.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 45678
   :PG.Title: Tales of the Covenanters
   :PG.Released: 2014-05-17
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Ellen Jane Guthrie
   :DC.Title: Tales of the Covenanters
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1920
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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TALES OF THE COVENANTERS
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      TALES

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      OF THE

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      COVENANTERS

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      BY

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      ELLEN JANE GUTHRIE

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      ELEVENTH EDITION

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      LONDON
      SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO
      GLASGOW: THOMAS B. MORISON
      1920 

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   CONTENTS.

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   `A Tale of Bothwell Bridge`_
   `The Laird of Culzean`_
   `Peden's Stone`_
   `The Murder of Inchdarnie`_
   `The Laird of Lag`_
   `The Sutor's Seat`_

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   INTRODUCTION.

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..

   |  The kings of old have shrine and tomb
   |  In many a minster's haughty gloom;
   |  And green along the ocean's side
   |  The mounds arise where heroes died;
   |  But show me on thy flowery breast.
   |  Earth! where thy nameless martyrs rest!

   |  The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise,
   |  Have made one offering of their days;
   |  For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake.
   |  Resigned the bitter cup to take;
   |  And silently, in fearless faith,
   |  Bowing their noble souls to death.

   |  Where sleep they, Earth?—by no proud stone
   |  Their narrow couch of rest is known;
   |  The still, sad glory of their name
   |  Hallows no mountain into fame.
   |  No—not a tree the record bears
   |  Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

   |  Yet haply all around lie strew'd
   |  The ashes of that multitude.
   |  It may be that each day we tread
   |  Where thus devoted hearts have bled;
   |  And the young flowers our children sow
   |  Take root in holy dust below.

   |  O, that the many rustling leaves,
   |  Which round our home the summer weaves,
   |  Or that the streams, in whose glad voice
   |  Our own familiar paths rejoice,
   |  Might whisper through the starry sky,
   |  To tell where those blest slumberers lie

   |  Would not our inmost Hearts be thrill'd
   |  With notice of their presence fill'd,
   |  And by its breathings taught to prize
   |  The meekness of self-sacrifice?—
   |  But the old woods and sounding waves
   |  Are silent of these hidden graves.

   |  Yet, what if no light footstep there
   |  In pilgrim love and awe repair.
   |  So let it be!—like him whose clay,
   |  Deep buried by his Maker lay.
   |  They sleep in secret—but their sod,
   |  Unknown to man, is marked of God!

   |  Mrs. Hemans.

Scotland is indeed a land of romance.  Her mouldering
ruins are linked with legends and historical associations
which must ever enhance their interest in the eyes of
those who love to gaze on these the

   |  Standing mementos of another age;

and the pages of her history teem with deeds of chivalry
and renown that have won for Scotland a mighty name.
Thus, while the annals of our country are emblazoned
with the deathless names of those mighty heroes who
fought and bled in defence of her freedom from spiritual
bondage, the nameless mound, or simple cairn of stones,
still to be met with on the solitary heath or sequestered
dell, marks the spot where rests some humble champion
of her religious liberties.

Although three hundred years have passed away—marked
in their flight by great and startling events—since
the reign of persecution in Scotland, yet the hearts
of her peasantry cling with fondness to the remembrance
of those hallowed days sealed by the blood of her
faithful martyrs.  Still is the name of Claverhouse execrated
by them, and the story of "John Brown" is related from
children to children while seated around the cottage
hearth, in illustration of the lawless doings of the
Covenanters' foes.

It must strike the mind of every unprejudiced observer,
who reads the various histories of that stirring
time, that the shocking and barbarous cruelties practised
on the defenders of the Covenant by their relentless
enemies, will ever remain a stain on the memories of
those who countenanced or took an active part in such
proceedings.  Scarcely is there a churchyard extant in
Scotland, laying claim to antiquity, that does not contain
one or more stones, the half-obliterated inscriptions of
which attest the fact, that underneath lies some poor
victim of persecuting zeal.

Having lately visited different parts of Scotland
intimately connected with many of the events which took
place at that memorable time, I experienced an
inexpressible satisfaction in the reception I met with at the
different farm-houses in the neighbourhood, and hearing
from the lips of their simple inhabitants the story of the
cruel wrongs inflicted on the Covenanters in the days of
their persecution.

During these pleasant wanderings, I gathered information
sufficient to furnish the Tales contained in the present
volume, in which the reader will, I trust, find much that
is calculated to awaken fresh interest in those benefactors
of our country, whose magnanimity and patient endurance
were worthy of all praise, and who, for the cause of Christ
and his Crown, laid down their lives on the scaffold or
amidst the burning faggots.





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.. _`A TALE OF BOTHWELL BRIDGE`:

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   THE
   SCOTTISH COVENANTERS.

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   A TALE OF BOTHWELL BRIDGE.

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While staying at ——, in the parish of W——, I
discovered that a standard, borne by the Covenanters
at Bothwell Bridge, was still to be seen at the farm of
Westcroft.  Being very desirous of viewing this
interesting relic, I set off one fine morning in the hope of
obtaining a glimpse of the time-honoured banner.  On
reaching the village of H——, which lay on my way,
I observed a very portly-looking woman standing by
the side of the road, apparently enjoying the grateful
breeze, as she looked east and then west, evidently in
search of something amusing or exciting.  Being now
somewhat at a loss in what direction to turn my steps,
I crossed over to where she was standing, in the
expectation of obtaining from her the requisite information,
when the following dialogue ensued:—

"Would you be so kind as to tell me the way to Westcroft?"

"That I will.  I'll just go wi' you a step or two and
show you the farm itsel'.  But what are ye wanting at
Westcroft, if I may ask the question?"

"I wish to see Mr. Anderson, as I understand he
has got a standard that was borne at Bothwell Bridge."

"He has that—he has that; but it's often away frae
hame, ta'en to Glasgow and the like, for ye see it's
something to say, a body has seen the like o' that."

"From what I have heard, this seems to have been
a great part of the country for the Covenanters to take
refuge in."

"'Deed an' it was, but for my part I dinna ken
much *aboot* them; my brother, again, was a great
*antiquarian*, and rale ta'en up about these auld affairs."

"Does he live near here?"

"Oh! mam, he's dead;" and after a short pause
added, "Now, you see that white house forenent the
road?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's Westcroft; and if Willie Anderson
be at hame, ye'll get plenty o' cracks about the
Covenanters, for he has lots o' bees in his bonnet, him."

After thanking the good humoured dame for her
information—upon which she replied I was welcome—I
turned up the path leading to Westcroft.  In answer
to my request to see Mr. Anderson, I was informed he
was in the fields; but that Mrs. A. was within, upon
which a very intelligent-looking woman came forward,
and, on my expressing a wish to see the standard,
desired me to come ben, and I should have a sight o'
the colours.

Following the mistress of the house, I was speedily
ushered into a tidy little room, the walls of which were
adorned with pictures, the most striking of which was
one entitled "The Guardsman's Farewell," representing
a gallant son of Mars in a most gorgeous uniform, on
horseback, taking leave of a stout woman, attired in a
yellow polka-jacket and a crimson petticoat, who was
gazing upwards in the face of the departing soldier,
with a look of agony impossible to describe.

"Here are the colours!" and, as she spoke, Mrs. A. produced
from a drawer on old piece of linen covered
with stains as dark as those exhibited in Holyrood—the
surface of which displayed unmistakable bullet-holes,
and bearing the following inscription in large red
letters:—

   |  "For the parish of Shotts,
   |  For Reformation of Church and State;
   |  According to the Word of God, and
   |  Our Covenants."

Above was the thistle of Scotland, surmounted by a
crown and an open Bible.

And this standard was borne at Bothwell Bridge!
How my thoughts reverted to that fearful time, when
the plains of Scotland resounded with the cries of the
wounded and the oppressed; when men, embittered by
party spirit and misguided zeal, wrought deeds of
cruelty and shame, over which angels well might
weep; when fathers were murdered in presence of
their wives and children; and the widow slain while
weeping over the dead body of her husband!

In thought I was traversing the bloody plains of
Bothwell, when——but here I must present the reader
with an account of that fearful fight, as related by
the Laird of Orfort to his brother, while standing on
the spot where was fought the last battle against the
enemies of the good old cause:—

"On that moor," said the Laird, who, after a long
silence, and without being conscious of it, by a kind of
instinct, natural enough to a soldier, had drawn his
sword, and was pointing with it.  "On that moor the
enemy first formed under Monmouth.  There, on the
right, Clavers led on the Life Guards, breaching fury,
and resolute to wipe off the disgrace of the affair of
Drumclog.  Dalziel formed his men on that knoll.
Lord Livingstone led the van of the foemen.  We had
taken care to have Bothwell Bridge strongly secured
by a barricade, and our little battery of cannon was
planted on that spot below us, in order to sweep the
bridge.  And we did rake it.  The foemen's blood
streamed there.  Again and again the troops of the
tyrant marched on, and our cannon annihilated their
columns.  Sir Robert Hamilton was our commander-in-chief.
The gallant General Hackston stood on that
spot with his brave men.  Along the river, and above
the bridge, Burley's foot and Captain Nisbet's dragoons
were stationed.  For one hour we kept the enemy in
check; they were defeated in every attempt to cross
the Clyde.  Livingstone sent another strong column to
storm the bridge.  I shall never forget the effect of one
fire from our battery, where my men stood.  We saw
the line of the foe advance in all the military glory of
brave and beautiful men—the horses pranced—the
armour gleamed.  In one moment nothing was seen but
a shocking mass of mortality.  Human limbs and the
bodies and limbs of horses were mingled in one huge
heap, or blown to a great distance.  Another column
attempted to cross above the bridge.  Some threw
themselves into the current.  One well-directed fire
from Burley's troops threw them into disorder, and
drove them back.  Meantime, while we were thus
warmly engaged, Hamilton was labouring to bring
down the different divisions of our main body into
action; but in vain he called on Colonel Clelland's
troop—in vain he ordered Henderson's to fall in—in
vain he called on Colonel Fleming's.  Hackston flew
from troop to troop—all was confusion; in vain he
besought, he entreated, he threatened.  Our disputes
and fiery misguided zeal, my brother, contracted a
deep and deadly guilt that day.

"The Whig turned his arm in fierce hate that day
against his own vitals.  Our chaplains, Cargil, and King,
and Kid, and Douglas interposed again and again.
Cargil mounted the pulpit he preached concord; he
called aloud for mutual forbearance.  'Behold the
banners of the enemy!' cried he, 'hear ye not the fire
of the foe, and of our own brethren?  Our brothers and
fathers are falling beneath the sword!  Hasten to their
aid!  See the flag of the Covenant!  See the motto in
letters of gold—"Christ's Crown and the Covenant."  Hear
the voice of your weeping country!  Hear the
wailings fof the bleeding Kirk!  Banish discord; and
let us, as a band of brothers, present a bold front to
the foeman!  Follow me, all ye who love your country
and the Covenant!  I go to die in the fore-front of the
battle!'  All the ministers and officers followed
him—amidst a flourish of trumpets—but the great body
remained to listen to the harangues of the factions.
We sent again and again for ammunition.  My men
were at the last round.  Treachery, or a fatal error,
had sent a barrel of raisins instead of powder![#]  My
heart sank within me—while I beheld the despair on
the faces of my brave fellows—as I struck out the
head of the vessel.  Hackston called his officers to him.
We throw ourselves around him.  'What must be done?'
said he, in an agony of despair.  'Conquer or die,'
we said, as if with one voice.  'We have our swords
yet.'  'Lead back the men, then, to their places, and
let the ensign bear down the blue and scarlet colours.
Our God and our country be the word,' Hackston
rushed forward.  We ran to our respective corps; we
cheered our men, but they were languid and dispirited.
Their ammunition was nearly expended, and they
seemed anxious to husband what remained.  They
fought only with their carabines.  The cannons could
no more be loaded.  The enemy soon perceived this.
We saw a troop of horse approach the bridge.  It was
that of the Life Guards; I recognised the plume of
Clavers.  They approached in rapid march.  A solid
column of infantry followed.  I sent a request to
Captain Nisbet to join his troops to mine.  He was in an
instant with us.  We charged the Life Guards.  Our
swords rang on their steel caps.—Many of my brave
lads fell on all sides of me.  But we hewed down the
foe.  They began to reel.  The whole column was
kept stationary on the bridge.  Clavers' dreadful voice
was heard—more like the yell of a savage than the
commanding voice of a soldier.  He pushed forward
his men, and again we hewed them down.  A third
mass was pushed up.  Our exhausted dragoons fled.
Unsupported, I found myself by the brave Nisbet, and
Paton, and Hackston.  We looked for a moment's
space in silence on each other.  We galloped in front
of our retreating men.  We rallied them.  We pointed
to the General almost alone.  We pointed to the white
and scarlet colours floating near him.  We cried, 'God
and our country!'  They faced about.  We charged
Clavers once more.  'Torfoot,' cried Nisbet, 'I dare
you to the fore-front of the battle.'  We rushed up
at full gallop.  Our men seeing this, followed also at
full speed.  We broke the enemy's line, bearing down
those files which we encountered.  We cut our way
through their ranks.  But they had now lengthened
their front.  Superior numbers drove us in.  They had
gained entire possession of the bridge.  Livingstone
and Dalziel were actually taking us on the flank.  A
band had got between us and Burley's infantry.  'My
friends,' said Hackston to his officers, 'we are last on
the field.  We can do no more.  We must retreat.
Let us attempt, at least, to bring aid to these deluded
men behind us.  They have brought ruin on
themselves and on us.  Not Monmouth, but our own
divisions have scattered us.'  At this moment, one of
the Life Guards aimed a blow at Hackston.  My sword
received it; and a stroke from Nisbet laid the foeman's
hand and sword in the dust.  He fainted and tumbled
from the saddle.  We reined our horses, and galloped
to our main body.  But what a scene presented itself
here!  These misguided men had their eyes now fully
open to their own errors.  The enemy were bringing
up their whole force against them.  I was not long a
near spectator of it; for a ball grazed my courser.
He plunged and reared, then shot off like an arrow.
Several of our officers drew to the same place.  On
a knoll we faced about; the battle raged below us.
We beheld our commander doing everything that a
brave soldier could do with factious men against an
overpowering foe.  Burley and his troops were in close
conflict with Clavers' dragoons.  We saw him dismount
three troopers with his own hand.  He could not turn
the tide of battle; but he was covering the retreat
of these misguided men.  Before we could rejoin him,
a party threw themselves in our way.  Hennoway, one
of Clavers' officers, led them on.  'Would to God
that this was Grahame himself,' some of my
companions ejaculated aloud.  'He falls to my share,' said
I, 'whosver the officer be.'  I advanced—he met me.
I parried several thrusts.  He received a cut on the left
arm; and the same sword, by the same stroke, shore
off one of the horse's ears; it plunged and reared.  We
closed again.  I received a stroke on the left shoulder.
My blow fell on his sword arm.  He reined his horse
around, retreated a few paces, then returned at full
gallop.  My courser reared instinctively as his
approached.  I received his stroke on the back of my
Ferrar; and, by a back stroke, I gave him a deep cut
on the cheek.  And, before he could recover a position
of defence, my sword fell with a terrible blow on his
steel cap.  Stunned by the blow, he bent himself
forward, and, grasping the mane, he tumbled from the
saddle, and his steed galloped over the field.  I did
not repeat the blow.  His left hand presented his
sword; his right arm was disabled; his life was given
to him.  My companions having disposed of their
adversaries (and some of them had two a-piece), we
paused to see the fate of the battle.  Dalziel and
Livingstone were riding over the field, like furies,
cutting down all in their way.  Monmouth was galloping
from rank to rank, and calling on his men to give
quarter.  Clavers, to wipe off the disgrace of
Drumclog, was committing fearful havoc.  'Can we not find
Clavers?' said Haugh-head.  'No,' said Captain
Paton, 'the gallant Colonel takes care to have a solid
guard of his rogues around him.  I have sought him
over the field; but I found him, as I now perceive
him, with a mass of his Guards about him.'  At this
instant we saw our General at some distance,
disentangling himself from the men who had tumbled over
him in the mélé.  His face, and hands, and clothes,
were covered with gore.  He had been dismounted,
and was fighting on foot.  We rushed to the spot, and
cheered him.  Our party drove back the scattered
band of Dalziel.  'My friends,' said Sir Robert, as we
mounted him on a stray horse, 'the day is lost!  But—you,
Paton; you, Brownlee of Torfoot; and you,
Haugh-head, let not that flag fall into the hands of
these incarnate devils.  We have lost the battle; but,
by the grace of God, neither Dalziel nor Clavers shall
say that he took our colours.  My ensign has done his
duty.  He is down.  This sword has saved it twice.
I leave it to your care: you see its perilous situation.'  He
pointed with his sword to the spot.  We collected
some of our scattered troops, and flew to the place.
The standard-bearer was down, but he was still
fearlessly grasping the flag-staff; while he was borne
uprightly by the mass of men who had thrown
themselves in fierce contest around it.  Its well-known blue
scarlet colours, and its motto, Christ's Crown and
Covenant, in brilliant gold letters, inspired us with a
sacred enthusiasm.  We gave a loud cheer to the
wounded ensign, and rushed into the combat.  The
redemption of that flag cost the foe many a gallant
man.  They fell beneath our broad swords, and with
horrible execrations dying on their lips, they gave up
their souls to their Judge.  Here I met in front that
ferocious dragoon of Clavers, named Tom Kalliday,
who had more than once, in his raids, plundered my
halls, and had snatched the bread from my weeping
babes.  He had just seized the white staff of the flag.
But his tremendous oath of exultation had scarcely
passed its polluted threshold, when this Andro Ferrara
fell on the guard of his steel, and shivered it to pieces.
'Recreant loon,' said I, 'thou shalt this day remember
thy evil deeds.'  Another blow on his helmit laid him
at his huge length, and made him bite the dust.  In the
mélé that followed, I lost sight of him.  We fought
like lions, but with the hearts of Christians.  While
my gallant companions stemmed the tide of battle, the
standard, rent to tatters, fell across my breast.  I tore
it from the staff, and wrapt it round my body.  We
cut our way through the enemy, and carried our
General off the field.

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[#] The natives of Hamilton have preserved, by tradition, the name
of the merchant who did this disservice to the Covenanters.

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"Having gained a small knoll, we beheld once more
the dreadful spectacle below.  Thick volumes of smoke
and dust rolled in a lazy cloud over the dark bands
mingled in deadly affray.  It was no longer a battle,
but a massacre.  In the struggle of my feelings, 'I
turned my eyes on the General and Paton.  I saw in
the face of the latter an indescribable conflict of
emotions.  His long and shaggy eyebrows were drawn
over his eyes.  His hand grasped his sword.  I
cannot yet leave the field,' said the undaunted Paton;
'with the General's permission, I shall try to save some
of our wretched men beset by those hell-hounds.
Who will go?  At Kilsyth I saw service.  When
deserted by my troops, I cut my way through Montrose's
men and reached the spot where Colonels Halket and
Strachan were.  We left the field together.  Fifteen
Dragoons attacked us, we cut down thirteen and two
fled.  Thirteen next assailed us.  We left ten on the
field, and three fled.  Eleven Highlanders next met us.
We paused and cheered each other.  'Now, Johnny,'
cried Halket to me, 'put forth your metal, else we are
gone.'  Nine others we sent after their comrades, and
two fled.[#]  'Now, who will join this raid?'  'I will be
your leader,' said Sir Robert, as we fell into the ranks.
We marched on the enemy's flank.  'Yonder is Clavers,'
said Paton, while he directed his courser on him.  The
bloody man was at that moment, nearly alone, hacking
to pieces some poor fellows already on their knees
disarmed and imploring him by the common feelings of
humanity to spare their lives.  He had just finished
his usual oath against their feelings of humanity, when
Paton presented himself.  He instantly let go his prey
and slunk back into the midst of his troopers.  Having
formed them, he advanced.  We formed and made a
furious onset.  At our first charge his troop reeled.
Clavers was dismounted.  But at that moment Dalziel
assailed us on the flank and rear.  Our men fell around
us like grass before the mower.  The buglemen sounded
a retreat.  Once more in the mélé, I fell in with the
General and Paton.  We were covered with wounds.
We directed our flight in the rear of the broken troops,
By the direction of the General I had unfurled the
standard.  It was borne off the field flying at the sword's
point.  But that honour cost me much.  I was assailed
by three fierce dragoons, five followed close in the rear.
I called to Paton—in a moment he was by my side.  I
threw the standard to the General, and we rushed on
the foe.  They fell beneath our swords; but my
faithful steed, which had carried me through all my dangers,
was mortally wounded.  He fell.  I was thrown in
among the fallen enemy.  I fainted.  I opened my eyes
on misery.  I found myself in the presence of Monmouth—a
prisoner—with other wretched creatures, awaiting
in awful suspense their ultimate destiny." * * *

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[#] This chivalrous defence is recorded
in the life of Captain Paton.

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And this standard had been borne at Bothwell Bridge;
borne at early morn by the Covenanters, when hopes
of victory animated their souls, urging them on to
deeds of daring; and at evening, when the bright rays
of the setting sun fell upon the deserted bridge—deserted
by all save the dead and the dying—this banner
blood-stained and riven, had been borne by some weary,
perchance, wounded Covenanter, from the disastrous
field, where perished the hopes of the Covenanting
party.

I was roused from my momentary fit of abstraction
by hearing Mrs. Anderson observe, as if in answer to
her own thoughts, "Ay, it's rale dirty! but I was on
the point of washing it the other day, when my husband
said it was much better to let it remain as it was."  Wash
the standard stained with the blood of her forefathers!
Convert the time-honoured relic into a clean
piece of linen which would no longer bear the slightest
resemblance to a banner that had been engaged in *such
honourable service*!  Surely she was joking.  But no.
There was no twinkle of merriment in those large grey
eyes, which were fixed on mine, as if anticipating a
glance of approbation for her thwarted intentions; not
the slightest approach to a smile at the corners of the
mouth, that had given utterance to the astounding
declaration.  I repressed a strong desire to laugh, and
answered with becoming gravity, that I thought on
the whole Mr. Anderson was right; and that it would
be better to spare it the cleansing process, upon which
she said, "May be ay;" and the venerable banner was
replaced in the drawer.

Observing an old sword suspended from a nail on the
wall, I inquired of Mrs. Anderson if there was any
particular history attached to it?  "'Deed there is," she
replied, taking it down from the wall and placing it in
my hands; that sword was employed in the killing o'
two or three Royalists down by M—— yonder in the
time o' the persecution.  You see, the dragoons were
drinking in a public-house that used to stand by the
side o' the road near till M——.  They were going
on the next day to L—— to levy fines frae the
Covenanters, a thing they had no business to do.  And
as they drank, their hearts were opened, and they
boasted to the landlord that the wine-stoupa wadna
contain the gold they should bring wi' them on their
return.

"Now ye must know, that some one who was na'
very friendly to their side of the question, happened to
be in the house at that time, and heard their foolish
talk; and what does he do, think ye, but rins awa' to
some o' the nearest farms and collects several others
like himself; for ye see people in these days were na'
deterred by fear o' the laws frae just doing as they liket;
and they all marched to the public-house, with the
wicked intention o' killing the soldiers.  Some say an
old miller, o' the name o' Baird, who lived near here,
and who had been a sore enemy to the Royalists, and
had obtained a free pardon frae the Government, when
aince he fell into their hands, headed the party.
Wi' blackened faces, and guns, and swords, in their
hands, they rushed into the room where sat the men.
One of them, on perceiving their entrance, caught up a
chair to defend hinself, but one o' the Covenanters
thrust his sword wi' such force through his body, that
it stuck in the wall behind him; while the others were
finished wi' the butt-ends of their guns.  Eh, sirs, but
these were wild times.  And this part o' the country
was in a very disturbed state about that time; for
just before the battle o' Bothwell Bridge, the royal
army lay encamped all over the Muirhead up on the
hill yonder; for it being a high situation, they had a
good view o' all the country round; and whenever they
ran out o' provisions, the soldiers just gaed to a' the
farm-houses round about, and took away cattle, meal,
butter, and everything they could lay their hands on
without saying by your leave, or thank ye kindly for what
they got.  Ye must know that that standard belonged
to the Telfords of Muirhead; it was one o' them that
carried it to the battle o' Bothwell Bridge, and my
husband's mother being one o' that family, he kens plenty
*aboot* the Covenanters.  Well, as I was saying, the
dragoons went to all places they could think on to
procure provisions for themselves, and provender for their
horses, and they honoured Mrs. Telford often wi' a visit
at these times—for she was well off in this world's gear;
and I've heard my husband say—he had it from his
mother, and she had it again from hers—that whenever
the soldiers found there was more meal than they could
conveniently carry away, they thought nothing o'
tumbling the lave (remainder) a' doon the hill, not
caring one straw how *they were to be served* that came
ahint them.  "However," continued Mrs. Anderson
with a laugh, "they sometimes were cheated too, when
they came to clear the byres and stables o' them that
could ill afford to lose their cattle, as ye will hear
by the following story o' the then mistress o' this
house, who was sorely troubled by visits frae the
thieving dragoons, who were sure never to go away
empty-handed.  Well, one day they came for the
purpose o' stealing her cattle, when, just as they were
conveying them away, she ran after them, telling them
it was as much as their lives were worth, to take away
her cows, as she had an order frae one of their officers,
threatening with death the person who should touch
them; so saying, she displayed an old receipt.  The
soldiers, as the woman suspected, not being able to
read writing, and afraid of incurring the displeasure
of their superiors, allowed the receipt to pass
unchallenged, and departed, for once, empty-handed.
Another time, they came to take her horses; and after
they had removed them out of the stable, all except
one old horse, which they did not consider worth the
trouble of taking, and left them standing at the door,
they entered the house, for the purpose of obtaining
some refreshment.  The mistress of the farm, on being
informed of their intentions, managed, on some pretext
or other, to slip away, after she had seen them seated
round a loaded table, preparing to discuss the good
things set before them, and entering the stable,
loosened the sole remaining horse, and, mounting him,
dashed off at a gallop, the others following in the rear.
The dragoons hearing the noise attendant upon the
departure of their stolen steeds, rushed out of the
house, but too late to recover possession of the coveted
horses, which in the most commendable manner
followed their leader until they reached a place of safety.
The soldiers returned to the camp highly incensed at
being done out by a woman, and fully resolved never
to venter near Westcroft farm again."

"Wicked people lived in these times," I observed.

"Ay," said Mrs. Anderson, "and good ones too; for
I mind well o' my mother telling me, that even in her
youth, people were far more strict and better in their
conduct, than they were in my young days—ay," she
added, with a shake of her head, "there is mony a
strange sect started up now; and if a' are right that
think they are, we maun be far wrong.  But, as I was
saying, my mother told me, that when young and able
for the walk, she thought nothing of going ten miles to
church.  And one day she went to the kirk at O——,
accompanied by a man and his wife; and while they
were walking along the road, the man was standing
pretty often, and looking at the crops, when his wife
turned round and said—my mother told me she would
never forget it—'James, are you not ashamed of
yoursel', for casting your e'en at'oure the fields on the
Lord's-day?'  And for my own part, I mind well as a
child, never being allowed to be seen out on a Sunday,
binna it was when going to the kirk."

"I suppose you have frequently read the 'Scotch
Worthies?'" I inquired.

"That I have, often and many a time," replied
Mrs. Anderson, "eh, but these were the noble men—it's
hard to say who were the best, they were all so good.
There's Mr. Peden, what a bright example he gave to
his people!  Oh, but they were privileged who could
hear the gospel preached by such a man!  And eh,
sirs, but he was sair, sair persecuted.  I mind o' my
mother telling me, when a little bit lassie, she had
been shown a house near here, where that worthy man
had a narrow escape for his life.  You see he was
coming to preach at an appointed place on the moors,
and was spending the evening before-hand wi' a farmer
who was a great friend o' the persecuted clergy, and
never was known to turn one frae his door, even
although certain death was the consequence o' its
being found out.  Well, just as Mr. Peden was
seated at his supper, in the best room, the master o'
the farm, frae the kitchen window, saw the red-coats
advancing in the direction of the house.  'Wife, wife,'
cried he, 'Mr. Peden is lost!  Here are the dragoons
come to take him.  What can we do to save him?'  Ye
see, Mr. Peden was held in great veneration by them
a'.  'Oh,' replied his wife, 'whenever the dragoons are
within hearing, just you call out, Jock, put on your
smock frock, and go off instantly to B—— for coals,
and maybe the soldiers winna stop him.'  The man
did as he was desired, at the same time throwing the
smock into the room where Mr. Peden was sitting.
The latter perceiving the great danger he was in,
instantly put on the carter's frock, and pulling his
cap down over his forehead, put on as lubberly an
appearance as possible, in order to look like the
character he was assuming; and in this way passed his
enemies without in the least exciting their suspicions;
and very leisurely yoking the horse to the cart, he set
off on his expedition.  Thus, while the dragoons were
searching the house for Mr. Peden, he was, through the
mercy of God, far beyond their reach.

After a few remarks about the wicked deeds that
were done in those days, the conversation turned upon
the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, which Mrs. Anderson
allowed was a cruel doing on the part of the
Covenanters, although the Archbishop himself had caused
the destruction of many of their body.  "Ay," she
said, "talking about that, I mind well o' a minister
coming in here one night, who had just come frae Fife,
and he told us that, in the house where he had been
staying, the conversation one evening had turned upon
the Covenanters, and the murder o' the Archbishop;
and as they were speaking about him, the mistress o'
the house went till a drawer, and pulling out two
letters frae the King to Archbishop Sharpe, threw
them on the table wi' a great air of consequence—for
ye must know that she prided herself on her
descent frae the Archbishop.  The minister read the
letters carefully, and having observed the look of
importance with which the woman had produced them,
he said to her, 'My good woman, I do not see any use
in your keeping letters that belonged to that evil man,
who did our forefathers such bad service; with your
leave I shall put them into the fire.'  'You shall do
no such thing!' replied the woman; 'these letters hae
been in my possession this mony a day, and it's not
very likely I kept them so long to allow them to be
burned in the end.'  Now for my own part," said
Mrs. Anderson, "I think she did perfectly right; for losh
pity me! if people were to be condemned for the evil
doings o' their ancestors, we might a' hide our heads
thegither; and besides, I think it a nice thing to
hae these auld relics in one's ain house: there, now,
a gentleman was very anxious, a short time ago, for
me to send the banner and sword into the Antiquarian
Society in Edinburgh; but no, no, says I, I'll
just e'en keep them, were it only to show that my
forefathers were fighting for the good old cause; but here
comes my husband, and he will be able to tell ye
plenty about the Covenanters."

Scarcely had Mrs. Anderson finished speaking, when
her husband entered.  "Here, Willie," she said,
addressing him, "I am so glad you have come, for this
lady is very anxious to hear some of your stories about
the Covenanters."

"Indeed, ma'm," replied Mr. Anderson, taking off
his hat on observing me, "it's not much that I know
about them, but the little I have came from my
forefathers, and you're welcome to it, if you think it would
interest you; in the meantime," he added, "I suppose
you have seen the standard and sword?"

"Indeed I have; it was the knowledge that you had
such things that brought me here to-day."

Mr. Anderson smiled as he observed, that "the
standard itself was nothing to look at, being made of
such humble materials, but that the silk ones borne
by the wealthy farmers and lairds were splendid
indeed.  Now, for instance, there was Mr. G——,
of Green Hill, the standard he had was of the finest
yellow silk, with the motto, 'Christ's Crown and
Covenant,' engraved in letters of gold; ay, but it was
bonnie to see!  And I mind well, when the great
meetings in connection with the Reform Bill were held
throughout the country, that there was one at B——,
and the people wished to get all the banners that could
be procured, as there was to be a grand procession.
Well, as I knew of Mr. G—— having this one, away I
went to Green Hill, to see if he would let me have it for
the above purpose; and as I was not personally
acquainted with him, I got a line from the minister of
the parish, testifying that I was trustworthy.  Armed
with this, I made my request known to Mr. G——, who
received me very kindly, saying, that the banner was
sadly torn and destroyed, but, if I could manage to get
it repaired, I was welcome to it.  Accordingly, I brought
away the standard, and my wife having got it patched
up a little, I took it to B——; and, oh, had you but
seen the people's faces, as I laid before them the
venerable banner: there was not a dry eye in the whole
assembly.  Men, women, and children mourned and
wept; while gazing on the standard stained with the
blood of their forefathers, who nobly fought and died
for the cause of the Covenant."

"And who, pray, bore the standard, now in your
possession, at Bothwell Bridge?"

"A young man of the name of Telford, who lived up
at the Muirhead yonder.  My mother was one of that
family, and they had many a thing that belonged to
the Covenanters; amongst other articles, the musical
instruments they made use of when going to battle.
My mother kept them until they fell to pieces with
age; and the last time I saw the drum, it was holding
rowans that the children had gathered; while the
bugles which sounded the retreat at Bothwell were
devoted to purposes equally peaceful and innocent."

"Can you give me any account of the young man
who carried the standard on that occasion?"

"Yes ma'm," replied Mr. Anderson, and after a
moment's pause, as if to collect his thoughts, he
furnished me with the particulars comprised in the
following story:—

On the evening of the 21st of June, 1679, while the
royal army lay encamped on Bothwell Moor, a young
man might have been observed stealing round the base
of the hill, on which the farm of Muirhead was situated,
apparently anxious to avoid being seen by any of the
hostile army that lay around.  He paused every few
moments in his progress, as if to assure himself that he
remained undetected, and listened eagerly to catch the
least sound that gave warning of impending danger.
But all was silent.  No sound broke in upon the
almost Sabbath stillness of the scene, save the voices of
the sentinels as they went their solitary rounds.

Young Telford, for it was he, succeeded in gaining
the farm-house in safety, and gently raising the latch,
was speedily clasped in the arms of his mother, who
had started to her feet, apprehensive of danger, on
hearing her house entered at that unseasonable hour.

"My son! my son!" exclaimed the delighted woman,
"'the Lord be praised, who in his great mercy hath
spared you to gladden my eyes once more; but where
is Thomas?  Why came he not with you?"

"He could not, mother," replied her son, "else had
he flown to see you!  He stays to guard the banner
committed to his care, and as we expect to encounter
the foe to-morrow, he charged me to tell you, that
never while he lives shall it fall into the hands of the
enemy."  The mother's eyes glistened at this proof of
bravery on the part of her absent son, and gazing
fondly in the face of the one now beside her, she
inquired with a faltering voice, "and where have
you been since last we met?  For it seems to me an
age since you and Thomas departed to join the ranks of
the Covenanters."

"I have but shortly returned from Morayshire,"
replied her son, "where I sped with the fiery cross
through moor and valley, terrifying the inhabitants
with the false alarm that the Macdonalds were
preparing to descend upon them, in order to prevent them
from advancing to aid the royal forces.  The peasant
was aroused from his slumber, when the unearthly
glare streamed in at his cottage window, as onwards I
sped.  Armed forces who were marching thitherward,
swiftly returned to their homes, on hearing the
appalling cry! "the Macdonald's are coming!"  The bold
Highlander turned pale with apprehension as I passed
with the fatal symbol of war and desolation, and the
fond mother pressed still closer to her bosom, the child
who might soon be fatherless, on beholding the fiery
track of the herald of woe."

"Oh, Willie!" cried Mrs. Telford, clasping her
hands as she spoke.

"Still onwards I sped.  Terror was visible on the
faces of all, as again the warning voice proclaimed
amidst the stillness of night the approach of the
Macdonalds.  At that dread name, the alarm flew
from house to house; signal fires flamed upward from
each mountain summit; all thoughts of leaving their
country were abandoned, and the King may in vain
expect men from thence."

At this moment a low tap at the door interrupted
young Telford in the midst of his narration.
Without one moment's hesitation, he darted towards the
entrance, and presently returned with his arm round
the neck of a young girl, whose lovely countenance
was almost hid beneath the shepherd's plaid which she
had hastily donned to protect her head from the cool
breezes of evening.

"Jeanie!" exclaimed Mrs. Telford, warmly embracing
the blushing stranger, "how fortunate! just to
think you should chance to come when——!"

"It was no chance, mother," interrupted her son,
"I durst not venture near Jeanie's house, in case the
soldiers might send a bullet after me; so I bade a
little boy go to the farm, and tell her that there was one
she might wish to see in this house to-night, and, as
he could remain but a few minutes, the sooner she
came, the better for us both."

"Oh, Willie!" sobbed the weeping girl, "could you
but know the cruel state of suspense I have been in
these three months back, not knowing where you were,
or what might be your fate, you would never, never go
away again!  Oh! say you winna leave me," she
implored, gazing upwards in his face with eager beseeching
eyes, while tears coursed rapidly down her cheeks; "say
you winna go!"

"Tempt me not, dearest," replied her lover in a
voice expressive of the deepest anguish, as he drew her
fondly to his bosom, "I cannot—must not remain.
To-morrow we may chance to encounter the foe, and I
could not endure the thoughts of entering the field,
without again obtaining a mother's blessing, and one
more glance from those bright eyes; so I stole from the
camp, while my brother remained behind to guard the
banner.  And now I must return, for I may be missed;
and I should not like to be long absent at a time like
this.  Mother, your blessing on me and my absent
brother, that we prosper in the fight," so saying, he
knelt to receive the desired benediction.

"May the God of battles, in whose hands are the
issues of life and death, be unto you both as a rock of
defence in the hour of danger, and restore you once
more to me, my beloved son," exclaimed his mother,
placing her hands on his lowly bent head, and weeping
as she spoke; "the Lord knows," she continued, "the
bitterness of my heart this night, and yet why should
I grudge you in so good a cause?  Rise, my son, rise;
and may the Power above, who is able and willing to
help us in the time of need, guide you in all safety, and
strengthen me in the hour of trial."

Young Telford sprang to his feet, and clasping his
betrothed in his arms, was about to comfort her with
assurances of his speedy return, when he perceived she
had fainted.

"My poor Jeanie!" exclaimed Mrs. Telford tenderly,
then pointing to the door, she conjured her son to
hasten away ere his betrothed recovered her consciousness,
and thus spare her the agony of witnessing his
departure.

"Ay, far better it should be so, mother," replied her
son, "and yet it is hard to leave my Jeanie thus; but
tell her I only went to spare her further pain;" so
saying, he placed the unconscious girl gently in a
chair, imprinted a kiss on her clay-cold forehead,
wrung his mother's hand, and was gone.

Scarcely had he disappeared, ere Jeanie Irving, with
a deep-drawn sigh of anguish, opened her eyes, and
fixing them with a wandering vacant look upon
Mrs. Telford, who had placed her upon her own bed, and was
now bending over her with almost maternal solicitude
depicted upon her benevolent countenance, inquired
where she was, and if she had been only dreaming
he had seen her Willie.

"'Deed and it was no fancy," replied Mrs. Telford;
"Willie was here sure enough, but don't speak any
more about him just at present, like a dear, good girl;
he will be back to-morrow evening to tell you all about
himself, and where he has been; so just remain quiet
for a little while, and I will go to Mr. Irving and tell
him that you will stay here a day or two, to comfort
me in the absence of my sons;" so saying, and without
tarrying for an answer, away she ran to execute her
mission.

Early on the following morning, Jeanie Irving,
whom no reasoning on the part of Mrs. Telford could
induce to remain in bed, posted herself at the door of
the cottage, eager to obtain the first glimpse of him
she loved, should he return according to his promise.
In the meantime the royal army had advanced towards
Bothwell, where the Covenanting party was stationed,
and soon the mighty roar of cannon proclaimed to the
startled ears of Jeanie that the fighting had commenced.
In her wild eagerness to ascertain the fate of her lover.
she was about to rush madly forward in the direction
from whence the sounds proceeded, and the almost
frantic efforts of Mrs. Telford were scarce sufficient
to restrain her from executing her purpose.  For a
few hours the thunder of the cannon, mingled with
the firing of musketry, struck terror to the hearts
of the affrighted women, who clung to each other,
pale and speechless; while pealed forth the
death-knell of many a gallant heart.  Then came a lull,
even more dreadful in its terrific calmness, for it
proclaimed the battle was over—that the fate of
their loved ones was decided.  And now might be
seen riderless horses galloping wildly across the plain,
and mounted horsemen spurring their jaded steeds
beyond their powers of endurance; while more slowly,
and dragging his weary steps along, the wounded
Covenanter strove to find safety in flight from the
disastrous field.  With a scream of delight, Jeanie
bounded forward on observing the figure of a young
man, evidently making towards them; but, on nearing
him, she found to her consternation it was Thomas,
and not William Telford, who now approached, staggering
under the load of the banner, which, soiled and
torn, he laid at his mother's feet.

"Thomas!" screamed Mrs. Telford; "but where is
Willie?  Oh! wherefore so silent?"

"Speak, I implore you, speak," gasped forth Jeanie
Irving, "is he killed?  Is he wounded?"

"He is a prisoner!" was the sad reply.

"God be praised it is no worse!" fervently ejaculated
the weeping girl; "I shall yet save him, or perish in
the attempt."

"And you, Thomas, what of yourself?" demanded
Mrs. Telford, observing the ghastly expression of her
son's face, while traces of blood were yet apparent on
his coat and hands.  The young man, without a reply,
uncovered his head, and displayed, in so doing, a
frightful gash on his forehead.  "My son, my son!"
groaned forth the afflicted mother, "Oh! this is
hard—hard to bear.  I thought I had taught myself to say
with resignation, 'the Lord's will be done;' but, oh
my rebellious heart!"

"'I said I should bring it back to you, mother, if life
were spared me to perform my promise, and I have
done it," proudly exclaimed her son.  "I have brought
it in safety; but, alas! from a dishonoured field.
Treachery has lost us the day, and ruined our cause
for ever.  But Willie and I did our duty.  While a
ray of hope still animated the bosoms of our leaders,
we would not quit the field.  Willie was mad with
rage.  He fought like a lion.  Every soldier he
encountered fell beneath his sword.  My care was
the banner.  Three dragoons attacked me.  Encumbered
with the standard, I called upon Willie for
assistance.  He came hewing down all in his way.
A musket was upraised to shoot him.  I struck it
down, and, in so doing, received this wound on my
forehead from a cowardly ruffian, who took advantage
of my being engaged with another, to inflict the
dastardly blow.  I fell with the banner beneath me.
Then the dragoons, aided by two others, rushed upon
Willie, and bore him away.  They would have killed
him, but for the Duke of Monmouth, who commanded
them to spare his life.  I struggled to regain my feet;
but fainted away through loss of blood.  On recovering
my senses, I observed a dragoon stealing up to deprive
me of my standard; but one blow from the butt-end
of my musket despatched him, and, grasping my
banner in my hand, I made another effort to rise,
and succeeded.  Captain Paton advanced.  'My poor
fellow,' he said, 'you are sadly wounded; get off the
field as swiftly as possible;' so saying, he took some
herbs from his pocket, and applying them to the
wound, staunched the blood; then, taking me by the
arm, he moved onwards a few paces by my side, as
though to protect me from further injury—the road
in this direction being clear of the Royalists, who
were murdering my comrades right and left at the
other end of the field.  I thanked the noble
Captain—whose eyes gleamed with pleasure on observing the
uncaptured standard—and proceeded on my way in
safety.  Having ascended an eminence, I turned to
look on the bloody plain.  There stood Captain Paton,
as I had left him, leaning on his sword, and gazing on
the fearful scene around him, apparently overwhelmed
with grief.  General Hamilton, with a party of officers,
was advancing towards him.  I looked again.  They
were slowly quitting the field.  And I continued my
solitary flight."

Mrs. Telford, at the close of her son's narrative,
threw her arms around his neck, and wept aloud.
"My poor Thomas," she exclaimed, "grateful should
I be to the Lord, who hath spared you to return this
day to your home; but, oh! when I think on my
noble Willie a captive in the hands of these cruel,
blood-thirsty men, my heart feels like to burst with
its load of sorrow; and, yet, what can I do to save him?"

