. She had gone to the

hiding-place, but found no trace of her father; and after seeking for

him far and wide, but without avail, she had decided to return home. On

her way back she discovered troopers out upon the moor between herself

and home, and she had been compelled to hide for the night among the

heather. It was not until late on the following afternoon that she had

ventured to steal back to Daldowie, only to find her home in ashes. As

I had done, when I returned upon the day following, she had found three

skeletons among the ruins, and, with horror of heart, she had counted

that one of them was mine.

"I leaped," she said, "among the ashes, and though they burned me

cruelly, I brushed them aside frae the face that I thought was yours to

see your smile again. But a' I saw was red embers and fleshless bones.

Oh, sweetheart--how I cried!" And she buried her head upon my shoulder

and sobbed for a moment. Then she raised her face and smiled.

"You maun think me silly. I'm greetin' noo for joy, I cried then for

sorrow. As mither used to say--'Women are kittle cattle'--aren't we?"

and she smiled, until the light in her sweet eyes dried the tears as the

sun dries the dew from the heather bells. "And I suppose," she added,

"that's when I lost my ring--though I didna miss it till I had left

Daldowie far behin' me."

"And where have you been," I asked, "since then? Both Hector and I

searched the length and breadth of Galloway for you, but without avail."

"Oh, fie," she said. "Ha'e you no' been tellin' me that you thocht I

was in the Kingdom of Heaven--and you looked for me in the Kingdom o'

Galloway," and in the playful notes of her voice I heard the echo of her

mother's.

"Where was I?" she continued. "Weel, I was within three miles o'

Dumfries a' the time. Ye see, when I left Daldowie, I didna ken where

tae go. I ran for miles and miles ower the hills, till I could run nae

langer; and then the dark fell, and I lay doon among the heather and

cried mysel' to sleep. But when the mornin' cam' I sat up and said to

mysel', 'Mary Paterson--you maunna be a fool.' I spoke it oot lood--and

it sounded sae like mither's voice that I began to greet again, and I

went on greetin' till I could greet nae mair, and then I felt better."

She looked at me roguishly. "And after that," she went on, "I set oot

for Dumfries. I thocht if I could reach the Solway I micht wade across

it to England, but--I'm thinkin' noo that I've seen it, I would ha'e

been drooned in the attempt." She laughed, and the gull above us, with

its yellow legs apart, and its tail stretched tensely fan-wise, dropped

down and touched the sea with its beak, and having seized its prey,

wheeled round on wide wings and floated above us again.

"Food I got frae kindly cotters, and when at last I reached Dumfries I

set oot to mak' for Glencaple. But when half-way there I sat doon by the

road and began to think, and then for the first time I missed my ring,

and thinkin' o' the day when you put it on my finger and o' a' the love

you bore me, I fair broke doon and cried like a bairn. I was greetin'

sae sair that I didna notice a lady dressed in black until she was

standing beside me. Very gently she asked me what ailed me, and the

look in her face made me feel that she had kent sorrow herse?--so I

tellt her everything. Before I was finished she was greetin' as sair as

mysel', and then she slipped her airm through mine and drew me to my

feet and kissed me. 'I am but a poor widow,' she said, 'whose husband

and sons have died for the Covenant: but the widow's cruse never runs

dry, and you are welcome to a share of whatever the Lord sends me.' She

led me to her bonnie wee hoose, set in a plantin' o' beech trees on the

Glencaple road, and she has been a mother to me, and I a daughter to her

ever since. Sometimes we would shelter fugitive hill-men--and often I

ha'e ta'en them food--and it was for that, for I was caught red-handed,

that I was made prisoner and thrown into the Tolbooth."

"And that," I said, taking up the tale, "is how you come now to be

sitting, my wife, beside me." I kissed her beneath her little

shell-like ear.

"Behave yoursel'," she said with mock sternness. "The captain will see

you!"

"And what if he does?" I asked, as I repeated the offence.

"Did you see me on the road to the Tolbooth?" she continued.

"Yes," I said, "that is where I saw you. Just when hope seemed utterly

dead--you came."

The woman in her spoke: "Did I look feart?" she asked.

"Not a bit; you looked as brave as you are."

She laughed as she replied, "I'm gled I didna show it, for mither would

ha'e been ashamed o' me if she knew, but in my hert I was as frichtened

as a bairn."

