THE MAID ON THE WHITE HORSE.
Then slowly a rim about my neck grew icy cold till it ached with the
pain--as when, on a hot day, one holds one's wrists over-long in a
running stream. Nevertheless, my southland pride and the grace of God
kept me from vulgarly showing my fear.
Yet even the Earl, who came of a family that ought by this time to have
grown accustomed to losing their heads, was shaken somewhat by the sight
of the Maiden. And, indeed, such present and visible death will daunton
the most resolute courage. Therefore he caused bind the napkin upon his
face, ere he approached nearer, and so was led upon the scaffold first.
I went next, schooling myself to go firmly and saying only, "It will
soon be over! It will soon be over!" Then I would fall to my
twenty-third Psalm again, and specially to the verse about "death's dark
vale," which did indeed strengthen me so that I feared none ill, or at
least not so very much. But at such times one goes on, winning through
unshamed, more by the mechanical action of one's body and the instinct
of silence, than by the actual thing which men call courage.
But when at last we stood upon the scaffold, and looked about us at the
great concourse of people, all silent and all waiting to see us die,
more than everything else I wished that they had thought to put a rail
about the edge. For the platform being so high, and the time so early in
morning, I walked a little as though my legs had been the legs of
another and not mine own. But in time this also passed off.
Then they read Cantyre's warrant, and asked him if he had aught to say.
He had a long paper prepared, which, standing between his two friends,
who held him by either arm, he gave to the Dean. And very courteously he
bade us who were to die with him farewell, and also those that were with
him. He was a most gallant gentleman, though a Highlandman. They made us
stand with our backs to the Maiden, and rolled the drums, while they set
him in his place. But for all that I heard louder than thunder the
horrible crunch as of one that shaws frosty cabbages with a blunt knife.
Methought I had fainted away, when I heard the answering splash, and the
loud universal "Ah!" which swept across the multitudes of people.
Yet as they turned me about, because my time had come, I saw quite
clearly beneath me the populace fighting fiercely one with another
beneath the scaffold, for the blood that drippled through the boards,
dipping their kerchiefs and other linen fabrics in it for keepsakes.
Also I perceived the collapsed body, most like a sack that falls
sideways; and the tall masked headsman holding up the poor dripping
head. For the napkin had fallen away from the staring eyne, and I
shuddered at the rasping echo of his words.
"This is the head of a traitor!" he cried, as the custom is.
Again the people cried, "Ah!"--They cried it through their clenched
teeth. But it was more like a wild beast's growl than a human cry.
Then I was bidden speak if I had aught to say before I died.
So I took off my hat, and though for a moment I stood without strength,
suddenly my voice was given back to me, and that with such surprising
power that I never knew that I had so great an utterance.
"I die (so they recorded my words) in the faith my father taught me, and
for which my father died; neither for King nor bishop will I change it.
Neither for love nor lands will I recreant or swear falsely. I am a
Gordon of Earlstoun. I die for the freedom of this land. God do so to me
and more also, if ever I gave my back to a foe, or my shoulder to a
friend all the days of my life! That is all my testimony. God have mercy
on my sinful soul, for Christ's sake. Amen!"
"Lord, that is no Whig word!" cried one from the crowd--a soldier, as I
think.
"Tis a pity he is a rebel," said another. I heard them as though they
had spoken of another, and not of myself. And all the time I had been
speaking, I was watching the headsman wiping his broad sliding blade
with a fragment of fine old linen, daintily as one may caress a
sweetheart or other beloved possession.
Then the Dean began the praying, for because I had played with him upon
the Links of Leith at our diversion, I could not reject his
ministrations. And also, as I said, he was a pleasant, well-spoken man.
But he had hardly said many words, or indeed gotten fairly into the
matter of his prayer--which being an Episcopalian, it took him a long
time to do--when his voice seemed to be drowned in the surging murmur
which rose from the people far down the spaces of the Grassmarket. The
sound we heard was as that of a mighty multitude crying aloud; but
whether for joy or hate, I could not tell. The Dean went on praying with
his book open. But none, I think, minded him, or indeed could have heard
him if they had. For every eye in all that mighty throng was turned to
the distance, whence came the cheering of the myriad throats.
The soldiers looked one to the other, and the officers drew together and
conferred. They thought, doubtless, that it was the messenger of death
with the other warrant of execution, that for Anton Lennox. Yet they
marvelled why in that case the people shouted.
The commander bade the drums beat, for the voices of those about the
scaffold-foot began to take up the shouting, and he feared a tumult. So
the kettle drums brayed out their angry waspish whirr, and the great
basses boomed dull and hollow over all.
But in spite of all, the crying of the whole people waxed louder and
louder, and the rejoicing came nearer and nearer, so that they could in
no wise drown it with all their instruments of music.
Then, in the narrow Gut of the West Port I saw a white horse and a rider
upon it, driving fiercely through the black press of the throng. And
ever the people tossed their bonnets in the air, flecking the red
sunrise with them. And the crowd fell back before the rider as the foam
surges from the prow of a swift boat on Solway tide.
And lo! among the shouting throng I looked and saw, and knew. It was my
own lass that rode and came to save me, even while the headsman was
wiping the crimson from the bloody shearing knife to make it ready for
me. In either hand she waved a parchment of pardon, and the people
shouted: "A pardon! a pardon! God save the King!"