"Mother," said Jeanie Irving, "for such you have
been to me, do not despair.  A voice whispers in my
heart that Willie will soon be free—that he will yet
live to bless and comfort us all.  Do not give way
to grief, but trust in God, who, I feel assured, will
grant the wishes of our hearts in this matter."

"The widow—for such Mrs. Telford was—soothed
and comforted by the earnest assurances of the
kind-hearted and hopeful maiden, embraced her warmly,
and blessed her for her dutiful resignation to the will
of Providence.  But a high and noble purpose had
filled the loving heart of the simple Scottish girl; and
it was the determination to free her lover that caused
her eye to sparkle, and her cheek to burn, with the
sweet anticipations of hope, as she dwelt on the
triumph of obtaining her lover's pardon, even should
she kneel at the feet of the Duke of Monmouth to
obtain it.  Accordingly, at an early hour on the
following morning, when Mrs. Telford and her son
were locked in the arms of slumber, Jeanie Irving,
acting on a previously adopted resolution, stole
gently from her couch and dressed herself hastily;
then, kissing Mrs. Telford silently on the forehead,
she knelt down and prayed fervently for guidance
and protection during her absence; and, snatching
a small bundle of necessaries prepared over-night
for her journey, and placing a letter—informing
Mrs. Telford of the step she was about to take—on
the table, she noiselessly opened the door, stood
for one moment, while her lips moved as if she was
engaged in mental prayer, shut it slowly, and departed.
Having been informed by Thomas Telford that the
prisoners were to be taken to Edinburgh, thither
Jeanie determined to proceed; but on arriving at
Linlithgow, she heard no tidings of their having
passed that way.  Fearful lest some change had been
made regarding their destination, Jeanie Irving stood
irresolute, not knowing what to do, but, on second
thoughts, she proceeded to the house of her aunt, a
sister of her mother, who resided in Linlithgow, there
to await their coming, lest something might have
occurred to delay their progress.  Mrs. Johnstone—which
was the name of her aunt—received her niece
very kindly; but on her expressing her surprise at
seeing her enter so unexpectedly, the long-sustained
fortitude of Jeanie Irving gave way, and she burst
into a passionate flood of tears.  Amazed and distressed
at the sight of her niece's grief, Mrs. Johnstone soothed
and comforted her to the best of her ability, and was
rewarded for her kind sympathy by the recital of
Jeanie's hopes, fears, and intentions respecting her
lover's escape, which she confided to the willing ears
of her aunt, when her sorrow allowed her the power
of utterance.

"Oh, my dear lassie!" said Mrs. Johnstone, at the
close of her niece's narration, "you do not know the
difficulty of the course you mean to pursue; you never
can succeed.  Willie Telford will be so closely guarded
that you will not get near him; do not go on, but stay
with me at least until we hear something regarding
the destination of the unfortunate men."

At this moment a distant murmur of voices was
heard, mingled with the trampling of many feet.
Nearer came the sounds; louder swelled the tumult,
till none could mistake its meaning.  Poor Jeanie
turned as pale as death; her heart told her the
prisoners were approaching.  Grasping her aunt by the
arm, she staggered towards the window, and what a
dismal sight greeted her eager eyes!  Onwards came
the dragoons—their plumes waving—their horses
prancing.  Next advanced a body of men, to the
number of about five hundred, foot-sore and weary;
wounded, and prisoners.  Jeanie Irving groaned in
agony.  The quick glance of affection soon descried the
stately form of William Telford.  Amidst the motley
crowd, he walked erect and proudly, as though he
were marching onwards to victory—not to a
prison—perchance to death.

The eyes of Jeanie Irving seemed about to start
from their sockets on beholding the sad procession;
but new horrors awaited her.  She beheld some of the
sympathising spectators, while advancing with cups of
cold water to moisten the lips of the wounded portion
of the prisoners, and a morsel of bread to comfort
their weary hearts, beaten back with oaths, and
contumely by the rude soldiers, who, insensible to all the
softer emotions of humanity, seemed determined to
make their captives feel the wretchedness of their lot.
She saw her beloved William stunned by a blow from
the butt-end of a musket, while endeavouring to procure
nourishment for a sinking comrade.

On beholding this outrage inflicted on the object of
her affections, Jeanie Irving screamed and struggled to
free herself from her aunt's grasp, as if for the purpose
of springing out into the street, in order to join her
lover.  Indeed, so excited did she become in her
endeavours to carry out her wishes, that her aunt,
fearful of the consequences that might ensue, should
she be permitted to retain her station at the window,
seized her in her arms, and dragged her away from
beholding the dismal spectacle.  On the disappearance
of the melancholy cavalcade, Mrs. Johnstone placed
Jeanie Irving on her bed, and would on no account
hear of her attempting to rise until she had partaken
of some repose; and, indeed, poor Jeanie, overcome as
she was with fatigue and anxiety, felt the necessity of
obeying her aunt's wishes in this respect.  Shortly
after lying down she fell into a sleep, apparently broken
at first by the agitating thoughts that chased each
other through her mind, for she moaned and shivered
in such a manner that Mrs. Johnstone grew apprehensive
lest the distress under which she laboured might
yet throw her into a fever.  Gradually, however, she
grew calmer, and at length, to her aunt's delight, all
the sad events of the day seemed forgotten in a tranquil
slumber.  On her awaking, refreshed and strengthened
from her long repose, Mrs. Johnstone, who now
perceived the danger of thwarting her in her intentions
of endeavouring to free William Telford, represented
the strong necessity there was of her remaining quiet,
for a few days longer, as, should she set off instantly
on her journey, she might get herself into trouble, and
thus by her rashness lose the only chance of saving her
lover.  This last argument, skillfully introduced by
Mrs. Johnstone, had great weight with her impatient
niece; and she accordingly remained with her aunt five
days, during which period she carefully abstained from
alluding to the topic which so entirely engrossed her
thoughts.  But on the morning of the sixth day she
again expressed her intention of proceeding to
Edinburgh, in order to learn the destination of the
prisoners.  This time Mrs. Johnstone threw no obstacles
in the way of her niece's departure, but going to a
closet she took from thence two bundles, one of which
she handed to Jeanie Irving, while the other she
retained in her own possession.  Jeanie eyed her aunt
with astonishment, while that worthy person proceeded
very leisurely to donn her bonnet and shawl, and at
length ventured to inquire the meaning of such
preparations.

"It is just this, my dear lassie," said Mrs. Johnstone
in answer to her niece's inquiry, "I am a lone widow
with no one here to care for me, or to mind whether I
go or stay, so I have determined upon accompanying
you to Edinburgh, in order to protect and assist you
as far as lies in my power.  When you came here and
told me your sad story, I resolved upon going with
you, and laid my plans accordingly.  Two days ago a
boy was dispatched to tell your father and Mrs. Telford
where you were, and that they need not feel anxious
about you, as I should tend and love you as though
you were mine own child.  Now, don't say one word
against this, Jeanie, for my mind is made up on this
subject."

Poor Jeanie Irving, quite overcome with this proof
of affection and kind interest on the part of her aunt,
threw herself into her arms, and sobbed aloud, thanking
her through her tears for her promised protection,
which she assured her would prove invaluable, as
she should require a faithful guide and counsellor to
cheer and advise her 'mid all the trials and disappointments
she was prepared to encounter.  All being thus
satisfactorily arranged, Mrs. Johnstone proceeded to
settle some little household affairs prior to departing
with her niece—such as stopping the clock, locking up
closets, throwing water on the fire, and sundry other
little arrangements which all careful housekeepers
know to be essential before leaving home.  The rays of
the setting sun were gilding the towers of the ancient
fortress of Dunedin, as Mrs. Johnstone and her niece
entered the Scottish capital.  All was terror and
confusion.  Dragoons marched along the streets with
all the insolence of petty power which subordinates
know so well how to assume;—members of the opposite
faction stole noiselessly on their way, as if afraid of
attracting the notice of the swaggering soldiers, who
seemed fully aware of, and to enjoy the terror they
inspired; while aged citizens, whose care-worn faces
betrayed the anxiety under which they laboured,
stood together in groups as if discussing the events of
the day.  Jeanie, with the natural modesty of her sex,
drew the shepherd's plaid still closer around her, to
screen her face in some measure from the insolent gaze
of the dragoons, some of whom peered underneath the
covering as they passed in the hopes of obtaining a
glimpse of the carefully-shrouded face.

"Pull it off her, George," said a soldier to his
comrade, one of these who failed in their attempts to get
a look of Jeanie Irving, "pull it off her, and let us see
what she's like; what in the name of wonder makes her
hide her face in that manner?  Pull it off her, I say."

"No, no, don't do that: let the woman alone,"
exclaimed another of the party, observing that the one
named George was about to obey his friend's instructions;
"she is not annoying us; and see that party of
men, yonder, watching us with threatening looks, as if
eager to take advantage of the slightest provocation on
our part, to commence an affray.  Come, let us be
peaceful."  The soldier thus admonished abandoned
his purpose, and allowed Jeanie and her aunt to pass
on their way unmolested.

"Thank God!" inwardly ejaculated the trembling
women on finding themselves freed from the rude
grasp of the dragoon, and quickening their steps, they
turned into a less noisy and crowded street.  But
soon a new alarm struck fresh terror to their trembling
souls, for the deep roll of a drum was now, distinctly
heard.  Onwards it came; and Jeanie Irving, trembling
in every limb, fearing, she knew not what, grasped
her aunt by the arm, as she stood breathless and
agitated, waiting the result.  Soon a large party of
soldiers appeared in sight, one of them bearing a
huge drum, which he beat at regular intervals; while
another read aloud a proclamation, warning the citizens
of Edinburgh, under pain of death, to abstain from
visiting the prisoners at present stationed in the
Greyfriars Church-yard, save when bringing them provisions,
such as should be approved of by the sentinels.  Jeanie's
heart beat wildly with renewed hope on hearing that
the prisoners were merely confined in an open churchyard,
and that their friends would be permitted to take
them food at stated intervals.  It was true that
sentinels were stationed there, who would no doubt keep a
strict watch over all comers; but what can youth and
ingenuity not achieve?  Thus full of sanguine anticipations
respecting the ultimate success of her scheme,
Jeanie Irving accompanied her aunt to the house of a
mutual friend, with whom Mrs. Johnstone meant to
stay during their sojourn in Edinburgh, which she now
devoutly hoped might prove a short one.  Mrs. Hamilton
received her visitors very graciously; expressed her
satisfaction when Mrs. Johnstone informed her that their
visit was likely to prove a longer one than she, under
present circumstances, could have wished; and
steadfastly refused all offers of remuneration, which
Mrs. Johnstone was anxious she should receive, to
compensate in some measure for the trouble they were likely
to occasion her.

"No, no, my dear friend," said Mrs. Hamilton,
while she proceeded to make preparations for her
evening meal, "don't—if you please, say any more on
that subject; it's little I have, but, please God, that
little shall always be at the service of the few friends
I have now remaining; losh pity me, are you not my
cousin, thrice removed on my mother's side, and just
to think o' one relation taking money off another?  I
never heard tell o' such a like thing; no, no, stay wi'
me as long as you like, and welcome;" so saying,
Mrs. Hamilton proceeded leisurely to put one of her best
damask cloths on the table, which she soon covered
with plates of bread and butter, some newly-made
jelly, etc; in short, the best of everything the house
could afford, was brought forth to do honour to her
welcome guests.  "Now, sit your ways down," said
Mrs. Hamilton, after she had completed the arrangements
to her own satisfaction, and, taking Mrs. Johnstone
by the arm, she seated her at the head of the table,
motioning Jeanie to sit beside her, "sit your ways
down, and partake of what is before you."  Mrs. Johnstone
proceeded, greatly to the delight of Mrs. Hamilton,
to make an active onslaught on the good
things with which the table was abundantly supplied.
"That's right, my dear," exclaimed the hospitable
widow, her eyes beaming with pleasure, "but, Jeanie
Irving, what has come over you, lassie?" she enquired,
astonished beyond measure on perceiving that the
maiden in question evinced not the slightest disposition
to assist her aunt in the arduous undertaking of
demolishing the huge pile of bread and butter placed
so temptingly within her reach.  Jeanie, by way of
answer to this anxious inquiry, hastened to assure
Mrs. Hamilton that she was indeed making an excellent
meal; and wishing to turn the conversation into
another channel, she expressed a desire to know whose
was the sword hanging on the opposite wall.
Mrs. Hamilton's good-natured face lengthened considerably
as she replied with a faltering accent, that it had
belonged to her husband, who perished at the battle o'
Pentland Hills.  "Indeed," said Jeanie Irving, greatly
interested in hearing that her kind hostess had also
been a sufferer from those sad religious differences;
"and pray"—here she suddenly stopped short, on
observing Mrs. Hamilton raise her apron to her eyes,
and apparently wipe away an unbidden tear.  After a
pause of a few moments, during which time Jeanie
Irving remained mute, with her eyes fixed on the sword,
Mrs. Hamilton inquired of her friend what it was that
had brought her to Edinburgh in these stormy times.
In reply to this rather confusing question,
Mrs. Johnstone pressed Mrs. Hamilton's foot under the
table, at the same time darting a glance in the direction
of her niece, who entirely engrossed by her own
sad thoughts, did not overhear the question, as if to
warn Mrs. Hamilton against alluding to that subject in
her presence.

Shortly afterwards the eyelids of Jeanie Irving
displayed symptoms of closing, observing which, her
thoughtful hostess offered to conduct her to her
sleeping apartment; a proposal which poor Jeanie, overcome
as she was with a load of anxiety and grief, but too
gladly accepted; so, bidding her aunt an affectionate
good night, she followed Mrs. Hamilton, who led the way
into a small but neat bed-room, &c.  After expressing her
wishes for the comfort of her guest, left her to repose.
On Mrs. Hamilton's return to the parlour, both she and
Mrs. Johnstone drew in their seats considerably nearer
the hearth, with the evident intention of enjoying a
nice, comfortable gossip over the glowing embers; and
Mrs. Johnstone, as the reader will be prepared to hear,
regaled her friend with a long and circumstantial
account of her niece's love-affair, together with the sad
circumstances attending it, which had occasioned their
sudden visit to the Scottish capital.  "Wae's me,"
exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, at the close of her friend's
sad recital; "to think o' a bonnie young creature
having gone through sae much sorrow already, and
likely to suffer a hantle more ere she's by wi' it!
Oh! are'na the ways o' Providence dark and unscrutable to
the like o' us, poor blind mortals as we are?  Dearie
me, Mrs. Johnstone, but I sadly fear your niece winna
get much to comfort her here.  I fear it's a doomed
boat she's embarked in.  Willie Telford will never be
able to escape from his cruel captors.  Oh, but my
heart's wae for the poor sweet lassie; and ye say her
life's bound up in his?"  Mrs. Johnstone replied in the
affirmative, adding, "that it would be much better not
to damp the bright hopes entertained by Jeanie Irving
regarding her lover's escape."  "Don't be afraid o' me
saying anything that would harm the winsome bit
lassie," interrupted Mrs. Hamilton, raising the corner
of her apron to her eyes, "no, no; I know too well
what it is to suffer, ever to add to the distress o' a'
fellow-creature.  Well do I mind the day when my
husband gaed awa to the Pentlands.  'Jeanie,' says he,
'I feel uncommon sad at leaving you this day, my
woman,' says he; and says I, 'Why John?' for ye see I
didna quite take up his meaning, 'why should ye be so
grieved, when ye're going to fight a good fight for the
Covenant?' says I.  'Oh,' quo' he, 'I feel as if I never
should see you again,' says he; and wi' that I took to
the shivering all over.  'If that be your thought,' says
I, 'John, do bide wi' me, for I've many a time heard
people wiser than me say, it's ill going away frae
hame wi' sic gloomy thoughts in one's mind.'  'Ah, na,
Jeanie, my woman,' says he, 'may be it's a foolish
fancy on my part, an' it wadna do to yield to it;' an
wi' that he gaed awa, an' I never set my eyes on him
since syne.  Was'na that a sad, sad thing! an' many's
the time I've blamed mysel' since then for not making
him bide at hame, but ye see, it was a' in the cards,
an' what will be maun be."  Thus having testified her
submission to the stern decrees of fate, Mrs. Hamilton
turning to Mrs. Johnstone, abruptly demanded of her
if she was a believer in dreams?

"Well," said Mrs. Johnstone in reply, "I really do not
know what to say on that point, for I have had one or two
very strange dreams in my lifetime, which have been
fulfilled to the very letter; but whether it was that my mind
had been running so much on these matters during the
day-time, and that this caused them to form the subjects
of my dreams by night; or, that they were sent to me
as warnings of what was to happen, I cannot tell; but
what makes you ask that question, Mrs. Hamilton?"

"Oh, nothing, but just that I had a most extraordinary
dream the night before I heard tell o' my
husband's death, which, if you will not laugh at me for
relating such a thing, I should like to tell you."

On Mrs. Johnstone assuring her that the opinion she
herself entertained on the subject of her own dreams
was much too serious for her ever to ridicule those
narrated by other people, Mrs. Hamilton commenced
as follows:—

"Well, as I told you before, it was the night
preceding the day on which I heard tell o' the death of my
husband, and I could not well account for it; but the
whole o' that day I had been rale douie and dispirited,
just as one often feels before hearing bad news o' some
sort or other; so much so, that I gaed away early to
my bed, in hopes that a good sleep would do me good.
For a long time, not one wink o' sleep could I get, do
what I could, until at length, in a fit of desperation, I
sprang out of bed, and took a turn or two up and down
the room, to see if that would cool the fever of my
blood.  It did so, and shortly after I fell into a deep
slumber.  Well, Mrs. Johnstone, during that sleep I
had the following dream, which even yet impresses me
more than I should like to tell.  Methought the door
of my room suddenly opened, and in stepped a figure
all clad in white, and o' a fair and beauteous countenance,
which, approaching the side o' my bed, said in a sweet
mournful voice, which sounded just like the sighing
wind, 'Jeanie Hamilton, you must this instant rise and
follow me!'  Upon which I replied, 'And wherefore
am I to follow you?'  'Ask no questions,' said the
beautiful vision, 'but come away.'  Well, wi' that I raise
out o' my bed, almost as it were in spite o' myself, and
away I gaed after the figure, which seemed to me to flee
swiftly as a soul, when freed from its mortal coil, would
cleave the air in its passage to another world.  Onwards
we went, until we came to a dark dismal plain; and
never did I see anything so dreary as the aspect o' that
place!  Then my guide stopt, and taking me by the
hand, said, 'now I must lead you; our way lies through
this moor;' and I thought in my sleep that I trembled
all over, as hand in hand with the radiant figure I
traversed the desolate-looking plain, which to my horror
I perceived to be thickly strewn with dead bodies.  Oh,
how my heart sickened at that fearful sight! there they
lay, the old and the young, all huddled together,
sleeping the last long sleep of death.  'Stop, stop,' I said
to my guide; 'oh, do let me turn back—I cannot go
onwards; what means this? why have you brought me
here?'  The vision smiled sadly, and without a reply,
still motioned me onwards.  I could not resist.  A
mysterious indescribable power, as it were, impelled me to
follow, until at length it paused, and pointing to the
prostrate form of a man, whom to my horror I discovered
to be my husband, lying cold and stiff, with a deep
wound on his forehead, said, 'It was to take a last look
of him you loved so well that I brought you here,' and
with that it disappeared.  The cry of anguish which I
uttered on hearing this awoke me from my slumber:
and oh, Mrs. Johnstone, you cannot think what I
suffered from the remembrance of that dream, for, from
that moment, I felt convinced that my husband had
perished on the battle field.  Well, in the course of the
following day, when a near neighbour, who had been at
the Pentlands, came to apprise me of John Hamilton's
death, I told him, so convinced was I of the truth of
my dream of the previous night, before ever he had
spoken a word, that I knew he had come to tell me o'
my husband's death.  The man stood staring at me in
breathless astonishment, apparently at a loss to
comprehend my meaning, until I told him o' the strange
dream I had had; and what do you think, Mrs. Johnstone,"
added Mrs. Hamilton, sinking her voice to
a whisper, "my husband had been killed on the
previous day, and by a sabre wound on his forehead."

"Bless me," exclaimed Mrs. Johnstone, at the close
of her friend's narration, "that is the most singular
thing I ever heard; undoubtedly it was a warning sent
to prepare you for the sad news you were about to hear."

"That is just my own opinion on the matter," said
Mrs. Hamilton, as she proceeded to put a huge piece o'
coal on the top of the smouldering embers; after which
signal of preparation for departure, the friends retired
to rest.

Immediately after partaking of breakfast on the
following morning, Jeanie Irving expressed her intention
of at once proceeding to the Greyfriars' Church-yard,
to see if she could by any means obtain admittance to
William Telford.  Accordingly, accompanied by her
aunt, who would on no account permit her to go forth
alone—and carrying in her hand a small basket of
provisions, which the kindness of Mrs. Hamilton
supplied—she set forth on her mission.  The nearer they
advanced towards their destination, the more did poor
Jeanie Irving's heart sink within her; for the first time
since leaving home she dwelt cooly and calmly on the
arduous undertaking before her, and realized the real
difficulty of the task she had determined to achieve.
Mrs. Johnstone perceiving how much her niece was
engrossed by her own thoughts, abstained from addressing
her until they arrived at the Greyfriars' Church-yard,
the gate of which was surrounded by a numerous
crowd of men and women clamorous to obtain admission
to the prisoners.

The sentinels apparently took advantage of their
situation to annoy and insult the trembling petitioners,
many of whom they bade go about their business, after
having deprived them of the provisions they carried;
others, again, they permitted to enter, but not until
they had taken from them the greater portion of the
food and clothing they had brought to comfort and
assist their friends.  With a trembling heart and
faltering steps, Jeanie Irving was advancing towards the
sentinels, when a sweet feminine voice whispered in
her ear, "For God's sake! leave that worthy woman
behind, and take me with you; three going in at once
would excite suspicion, and there is one in that
church-yard I must see to-day, yet I lack courage to venture
in alone."  Jeanie Irving turned and looked on the
speaker, whom, although clad in the meanest attire,
and having her face concealed beneath a coarse woollen
shawl, she perceived by her graceful bearing to be
some person of consequence, and being of a kind
sympathising nature, she at once acceded to the wishes
of the stranger, and turning to her aunt, explained
the necessity there was of her remaining without
until she returned.  Mrs. Johnstone, who had also
arrived at her own conclusions regarding the individual
who was addressing her niece, expressed her willingness
to comply with her request; accordingly, Jeanie Irving,
whose arm was instantly grasped by the trembling
hand of her new acquaintance, continued her way
towards the gate.  Fortunately, the sentinel who stood
nearest the shrinking maidens proved to be less strict
than the others, and allowed them to enter the
church-yard without interruption.  With eager eyes did
Jeanie Irving and her companion scan each group of
men as they passed, in order to discover the faces of
those so fondly loved.  Apparently the stranger soon
discovered him she sought, for suddenly disengaging
her arm from that of Jeanie's, she bade God bless
her! for her kindness, and darted towards an elegant young
man, evidently of high birth, who stood a little way
apart from the others.  Jeanie Irving paused for a
few seconds to witness the rapturous greeting exchanged
between the pair, and again continued her wistful
search.

In the meantime, William Telford was standing in a
remote corner of the church-yard engaged in earnest
conversation with three others, when the trembling
shrinking form of a young girl advancing towards them caught
his eye.  One glance was sufficient; and Jeanie Irving
was that instant clasped in the arms of her lover.

"Jeanie," gasped forth William Telford, as again and
again he kissed the cold lips of her who lay speechless
on his shoulder.  He could say no more.  Both were
overcome with an excess of joy almost painful in its
intensity, but hearts and eyes were busy during the
time that speech was denied them.

Those individuals who were standing near them,
respecting the feelings of the lovers, withdrew a little
aside, in order that they might enjoy uninterrupted
intercourse.

"Willie!" at length Jeanie Irving found voice to say.
"is it only a dream, or am I indeed gazing once more
on your dear face, which has never for one moment been
absent from me?  it has haunted my thoughts by day,
and my dreams by night; but oh, Willie," she
continued, "I must and will get you from hence; my
heart will break in twain should you remain much
longer in this damp unwholesome place; but how can
it be managed?"

"Think not of such a thing, my dearest girl,"
replied William Telford; "any efforts on your part
would only entail destruction on your own head,
and add fresh misery to that I am called upon to
endure."

Perceiving an expression of intense anguish pass
across the face of the disappointed maiden, as he
attempted to dissuade her from her purpose, William
Telford forbore saying any more on the subject, but
turned the conversation into another channel, by
demanding of Jeanie Irving how she had been since
last he saw her, and whether his mother and brother
were well.  To these inquires on the part of her lover,
Jeanie replied, by giving him a detailed account of all
that had happened since his departure; dwelling on
the grief she experienced on beholding the sad
procession pass along the streets of Linlithgow, and
how she longed to spring from the window to embrace
him again, and, if need be, share his imprisonment.
To all of which proofs of love on the part of her he
idolised, William Telford could only reply, by straining
her still closer to his bosom, and imprinting a dozen
kisses on her forehead and lips.

"My poor Willie, how thin and pale you are!" said
Jeanie Irving, gazing tenderly in her lover's face, while
tears ran down her cheeks as she spoke, "but sit your
ways down and partake of what I have brought you,
for it is easy to see from your appearance that many
suns have risen and set since you have eaten a good
meal;" so saying, she uncovered her basket, and making
William Telford seat himself on a neighbouring mound,
supplied him with eatables from her store.  "And
now," she said after her lover had finished his repast,
"you must in your turn inform me how you and your
companions have been treated since you came to this
horrid place."

"Like brute beasts," was the indignant reply, "and
not like men possessing immortal souls.  Night after
night have we been forced to lie in the open air
without a covering of any kind to protect us from the
rain or the unwholesome dews of evening.  And should
any of us chance to raise our heads, in order to change
our position, or to look about us, we are fired at
immediately.  Only last night there was a poor fellow
shot beside me for merely raising his head, forgetful for
a moment of the savages who were near him watching
with lynx eyes his slightest movement."

"Oh, Jeanie," continued her lover, "many and
many a time have I lain down cold and supperless,
with nought in the world to comfort me but thoughts
of you; when the calm cold stars shone above my head
like so many bright spirits watching over and pitying
us in our loneliness and misery.  Oft have I for hours
gazed and gazed, while my companions around me
were locked in slumber, wishing myself an inhabitant
of the brighter world beyond.  But now, dearest Jeanie,
the sight of your sweet face has in a great measure
restored me to myself, and I would fain live for your sake."

"And you shall live," passionately exclaimed the
enthusiastic girl; "I will throw myself at the feet of
the Duke of Monmouth, nor rise from that posture
until he has granted my request."

"You would never be allowed to see him," sadly
replied her lover; "there are those around the Duke's
person who would jealously exclude any of our party
from the presence of his Grace.  He is a noble fellow,"
continued William Telford, "and were every one like
him, we should not have been pining here like so many
cattle in a pen."

"Promise me, Willie," suddenly interrupted Jeanie
Irving, "that should I contrive means of escape from
this horrid place, you will take advantage of them."

William Telford paused one moment ere he replied,
but at length he said, placing his hand in hers, "For
your sake, clearest, and that of my widowed mother, I
will; but oh, take care, Jeanie, both for your own sake
and mine, what you do; consider how precious you
are to me; plunge not yourself into difficulties on my
account; it may be that our captors may relent, and
and I may yet be free."

"Trust them not," replied Jeanie Irving, "they
resemble the tiger, which once having tasted blood,
thirsteth for more; no, no, my Willie," she continued, "a
woman's wit must save you here; so trust to me for
speedy deliverance—but in the meantime I must be
going, for I left my kind aunt at the gate, who will
necessarily feel anxious should I not return soon."

"Why came she not in with you?" inquired her lover.

Whereupon, Jeanie Irving recounted to him the
singular adventure she had met with at the gate, and
asked of him who the handsome young man was the
stranger had flown to, on entering the church-yard, but
William Telford could afford her no information on the
subject.

After a warm embrace, and an assurance on the part
of Jeanie Irving that she should, without fail, return on
the morrow, the lovers parted, and hastening past the
sentinels, who did not seek to detain her, Jeanie
rejoined her aunt, who was awaiting her return with
the utmost impatience.  On the following morning.
Mrs. Johnstone and her niece again set off for the
Greyfriars' Church-yard, the latter with a heart lightened
of half its former load of grief, and indulging in sweet
anticipations respecting the approaching interview.  On
nearing the gate, they observed groups of people
standing conversing together, evidently discussing some
important piece of news, many of them with smiles of
satisfaction on their faces, while the sentinels walked
their rounds with gloomy dissatisfied countenances, as
if something had occurred to make them more than
usually sullen.  Mrs. Johnstone having inquired of a
bystander the reason of the prevailing excitement, was
informed that, on the previous evening, young Lord
C—— had escaped from the church-yard, disguised as
a female, and that the sentinels were dreadfully annoyed
at the occurrence, as they had received particular
directions regarding his safety.  The thoughts of Jeanie
Irving instantly reverted to the interesting couple
of the preceding day; and she fervently thanked the
Almighty that she had in some measure been
instrumental in the young man's escape, while the idea,
instantly occurred to her, that in a similar manner
might William Telford be conveyed from thence.  This
time, on advancing to the gate to seek admittance, the
sentinels gathered round them, uncovered the basket,
helped themselves pretty largely to a portion of its
contents, and examined both women closely in order to as
certain that they carried no disguises about with them
after which precautions they permitted them to pass.
Jeanie Irving immediately made her lover acquainted
with the escape of Lord C——, and informed him as to
her intentions, of taking him from thence in a similar
disguise.  Sick and enfeebled from his close confinement
in the damp church-yard, William Telford listened
eagerly to Jeanie's proposals, and it was finally agreed
upon between them that she should watch well her
opportunity when the attention of the sentinels was
otherwise occupied, to steal in with a bundle of women's
clothes, array her lover in the feminine garb, and
embrace a favourable moment to lead him forth.  In
pursuance of this arrangement, each morning beheld Jeanie
Irving stationed near the gate watching with eager eyes
the least symptom of abated vigilance on the part of the
sentinels to venture in.  During the space of five days
no suitable opportunity presented itself, but on the
morning of the sixth the sentinels being attracted from
their posts by a street broil, Jeanie darted past them
with the rapidity of lightning, and flew towards her
beloved William, bearing the precious burthen.
Withdrawing a little apart from his companions, young
Telford was speedily arrayed in his disguise, and many
of those who witnessed the proceeding bade God bless
and prosper him in his attempt.  All being now in
readiness, Jeanie Irving, whose nerves were strung up to the
highest degree of tension, took the arm of her lover
and advanced toward the outer gate.  Oh, what a
moment was this!  They had passed two of the sentinels
in safety, but just as they arrived within reach of the
other, whose back was at that moment turned towards
them, he wheeled suddenly round, and staring Jeanie
full in the face, advanced towards her, exclaiming, "So,
ho, my pretty maiden, you would fain retreat without
paying toll; come now, don't be in such haste, but just
tarry a moment, and let us become better acquainted."  So
saying, the soldier put his arm around her waist and
attempted to snatch a kiss.  At sight of this indignity
offered to the woman he loved, the blood rushed to
William Telford's brow, and darting on the brutal
fellow, he dealt him such a blow on the head as felled
him to the ground.

"What, ho, treachery, treachery!" shouted the other
sentinels, suddenly apprized of the real state of affairs,
and darting upon William Telford, they tore off his
disguise, and dragged him back to the church-yard,
kicking and swearing at him the while.  Pale and
speechless, with horror at the failure of her scheme,
Jeanie Irving attempted to rejoin her lover, but was
rudely pushed back by the infuriated sentinels, who
threatened that, if she ever dared to show her face there
again, they should tear her limb from limb.  In an
agony of feeling impossible to describe, Jeanie Irving
dragged her fainting steps to her temporary home, and
scarcely had she crossed the threshold ere her trembling
limbs gave way, and she fell senseless on the floor.
With a cry of grief, Mrs. Johnstone flew to her side,
and raising her tenderly in her arms, with the assistance
of Mrs. Hamilton, conveyed her to her bed, and strove
by every means in her power to soothe and comfort
her in her distress.  But the fearful excitement the
poor girl had undergone during the last few weeks
proved to have been too much for her delicate nature to
sustain; reason forsook her throne, and for weeks her
life trembled in the balance.  We must now leave
Jeanie Irving stretched on her bed of sickness, and
return once more to her unfortunate lover, whose
situation was rendered even more wretched than before
on account of the brutal treatment of his captors, who
incensed beyond measure at his attempted escape,
strove by every possible means to embitter his already
unbearable lot.

About this time a bond, by permission of the king,
was presented for the prisoners to sign, certifying that
they should under no pretext whatever take up arms in
future against His Majesty; and those who appended
their names to this document were instantly to be set
free.  Many of the poor men pining for their homes,
and weary of their long confinement, signed it readily,
in order to obtain their freedom.

Yet a numerous body, amongst whom was William
Telford, refused to sign the paper, and, indeed, many
of them were denied the opportunity of doing so.  Then
an order arrived from King Charles, to the effect, that
thirteen of the ringleaders of the rebellion, and who
approved of the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, were to
be placed in prison for a time, and then executed.
Twelve had been already selected from amongst the
prisoners, and either accidentally or designedly, the fatal
paper was placed in the hands of young Telford; he
took it with an untrembling hand, and with the fear of
death before his eyes, wrote, that he could not on his
conscience declare that he esteemed himself wrong in
taking up arms in the cause of the Covenant, or, that
he considered the killing of the perjured prelate,
Archbishop Sharpe, a murder; and this done, he was marched
off with his companions.  The determination of these
devoted men to suffer death in support of their opinions
created a great sensation among the more moderate
portion of their party; and immediately on their
arrival at the prison, they were awaited upon by several
of their clergymen, who impressed upon them the folly,
not to say criminality, of sacrificing their lives, when,
by merely signing the required bond, they might long
be spared to comfort their weeping friends.  Eleven of
them, persuaded by their ministers, appended their
names to the document, but the remaining two, one of
whom was William Telford—whose pride would not
allow him to retract his opinions—remained firm in
their determination to suffer death rather than yield
the required submission.

These two prisoners were supported in their
inflexible resolution by their companions, who while
visiting them in prison, expressed their sorrow and
repentance at having signed the bond, stating that
since then, they had neither known peace nor happiness
as their inhuman adversaries treated them, in
consequence of their having done so, with the utmost
cruelty and contempt, styling them turn-coats, and
doing all in their power to render them wretched at the
thoughts of what they had done.

Shortly afterwards, the companion of William Telford
was publicly executed, while he himself, from some
unknown cause, was led back to his old quarters in the
Greyfriars' Church-yard.

Months rolled on, and as the winter advanced the
prisoners began to experience the bad effects of their
long exposure in the open air; indeed, so sick and
enfeebled did they become, that the public authorities at
once saw the necessity of adopting means for their
removal.  A memorial to that effect was despatched to
the King, who gave orders that a ship should
immediately be provided to transport the prisoners to
Barbadoes, where they were to be sold as slaves; yet so
little were His Majesty's orders obeyed in this respect,
that it was the fifteenth of November ere the captain
declared the ship in readiness to receive them.  In
order to get the prisoners removed to the ship without
the knowledge of their friends, they were conveyed
away at an early hour in the morning, and on their
arrival on deck they were instantly stowed away under
the hatches, which were carefully chained and locked,
in order to prevent their escape.  Twelve days was the
ship detained in Leith Roads, and during that time the
poor men were treated with the greatest inhumanity.

The narrow space in which they were enclosed was
scarcely of size sufficient to contain a hundred men,
and yet nearly thrice that number were thrust in by
their unfeeling jailors; men, regardless alike of the
safety and misery of those entrusted to their care.
Several of the poor fellows were so dreadfully ill, that
their more robust companions were obliged to stand
upright, in order to afford their sick companions room to
stretch their tortured limbs.  The prayers and entreaties
addressed to the captain by the almost stifled prisoners
that some of their party might be allowed to go upon
deck, were for a long time unheeded, until at length
he was obliged, from the continued indisposition of the
men, to accede to their request.  Accordingly, about
fifty of the strongest were removed to upper deck,
where they soon recovered from the sad effects of their
late confinement.  The weather hitherto had been
favourable for their voyage, but soon a succession of
fearful storms arose, and the ship seemed entirely at
the mercy of the waves.  On the tenth of December
the crew found themselves lying off Orkney, a coast
dreaded by sailors, on account of the stormy sea
surrounding it.  Perceiving for the first time the full
extent of their danger, the captain, as the ship was
already within reach of the shore, ordered the sailors
to cast anchor, which being done, they awaited with
impatience the abating of the storm.  But towards
evening the hurricane increased in intensity, and about
ten o'clock at night the sea, lashed into fury by the
terrific violence of the wind, forced the ill-fated ship
from its anchor, and dashed it in twain on the rocks.
Hearing the dreadful crash, the wretched prisoners,
fearing shipwreck, implored to be put on shore,
wherever the captain pleased, but their request was
denied; and the sailors in terror and dismay tore
down the mast, and laying it between the vessel and
the rocks, prepared to save themselves from impending
shipwreck.  "My God," exclaimed William Telford,
who was one of those placed upon deck, horrified on
seeing that the crew made no attempts to open the
hatches, which, chained and locked, confined the
suffering inmates in a living tomb, "are you going to
leave your prisoners thus?"  At this instant a huge
wave dashed over the ship, and overwhelming several
of the men exposed to its fury in its fearful embrace,
consigned them to a watery grave.  "Men, fiends!"
reiterated young Telford, making frantic efforts to
break open the hatches as he spoke, "there will be a
fearful reckoning to pay for this night's work."  With
shouts of derisive laughter, the sailors crossed the
prostrate mast, and reached the shore in safety.  Some
of the poor fellows who imitated their example were
thrown back by them into the sea, but about forty, in
spite of all efforts made to destroy them, wore successful
in their attempt.

Perceiving the imminent danger in remaining where
he was, William Telford, having abandoned all hopes
of freeing the prisoners, prepared to follow his
companions along the mast.  On his reaching the
beach, one of the sailors strove to prevent his
landing, but greatly his superior in strength and agility,
young Telford seized the ruffian by the throat, and
dashed him senseless on the ground.  And now was
accomplished one of the most fearful tragedies ever
recorded in history.  The storm at this moment
seemed to have reached the climax of its fury; the
thunder rolled, and the blue lightning danced around
the sinking vessel, while foam crested waves rose
mountains high, and then dashed with terrific violence
over her yielding spars.  But louder than the crash of
the pealing thunder—far above the roaring of the
mighty billows was heard the death-wail of the
wretched prisoners, as they sunk beneath the heaving
tallows; there to remain until that dread day when
the murdered and their murderers shall stand before
the great white throne—when the sea, at the command
of its Creator, shall yield up the dead which have slept
for ages in its mighty depths.

Months have elapsed since the fearful event we have
just narrated took place, and Jeanie Irving is once
more seated by her father's fireside, still pale and
exhausted from the effects of her late severe illness.  She
has heard of the fatal shipwreck—she knows that her
lover is no more, and has learned to say with resignation,
"Not my will, but thine be done!"  It is Sunday
evening, and the grey-haired father is seated at the
table with the Bible before him, from which he reads
aloud words of joy and consolation.  It is the fourteenth
chapter of John, and Jeanie, her eyes filled with tears,
is listening with breathless attention to the beautiful
words of inspiration, when a low tap at the door arrests
their attention.  No answer is vouchsafed in return to
the invitation to enter, but a quick step is heard in the
passage, it approaches nearer, the door opens, and Jeanie
Irving falls fainting into the arms of William Telford.

Now, added Mr. Anderson, at the conclusion of his
story, you must not imagine, although I have dwelt
at a considerable length on the sufferings causelessly
inflicted on the Covenanters, that I altogether take
their part, far from it; as I think in some instances
they were much to blame.  For instance, when they
assembled together for the purpose of having divine
worship, instead of going quietly and respectably
with only their Bibles in their hands as beseemeth
Christians, there they were armed with swords and
guns, only too ready to use them should occasion
require, that was entirely going against the doctrine
of St. Paul, who says, "For though we walk in the flesh,
we do not war after the flesh.  (For the weapons of our
warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to
the pulling down of strongholds.")  Why, if we were
to assemble in that way now-a-days, singing psalms of
defiance in the glens, with fire-arms beside us, wouldn't
the present government be down upon us in no time? and
quite right too, say I; for I am quite of opinion
they were as much to blame as the royalists, and if
they could, would have been quite as cruel.  Look, for
instance, at the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, although
there can be no doubt he was a cruel, relentless foe to
their cause, yet they should have respected his grey
hairs, and spared him at the request of his daughter.
And, again, I do not believe all the stories told in the
Scotch Worthies, such as that one of Peden and some
of his friends being saved while on the moors, just at
the moment the dragoons were coming down upon them,
by his praying that a mist might surround them to
the discomfiture of their enemies, and that instantly,
on his ceasing to pray, they were enveloped in a fog.
I do not mean to say that a mist did not conceal them
from their enemies, but that it was chance, and not a
miracle, as they pretended.  For many a time, when on
the heights myself, have I been overtaken by these fogs,
which come down so suddenly that there is no escaping
from them, and very disagreeable things they are when
one is far removed from a house of any kind, and there
is not light sufficient to guide one on one's way.

"Ay, ay," said Mrs. Anderson, addressing her husband,
"but for all that ye say, Mr. Peden was a great
prophet;" then turning towards me, she continued.
"when I was a little girl I resided for some time wi' a
farmer who lived on the celebrated farm of Wellwood,
near Airdsmoss, and used to hear a great deal about
Mr. Peden.  You must know that he is buried at
Cumnock.  He was first interred in the Laird of
Affleck's aisle (Auchenleck), a mile distant, but was
lifted, as he predicted, by soldiers, and conveyed to the
foot of Cumnock gallows, which stands near the village.
That spot soon came to be used as the public
burying-grouud, and, in my younger days, was a very pretty
rustic graveyard.  But it is said that before his death,
Peden stated that after his second burial a *thorn bush*
should grow at his head, and an *ash tree* at his feet;
and when the branches of each met, there should be a
bloody battle in Shankson wood (about a mile distant),
where the blood would be up to the horse's bridles.  The
thorn did grow, and is there yet, I believe, and many
slips have been taken from it by strangers, but the ash is
said to have been pulled up ere it was large enough to
touch the thorn, so the battle never took place.  And
I mind weel o' a strange epitaph that was on an ancient
tomb-stone beside Peden's grave, which, if I remember
rightly, was something like this:—'Here lies David
Dun and Simon Paterson, who *was* shot in this place
for their adherence to the word of God and the
covenanting work of reformation, 1685,' (the black
year.)  There was also another stone, just in front of
Peden's grave, but I forget the precise words; they ran,
however, nearly as follows:—

   |  'Halt, passengers, and I will tell to thee
   |    For what and how I here did dee,
   |      For always in my station.
   |      Adhering to the work of reformation,
   |    I was in on time of prayer
   |      By Douglas (Colonel) shot;
   |      O, cruelty, ne'er to be forgot.'

Now ye see," she continued, "there are no less than
three poor men, there may be more for all that I mind
o', lying in Cumnock burying-ground who were shot
by the royalists, and I think, Willie," she said, again
addressing her husband, "seeing that your own
forefathers all fought in the good cause, you need'na
say just sae much in favour o' their adversaries."

"Dear me," said Mr. Anderson, in reply to this
rebuke, "I am not denying that there were many cruel
actions done in these sad times, but I am just saying
that I don't believe all the stories told in the Scots'
Worthies: do you imagine for one moment that I can
credit that one about open, open to the Duke o'
Drumlanrig?  No, nor any other sensible person."

"What one was that?" I inquired.