"Never mind," I said, "you have nothing to fear now. You are mine for

ever."

"For ever," she answered. "That's a lang, lang time; are ye sure ye'll

never get tired o' me?"

"Sweetheart," I answered fervently, "long ago you told me to love you

for your soul. I have learned to do so, and such a love can never die";

and as the captain's back was turned and there was neither sea-gull nor

sailor-man to see, I took her winsome face in both my hands and

smothered her with kisses.

*CHAPTER XLVI*

*SUNSHINE AFTER STORM*

The morning after we had waved our farewell to Hector saw us safe in the

Isle of Man. Here, through the kindness of the skipper of the

_Sea-mew_, we found a lodging until such time as he could arrange for us

a passage to England on some barque that was sailing thither. Two days

later we were on board the _Kitty-wake_, which carried us safely to the

port of Liverpool. On the outskirts of the town, in the little village

of Walton, in a cottage behind the old church we found a lodging with

the good woman to whom the master of the _Kitty-wake_ had commended us.

Now that I was back in England I determined to seek a reconciliation

with my uncle and guardian. With some trepidation I wrote him a letter

telling him of all that had befallen me, asking his pardon for the

anxiety I must have caused him, and craving permission to bring my wife

to see him in the old home. It was a hard letter to write, hard and

perplexing, and when it was completed I was far from satisfied with it.

But Mary, who helped me with wise words, assured me that unless his

heart were of adamant it would melt him. So I dispatched it, and waited

anxiously for a reply. A fortnight passed, and there was no answer; but

one morning when the third week was drawing to a close a post-boy on

horseback knocked loudly at the cottage door and I heard him ask: "Does

Walter de Brydde, Esquire, live here?" I rushed to the door and

received the missive from his hand. "Four shillings to pay, sir," he

said. Gladly I paid the fee, and gave him something wherewith to slake

his thirst at the nearest tavern. Raising the butt of his crop to his

cap, he dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and was off.

I hastened into Mary's room. The letter was heavily sealed with red wax

and the superscription upon it was in writing that I did not know. All

excitement, I broke the seal. The letter was from the firm of notaries

which for generations had conducted the affairs of our family. They

begged to inform me that my letter had been handed to them in their

capacity as notaries in charge of my uncle's affairs. They regretted to

announce that some seven months ago he and his lady had died of a fever

within a few days of each other, the wife predeceasing her husband. As

my uncle had died without issue, they had the honour to inform me that

the estates passed to me as the next heir male. They noted with

satisfaction that I had taken unto myself a wife and they looked forward

with pleasure to making the acquaintance of my lady at no distant date.

They took the liberty of enclosing for my immediate necessities a draft

upon their agents in Old Hall Street in the city of Liverpool, and they

trusted that as early as should be convenient to myself and my good lady

we would return to Warwick and take up our residence in the old manor.

They ventured to hope that the long and amicable relations which had

existed between my family and their firm would continue. They assured

me of their devoted services at all times, and they had the honour to

subscribe themselves my humble and obedient servants.

We read the surprising document with heads pressed close together,

amazement fettering our tongues. Suddenly Mary drew away, and clasping

her hands, exclaimed:

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" I said. "Why? The silly old man and his wife were nothing to

you."

"Oh no, it's no' that. I cam' to you a tocherless lass wi' naething to

gi'e ye but my love--and noo ye're rich."

"Sweetheart!" I cried: and dropping the letter with the draft upon the

table, I took her in my arms and drew her towards me. "Your love is

more to me than all the riches of the Spanish Main. Gold is but dross:

love is of God, and eternal."

She slipped an arm about my neck, and laid her head upon my shoulder.

"Ye can kiss me," she said--and added roguishly as she smiled at me--"if

ye like."

So it came to pass that within a fortnight of receiving the letter we

arrived at Warwick, making the journey, as became our state, in a hired

carriage with postilions. The needle-women of Liverpool had done their

work well, and as I looked at the dainty figure, all frills and

furbelows, beside me in the carriage I almost felt that I had lost the

Mary I had learned to love at Daldowie. But the light in the pools of

her eyes, the aureole above her forehead, and the smile on her

bewitching face as she said, "Now, behave yersel'. Ye maunna crush my

new goon," told me it was Mary still.