Without rein she rode, and the people opened a lane for her weary horse.
Very pale was her face, the sweetest that ever the sun shone on. Very
weary were the lids of her eyes, that were the truest and the bravest
which ever God gave to woman. But when they were lifted up to look at me
on the scaffold of death, I saw that through the anxiety, which drew
dark rings about them, they were joyful with a great joy!
And this is what my Maisie Lennox did for me.
FOLLOWETH
_The conclusion of the author to the reader._
But our perils were not yet wholly over. We were in fear that at any
hour the messenger might arrive, having gotten another horse, even in
that lonely place where Maisie left him. But having pardons in the
King's hand, our foes themselves were eager to be rid of us. They knew
that Roger McGhie had been busy on our behalfs, so that the Council
showed no surprise that he had prevailed, knowing how great he was with
John Graham, and also with the Duke of York. But they ordered us all,
Maisie Lennox, her father, and I, forth of the kingdom upon the instant.
So within an hour we went, right well content, along with the officers
on board a ship at Leith, that waited with anchor weighed and sails
backed in the Roads for the Council's permit to proceed. Which being
obtained by the same boat that brought us, they drew away with us on
board upon the instant. And it was as well, for, as our friends
afterwards advised us, the plundered messenger came in during the night;
and with the earliest break of morn there was a swift vessel on our
track. But by that time we were well-nigh half over, with a good ship
and a following wind. So that there was no vessel in Scotland that could
catch us.
In due time we landed at Rotterdam with great joy and rejoicing. Now,
there remains many a story that I might tell concerning our life
there--how I took service in the Scots regiments of the Prince, how poor
we were and how happy. Indeed, if I be spared and keep my wits, I may
write it one day. For, to my thinking, it is a good tale, and infinitely
more mirthful than this of the killing time, which presently it has been
my lot to tell, though Sandy had no part in it, seeing that he abode
until the coming of the Prince in the stony castle of Blackness, yet not
greatly ill-done to, being tended there by his wife.
Also in it there should be commemorated how my mother came to us, and
concerning Wat and Kate, and all that sped between them. Also, for a
greater theme, how we went back and helped Renwick and Cleland to raise
again the Seven Thousand, and how we stood in the breach when the
Stuarts were swept away. Especially I would joy to tell of the glorious
Leaguer of Dunkeld. That were a tale to attempt, indeed, with Maisie
Lennox at that tale's ending, even as she has been the beginning and
middle and end of this. Only by that time she was no more Maisie Lennox.
_Concluded in my study at Afton, December 2, 1702._
_W. G._
FINIS.
BY S. R. CROCKETT
MAD SIR UCHTRED OF THE HILLS.
"Mr. Crockett is surely the poet-laureate of Galloway. The scene of his
latest tale ('Mad Sir Uchtred') is laid among the hills with which we
became familiar in 'The Raiders.' It is a brief tale, not a novel, and
it can be read through in an hour; indeed, if one begins it, one must
read it through, so compelling is the charm of it. The Lady of Garthland
makes a gracious and pathetic figure, and the wild and terrible Uchtred,
the wrong done him, the vengeance which he did not take,--all these
things are narrated in a style of exquisite clearness and beauty. Mr.
Crockett need not fear comparison with any of the young Scotsmen who are
giving to English literature just now so much that is fresh, and
wholesome, and powerful."--_Boston Courier._
THE STICKIT MINISTER, AND SOME COMMON MEN.
"Mr. Crockett has given us a book that is full of strength and charms.
Humour and pathos mingle with delightful effect.... It is hard to
imagine that any lover of literature could be altogether wanting in
appreciation of their quaint homeliness and pleasant realism. To come
across a volume like this is indeed refreshing. No wailing pessimism
mars our enjoyment with its dreary disbelief in humanity; every page
exhibits a robust faith in the higher possibilities of our nature, and
the result is distinctly successful. Amongst the gems of the collection
we may indicate 'The Heather Lintie,' a simple sketch, instinct with
quiet, penetrating pathos; whilst as a specimen of acute and kindly
humour, 'A Knight-Errant of the Streets,' with its sequel, 'The Progress
of Cleg Kelly,' would be hard to surpass.... The author has constructed
stories full of grace and charm. Those to whom humanity in its most
primitive and least complex aspect is interesting will find real
pleasure in studying Mr. Crockett's strong and sympathetic presentment
of Scottish peasant life."--_The Speaker._
THE RAIDERS.
Being Some Passages in the Life of John Faa, Lord and Earl of Little
Egypt.
"... The things that befell us in those strange years when the hill
outlaws collogued with the wild freetraders of the Holland traffic, and
fell upon us to the destruction of the life of man, the carrying away of
much bestial, besides the putting of many of His Majesty's lieges in
fear....
"It was with May Mischief that all the terrible blast of storm began (as
indeed most storms among men ever do begin with a bonny lass, like that
concerning Helen of Troy, which lasted ten years and of which men speak
to this day). The tale began with May Mischief, as you shall hear. I
keep the old name still, though the years have gone by, and though now
in any talks of the old days, and of all our ancient ploys, there are
the bairns to be considered. But it is necessary that ere the memory
quite die out, some of us who saw these things should write them
down."--_The Foreword._
End of Project Gutenberg's The Men of the Moss-Hags, by S. R. Crockett