"Oh, just some idle tale not worth repeating——"

"Here it is; let the lady read it," interrupted
Mrs. Anderson, taking as she spoke a book from the shelf,
which, after cleansing off a vast accumulation of dust
she handed to me, saying as she did so, "maybe it is
true, and maybe it is no, but the like o' us canna pretend
to ken onything about it."

After a little research, in which I was aided by
Mrs. Anderson's directions, I at length came to the
following:—"Concerning the death of the Duke of
Drumlanrig *alias* Queensbury, we have this curious
relation—that a young man, perfectly well acquainted with
the Duke, (probably one of those he had formerly
banished,) being now a sailor, and in foreign countries,
while the ship was upon the coast of Naples or Sicily,
near one of the burning mountains, one day espied a
coach and six all in black going towards the mount with
great velocity; when it passed them they were so near
that they could perceive the dimensions and features
of one that sat in it.

"The young man said to the others, 'If I could
believe my own eyes, or if ever I saw one like another,
I would say, that is the Duke.'  In an instant they
heard an audible voice echo from the mount, 'Open to
the Duke of Drumlanrig!' upon which the coach, now
near the mount, evanished.

"The young man took pen and paper, and marked
down the month, day, and hour of the apparition; and
upon his return, found it exactly answer the day and
hour the Duke died."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LAIRD OF CULZEAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE LAIRD OF CULZEAN.

.. vspace:: 2

"I think," said Mrs. Anderson, as she carefully
restored the Scots' Worthies to its late position on the
book-shelf, "that whoever got the disposal of the souls
and bodies of these persecutors after their death seems
to have treated them wi' a' the respect becoming their
high station in this world, for it was always coaches
and six, and coaches and four that came for them.
You see, it was a coach and six that came for the Duke
o' Drumlanrig, and there was the Laird of Culzean,
a wickeder old fellow never lived, and just the same
kind o' thing occurred at the time o' his death."

"Tush, nonsense, wife," interrupted Mr. Anderson.

"But it's no nonsense," rejoined the dame, "for my
forefathers lived a long time near Culzean Castle, and
many and many a time have they told me when a child
of what was seen the night the Laird died; and as the
lady seems to wish to hear all she can about these
things, I'll just give her the account given me by my
grandfather, who was as decent an old man as ever
lived, though I say it that shouldna' say it."

Having expressed the pleasure I should feel in
listening to her story, Mrs. Anderson put away her sewing,
and, resting her arms comfortably on her knees, related
the following wild tale, which, illustrating as it does
the strange superstitions of the times in which these
men lived, I here render as nearly as possible in the
words of the narrator:—

The old Castle of Culzean, standing as it does on a
rock rising two or three hundred feet above the level of
the sea, is probably one of the finest marine seats in the
kingdom.  At the foot of the rock on which the castle
stands, there are some romantic caves, more familiarly
known as the "Fairy coves of Culzean."  Many and
many a night have I played about there, when the
setting sun caused the dancing waves to glitter like
gold, as they rippled over the pebbled beach towards
the entrance to the caves.  It was said that King Robert
Bruce and his followers took refuge there, after
landing from Arran, until all was in readiness for their
enterprise.  They are also particularly mentioned by
Burns in his well-known "Hallowe'en."  But still, for
all that they were so beautiful, there were few o' the
country people that cared to venture near them
after it was dark, on account of the many strange
things that were said to have been done there during
the time of the wicked Laird of Culzean.  Ay, but it
was he that was the cruel man!  It would make the
very hairs on your head stand on end could ye but hear
tell of all the cruelties he practised towards the
Covenanters, while permitted to remain on earth.
Oh, dearie me, how people in these days could dare to
ask the Almighty's blessing on their dark deeds beats
my comprehension altogether; but now to begin wi'
my tale:—In the parish of Kirkmichael there lived
an aged widow, called Mrs. M'Adam, who had an only
son named Gilbert; and a nice quiet young man he was,
and greatly beloved of his mother, for she was a lone
woman, and had no one in the world to look to but him;
and well did he repay her affection, poor lad, for there
was nothing he thought too good for his mother.
When these dreadful religious disturbances broke out,
like many other young men who were at all given to
think seriously about their spiritual welfare, Gilbert
M'Adam was a Covenanter; but he did not join the
body, as numbers did, merely for diversion, or from a
hatred to the higher authorities, but simply from
a sincere belief in the soundness of their doctrine and
sympathy for their wrongs.  His mother was also o'
that way o' thinking, and, being a godly living person,
she was greatly respected in the neighbourhood where
she resided.  Well, one wild stormy night, as
Mrs. M'Adam and her son were seated by the side of the
kitchen fire, the door opened and in entered their
minister, a most worthy man, who had been forced,
like many others, to leave his church, and wander up
and down the country, teaching and ministering to
the spiritual wants of his people whenever an
opportunity presented itself.  Greeting them with the
blessing of peace, Mr. Weir—I think that was the
minister's name—proceeded to encumber himself of his
dripping cloak, while Gilbert flew to place a chair for
him near the blazing hearth, and Mrs. M'Adam
proceeded to put on the table the best her store afforded,
to succour her esteemed guest.  After having partaken
of the eatables set before him, Mr. Weir informed his
kind entertainers that he intended holding a prayer
meeting on the following morning, in a retired glen
near Kirkmichael, where he expected a numerous
attendance, as the inhabitants of the surrounding
districts had been apprized of his intention, and
expressed great joy at the intelligence, as they had
lately been like sheep without a shepherd.  In
reply to some anxious inquiries on the part of
Mrs. M'Adam, regarding the aspect of affairs throughout the
country.  Mr. Weir informed her that as yet the hand
of the smiter was not stayed, but rather on the
contrary, as their persecutors seemed more than ever
zealous in their bloody work; and that, in the course
of his wanderings in Dumfriesshire, many cruel
murders had come under his knowledge, two of which,
from the melancholy circumstances attending them,
had made an indelible impression on his mind.  At
the request of Mrs. M'Adam, Mr. Weir related the
following:—

"Late one evening, during the month of last
February, while an aged woman of the name of Martin,
who resides in the parish of Barr, was sitting by her
hearth conversing with her son David, and a young
man named Edward Kyan, who had but recently come
from Galloway, a party of dragoons, under the command
of Lieutenant Douglas, surrounded the house.  Kyan,
on being made aware of their approach, leaped through
a side window, and took refuge behind the wall of the
cottage.  But his retreat being discovered by the
soldiers, they dragged him forth into an adjoining
yard.  After being asked where he lived, without any
further questions, or even being allowed to prepare for
eternity, the said lieutenant shot him through the head,
and then discharging his other pistol, shot him again
as he lay on the ground quivering in the agonies of
death.  Not contented with this, one of the dragoons,
pretending he was still alive, shot him again.  After
having glutted their vengeance on this unfortunate
youth—whose only crime was that of concealing
himself—the dragoons rushed into the house, and,
bringing forth David Martin, tore off his coat, and
placed him beside the mangled body of his friend.
One of the soldiers more compassionate than the others,
and moved at the sight of the mother's tears, besought
his officer to spare him another day, and stepped in
between the kneeling man and his executioners, who
stood with their pieces levelled, awaiting the signal of
destruction.  After much entreaty, the lieutenant was
prevailed upon to spare his life; but so great was the
terror of the poor man, that he lost his reason, and
is now a helpless bed-ridden maniac.  And now,"
continued Mr. Weir, "the other sad affair I am about
to relate—the particulars of which came under my
own observation—will serve, in some measure, to
enlighten you as to the manner in which these cruel
men perform their bloody work:—

"In the course of the same month, I went with a
friend, in whose house I was then staying, to attend
communion service in a secluded part of the parish
of Irongray.  The morning was cold and damp, and a
dull leaden mist overshadowed the landscape, as if
nature had donned her saddest garments on this
melancholy occasion—still the meeting was numerously
attended.  It was indeed an impressive sight to
witness these poor people—many of whom seemed
overcome with fatigue from the distance they had
travelled—assembled on this sequestered heath, to
hear the word of God, and partake of his blessed
ordinance.

"The service had just commenced, when the
sentinels stationed on the heights gave notice that
a party of dragoons were approaching.

"On receipt of this warning, the meeting instantly
dispersed.  Some fled towards the banks of the Cairn,
and others towards the moor of Lochen-Kit, in the
parish of Uir.  Here the six poor men who suffered
on this occasion were captured by their pursuers.
Four of them were shot dead on the spot.  The other
two, whose names were Alexander M'Cubbin, of the
parish of Glencairn, and Edward Gordon, from
Galloway, were taken by the captain to the bridge of Orr,
where the Laird of Lag was busily employed in carrying
on the work of persecution.  Immediately on their
arrival, Lag wished to pass sentence of death upon
them, because they refused to swear; but the captain
insisted that, as four of them had been summarily
despatched, an assize should be called to judge and
condemn them.  Lag swore fiercely that he should call
no assizes, still the captain got the matter deferred till
another day.  On the following morning they were
conveyed to the parish of Irongray, by Lag and his
party, and hanged on an oak tree near the church of
Irongray, at the foot of which they lie interred.  When
about to suffer death, an acquaintance of M'Cubin's
inquired of him if he had any message to send
to his wife, upon which he answered, that he
commended her and his two children to the care of
a merciful God; and, having bestowed his
forgiveness on the person employed to hang him, he,
with his companion, suffered death with much cheerfulness.

"Immediately on the departure of the soldiers, the
bodies of these martyrs received Christian burial, and a
simple stone was erected on the solitary heath to mark
the spot where they fell."[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Epitaph upon a stone in a moor near Lochon-Kit, on the grave of
John Gordon, William Stuart, William Heron, and John Wallace, shot
by Captain Bruce:—

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Behold here in this Wilderness we lie,
   Four Witnesses of hellish cruelty.
   Our eyes and blood could not their ire assuage
   But when we're dead they did against us rage,
   That match the like we think ye scarcely can;
   Except the Turks, or Duke de Alva's men."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

Epitaph on the grave-stone lying on Edward Gordon, and Alexander
M'Cubin, executed at the Church of Irongray, at the command of the
laird of Lag and Captain Bruce:—

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small noindent white-space-pre-line

   "As Lag and bloody Bruce command,
   We were hung up by hellish hand,
   And thus their furious rage to stay,
   We died at Kirk of Irongray.
   Here now in peace sweet rest we take,
   Once murder'd for religion's sake."

.. vspace:: 3

"Puir murdered things," sobbed forth Mrs. M'Adam
at the close of the minister's narration, raising her
handkerchief to her eyes as she spoke.  "Oh dear,
dear! is'na it sad to think that religion, whilk ought
to make men sae peaceful and godly in their lives,
should, in many cases, just hae the contrary effect.
See now at the present time, a' men are set by the ears,
and what is it all about?—a mere trifle—just a
difference o' opinion.  How true are the words of Him
that knew all things, 'I am come not to bring peace
on earth, but a sword!'"

"Yes," was the reply, "but I am afraid religion is
often made a cloak to cover bitter feelings engendered
by party strife.  No one possessing the meek Christian
feeling of brotherly love and charity towards all men,
could thus wantonly imbrue his hands in the blood of
a fellow-creature."

"'Deed no, Mr. Weir, you say very true; they are no'
the richt sort o' Christians who delight in bloodshed and
warfare; a wheen apostates are they; wolves in sheep's
clothing, whom we are expressly warned against——"

Here Gilbert, who knew from experience that
whenever his mother got upon these topics she could
continue, without pausing to draw her breath, until
pretty near midnight, suggested to her the propriety of
Mr. Weir retiring early to rest, as he would need to rise
betimes in the following morning.  The worthy minister,
homeless and ill-provided for as he was, accepted
with gratitude the humble accommodation offered to
him by the poor but hospitable widow, and shortly
afterwards withdrew to his sleeping apartment.  By
the early hour of six o'clock, Mr. Weir, accompanied by
Mrs. M'Adam and her son, was on his way to the place
of meeting.  The morning was fine, and a numerous
concourse of people, many of whom had come from a
great distance, were assembled to hear their beloved
Clergyman.  The incense of praise had been offered up,
and Mr. Weir was about to commence his sermon,
when a party of soldiers appeared in sight.  These
proved to be a body of militia, under the command of
Sir Archibald Kennedy of Culzean, then scouring the
country in search of prey.  Mr. Weir on perceiving
their approach, closed his Bible, and exhorting his
hearers to remain quietly in their seats, went forward
to meet the hostile band.

"Why come ye thus to interrupt us in our
devotions?" he inquired, when the rapid advance of
the soldiers brought them within hearing.

"You shall soon see that, you old canting hypocrite,"
thundered forth Sir Archibald Kennedy in his fiercest
tones.  "I'll teach you to come here with your
psalm-singing, dismal faced companions.  Come, be off
with you, or I will this instant send a brace of bullets
through that thick head-piece of yours!"

"Not at thy command, thou man of Belial," said
Mr. Weir, "shall I abandon my post in the hour of
danger!  These are the souls the Lord hath committed
to my charge, and woe be unto me or any other of my
brethren who shall neglect their sacred trust——"

"Cease your prating, you old dotard: soldiers, do
your duty;" so saying, the fiery leader wheeled his
horse round, and stood with his back purposely placed
towards Mr. Weir, who, seizing him by the arm,
exclaimed, "Do unto me even as ye list, but let these
go their way.  Oh, slay them not!"

"Men, do your duty!" was the only answer vouchsafed
to this request; and Sir Archibald Kennedy, as if to
set an example to his followers, drew his sword from
its scabbard, and advanced towards the Covenanters,
who, in accordance with their minister's wishes, had
remained quietly seated, awaiting the issue in breathless
suspense.

"Fly, my children, fly!" cried Mr. Weir, perceiving
that offensive measures were about to be taken by the
soldiers.  "Oh God! it is too late," he exclaimed, as
the blood-thirsty men rushed eagerly on the helpless
group; and covering his face with his hands, to shut
out the bloody scene about to ensue, he remained for a
few moments motionless as a statue, while his lips
moved, as though he was engaged in prayer.

In the meantime, Gilbert M'Adam, armed with a
stout walking-stick, prepared to defend his aged
mother, who clung to his arm in an agony of terror;
but just as he raised it to ward off a blow from the
butt-end of a musket, it was stricken from his grasp,
and he was left at the mercy of his foe.  Fortunately
for his safety, a man stationed near him that instant
darted on the soldier, and wrenched the gun out of his
hand, which went off in the struggle, wounding a
woman standing near the combatants.  Perceiving
the folly of attempting self-defence, Gilbert M'Adam
seized his mother in his arms, and, making his way out
of the affray, ran hastily towards a hill, situated a
little way off.  He had gained the foot of the eminence,
when the clatter of a horse's feet behind them causing
the young man to turn round, a pistol bullet, discharged
by the advancing horseman, entered his brain, and
Gilbert M'Adam fell dead at his mother's feet.  With
a loud laugh of insolent triumph, Sir Archibald Kennedy—for
it was he who fired the deadly shot—was about to
return to the scene of action, when, with a scream that
in its agony resembled nothing earthly, the frenzied
mother, with a strength almost supernatural, seized
the horse's bridle, and compelled him to remain
stationary, while she burst forth thus:—

"Hence to your stronghold, you cruel bird of prey!
Back to your proud towers, ye accursed of the Lord! but
think not, in the pride of your heart, that this
day's work will pass unavenged, for a day of
retribution awaits you.  In the silence of the night, when
the meanest hind in the land is locked in slumber, shall
a mother's curse ring in your ears till ye madden at
the thought.  From this day henceforward life shall be
a burden to you: then—then, when the hour of death
approaches, shall your horrors be redoubled ten-fold.
No priest will be able to quench the ceaseless flames
which burn in your bosom, and no words of affection
soothe your dying pillow; for the torments of a lost
soul will be yours, and in your last moments let the
thoughts of this day's work add another drop to your
cup of misery."

.. _`"Having given vent to these terrible maledictions, Mrs M'Adam withdrew her hand from the horse's bridle, and motioning Sir Archbald Kennedy to begone, threw himself sobbing and screaming on the corpse of her son."`:

.. figure:: images/img-080.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "Having given vent to these terrible maledictions, Mrs M'Adam withdrew her hand from the horse's bridle, and motioning Sir Archbald Kennedy to begone, threw himself sobbing and screaming on the corpse of her son."

   "Having given vent to these terrible maledictions, Mrs M'Adam withdrew her hand from the horse's bridle, and motioning Sir Archbald Kennedy to begone, threw himself sobbing and screaming on the corpse of her son."

Having given vent to these terrible maledictions,
Mrs. M'Adam withdrew her hand from the horse's
bridle, and motioning Sir Archibald Kennedy to
begone, threw herself sobbing and screaming on the
corpse of her son.  It was noticed by many then
present that Sir Archibald looked scared and
discomposed on his return to join his men; and that,
contrary to his general mode of acting, he contented
himself with taking a few prisoners, and rode off at a
much slower and more thoughtful pace, than was his
wont.  Well, the persecuting work went on with
unabated zeal, and Sir Archibald Kennedy, or, as he
was more commonly styled, the Laird o' Culzean, was
a noted man among them all.  Wherever blood was to
be shed, there was the Laird, grim and dark, wi' the
marks o' an evil conscience on his face.  (Some
people said that the older he got, the more crimes he
committed, just to drown his remorse for some cruel
deeds he had done in his youth; but if that was the
case, it was a queer way he took to do it, for as the
old proverb has it, "every single stick adds to a
burden.")  Although the Laird was, to all outward
appearances, as bold and daring like as ever, yet the
servants about the house said it was a very different
thing wi' him when alone; for many and many a time
in the long winter nights, did they see him pacing up
and down his hall, as if he would fain, by the loudness
of his step, drown the voice of conscience within; and
often, when the wind rose louder than usual, and
moaned and shrieked through the passages, he would
start hastily from his seat and demand in a furious
tone what woman it was who dared to scream so within
the walls o' Culzean Castle.  These are the kind o'
things his servants told about him, so my grandfather
said; but whether they were true or false, I canna
pretend to say.  Well, time rolled on, and the decree
was sent forth that the wicked Laird o' Culzean must
prepare to meet his Maker—a summons which the now
aged persecutor seemed in no way anxious to obey,
for them that were near him declared that he
threatened to knock off the doctors' heads, because they
couldna promise him that he should get better.  The
people who went about his room at that time, recalled
to mind the curse of the bereaved widow, for, somehow
or another, the story had got about, and many
wondered when it came to the push, how the Laird would
meet his end.  Sir Archibald, as Mrs. M'Adam
prophesied, seemed in his last moments to derive comfort
from nothing.  In vain the physicians exercised their
skill to the utmost; in vain the attendant clergymen
whispered words of consolation and hope, he
scorned them all, and drove them from the room
because they could not quench the flames which
burned in his breast.  (You see the widow's curse
was beginning to work.)  As the hour of death
approached his agony was fearful.  The drops of
perspiration stood like beads on his brow; and his eyes
which seemed like to start from their sockets wi'
mortal agony, were fixed wi' a horrible stare on the
foot o' his bed.  Some who were present at that time
said they were convinced that something, not meant for
other e'en to see, was standing there, for every now
and again he pointed wi' his finger and laughed; but
the laugh was like that o' ane in despair.  At length
he died, and the night o' his death was one of the most
fearful that ever occurred in the memory of man.  The
wind roared round the castle wi' a force that threathened
to lay it in ruins; while the thunder rolled, and the
lightning flashed in a manner awful to witness.  The
servants always maintained that the powers of darkness
were let loose that night; for at the moment the Laird
died, such shrieks of laughter, mingled with wild
screams of agony, rang through the whole house, that
overwhelmed with fear, they fell on their knees and
prayed for protection against the horrors which
surrounded them.  Then came the day of his funeral;
and, by all accounts, sair, sair work they had to get
the hearse from the door.  First there were four white
horses put to the bier; but no sooner were they yoked-to,
than one of them fell dead on the spot, and the others
kicked and plunged so, they had to be taken out.
Then four black ones were put in their place; but still
they wadna go, until the coffin was taken from the
hearse, and the priest muttered some prayers over it.
Then, when they had proceeded a few steps wi' their
burden, a dreadful tempest of thunder arose to the
terror and amazement of all present—many of whom
talked of returning; but the storm having now ceased,
they were dissuaded from doing so.  However, on nearing
the place of interment, it again burst forth in such
a fearful manner that the flashes of fire seemed to
run along the coffin.  Owing to the extreme lightness
of the bier after this terrific outburst of the elements,
it was conjectured, either that the body had been
consumed by the lightning, or that it had been taken
away by the master whom the Laird served so well
while on earth, from among their hands, ere ever they
got to the church-yard.

But now I must tell you o' what took place on the
night o' the Laird's death, to the great horror of a
ship's crew who chanced to be at sea.  Just as they
were sailing past the coves of Culzean, the fearful
tempest, I mentioned before, arose, and the ship was
tossed by the waves in such a manner, that the sailors
gave themselves up for lost.  Well, in the very midst
of this awful turmoil o' the elements, when even the
mightiest vessel was in danger of perishing, the man at
the helm cried aloud, "a boat, a boat!"

"Nonsense," replied the Captain, "what boat could
live in a night like this?"

Just as they were speaking, a fearful flash of
lightning lit up the darkness, thereby permitting the
terror-stricken crew to perceive a coach and four
coming along the sea.  Again the blue lightning flew
down the mast, while onward pranced the horses,
whose black plumes waved, as the ghastly-looking
driver urged them onwards.  The hair of each individual
sailor stood on end as he gazed on the appalling
sight; when, just as they were passing the side of the
vessel, the Captain hailed the spectral-looking coachman
with, "From whence to were?"

And the answer was, "From h—ll to Culzean's burial!"

"Well done," said Mr. Anderson, at the close of
this harrowing narration; "this is indeed a most
probable story, and quite in keeping with 'open,
open to the Duke of Drumlanrig.'  Surely," he
added more seriously, "you do not believe any such
nonsense?"

"Never you mind whether I do or not," replied
Mrs. Anderson, evidently enjoying her husband's look
of astonishment; "but just go your ways to that small
drawer on the left there, and bring me the little box
tied round wi' red tape, which you will find in the
farthest back corner."

Mr. Anderson, in obedience to his wife's request,
proceeded to the drawer, and in a few seconds placed
in her hands the wished-for article.

After fumbling for a short space of time amongst its
varied contents, Mrs. Anderson succeeded in fishing
out, from its mysterious depths, a sheet of paper
carefully folded up, which she opened and placed in my
hands, saying, "there now, that was written by a friend
of mine while studying at the College of Edinburgh."  Glancing
my eyes over the verses, I perceived that
they bore immediate reference to the legend Mrs. A. had
just been narrating, and so wrote them down, as an
appropriate finish to the Legend of Culzean:—

   |  THE LAIRD OF CULZEAN.

   |  Around Culzean Castle the wild winds did howl,
   |    And the trees bent like leaves to the blast;
   |  Whilst the heavens looked black with an angry scowl,
   |    The wild clouds were careering on fast.

   |  Dark, dark was that night, and yet darker the hour
   |    When Culzean's lord did yield up his breath;
   |  You'd have thought that the fiends of hell had power
   |    To preside o'er the wizard's death!

   |  The thunder roll'd loud, while the lightning flashed,
   |    And by tempest the Castle was shook;
   |  Wild shrieks of despair echo'd loud in the blast,
   |    And from fear none dared upward to look.

   |  The dying man toss'd, and oft did he turn,
   |    But for him was no rest or sleep;
   |  Fierce flames of remorse in his breast did burn,
   |    And his curses were loud and deep.

   |  When reverend fathers sought to cheer,
   |    And smooth down the way to heaven,
   |  He mocked them all with a taunt and jeer;
   |    They from the room were driven.

   |  He died—though for him the black banner wav'd
   |    And nodded the sable plume;
   |  By no rich nor poor was a blessing craved
   |    For him who that night met his doom.

   |      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

   |  The wild winds rag'd and the lightnings flashed,
   |    While the sea ran mountains high;
   |  And the good ship's crew all stood aghast
   |    As they gaz'd on the stormy sky.

   |  "Haste haste, my men," the bold Captain cried,
   |    "Haste, haste! make no delay!
   |  We'll bravely steer through the foaming tide,
   |    And trust in God our stay."

   |  The death lights do burn this night in Culzean,
   |    The old lord is dead at last;
   |  And the powers of darkness are there I ween.
   |    Careering on the blast!

   |  With a crash the thunder o'er them peal'd,
   |    And its harsh and sullen roar;
   |  Though to fear the sailors hearts were steel'd,
   |    Caus'd them tremble more and more.

   |  "A boat! a boat!" the steersman cried,
   |    "I see by the flashes bright."
   |  "NO BOAT," the Captain quick replied,
   |    "Could live on this awful night!"

   |  Then the heavens burst, and a flood of light
   |    Lit up all with its ghastly glare;
   |  And the ship's crew gaz'd on a fearful sight,
   |    For a funeral train was there!

   |  Four coal-black horses drew each coach,
   |    And they pranced upon the sea;
   |  As each driver caus'd them swift approach,
   |    What a ghastly look had he!

   |  Soon as they reach'd the vessel's side,
   |    That awful train funereal,
   |  "FROM WHENCE—to where?" the Captain cried
   |    "From H—ll to Culzean's burial!"






.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PEDEN'S STONE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   PEDEN'S STONE.

.. vspace:: 2

Having been informed that a stone, familiarly known
throughout the country as "Peden's Stone," from the
fact that that prime favourite of the Scottish peasantry
used there to delight his hearers with his eloquence,
was still to be seen on the moor, I determined upon
paying a visit to this sequestered spot.  It was on a
lovely morning in the month of September that I
started on my expedition.  The sun was shining
brightly, and the air was of that exhilarating nature
which blends the softness of summer with the least
possible tinge of autumn coolness.  The Robin
red-breast, sole remaining songster of the grove, poured
its gushing notes of melody from hedge-row and tree,
while, with each motion of the breeze, the now yellow
leaves fell trembling on my path.

The reapers, in many places, were yet busy in the
fields—the harvest being generally late in this part of
Scotland—and their merry bursts of laughter sounded
gaily from amid the fields of waving corn.  My way
again lay through H—— village, near the entrance of
which, on precisely the same spot as formerly, stood
the previously mentioned pleasant-looking dame, but
not alone.  Two little olive branches clung for
protection to the parent stem, in a manner beautiful to
witness.  I could not resist a smile as my quondam
acquaintance came forward with outstretched hand,
exclaiming, while a broad laugh sat upon her honest
features, "Losh me, isn't it funny we twa should
always foregather on the same bit?"

"Indeed it is!" was the reply.

"And you are still gaun about here?"

"Yes; and picking up all the information I can get
about the Covenanters."

"Oh, mam!" was the pathetic response, "had my
brother only been living!—but that's by; eh sirs me,
but that makes an unco difference wi' us a'!  And
where may ye be gaun the day?"

"To visit Peden's Stone; likewise to call on a
Mr. Brown, who, I understand, is able to give me some
information regarding it."

"Peden's Stone," re-echoed Mrs. Black—such she
afterwards informed me was her designation—"a weel,
mam, it's just up by there, an' a solitary bit it is.
Many a one has gone to visit Peden's Stone.  There's
my daughter; a few weeks ago she was spending the
day with some friends that live near there, and they
took her away to see it.  On her return home, she says
to me, 'Oh, mother! just to think o' my being twenty
years old, and never to have been at Peden's Stone
afore.'  'Hoots, lassie!' says I, 'I'm a hantle mair
than that, and I have never seen it! ha, ha, ha!'  And
so you're going to Sandy Brown's to get information;
weel I'll no say but he'll be able to tell you
something canny, for folks say that he speaks like ony
minister.  Aweel, aweel, I mind the day when I could
have told you lots o' stories mysel'; but that's a'
by!  And you're rale ta'en up about the Covenanters,
are you?" demanded the loquacious dame, and, without
waiting for an answer, away she went on.  "Ay, weel,
so was I at ae time o' my life; for when I was at the
sewing-school in Strathaven, I was rale anxious to see
Loudon hill—may be you'll ken Loudon hill, where
the battle o' Drumclog was fought?  Ay, I thought
sae; it's a queer-looking place, I fancy, and I was many
a time going to see it, but I never could win, and the
time just gaed by.  Losh me, but there was a curious
story told about that hill—a most ex-tre-orner thing
indeed; for, when I was at the sewing-school, many
and many a time ha'e I heard tell o' a heap o' siller
being buried there; and when any person went to dig
it up, an awful voice ahint them cried—'Clog's in a
low!' and on their turning round to see what was
wrong, the sight o' a great bull rushing at them gar'd
them rin, and the hole instantly closed, so that they
couldna win at it again.  But maybe you'll think that's
a lee; and I wadna say but it is."

"Is it true," I inquired, "that your brother, who
lives near here, has a sword that belonged to
Captain Paton?"

"He has that, he has that! but stop noo, I'm foolish
to say sae"—here Mrs. Black put her finger into
her mouth and appeared to reflect a little—"Did you
say Captain Paton?"

"Yes."

"Weel, I'm no sae sure about that; but I ken brawly
he has an '*Andrew Ferrara*' that belonged to some o'
thae fechting folk.  However, ye should just gang
and ask him about it, he'll be blythe to see ye, and I'll
show ye a heap o' curiosities, for he is rale ta'en up
about auld-fashioned things.  And ye can just say
I sent ye."

Thanking Mrs. Black for her instructions, I proceeded
towards the house indicated, and Mr. Graham being
within, I was ushered into a room, where a huge sword
lay upon the table.  From its appearance, I should
have judged it rather to be a relic of the forty-five
than of the days of persecution.  Mr. Graham, in
answer to my inquiries, stated that it was said to have
been one of Captain Paton's swords, but that he could
not give me any true account of it, as it had formerly
belonged to his brother, and at his death came into
the hands of its present possessor.  Amongst other
curiosities, Mr. G. produced two coins of the reign of
David the First, which had been found with a great
many more at the foot of a hill, about a mile or two on
the moor at the back of his house.  The tradition told
concerning them in the neighbourhood is, that a man,
whose Christian name was Tom, while returning at
that remote period of time from a marriage party,
missed his footing, and fell over a quarry which lay in
his path, and was killed on the spot, the money
falling out of his pocket during his too rapid descent.
In consequence of this sad disaster, the spot is known
as "Tam's leap" to this day.

While speaking about the persecuting times
Mr. Graham informed me that a particular part of the
moor was known by the name of the "Headless Cross,"
and that the circumstance which gave rise to its
singular designation was this:—A persecutor of that
name, who had rendered himself particularly obnoxious
to the Covenanting party, on account of his many
cruelties, took refuge from their anger in this part of
the moor.  The Covenanters, having been apprised of
his whereabouts, set off instantly in pursuit of their
intended victim.  On arriving at the place where they
expected to find their enemy, their astonishment may
be conceived on seeing him without his head!  It
appeared that the unfortunate man had fallen into the
hands of another hostile party, who, depriving him of
his head, rendered him in truth a "Headless Cross."  A
large stone, likewise on the moor, familiarly known
as "Pack Stone," was said to have been thrown down
there by the celebrated wizard, Michael Scott, when in4
company with his Satanic majesty.  These worthies, it
is believed, were employed in carrying stones suitable
for the erection of a bridge over the Firth of Forth.
During this benevolent employment, a dispute took
place between them—words ran high; and Michael
Scott, in a fit of rage, threw down the stone then
borne on his back, declaring that not one foot further
should he carry it.  How the quarrel ended is not
related; but the stone, which is of an immense size,
still remains in confirmation of the truth of this
legend.  The most probable version of the story is,
that there the wearied pedlar used to rest with his
pack while journeying between Glasgow and Edinburgh,
as the wheel tracts of the old Glasgow Road are still
visible near the spot.

After a minute inspection of Mr. Graham's little
museum, I set off to visit Mr. Brown.  The farm
towards which I directed my steps was prettily
situated near a "gleaming wood," the trees of which, now
clad in autumn's russet brown, peacefully waved over
the cottage roof, before the grateful breeze, as it sped
along the moor on its trackless way; while a few plants
of Indian cress, trained up against the wall evinced a
greater predilection for neatness than is generally to
be seen in the farm-houses of Scotland.  A cleanly-dressed,
pleasant-looking woman—whom I afterwards
ascertained to be Mrs. Brown—was standing near the
entrance; and on my inquiring if Mr. Brown was
within, she invited me to take a seat, as he was in the
fields, and should be in presently.  Availing
myself of the kind invitation, I entered, and taking
possession of the proffered chair, I amused myself
with inspecting the cottage interior, until the
arrival of Mr. Brown.  It presented the nicest
little picture of a moorland farm I had ever
seen.  Rows of nicely-cleaned dishes, bright pewter
plates, and spotless chairs, all indicated the careful
housewife.

In a few minutes Mr. Brown entered; and on my
informing him of the nature of my visit, he said,
with a smile, that he did know a little regarding
these times, and should only be too happy were
it in his power to give me any information that
might chance to be of service.  This was encouraging,
so I at once began the conversation by remarking,
"that this seemed to have been a great part of
the country for the Covenanters in former
times."  Upon which he replied that it was, more
particularly the west end of the parish, where Peden
and Cargill used to preach, adding, "I suppose you
have seen Peden's Stone?"  On my informing him
that I was then on my way to visit it, he said it was
not above a mile distant.

On my inquiring if there had been many conventicles
held about there, Mr. Brown informed me of several,
more particularly mentioning one held near Bathgate,
where a Mr. Riddel officiated.  There was a large
assemblage present, and just as they were in the middle of
their devotions the cry arose that the dragoons were upon
them.  The soldiers, however, not making their
appearance, the Covenanters thought it had been a false
alarm, and continued their religious exercises in
fancied security.  Scarcely had a few minutes elapsed ere
a large party of red-coats, under the command of
Lieutenant Inglis, then stationed at Mid-Calder,
galloped swiftly up to the place of meeting.  On
perceiving their approach, many of the Covenanters fled
through a moss where no horse could follow.  But not
to be outwitted, the soldiers remained on the opposite
side, and fired promiscuously amongst the helpless
group, thereby wounding many.  One of their bullets
pierced the head of an heritor in the parish of
Bathgate, named John Davie, and killed him on the spot.
Then they carried a great many men and women as
prisoners, with an immense quantity of booty, back
with them to Mid-Calder, the same as if they had been
attacking a foreign enemy, and not men born on
British soil.

"Oh, dear me! but the Covenanters were hardly
used in these times—were they not, mam?" inquired
Mrs. Brown, appealing directly to me, "for you see, a
very great number of those who suffered were poor bits
o' innocent creatures who had neither the power nor
the inclination to do harm to any one.  And the power
with which Dalziel, Claverhouse, and many others of
these cruel men were invested was really dreadful.  No
person was safe while in their hands.  There are men
who think that some of the Covenanters were too strict
in their opinions, still, as I have often read, it was then
that Scotland earned for herself a distinguished name;
for at the King's return, every parish had a minister,
every village had a school, every family almost had a
Bible, and all children of age could read.  Now, that
was just as it should be."

"I fancy you will have heard all about the murder
of Kennoway and Stuart, two of the lifeguard's-men,
at Swine Abbey, just down by yonder?" inquired
Mr. Brown, at the conclusion of his wife's remarks.

I replied "that I had heard it slightly mentioned,
and should be very glad to hear a more lengthened
account of the affair," upon which he commenced
thus:—

"About Stuart very little or nothing is known, but
Kennoway was universally detested on account of his
horrid cruelties and shameless exactions from poor
people who could but ill afford to pay his unjust
demands.  Kennoway had displayed great activity
under General Dalziel at Pentland, and he it was who
captured that zealous preacher Hugh M'Kail, who was
executed at the cross of Edinburgh in the twenty-sixth
year of his age.  He likewise surprised numerous
conventicles, and treated the Covenanters with great
barbarity.  On one occasion he attacked a party of
unarmed people who were quietly hearing sermon in
a field near East-Calder, and shot one through the leg,
beating and robbing several others.  At the meeting
which took place near Bathgate, his was the hand that
shot John Davie; in short, so zealous did he show
himself in the cause of persecution that the government
showed him great favour, and gave him several
commissions to execute.  Each day he scoured the country
in search of prey, and those unfortunate enough to fell
into his hands were treated with such brutality that
several people went into Edinburgh to complain to the
General of his cruelty.  On receipt of a letter from his
superior officer threatening him with punishment for
his illegal acts, he forced an aged man, whom he had
abused most shamefully, under pain of death, to sign
a paper, stating that Thomas Kennoway had never
injured him in any way whatever.  Being greatly
addicted to liquor, he would remain for days at the
public-house, called Swine Abbey, indulging his evil
propensity until all the money he had was spent.  On
one occasion having imbibed more than he had money
to pay for, and the landlord pressing him for a
settlement, he went out to the road, along which an old
man was coming with a heavy load of oats on his
back.  Kennoway at once seized on the bag, and
threatening the bearer with all manner of punishments
if he dared to look after his property, returned to
Swine Abbey, and discharged his bill with part of the
proceeds, reserving the remainder for the further
indulgence of his favourite vice.  In the month of
November he went into Edinburgh, from whence he
returned bearing with him a roll which contained the
names of one hundred and fifty persons he was
commissioned to apprehend.  On alighting at Livingstone
he encountered his ill-fated companion, Stuart, to
whom he displayed the roll, boasting that in a few
days he should be as rich as any laird in the country.
On their way to Swine Abbey, he pointed out to Stuart
the lands he meant to possess.  Arriving there, they
commenced drinking, and continued doing so until
pretty near the end of the month, when they were
killed one night as they were leaving the house.  Some
thought they had been slain in self-defence, but it was
generally supposed that, roused to madness by the
continued persecutions of Kennoway, a party of people
in the neighbourhood had planned his destruction.
So violent were many of the blows exchanged on
this occasion that the stone above the door was almost
cleft in twain.  I have heard it said," continued
Mr. Brown, "that one or two persons suspected of having
had a hand in the murder were openly rebuked by
others of the Covenanting body, for thus having sent a
man laden with such crimes into the presence of his
Maker without one moment's warning, when long
years of penitence would scarce suffice to atone for the
evil he had wrought."

"It was a cruel deed," I said in reply to Mr. Brown's
inquiry as to what I thought of the affair, "and one of
those blameable acts on the part of some of the
Covenanters which made their enemies say that a suitable
opportunity would have found them only too ready to
shed blood."

"Oh, no," was the reply; "that would never have
been the case!  The thoughts of the Covenanters did
not dwell much on the shedding of blood; but rather
on the restoration of their rights.  No doubt, as there
are good and bad in every class, so the Covenanters
were not exempted from the rest in this respect; but
had amongst them men who thought it no sin to pour
forth the blood of the wicked.  But still, as a whole,
they were a harmless suffering body of Christians."

"Don't you think, mam," said Mrs. Brown, "that
some of the clergy did not conduct themselves
altogether with the meek Christian spirit becoming
their high vocation? for I have often heard it said
that, had they evinced a more forbearing disposition
towards those—whose only fault consisted in their
preferring to hear their own ministers—things would
not have gone so hard with the Covenanters.  Now,
for instance, take Mr. Honeyman, who was at that
time curate in Livingstone; what kind of example did
he set those who were neither so learned, nor pretended
to be so good as himself? one which no real Christian
would ever seek to follow."

"Did you ever hear," inquired her husband, "an
account of the manner in which he treated some of his
parishioners who came to him for assistance in the
time of their distress?"

Replying in the negative, Mr. Brown related the
following:—"Mr. Honeyman, the then curate in
Livingstone, was in truth a terrible scourge to those of
his hearers who did not attend his meetings as he could
have wished.  Whenever any of his flock came under
his displeasure, away went an order to Bathgate, and
out came, in return, a troop of dragoons, who
apprehended all marked down in the curate's black book,
as it was styled.  The parishes of Livingstone, Calder,
Carnwath, and several others, were diligently ransacked
by these men; and many remarkable instances occurred
in which the Lord heard the prayers of the oppressed,
and delivered them from their persecutors.  I have
heard tell of one young man who escaped from among
their hands, for whose apprehension Honeyman had
offered a large sum of money.  Well, amongst others
upon whom Mr. Honeyman sent down the soldiers, the
Russels of Fallhouse—whose descendants are still living
there—were particularly mentioned in the black book
as being worthy of stripes.  Fortunately, their horses
contented the fierce Highlanders, and they themselves
were uninjured.  In great distress at the loss of their
valuable cattle, the Russels came to Mr. Honeyman,
who was their minister—indeed one of them was an
elder in his congregation—and besought his interference
in their behalf.  At first, Mr. Honeyman abused and
threatened them most dreadfully for their not appearing
at courts, or taking the oath, thereby setting such a
bad example to others.  The suppliants bore this tirade
with great patience; but insisted that he should use
his influence for the recovery of their property.  After
a little while he appeared to yield, and wrote a letter to
the commander of the forces stationed at Lanark,
which, he gave to them, desiring that they should
themselves deliver it.  Overjoyed at having succeeded
so well with their minister, the Russels set off
immediately for Lanark; but, on arriving at Carluke,
they chanced to encounter some acquaintances, and
adjourned with them to a public-house, in order to
procure some refreshment.  Having informed their
friends of the nature of their errand, these men, being
rather suspicious as to the good intentions of
Mr. Honeyman, advised the Russels, before proceeding
farther, to open the letter.  They did so, and found
to their consternation, that instead of containing what
they expected, namely, an order for the restoration of
their horses, it was an injunction to the General to hold
the bearers fast, as being two notorious rebels, from
whom all that was taken was too little.  In a mighty
rage against their perfidious minister, and yet thankful
to Providence that they had escaped his snare, the
Russels speedily returned home, nor did they ever
again enter Curate Honeyman's church, except on
compulsion."

"Eh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown at the conclusion
of this amusing anecdote, "wasna that an unco like
thing for any minister to do, more especially one living
in a Christian country; but 'deed these werena'
Christian times, so that they may serve as some excuse
for the man!"

"By all accounts, the district about Linlithgow
seems to have been a great part of the country for
conventicles," said I, addressing Mr. Brown, who
replied—"Ay, but Linlithgow itself hadna much to boast of
in these days; that was indeed a sad falling away!"

"How?" I inquired; "what occurred to distinguish
Linlithgow from the other parts of Scotland?"

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Brown, staring at me in
amazement, "have you never heard of the disgraceful
ceremony of the burning of the Solemn League and
Covenant which took place within its walls on the 29th
of May, 1661, it being the anniversary of King Charles
the Second's birth-day?"

"Never," I replied; upon which Mrs. Brown at once
proceeded to the book-shelf, and taking from thence
a little old book, she placed it in my hands, saying,
"there now, mam; read the two last pages of this
work, and see if you can approve of that proceeding."