*CHAPTER XLVII*

*THE END; AND A BEGINNING*

A year has passed, and once again it is the month of May. My little

flower of the heather, transported from the hill-sides of Galloway and

set in the kindlier atmosphere of this southern clime, has blossomed

into a flower of rare beauty. She has not a peer among the ladies of

Warwick, and that is saying much.

Sometimes, as we sit together on the green lawn that slopes down to the

quiet Avon, and think of all the things that befell in the days that are

dead, we wonder if they were all a dream. Yet in spite of what she

suffered among them, Mary sometimes whispers to me that her heart is

sick for the grey hills of Galloway, for the sting of the wind on her

cheeks, for the cry of the whaup in her ears; and I find it hard to

comfort her. But I think she will never again be sick at heart for the

hills of heather, for a new joy has come into her life and mine. A week

ago the wonder happened.

When, in the early dawn, the good nurse brought me the news as I paced

in a fever up and down my study floor, I was all ardent, as any man

would be, to see my Mary and her child on the instant. But the nurse

bade me curb my impatience, telling me that Mary was asleep. So I made

my way out to the lawn, and, leaning on the retaining wall, gazed down

upon the Avon. Early roses wet with dew were pouring their incense into

the still air, and I plucked me a handful for Mary. As I stood by the

wall with the flowers in my hand I chanced to look up the river towards

the bridge, and on it I saw a man upon whose shoulders was a pack.

Lighting my pipe, I sat down upon the garden seat with the heap of roses

beside me. As I sat there I heard a little voice that I had never heard

before. Through the open window, my child was joining its little cry to

that of a jubilant bird, and my heart was glad within me and the whole

sun-kissed earth was ringing with melody. O Mary mine!

The sound of footsteps upon the carriage-drive made me turn, and I

saw--Hector.

I rushed to him with hands outstretched. "Hector!" I cried, and shook

him warmly by the hand.

"Ay, it's me richt eneuch. I got your letter. Ye were wise to write in

Latin--but, man, your construction's awfu'--gey near damnable. Ye

should mak' mair use o' the ablative absolute. I was pleased tae hear

frae ye, though, and things being mair settled up yonder I juist thocht

I'd tak' a daunner into England to pit you richt on ane or twa points o'

syntax. An' hoo's your good lady?"

"Mary is splendid," I said. "She has just this morning given birth to a

daughter."

"My best respects to her and my felicitations upon this great event; but

I'm sorry--I'll juist tak' the road again and gang awa' hame. I couldna

ha'e come at a waur time."

"My dear Hector, what do you mean? Mary would never forgive me if I let

you go." And, dropping into the language which I knew he loved, I

slipped my arm through his and said, "Come awa' intae the hoose."

To-night I have been penning the final pages of this my book, with

Hector sitting at his ease in a leathern chair reading a volume from the

well-stocked shelves of the study. And I--because my hand was weary, or

because my heart was aching for a sight of Mary--stole up to her room a

moment since. She was lying in the great carved oaken bed, with the

light from the candles in their silver sconces falling upon her dear

face and the glory of her hair as it lay outspread on the

lavender-scented pillow. I bent over her, and slipping an arm under her

shoulders kissed her, and she pushed down the white coverlet with her

pretty hand to let me peep at our daughter lying asleep in the fold of

her arm.

"Isn't she bonnie?" she whispered. "I think we'll ca' her Jean."

"Flower o' the heather and little heather-bell," I said, and gathered

them both in my arms.

* * * * * * * *

_*BY THE SAME AUTHOR*_

*THE ADVENTURE OF DEATH*

An uplifting and strengthening book, free from gloom, and written with

literary charm. _Fifth Impression_

*THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE*

"Eloquent and popular talks, such as have been commended to many renders

by Dr. Mackenna's 'Adventure of Death.'"--_The Times. Second

Impression_

*BRACKEN AND THISTLEDOWN*

"A work of singular charm, gracious in the spirit pervading it, pawky in

its humour, and bright and keen in its delineation of character. The

book should make a very wide appeal."--_Liverpool Post. Third

Impression_

*THROUGH FLOOD AND FIRE*

"Mr. Mackenna is a true son of Scott and (dare it be said?) much more

likely to appeal to the younger generation than the master. He has the

power of vivid story-telling, a remarkable gift for atmosphere and his

people are real human stuff."--_Daily Chronicle_