The book was entitled, "A Cloud of Witnesses for
the Royal Prerogatives of Jesus Christ."  And turning
over to the part indicated, the following description of
the affair mentioned by Mr. Brown met my gaze.  It
was headed, "A Dismal Account of the form of
Burning the Solemn League and National Covenant
with God and one another, at Linlithgow, May 29th,
1661, being the Birth-day of King Charles the Second,"
and ran as follows:—

"Divine service being ended, the streets were so
filled with bonfires on every side, that it was not
without hazard to go along them.  The magistrates
about four o'clock in the afternoon went to the Earl
of Linlithgow's lodging, inviting his Lordship to honour
them with his presence at the solemnity of the day.
So he came with the magistrates, accompanied by
many gentleman, to the market-place, where a table
was covered with confections.  Then the curate met
them, and prayed, and sang a psalm, and so eating
some of the confections, they threw the rest among the
people; the fountain all that time running French and
Spanish wine of divers colours, and continued running
for three or four hours.  The Earl, the magistrates,
and gentlemen, did drink the King and Queen their
good health, and all royal healths, not forgetting His
Majesty's Commissioner his health, Lord Middleton,
and breaking several baskets full of glasses.  At the
market-place was erected an arch standing upon four
pillars, on the one side whereof was placed a statue in
form of an old hag mare, having the Covenant in her
bands, with this superscription, 'A Glorious Reformation;'
on the other side was placed a statue in form of a
whiggie mare, having the Remonstrance in her hands,
with this superscription, 'No Association with
Malignants;' within the arch, on the right hand, was drawn
a Committee of Estates, with this superscription, 'An
Act for delivering up the King;' upon the left hand
was drawn the Commission of the Kirk, with this
superscription, 'A Commission of the Kirk, and
Committee of Estates, and Act of the West Kirk of
Edinburgh;' and upon the top of the arch stood the
devil as an angel of light, with this superscription,
'Stand to the Cause;' and on the top of the arch hung
a tablet with this—

   |  'From Covenantors, with their uplifted hands;
   |  From Remonstrators, with their associate bands;
   |  From such Committees as govern this nation;
   |  From Kirk Commissions, and from their possession.
   |          Good Lord deliver us.'
   |

"On the pillar of the arch, beneath the Covenants,
were drawn kirk-stools, rocks, and reels; upon the
pillar, beneath the Remonstrance, were drawn brechams,
cogs, and spoons; on the back of the arch was drawn
a picture of rebellion in a religious habit, with turned
up eyes and with a fanatic gesture, and in its right
hand holding *Lex Rex*, that infamous book maintaining
defensive arms, and in the left hand holding that pitiful
pamphlet, 'The Causes of God's Wrath,' and about its
waste lying all the Acts of Parliament, Committee of
Estates, and Acts of General Assemblies, and Commissions
of the Kirk, their Protestations and Declarations
during these twenty-two years' rebellion,' and above
with this superscription, 'Rebellion is as the Sin of
Witchcraft.'  Then, at the drinking of the King's
health, fire was put to the frame, which gave many fine
reports, and soon burnt all to ashes; which being
consumed, there suddenly appeared a table supported by
two angels, carrying this superscription—

   |  'Great Britain's Monarch on this day was born,
   |    And to his kingdom happily restored;
   |  His Queen's arrived, the matter now is known.
   |    Let us rejoice, this day is from the Lord:
   |  Flee hence all traitors that did mar our peace;
   |    Flee hence all schismatics who our church did rent;
   |  Flee hence Covenanting, Remonstrating race;
   |    Let us rejoice that God this day hath sent.'
   |

"Then the magistrates accompanied the noble Earl
to his palace, where the said Earl had a bonfire very
magnificent.  Then the Earl and magistrates, and all
the rest, did drink the King and Queen and all royal
healths; then the magistrates made procession through
the burgh, and saluted every man of account, and so
they spent the day rejoicing in their labour."

"Surely," I said, after having perused the above
account, "the people of Linlithgow were anything but
friends to the cause of the Covenant."

"That they were not," replied Mrs. Brown; "but
is it not an extraordinary thing that, some years
afterwards, Linlithgow should lose its liberties as a burgh,
entirely on account of some of the poor prisoners,
while passing through the town on their way from
Bothwell to Edinburgh, having been treated with some
degree of kindness by the more tender-hearted portion
of its inhabitants."

"That was indeed very cruel."

"It was that, mam," replied Mr. Brown, "and just
shows the terrible degree of animosity entertained by
the government towards the Covenanting party and all
inclined to be friendly to it, which is not a thing to be
admired."

"Ay, you see," replied her husband, "the
Presbyterians made themselves enemies among the great of
the land, and there's no doubt but that they were
represented to King Charles, who was himself an easy
tempered man, as being much more unmanageable and
rebellious than they really were, so that he fancied the
more severe his measures were, the sooner would all
things be put to rights."

After a few general observations, the conversation
turned upon Peden, who seems to have retained a
strong hold on the affections of the Scottish peasantry.
It is universally allowed by them that he possessed, to
an uncommon degree, the spirit of prophecy, and many
anecdotes are still current of his wonderful foreknowledge
of things, either occurring at a considerable
distance at the time he was prophecying concerning them,
or which were to take place at some future period.  As
an instance of his extraordinary gift:—In the year 1684,
he spent a few days in the house of one John Slowan,
who resided in the parish of Conert, in the county of
Antrim.  One evening while seated by the fire-side
conversing with some friends, he suddenly started to
his feet, exclaiming—"Go hide yourself, Sandy, for
Colonel —— is coming to this house to apprehend you;
and I advise every one here to do the same, and that
speedily, for they will be here within the hour."  Which
accordingly came to pass.  After the soldiers
had made a most diligent search without and within
the house, actually passing in their eagerness the very
bush where he was lying praying, and want off without
their prey, Mr. Peden came in and said, "And this
gentleman giving poor Sandy such a fright; for this
night's work God will give him such a blow within a
a very few days that all the physicians on earth shall
not be able to cure."  Which also took place, for
Colonel —— soon afterwards died in great misery.

Likewise, on the 22d of June, 1679, that day so
fatal to the Covenanting party, Mr. Peden was at a
place near the borders, distant about sixty miles from
Bothwell Bridge.  While there, some one came to
inform him that vast crowds of people were collected
in the hopes of his preaching, it being the Lord's-day,
upon which he gave utterance to these remarkable
words:—"Let the people go to their prayers; for me,
I neither can nor will preach any this day; for our
friends are fallen and fled before the enemy at Hamilton,
and they are hashing and hagging them down, and
their blood is running down like water."

Peden is likewise regarded by his humble admirers
as having been peculiarly favoured by the Master whom
he so zealously served on earth; and they relate, with
sparkling eyes, how the Lord was pleased, at his earnest
entreaties, to fill the lagging sails of a boat, which was
destined to convey him and several of his companions
from Ireland to the then bloody shores of Scotland,
with a favourable breeze, whereby they arrived at their
destination in safety; while, on his cry to the Lord that
the cloak of his almighty power might once more be
thrown around him, and those who were then listening
to the voice of his petition, when about to fall into the
hands of the dragoons, who were rapidly advancing
towards them, a thick mist descended on the face of
the mountains, and effectually shielded them from their
enemies.

Having received from Mr. Brown the necessary
directions for finding my way to Peden's Stone, I once
more resumed my walk.  After leaving the high-road,
my way lay along a wide extent of moor, whose only
inhabitants were the curlews and pee-wits which flew
around my head in rapid circles, uttering their wild
and solitary cries.  I experienced an indescribable
feeling of nameless horror, although it was broad day-light,
on arriving at a post stuck in the centre of four cross
roads which marked—a suicide's grave.  There is
something revolting in the idea, that there lies a human
being, one like ourselves, who, by the commission of an
act, perhaps executed while labouring under a temporary
fit of insanity, is put as it were without the pale of
humanity.  The wretched woman thus consigned to a
nameless, dishonoured grave, was the wife of a smith
who resided a few miles distant from the spot where
she was interred.  For a few days before the sad
occurrence, which took place some thirty or forty years
ago, she was observed by those around her to be rather
drooping in spirits, but on the morning of her
perpetrating the rash act, she seemed restored to her former
cheerfulness, and set about putting the house in order.
Towards the middle of the day, one of her children
came running into its father's workshop, exclaiming,
"Oh, father! come and look at mother, she's standing
on the kirn."  The smith immediately ran to ascertain
the truth of the child's statement, and to his
unspeakable horror found his wife hanging suspended by the
neck, with her feet resting on the churn.  Immediately
in the vicinity of her lonely grave, there resided a
doctor, who, for the benefit of science, caused her bones
to be dug up and conveyed under the cloud of night to
his residence, in the garden of which they lay bleaching
for days.  This circumstance was of itself quite
sufficient to excite the superstitious fear of the country
people, and immediately that place was invested with
"shadows wild and quaint."  Indeed, the woman from
whom I had the above account, assured me most
solemnly that while residing in that neighbourhood, she
had frequently observed strange lights dancing about
in the woods, when the more natural light of day had
departed.  Hurrying past the spot with a nervous
shudder, I proceeded as swiftly as possible across the
moor.  The day, as is often the case at this advanced
period of the year, had changed considerably since the
morning; dark clouds now scudded along the face of
the sky, and wild gusts of wind careered over the heath.
Not one human being appeared in sight, save a solitary
figure clad in the now almost obsolete scarlet mantle of
Scotland, who, considerably in advance of me, walked
briskly onwards, looking peculiarly witch-like as the
voluminous folds of her cloak swayed backwards and
forwards in the wind.  Had it been Hallowe'en, I
should certainly have mistaken her for one of those
merry old ladies, who, wearied of the monotony of
walking, cleave the air on broomsticks in a manner
wonderful to behold; but as that (to children)
enchanting day had not yet arrived, I concluded that it was
some aged dame either returning from her market-making
in H—— village, or bound, like myself, on a
pilgrimage to Peden's Stone.  The rapid pace at which
she was walking soon carried her beyond the range of
my vision, and I pursued my way lost in conjecture as
to who or what she might be.

Nothing more than an incident of this kind serves to
illustrate the startling difference between town and
country.  Hundreds of such beings might pass and
re-pass along the crowded streets of a great city
unnoticed and uncared for, and yet one such individual, seen
on a quiet country road or solitary heath, often affords
matter for speculation and amusement during an entire
day.  Having now arrived at the farm-house to which
I was specially directed as being near the spot where
stood the memorable stone, I requested of a female,
then busily engaged in farming operations, that I
might be shown the precise locality of this venerable
relic.  Being kindly invited to take a seat until a guide
could be procured to conduct me thither, I entered,
and certainly was not a little astonished at the unwonted
aspect of the interior.  The roof of the kitchen consisted
entirely of huge beams of wood placed across each other
while the chimney, also built of wood, reminded one
forcibly of those now seldom seen, save in the ruined
halls of bygone generations, so capacious were its
dimensions; and on one side of the grate, which was
sufficiently distant from the chimney to prevent the
catastrophe of ignition, was placed the settle, one reads
of in Scottish story.  It was indeed a veritable
"inglenook."  As if in answer to the look of astonishment
with which I was regarding the enormous chimney, the
female who had followed my footsteps said, with an air
of complacency, "Ay, it's no every day ye'll see sic a
hoose as this; it's rale auld-fashioned!"  Shortly
afterwards the young woman who was to act as my
conductor on this occasion made her appearance, and we set
off on our expedition.  Having pointed out to me the
locality where lay the object of my search, she returned
to the farm, while I pursued my way along the side of
Benharr Burn, on the banks of which stood Peden's
Stone.  It was indeed a solitary spot, and one well
suited for the secret meetings of the persecuted
Covenanters.  No sound broke in upon the almost oppressive
silence that reigned around, save the rippling of the
water, which washed the base of the huge piece of rock
on which formerly stood the mighty preacher.
Surrounding heights concealed this sequestered dell from
the observation of those seemingly intent on their
destruction, and there would the sentinels be stationed
who were to apprise those engaged in this forbidden
mode of worship of the approach of their foes.  There
is something in the aspect of this little ravine which
must speak forcibly to the imaginations and feelings of
those who love to contemplate aught that is connected
with a vanished time.  The cold grey stone on which I
was now gazing seemed to me a link uniting the remote
past and the present, over the mighty gulf that
intervened.  Nearly two hundred years have passed away
since this green turf was pressed by the foot of one who
stood foremost amongst the champions of the Covenant.
Here, as we are told—it might have been on a lovely
summer's morn, when even to breathe the free air of
heaven seemed happiness too exquisite for sinful man
to enjoy—when the blue vault of heaven formed a
glorious canopy over their pastor's head, and all nature
breathed sweet harmony around; or it might be in the
more sober season of autumn, when the deepening
russet of the surrounding moor, the falling leaf, and
the stillness of the atmosphere—so often perceptible in
that season which harbingers the coming winter—seemed
more in unison with the gloom which pervaded
the Covenanters' souls, there assembled a mighty crowd
to listen to the truths which fell from the lips of Peden.
And what spot more suited to their holy purpose!  On
all sides were they surrounded by scenes famous for
their connection with the stirring events of that
stormy period.  Directly opposite, the mighty
Grampians towered majestically in the distance, amid whose
solitudes, according to the traditions of the times, the
Covenanters, while listening to an impassioned discourse
of the zealous Wellwood, were protected from their
enemies' bullets by a man of lofty stature, who stood
in the air with his drawn sword extended over the heads
of the panic-stricken hearers of the Word of God;
while, stretching away on their right hand, the blue
range of the Pentlands, so linked with the misfortunes
of the devoted party of the Covenant, stood out in bold
relief against the sky; and on their left lay the
disastrous plain of Bothwell.  The whole scene was pictured
as though in a mirror before me.  Here stood the
dauntless preacher of the Word, his grey hairs floating
on the breeze, his eye bright with sacred enthusiasm,
and his hand, which clasped the sacred Scriptures,
raised aloft to heaven as though invoking the presence
of Him who hath promised to bless the assemblies of
His servants, while the surrounding heights were
peopled by a dense mass of human beings, hushed into
breathless silence, save when aroused to passionate
bursts of sorrow, as the speaker brought home to their
hearts the sufferings of those who fought and bled in
defence of the Church of Scotland.  While indulging
thus in reminiscences of the past, I was somewhat
startled by the pressure of a hand on my shoulder, and,
turning suddenly round, to my no small astonishment
I found myself confronted by the wearer of the scarlet
mantle, who, coming from what direction I knew not,
proceeded to inquire, while she peered up in my face
with two small penetrating eyes, "Whether I had come
any great distance that morning?"

Having satisfied her curiosity upon that point, I
proceeded to make some reflections on the subject of Peden,
evidently to the great delight of the antiquated-looking
stranger, for, seizing me by the arm, she exclaimed,
with kindling eyes—

"O, mam, it does my old heart good to meet with
one in these degenerate days who professes an interest
in the old Covenanting stock; for, alas! new-fangled
notions are rapidly taking possession of people's minds,
old customs are abolished, a love for those sacred rites,
so revered by our forefathers, is entertained now but
by few, and (a deep sigh) times are changed in Scotland.

"What!" I said, "do you not esteem it an
unspeakable blessing that in these days each one is
permitted, nay, invited, to enter the house of God,
there to worship Him without incurring the risk of
imprisonment, ay, even death for doing so?"

The old woman shook her head as she replied, "To
say truly, liberty is indeed granted to all who choose
to accept of the gracious invitation to hear the Word
of God, but few, few there are who avail themselves of
the gracious privilege afforded them.  Look at your
mighty cities; see the multitudes there who never
enter a church-door.  And of those who do attend,
note the very few attracted thither by sentiments of
real devotion.  No, no; the old spirit of religion is fast
dying out of Scotland, and when it becomes extinct,
then may we weep for our country.  Far different was
it thirty years ago," continued the old woman.  "Oh,
well do I mind one bonnie summer's morning, when
the sky was without a cloud, and the caller air cam'
blithely over the heather, while the lark was singing
sae cheerily aboon our heads, as if it too was joining in
the hymn of praise, at that instant ascending from the
lips of three thousand people then assembled on this
very spot to hear a sermon preached in remembrance of
Peden.  Oh, that was indeed a glorious sight, and one
never to be forgotten.  There was the minister, the
saut tears trickling down his cheeks as he spoke of him
in honour of whose memory they were that day
gathered together—of his zeal, and his love for the
mighty cause he had espoused; and there were the
hearers, so absorbed in listening to his pious exhortations,
that a pin might have been heard to fall in that
vast assemblage."  Here the old woman paused for an
instant, and then continued: "Ay, ay, there was mair
religion in one's thoughts when seated on the bonnie
hill-side, or aneath the shade o' a nodding beach,
imbibing the pure gospel truths as given them by
some persecuted servant of God, than when seated
between four walls of stone and lime, the perishable
work o' men's hands."

Here I broke in upon the stranger's half-muttered
observations by inquiring of her "if she belonged to
that part of the country?"

"Oh, no!" she replied, "I come from Fifeshire, (I no
longer wondered at her resemblance to a broomstick
lady,) but am at present on a visit to some friends who
reside near here."

"Indeed," I said; "yours was a noted part of the
country in the time of the Covenanters; no wonder
you still retain a strong predilection for aught that
savours of the Covenant.  And, pray, to what district
of Fifeshire do you belong?"

"To the parish of Kinlassie," was the reply.

"Then you will know Inchdarnie?"

"Do I not," replied the old woman, her eyes
sparkling with pleasure; "that name recalls to my
remembrance all that was pleasing in the time gone by.
It is linked with the sweet days of childhood, and the
faces of those long vanished from my sight; ay, many
and many a day have I roamed along the winding banks
of the Lochty, and listened to the songs of the birds
in the woods of Inchdarnie; oh, it is a bonnie, bonnie
spot!"

"Was there not," I inquired, "a young gentleman
of the name of Ayton, who was implicated in the
murder of Archbishop Sharpe——?"

"He knew nought of it," interrupted the stranger.
"Andrew Ayton was as innocent of that deed, or of
any circumstance connected with it, as the babe
unborn; no, no," she continued; "poor young
man! he hadna the weight of blood on his soul
when he gaed to his long account; oh but his was a
cruel death!"

"In what light is the memory of Archbishop Sharpe
regarded in Fifeshire?" I inquired.

"As that of a Judas; as that of one who was a traitor
to the very cause he swore to protect."

"Then you approve of his death?"

"No," said the stranger,  "I winna say that; for it
is a fearful thing to shed blood.  And although he
merited but small mercy at the hands of those he
would fain have crushed and trampled under foot as
one would a poisonous reptile, yet they should have
spared his grey hairs and left him to his God; but ye
mauna think," she continued, "that those who suffered
on account of his death had in reality anything to do
with the perpetration of the crime; no.  The stone
which is still to be seen on Magus Moor covers the
bodies of four murdered men, whose souls will yet cry
aloud for vengeance on their murderers, for they were
indeed innocent.  My great-grandfather," pursued the
old woman, "was one of the number, and until very
lately I had in my possession a letter which effectually
cleared his memory of the stain of having shed the
blood of the treacherous prelate.  Have you ever seen
the stone?" she abruptly demanded after a moment's
pause.

"No."

"Then you'll not know the epitaph inscribed thereon?"

I answered in the negative, upon which she recited
the following:—

   |  "'Cause we at Bothwell did appear,
   |  Perjurious oaths refused to swear;
   |  'Cause we Christ's cause would not condemn,
   |  We were sentenc'd to death by men
   |  Who rag'd against us in such fury,
   |  Our dead bodies they did not bury,
   |  But upon poles did hing us high,
   |  Triumphs of Babel's victory.
   |  Our lives we fear'd not to the death,
   |  But constant prov'd to the last breath."
   |

"And you say these men are buried in Magus Moor?"
I inquired, while noting the inscription down in my
pocket-book.

"They lie in an adjacent field," replied the old
woman; "and many's the time I have stood by the
stone when the winter's wind was howling along the
heath in such a wild key that I could almost have
fancied the spirits of the dead were murmuring around
me, and conversing——"

"Probably with the murdered Archbishop!" I
ventured to remark.

"May be," said the lady in the scarlet mantle, quite
seriously; "there is no saying what takes place in the
unseen world!"

I then inquired "if she was at all acquainted with
any stories relating to the persecuting period?"

"That I am," said the old woman in reply, then
passing her hand thoughtfully across her brow, she
exclaimed sadly, "No, no, I daurna trust to my
memory—that too has deserted me.  Come to
Fifeshire," she added after a moment's pause, "and you
will gather much information about young Inchdarnie,
that may chance to prove interesting!"  On
a subsequent occasion, I acted on the old woman's
suggestion, and the following story is the result of
my gleanings.





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.. _`THE MURDER OF INCHDARNIE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE MURDER OF INCHDARNIE.

.. vspace:: 2

It was evening, and the rays of the setting sun were
gilding the lofty spires of the ancient city of
St. Andrews, causing the windows of the venerable
university to glance like diamonds in the golden light; while
the huge waves, gradually decreasing as they rolled
along, broke with a gentle murmur on the shore,
creating a harmony in unison with the pensive beauty
of the hour.  Apparently enjoying this interval of
calm repose, a young man—whose extreme youthfulness
of features contrasted strangely with the dejection
seated on his brow—might have been observed seated
in a musing attitude amongst the rocks on the
seashore.  The eyes of this solitary being were fixed with
a melancholy earnest gaze alternately on the setting
sun, which, having completed its appointed journey,
descended rapidly into the empurpled west, and on the
swiftly gliding vessels as they passed proudly on their
way, their white sails flapping in the evening breeze.
This dreaming youth—for he numbered only seventeen
years of age—was Andrew Ayton, younger of Inchdarnie,
then studying at the ancient university of St. Andrews.
He was a young man possessed of graceful
and winning manners—upright and honourable in his
conduct; while his constant attention to his studies,
and fervent, unobtrusive piety, endeared him alike to
his instructors and to his fellow-students.  His thoughts,
at the moment of his being introduced to the reader,
seemed not of that gentle kind which one might have
expected from the soft serenity of the surrounding
scene, for alternately his face flushed, and then waxed
pale as death, according to the nature of the images
presented to his mind.

"Oh, my unhappy country!" at length he exclaimed
aloud in impassioned anguish, "how long are thy saints
called upon to endure the miseries heaped upon them?
How long must they continue to fall beneath the
oppressor's rod——?"

At this moment a loud derisive burst of laughter
grated harshly on his ear, interrupting him in the
midst of his reverie.  Starting hastily from his
seat—his face covered with blushes in being thus detected
in his solitary musings—young Ayton turning an
inquiring eye in all directions in order to spy out the
mocking intruder.  For some little time his endeavours
proved fruitless, and he was on the point of giving up
the search, when a head cautiously protruded from
behind a jutting piece of rock disclosed to view the
laughing face of his cousin, William Auchmutie, who,
perceiving himself detected, came forward and
addressed young Ayton thus:—

"Come, come, my gentle coz; art not done dreaming
yet, that thou starest so strangely on me, thy well
beloved and right trusty cousin, as if forsooth I had
indeed come with the intention of shedding some of
the precious blood thou wert raving about, as I chanced,
so opportunely, to stumble upon thy secret lurking-place? for
I am certainly of opinion that another instant
had seen thee plunge thyself in the boiling waters,
in order to obtain an effectual remedy for thy hapless
state of mind.  Why, what new crotchet is this that
has taken such forcible possession of thy most
worshipful brain, that thou seemest so utterly prostrated
in soul and body?  Art thou rehearsing some bloody
ode to excite the commiseration of thy lady-love? or
has she turned a deaf ear to thy tenderly-urged suit?
Speak, most valiant sir, and——"

"A truce to thy nonsense, William," interrupted
his less volatile cousin; "thou knowest right well the
reason for my clouded brow—look on this unhappy
land——"

Here William Auchmutie gave utterance to a loud
laugh, at the same time exclaiming, "and what hast
thou got to do with this unhappy country?  Dost thou
imagine that thy single arm can in any way stay the
course of bloodshed, or turn aside the inevitable shafts
of fate?  Pooh, pooh; give up thy day-dreaming—join in
the sports of other young men, and leave thy countrymen
to fight it out as they best can."

"Thou talkest foolishly, William," said young Ayton
mildly, "can any one possessed of the least spark of
religious feeling stand by a careless and unmoved
spectator of the fearful scenes daily enacted around him?
Look at the sufferings of the poor Covenanters; see
how nobly they stand up in defence of their rights and
liberties; behold them, as it were, with one voice, one
heart, declaring their mighty purpose of suffering death
rather than yield submission to the cruel laws imposed
upon them.  Oh, how I admire and venerate such
noble heroism!  Trusting in a strength not their own,
the brave defenders of a national Covenant go forth
from their homes rejoicing in the race set before them,
and committing their weeping wives and helpless babes
to the care of One who has promised to be a father to
the fatherless, and a husband to the widow; relying, I
say, on His gracious promise, these soldiers of the cross
go forth to fight beneath the banners of the Covenant,
and woe be to the man who shall despise them, or the
cause for which they fight!"

"Andrew," exclaimed his cousin, scornfully, "thou
an what I have long suspected thee to be—a heretic!
No true churchman would ever espouse the side of these
canting hypocrites, men whom, for my own part, I
utterly despise.  I have spent too many years in merry
England not to have arrived at pretty correct notions
regarding the Puritans, and should feel delighted
beyond measure were the whole race exterminated
from the face of the earth."

"I speak not of the English Puritans," replied
young Ayton; "with Cromwell and his party I have
little or no sympathy; it is of the poor simple peasantry
of Scotland, than whom a more peaceable and orderly
class of men does not exist, and yet they are represented
by some knaves in office as being all that is vile
and despicable, for whom hanging is too good.  It is
of such wanton cruelties as are now being perpetrated
that I complain, outrages which must yet bring a fearful
retaliation on the heads of those who so mercilessly
use the lash of power——"

"Lash of power," re-echoed William Auchmutie in a
deriding tone, "I would it were in my hands for a few
short hours, then I would show thee the esteem in
which I hold all such rebellious hypocrites.  What
business have they, I should like to know, with laws and
regulations of their own!  Anything which the King
proposes for their benefit is only too good for the like
of them; a set of cropped-eared malignants, whose
long dismal faces would sour all the cream in the
country——"

"Hold!" cried young Ayton warmly; "use not
such intemperate language in my presence; if thou
canst not respect the privileges of dear old Scotland,
which if not the country of thy birth, is entitled to thy
esteem as being the land of thy forefathers, decry
them not for love of me.  William Auchmutie,"
continued his cousin, "thou wert born and reared for
some few years in England, during which time thou
hast imbibed notions and adopted opinions at variance
with the more simple manners and customs of our
northern clime; but for me—I glory in the land of my
birth.  Every breeze that is wafted over her heath-clad
hills breathes but of freedom and renown.  As I
gaze on the wild emblem of my country, surrounded
by its glorious motto, and reflect, that in defence of that
country heroes and patriots died, my heart swells and
throbs within me exulting in the thought.  Wallace, that
mighty chieftain of old, who perished in defence of our
civil liberties, has left a glorious example for us to
follow.  He rose as a giant in his strength, and, under
the guidance and protection of a far mightier arm,
burst asunder the iron shackles of slavery, which till
then had crushed the souls and weighed down the
heads of his wretched countrymen.  In like manner
shall the present defenders of the Covenant, trusting
in the righteousness and justice of their cause, trample
once more on the tyrant's chains."

"Whom term ye a tyrant?" demanded William
Auchmutie haughtily.

"Charles the Second," replied his cousin firmly.

"And wherefore?"

"On account of his base desertion of a party whom
he had sworn to protect and maintain to the best of his
ability; and for the cruel and heartless measures he has
adopted for their destruction.  Oh, William," pursued
his cousin eagerly, "do not defend such iniquitous
proceedings as are now taking place at the instigation
of the government!  What has Charles' conduct been
throughout but one mass of treachery and deceit?
Look how the poor Presbyterians rejoiced at his return
to the throne of his fathers; who more than they were
eager to testify their love and loyalty, trusting as they
did in his specious promises; and how were they
repaid? by foul treachery and calumny!"

"Thou ravest, Andrew," was the cold reply; and
after a short pause, during which each seemed engrossed
with his own thoughts, William Auchmutie continued:
"And I, as thou sayest, not having been born on
Scottish soil, cannot boast of that mighty love for her
glorious institutions—since thou must needs have them
termed such—which seems to animate thy bosom; no,
I was born in a more kindly, liberal land, and feel that,
to me, the fertile plains of glorious old England are
fairer and dearer than the barren hills of gloomy,
fanatical Scotland.  But hark ye, Andrew," added his
cousin, laughing gaily, "a truce to this nonsense; it
was not to argue on the merits of either country or
cause that I sought out thy tragedy face, O most wise
philosopher! but to acquaint thee with the glorious
news that my father hath at length consented to my
becoming a soldier, and next year I am to don the
buff-coat, the lengthy rapier, the steel helmet, and the
waving plume of a Scottish cavalier!  Ha, there's for
you!" exclaimed the exulting youth, tossing his cap
up in the air and catching it on the point of his foot
as it fell; "oh, won't I make my good sword rattle
on the backs of these sour-faced loons, till they bellow,
like so many pigs in the shambles, for quarter, but
none shall be given them, no; and if I chance to
encounter thy worthy self some of these odd mornings,
cousin Andrew," pursued the thoughtless boy, "I shall
kill thee just for thy having espoused so rascally a
cause."

As William Auchmutie gave utterance to these heedless
words, a strange, unaccountable feeling took
possession of young Ayton's soul, while a cold shiver passed
through his frame, and he remained motionless and
unable to speak.  His emotion was not lost upon his
companion, who instantly exclaimed—

"Good gracious, Andrew, what is the matter with
thee? thou lookest as scared as though I had spoken
in good earnest."

Young Ayton smiled faintly, and muttered some few
words by way of a reply, but they were unheard and
unheeded by his thoughtless cousin, who at that instant
was threading his way up among the rocks, humming
some popular cavalier song.

Andrew Ayton remained stationary a while, gazing
after the retreating figure of William Auchmutie, until
rousing himself, as with a mighty effort, from his
momentary fit of abstraction, he murmured, half aloud,
"and now for a bitter task;" then pulling his cap still
lower over his forehead, he strode off rapidly in a
contrary direction to that pursued by his cousin.  After
proceeding a short distance along the sea-shore, he
struck into a narrow path amongst the rocks, which
led towards a fine old avenue surrounded by aged
elms, whose dusky foliage lent an air of sadness to the
scene, in keeping with the impressive silence which
reigned around.

The house approached by this avenue was an
ancient, venerable-looking edifice, which, during the
time of the haughty Cardinal Beaton, had been the
residence of one of the popish dignitaries then holding
office in the cathedral of St. Andrews.  There was an
air of monastic seclusion about the mansion which
accorded well with the gloomy nature of the approach.
The walls were overgrown with ivy, whose luxuriant
growth almost concealed from view the windows
designed to impart light to its inhabitants, while the
dreamy murmurs of a fountain stationed near the
entrance attuned the heart of the listener to melancholy
yet pleasing reflection.  Andrew Ayton stood still a while
beneath the shade of one of the lofty elms, to gaze
unseen on this picture of peaceful seclusion, until finding
his thoughts too painful for long indulgence, he walked
hastily onwards, and opening a wicker-gate which
stood at some little distance from the mansion, was
admitted into the old-fashioned garden belonging to
the place, where a youthful maiden was seated,
working embroidery, under the umbrageous boughs of
one of the apple-trees with which the garden abounded.
At sight of the intruder the young girl uttered a cry
of joy, and bounded eagerly forward, exclaiming—

"Why so late, Andrew, why so late?  Here have
I been seated all alone for hours in this dreary old
garden, which, with its quaint devices, reminds me so
forcibly of the one attached to the convent where
I resided in France, only"—but here, for the first
time, observing the sad, troubled expression of
young Ayton's face, she paused in her description
to inquire what ailed him, adding, "I am sure
you study far too closely at that nasty university;
aunt says so too, but she has been noticing how
wretchedly out of spirits you have been for some time
past, and wonders what can be the reason of it;
do tell me, Andrew," she implored, placing her hand
confidingly in his, while two of the loveliest eyes in the
world were fixed on his face with a look of tender
entreaty impossible to withstand.  Andrew Ayton
smiled faintly, and pleading some slight excuse for
his apparent depression of spirits, passed his hand
caressingly over her luxuriant black tresses, which
hung in massy folds over her swan-like neck, while he
led her towards a seat placed beneath an old yew-tree,
whose mournful hue harmonised well with the nature
of the communication he was about to make.

"Oh, not there, not there!" exclaimed the young
maiden shudderingly, dragging young Ayton away from
the tree as she spoke.

"Wherefore?" was the inquiry.

"O, it is so gloomy, and there is a strange tradition
told in connection with it which makes me shudder
whenever I look on it."

"And pray what is the tradition?" inquired Andrew
Ayton, endeavouring by every means in his power to
delay the moment of explanation.

"I know not the circumstances which gave rise to
the prediction," replied the maiden, "but it bodes
approaching death to one or both of those who beneath
its venerable boughs breathe of aught save of that
pertaining to holy things."

"Why, then, have a seat placed there at all?" said
young Ayton, smiling at the strange superstition.

"It has been there from time immemorial," was the
reply, "and no one would be found hardy enough to
attempt its removal."  Then evidently with a wish to
change the subject, she said, in a livelier tone, "but
come hither, you lagging knight, and see what I have
been doing for you in your absence."  So saying, she
led him by the hand towards the tree where she had
herself been seated, and holding up for his admiration
the piece of embroidery she had just finished on his
entrance, representing a Venetian lady singing her
evening hymn to the Virgin, said laughingly, "I have
worked this at the request of my worthy aunt, who
desires that you will immediately hang it up in your
chamber at the university, in order that, by feasting
your eyes on this holy subject, and your mind with the
thoughts it must give rise to, you may be preserved
from the fatal errors of Protestantism."

The lips of her lover—for that Andrew Ayton was
such the reader must by this time have
discovered—became ashen white during this playful sally of the
merry-hearted girl, and, seizing her by the hand, he
constrained her to seat herself by his side, while he
exclaimed, in a voice rendered husky by intense
emotion—

"Mary Cunninghame, is it not true that we have
loved each other since the days of our childhood?"

"Yes," was the faint reply of the startled maiden,
who sat with her eyes rivetted on the pale face of the
inquirer, awaiting the issue of this strange address, in
speechless anxiety.

"Ere ever you went to France," continued her
lover, "when we roamed hand in hand through the
bonnie woods of Craigeholm, seeking for wild flowers
with which to adorn thy curling tresses, I sighed for
the day which I hoped would see us united.  I thought
of it—dreamed of it.  When you left me to go to
France, then was I miserable indeed.  My only
happiness consisted in re-visiting the old familiar haunts of
my happier hours.  And yet they seemed changed to
me, for the angel presence which diffused a charm
around these hallowed spots was gone; and I fled with
an aching heart from those scenes which reminded me
so forcibly of you.  Every trifle bestowed by you on
me in these halcyon days was treasured up by me as a
gem of the most priceless value.  They were watered
by my tears—they were the confidants of my sorrows;
and look, Mary, I have worn this even till now."  So
saying, young Ayton took from off his neck a narrow
piece of blue ribbon, to which was attached a small
amber cross.  Mary Cunninghame gazed on this
small token of affection with eyes suffused with
tears, and, unable to speak, motioned her lover
to proceed with his disclosure, which he did as
follows:—

"Such being my constancy during your absence, you
will in some measure be able to guess the intensity of
my happiness on your return.  You were restored to
me more beautiful than ever—my wildest dreams had
never dared to picture aught so fair; and oh, what
pleased me more than all, was the knowledge you were
still unchanged towards me.  I read your affection in
one glance of those sweet truthful eyes, and I was
overwhelmed with joy.  As you may remember, shortly
alter your return I came hither, and you—from a
desire to be near me, and to enliven with your bright
smiles the hours not devoted to study—accepted your
aunt's invitation to stay with her during the absence
of your parents in England.  You came, and expressed
your surprise at the change which had taken place in
me in the space of the few months we had been
separated; then, Mary, was the commencement of the
struggle between duty and my love for you.  Formerly
I was a sincere believer in the doctrines of the Romish
Church, and would have repelled the charge with
indignation had any one ventured to assert that I
should yet be a Protestant.  But now things are altered.
I chanced one day, during my leisure hours, to take up
a pamphlet entitled, 'The Sufferings of God's Children,'
and opening it carelessly, I read one or two pages,
without reflecting on what I was reading; suddenly a
passage struck me with overwhelming force, and
becoming then deeply interested, I went on and on,
and the farther I proceeded, the more I was convinced
of the truth of the statements therein contained.  I
read of the dreadful cruelties inflicted on the hapless
members of the Church of Scotland; how her children
are driven to the wilds and fastnesses of their native
country, there to worship, in silence and in solitude,
the God of their fathers.  I wept over the numberless
atrocities that have been committed, and I arose from
the perusal of the book with the firm resolution of
inquiring farther into the doctrines of the Protestant
Church, persuaded, as I then was, that they must be
of a truly elevating and comforting character thus to
render their holders superior to all attempts made to
torn them from their revered yet simple faith.  Mary,"
continued young Ayton, "from that day I have been
an altered being.  At first I was torn with doubts and
apprehensions as to the line of conduct I should
pursue, knowing, as I did, the love you entertained for the
Romish religion; but a voice kept always whispering
in mine ear—search, search, and I did search until I
found peace and consolation in the blessed light of
Protestantism.  Mary, I am now a Protestant; are we
to part?"

With a sharp cry as though an adder had stung her,
Mary Cunninghame darted from her lover's side, her
lips quivering with emotion, and her face white as
marble, so overcome was she by the shock she had
received on hearing this communication.

"Oh!" she wildly exclaimed, pressing her hand to
her heart as though to still its beatings, "tell me
anything—anything but that.  Say you are a beggar;
convince me, if you will, that you are no longer worthy
of my affection, my esteem, yet I should regard you as
I have ever done, but oh! not that you have abandoned
the only true Church.  Tell me," she continued, the
rapidity of her utterance attesting the intense
excitement under which she laboured, "that it is false—that
you have wilfully, cruelly deceived me, and I shall bless
you for the words—speak!"

"Mary," said her lover, calmly and sorrowfully.
"I have indeed told you the truth: I am now a
convert to Protestantism; and God alone knows the
agony I have endured while telling you this, knowing,
for I see it in your eyes, that we must part.  But Mary,
ever fondly-beloved Mary, we are both young; let us
therefore pray to God that he may grant us time, and
a portion of his Holy Spirit, to do that required of us.
You"—here he paused for a moment overcome with
emotion—"will be courted by the rich and the great of
your own faith, and may soon find one to console you
for the lover lost, while I——"

"You!" scornfully interrupted Mary Cunninghame,
her eyes flashing with indignation as she spoke, "will,
I suppose, comfort yourself in a similar manner; the
recreant in religion will soon prove a recreant in love;
but learn this, fair sir, that from this day henceforward,
Mary Cunninghame ceases to regard Andrew Ayton
in any other light than that of a base apostate, and will
tear him from her heart as easily as she now tramples
under foot what hitherto she had valued above anything
in her possession."  So saying, the indignant girl hastily
withdrew from its hiding-place a ribbon similar to
that worn by her lover, to which was attached a small
gold heart, a present from him in younger and
happier days, and dashed it with violence on the ground.

The lips of Andrew Ayton trembled with agitation
during this proceeding on the part of her he loved so
fondly, and more than once he was on the point of
throwing himself at her feet and surrendering all save
his hopes of her, but a higher power restrained him,
and he muttered half audibly, "far better thus; if
she deems me so faithless she will forget me all the
sooner.  Poor Mary, she knows not what I suffer; God
grant me strength to bear the burden imposed on
me."  Then turning to Mary Cunninghame, who, more than
half repenting of what she had done, stood gazing on
the beloved and till that day cherished ornament, as it
lay bruised upon the ground, addressed her thus:—"God
bless you, my darling Mary, and grant you a
lighter heart than I bear away with me this night; and
oh! if in his great goodness and mercy he sees fit to
turn you from that Church to which you now so fondly
cling, send for me, should you feel your heart in any
degree softened towards one whose only grief at this
moment is his losing you;" so saying, he darted
towards her, and seizing her hand ere ever she was
made aware of his intention, he pressed it again and
again to his lips, gazed for a moment wildly in her
face—and tore himself away.  For days after this occurrence,
Andrew Ayton remained shut up in his chamber,
permitting no one to intrude on his privacy save
William Auchmutie, who came to take leave of him before
quitting St. Andrews.  This latter personage was as
gay and lively as ever, but not even his brilliant sallies
of wit could extract from his cousin the faintest shadow
of a smile, so that he soon withdrew in indignation at
his failure.  Young Ayton was indeed almost
broken-hearted at what had taken place.  He felt as many
others do when similarly situated, that he never knew
the real extent of his love for Mary Cunninghame until
she was lost to him for ever.  The circumstance of
her having so carefully preserved the little golden
heart he had placed round her neck on the morning of
her departure for France, affected him deeply, and the
look of indignant grief with which she tore it from its
sanctuary during their last interview, was indelibly
engraven on his imagination.  His only resort now was
the sea-shore, where he would sit for hours gazing with
vacant eyes on the mighty waves as they dashed with
violence against the rock on which the ancient castle
of St. Andrews is situated.

One day, while indulging in his wonted reverie, he
observed an aged man coming swiftly down amongst
the rocks who, when he had seated himself on a
neighbouring stone, fixed his eyes with a melancholy
gaze on the brilliant sunbeams as they danced on the
heaving waters.  There was something in the appearance
of the stranger at once striking and commanding.
In figure he was tall and slender, while a slight stoop
at the shoulders indicated a tendency to constitutional
delicacy, in some measure counteracted by the bronzed
hue of his cheek, which betokened constant exposure
to the elements; while the vigorous strides with which
he had descended the tortuous path leading to the
shore, proved his capabilities for undergoing great and
enduring fatigue.  Andrew Ayton felt as if attracted
by some invisible power towards the venerable stranger,
and he gazed on him with a feeling of awe and
reverence for which he was in some measure unable to
account.  After the lapse of a few moments spent thus
in meditation, the stranger turned his mild yet
penetrating eye full on the face of his companion, and
pointing with the stick which he held in his hand towards
the glittering sunbeams, addressed him thus:—

"Young man, these sparkling messengers resemble
the hopes and joyful aspirations of youth, gladdening
with their presence the dull waters of life.  The
spring-time of existence beneath their bright influence
is indeed as a beautiful dream, but ah! how different
the awakening.  The youthful traveller goes forth
into the world eager to run the race and win the goal.
All nature seems to rejoice with him in his sweet
anticipations regarding the future.  The blue sky
smiles above him—the green earth teems with glowing
beauties around him—the song of the birds is more
thrilling and tender; all serves as it were, to feed the
fond delusions of youth.  But soon there comes a
change.  Dark threatening clouds obscure the bright
sunbeams.  The aspect of the heavens is changed; fierce
storms arise, the smooth waters swell into mighty
billows, and man awakes from the dreams of his
youthful hours to arm him for the combat—is it
not so?"

"Yes, father," said young Ayton with a deep-drawn
sigh, for he felt the full force of the simile.

The dejected air with which these simple words were
uttered did not escape the observation of the stranger,
for he quickly resumed, eyeing his companion keenly
as he spoke: "But, on the other hand again, youth is
prone to be easily dejected.  According to the bright
and sanguine anticipations of that season of hope,
so is there a corresponding amount of depression,
should anything occur to mar or lessen the amount of
happiness we expected to enjoy in our progress through
life.  But he is not worthy of the prize who thus faints
and succumbs at the outset of his career; no, the
youthful warrior, like the Christian of old, must arm
him for the fight.  He must rise superior to all the
crosses and afflictions he is called upon to endure.  He
must fix his thoughts on the mighty end to be
achieved, which will guide him as a beacon through the
darkness and difficulties which surround his path; and
although the object to be attained may seem far
beyond his reach, yet assuredly he will triumph in
the end."

Andrew Ayton recognised the justice of the stranger's
observations, and being desirous to repose implicit
confidence in one who seemed, from the wisdom
of his counsels, to be able to direct him as to
his future walk in life, he recounted to him the
history of his love and subsequent conversion to
Protestantism.

"My son," exclaimed the stranger, warmly grasping
the hand of his companion, "God has indeed been
gracious to you in bringing you thus early in life to a
knowledge of what is to be desired above all earthly
things, and although the sacrifice of your youthful
affections may appear at first a burden hard and
grievous to be borne, yet He is faithful who promised
we will not be tempted above that we we able to bear.
We are all called upon to suffer; and it is the duty of
the Christian to say with resignation, 'The Lord's will
be done.'  None of us are exempted from sorrow and
trial, and it is wisely ordained that it should be so, in
order that we may be prepared for another and a
brighter world."

Here the stranger paused for a moment, and then
resumed with inquiry, "perhaps you are not aware, my
son, that I am a minister of the suffering Church of
Scotland?"

"I deemed, father, that you belonged to the
Covenanting body," said young Ayton, "from the air of
deep sadness seated on your brow."

"Yes," said the stranger sadly; "every true member
of the Presbyterian religion must, in these fearful
times, bear on their countenances the tokens of a
sorrowing heart within.  Oh! my son," continued the
aged man, "unite with me in prayer that the destruction
which at present menaces our beloved Church may
be averted, and that God in the greatness of his strength
may visit and relieve his people."

Andrew Ayton, deeply overcome at sight of the old
man's sorrow, knelt with him on the sand, and prayed
that He who had promised grace to help in every time
of need might look down from his throne on high, and
strengthen those about to go forth in defence of their
Covenants.

"O God of Battles," exclaimed the venerable
stranger aloud, in the fervour of his devotion, "behold
and visit us in our affliction; stretch out thy right
hand and save us from the dangers which threaten us,
that a remnant may be saved to worship thee
according to the ways of our fathers.  O heavenly
Father, the mighty ones of the earth are arrayed against
us, but if thou, our Father, art with us, what have we
to fear from the hate and malice of our enemies."  The
petitioner then went on to pray for those appointed to
suffer martyrdom in the cause of their religion, that
their faith might be strengthened in the last hours of
their sojourn on earth, that no tortures inflicted on
them by their merciless persecutors might have the
power of inducing them in their agony to yield up
their glorious privileges; that those ministers unjustly
deprived of their churches might be enabled to preach
the blessed doctrine of salvation with comfort and
edification to those who hungered and thirsted after the
truths of the gospel amongst the mountains and
valleys of Scotland; and that the Almighty would be
graciously pleased to hear the prayers and petitions of
his children.  Towards the conclusion of his
supplication, he besought the blessing of the Lord on the
head of him who had so recently become a convert to
Protestantism—that he might long be spared to labour
in the Lord's vineyard, and his hands be strengthened
for the work he had yet to perform; but if the
Almighty, in his wisdom, was pleased to remove him
from thence in the spring-time of life, that there might
be laid up for him a crown of glory, such as is
promised to those who have fought the good fight.
Thus prayed the venerable stranger; and it was an
affecting sight to view the grey-haired soldier of the
cross, who had grown aged in the battles of the Lord,
and the golden-haired youth, who had newly donned his
armour for the fight, kneeling side by side on the solitary
shore, with no ear to hearken to the voice of their
petition, save His to whom all hearts are open—all
desires known; and no sound to disturb the tenor of
their thoughts save the wild roar of ocean, as it rolled
along, obedient to the commands of its creator—"Thus
far shalt thou come and no farther."

"By what name shall I for the future address one
with whom I have become so singularly acquainted?"
inquired the stranger on rising from his kneeling
posture.

"I am Andrew Ayton; and you?"

"Am styled Walter Denoon."

Young Ayton was delighted beyond measure at
having formed a friendship with one whom he had so
frequently heard, and expressed an earnest desire that
the acquaintanceship so auspiciously commenced might
be continued during their lifetime.  Mr. Denoon save
utterance to a similar wish, adding that he had but a
few days to remain in St. Andrews, whither he had
come for the purpose of visiting some near and dear
friends, before proceeding to Morayshire, where he had
much labour to accomplish.  In the course of
conversation, Andrew Ayton ventured to express a hope
that the cause of the Church of Scotland was not so
desperate as they had been led to imagine; but in reply
to this, Mr. Denoon informed him that, instead of the
accounts they had received having been exaggerated,
they had in many cases come far short of the sad reality;
and the sanguinary acts on the part of the government
had everywhere filled men's minds with terror and
consternation.  As an example of what he alluded to,
Mr. Denoon proceeded to make his companion acquainted
with much that had taken place during the time he
had remained in retirement; how government had
placed the price of four hundred pounds sterling on the
heads of the most celebrated field-preachers, and
issued letters of intercommuning against all those
persons who had neglected or declined to appear in
court and take the oath of abjuration.  How the
father was forced to give evidence against the son, and
the son against the father—the daughter against the
mother, and the husband against the wife; and that
driven to madness by the inveterate persecution of the
government, the people had forsaken their homes and
fled to the wilds and solitudes of their country, or
sought in a foreign land that peace and safety no
longer to be found in Scotland; preferring to
encounter any degree of hardship, even death itself, to
the horrors of miserable incarceration in dungeons, or
the tortures of perpetual apprehension.  "The King,"
continued Mr. Denoon, "is evidently dreadfully embittered
against the Covenanting party, regarding them as
morose, sullen, blood-thirsty fanatics, on whom all his
benefits are entirely thrown away.  He has been led to
believe by the prelatic body that the hierarchy is in
danger, and is therefore determined to bear the
Presbyterians down by every means in his power.  They
are, as he terms them, the enemies of his unhallowed
pleasures, and must needs suffer for being so."

Young Ayton sighed deeply on being made aware of
the gloom and dejection which pervaded his beloved
country.  "Alas!" he cried, "that such things are
permitted to take place; but surely," he continued,
"sooner or later there must come a day of reckoning."

"There will come a day of retribution," said
Mr. Denoon solemnly, "and the consequences thereof may
be dreadful.  The persecuted adherers of the Covenant
may indeed suffer long, but in the end they will turn
on their oppressors, and a general rising take place
throughout Scotland to repel the invaders of their
rights; but God grant that such a fearful alternative
may be avoided, and Scotland spared the horrors of a
bloody civil war."

"Amen," said his companion; "but should necessity
require it, may every true Scotchman be found
enrolled beneath the banner of the Covenant!" then he
quickly added, while the faltering tones of his voice
betrayed his agitation, "Reverend father, I would to
heaven you could ever meet with Mary Cunninghame,
so persuaded am I that you might under the mercy of
God, be the instrument of her conversion.  She is
young and enthusiastic; ardent and zealous, it is true,
in favour of her religion, but then, what other has she
ever known?  All her friends are Roman Catholics,
and have early inculcated in her youthful mind the
doctrines of their Church, to the exclusion of all others:
but were she instructed by some sincere and devoted
servant of God in the pure and glowing truths of our
simple faith, she might indeed become a sincere
Protestant.  Oh, father," he continued, "do this, and
you will overwhelm me with gratitude, for every
moment that passes over my head is fraught with sweet
remembrance of her!"

"My son," said Mr. Denoon in a tone of tender
sympathy, "you are very young, and your heart and
affection still retain all the exquisite tenderness of one's
early days, while the generous feelings of your nature
are aroused within you at the thought that she
whom you so deeply love must regard you as faithless,
and unworthy of the confidence formerly reposed in you;
but who amongst us have not, at some period of their
lives, been liable to misconception?  In many cases all
has been made right in the end; and please God, should
I have an opportunity, Mary Cunninghame shall not
remain long in ignorance of your real worth and
steadfast devotion towards her.  Remember, however,
as I told you before, affliction falls to the lot of every
man on earth; and as for me, sorrow has been my
companion since childhood.  I too loved a maiden with
all the fervour of youth, but it pleased the Almighty
to remove her from this scene of trial ere ever I had
called her mine; while one by one my parents and
brethren fell around me, until I stood alone, even as the
oak survives the stormy blast which laid its companions
prostrate in the dust.  But," continued the venerable
patriarch, raising his hat reverently as he spoke, and
allowing his grey hairs to float in the breeze, "even in
the midst of my afflictions I recognised the wisdom and
goodness of the hand that smote me; for, deprived at
one fell stroke of all whom I loved, perchance too well,
on earth, I but clung the more closely to Him who
sticketh closer than a brother.  Yes, my son, it is when
bowed down beneath a load of sorrow, such as seemeth
to mortal eyes too grievous to be borne, that the real
confiding Christian experiences the unspeakable blessings
to be derived from a firm belief in the doctrines of
Christianity.  Amid the darkness and gloom which
surrounds him, he beholds his Father's face bright with
pitying love; he recognises the benevolence of the
motive even while smarting under the weight of the
infliction, and is supported amid the dangers and
difficulties which encompass his path through life by
the comforting assurance to be derived from the
gracious words, 'whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth,
and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.'"

Just at the moment Andrew Ayton had framed a
suitable reply to this address on the part of his
companion, the hour of three rung out from the city
churches.  Uttering an exclamation of regret at the
arrival of the hour when he must return to the university,
he darted hastily from his seat, and expressing his
disappointment at this unseasonable interruption to
their conference, ventured to express a hope that it
would be resumed on the following day.  Mr. Denoon
having cheerfully responded to the wish, they shook
hands and parted.

At an early hour on the following morning, Inchdarnie
once more retraced his steps to the sea-shore, where
he was shortly afterwards joined by Mr. Denoon.  In
the course of conversation, Andrew Ayton informed his
companion that it was his intention at once to quit the
university of St. Andrews, and to endeavour, by every
means in his power, to aid those whose cause he now
so warmly espoused; adding that it was his most
earnest desire that Presbyterian ministers might be
induced to visit Fifeshire, in order that those poor
people who were deprived of all opportunity of hearing
Episcopalian clergymen, might not be altogether left
without a preacher.  Mr. Denoon replied to this wish
on the part of his young friend, by placing in his hands a
letter that morning received from the Rev. Mr. Blackader,
in which he made known his intention of
presiding over a meeting shortly to be held at Divan.

"Oh, merciful Father!" cried Inchdarnie in a
transport of joy, "and shall I then have an opportunity
of seeing that good and holy man whose noble bearing
during his great and unmerited misfortunes has already
filled my soul with admiration and esteem, and
awakened in my breast the most ardent desire to know
him, and if possible receive from him some counsel
necessary for the guidance of my own steps through the
dark and tangled mazes of life?"

"Yes, my young friend," said Mr. Denoon; "he has
indeed given us a bright example to follow.  Never
shall I forget the holy, pious resignation depicted on
his countenance that morning when, with many others
of his brethren, he was constrained to abandon the
flock the Lord had committed to his care.  It was on a
Sabbath morn—the last on which he should ever
address his parishioners from the pulpit of Traquair
Church.  Saddened but not utterly cast down, he
entered his little garden, there to strengthen himself to
bear the burden imposed upon him by private
communion with his Maker.  In a little while I
ventured forth to join him.  He was standing in a
contemplative attitude, his head leaning on his hand,
and his eyes rivetted on the ground.  My dear friend!"
I exclaimed.

"Hush, hush," he said; "list to these bells—these
sacred bells now inviting those to enter the house
of God who may never again worship within its walls."

I stood and listened.  There they came pealing through
the air, these hallowed chimes, the heavy stillness of the
atmosphere rendering them painfully distinct, as they
knelled forth the expiring liberties of the Church of God.
Mr. Blackader remained mute and motionless while
they lasted, and then when the last faint note died
away on the passing breeze, he started suddenly from
his reverie, and ringing my hand convulsively, withdrew
to his chamber, there to fortify himself by earnest
prayer for the coming trial.

"All the surrounding heights," continued Mr. Denoon,
"were thronged with people, eager, and yet afraid to
press into the church, lest it might chance to hurt
their minister, as it would be termed by their enemies
a breach of good order.  At length many of them
gathered together in small groups in the church-yard,
and conversed in whispers, while they anxiously
awaited the appearance of their beloved pastor.  The
object of their solicitude soon came forth from the
manse, his step firm, his bearing erect, as that of one
who had nought to fear from the malice of men.
True, there was deep sorrow written on his brow, but
it was mingled with an expression of almost cheerful
serenity, for he had placed his faith and hopes in Him
whom he had chosen as his guide and ruler even unto
death.  He ascended the pulpit; he gave forth the
psalm in a loud clear voice, and his prayer was
delivered with his wonted firmness and composure.  As
he proceeded with his discourse every eye was moist
with tears, and many gave way to involuntary bursts
of sorrow.  In the midst of the sermon an alarm was
raised that a party of soldiers were on their way from
Dumfries to seize him, and that already they had
crossed the bridge.  Upon receipt of this intelligence,
Mr. Blackader hastily pronounced the benediction,
dismissed the congregation, and withdrew to his manse,
there to await the arrival of the soldiers.  They came,
but contented themselves with merely taking down the
names of those who were absent from their own
churches, and then returned to head-quarters.  After
their departure, Mr. Blackader collected the remains
of the congregation in his own house, and finished the
sermon.  The people remained lingering about the
door, unwilling to leave their pastor while in danger of
being arrested.  Some of them implored his b;essing,
while others again expressed their willingness to die in
his defence.  Mr. Blackader thanked them for their
ready zeal in his behalf, but conjured them to avoid
giving their enemies cause of offence."

"Go," said he, "and fend for yourselves: the hour is
come when the shepherd is smitten, and the flock shall
by scattered.  Many are this day mourning the
desolations of Israel, and weeping, like the prophet,
between the porch and the altar.  God's heritage has
become the prey of the spoiler; the mountain of the
house of the Lord as the high places of the forest.
When the faithful pastors are removed, hirelings will
intrude whom the Great Shepherd never sent, who will
devour the flock, and tread down the residue with
their feet.  As for me, I have done my duty, and now
there is no time to evade.  I recommend you to him
who is able to keep you from falling, and am ready,
through grace, to be disposed of as the Lord pleases."

"During the following week," continued Mr. Denoon,
"a party of rude soldiers attacked the manse of
Traquair, and Mr. Blackader was forced to seek safety
in flight; since which time he has been wandering
through Scotland, preaching the gospel of peace, and
everywhere exhorting the people to sobriety and
gentleness of conduct."

Young Ayton's face flushed, and he enthusiastically
exclaimed, "O that I were accounted worthy to stand
at the helm with those mighty leaders who present so
dauntless a front to the furious waves which threaten
every instant to overwhelm them in destruction!"

"Courage, Inchdarnie," replied his reverend friend;
"there is that in you which, through the grace of God,
must yet render you distinguished; but be watchful
and diligent, and follow the counsels of those who
possess knowledge and wisdom sufficient to guide you
in the way everlasting."

After much interesting conversation regarding the
disturbed aspect of affairs, it was finally agreed upon
between them that Mr. Denoon should, on the following
Saturday, proceed to Kirkcaldy, there to meet
Mr. Blackader and conduct him to Inchdarnie, where
young Ayton should be in attendance to receive him.
All being thus arranged for their future meeting, the
two friends bade each other farewell for the present, as
Mr. Denoon was about to proceed to Cupar, there to
meet with some other devoted friends of the cause.

While on his way hack to the university, Inchdarnie
encountered a young man whom he had frequently
seen in the house of Mrs. Cunninghame, the aunt of
Mary Cunninghame, and who immediately inquired if
he could afford him any information respecting their
mutual friends, who had suddenly quitted St. Andrews,
and gone, no one knew whither.  Young Ayton
stammered forth some incoherent reply, and greatly to
the astonishment of his friend, who stood staring after
him in speechless amazement as if utterly at a loss to
comprehend such extraordinary conduct, he broke
from him and darted into an adjoining street, where
he stood for some minutes leaning against the wall,
pale and motionless as a statue.  Having at length
summoned up strength sufficient to proceed on his way,
he regained his apartments, where he gave way to a
passionate burst of grief.  Mary Cunninghame was
gone—gone from him for ever.  She had willingly
deserted him, and cast him from her thoughts as a
thing too worthless to be remembered.  It was indeed
a bitter pang to hear.  He felt his own weakness, and
offered up an earnest supplication, in the deep solitude
of his chamber, that grace might be given him from
above.  The hours flew on in their rapid flight,
unmarked, unheeded in their progress, for he was
seeking for comfort where it alone may be found—at the
foot of the cross of Christ.

At a late hour on the same evening a young man,
whose form was closely enveloped in the folds of a
large cloak, and his cap drawn over his brow, so as in
some measure to conceal his features, might have been
seen slowly wending his way up the long dark avenue
which led to the Priory, the late residence of Mary
Cunninghame.  This, as the reader may have already
conjectured, was no other than Andrew Ayton, who
had come in order to take a farewell look at a place
linked with so many sad and tender memories.  The
hour and the scene were alike attuned to melancholy.
The rays of the sun, now rapidly sinking behind the
distant hills, were transmitted through the leafy boughs
of the aged elms, and threw a dim cathedral light over
the otherwise darkened avenue.  On approaching the
house, Inchdarnie was painfully struck with the air of
desolation which reigned around.  The Naiad still
threw upwards a silvery shower of crystal drops from
each uplifted hand, but the flowers which once bloomed
in rich and grateful profusion now hung their graceful
heads disconsolate and forlorn, as if they too were aware
that the kind hand which formerly cherished them was
gone.  The casements were no longer open to admit
the grateful breeze which wantoned amongst the
ivy-clusters clinging to the walls, and an ill-omened
magpie, rendered bold through long possession, now
croaked forth a fierce defiance at the unwelcome
intruder, from the jessamine bower where formerly he
had held sweet converse with Mary Cunninghame.
His heart wrung with untold anguish.  Inchdarnie
advanced with faltering steps towards the little gate
which led into the garden.  He opened it gently—he
entered.  All was unchanged, and yet, to him, how
changed.  Although the garden lay bathed in the
glorious light of sunset, it seemed as though light had in
reality departed, no more to cheer him with its
gladdening beams.  There was the seat from which
Mary Cunninghame had started with a joyous
exclamation to greet him on his entrance that fatal night.
The chair remained, but the occupant—where was she?
The funereal boughs of the old yew-tree waved
noiselessly in the breeze, and seemed, to the excited
imagination of young Ayton, like so many demons
tossing their great arms to and fro, as if inviting him to
enter within the charmed circle of the traditionary yew.
At this instant the noise created by the opening of the
gate caused Inchdarnie to turn suddenly round, when
his eyes fell on the stooping form of an aged woman,
who had evidently came with the intention of making
all secure for the night.

"Holy Mary!" she exclaimed, crossing herself
devoutly on observing the tall shrouded form of Andrew
Ayton, who, recognising in her a retainer of the
Cunninghames, advanced towards her for the purpose
of making inquiries regarding her absent employers.

"The saints above he praised!" cried the aged
domestic, "that it is you, Mr. Ayton, and no midnight
marauder; oh, how you did startle me!  When first I
saw you standing beneath the shade of the trees I took
you for some robber, who being made aware of the
absence of the lady of the house, had taken advantage
of the circumstance to steal into the garden with
the intention of making his way into the priory.
Holy St. Jerome,——"

"Whither has Mrs. Cunninghame gone?" impatiently
interrupted Inchdarnie.

"Have you not been made aware?" exclaimed the
old woman with an air of astonishment; "but I
forget," she added; "you had ceased coming about the
house for some little time before Miss Mary took so
badly——"

"What!" cried young Ayton in an agonised tone of
voice, "was Mary—I mean Miss Cunninghame—ill
before she left the priory?"

"Holy mother! yes," was the reply; "so much so,
that at one time we feared she never should have been
able to quit the house alive."

Inchdarnie smote his hand on his forehead, and paced
hurriedly to and fro for the space of a few moments.
When he returned, he was, to all appearance, calm and
collected, but his voice was husky with emotion, and
sounded deep and hollow as he again demanded
"whither they had gone?"

"To England," replied his informer, "there to join
Miss Cunninghame's parents, who propose taking her
to Italy on account of her weak state of health.  I this
morning," she continued, "received a letter from her
aunt, which contained this intelligence, as also that
poor Miss Mary was still very weak and languid."

"O God! and have I then killed her?" groaned
forth young Ayton, almost frantic at the thought.
At this instant he raised his eyes; they encountered
the dark green boughs of the sepulchral-looking yew; he
started, for the sight of that tree recalled to his memory
the doom which, as Mary Cunninghame had informed
him, was denounced on the person who ventured
within its sacred precincts, or vowed aught save holy
vows beneath its hallowed shade.  The old woman
perceived the steadfast gaze with which he was regarding
the gloomy-looking tree, and again she crossed herself
devoutly and mumbled over some half-dozen Paternosters,
as if for protection against some unseen foe.

"Knowest thou aught concerning the legend told in
connection with that yew?" at length inquired young
Ayton.

"The saints be between us and harm! for it is not
good to speak of things above our comprehension, but
still——"  Here the old woman paused as though in
doubt as to whether she should proceed or not.  At
length her love for relating aught pertaining to the
marvellous overcame all prudential resolves, and she
commenced thus:—"You must know that once upon a
time it pleased the blessed Mary to appear in a vision
by night to St. Regulus, a holy man of Achaia, and
inform him that he must instantly set sail for this then
benighted country—bearing with him the arm-bone,
three fingers, and three toes of the most holy apostle
St. Andrew—where work should be given him to do.
Delighted beyond measure at having been the instrument
chosen by his most blessed patroness to execute so
mighty a mission, St. Regulus set sail with some
chosen companions in obedience to the celestial
mandate.  For some days," continued the narrator, "they
were wafted on their way by a favouring breeze, but
during the latter part of their voyage the foul fiend
(jealous no doubt of the devout saint and his
precious relics) caused such a hurricane to sweep over
the deep that all on board speedily gave themselves up
for lost, with the exception of St. Regulus, who again
in the watches of the night, was visited by our holy
mother, who addressed him in the most comforting
terms, and assured him of her gracious protection,
adding as she touched the three fingers of the
martyred St. Andrew, which glowed at the contact
with a lambent flame, 'I have much labour for these to
accomplish.'  Overcome with joy at this renewed proof
of his favour with heaven, St. Regulus lost no time in
making his companions aware of his second visitation,
who immediately thereupon regained their ancient
courage and faith in their leader's mission.  After
being tossed for many days by the winds and the
waves, the ship at length struck on these shores, then
named Otholania, but all on board were saved.
The then King, on being made acquainted with the
arrival of these holy men with their precious relics,
instantly gave orders for their being received with all
possible honours.  Indeed he afterwards bestowed his
own palace, which then occupied the present site of the
priory, on St. Regulus, and built the church which still
bears the name of the saint.  Perhaps you are not
aware," she continued, "that at that remote period of
time all round here was one vast forest, abounding with
boars, noted for their immense size and uncommon
ferocity.  Well, one night as the blessed St. Regulus
(Holy Mary protect us!) was walking in the garden
which surrounded the house, praising the saints with a
joyful voice for their watchful care in bringing him
through so many dangers into so safe and comfortable
a haven, all of a sudden he was started by observing
two large fiery eyes gleaming on him from among the
trees.  Unable to seek for safety in flight, and no one
being within call, the reverend father gave himself up
for lost, when, just as the boar was about to spring
forth on him, there rose up from his very feet (so the
tradition says) this miraculous yew with branches
growing down to the ground, so that the saint,
recovering his presence of mind, was enabled to ascend
the tree, where he remained seated in safety, while an
armed warrior, hitherto invisible, darted forth as it
were from the root of the tree, at once finished the
enraged animal by a stroke from his spear, and then
disappeared ere ever St. Regulus had time to recover his
astonishment; so sudden had been the whole proceeding.
On that same night the blessed Mary again visited
the reverend father in a dream, and warned him
that that tree must be consecrated and dedicated to
the most holy St. Andrew, who had himself appeared
in his defence and slain the boar, adding that the
yew was possessed of the most miraculous qualities;
and that by applying a small piece of one of its branches
to any wound or bruise, the sufferer, after having
fasted two days and two nights, and given to the
Church a portion of his worldly goods, should
immediately be cured; but that whenever aught but holy
vows had been breathed beneath its hallowed shade, its
virtue should depart.  St. Regulus, as legends tell,
rose in an ecstacy of delight, and lost no time in
proceeding at the head of a splendid procession to the
tree, which was at once consecrated and dedicated to
St. Andrew, who thereupon testified his gratitude by
causing the yew to perform the most miraculous cures;
indeed to such celebrity did it afterwards attain that
pious pilgrims traversed sea and land to obtain
evidence of its virtues, having heard in far distant
countries that the good and pious King Hergustus
had himself been cured, through its wonderful
properties, of a malady hitherto deemed incurable.  Well,
centuries after the blessed St. Regulus had received his
heavenly crown, the prior of the holy establishment
founded here by order of the departed saint, was one
night aroused from slumber by a terrible cry proceeding
from the garden.  Lost in amazement, he listened
for a few seconds in order to hear if it would be
repeated, but no, all continued silent; and fancying
himself the sport of some evil dream, he returned to
his pallet, from whence he was summoned at the dawn
of morning by a loud knocking at the door of his
chamber.  In answer to his invitation, a pious brother
entered, apparently overcome with horror, for he
remained motionless and unable to speak.  The heart of
the prior misgave him, and he eagerly demanded what
had happened.  Father Anselmo said nought, but
pointed with his finger to the garden.  Fearing he
knew not what, the prior rushed forth, in his anxiety
oblivious of the fact that the wind was cold and his
shaven head defenceless.  Holy Mary! and what a
sight greeted the eyes of the aged prior!  There lay
his own nephew, a youth of great promise, and hitherto
deemed possessed of superior sanctity, cold and stiff,
his hand clasping that of a young and beauteous lady
who had shared his fate under the boughs of the sainted
yew.  The pious men, who then crowded round the
sorrow-stricken prior, informed him that when found
they were standing upright, and seemed as though
they had been struck by a bolt from heaven, as all
around the ground was blackened and scorched.  Since
that sad day," said the old woman with a sigh, "all
sacred virtue has departed from the tree; but it is still
affirmed and believed that some terrible doom awaits
those who dare to murmur vows of earthly love within
its consecrated precincts."

"Truly a gloomy enough tale," said young Ayton at
the conclusion of the legend, the bare narration of
which had chased all colour from the cheeks of the old
woman, who again made the sign of the cross, as if in
atonement for having yielded to the temptation of
relating so horrible a story.  Both remained silent for a
little while, each being busy with his and her own
individual thoughts, until at length the silence was
broken by young Ayton's inquiring, in a low tone of
voice, "if Miss Cunninghame seemed sorry on leaving
the priory?"

"Oh, yes! the poor sweet creature," said the
garrulous dame, "she was indeed overwhelmed with sorrow;
and just before setting off she came hither and wept,
and sobbed most bitterly for longer than I can
remember, and always kept exclaiming, 'Farewell happiness!
Farewell to all trust and confidence in mankind.'  Then
she would take something that hung from her
neck—probably some sainted relic—kiss it passionately, and
then weep more bitterly than before.  (This was when
she thought no one was observing her.)  On her return
she seemed crushed-like and broken, but still calm and
collected, until entering the carriage, when she again
gave way to tears.  All this time Mrs. Cunninghame
endeavoured to soothe and comfort her to the best of
her ability, and whispered words of consolation, but in
vain; she seemed deaf to them all.  Never while I
live shall I forget the look of agony with which she
gazed on the house; it was like that of one who should
never more behold it."

Here the feelings of Andrew Ayton overcome him;
he could listen no longer, and dashing away the tears
which almost blinded him, he fled from the spot,
greatly to the astonishment of his informer, who gazed
after him as if in doubt whether he would return or
not.  At length she exclaimed, "Holy Mary! could
it be that——"

Here she paused for a moment as if lost in thought.
Whatever was the result of her cogitations to this day
remains a mystery, for on recovering in some measure
from her surprise, she simply shrugged her shoulders,
and muttering an ave, proceeded leisurely to lock the
gate, and with many a weary sigh retraced her steps to
the house.

Early on the following morning young Ayton quitted
St. Andrews and repaired to Inchdarnie, there to await
the coming of Mr. Blackader, who arrived on the day
appointed in company with Mr. Denoon.  On the
ensuing morning (Sunday) they set out for Divan,
distant about eight miles, where a great concourse of
people were assembled to greet one of whom they had
heard so much.  Greatly to the astonishment of
Mr. Blackader, on arriving at the place of meeting he
perceived a large pile of arms lying ready in case of
necessity.  On demanding the reason for such unusual
preparation, he was informed that Prelate Sharpe—at
the mention of whose name a groan of execration passed
through the assembly—had ordered out a band of
militia to apprehend any minister who had the temerity
to venture within his bounds.  The service then
commenced, and while Mr. Blackader was dispensing
the holy communion, there arose a cry that the
militia were upon them, upon which Balfour of Burly
placed himself at the head of a small party of horse,
and went forth to obtain a view of the soldiers, who,
apprehensive of the Covenanters being armed, kept
themselves aloof with the intention of capturing some
of the people on the dismissal of the congregation.
When the service was finished, and the hearers
dispersed, with the exception of the body-guard headed
by Inchdarnie, who remained to protect Mr. Blackader,
a new alarm was raised that the soldiers were again
advancing upon them.  On receipt of this intelligence,
the Laird of Kinkel and Balfour of Burly, with some
few horsemen, rode up the face of the hill where the
militia were pouring down in the expectation of making
an easy prey of those remaining.  The alarm having
reached the ears of the young men, who, fancying all
danger at an end, were quietly wending their way
homewards, they instantly returned and joined
themselves to the party commanded by Andrew Ayton, who
earnestly entreated Mr. Blackader to be allowed to
pursue the soldiers, who had immediately taken to flight
on perceiving the preparations made to receive them,
which, had he agreed to, the Covenanters must have
gained a complete victory, as the militiamen had
resolved, if overtaken by their enemies, to throw down
their arms and surrender at discretion.  But
Mr. Blackader strongly opposed all hostile measures, and at
length dissuaded them from it.  "My friends," said he,
"your part is chiefly to defend yourselves from
hazard, and not to pursue: your enemies have fled—let
their flight sheath your weapons and disarm your
passions.  I may add, without offence, that men in
your case are more formidable to see at a distance
than to engage hand in hand.  But since you are in a
warlike and defensive posture, remain so, at least till
your brethren be all dismissed.  Conduct them through
their enemies, and be their safeguard until they get
beyond their reach; but, except in case of violence,
offer injury to none."  On receiving assurance that
the soldiers had fled towards Cupar, the armed
Covenanters quietly retired to their homes, with the
exception of nine, who remained to conduct Mr. Blackader,
to his sleeping quarters, at an inn situated in the
parish of Portmoak.  Here the three friends parted.
Mr. Blackader returned to Edinburgh, Mr. Denoon,
after an affectionate farewell with his young friend,
set off for Morayshire, and Andrew Ayton, sore
distressed at having lost his kind preceptor, once
more retraced his steps to Inchdarnie.  His parents
soon afterwards returned from Perthshire, where
they had been visiting some relations; and grieved
as they were at the step their son had taken,
they forbore addressing him on the subject, being
convinced that he had done so from a sincere belief in
its rectitude.  He was, as his amiable dispositions
merited, fondly beloved by them, and in return he
strove by every means in his power to testify his filial
love and reverence towards the authors of his being.
But their domestic happiness was soon to be invaded.
The names of those present at so celebrated a conventicle
as that recently held at Divan could not, nor was it
wished that they should, long remain a secret; and
young Ayton was specially mentioned as having been
foremost among the hearers on that day.  Since then
he had made the most strenuous efforts to bring other
holy men to Fifeshire, firmly persuaded of the
incalculable benefits it would confer on the people in whom
he took so deep an interest; consequently he must be
punished.  One evening on his return from his
accustomed ramble in the romantic woods of Inchdarnie,
a packet was placed in his hands.  He opened it;
it contained one of those letters of intercommuning then
so fearfully common throughout Scotland.  He must
therefore fly; the doors of his father's house must
henceforward be closed against him—the light of his
mother's countenance openly withdrawn from him for
ever; for according to these terrible missives, not only
the individuals mentioned therein, but those of their
relations who showed them the least kindness, or sheltered
them when oppressed, were treated with equal severity.
In one letter alone, as we read in a book written on
these times, "above ninety clergymen, gentlemen, and
even ladies of distinction, were interdicted from the
common intercourse of social life.  All who received
them or supplied them with sustenance, intelligence, or
relief—who conversed or held communication with
them—were made equally criminal."  In order to
procure evidence of the guilt of those they wished to
criminate, all persons were forced, under the highest
penalties, to inform against offenders, and made to
swear upon oath whatever they knew regarding them.
If they refused to do so, they were subject, at the
pleasure of the counsel, to fines, incarceration, or
banishment to the American plantations.  Immediately
on receipt of this letter, Andrew Ayton determined
upon setting out for Morayshire, where he thought he
should be safe from pursuit.  In an agony of grief his
mother clasped him in her arms, and besought him,
for her sake, not to expose himself to needless danger.
This be faithfully promised, and after a sad farewell,
set out on his journey.

The friends with whom Inchdarnie resided during
his sojourn in Morayshire lived near Pluscardine, a
ruined priory founded by Alexander the Second in the
year 1230.  It was dedicated to the honour of
St. Andrew, and named Valles St. Andrea.  Amongst its
sacred ruins did young Ayton love to wander, when
the moon's bright beams sparkled like diamonds on
the bosom of the river Lossie, which seemed like
some silver mirror, so still, so placid were its waters.
One lovely morning, while rambling along the soft
green walks which surrounded the ancient gardens
attached to the priory, he was startled by hearing a
footstep behind him.  He turned hastily, and perceived
Mr. Denoon advancing towards him.  Overcome with
joy on again beholding his reverend friend, Inchdarnie
eagerly advanced to meet him, his eyes sparkling with
pleasure, and his hand extended to grasp the one
outstretched to meet it.  After an interchange of warm
and affectionate greetings, Mr. Denoon informed
Andrew Ayton that he had been apprized of his arrival
in Morayshire while visiting in Elgin, and had lost no
time in coming to see him, as he had longed much to
converse with him again on the subject that lay
nearest his heart; whereupon he gave Inchdarnie a
long and circumstantial account of all that he had
done and laboured to do since his arrival in Morayshire.
How he had frequently preached, both in rooms and on
open moors, greatly to the delight of the poor people,
who had assembled in crowds to hear him; and that
everywhere much sympathy had been expressed and
felt on behalf of those of their brethren who had been
called upon to suffer for their adherence to the Covenant;
and prayers were daily offered up that the Lord might
strengthen their hearts and hands, adding, "that both
in Cromarty and Morayshire many of the inhabitants
evinced a fellow-feeling for the persecuted Covenanters,
and that he trusted they would not be backward when
the time came for their testifying their faith and
determination to do that which was right."

In answer to an inquiry on the part of Mr. Denoon
as to how things had fared with himself since last they
met, Andrew Ayton informed him regarding the letter of
intercommuning which had forced him to visit Morayshire
much sooner than he otherwise would have done,
being desirous of remaining in Fifeshire some little
time longer, in order that he might, if possible, labour
in conjunction with others in behalf of those who
desired to have the pure gospel preached unto them.

"You are now," said Mr. Denoon with a sigh,
"called upon to share in the trials and sorrows of
those who have as it were cast the world behind them.
But fear not; there is One who will guide thy bark
upon the waters, and still the waves which threaten to
engulph thee.  Cast, therefore, thy care upon Him,
and should thy path through life be compassed with
thorns, yet thy reward hereafter will be great."

As they walked to and fro amongst the venerable
ruins, Mr. Denoon attracted the attention of his
youthful companion towards the beautiful and elaborate
carving with which the walls of the interior were
adorned.  "See," said he, "that exquisite tracery on
yonder cornice; mark that curiously-defined cross; how
strange that such things should still exist, when those
who grudged not the time and labour bestowed on
perishable works such as these have long been
mouldering in the dust.  What changes are produced
by the flight of years!  At no very distant period," he
continued, "this priory was inhabited by a body of
monks, who, according to their constitution, were
obliged to lead a lonely and austere life.  For some
time they religiously adhered to the rules of their order,
until at length grown weary of so restricting
themselves, they gave way to riotous excesses, and from
being an independent house, Pluscardine was degraded
to a cell dependent on the Abbey of Dunfermline.
Years rolled on, and the tide of Reformation resistlessly
rushed over the hills and valleys of Scotland.  All
gave way before it.  The walls of the monasteries and
cathedrals then existing in our country were razed to
the ground, the monks fled to less hostile shores, and
now"—here Mr. Denoon paused for a moment, as if
overwhelmed by painful thoughts—"this green turf
once pressed by the sandalled foot, is trod by the feet
of those who are at this moment trembling for the
safety of that Church our fathers strove to establish in
our land."

"Was it not," said Andrew Ayton, "in reference to
the gay doings of the monks of Pluscardine that the
verses I am about to repeat were written?"  So saying,
he recited the following:—

   |  A right merry set were the monks of old,
   |    They lived on the best of cheer;
   |  They drank the red wine out of cups of gold,
   |    And hunted the fallow-deer.
   |  Quoth father Anselmo, "I wot that we,
   |  Thrive right well on the faithful's charity."

   |  As they gazed on the walls of their Abbey,
   |    All fair with carved work within,
   |  "'Tis better to live where one may pray,
   |    Than dwell in proud tents of sin."
   |  Quoth father Anselmo, "Yes," said he,
   |  "And thrive on the faithful's charity."

   |  The Prior he raised his glass on high,
   |    With the grape's juice mantling o'er;
   |  He view'd the red wine with a critical eye.
   |    And laughed as he call'd for more.
   |  "Yes, Brother Anselmo, yes," said he,
   |  "We thrive on the faithful's charity!"
   |

Mr. Denoon could scarcely forbear smiling at the
satirical nature of the song, as he answered, "that
they might indeed be so; the monks no doubt having
afforded, by their luxurious style of living, much
cause for censure amongst those who were in some
measure acquainted with the revelries held within the
walls of Pluscardine;" adding, "ay, even within the walls
of a sanctuary such as this, where men profess to devote
themselves exclusively to the service of God, worldly
thoughts and human feelings will intrude."

Inchdarnie, while gazing on the remains of former
grandeur, could not help expressing his admiration of
the buildings these men erected in honour of their God,
and his regret that such splendid cathedrals as existed
in Scotland at the time of the Reformation should have
been so recklessly destroyed.

"It is certainly to be regretted," said Mr. Denoon
in reply; "but at that time strong measures were
deemed necessary for the expulsion of the Romish faith
from Scotland, and the destruction of all connected
therewith was deemed a proceeding requisite for the
safety of the people.  But, my son," he continued, "it
is not the place where one worship, but the heart of
the worshipper that God values.  Believe me, a
heart-felt prayer uttered by a soldier on the bloody field of
battle, a few words of earnest supplication breathed on
the solitary moor or sequestered glen, are more
acceptable in his sight than the prayers of those kneeling
in the lofty cathedral aisle, if their souls are not in
unison with the scene around them."

In company with his reverend friend, Andrew Ayton
visited numbers of the poorer class of people inhabiting
the shire of Moray, and attended several meetings
where Mr. Denoon officiated as clergyman.  Before
quitting Elgin, the latter, in accordance with a wish
expressed to that effect, made known his intention of
holding a conventicle in the ruins of Pluscardine.  The
morning of the day appointed for the meeting having
arrived, Mr. Denoon and Andrew Ayton set off for the
ruined priory.  The day was beautiful, and on their
arrival they found the interior of the ruins thronged
with an eager multitude in readiness to receive them.
Inchdarnie was impressed beyond imagination with
the touching solemnity of the scene, as Mr. Denoon,
taking his stand on a huge fragment of stone dislodged
from the building by the relentless hand of time,
proceeded to address the congregation.  The rays of the
sun at this moment penetrating through the ivy-clad
windows, tinged with a golden lustre his venerable
locks, and imparted an air of majesty to his
countenance, in harmony with the heavenly messages he
was entrusted to deliver.  He spoke, and as his voice
resounded through the vast space with the force of a
trumpet, arousing his hearers to a sense of their
danger, young Ayton felt the incapacity of the most
gorgeous pageantry to add to the grandeur of words
like these.  While all eyes and ears were fixed on the
preacher with an earnestness that precluded all other
sights and sounds, Inchdarnie was startled on
observing a strange face, almost shrouded beneath a brass
helmet, gazing in at one of the windows.  Unable to
credit his senses, he kept his eyes fastened on the spot
with an eagerness that was almost painful.  His
suspense was not of long duration.  Again the same form
presented itself, but this time accompanied by several
others, who stationed themselves near every possible
outlet, so as to shut out all hopes of escape.  His
worst fears realised, Andrew Ayton sprung from his
seat, and shouting, "Betrayed, betrayed!" he drew his
sword, and dashing through the midst of the
terror-stricken congregation, placed himself by the side of
Mr. Denoon as though determined to share his fate.
The latter stood calm and resolute, while those by
whom he was surrounded evinced their readiness to
fight in their own and his defence.  At this instant a
soldier, who from his proud bearing and superior style
of dress appeared to be the leader of the party, entered,
and approaching Mr. Denoon, politely uncovered his
head, while he expressed his regret that so unpleasant
a duty as that of arresting Mr. Denoon should have
devolved upon him; but that, however repugnant it
might be to his own feelings to do so, yet his orders
must be obeyed, and Mr. Denoon must therefore
prepare to accompany them, adding that no harm was
intended to any of the congregation, who were at
liberty to retire if so inclined.

"Arrest Mr. Denoon!" cried Inchdarnie, "never!"
so saying, he raised his sword on high, and was about
to rush on the officer, when Mr. Denoon, throwing his
arms around him, besought him to forbear; then
turning to the commander, he demanded of him whither
he had orders to take him?

"To Dundee," was the reply, "there to await
further instructions."

"The Lord's will be done!" piously exclaimed
Mr. Denoon, raising his hands and eyes to heaven as he
spoke; then turning to the people, who loudly expressed
their sympathy, he bade them be of good cheer, as the
Lord would soon find them another and more zealous
pastor.

While parting with Inchdarnie, many tears were
shed on both sides, but to all his young friend's
entreaties that he would permit him to strike one blow
in his defence, he simply replied: "My son, it is the
duty of a Christian to suffer, and to suffer meekly; if
it please the Lord we shall meet again, and till then
farewell;" so saying he expressed his readiness to
depart, whereupon the officer, his head still uncovered,
courteously led the way to the spot where his men
stood armed to receive the prisoner.

For some little time after the departure of the
soldiers, Andrew Ayton remained motionless, and
apparently overwhelmed with grief.  He had lost his
kind, sympathising friend, and that at the very
moment when he stood most in need of his assistance.
What was to be done?  At this moment the thought
darted through his head, could he not be rescued?
Regarding the suggestion as a sunbeam sent by the
Almighty to comfort him in the midst of his
affliction, and heedless of the numbers who stood around
watching his every motion, Inchdarnie knelt for one
moment in silent prayer, and then starting to his feet,
hurried from the ruins.  His resolution was taken; he
would follow the soldiers until such time as he could
meet with some friends who would aid him in the
attempted rescue.  Having informed the relations
with whom he had been staying, of his intentions,
Andrew Ayton threw himself on horseback, and
galloped off in the direction pursued by the dragoons.
He soon came within sight of the party, and observed,
to his great satisfaction, that they were few in number,
and evidently not over-anxious regarding the safety of
their prisoner, whose venerable form young Ayton
could plainly descry stationed in midst of the dragoons.
As an Indian unceasingly follows in the track of his
intended victim, so Andrew Ayton kept in the wake of
the soldiers, riding when they rode, halting when they
halted, until at length they arrived at Dundee.  After
having carefully marked the house, to which
Mr. Denoon was conducted, Inchdarnie put spurs to his
horse's sides and galloped straight to Cupar, where he
expected to obtain the necessary assistance.  Having
speedily collected together a number of young men
eager to undertake anything that promised them
some amusement, he retraced his steps to Dundee.
All remained the same as when he had left.  The two
soldiers still kept guard before the house in which
Mr. Denoon was confined.  Leaving his companions in a
little wood near the entrance to the town, Andrew Ayton,
having disguised himself so as to preclude all possibility
of recognition, proceeded to reconnoitre the premises,
in order to discover the most feasible plan for effecting
Mr. Denoon's escape.  He soon satisfied himself that
the back part of the house, which looked into a little
garden, was totally defenceless.  No soldier was
stationed there to keep watch, and the windows were
easy of access and without protection of any kind.
Having made himself acquainted with these particulars,
Inchdarnie rejoined his friends in the wood,
where they determined to remain until night should
further their scheme.  When the shades of evening
had closed around them, the party issued from the
wood, and advanced singly, so as to excite no suspicions
of their real purpose in the breasts of those they
might chance to encounter towards the back of the
house indicated by Inchdarnie, which, standing as it
did a little apart from the others, occupied a position
highly favourable for their purpose.  Having stationed
all his companions save one at the foot of the garden,
so as to be ready in case of danger, Andrew Ayton
advanced towards one of the lower windows, and with
the assistance of his friend succeeded in reaching it.
After pausing a moment to recover breath, he gently
endeavoured to raise the sash.  This was an anxious
moment with them all, and the beatings of Andrew
Ayton's heart were painfully audible, so fearful was he
lest their plan should prove a failure.  To their
inexpressible delight, however, it yielded to his touch.
The first step was now gained, but the worst remained
behind.  He entered and found himself in a small
unfurnished room, having a door at the extreme end;
this he also perceived to be open, and marvelling much
at the carelessness of those in charge, he threaded his
way along a narrow passage, on both sides of which
were stationed doors.  This was rather puzzling to one
unacquainted as young Ayton was with the geography
of the house, but summoning up all the courage of
which he was possessed, he placed his hand on the
handle of the one nearest him; it opened, and he saw
at one glance that it was also uninhabited.  In like
manner he tried another equally yielding to his touch;
he entered, and seated by a small wooden table, on
which burned a solitary candle, he beheld his venerable
friend.  With difficulty suppressing a cry of joy at
sight of one whom he almost feared was lost to him for
ever, Andrew Ayton rushed forward, while Mr. Denoon,
equally delighted and astonished at the unexpected
appearance of one whom he regarded in the light of a
son, started from his seat, and clasping him to his
bosom, mingled his tears with his.

"Father!" at length said young Ayton in a whisper,
"you must this instant fly with me—all is in
readiness; I have faithful friends, who are at this moment
waiting my return with anxious impatience.  Oh, do
not delay, but hasten to gladden their eyes with your
presence!"

Mr. Denoon sadly shook his head while he replied,
"Would it not be a cowardly action, and unlike that
of One who gave up his own life as a ransom for many,
were a minister to fly from his earthly foes?  Would
it not seem as if——?"

"Oh, do not say no, reverend father!" interrupted
Inchdarnie: "do not neglect the opportunity God
hath given you of making your escape from the hands
of your enemies, in order that you may yet preach to
those in need of a shepherd.  Of what use are you
here?" he continued.  "What lost souls are there you
can reclaim from perdition? and were you once to
regain your liberty, what unspeakable comfort might
you not be able to render those who require consolation?"

"My son, in that you say truly; there may be
much for me to do, and the word liberty soundeth
sweet in the ears of a captive;" so saying, Mr. Denoon
expressed his willingness to depart.

Rejoicing in the success which had hitherto attended
his plan, Inchdarnie conducted Mr. Denoon to the
window where his friend was stationed, who received
the aged man in his arms and placed him in safety on
the ground.  Treading as noiselessly as possible, the
party, employing the same precautionary measures in
their retreat as during their approach, retraced their
steps to the wood where horses were ready saddled and
bridled to conduct them to Cupar, whither Inchdarnie
determined at once to proceed.  On their way thither
Andrew Ayton apprized Mr. Denoon of all that had
taken place since the morning of his capture in the
priory, and in his turn was made acquainted with what
had befallen his reverend friend since his imprisonment.

"How fortunate," said Mr. Denoon in continuation,
"that you should have fixed on this night for effecting
my deliverance.  Had you delayed another day, I
should have been removed from Dundee, to go I know
not whither; and to that circumstance is to be
attributed the fact of there being so few
precautions taken as regarded my safety; for in general
every door and window was carefully fastened ere
night had closed in."

Inwardly returning thanks to the Almighty for
the kindness he had evinced towards them in thus
disarming the soldiers of all suspicion of danger, they
pursued the rest of their journey in silence.  On
arriving at Cupar, the two friends deemed it essential
for their safety to part.  Mr. Denoon determined upon
going to St. Andrews, where he had some trusty friends;
while Inchdarnie, fearful of remaining longer in
Fifeshire, expressed his intention of at once proceeding
to Perth, there to visit Mr. Wellwood, whose acquaintance
he was most anxious to make.

"God bless and prosper you! my dear young
friend," said Mr. Denoon, warmly grasping Andrew
Ayton by the hand as he bade him adieu; "under the
providence of God I this night owe my life to you;
and oh, that I may spend it in the service of Him to
whom it by right belongs!"

"Farewell, my noble, kind preceptor," replied
Inchdarnie, "and should we never meet again in this
valley of time, God grant I may so follow in your steps
that we may spend eternity together;" so saying, they
parted—and for ever.  As Andrew Ayton pursued
his solitary way towards Perth, he was attracted by
sounds of lamentation which appeared to proceed from
a house situated at a short distance from the road
along which he was proceeding.  Always ready to
hearken to the voice of suffering—and judging that in
this case some assistance might be necessary—he leapt
from his horse and knocked gently at the door.
Finding that no notice was being taken of his repeated
demands for admission, he fastened the impatient
animal to a ring in the wall, and, raising the latch,
entered the house, where he beheld a sight that made
him tremble.  Stretched on the cottage floor lay the
apparently lifeless body of a man bathed in a pool of
blood, while at his head sat an aged female ghastly
with despair.  No wail of sorrow burst from her
bloodless lips, but her eyes were fixed on the face of
the dead man with that stony gaze which bespeaks the
bitterest anguish, and near her was seated the wife of
the deceased, whose passionate bursts of sorrow had
first attracted the notice of Andrew Ayton.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, on beholding this
terrible spectacle; "what means this?"

On hearing the voice of a stranger, the younger
female lifted her head, but unable to speak, she merely
pointed to the deceased, and then burying her face in
her hands, gave way to fresh bursts of sorrow.

"O do not grieve thus," said Inchdarnie, "but tell
me, in heaven's name, who has been the author of
this bloody outrage; and if it should be in my power
to render you any assistance——"

"Assistance!" screamed the old woman in a shrill
voice of agony, and starting to her feet as she spoke,
"can you restore us the dead?  Can you bring back
light to the eyeballs, and life to the stiffening frame?
Can you blast with heaven's lightning——?"

"Oh, hush mother, hush! use not these awful words!"
exclaimed the anguished wife; "it is not for us to curse
our——"

.. _`"Stretched on the cottage floor lay the apparently lifeless body of a man, bathed in a pool of blood, while at his head sat an aged female, ghastly with despair."`:

.. figure:: images/img-170.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "Stretched on the cottage floor lay the apparently lifeless body of a man, bathed in a pool of blood, while at his head sat an aged female, ghastly with despair."

   "Stretched on the cottage floor lay the apparently lifeless body of a man, bathed in a pool of blood, while at his head sat an aged female, ghastly with despair."

"Interrupt me not!" cried the aged matron.  "Can
you blast with heaven's lightnings," she continued,
"the mitred head of him who ordered the deed to be
done—that rendered me childless in my old age?
O may the curses of a bereaved mother cling to his
soul, and drag him down—down!  But I will be
avenged," she continued, the frenzied light of madness
blazing in her sunken eyes, "I will be avenged, and
that right soon; God has promised it; the heavens
frown not in wrath when I cry for revenge!  And
when that day comes, when he, the bloody prelate,
kneels in the very dust begging for that mercy he this
day denied to me, then—then will he know the bitterness
of kneeling at the foot of man, and kneeling in
vain."  Here, thoroughly exhausted by her own
violence, the heart-stricken mother threw herself on the
body of her child, screaming aloud, "My son! my son!"

Overcome with horror at the wretched scene, and
perceiving that assistance could not be of any avail,
Andrew Ayton, after he had thrust some money into
the passive hand of the more gentle mourner, quickly
regained the door, and mounting his horse, which
stood pawing the ground with impatience to be gone,
galloped hastily onwards to Perth.  Now that the
excitement which had hitherto sustained him had in
some measure subsided, Andrew Ayton began to
experience the effects of the fatigue arising from the
scenes through which he had passed, and to realise
the necessity there was of his obtaining some repose;
accordingly he alighted at the first public-house that
afforded hopes of entertainment for man and beast.
In the course of the following morning he resumed his
journey, and entered the "Fair City" as the light of
day was departing.  Being very desirous of seeing
Mr. Wellwood, who was then thought to be dying,
he made at once for the house in which he resided.
It was a humble apartment into which he was ushered;
no signs of luxury, barely of comfort, greeted the
stranger's eye.  The ceiling was low and dark, and
the casement small; yet through that narrow aperture
the sun's rays entered wooingly and kissed the pallid
brow of a young man—sole tenant of the solitary
apartment—who instantly rose from his chair and
advanced a few steps, although with apparent difficulty,
so much was he wasted by sickness, to welcome
Andrew Ayton.  As each of the young men had heard
frequent and favourable mention made of the other,
both paused for one moment as if by mutual consent,
and earnestly gazed in each other's face.  What a
contrast did they at this moment present!  There
stood young Ayton, his long fair hair hanging in
waving masses on his shoulders; youth written on his
brow—his blue eyes bright with enthusiasm, and his
tall elegant figure erect and bold; while opposite to
him was one on whose forehead the cold band of death
had set its seal.  Although comparatively young in
years, he was old with anxiety and suffering; his flushed
cheek and lustrous eye, his damp forehead and short
dry cough, all attesting the fatal presence of
consumption.  To gaze on them thus was to imagine a meeting
between life and death, or that between two warriors;
the one bravely arming for the coming fight, and the
other, weary of the strife, about to repose after having
borne the burden and heat of the day.  At length
Mr. Wellwood spoke, and his voice was low and sweet
as he expressed the pleasure it gave him to see
Mr. Ayton; while the latter grieved beyond measure on
beholding Mr. Wellwood so feeble and attenuated,
could scarce command his voice sufficiently to make a
suitable reply.  After the lapse of some little time,
during which both sat silent, Mr. Wellwood, who had
been gazing in a dreamy manner on the few blighted
flowers adorning his window, emblems of his own
untimely fate, demanded of Andrew Ayton if
Archbishop Sharpe had committed any further outrages on
the Presbyterians.

"Oh!  Mr. Wellwood," burst forth Inchdarnie,
"words cannot paint the deep hatred that haughty
prelate bears towards us; he would, if possible, blot
our names from the book of life; the wholesale
murders committed by his orders are terrible beyond
imagination; and not contented with what has been
already done, he daily devises fresh means of torture.
Had you seen what I witnessed while coming hither,
it would never have been effaced from your memory;
the lifeless corpse, the bereaved wife, and the maniac
mother—all are before me even now.  That such men
are permitted to live only to commit crimes revolting
to humanity is indeed strange!"

As Mr. Wellwood gazed on the countenance of the
noble youth, which glowed with a beauty almost
unearthly in its brightness, and marked as it was by an
expression of melancholy sometimes seen on the faces
of those who are not destined to remain long in this
world, the mysterious veil which conceals the future
from our sight was for one moment drawn aside.  His
dying eyes beheld what was soon to be accomplished,
and he exclaimed, "You will shortly be quit of him;
he will get a sudden and sharp off-going, and you will
be the first to take the news of his death to heaven."

Inchdarnie reverently bowed his head in token of
submission to the decrees of the Almighty.  So pleased
was he with the gentle bearing and pious exhortations
of Mr. Well wood, that he remained with him until
pretty near his decease, which occurred not long
afterwards, when he was obliged to return to Inchdarnie,
there to comfort with his presence his beloved mother,
then labouring under severe indisposition.  In danger
of being imprisoned should his presence be discovered
in the neighbourhood, Andrew Ayton durst not continue
long in his father's house; but during the winter
months and the ensuing spring he kept himself concealed
in one of the cottar's houses, where he ran little
risk of being detected.

It was now the fifth of May, 1679, and Andrew
Ayton still lurked in the neighbourhood of Inchdarnie.
On the morning of the day in question, a letter was
placed in his hands; he glanced at the superscription,
turned pale as death, and tearing it open, perused its
contents with eyes whose wild expression would have
terrified the beholder, while the trembling of the paper
attested the agitation under which he laboured.  The
contents were as follows:—

.. vspace:: 2

MY DEAREST ANDREW,—I have struggled, and
struggled in vain, to banish your image from my
heart; wherever I have been, in England or in Italy,
still you were present, and the words you last uttered
on that fearful night have rung in my ears till they
almost maddened me.  All this weary time, in spite
of my better judgment, I indulged in the fond delusion
that you would endeavour to find me out, and that all
should be made right again—vain hope.  Months
rolled on without any proof on your part of continued
affection, and at last I was constrained to believe you
had indeed forgotten me.  In spite of all my assumed
composure, despair took possession of my heart.
Numberless suitors addressed me in all the glowing language
of the sunny south, but I turned a deaf ear to their
honied vows, and sighed in secret over the remembrance
of one still too dear to me.  At length, greatly to my
delight, we returned to Scotland; and in the
expectation of seeing you, I accompanied my aunt to the dear
old priory.  You were gone, but I heard from Deborah
of your grief in the garden, and my heart melted
within me at the recital.  Again, I encountered one
day during my accustomed walk a dear friend of yours,
named Mr. Denoon (here Andrew Ayton's face glowed
with delight); he seemed to know me—how I cannot
tell—for he stopt and spoke to me of you.  O! what
sweet words of comfort he breathed to my anguished
soul!  He did not seek to undermine my faith (and
for that I love him), but he told me of your love, your
sorrow, and unaltered constancy, and prayed me to
relent.  Dear old man; he said although he grieved
for my sake that I was not a Protestant, yet that
should not prove an obstacle to our earthly happiness,
for (and this rejoiced me more than anything) although
the outward forms of our religion were so wholly at
variance with each other, yet if our hearts were right
in the sight of God, and we were sincere in our love
towards him, they should always be acceptable in his
sight.  O Inchdarnie! whether it was that I really
believed him or wished to do so for your dear sake, I
know not, but I wept from joy; and he, dear, kind old
man, was almost as much affected as myself.  He then
told me of your having aided his escape, and I listened
with pride to the narration.  We parted, soon to meet
again.  With the knowledge of my friends, I flew to
your dear, venerable aunt, the Lady Murdocairnie (in
whose house I am now residing), and told her of all
that had passed between us, upon which she took me
in her arms and blessed me, and advised me to write
you, stating my unaltered love and anxiety to behold
you.  Come then, Inchdarnie; gladden me once more
with your presence, and tell me with your own lips
whether you will forgive, your loving

.. vspace:: 1

MARY CUNNINGHAME.

.. vspace:: 2

With a cry of joy Andrew Ayton started to his feet,
rushed to the stable, and too impatient to wait for the
tardy groom, he saddled his horse, sprang on its back,
and darted off as if on the wings of the wind.  Away
he sped on his errand of love.  The birds sung sweet
above his head, he felt as blythe as they; he was going
to join his Mary—his darling Mary.  On, on, on;
mountains, streams, and fields seemed to rush madly
past him, so rapid was his course.  All grief for him
was at an end; Mary had forgiven him—Mary still
loved him—they should yet be happy—alas!

Andrew Ayton, while lurking in the peaceful shades
of Inchdarnie, was not made aware of the late fearful
event, news of which at that instant was resounding
through the land, convulsing England with horror, and
ringing at the gates of heaven.  Andrew Ayton knew
not that two days previously Archbishop Sharpe had
been slain—murdered on the lonely Magus Moor.
Wholly ignorant of the affair, and of the pursuit to which
it had given rise, young Ayton dashed onwards full of hope
and joy, when an abrupt turning of the road revealed
to his gaze a party of dragoons riding furiously towards
Cupar.  Anxious if possible to avoid encountering so
numerous a body, Andrew Ayton quitted the high-road
and galloped briskly through some fields, hoping
thereby to escape notice; when suddenly a horseman
detaches himself from the party and darts across the
plain in pursuit of him.  A flash, followed by a report,
and the horse which bears young Ayton rears in the
air; another and another, and he himself is mortally
wounded.  This done, the soldier without question
or challenge of any kind, rejoins his comrades, exulting
in the success of his exploit.  The poor young man
thus stricken down at the very moment in which
life seemed most desirable, in spite of his dreadful
wounds, managed, although with great difficulty, to
preserve his seat on horseback until he arrived at the
nearest house, where he alighted and begged that he
might have a bed, also that his uncle, Sir John Ayton
of Ayton, whose house was in the immediate neighbourhood,
might be apprized of his condition.  Deeply
grieved on beholding the fatal injuries he had received.
the mistress of the house supported his fainting form,
and conducting him to her bust bedroom, made him as
comfortable as circumstances would permit, until his
uncle should arrive.  On receipt of this sad intelligence.
Sir John Ayton lost not a moment in hastening to his
nephew's bedside; and so shocked was he at the
appearance he presented, that he ordered a man-servant
whom he had brought with him to start instantly for
Cupar, and fetch a surgeon.  The man returned
with the intelligence that the dragoons had given
positive orders to the effect that no medical man was
to leave Cupar on any pretext whatever; upon which
Sir John Ayton, frantic at the delay, despatched
another messenger to appeal to the dragoons in behalf
of the dying man.  In answer to this, a party of soldiers
was sent with instructions to convey him to Cupar.
In vain Sir John Ayton protested against the cruelty,
not to say impossibility, of removing a man in his
condition to Cupar, which was distant three miles;
in vain he offered them bail, or to entertain them until
surgeons were brought who could advise them what
to do.  Deaf to all his entreaties, and utterly regardless
of the consequences, they placed the unfortunate
young man on horseback and hurried him away to
Cupar.  Four times during the journey Andrew Ayton
fainted through loss of blood, but still no emotions of
pity were excited in the breasts of his conductor.
On arriving at their destination, the magistrates, in
consideration of his enfeebled state of health, permitted
him to be conveyed to an inn, instead of a prison.
Mr. and Mrs. Ayton, who had also been made aware
of what had happened, set off instantly for Cupar.
On entering the room where her son lay apparently
in the agonies of death, Mrs. Ayton's fortitude gave
way, and she threw herself on his breast, sobbing as if
her heart would break.

"Do not grieve, dearest mother," said Andrew
Ayton; "my time on earth has indeed been short, but
God has willed it so, and we must not repine."

"My son! my beloved son!" was all the anguished
mother could utter, while his father stood the image of
mute despair.

"And must I then die without seeing Mary
Cunninghame?" continued the dying man, "her whom
I was flying to rejoin when the cruel ball penetrated
as it were to my very heart? ..... Oh,
it seems hard, hard to be thus cut off in early
youth, when hope shone the brightest, and happiness
seemed within my reach.  Mother, mother!" he
gasped, "I must see her once more; methinks I
could close my eyes in peace could I but gaze for one
short moment in her sweet face, and tell her we should
meet again."

"Oh send for her!" cried the distracted mother;
"lose not one instant in bringing her hither;" and the
messenger, having received the necessary directions,
galloped furiously away.

It was a solemn scene that chamber of death; and
beautiful to witness was the dying youth's resignation
to the decree of God, while he strove with all his
accustomed gentleness to soothe his mother's sorrow.

"Oh do not weep thus," he said; "our parting will
not be for long.  Consider, dear mother, the shortness
of time and the duration of eternity.  It is, indeed, a
solemn thing," he continued, "to be standing thus at
the portals of an unknown world, and yet not
unknown; God having in his goodness revealed to us
hidden glimpses of that lovely shore——"

At this instant the chamber door flew open, and to
the consternation of all present a young man, in the
garb of an officer, rushed into the room.

With a scream of terror Mrs. Ayton started to her
feet.  "Intrude not your presence in the chamber of
death," she said, addressing the dragoon; "what more
would you have? you have killed his body, would you
also destroy his soul?"

Heeding her not, the stranger stood for one moment
gazing on the sufferer, with horror depicted on his
countenance; then dashing his helmet on the ground,
he threw himself on his knees by the side of the bed,
exclaiming in a voice broken with sobs, "Andrew,
Andrew, can you forgive me? can you forgive your
guilty cousin? mine was the hand that did the
deed."

The voice was that of William Auchmutie.  Inchdarnie
was silent.  His thoughts were far away.  The
venerable city of St. Andrews rose up before him.  He
marked its glittering spires—the waves which dashed
on the rocky shore, and the stately vessels gliding to
and fro.  Again he is standing there with his thoughtless
young cousin, he who is now kneeling as a suppliant
by his bed-side.  Again the words ring in his ears, "I
will kill thee, just for thy having espoused so rascally
a cause;" and he remembers the strange unaccountable
feeling which then passed through his heart as the
words were uttered; and now all was fulfilled.  Little
more than twelve short months had rolled over their
heads since that sad night; he was lying on a bed of
death, and the hand that had inflicted the fatal wound
was that of his cousin.

"Then you won't forgive me?" groaned forth William
Auchmutie, fearing from his cousin's silence that
he could not extend pardon to the man who had
inflicted a mortal injury; but he knew not the gentle,
loving nature he had to deal with.

"Forgive thee, William!" said Andrew Ayton,
recalled by the question to what was passing around
him; "yes, from the bottom of my soul, and may He
above blot it out of the book of his remembrance, and
lay it not to thy account.  But O, William!" he
continued, "withdraw thyself, while there is yet time,
from the bloody course thou art pursuing; let this
thou hast done serve as a warning to thee.  It may be
that the Almighty has permitted it that the arrow of
conviction might pierce thy heart."

Here the dying man paused for a moment,
apparently overcome with emotion, and then continued,
grasping his cousin's hand while he spoke, "My dear
cousin, thou art very young, and this scene may soon
cease to be remembered by thee; but when old age
comes upon thee, when thy strength fails thee, and
thou art no longer able to pursue thy accustomed
employment, then in the solitude of thy chamber will
the evil deeds of thy youth rise up in judgment against
thee, and remorse, like an avenging angel, sit scowling
on thee from amongst the ruins thou hast made of the
talents God committed to thy care."

Overcome with exhaustion and loss of blood, Andrew
Ayton sunk back on his pillow, and William
Auchmutie, overwhelmed with despair, staggered from the
chamber.  It was now evident that the few remaining
hours Andrew Ayton was to spend on earth were
rapidly drawing to a close.  He lay in a sort of stupor,
with his eyes fixed on the clock, as if counting the
moments till the arrival of Mary Cunninghame; and
the slightest move caused him to turn his eyes to the
door in the expectation of seeing her for whose presence
he longed.  At length the sound of carriage wheels is
heard rolling rapidly along the street; they pause
before the inn; footsteps are heard on the stair, the
door opens, and almost as death-like as himself, and
supported by his aunt, enters Mary Cunninghame.

"Mary, my darling Mary!" gasped Andrew Ayton
as he clasped her to his breast, "God is good—he has
heard my prayer—we meet again——"  His head fell
back on the pillow.

"Help, help!" screamed Mary Cunninghame, "he
is fainting—he is dead!" and fell senseless on the
couch beside him........

No uncommon event in Paris—a novice is about to
take the veil.  But in this case curiosity is excited
to the highest pitch, for the young lady about to be
professed is a native of the cold north, and remarkable
for her extreme beauty.  The day appointed for the
ceremony at length arrives, and the Church of
St. Genevieve is crowded to the very doors, every inch of
standing room is occupied, and hundreds are obliged
to depart murmuring and dissatisfied.  The organ
peals forth its grandest music, but all ears are
inattentive; ladies are there attired in the most costly
dresses; but on this occasion their beauty and elegance
are unheeded; all eyes are turned towards the door;
every ear is on the alert to catch the faintest murmur
which tells of her approach.  Still she enters not, and
murmurs of impatience are beginning to be heard,
when cries of "she comes, she comes!" arrest all other
sounds, and a general movement takes place throughout
the stately edifice, as each individual, heedless of
obstructing his neighbour's view, stands on tip-toe, or
mounts the seat, in order to obtain the first glimpse of
the procession.  The words, "beautiful, how beautiful!"
are uttered by many as onward comes the youthful
novice arrayed in the most costly bridal attire.
Jewels flash from amongst her braided hair;
magnificent the veil which shrouds her slender figure; but
conspicuous above all is the deep air of sadness
impressed on her lovely countenance.

The vows are uttered; the bride, not of man, but of
heaven, retires, and many are the sighs which
accompany her.  When next she enters, she is arrayed
in the dismal garb of a professed nun, and is greeted by
those who kneel around as a sister.  And hath she then
left all which breathes of the past behind her? no; she
still retains, and oft bedews with her tears, the little
gold heart, now suspended from a black ribbon, placed
by the boyish hands of Andrew Ayton around the neck
of sister Agnes—when Mary Cunninghame.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LAIRD OF LAG`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE LAIRD OF LAG.

.. vspace:: 2

One fine morning in April, as I was sauntering along
the high-road leading to Dumfries, I observed a little
way on the right-hand a small burying-ground,
jealously protected from intrusion by a high wall and
shaded by trees, whose boughs drooped in a half pensive
manner, as if in sympathy with the memorials of the
dead which were scattered around.  Struck with the
singularity of the situation, and the fact of there being
no church within view, I turned my footsteps in the
direction of the solitary burying-ground.  Fortunately
for the gratification of my curiosity, the old sexton—all
sextons are old—was busily employed in digging a
grave.  While inspecting the various tombstones,
some of which seemed very ancient, my attention was
attracted towards a mass of ruins—apparently the
remains of what had been a family burying-place.
Unable to derive any information from the broken
fragments that lay strewn around, I advanced towards
the sexton, in order to have my curiosity gratified.

The old man raised his head at my approach, and in
answer to my inquiry as to whose resting-place it was
that was lying in ruins, whilst those around seemed in a
state of good preservation, replied—pausing in the
midst of his work and wiping his face with a
handkerchief—"you must be a stranger in this part of the
country, not to know that that is the grave of the
Laird of Lag."

"The Laird of Lag!" I exclaimed; "what! is he
buried here?"

"O yes ma'm," replied the sexton, "the Laird lies here."

"How comes it?" I inquired, smiling at the old
man's sagacious look and still more mysterious shake
of the head, "that his grave is in such a ruined state,
whilst those around, bearing dates anterior to Lag's
time, are still in good repair?"

The sexton remained mute for a moment or so, then
approaching nearer, inquired of me in a confidential
whisper, "whether I had observed the violence of the
wind in the burying-ground, when elsewhere there
reigned a perfect calm?"

I replied, "I had indeed remarked the circumstance,
but supposed it was owing to the exposed situation in
which the burying-ground was placed."

The old man shook his head as he answered, "Oh,
no! that cannot be the reason; for even up amongst
these hills, when not a leaf is stirring in the breeze, the
wind there howls and tears along in the most boisterous
manner."  Then after a pause he added, "no, no;
that's not the true explanation!"

"Well, then," I said, "but what has your theory of
the high wind to do with the ruined state of Lag's
grave?"

"Everything," he replied; "and if you will just have
a little patience I'll explain it to you; but you must
excuse my homely way of speaking, for I'm not good
at the story-telling."  Then sticking his spade into
the ground and seating himself on a neighbouring stone,
he supported his arm on the handle of his spade, in
the attitude of one about to make some mysterious
communication, and began as follows:—

It was in the winter time that Lag's grave was
destroyed; and the night on which the occurrence took
place was wild and stormy enough, but nothing to the
like of me, who have seen many a fearful night in my
young days, when—but let that pass, as it has nothing
to do with my story.  Well, as I was saying, it was
rather a stormy evening, and the wind had an eerie
sound as it moaned in the chimney and caused the
window-frame to rattle in an odd sort of way; and my
wife observed to me, just as I was on the point of
falling asleep, "Oh, John, but this is an awful night for
ony puir body to be out in!"

"Nonsense, wife," I replied; "I trust they may
never be out in worse weather; it's a mere capful of
wind, as the sailors say."

"May the Lord forgive ye, John, for you livity
(levity);" so saying she gave me a push with her elbow,
as a kind of rebuke for my light way of speaking.

Well, mim, I was awoke about the middle of the
night by my wife giving me a pull of the arm, whilst
she exclaimed in a voice almost inaudible through fear,
"Oh!  John, hear till that in the auld grave-yard;
isn't that awful? what can it mean?"

I listened for a moment, and never in the whole
course of my life had I heard such strange sounds—they
were like nothing earthly.  Up I got and ran to
the window, which commands a view of this place, and
suoh a sight as I then saw!  May the Lord forgive me
for the thought, but I was convinced all the devils
were let loose that night.  It was perfectly dark, and
the trees were shaking and groaning in the blast, in a
manner awful to hear; and every now and then a
glimmering light appeared, as if some one was carrying
a light in the grave-yard.  You must know there's an
idle story in the country, that Lag walks about in the
night-time with a lighted taper in his hand, but I
don't believe the like of that.  Well, as I told you
before, every now and again that strange light, which
I took to be a "will-o'-the-wisp," appeared dancing
about, and the flashes of lightning were bright and
frequent; whilst strange wild sounds seemed borne on
the blast, that shook the cottage to its foundation.
Overcome with fright and amazement, I went back to
my bed; but not much sleep did I get that night—neither
did my wife; and mighty glad were we when
the bright rays of the morning sun streamed through
the window shutter.  The first thing I did was to come
here, in case any damage had been done in the course
of the night; and sure enough, when I arrived, I found
everything as I had left it on the preceding day, except
Lag's burial-place, which was thrown to the ground,
and the stones lying about just as you see them.
Ever since that fearful night, the wind has never
ceased blowing in this place; but, even in the calmest
summer's day it howls and rushes along, as if rejoicing
over the ruin it had made of the wicked persecutor's
grave.

There was a pause after the sexton had finished his
wild tale; the old man apparently was overcome at the
remembrance of the horrors of that night, and I more
than half-puzzled to account for the strange
circumstance, supported by the evidence which the wreck
around me attested in favour of the sexton's recital, at
length inquired, after expressing the pleasure his
narration had afforded me, "Why there was no church
attached to the burying-ground, and what was its
designation?"

To which he replied, "That the old parish church of
Dunscore formerly stood here, but the heritors of the
parish had found fault with its situation, it being too far
removed from the more distant parts of Dunscore parish;
consequently, it had been taken down, and a new
church erected in a more convenient position."

I again demanded if he was acquainted with any old
legends told in connection with the Laird of Lag,
thinking there must be a good many extant which
treated of his wild doings.

The sexton shook his head, and replied, No, ma'm,
I cannot say that I do know anything of him in
particular, not having paid much attention to the idle
stories told in the parish; but, as I seemed fond of
these kind of tales, he recommended me to visit an old
woman, named Mrs. Walker, who was about ninety
years of age, and who might be able to afford me some
information on that subject.

After thanking the old man, and expressing my
regret at having interrupted his labours, I turned to
depart, when he called me back, for the purpose of
attracting my attention to the fact that nothing but
nettles and the rank weeds were growing around Lag's
grave; and, said he, with emphasis, "Nothing in the
shape of flowers ever would grow there, do what I
could."  After expressing my surprise at this singular occurrence,
I bade him good morning, and directed my steps
towards the habitation of Mrs. Walker.  I found the
old woman very comfortably seated in her arm-chair,
by the kitchen fire, watching a piece of bread
undergoing the process of toasting.  This, and the fact of a
brown delf tea-pot standing upon the hob, satisfied me
that Mrs. Walker was about to regale herself with a
comforting cup of tea.

Before proceeding further, I shall relate rather an
amusing circumstance told in connection with a
Mr. G——, who came to this part of the country for the
express purpose of making good his claim to be one of
the descendants of the Laird of Lag.  Being very
desirous of collecting all the information he could
concerning his progenitor, he called upon all the old
people whom he thought likely to assist him in his
endeavours.  Amongst others, he honoured
Mrs. Walker with a visit.  After having made a few
inquiries concerning the object of his call, he abruptly
demanded of her, "Well, Mrs. Walker, and what do
you think of Lag?"  "Oh, dear sirs!" she replied,
"I never saw him!"  "I am quite aware of that; but
what have you heard of him?"  "Nae gude, sir—nae gude!"

On entering the kitchen, I accosted Mrs. Walker,
and informed her that, as I was desirous of hearing
some of the wild tales that were told about the Laird
of Lag, and understanding she was acquainted with
many of the stories told in connection with that
famous persecutor, I had taken the liberty of calling
upon her, hoping she might be induced to relate one
or two of the many with which her memory was
stored.  The old dame smiled complacently, at the
same time observing, "That she was now an aged
woman, entering upon her ninetieth year, consequently
her memory was rather failing, and many of the tales
she had heard regarding Lag in her youth had faded
from her remembrance, like a vanished dream; but,"
she added, "if you will only wait until I have had my
cup of tea, something may come across my mind that
may chance to interest you."  Cordially agreeing to
the old dame's proposition, and refusing a cup of the
exhilarating beverage, I amused myself with gazing at
the numerous prints adorning the walls, which had
evidently been chosen more with an eye to gaudy
colouring than artistic merit.

Mrs. Walker, after having finished her meal, replaced
the tea-pot near the fire, and arranging her dress—as
is often the custom with story-tellers—commenced the
following account of the Laird of Lag:—

"Well, ma'am, you see, Sir Robert Grierson,
commonly called the Laird of Lag—more briefly
Lag—was a noted persecutor, and dreaded by all who
espoused the side of the Kirk and Covenant.  A bad
cruel man was he, and many were the bloody deeds
he did in his day.  Some said he wasn't so bad as
people said, and others, again maintained he was worse;
but let that pass, he did enough to win himself a bad
name, and he got it, as was but justice.  Well, Sir
Robert married a daughter of the second Earl of
Queensberry, who rejoiced in the appellation of the
'Deil o' Drumlanrig;' and what good could be expected
from Sir Robert after forming a connection like that?
If the laird was bad, his father-in-law was counted
worse, as along with other bad qualities, he was a mad
gamester, and it was not very long ere he made Sir
Robert as noted as himself in that respect.  Many
were the nights they spent over the 'devil's books,'
as they are justly called.  In the end, the Laird was
cleared out of all his property, except Rockhall, which,
being strictly entailed, could not be touched."

Here Mrs. Walker paused for a moment, drew a
deep breath, and then inquired, "If I had ever seen
the account given of Lag in the 'People's Edition of
the Scots' Worthies?'"  Upon my answering in the
negative, she immediately rose from her seat, and
proceeded towards another apartment, when she
presently returned with one or two numbers of this
much-relished work, and once more seating herself in
her comfortable chair, she donned her spectacles, and
read aloud the following:—

"Sir Robert Grierson of Lag was another prime
hero for the promoting of Satan's kingdom.  We think
that it was some time after Bothwell that he was made
sheriff or sheriff-depute of Dumfries.  But to relate all
the fining, spoiling, oppression, and murders committed
by this worthy of Satan, or champion of his kingdom,
were beyond our intention.  Besides £1200 of fines
exacted in Galloway and Nithsdale shires, he was
accessory to the murdering, under colour of their
iniquitous laws, of Margaret M'Lachlan, aged
sixty-three years, and Margaret Wilson, a young woman,
whom they drowned at two stakes within the sea-mark
at the water of Baldnook.  For his cold-blood murders,
he caused hang Gordon and Mr. Cubin on a growing
tree near Irongray, and left them hanging there,
1686.

"The same year he apprehended Mr. Bell of
Whiteside, D. Halliday of Mayfield, and three more, and
without giving them time to pray, shot them dead on
the spot.  Mr. Bell, whom Sir Robert Grierson knew,
earnestly entreated but a quarter of an hour to prepare
for eternity; but this was refused.

"The reply was, 'What the devil, have you not had
time to prepare since Bothwell?'  (Here Mrs. Walker
shook her head.)  He was, therefore, instantly shot
with the rest; and so far did this persecuting renegado
push his revenge, that he even denied interment to
their lifeless dust![#]  Shortly after this, Lord Kenmuir
happening to meet Lag with Claverhouse in Kirkcudbright,
called him to account for his cruelty to Mr. Bell,
and more especially for his inhumanity in refusing
burial to his remains.  Sir Robert answered with an
oath, 'Take him, if you will, and salt him in your beef
barrel.'  The insulted nobleman immediately drew his
sword, and must have ran him through the body, had
not Claverhouse interposed.  And surely such a death
had been too honourable for such a villain.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] This epitaph engraved upon the tombstone in the churchyard of
Anwith lying on the corpse of John Bell of Whiteside, who was most
barbarously shot to death at the command of Douglass of Morton and
Grierson of Lag, in the parish of Tongland, in Galloway, anno 1685.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small noindent white-space-pre-line

   "This monument shall tell posterity
   That blessed Bell of Whiteside here doth ly;
   Who by command of bloody Lag was shot,
   A murther strange, which should not be forgot.
   Douglass of Morton did him quarters give,
   Yet cruel Lag would not let him survive,
   This martyr sought some time to recommend.
   The tyrant said, 'What devil? ye've pray'd eneugh,
   Those long seven years on mountain and in clough,
   So instantly caused him and other four
   Be shot to death upon Kirkconnel Muir.
   So this did end the lives of these brave saints,
   For their adhering to the Covenants."

.. vspace:: 3

"The same summer, Annandale having apprehended
G. Short and D. Halliday, and having bound them,
after quarters granted, the monster Lag came up, and
as they lay on the ground, under the cloud of night,
caused shoot them immediately, leaving their bodies
thus all blood and gore; nay, such was their audacious
impiety, that he, with the rest of his boon companions
and persecutors would, over their drunken bowls, feign
themselves divils and those whom they supposed in hell,
and then whip one another as a jest upon that place of
torment.  When he could serve his master this way
no longer, he wallowed in all manner of atheism,
drunkenness, and swearing, for which he was
excommunicated by the church after the Revolution; and yet
by the then powers was made Justice of the Peace, some
time before 1714, a disgrace to any civilised nation, not
to mention a Presbyterian profession.  Death's pangs
at last arresting him, and all other refuges failing
him, under the views of his former wicked life, in
imitation of his master Charles, he feigned himself of
the popish profession, because a popish priest made
him believe for money he could pardon his sins, and
even when in purgatory for them he could bring him
to heaven.  He died December 23, 1733, and there is
little doubt went down to Tophet with a lie in his
mouth, and so remains in spite of all the priest could
mutter over him, as the author of his elegy in his
master's name well expresses it:—

   |  "For when I heard that he was dead,
   |  A legion of my den did lead
   |  Him to my place of residence,
   |  And there he'll stay and not go hence.
   |  This Lag will know and all the rest,
   |  Who of my lodging are possesst;
   |  On earth no more they can serve me,
   |  But still I'll have their company," etc.
   |

"This is what is said of him in the 'Scots' Worthies,'"
said Mrs. Walker, as she placed the numbers on a
table beside her, "and it's not much in his favour as
you will perceive.  I suppose," she continued, "you
will have heard of many other cruelties he committed—such
as putting the poor Covenanters into barrels
stuck round in the inside with knives, dagger-points, etc.,
then causing the barrels to be rolled down a steep
hill, so that the persons inside were all cut to pieces in
the descent; and shooting and stabbing others, so that
his name became a by-word in the country."

Answering in the affirmative, I then inquired of
her "if there had been any picture taken of the Laird?"

"Oh! yes," she replied, "there was one at Rockhall,
but it was stolen from thence by some person in the
time of one of the late baronets."

"Did you ever hear any description of his personal
appearance?"

"Well," she replied, "I have heard it said that he
was a fair man with long yellow hair which hung in
ringlets down to his shoulders, but I cannot believe
that any fair person ever possessed such a black soul as
he must have had.  However, he might have been a
bonnie man for all that."

Begging pardon for the interruption, I prayed her to
continue, which she did as follows:—

"Well ma'm, as I told you before, my memory is
not so good as it was, and there are many things told
of the Laird of Lag that I have quite forgotten; yet one
thing I still remember, and that is the account of what
took place at the time of his burial.  My Thomas told me
his grandfather remembered that day well, and such a
one he never saw.  It was in the winter time and
bitterly cold; yet notwithstanding, there was a storm of
thunder and lightning the like of which never occurred
in the memory of man.  As Lag died in Dumfries,
horses were brought from the Kings' Arms Inn in order
to bring his body to Dunscore.  I suppose you have
seen his grave?"

"Yes," I replied, "and very sorry I am to see it all
in ruins!"

"Ay," she, said, "Lag is in a sad state!"

After this sage remark, Mrs. Walker continued: "As
I was saying, horses were brought from the inn at
Dumfries, for the purpose of driving the hearse to the
burial-ground; but when they were yoked, and the driver
endeavoured to set them in motion, not one foot would
they stir.  All this time the thunder rolled and the
lightning flashed in an awful manner.  Half-blinded by
the vivid flashes that played around, and smarting
under the furious strokes of the driver's whip, the poor
horses trembled in every limb; yet no power on earth
was capable of causing them to proceed with their
burden.  Well, Sir Thomas of Closeburn was there,
and he swore a great oath that he would drive Lag to
his grave, although the devil was in him.  So, unyoking
the horses from his own carriage, he fastened them to
the hearse, and mounting himself on the driver's seat,
prepared to urge them forward.  At this moment,
a large black rook, that had been seated on one of the
housetops, apparently watching the whole proceedings
with the deepest interest, flew down from its elevated
situation, and, with a loud caw, seated itself on the top
of the hearse.  Strange to say, whenever it placed
itself there, the horses set off at a gallop; and the roads
being rough and heavy with the recent rains, the hearse
was jolted about in a fearful manner; still the rook kept
its seat, and cawed every now and again.  Whenever
it did so the horses went faster and faster, until at
length on arriving at the churchyard, they fell down
dead, from sheer exhaustion.  Then the strange bird
rose up from its seat, and, with a loud scream and a flap
of its wings, flew away and was soon out of sight.  The
people about maintain to this day that it was the devil
who had come in person to superintend the funeral of
his colleague.  At the time I speak of there were copies
of an elegy on the Laird of Lag—a verse of which I
read to you from the 'Scots' Worthies'—distributed
throughout the country; and as no one knew the
composer, it was universally believed that the devil
himself wrote it, as a lament for having lost so good a
servant as Lag had been to him while on earth.  All
the copies that could be procured were bought up by
by Sir Robert's granddaughter, who could not bear that
her grandfather's memory should be held in such detestation,
and I doubt if there is a copy now in existence."

"How far is Lag Tower from here?" I inquired,
after thanking her for the tale.

"About four miles," replied Mrs. Walker, "and an
easy road it is to find out.  You go past the Free
Church Manse, and turn up the Barjarg Road: then go
through Glen Midge, and you will soon see the old
tower.  It is a wild place, and well worth visiting."

Whilst pursuing my way along the path which led
to the ancient residence of the Laird of Lag, a sudden
turning in the road revealed to my gaze the form of an
aged man, who pursued, with praiseworthy assiduity,
his laborious employment of stone-breaking.  There
was something at once pleasing and impressive in the
physiognomy of the venerable labourer.  From beneath
the Kilmarnock bonnet which surmounted his grey
hairs, his blue eyes sparkled with yet unsubdued fire
and animation; while the ruddy glow on his weather-beaten
cheek, and the vigorous strokes with which his
hammer descended on the stony pile before him,
betokened energy of character and a total absence of
those ailments so often attendant on the footsteps of
age.

Being now somewhat at a loss how to arrive at the
object of my wishes, the road at this point branching
off in different directions, I inquired of the labourer
whither I should direct my steps, so as to avoid losing
my way amongst the surrounding morasses.  The old
man, thus accosted, paused in his labour, and replied
to my inquiry, in the usual Scotch fashion, by putting
another, "And so you are going to visit the old Toor o'
Lag?"  I answered in the affirmative.  "Ay ay! well
it's a queer solitary place."  "From all accounts, the
Laird must have been a very extraordinary man," I
observed.  "You may well say so," said the old
stone-breaker, as ceasing from his arduous task, he stood with
one hand on the handle of his implement, while with
the other he uncovered his head, to allow the cool
breezes to refresh his heated temples, "he was just a
most ex-tre-or-nary man, if all be true that is said
about him."  "Are you inclined to doubt the truth of
those stories told concerning him in Dumfriesshire?"

"No," was the reply, accompanied by a sagacious shake
of the head, "I cannot say that I do.  Many of them
may be enlarged on, for, as one knows, a story always
gathers in the telling; but still in the main they are
true enough, and certainly reflect little honour on him
about whom they are told.  A-well-a-day!" he continued,
"these were indeed sad times when men, left to their
own inventions, played such a cruel and unworthy
part; the persecutors were, in general, a cold-blooded,
relentless sect, and at the head o' the tribe you may
put the Laird of Lag, for none of the others, in my
opinion, were fit to hold a candle to him for pure
malice and steadfastness of purpose in the shedding of
blood.  There was Claverhouse, evil spirit as he was,
it is well known he felt some compunction of consciences
for having murdered that godly person, John Brown,
and seldom or never refused his intended victim a few
moments to commend his departing spirit to Him who
save it; but, as related of Sir Robert Grierson, he
laughed to scorn the tearful entreaties of the captured
Covenanter, and turning a deaf ear to all the poor
man's agonised appeals for only one moment to make
his peace with God, or to implore a blessing on his
country, sent him straight to that bourne from whence
no traveller returns."

There was a pause for a few moments, which was at
length broken by the old man.

"This was a great part of the country for the Laird's
exploits: the militia, with him at their head, were
constantly riding up and down Dumfriesshire and
Galloway, and woe to the unlucky wight who fell into
their hands: guilty or not guilty, it was all one—shot or
hanged he must be.  The Laird sent forth the iniquitous
decree, 'Soldiers, do your duty!  Prisoner, prepare
for death! not one word!'  Bang, bang! he is dead;
and away rides Sir Robert, priding himself in no small
degree on his strict adherence to the laws of vengeance,
and taking no pains to conceal his exultation at the
summary punishment he had inflicted on one of the
canting rebels, as he was pleased, in common with his
fellow-labourers in the vineyard of iniquity, to designate
the hapless body of men he had sworn to exterminate."

"Have you read much about the Covenanters?" I
inquired of the labourer, whose eyes burned like coals
of living fire while dwelling on the misfortunes of those
whose cause he evidently espoused with no small
amount of zeal.

"Every book that I can lay my hands on, from the
'Scots' Worthies' down to 'Helen of the Glen,' and not
only once, but over and over again, until I could
repeat the most of them off by heart.  Next to the
lives of these good and holy men, whose names are an
honour and glory to Scotland," pursued the labourer,
"James Renwick's sermons is the book most prized by
me—ay! there are no preachers like him now-a-days!
What would I not have given to have been with him
on some bonnie hill-side when he was holding forth to
the faithful few privileged to hear him!  Have you
ever read his sermons?" he inquired.

I replied in the negative.

He then continued, "Well, all I can say is, you have
missed something good, so full are they of sound,
wholesome doctrine and Christian principles; how he
must have been inspired by the cause he espoused, to
be able to preach such truly comforting doctrines!"

"It is a pity," I said, "but Sir Robert Grierson had
heard him, he might have been converted——"

"Him!" interrupted the old man; "no, no; he was
a brand reserved for the burning; no sermons, however
forcible, would have had the slightest effect on his black
nature; his heart would have resisted the knocks of the
minister, as the stone resisteth the hammer."

Here the labourer, by way of illustration, inflicted
with his implement a vigorous stroke on an obdurate
piece of rock, which effectually resisted all his attempts
to reduce its dimensions.

"That hill," I observed, alluding to the one
previously mentioned by Mrs. Walker, "seems to have
been the theatre of many an evil deed; was it not there
that the Laird executed judgment on many of the poor
men who chanced to fall into his power?"

The old man gazed for a moment on the hill in
question, then with a shake of the head, accompanied
by a deep-drawn sigh, confirmed Mrs. Walker's statements
to their fullest extent, dwelling at considerable
length on the many acts of butchery perpetrated on the
summit of the eminence, which, covered with a sombre
mass of dark firs, frowned gloomily upon us.

"Is there no story you can recall to remembrance
connected with some of Sir Robert Grierson's wild
exploits?" I inquired, fully persuaded from the old
man's garrulity that his memory was like a well-stored
garner in respect to these matters, and that a little
time and leisure were all that was necessary to produce
some thrilling narration of horror—some marvellous
tale still treasured up in the breasts of a few, relating
to the days of persecution.  I was not disappointed.
The old man, thus appealed to, stood silent for a
moment, as if buried in deep thought, then throwing
his hammer carelessly from him, he leisurely seated
himself on the pile of stones beside him, and after a
few preparatory hems, commenced the following tale,
which clothed in my own language is now presented to
the reader.

On a fine spring evening in the year sixteen hundred
and eighty-five, that year so fraught with gloom and
disaster to all espousing the Covenanting cause, a young
man, who, judging from his military garb and martial
appearance, belonged to one of those militia regiments
then scouring the country in search of those they were
commissioned to kill or make captive, came riding
slowly along the road leading from Irongray to
Dunscore.  He was evidently in a thoughtful mood, for his
forehead was contracted by a deep frown and his eyes
were bent steadily on the ground so as to render him
oblivious to the motions of his charger, which, finding
from the slackened rein and idle spur that his former
impatient master had ceased to hasten his onward
progress, speedily took advantage of this discovery to
snatch a few mouthfuls of grass which grew in wild
luxuriance along the sides of the road.  This little
indulgence of his inclinations being allowed to pass
unpunished, the poor animal, apparently worn out by
his previous hard work, finally came to a stand-still
and proceeded leisurely to crop the tempting herbage
presented to his view.  This sudden stoppage on the
part of his charger, speedily aroused the soldier from
the absorbing reverie into which he had fallen, and
snatching up the neglected reins, he thrust his rowels
into his sides and forced him into a hand-gallop.  For
some little time he pursued his rapid career, until his
horse, accidentally treading on a stone, stumbled, and
being unable to recover his lost footing, fell heavily on
the road, bearing his rider with him.  For one moment,
the horseman lay stunned and motionless from the
force of the shock; but speedily recovering his scattered
senses, he extricated his feet from the stirrups, and
proceeded to raise his fallen charger.  Greatly to his
annoyance, the soldier perceived from the halting gait
of his faithful steed that further use of his services
was for the present impossible.  Uttering an
exclamation of disappointment, he gathered the reins in his
hands, and leading the horse off the highway, struck
into a wild, solitary path, winding away amongst the
hills which lay to the right hand of the road leading to
Dunscore.  The gloaming was now advancing with
rapid strides; and anxious to reach his destination
without further delay, the young man pressed onwards
as swiftly as the disabled state of his horse would
allow; but soon the lameness of the poor animal
increased to such a degree that he was fain to pause for
a few moments, in order to discover, if possible, the
extent of the injury inflicted.  The horse, with the
natural instinct of its race, seemed at once aware of
the nature of the service about to be rendered, and
placing his swollen foot in the outstretched hand of his
master rubbed his head against his shoulder, as if to
evince his gratitude for the kindly feelings which
prompted the examination.  Whilst inspecting the
bruised leg, the natural buoyancy of the soldier's
spirits, which had been in no small measure disturbed
by the untoward events of the day, returned in full
vigour; and with all the joyous gaiety of youth, which
rises superior to the frowns of adversity, he commenced
singing the song so popular with his party, namely,
that which related to King Charles' return.  He had
not proceeded farther than the words—

   |  "Oh, the twenty-ninth of May,
   |  It was a glorious day
   |  When the king did enjoy his own again!"

when a slight cough behind made him pause in the
midst of his ditty, and, greatly to his surprise, on
turning round he perceived an aged man, whose broad,
blue bonnet and dress of hodden-grey betokened his
adherence to the cause of the Kirk and Covenant
leaning on the butt-end of a musket, and regarding
him attentively with a look of stern displeasure, which
seemed rather to amuse than terrify the object of his
scrutiny, who, noways daunted by the ominous-looking
weapon upon which the stranger leaned, returned his
scowling glance with one of haughty defiance for he
instantly exclaimed, "How now, old wiseacre! wer't
nourished on vinegar, that thou lookest so sour?
Why, man alive! one would fancy from thy rueful
visage that things are not so well with thee as thou
fain wouldst wish; speak out, man, and tell us at once
the cause of thy disturbed aspect."

The aged wanderer smiled grimly, but vouchsafed no
further reply to the scoffing inquiries of the soldier,
who, somewhat nettled by the contemptuous silence
maintained by the stranger, burst forth into one of the
many songs then so much in vogue amongst the
cavaliers, and which consigned to (in their eyes)
condign punishment all those who ventured to differ
from them so essentially as did the Puritans.  The eyes
of the Covenanter flashed sparks of fire on hearing this
scornful ballad, and grasping his musket, he seemed as
if about to rush on the object of his wrath, then,
apparently by a mighty effort, conquering his
disposition for violence, he regained his original position,
and continued gazing with a gloomy brow on the
performer, who heedless of its effects on the person
before him, pursued his ditty with admirable coolness,
repeating over and over again with marked emphasis,
the verses he thought most likely to annoy and irritate
the grey-haired Covenanter.

"Young man," said the stranger at the conclusion of
the song, "you have verily moved me to anger by
your unwarrantable attack on our poor, afflicted body;
and yet fain would I argue with you in all soberness
and good-will on the evil doings of the party with
whom you consort, for that you are one of these cruel
persecutors of our church, now ranging the country, I
make bold to believe, therefore——"

"Now, cease your fanatical jargon," interrupted the
soldier, "I care not to bandy words with one pertaining
to that rebellious sect I am bound to molest by every
means in my power, and to despise as being utterly
incapable of listening to a word of sense, even although
delivered in season," (this was said by the soldier in a
snivelling tone); "so leave me in peace to attend my
good steed, which well merits all the attention I have
to bestow."

"The horse," rejoined the old man, "has more sense
than its master, and faints in the bloody service to
which you have doomed it; but since you despise the
good counsel I would bestow, even on an enemy, I
will content myself by simply inquiring from whence
you come and whither you are bound?"

"I do not see," was the reply, "by what right you
presume to question me as regards my movements; but
still I will not refuse to satisfy you on that point, so
make answer that I have come from Drumlanrig,
burdened with a special message from the Earl of
Queensbury to Sir Robert Grierson, whom I serve, as
in duty bound, having been born on his estate, and
whom I am willing to follow to the death should he
please so to lead me."

The brows of the stranger contracted into a frown
of fearful import, and, grasping his gun with frantic
violence, he hissed through his clenched teeth, "You
are a servant of his, are you?  Then, you belong to
one whom I have sworn to dispatch should he cross
my path—he, the inhuman monster!" (here the soldier
started to his feet, and drawing his sword, sprang
towards the Covenanter, but waving him off with his
hand, the stranger continued), "he, I say, has this day
deprived me of my faithful and loving brother—one
who had never injured him in thought, word, or deed.
He lived in his secluded home—peaceful and happy in
the bosom of his family.  Fortune smiled upon him.
He was rich, yet he was humble; he was prosperous,
yet no one envied him; and why? because of his
abundance he gave to them who were in want, and never
said to the hungry—Depart; I have nought for thee.
In midst of these religious grievances which have
racked our native land, Elias Henderson displayed
no symptoms of fear and dismay.  Claverhouse, with
his bloodhounds, overran Galloway; Johnstone of
Westerraw, with his myrmidons, scoured the plains
of Annandale; Grierson of Lag, the worst of them
all, traversed the hilly country of Dumfriesshire; yet
was he tranquil.  'I have harmed none of these men,'
was his reply, on being questioned as to the reason of
his undisturbed serenity of countenance, when all
around him were tortured with gloomy apprehensions;
'It is true I espouse the side of the Covenant,
but what of that? is not liberty of conscience the
prerogative of every British subject? then wherefore
injure one for worshipping the God of his fathers in
the way that seemeth him best?'  Ah, my poor Elias! little
recked he of the awful fate which awaited him.
This morning," here the speaker paused for a moment
overcome with emotion, "my brother was walking in
the vicinity of his farm; suddenly a band of
horsemen appeared in sight, with the redoubted Sir Robert
Grierson at their head; they approached the spot
where my brother stood.  Unconscious of fear,
Elias walked bravely forward, and uncovering his
head, inquired of the fierce baronet the reason of his
coming."

"You shall soon learn that," was the mocking reply;
and without further parley, the cruel relentless demon
drew from his pocket a loaded pistol, and levelled it at
the head of my unsuspecting brother.

"'Mercy, mercy!' he cried, perceiving the cruel
intent with which Sir Robert had visited his farm;
'only five minutes to make my peace with God, to beg
a blessing on my wife and children!'

"'Not one second,' was the stern rejoinder; and that
instant my brother—my poor brother, fell a lifeless
corpse; he is dead, but I live to avenge him!" so
saying, the wanderer leant his head on his gun and
sobbed aloud.  There was a momentary pause, during
which the soldier stood motionless, gazing on the
speaker, apparently astonished at the wild frenzy which
so powerfully characterised his every movement.  He
seemed as if about to speak, when, dashing away the
tears which almost blinded him, the stranger, or, as we
may now term him, Walter Henderson, started from
his drooping posture, and raising his hands and eyes to
heaven, thundered forth with vehemence, "Before God
I swear that I live for nothing but revenge on him who
has rendered my brother's house desolate and forlorn;
who has transformed the happy wife into a bereaved
widow, and smiling children into wailing mourners.
From this day henceforward shall Walter Henderson
be an alien to his house and kindred, until he has
gratified his thirst for vengeance, and the bones of his
enemy are left to bleach beneath the wasting winds of
heaven!"

"Come, cease your foolish bragging," replied the
soldier, "Sir Robert Grierson may not be accountable
to you or any man for the justice he pleases to
administer to these bog-hunting fellows, who have
thrown the whole of Scotland, ay, and England to
boot, into a state of uproar and confusion by their
fanatical nonsense.  I doubt not but that he had some
powerful reasons for dispatching your brother a little
before his time, indeed, according to your own reasoning,
that the day of a man's death is appointed at the
instant of his birth—my most worshipful leader was
merely an instrument under Providence to fulfil the
verdict that had gone forth against your brother,
therefore——"

"And does that lessen his guilt?" sternly
interrupted Walter Henderson; "think you that Pontius
Pilate will stand at the judgment-seat with an
undaunted front, because it was decreed he should condemn
his Lord and Master?  Think you that the precious
blood of the saints and martyrs, which now reddens
the heaths and valleys of our native land, will not be
avenged because the day for its shedding had arrived?
In not blood for blood the decree of One who holds the
scales of justice in his bands?  Hath he not said,
'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood
be shed?'  Then woe to him, who, by the strict
performance of the bloody duty imposed upon him by
those whom he professes to hold himself bound to obey,
encourages the wicked in their evil counsels, and for
his own reward heaps up endless misery, if not in this
present world, in *that* which is to come!  Young man,"
pursued Walter Henderson, advancing nearer to the
astonished soldier, and speaking in a tone of kindlier
import than that he had adopted while dwelling on his
brother's death, "it grieveth me much to see one
apparently so young in years following so readily in the
footsteps of him who is, alas! but too truly believed to
bear a most deadly hatred to all espousing the side of
our Kirk and Covenant; and I would fain address to
you a few words of warning, for which you may yet
learn to thank me, as it may be you have a mother
whose stay you are, therefore be guided by me in this
matter, and advance no farther on your road; it is
beset with perils of which you wot not; beneath the
shade of each leafy tree; recline armed men; every
cottage which you pass contains a foe.  Aroused to
madness by fresh acts of cruelty daily perpetrated
against them, the inhabitants of this district have risen
to a man in defence of their civil and religious
liberties; more than this, they have determined upon
attacking the stronghold of the ungodly leader whom
you serve; and soon, we trust, under the favour of
Almighty God, to see the Tower of Lag a heap of
smouldering ruins.

"Now, as sure as my name is John Kirsop,"
exclaimed the soldier, overwhelmed with anger, and
seizing his horse's bridle as he spoke, "shall this
communication reach the ears of him who is likely to
feel most interested in it;" so saying he made a motion to
depart, when Walter Henderson with a grim smile
instantly laid his hand on the bridle as if to restrain
him.  In a transport of fury, young Kirsop drew his
sword and prepared to rush on the aged Covenanter,
who thereupon started hastily back and gave utterance
to a shrill whistle, in answer to which about a dozen
men rushed forth from their various places of
concealment and surrounded the infuriated soldier, who,
bewildered by this sudden change in the aspect of
affairs, quietly surrendered himself their prisoner.

"Now, most valiant sir," said Walter Henderson,
who appeared to be the leader of the party, "as you
have despised the warning, I, out of kindness and
consideration for your youth was foolish enough to
give you, you must prepare to accompany us as our
captive.  No evil is intended you, but should you
evince the slightest disposition to escape—that moment
shall be your last;" so saying, he gave orders for the
party to set themselves in motion.  The moon had
risen, and her pale crest appeared over the summits of
the surrounding hills, throwing a dim and shadowy
light on the path trod by the Covenanters, as they
silently, and with many precautions against surprise,
pursued their way along the rough-winding road
leading in the direction of Lag Tower.  Suddenly they
were startled in the midst of their progress by a scream,
so shrill and wild in its death-like agony, that all
paused to listen, awestruck by the heart-rending burst
of sorrow which sounded painfully distinct amid the
deep and impressive silence that reigned around.
Again and again it was repeated; now floating on the
breeze like the wail of some restless spirit, and anon
dying away in sounds resembling the mournful cadence
produced by the wind sweeping the chords of an
Æolian harp.  The party, at the orders of Walter
Henderson, made a sudden halt, and, with deepened
gloom on their faces, awaited an explanation of the
harrowing sounds which now saluted their ears.  Nearer
and nearer sounded the voice of lamentation, and in a
few minutes a small procession appeared in sight, and
approached the spot where stood the wanderers, some
of whom instantly rushed forward to ascertain the
meaning of what they saw.  The first object that met
their eyes was a rude bier constructed of green boughs,
on which lay the lifeless body of a young man,
supported on the shoulders of four men; while at his
head, with streaming eyes and dishevelled locks,
walked an aged woman, the mother of the deceased.
She it was who gave utterance to these terrible bursts
of sorrow that first attracted the attention of Walter
Henderson and his party.

"What new horror is this?" cried the aged leader,
gazing with distended eyes on the bloody object before
him, and addressing himself to the woman, who,
totally unable to speak, merely pointed to the lifeless
corpse, and again gave utterance to a shriek which
froze the blood of those who stood speechless around.
Perceiving that the wretched mother was wholly
incapable of replying to his inquiry, Walter Henderson
then turned to one of the four men supporting the
bier, and begged to be informed as to the cause of the
sad occurrence, and by whose hands the unfortunate
man had perished.

"Just the old story!" was the reply; "a poor
innocent lad done to death by the blood-hounds of the
opposite party; and all for refusing the oath of
abjuration.  Four of us" continued the speaker, "were
this morning seated on the brow of a hill near Dunscore;
James Wishart, he who lies on this stretcher, was
reading aloud from the Bible, and we were lying beside
him listening to the comforting words, when suddenly
four or five dragoons appeared at the base of the hill on
which we were stationed.  Seeing, from their threatening
gestures, that harm was intended us, we prepared
for flight.  'Pursue different directions,' cried James
Wishart, who was himself an excellent runner, throwing
off his coat as he spoke.  We shook each other by the
hand and commended ourselves to God.  Away went
James Wishart fleet as the wind, and after him, with
the fire of hate in their breasts, sped the dragoons.
Finding ourselves unmolested, we stood as if spellbound,
in breathless anxiety gazing after the retreating figure
of our comrade.  On he went, swift as the roe-deer.
'He will escape,' murmured one who stood by my side;
at that instant he stumbled and fell.  'Oh, God protect
him!' cried we all.  In an instant he regained his
footing, and darted on swifter than ever.  Soon he
disappeared in the distance.  Anxious concerning our own
safety, we parted and set off in different directions.
This took place in the morning.  Towards the hour of
noon, prompted by anxiety regarding the fate of young
Wishart, I, who had remained concealed beneath a
cairn of stones near the spot where my friends left me,
sought by a circuitous route to approach the place
where last we saw him in advance of the dragoons.
Alas! a few paces distant from thence there he lay
extended on the ground.  Observing, however, some
portion of his garments in motion, I hastened joyfully
forward, hoping to find him alive; but no; it was only
the wind which stirred his yellow hair and a
pocket-handkerchief that lay deluged in blood beside him.
He was gone!  His young life had ebbed away through
a gun-shot wound in his breast.  I sat down beside
him, devoutly hoping my late companions would also
return to ascertain the fate of their comrade, as I did
not wish to leave his lifeless body to the mercy of the
hungry ravens which hovered in circles around our
heads, watching for their prey.  Soon they rejoined me,
another accompanying them.  The dragoons, they
informed me, satisfied with their morning's work, had
galloped off in another direction, therefore we might
with safety convey the body of James Wishart to his
mother's cottage, which stood not far distant.  Having
constructed this rude bier, we laid his body upon it,
and bore it on our shoulders along this path; just
about a mile from thence we encountered his mother,
who, alarmed at the protracted absence of her son, had
set forth in search of him——"

"Yes!" screamed forth the distracted parent, "the
spirit of my murdered boy drove me forth to meet his
mangled body.  I sat in my house, bewailing my
solitary widowhood—alone with my foreboding fears
concerning my son, and brooding with tortured soul
over the fearful calamities that has befallen the faithful
of the land.  Suddenly I was seized with a trembling
and sinking of the heart—an indescribable feeling of
awe, as if some mysterious being invisible, yet distinctly
felt, hovered around, overcame me, and I bowed my
head in acknowledgment of its presence.  Then a
voice, which I instantly knew to be that of my son,
although sweet and low, whispered the name of—mother!
Distracted with fear, I fled from the cottage;
and led by my mysterious guide, my footsteps turned
in this direction.  Maddened by cruel uncertainty, I
ran swiftly onwards until I encountered the bier which
bore all that remained of my murdered son."

Here the mother ended her sad recital, and weeping
afresh, resumed her station at the head of the
procession.

"Men, and fellow-sufferers in the good cause!" shouted
Walter Henderson at the conclusion of the widow's
tale, "what merits the man, who, on account of
his high position and influence in this county, has it in
his power to succour those overwhelmed by dangers and
miseries of every description, and to befriend the
followers of the Covenant, but who, instead of shielding
these poor afflicted ones under the strong arm of his
might, reduces them to the bonds of slavery, and
exercises his authority over the minds of his friends and
dependants to the furtherance of every evil work,
whereby the blood of innocent and inoffensive men is
poured out like water on the hills and valleys of Scotland?"

"Death!" was the rejoinder.

"What punishment should be inflicted on him,"
pursued their leader, "who has driven the labourer
from his kindred and home, and the patriot from his
country?"

"Let him perish in the midst of his ungodliness, and
let his stronghold be razed; yea even to the ground!"

"Comrades," shouted Walter Henderson, "It is Sir
Robert Grierson whom ye have with one accord
denounced; he it is who has clad the green hills of
Dumfriesshire in mourning, and caused the wail of widows and
orphans to ascend up to heaven for a testimony against
him; then let us, trusting in the help of the Almighty
God, call upon him to account for his iniquities, and
burn down the stronghold of his cruelties.

"Amen," said they all.

"Who is this? how comes it to pass that you have
one of the ungodly in your company?" inquired one of
the bier-bearers, addressing Walter Henderson, and
pointing to John Kirsop as he spoke.

"He is a soldier I chanced to encounter on my way
hither," replied the person addressed, "and not
having succeeded in bringing him to reason, I have taken
the liberty of making him captive lest he interfere in
some measure with the projects we have in view.  But
come along," he added, "night wears apace, and the
work we have in hand brooks not of delay; here,
Thompson, a word with you."  So saying, he beckoned
to one of the party, and withdrawing a few paces apart
from the others, entered into a whispered conversation,
which, greatly to the annoyance of young Kirsop, who
strained every nerve to catch a few syllables of what
tvas passing, proved wholly inaudible to the rest of
the group.

His private conference with Thompson being ended,
Walter Henderson once more joined his companions,
and addressed them as follows:—"My friends, it is
agreed upon between us that this night must witness
the destruction of Lag Tower; then, let us hasten with
resolute hearts and hands to our appointed task.
Danger menaces us in every direction, for the tramplers
of the Covenant lie lurking in secret places, seeking
whom they may devour, and certain destruction awaits
us should we fail in our attempt, or Sir Robert Grierson
be made aware of our purpose; nevertheless, let us
have faith in Him (here Walter Henderson uncovered
his head) who is strong in might, and able and willing
to save all those whose trust is placed in His word.  It
is true we are few in number; but when the soul is
animated by steady and devoted zeal in the good cause,
much that to us poor frail mortals seems almost
impossible, may under the blessing of God be
accomplished.  You are all of you aware," he continued
"of the motives which have induced me to embark in
this hazardous enterprise, namely, to revenge the death
of my beloved brother, and to prevent, if possible, by
the destruction of his stronghold, the perpetration of
fresh crimes—the bare contemplation of which excites
the inmost soul with horror—by that wicked Laird,
against whom there has ascended a warning cry to
heaven proclaiming that the measure of his iniquities
is completed; then, let us press forward in this most
blessed work, the execution of which promises us so
great a reward."

Here Walter Henderson paused for a moment, then
turning to another of the party, named Andrew Hamilton,
he requested him to accompany the body of James
Wishart to the dwelling of the bereaved mother, in
case of any surprise by the way, taking with him their
prisoner, whose company would only prove an annoyance
in the difficult enterprise they were about to
undertake.  The man thus addressed took no pains to
conceal his displeasure at being prevented from
attending and sharing with them in so daring an exploit as
the burning of Lag Tower; but Walter Henderson
represented to him the importance of the duty
committed to his care, and adjured him to maintain the
prisoner in all safety until the morrow, when his fate
should be decided.  His instructions finished, the brave
old Covenanter placed himself at the head of the small
but resolute party, all eager to do his bidding, and
uttering a few hurried words of sympathy and farewell
to the weeping widow, who now turned her steps in an
opposite direction, he commenced his rapid march
towards the feudal Tower of Lag, whose outline was
even then dimly discernible, amid the darkness now
rapidly closing around them.

We must now leave Walter Henderson and his followers
pursuing their way towards the residence of Sir
Robert Grierson, and return to Andrew Hamilton,
who, in accordance with the wishes of his leader, walked
alongside the sad procession, his hand holding the
bridle of the disabled steed, on whose back, his hands
tied in such a manner so as effectually to prevent his
making any efforts to escape, rode John Kirsop, his
cheeks glowing with ill-concealed annoyance, and his
eyes, burning with impatience, resting alternately, and
with no very benign expression on the faces of the
different individuals composing the group.  As there
still remained about a mile of their journey to
accomplish, Andrew Hamilton seized the opportunity to
express his surprise and regret at the unworthy part
chosen by John Kirsop, which he did as follows:—"It
really astonishes me beyond measure to see a young
man, apparently possessed of a good understanding,
and in appearance not unlike the rest of us, amongst
the ranks of those we have but too much reason to
style the natural enemies of all who uphold the Kirk
and Covenant.  O dearie me, man! but you are
wandering far far from the paths of sobriety and
well-doing when thus espousing the cause of the mortal
antagonists of sound spiritual doctrines and church
freedom; really, I am grieved to behold you thus
treading the path that leadeth to destruction, with eyes
blindfolded and ears shut to the words of wisdom.
And what kind of amusement is this, think you, to be
hunting a parcel of your fellow-creatures from bog to
bog, and from hill to valley, as if the Almighty had
created the one-half of mankind to be meet sport for
the other?  No, no, my friend; true religion does'na
begin with a chase and end with a murder; far more
profitable would it be for the like of you, and those
whom you serve with so much zeal and devotion, to be
chasing pride, vain-glory, hypocrisy, and every evil
tenant from your cold stubborn hearts, than to be
hanging and shooting those who are manly enough to
stand up for their civil and religious liberties in the
face of the assembled world."

"Cease your foolish prating," sternly interrupted the
irritated soldier.

"'Deed and I will not!" rejoined Andrew Hamilton,
who, like many of his brethern, was fond of indulging
in a little disputation; "at least not until I have
endeavoured to convince you of the base unworthy part
you are acting towards those whose side you should
have espoused with all the alacrity of a true Christian
and the patriotic feelings of a Scotchman.  What are
you at the present time," he continued, "but a tool
in the hands of one who would dispatch you to-morrow
did you give him the slightest cause for provocation or
distrust?  Why, then, continue in his service to the
utter ruin of your immortal soul?  Has not the fearful
occurrence of to-day made some impression on your
youthful heart?  Think you that men who thus
wantonly imbrue their hands in the blood of the
innocent can be held guiltless in the presence of Him
who abhorreth the wicked and cruel man? or that
mercy will be bestowed on those who know it not, and
who, by the cruel measures they have adopted towards
the adherents of a stricken Church, have brought down
woe and desolation on our beloved land?"

"Why, then," said John Kirsop, "will you still
remain hostile to Government?  You cannot expect, if
you set the whole country in a state of revolt by your
fanatical and impious jargon, but that such measures
as our leaders may deem proper to employ will be
taken to reduce your strength and restore you to
reason——"

"Reason!" wrathfully exclaimed Andrew Hamilton,
"I think, friend, you are a little mistaken on that
point; it is the Government that must be brought both
to hear and understand reason, likewise to take care
how they offend and ridicule those both able and willing
to stand to their arms when their rights are trampled
on and their freedom assailed."

"Miserable fanatic," said the soldier in reply, "I
would avoid wasting words on one so narrow-minded
and bigoted as thou art; so, pri'thee cease, and permit
me to indulge in my own thoughts, which are much
more likely to prove profitable than any arguments
proceeding out of thy mouth.  I quarrel not with thee
for the part thou has taken in these unhappy
disturbances which now agitate our land; nor will I, in spite
of all the abuse thou has been pleased to heap on our
devoted heads for our cruelty and revenge, dwell on
the atrocious act thy companions are, perchance even
now, engaged in; but were I free of these bonds I
should teach thee to keep a civil tongue in that thick
head of thine, and not thus waste thy breath in giving
advice unasked and unwished for."

Here the prisoner relapsed into moody silence; and
Andrew Hamilton, somewhat disconcerted at the
haughty tone assumed by his new acquaintance,
forbore to press the conversation further.  They had
now arrived at the cottage inhabited by old Mrs. Wishart;
it was a dwelling situated on the bank of a
rippling stream, which shone like molten silver in the
pale moonlight, while the dusky foliage of a few
pine-trees overtopping the roof of the straw-thatched cottage
harmonised well with the procession now advancing
beneath their gloomy boughs.  On reaching the
threshold, the sorrowing mother paused for a moment,
as if dreading to enter the desolate home, whose
blazing hearth would never more be enlivened by the
cheerful voice now hushed for ever—never more!  She
sighed deeply; and after engaging in mental prayer
that she might be endowed with fresh strength to
support this fearful trial, she raised the latch and
entered, beckoning on the others to follow.  All was
as she had left.  The fire smouldered in the grate, the
clock ticked on the wall; while the kettle gave forth
its cheerful song, unheeded in the midst of the general
desolation.  Opening a side-door which led into a little
sleeping-room, Mrs. Wishart, her face ghastly with
intense emotion, signed to the bier-bearers thither to
convey the body of her murdered son.  The men
obeyed; and placing the corpse, at the mother's desire,
on the snow-white counterpane, they retired with
noiseless steps and uncovered heads to the adjacent
apartment, leaving her alone in the chamber with the
dead.  In the meanwhile, Andrew Hamilton, who had
been busily occupied in searching out a place of security
in which to deposit his prisoner, of whose company he
was, to own the truth, heartily tired, at length
discovered a barn which he at once chose as being
adapted in every respect for the present purpose.
Windows there were none; and the door being secured
by a double lock, rendered all attempts at escape
fruitless—so Andrew Hamilton thought; and acting
upon his hastily-formed opinion, he thrust in the
hand-bound prisoner, and double-locking the door, proceeded
to stable the exhausted steed.  This done, he retraced
his steps to the kitchen, where he found his four
companions seated around the hearth, conversing in
subdued whispers on the sad occurrences of the day.

"I really wonder how Walter Henderson and his
party are getting on," at length observed one of the
party, and he shook his head as he spoke.

"Not very well, I fear," replied another, "for if all
tales be true, Sir Robert Grierson keeps up too much
correspondence with the powers of darkness not to be
made acquainted beforehand with so important an event
as the burning of his tower; and should he catch any
of the unfortunate wights engaged in the act, their
time on earth will be but short.  Sir Robert
understands not mercy at any time, and an attempt such
as this will be enough to drive him mad; nor will he be
appeased until the perpetrators are hanged as high as
Haman."

"In verity, he is a terrible man," said a third.
"I never saw him but once, nor do I wish to behold
him again; his eye as it rested on me seemed to read
my very thoughts at a single glance, and his brow had
a gloom I have never seen equalled.  Off went my
bonnet in a trice, and my head stooped to the very
ground as he approached, so anxious was I to do him
all honour, while I strove to look calm and collected,
although Heaven knows I was trembling like an aspen
leaf, so great was my terror of the noted Laird.  'Ho,
ho!' he shouted as he came alongside of me, and his
voice went through me like a sword, and seemed to
take all the strength, as it were, out of my back.  'Ho,
ho! but you seem a well mannered knave; and could
you wield a sword or fire a gun as quickly as you can
lower that bullet-head of yours, I would make your
fortune; say, are you willing, provided you excel in
these accomplishments, to enter my service?'  'Most
worshipful sir,' I replied, with a joyous expression of
face and an inward shudder, 'I should indeed have
esteemed it a favour far above my humble deserts to
have ranked even amongst the humblest of your
retainers, but——'  'No buts,' roared Sir Robert, with
a fierce glance and a scowling brow; 'yes, or no, for
me!'  'Pray hear me,' I replied in an imploring voice,
fearful of incurring the deadly auger of so unscrupulous
a person as Sir Robert was reported to be, 'I only
intended to assure you of my regrets that
circumstances——'  'Cease your abominable falsehoods,' he
again sternly interrupted, 'and own the truth at once,
you unshaven rascal; speak out like an honest man
and tell me, what you know to be the case, that you
are not ambitious to be enrolled amongst the "Laird's
Devils."'  So saying, he made a cut at me with his
whip and rode off, laughing heartily, as if considering
the whole affair an excellent joke; while I, delighted
to have escaped so easily, made the best of my way
homewards; and ever since that day I have taken
especial care always to keep a good stone wall between
me and Sir Robert, for fear the second meeting should
not terminate quite so pleasantly."

"Ay, Ay," chimed in a fourth, "but were you to see
the Laird suffering from an attack of the gout, such as
my father once witnessed, you would then have reason
to remember the meeting."

On his being urged to give them an account of the
interview in question, the speaker narrated the following:—

"One day my poor father, who is a staunch old
Covenanter, and cares not to avow the fact, was taken
up on suspicion of having secreted some rebels who had
rendered themselves particularly obnoxious to
Government, and nothing would satisfy his accusers but his
going before Sir Robert Grierson to answer the charge
preferred against him.  My father said, the very idea
of facing that fearful man, as he styled the Laird,
made him feel ready to faint; but he was determined
to show no signs of fear, lest it might be construed
against him; so putting a bold face on the matter, he
not only expressed his willingness, but his anxiety, to
meet Sir Robert; and, in accordance with his desire, he
was instantly conveyed to Lag Tower.  It happened,
very unfortunately for my father, that very day on
which he went to abide his trial, Sir Robert was
confined to bed from a dreadful attack of his old enemy,
the gout, which had rendered him so savage that his
domestics were afraid to venture near him; but no
sooner was he made aware of the fact of there being a
prisoner awaiting his pleasure, than he left his couch;
and dressing himself as speedily as repeated twinges
of the gout would permit, he hobbled down stairs,
blaspheming the while in a manner horrible to listen to.
On entering the room where stood my father, with his
accusers beside him, Sir Robert darted a keen glance at
him from beneath his shaggy eyebrows, and then
proceeded to question those present regarding the
offence alleged to have been committed by my father.
A grim smile played at the corners of his mouth, and
a fiery gleam shot from his eyes as he listened to the
rather complicated statement regarding my father's
conduct in the affair of the late concealment.  He then
thanked them for the ready zeal they had displayed
in the king's service, and desired that they should
retire to another apartment, 'For,' said he, with a
hoarse laugh, 'I should like to have a little private
conversation with the old Whig, and I dare say I shall
manage to make him sensible of the heinous crime he
has committed, thereby rendering himself amenable to
the laws of his country.'  The room being cleared of all
save my father, who stood boldly confronting the Laird,
his head erect and his hands folded across his breast,
in the attitude of one who fears no evil and is conscious
of having performed none, Sir Robert seated himself at
the head of the table, and motioning to my father to
approach nearer to the judgment-seat, as he styled his
huge arm-chair, he addressed him in the following
language:—'Is it not a downright disgrace for an old
man like you, whose grey hairs ought to have covered
a head of wisdom, to be arraigned before us, charged
with having aided in the secreting of a parcel of
knaves, rebels in fact, against their king and country;
thereby frustrating the ends of justice, which required
the lives of these men, and not these only, but of all
who similarly transgress the righteous laws established
by our most gracious sovereign King Charles the
Second, whom may Heaven long preserve to the utter
confusion of all who wish him harm?  What have you
to say for yourself, that we may be satisfied of your
innocence in this matter, and permit you to depart in
peace?'  My father, to tell you the honest truth, was
in no small degree puzzled how to reply to this strange
mode of address adopted by Sir Robert; but reflecting
for a moment on the character of the man he had to
deal with, he arrived at the conclusion that the best
way to avoid giving a direct answer to so startling a
question would be to propound another, so he said,
'Well, Sir Robert, since you have desired me to reply
to the question you were pleased to put as regarded
my complicity in this aflair of the secreting of these
poor unfortunate men, whom I cannot look upon in the
light of malefactors, I shall do so firmly, and without
reserve, feeling assured that no real blame can be
attached to the part I have acted throughout; but,
before proceeding to enter into details, I would simply
ask in return, if any of those belonging to the side you
espouse so warmly were in grievous distress, and in
imminent danger of being deprived of their lives,
should they fall into the hands of their enemies, who
were eagerly following on their track, would you not
esteem it a positive duty to harbour these unhappy
fugitives?  Would you not, I say, rejoice in the good
deed you had accomplished, on beholding their foes
depart cheated of their expected prey, and seek no
other reward than the happiness arising from a
self-approving conscience?'  'Then you acknowledge having
aided these men to escape from the just doom awaiting
them,' roared Sir Robert, his brow black with
ungovernable wrath.  'You cannot prove that I did,'
coolly replied my father, nowise daunted by the terrible
looks of the fiery Laird; for his blood was up, and
when once he had got over his natural timidity of
character, he could have faced the old gentleman
himself.  'I will make you prove it, however,' was the
fierce rejoinder; 'reach me hither that Bible.'  My
father did so.   Now, you old solemn-faced hypocrite,'
said Sir Robert, accompanying these words with a
hideous grimace, occasioned by a sudden and severe
twinge of the gout, 'as you value your life, you must
swear by this blessed book that you are entirely
innocent of the offence alleged against you, and that
you know nothing of the whereabouts of these men.'  'But
what if I do know something of the whereabouts
of these men?' demanded my father, who was fully
determined to display no coward spirit, or evade the
truth, even though death should pay the penalty.
'Then your last hour has come,' replied the Laird, in
a somewhat milder tone, for he was not a little
astonished at my father's boldness of speech; 'so you
may at once say your prayers.'  'That is rather an
unusual favour for you to bestow,' said my father,
with a smile; 'for if all is true that's said of you,
praying does not come within your province; and instead
of your victim's soul being borne aloft on the incense
of prayer, it is generally dismissed with something the
very reverse of a blessing.'  'No insolence, you
ungrateful varlet,' thundered forth Sir Robert, while his
brow contracted into the most fearful frown, my
father said, he had ever witnessed; 'and since you
sneer at the boon I was pleased to offer you, your
prayer shall be of my framing; so down on your knees
this instant, and mark you, every word you utter
must be in an audible tone of voice that I may be able
to hear and judge of the same.  You must pray as if
your soul was in every word you give forth, for the
welfare of Church and State, dwelling at considerable
length on the goodness of his most gracious Majesty in
adopting such lenient measures towards those who have
so justly offended him, likewise on the wisdom he has
displayed in his choice of leaders to execute his
commands.'  'Not at your desire will I kneel, you
bloody man!' stoutly replied my father, his eyes
flashing and his colour rising as he spoke; 'nor shall
my lips be polluted with such words as you may devise.
If death be the decree sent forth against me, I will
meet it as becometh one who hath endeavoured to
prepare himself to meet his Maker,—therefore, do your
worst; and learn from me, that not to win an empire,
should I say aught of the king than that he is a
perjured——'  'Hold!' screamed Sir Robert in a
transport of fury, 'how dare you venture to attack his
most blessed Majesty in my presence?  This moment
is your last!'  So saying, and forgetful of the malady
under which he laboured, he darted from his chair and
seizing hold of a loaded pistol, which lay on an adjoining
table, levelled it at my father.  But, fortunately for
him, just as Sir Robert was on the point of firing, he
was suddenly seized with a most dreadful attack of his
irresistible enemy.  His agony was so great that the
pistol dropped from his hand; and after vainly
endeavouring to preserve his footing, he gave utterance
to a wild scream of mingled rage and pain, and fell
prostrate on the floor.  Taking advantage of the
opportunity afforded him for escape, my father rushed
to the door, opened it, and fled along the passage,
shouting at the top of his voice, 'Help, help!  Sir
Robert is dead, or dying!'  Overcome with terror and
dismay, the domestics at once rushed to the assistance
of their master, thereby permitting my father to leave
the castle unquestioned—a feat he took not long to
accomplish—and considering this part of the country
no longer safe for him, he speedily removed to a
retired spot in Annandale, where he now resides."

"Do you think there is any truth in the stories they
tell about Lag Tower being haunted?" inquired Andrew
Hamilton, who was not a little prone to indulge in the
superstitious fears so generally entertained by his
countrymen.

Just as one of his companions was about to reply, a
loud crash in the yard, as if some heavy substance was
thrown to the ground, at once arrested their attention.
The men instantly started to their feet, and eagerly
listened for a repetition of the sound; but nothing more
was heard.

"What can it be?" said one of the party, whose
pallid face and faltering voice betokened the agitation.
under which he laboured.

"O! it is just the wind that has blown down
something about the barn," replied one of his comrades.

At the mention of the word barn Andrew Hamilton
gave utterance to a loud exclamation, and seizing a
lantern that stood on the table, darted towards the door,
closely followed by his astonished companions.  With
a sinking heart, he pursued his way; and to his
unspeakable horror, the first object that greeted his
eyesight, on his arriving at the spot, was the door—the
key of which he was carrying for safety in his pocket—lying
prostrate on the ground, bereft of its hinges.
Impatient to learn the worst, he rushed into the barn;
it was empty—the prisoner was gone.

The reader must now please to accompany us into
the interior of Lag Tower, in the banqueting hall of
which several gentlemen are seated round a long oaken
table, strewn with the remains of dessert, half-emptied
bottles of wine, drinking cups, etc.  The gentleman
presiding over the entertainment, and whose hoarse
laugh even now resounds through the hall, is the
dreaded persecutor, Sir Robert Grierson; on his right
hand are seated Captain Bruce and Captain Dalziel,
also notorious for their dreadful cruelties practised
towards the Covenanters; while Lieutenant Livingstone,
Cornet Douglas, and others of lesser note,
occupy the remaining seats.  The hall, which is long
and narrow in its proportions, is lighted up by
the aid of pine-torches stuck in the wall, and the huge
fire, as it roars in the capacious chimney, casts a ruddy
glow over the swarthy faces of the revellers, and
dances fantastically over the suits of time-honoured
armour, swords, guns, pistols and other warlike
weapons with which the walls of the apartment are
adorned.

A pause has ensued in the conversation—it is the
Laird who breaks it.  "Well, Dalziel, and so you
managed to make the old Whig swallow the oath after
all, ha, ha, ha!  Upon my word, it is well worth all the
trouble we have been put to during these troublous
times, just to witness the rare state of terror into which
some of these canting knaves are thrown when they
imagine their last hour is come.  Down they go smack
upon their knees, turning up their eyes, and if you
only permitted them, they would spend at least three
hours in praying for the steadfast upholding of the
most blessed Kirk and Covenant; and, for my part,
I don't believe one out of twenty understands the precise
meaning of the words; it is just the fact of their having
them so constantly dinned into their ears by these old
maundering hypocrites, whom they regard as the
precious salt of the earth, that impresses them with
the belief of their embracing everything that ought to
be prayed for.  Little encouragement do they get from
me in that line.  At the bare whisper of the words
'Covenants of Grace' I discharge my pistol close to
their ears, and they very soon come down to earth
again, and endeavour to enter into a covenant of mercy
with me, whom they style the Man of Sin; but they
soon discover temporising does not do for me: my
words are few and plain.  Take the oath at once or suffer
the penalty.  'Mercy, mercy, Sir Robert! remember
our wives and helpless little ones at home; what will
become of them should we be deprived of our lives?'  Then
take the oath!  I find this peremptory mode of
speech does my business far more effectually than any
long-winded discourse; that's what they are accustomed
to, and they would willingly listen for hours, if we had
only breath sufficient to hold out so long, to any
amount of rubbish with which it might please us to
cram them; but the brevity of speech with which I
issue forth my demands puts them at once to the rout;
and the short and the long of the matter is, they are
either brought to hear reason, or look their last upon
the sun."

"It is really extraordinary how many maintain their
firmness even to the last," said Captain Dalziel, as he
filled his goblet to the brim and drained it at a single
draught; "they seem to take a pride in suffering
death, and I firmly believe would rather lose fifty lives,
or endure any amount of torture, than allow the oath
of abjuration to pass their lips."

"Ha, ha! my friend," exclaimed Sir Robert Grierson
with a loud laugh, "I think I am the only one of you
all who can manage these skulking fellows and compel
them to take the oath in spite of themselves.  Never
shall I forget that scene in the church of Dairy, should
I live to be an hundred; how horror-stricken the whole
pack were!"

"Why, what did you do to them?" inquired Lieutenant
Livingstone.  "I have never heard what I
considered to be a true version of that affair, although
I have often wished to learn what really occurred on
that occasion, as it seems to have made a great noise
throughout the country."

"Why, you see," said the Laird in reply, "towards
the beginning of last year I chanced to be in Galloway
holding courts throughout the different parishes—and a
fatiguing time I had of it, I can tell you.  The Courts were
wretchedly attended.  Of course, ill-affected people did
not come of their own accord, and there was not
sufficient force to compel them to do so.  Determined,
however, not to be defeated, I one day assembled a
large concourse of men and women—in fact, every one
belonging to Dairy—in the parish church, without
assigning any ostensible reason for so doing.  After the
church was filled to overflowing, I caused the door to
be locked; and at the blast of my bugle, a band of
trusty followers—previously made acquainted with my
plans—came galloping up and instantly surrounded
the church.  This done I put my head in at one of the
windows, and gazing with a wrathful countenance—though
I could scarce forbear laughing outright—on
the astonished group within, I shouted aloud, 'He or
she, who wishes to leave this place alive, must instantly
take the oath of abjuration!'  Had a bombshell fallen
in the midst of the assembled company, scattering
death and ruin around, they could not have looked
more appalled than they did on hearing these awful
words.  To all their prayers and entreaties—and they
were not a few—I vouchsafed but the same reply—free
egress and pardon to all those to whom I administer
the oath.  This was accompanied by a loud flourish of
trumpets which seemed to complete the general
consternation.  'O, Sir Robert, hae ye nae conscience,
man, that ye tak sic a pleasure in making folks' lives a
burden to them?' whined out an old witch, raising her
apron to the corner of one eye, and looking at me hard
from the other; 'do let me out; I am an auld
woman——'  'The greater reason for your being a sensible
one,' I replied; but she continued as though she heard
me not.  'I have a large family, some of whom are
biding at hame; and it would be an unco-like thing for
the likes o' me to have it to say on my return that I
had been and taken a non-juring oath, or some ither
thing equally wicked.  What chance, think ye, wad
there be o' my getting to heaven after doing the likes
o' that?'  'There appears to be very little chance of
your getting there at present,' I said in reply; 'for, if
you are an attentive reader of your Bible, as I trust
you are, you must have observed the strict injunction
to honour the king.  And I think you will
allow there is not much consideration for the person of
his most gracious Majesty in your composition, or you
would not refuse to take the oath which would at once
prove to my satisfaction that you are a true and loyal
subject.' 'Ay, ay,' she rejoined, 'that may be all
very true; but it is not an earthly monarch we are
bound to obey, when our consciences testify against his
proceedings; and you know brawly yoursel', that the
king has slipped away sadly from the straight line it
behoved him to keep till, if not for his own sake, at
least for the sakes of these pious and now persecuted men
wha wad fain hae regarded him in the light o' a parent.
But, oh, he is, indeed, a sad example o'——'  'Enough,
enough, my good woman!' I exclaimed in an angry
tone, for I was waxing wroth at the pertinacity with
which she eluded the subject of the oath; and pulling a
pistol out of my pocket, I affected to be examining the
priming as though to make ready to fire should she not
yield obedience to my wishes.  The sight of the
ugly weapon was enough.  With a loud exclamation
betwixt a groan and a howl, the old beldame
testified her willingness to do my bidding; adding,
she hoped she might not be held accountable for
that day's work, as it was only to prevent the
crime of murder she had given in.  A few of those
present, seeing how greatly things were against
them, imitated her good example; while others,
again, possessing the stubborn old Covenanting spirit,
repelled with scorn all offers of pardon purchased at such
a price.  However, they soon discovered that if they
were obstinate so were we; and being, moreover,
thoroughly wearied of their confinement, and alarmed
at the prospect of a still longer imprisonment,
they gradually gave in one by one, until the whole
had consented to come to terms.  After having duly
administered the oath—which seemed indeed a terrible
ordeal for the most of them—I wound up the affair by
exclaiming, 'Now you are a fold full of clean beasts—you
may go away home;' upon which the doors were
thrown open, and amid loud shouts of derisive laughter,
the crest-fallen Covenanters issued forth, looking and
muttering unutterable things."

Here Sir Robert ended his narration, and the loud
shouts of approving merriment with which the recital
was received, testified how much the listeners relished
hearing of any practical joke that had for its object any
one of the party who had rendered themselves so
obnoxious to the then existing Government.

"And did the varlets keep true to their oath?"
inquired Lieutenant Livingstone, after he had in some
measure recovered his wonted composure of countenance.

"I understood not, from some spies whom I had
placed in and about Dairy," answered the Laird,
"whereupon I immediately set out at the head of some
chosen followers and traversed the whole extent of the
parish.  Having very good reasons to believe that my
spies were correct in their information, I took the
liberty of exacting some pretty considerable fines from
the richer portion of the community, greatly to their
astonishment and indignation, they having fancied
themselves secure from all further molestation.  No
less a sum than seven hundred pounds was extorted by
me from three persons who had been bewailing at a sad
rate their defalcation in the church of Dairy; and, as
you may fancy, their hearts were not lightened by the
loss of so much money."

"By the bye, Laird, how did you get on with that
beggarly fellow also residing in Galloway?" inquired
Captain Dalziel, when Sir Robert had finished speaking.
"You may remember the last time I saw you, you
were on the point of starting off in pursuit of him.
Did you manage to catch him, or is he still lurking
in some secret place? if so, we shall ferret him out."

"There are no such proceedings necessary," replied
Sir Robert with a grim smile; "we have had many a
peck at him since that eventful day, the cowardly
skulking fellow that he is.  Why, we spent nearly
a fortnight in search of him; but, my word! his goods
and chattels paid toll for all the annoyance he gave us.
I wish you could have seen his wife's face as we
ripped up the mattresses, scattered the contents on
the floor, and carried off the ticken, as well as every
other thing capable of being transported; how she did
wring her hands and tear her hair; yet for all we did
and threatened to do, she would not betray her
husband's lurking-place.  Women are so obstinate in
cases like these.  However, while ransacking the
house, we came upon a young damsel, whom we
concluded to be the daughter of the person we were in
quest of.  To all my inquiries regarding her father,
she turned a deaf ear, protesting she knew nought of
his whereabouts.  Determined to try another plan, I
then inquired of her where she had spent the previous
evening?  Entirely thrown off her guard, and suspecting
no evil, she answered, in the house of Mrs. ——,
naming an elderly gentlewoman, whose name I have at
this instant forgotten.  Thither we instantly went,
and were rewarded for our trouble by the discovery
of two other rebels of whom we were also in search.
Suspecting the other would not be far distant, we then
galloped to the sea-shore and ransacked the caves
amongst the rocks, in one of which we came upon our
friend, and also another who had taken refuge with
him.  In accordance with my orders, all four were
instantly conveyed to Bangor prison, where the proper
authorities tendered to them the oath of abjuration,
which was taken by one and refused by the others.
Then a court of assize was held and indictments served
on the remaining rebels, two of whom also gave in.
On being informed that the fourth still held out, I
went thither, determined to reduce him to reason.  He
remained steadfast to his purpose, declaring nothing
should tempt him to swerve from his duty, upon hearing
which I broke out into a fearful passion, and swore
by the bones of my father that if he did not take the
oath in the space of five minutes, he should be barking
and flying on his way to another world.  This produced
the desired effect, and the fellow, who seemed most
horribly afraid, at length succumbed.  But I can tell
you it was all they could do to get me to spare his life
I was so indignant with the rascal."

Here Sir Robert paused and replenished his goblet.

"Is there any truth in the report that the Whigs are
arming themselves in this part of the country?"
inquired Captain Bruce of Sir Robert Grierson, who
replied in the negative, adding that the sneaking
poltroons had suffered too much at the Pentlands and
Bothwell Bridge ever to attempt anything like a formal
stand against the Government soldiers; besides the
stringent measures he had thought proper to adopt in
Dumfriesshire and Galloway would effectually prevent
any of the opposite faction from attempting aught like
retaliation in the neighbourhood.  He then proceeded
to give them a detailed account of the summary
manner in which he had, that morning, dispatched old
Elias Henderson—a proceeding on his part which met
with unqualified approbation from the assembled
revellers, who each in his turn related some memorable
exploit in which they had in a special manner signalised
themselves by their unheard of atrocities.

"Ha! ha!" shouted Sir Robert Greirson, "what a
fine set of fellows we are to be sure! come, let us drink
each other's good health in a goblet of sparkling
Burgundy.  There's myself, whom the rascals have
nicknamed 'the bloody Lag.'  There's you, my worthy
friend on the right, who rejoice in the appellation of
'the fiery Dalziel;' and Bruce, who is termed 'the
ungodly;' and you, Livingstone, 'the wicked lieutenant.'  And
pray, what are you styled?" he added, turning
towards Cornet Douglas, who replied with a frightful
grimace, "the black cornet," an answer which
convulsed the hearers with laughter, as the young man in
question rejoiced in an unwonted sallowness of
complexion.

"I wonder, Sir Robert," observed Captain Dalziel,
after they had duly honoured the proposed pledge,
"that you do not feel apprehensive of these exasperated
men attacking you some night in this old castle.  It
strikes me that you are rather incautious in thus
making enemies so near your own threshold.  This is a wild,
solitary place; and were these wandering, psalm-singing
fellows to unite together, they might work serious
damage ere you could possibly have time to aprize
your nearest friends.  I am not joking, I assure you,"
pursued Captain Dalziel; "the idea just came into my
head this evening while riding through the glen; more
particularly, as I observed some rather grim-looking
rascals hovering near the bye-roads.  I paused for a
moment in order to observe their motions more closely;
but guessing my evident intentions, they addressed a
few words to each other, and then sauntered carelessly
away across the heath.

"What! attack Lag Tower!" cried Sir Robert,
with a loud burst of incredulous laughter.  "I only
wish the knaves would try it.  But, no; they are too
well aware of what the consequences would be to brave
the lion in his den.  But should they come, they will
find a cold, if not a warm reception; for, in the
twinkling of an eye, I can, by means only known to myself,
surround the castle with a lake which it would rather
puzzle these canting Whigs to get across.  Ha! ha! there
is nothing I should like better than to see a whole
troop of them immersed in such a slough of despond.
What say you, Livingstone? would you not think it a
transporting sight to see our most worthy friends—all
clad in hodden-grey and Kilmarnock bonnets—floundering
in the water like so many porpoises, while you stood
on the castle-wall with your musket, in readiness to
pop them off one by one as they showed their heads
above water?  On my life, Dalziel, I would willingly
lose the best suit of armour in my possession should——"

At this instant, while loud shouts of laughter
resounded through the hall, the door was flung open to
its widest extent, and John Kirsop, his face haggard
with emotion, staggered into the room.

"How now, sirrah!" exclaimed Sir Robert Grierson
indignantly; "how darest thou enter our presence after
this fashion?"

"Pardon, pardon!  Sir Robert," broke in John Kirsop,
his voice trembling through apprehension; "but
this is no time for ceremony."

"What meanest thou, knave?"

"The rascally Whigs have flown to arms, and even
now are but a few paces distant, threatening all
manner of vengeance against you and yours.  Their present
plan, so far as I could learn, is to destroy the castle by
fire.  This they propose doing this very night."

"Ha!" cried Sir Robert, starting to his feet, an
example that was speedily followed by the others;
"have the traitors presumed thus far?  Saw ye aught
of these bold conspirators?" he continued; "how
many may they number?  Speak out, knave, and let
us lose no time in dallying; even now the villains may
have commenced their operations.  Livingstone, do you
run to the loop-hole facing the north, and keep a look
out from that quarter; and you, Douglas, hasten to the
one on the right hand as you ascend the stair, where
you may be able to perceive what is going on; and now,
Kirsop, proceed with your narration, and that as briefly
us possible."

Thus admonished, Kirsop related all that had befallen
him since leaving Drumlanrig.  When he came to
mention his interview with Walter Henderson, Sir
Robert smiled grimly, and nodded his head towards
Captain Dalziel, as though he recognised the truth of
his warning.

At the conclusion of the story, Sir Robert exclaimed,
while filling a goblet with wine, which he handed to
the exhausted soldier, "Thou art an honest fellow,
Kirsop, and shalt not lose thy reward when once we
get this troublesome affair arranged to our satisfaction."

Scarcely had Sir Robert Grierson finished speaking,
when Lieutenant Livingstone rushed into the hall,
exclaiming in a hurried whisper, "They are here! they
are here! even now I perceived them stealing round
the corner."

"How many may there be?" demanded Sir Robert.

"A dozen or more, I should fancy," was the reply.

"A dozen!" cried Sir Robert, with a scornful laugh,
"why, from the way that fellow Kirsop spoke, one
would have imagined that a hundred men at least were
at the gates."

"I but told the truth," said Kirsop doggedly; "they
numbered a few when they started, but they spoke of
reinforcements; and that old Whig, Walter Henderson,
declared the whole country-side were in arms in defence
of their liberties, so——"

"Enough, enough!" exclaimed Sir Robert impatiently,
"and now, my friends, let us hasten to crush these
rebels.  A dozen men!  Why, we ourselves would be
sufficient to cope with thrice that number."

"What mean you to do, Sir Robert?" inquired Captain
Dalziel.

"Mean to do!" re-echoed the fiery Laird.  "Why,
roast the knaves alive, to be sure! ay, every mother's
son of them."

"Will you open the flood-gates on this occasion?"
said Lieutenant Livingstone, laughing as he spoke.

"No, no," was the stern reply; "that were too
speedy a death for these undisciplined rascals; a more
lingering doom awaits them.  Lag Hill shall witness
their last agonies."  So saying, Sir Robert Grierson
strode across the hall, and detaching a sword from a
pin on which it hung, fastened it to his belt.  While
thus engaged, Cornet Douglas entered, and, in addition
to Lieutenant Livingstone's information, told Sir
Robert that the assailants were even then engaged in
piling up huge logs of wood, obtained from the supply
set apart for the use of the castle against the outer
walls.

"Then no farther time must be lost," broke in Sir
Robert.  "Do you, Livingstone, Bruce, and Douglas
station yourselves at the three windows overlooking the
scene of action; and the instant the rascals attempt to
set fire to the wood, send a volley amongst them,
whilst we steal round by the side postern and attack
them on the rear.  I think that will settle the
business," said Sir Robert with a laugh, as he cautiously
descended the stair, closely followed by his companions.
In the meantime, as notified by Cornet Douglas,
Walter Henderson and his party were proceeding
noiselessly and rapidly with their operations, and
already a considerable portion of their labour had been
accomplished.  The increasing darkness of the night
favoured their project, the moon, which in the former
part of the evening shone with a brilliancy that in
some measure threatened to frustrate their schemes,
having veiled her brightness behind huge masses of
leaden-coloured clouds which slowly drifted along the
sky.  It formed a strange and striking picture this old
castle of Lag, rising, as it did, amid a wide extent of
flat, desolate moor-land which stretched away in the
distance until relieved by a range of bare irregular
looking hills bounding the prospect.  So thought one
of the party, William Hislop by name, as in common
with his comrades, he proceeded leisurely to pile up
around the castle walls huge blocks of wood destined, as he
imagined, to level it with the ground.  In conjunction
with this thought, he remarked to one of his
companions that it was a lonesome-looking place, and that
for his part he did not quite like the task they were
engaged in, adding, by way of consolation, "if that old
vulture, Lag, gets us atween his claws, it's little flesh
we'll hae on our backs when aince we get out o' them."

"Why, then, did you join us if such were your
feelings?" said the person addressed.  "I am sure had
Walter Henderson known you had no love for the
undertaking, he would not have pressed you to come
hither."

"It's not that I think we are doing anything wrong
in burning doon the castle—no, no; the bloody persecutor,
as he is, weel deserves it at our hands, and I felt
rale brave and anxious about the doing o' the same,
when Walter Henderson brought it hame to our souls
in the manner he did; but somehow or another the
case looks different now, and it's such an eerie-looking
bit to be meddling wi' at this time o' night, that——"

"Hear till that, man!" suddenly exclaimed his by
no means comfortable companion in a low tone of voice.

"Hear till what?" cried William Hislop, now fairly
started out of all composure by this sudden
exclamation.  "Tush, man," he said after a moment's pause,
"it's only an owlet screaming; do you no' see it up by
yonder?" and they both stood still a while to observe
the bird which wheeled in rapid circles around the
castle, screaming and flapping its wings as though to
apprise the inmates of the terrible danger that menaced
them.

"Do you think that can be ain of Lag's familiar
spirits?" he continued, addressing his companion;
"for ye ken it is reported through the country that he
keeps a wheen evil spirits to tell him all that he wants
to know."

"That I canna' pretend to say," answered his comrade,
whose eyes still followed the excited bird; "but
it seems in a terrible state o' flutter: what can it mean
by going on at that gait?"

"Did you see that strange light dancing along the
moor as we came across the road?" inquired William
Hislop, who was evidently a firm believer in ought
that savoured of the supernatural.

"Yes I did," was the reply.

"And what do you think it was?"

"A will-o'-the-wisp, to be sure!"

"Aweel, may be!" was the doubting reply; "truly
may I say that never yet has that same twinkling
light cam' across my path, but something most
terrible has happened to me afterwards!"

"Silence!" cried Walter Henderson in a low stern
voice.  At this instant a cock, which had taken up its
quarters for the night on a neighbouring tree,
apparently cheated into the belief from the unusual
stir that prevailed around its generally peaceful
domicil, that morning had already dawned, gave
forth its usual challenge to the sun; a proceeding
which so thoroughly alarmed William Hislop, that he
exclaimed aloud, regardless of time and place, "Gude
save us a'!  The cock to be crowing at this time o'
night; it's easy seen what 'ill be the end o' this fine
work!"

"Have you a mind to ruin yourself and us, that
you thus indulge in such untimely remarks?"
whispered Walter Henderson, and he grasped William
Hislop tightly by the arm as he spoke.  "The greatest
caution is necessary," he continued, "lest we be
discovered and our plans thereby frustrated.  Now
cease your apologies and attend to me.  The wood is
all ready; and it but remains for us to apply the
light, and our labour will be accomplished.  I will
advance first, and do you follow; here are the necessary
materials;" so saying, he placed a piece of flint and
tinder in the trembling hands of William Hislop,
who rather unwillingly proceeded to fulfil the duty
imposed upon him.  But scarcely had the match been
ignited, when, according to the commands of Sir
Robert Grierson, a volley of musketry was discharged
from the windows overhead, which stretched several of
the assailants upon the ground.  On hearing this
dreadful sound, the forerunner of yet more terrifying
alarms, the lighted match fell from William Hislop's
Land, and giving utterance to a loud exclamation of
horror, he fell forward, as though he had been shot, on
the pile of wood before him.

"Betrayed! betrayed!" shouted Walter Henderson,
drawing his sword as bespoke; "fly, my friends, fly,
while there is yet time!"

In obedience to his commands, the panic-stricken men
rushed to the outer gate; but scarcely had the
foremost reached it, when a firm grasp was laid on his
collar, and he found himself a prisoner.  The others
were captured in a similar manner; the darkness of
the night preventing their being able to distinguish
friends from foes.  The terrible voice of Sir Robert
Grierson was then heard, ordering lights to be brought
that the faces of the prisoners might be discernible.
Eager to do his bidding, several of his retainers rushed
to the banqueting hall, and snatching the pine-torches
from off the walls, brought them to Sir Robert, who,
seizing the one borne by John Kirsop, waved it aloft
in the air over the heads of the terrified prisoners, as
they stood motionless in the hands of their captors
awaiting the doom they feared to be inevitable.
By the ruddy glow of the lights, Sir Robert at
once distinguished the venerable form of Walter
Henderson.  "Ha, thou hoary-headed traitor!" he
exclaimed in a furious tone; "and is this the way in
which you seek to follow after *that* which is good?  Is
it by deeds like these that you would fain hope to
build up the walls of your crumbling kirk, and patch
up anew your broken Covenant!  Covenant forsooth!
Who would seek to enter into terms with traitors such
as you?  Not I for one, and that you will learn right
speedily; dearly shall all of you rue this night's work.
And you thought to catch the lion asleep," he pursued
in a mocking tone; "ha, ha! then you made a slight
mistake, that is all; and were it not that business,
which brooks no delay, requires my presence in
another part of the country, to-morrow should witness
your final agonies; but ere the sun has thrice
completed its circuit of the heavens, shall you, and your
partners in iniquity, cease to cumber the earth.  Away
with the villains," he cried, addressing his retainers,
"throw them into the deepest and darkest dungeons
beneath the castle, and there, amid the gloom that
surrounds them, let them comfort themselves with the
thoughts of a speedy doom awaiting them."

"Murderer of my brother!" shouted Walter
Henderson, struggling to free himself; "this night's
work is a fitting termination to a day so begun; but
think not, though thy infernal arts have prevented
the completion of our purpose, that thou wilt always
escape.  No; a terrible day of retribution awaits thee,
and when it does arrive, thou wilt remember the innocent
blood thou hast shed, and cease to hope.  In what
had my poor brother wronged thee that thou must
basely deprive him of life?  In what manner had he
infringed the laws that his blood must pay the forfeit?
Oh, Judas, that thou art!——"

"How darest thou speak to Sir Robert Grierson
thus?" cried Lieutenant Livingstone, at the same
time dealing him a buffet on the side of the head.

"Away with the old hypocrite!" thundered forth
Sir Robert Grierson with an impatient wave of the
hand; "convey him to his quarters, and feed him on
coarse bread and water during the remainder of his
sojourn on earth; it will, in some measure, cool the
fever of his blood, and enable him to view things
in a clearer light than he has hitherto done.  Kirsop,
to your watchful care I commit the prisoner."

"Kirsop!" exclaimed Walter Henderson in a tone
of dismay, "ha, that explains it all!  Fool, fool
that I was to trust him for one moment out of my
sight!"

"Don't blame yourself, old fellow," said the
soldier with a grin, "because fortune has given the
scales a turn in our favour; but rather rejoice in the
thoughts that you will leave the world with your
conscience freed from the heavy crime which would
otherwise have rendered it top-heavy, and prevented
your getting out of purgatory quite so soon as you
would have wished, had I not escaped from the
hands of the person to whose care you commended me."

This last stroke of bad fortune quite overcame
Walter Henderson, and muttering "God's will be
done!" he suffered his captor to lead him away, to the
loathsome dungeon appointed for his reception.

The remains of the unfortunate Covenanters who
had perished at the outset of the affair had long been
removed from the court yard, and Sir Robert
Grierson and his friends were again seated at the
festive board, carousing and blaspheming according to
their wont; still William Hislop had not yet mustered
up courage sufficient to emerge from his hiding-place.
It was, to say the least of it, rather a hard bed
he had chosen on which to repose his wearied limbs,
still, as he himself expressed it, anything was
preferable to lying dead on the courtyard or sickening in a
dungeon; and it would be the height of ingratitude
for him to complain who had, without doubt, fared
the best of the party.  True he was still, in some
measure, within the "Laird's grasp;" yet as he
listened to the wild bursts of revelry which ever and
anon fell upon his ear, he felt assured that soon the
whole party would be laid prostrate beneath the
table, and then he might venture forth in safety.  An
hour or two, which seemed to William Hislop, in his
anxious state of mind, like so many ages, passed away
without producing the desired change in the banqueting
hall; on the contrary, mirth seemed on the increase;
and William Hislop, from his hiding-place, could
distinctly hear Sir Robert Grierson, whose voice he had
reason to remember, deliver a song, which, judging
from the uproarious shouts of laughter that followed
each verse, seemed of an unusually joyous character.

"The auld vagabond that he is!" muttered the
incensed listener, "to be going on in that daft manner
just after he has doomed a wheen fellow-creatures to
death; it really astonishes me that the walls o' the castle
dinna' come doon about his ears and finish him in the
midst o' his evil on-goings.  Truly the Lord is
merciful!  Nae wonder cauld water takes to the boil
whenever he puts his foot in't!  I am sure I wad gin
he cam near me, the nasty fellow that he is.  My very
blood rins cauld till hear him going on at that gait;
it's like naething human.  Gude sake! how I pity
these poor fellows at this moment in the power o' sic
a character; indeed, I may just as well pity myself
when I'm at it, for I'm no that far out o' the wood
that I can afford to waste time in talking to mysel'
like some auld spaewife—the more especially when I
may be able to do something a hantle better, than a
wheen useless words, for my comrades in captivity."  So
saying, William Hislop thrust aside a huge block
of wood which somewhat obstructed his exit, and
prepared to issue forth.  Scarcely had he ventured a
few steps across the courtyard, when, with a loud
scream, the owl darted forth from its hiding-place
amongst the ivy, and again commenced wheeling in
rapid circles around the castle; but this time in such
close proximity as almost to strike him with its wings.
Horrified beyond measure at the sight of this
unexpected apparition, and fully persuaded of its being
nothing else than an emissary of Satan's, William
Hislop crept back to his retreat amongst the wood,
where he lay for several minutes, gazing with distended
eyes on the ill-omened bird as it pursued its wayward
flight.

"I am a gone man!" he muttered; "a gone man! that
owl will be the death o' me!  It has discovered
I am here, and the next thing will be the Laird
coming his ain sell to pull me out o' my hiding-place.
Whist ye there wi' your crying!  I am sure ye might be
contented wi' the lot that has fallen to your share
and let me alane.  O sirs me! had I but foreseen the
tae half o' the misfortunes that were to befall us this
dreadful night, I wad hae been sitting by my mother's
hearthstane, supping my porritch wi' a thankfu'
heart, instead o' lying here, expecting every moment
to be my last."

While William Hislop was thus indulging in
soliloquy, one of the windows of the banqueting hall
was thrown open, and a voice exclaimed, evidently in
reply to a question from within, "Morning breaks,
and ere another hour has passed, we must be in our
saddles;" then the casement was closed, and once more
the festivity was resumed.

"Now, William Hislop, now or never!"  With
these words, addressed to himself, the impatient
Covenanter again ventured forth from the place of his
concealment.  This time the owl kindly forebore
screaming; but stationed itself on the branch of a tree
overhanging the courtyard, from which elevation it
gazed on the intruder with eyes that seemed to emit
sparks of fire, as though questioning his right to depart.
Creeping cautiously along, under shadow of the wall,
William Hislop managed to gain, unobserved, that
portion of it which admitted of an easy descent on the
other side.  This position attained, his courage in
some measure revived, and pausing a moment to
shake his hand at the owl before taking his final leap,
he muttered between his teeth, "There now, ye may
gang and tell your hopeful master, from me, that
maybe there 'ill be mair company assembled on Lag
Hill, on the morning o' the execution, than he wots
o'," and with these mysterious words, accompanied by
another gesture of defiance, William Hislop darted
from off the wall, and rapidly disappeared amidst the
gloom of the early morning.

About two miles to the south of the village of
Dunscore, in a little valley, sheltered by mountains
from every blast that swept over the neighbouring
heath, stood the form belonging to the deceased Elias
Henderson.  The house pertaining to the farm partook
of the usual appearance of farm-houses in Scotland, at
the period of which we write, and was scrupulously
clean and attractive in its exterior; while the
well-stocked yard and barns bespoke the thrifty farmer.
Indeed, few persons following this precarious
occupation could boast of greater success than had fallen to
the lot of Elias Henderson.

It was the evening of the second day from that on
which our story opens, and the deep air of silence
that reigned in and around the farm-house of
Westercleugh, told in language more expressive than
the most eloquent words, that death had laid its
ice-cold hand on one of the inmates.  In the kitchen,
close to the window, is seated an aged woman, the
mother of the deceased; her hands are crossed on her
breast, and her eyes remain immovably fixed on the
open pages of the Bible lying on her knee.  In
appearance she is calm and resigned, for more than
three-score years and ten have passed over her head,
and old age has somewhat chilled the current of
human affection, yet she mourns her sad bereavement;
and while lamenting that death should have taken him
who was in the prime of manhood and spared the
aged, she turns to the Word of God for consolation in
her affliction.  In another corner of the apartment is
seated, or rather reclining, for her head is thrown over
the back of her chair, the bereaved wife, in an utter
abandonment of grief.  Her children stand grouped
around her; the elder ones sharing their mother's
sorrow; while the youngest, an infant of not more
than two years old, sits smiling and crowing in its
little chair.  Silence is everywhere maintained; and
the servants belonging to the farm tread with the
utmost caution as they go in and out in the
execution of their accustomed duties, so truly do they
sympathise with their mistress in the loss of her
husband, and no less deep and sincere is their grief
for the loss of a kind and indulgent master.  The rays
of the setting sun streamed through the casement,
lighting up the venerable features of the matron, as
though to comfort her, in midst of her grief, with the
blissful promise of a future state, where those for ever
separated in this world should be re-united in the
bonds of love.  After gazing for a moment on the
brilliant messenger, she arose from her seat, and
putting aside her Bible, crossed over to where
Mrs. Henderson lay absorbed in grief, and placing her
hand on her shoulder, said in a sad, yet firm
voice—"Marion, grieve no more for him who has now gone
from amongst us!  Rouse yourself from that state of
useless sorrow; it is the living who require our
sympathy and care—the dead need it not.  No amount
of weeping ran ever restore those who have once
crossed the river of death.  But, oh! bethink you,
Marion, of the happiness, we may humbly venture to
hope, our beloved one is now enjoying in the presence
of his Maker, for he was a sincere Christian, and
strove to do ins duty manfully.  Think not," she
continued, "because my poor old eyes refuse to weep,
that I lightly esteem the irreparable loss I have
sustained.  During the long period of years it has
pleased the Lord that I should sojourn in this vale of
tears, I have seen the young whom I loved and the
aged fall around me like the leaves of autumn.  And
what, think you, has strengthened me in all my
affliction?  Nothing but the hope of a cloudless
hereafter.  Think on that, Marion.  Think on the promises
of the Gospel, and endeavour, while on earth, so to do
your duty to yourself and your children, that no link
may be awanting in the chain, which will, I trust,
unite us all in the regions above."  At the mention of
her children, Mrs. Henderson started up from her
recumbent posture, and throwing her arms around
their necks, clasped them to her bosom, weeping
passionately, and exclaiming the while, "Oh my poor
fatherless children!"  In the midst of this
ungovernable burst of sorrow, the latch of the outer door was
gently lifted, and a slow and cautious footstep was heard
advancing along the passage leading to the kitchen.
On her turning round, old Mrs. Henderson was
surprised, and in some degree terrified, to perceive it was
the wife of her son Walter who at that moment entered.

"What has happened, Sarah? in the name of
heaven, speak!" she cried, observing the look of
hopeless misery with which her daughter-in-law
advanced towards her.

"Walter!  Walter! have ye seen nought of my
Walter?" exclaimed the fainting woman as she sank
upon the nearest chair.  "He left me on the morning
of his brother's death, and has never returned.
Yesterday," she continued in a choking voice, "my
son set off in search of him, and he, too, has failed to
come back.  Oh, what shall I do if they also have
fallen into the hands of that wicked Lag!"

This sad intelligence struck the hearers dumb, and
they remained motionless, gazing on one another with
eyes that revealed the horror their tongues refused to
express.  At length, with a noble effort, the sorrowing
mistress of Eastercleugh roused herself from her
hitherto inactive grief, and strove, by every means in
her power, to alleviate the uncontrollable distress of
her sister-in-law, who having recently arisen from a
sick bed, was thoroughly exhausted by the fatigue and
anxiety she had undergone.

"And have you heard nothing concerning your
husband since his departure from home?" inquired
old Mrs. Henderson, who stood with her arm supporting
the aching head of her daughter-in-law.

"Nothing," was the weeping reply; "but yesterday
morning strange reports reached us concerning some
desperate encounter that had taken place between the
Laird and some of our party.  This alarmed me
dreadfully, and my son, seeing the sad state to which
I was reduced by anxiety regarding the prolonged
absence of Walter, went off at an early hour with the
intention of seeking him.  Up to the time at which I
left home he had not returned, and too anxious to
remain longer without news of some kind, I instantly
resolved, spite of the distance, and my own weakness,
to come hither, hoping he might be with you, or that
you would be able to give me some information
respecting him."

"Now may God, in his infinite mercy, grant that
this new and exceeding bitter trial be averted from
us," piously exclaimed the venerable matron, throwing
her arms around the necks of her weeping daughters;
"but let us not murmur, my children, should it be
otherwise decreed by Him whose goodness and
loving-kindness are beyond all praise.  Our heart's dearest
treasures are but lent us for a season—soon, soon must
they be restored; then let us, recognising the
unspeakable love which prompts the removal of our
choicest blessings that our thoughts may be weaned
from earth to heaven, exclaim with the bereaved King
of Israel, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away;
blessed be the name of the Lord!'"

Scarcely had old Mrs. Henderson finished her pious
exhortation, ere the door again opened—but this time
it was a man's eager footstep which paced the passage,
and the voice of Walter Henderson's son that saluted
their ears.  He entered; his countenance looked worn
and haggard, and he tossed back his dishevelled hair
from his forehead with an air of despondency that
escaped not the eyes of the watchful mother.

"My son! my son!" she exclaimed, throwing herself
on his neck; "what of your father? speak, I can bear
it all; only speak, my son!"

"You here, mother!" he gasped forth, and his voice
died away in a broken murmur.

"Oh, my Walter!  I see it all; thou art dead!  I, too,
am a widow!"

"No, mother, no!  he is not yet dead, and while
there is life there is hope—comfort yourself, my
mother!"

"Where is he, that we may try and save him?"
demanded his grandmother.

The young man shook his head as he answered,
"He lies in a dungeon beneath Lag Castle, and
to-morrow's sunrise sees him suffer on Lag Hill!"

"To-morrow!" screamed forth the distracted wife,
and fell prostrate on the floor.

"He shall not die; oh, mother, speak to me!" cried
her almost distracted son; and raising her tenderly in
his arms, he gazed in her face with a look of unspeakable
anguish, fearful lest she too might be snatched
from him.  Then seeing her recover a little, he
continued pouring in words of consolation into her
ears, such as were dictated by love and hope.

"Oh! can ye do nought to save him?" cried his
aged grandmother, "I fear me her life will go,
should he suffer death.  Poor thing; oh my helpless
children, you have indeed suffered much!  God
in his mercy succour you, for I fear man can do but
little."

"Mother, he shall not die!  God will never permit
such an atrocious deed to sully the face of his beautiful
earth," cried John Henderson, his eyes beaming with
renewed hope; "so do not despair—all will yet be well.
Yesterday," he continued hurriedly, "I fell in with
William Hislop wending his way towards our house.
On seeing me he expressed his satisfaction at the
meeting, and informed me that my father was a
prisoner in Lag Castle.  It appeared, from his
statement, that, driven to the verge of madness by my
uncle's death, my father had determined upon
burning the castle to the ground.  This he proceeded
to do in company with some friends; but information
of their coming was conveyed to the Laird by a
soldier who had been taken prisoner by my father,
and managed to escape, so that he entrapped them all,
with the exception of William Hislop, who fortunately
succeeded in secreting himself among some wood,
from which retreat he overheard the bloody Lag
declare his intention of murdering them to-morrow.
The hour sun-rise; the place Lag Hill.  We are
determined, if possible, to prevent this dastardly deed.
Even now William Hislop is scouring the country in
search of aid, and I have managed to secure some
bold youths who are only too willing to assist in so
good a cause.  Being in this neighbourhood, I came to
acquaint you with my purpose, hoping that my dear
mother would hear nothing of it until all had been
decided; but 'tis better thus, the sight of her pale
suffering face has nerved me anew for the combat."
So saying, he embraced her tenderly, and again
exclaiming "Mother, he shall not die!" rushed forth
from the dwelling.

The fatal morning at length arrived; and scarcely
had the appearance of a few streaks of red in the east
betrayed the early dawn, ere Sir Robert Grierson and
his companions were pursuing their way, on horseback,
towards Lag Hill, whither the prisoners had
already gone.  Owing to the unavoidable absence of
Captain Bruce, with a considerable portion of the
Laird's followers, the guard in charge of the
Covenanters was composed of but few men; yet, trusting
in the terror of his name, and the secrecy with which
the whole affair had been conducted throughout, Sir
Robert was not apprehensive of any attempt at rescue
being made.  On gaining the summit of the hill
where stood the prisoners, Sir Robert Grierson,
placing his hand on a barrel all stuck round with
sharp-pointed weapons, demanded of Walter Henderson
how he relished the thoughts of quitting the
world in so terrible a manner; adding, with a hoarse
laugh in which his companions joined, "that it would
enable him to judge whether the Word was indeed
sharper than any two-edged sword!"

"Sir Robert Grierson," replied Walter Henderson
mildly, "jest not thus with one about to bid farewell
to this world, and who would fain compose his mind
that he might be able to reflect on the joys pertaining
to a better.  But before suffering death," he continued,
"I would wish to obtain your forgiveness for the
sinful attempt I made to destroy your castle.  In the
darkness and solitude of my dungeon I had time to
reflect on the crime I had been guilty of, in taking
vengeance into my hand instead of leaving it to Him
who hath said, 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay!'
but you had foully slain my brother, and I was mad.
At the best we are but poor erring mortals; for a time
Satan got possession of my heart, and I thirsted for
revenge.  I am now about to pay the penalty of my
presumptuous sin—would God it were alone!—and
I would fain leave the world at peace with you and
all men."

"Bravo, old hodden-grey!" cried Sir Robert with
a loud laugh of derision.  "Thou hast mistaken thy
vocation; the pulpit were a fitting place for thee,
and had I but known of thy talents in this line, I
should have had one erected for thee that thou mightest
have held forth in a style becoming thy merits."

Walter Henderson turned from the speaker with a
look of mingled contempt and pity, and gazing on his
companions with the deepest sorrow expressed on his
countenance, seemed as if about to address them,
when Captain Dalziel interposed, exclaiming in a stern
voice, "Now cease your canting nonsense; we want
none of your conventicle phrases!"

"No, no," said Sir Robert Grierson; "pray let him
go on; I never was at a field-preaching, and should
like to hear how they conduct matters there; besides,
there is plenty of time, and the rascals will have
leisure to examine our playthings.  So now, old
Round-bonnet, proceed—we are all attention!"

"My friends," said Walter Henderson, heedless
alike of their remarks and the jeers that accompanied
them, "we have been brought here to suffer death,
and I trust we shall meet it with the calm serenity
of men who are travellers towards a better country.
Of the cruelty of him who hath decreed that we
should perish by such unheard-of tortures I shall say
nought, lest, by dwelling on the subject, I should
forget my recently-acquired spirit of Christian
forgiveness, and heap such curses on his head as might
endanger my own salvation.  Let us not, then, dwell
on the sufferings we must experience ere we can win
repose in death, but rather let us rejoice that we are
thus called upon to suffer, and in the glorious prospect
that lies before us of our being accepted in the sight
of God."  ("Prophesy, prophesy, old fellow!" shouted
Cornet Douglas.)  "Oh, my friends," pursued the
aged Covenanter, his face flushed with enthusiasm,
"even now, as I stand at the gates of death, the thin
veil which separates the future from us is torn from
my sight, and I behold a scene which gladdens my
old eyes."  ("Out with it, out with it, hurrah!"
cried the Laird and his party, amid shouts of
laughter.)  "I see," he continued, "a prosperous and
happy country smiling around me, the inhabitants of
which live in peace one with another, and the hand of
the persecutor is no longer lifted to smite.  The
village bell sounds sweetly on the Sabbath morn,
and the faithful preacher of the Word of God, no
longer fearing to teach his little flock in the sight of
all men, instructs his hearers in the simple doctrines
of their beloved faith; while aged matrons, as together
they cross the peaceful churchyard, pause for a
moment, ere entering the house of God, to gaze on the
simple stone which marks the Covenanted grave.
My brethren, we shall not be forgotten.  In the
bosoms of our countrymen, we shall live for ever.
Till remotest ages, shall our wrongs and our sufferings
form a soul-stirring theme; and the aged parent,
as with kindling eyes he rehearses in the ears of his
children the tales that have descended to him of our
untiring zeal in the cause of the Covenant, shall
point to the rusted sword hanging sheathed on the
wall, and bless God that his forefathers were amongst
the number of those who fought and bled in defence of
the rights and privileges of the Church of Scotland."

"Thine hour has come!" said Sir Robert Grierson,
making a signal for him to prepare for death.

The sun had now arisen, and its bright rays tinted
with a roseate hue the summit of the mighty Criffel,
and lit up the wild and desolate hill on which the
bloody deed was about to be enacted.  At the sight
of the brilliant luminary, which never more should
rise for him, Walter Henderson seemed for an instant
overcome, but it was only for an instant, and soon he
regained his wonted composure.

"Now, we shall soon see how the old rascal will
face death," cried Sir Robert, in a tone of fiendish
delight; "here, bring hither the barrel, and see that
all the weapons are properly arranged so that he shall
lose nothing of his punishment.  That's it; in with
him, and whenever I fire off this pistol send him
head-long down the hill!"

Scarcely had the soldiers advanced to do their
leader's bidding, when, with a deafening cheer which
awoke the echoes amongst the neighbouring hills, a
large body of men, headed by William Hislop and
John Henderson, and armed with scythes, pitch-forks,
spades, and every other available weapon, rushed in
amongst them, and ere they had time to recover
from their astonishment, drove them right down the
hill.

"Cowards!" shouted Sir Robert, in a transport of
rage, on beholding the sudden onslaught made on his
retainers, "dare you thus molest us in the rightful
discharge of our duty?  Dalziel!—Livingstone! stand
by me, and we will teach these knaves a lesson."

With these words, Sir Robert Grierson struggled to
regain his former position on the summit of the
mountain, but all in vain.  The dense crowd came
pouring on, bearing all before them.

"That's the way; that's the way, my lads, to serve
these bloody tyrants!" cried Andrew Hamilton,
as several soldiers fell beneath the weapons of their
adversaries.

At this instant, his eye encountered the form of
John Kirsop, who was vainly endeavouring to force
his way towards Sir Robert Grierson.  With a cheer
of satisfaction he threw himself instantly upon him,
and so great was the force of the shock that they both
lost their balance and rolled together to the foot of the
hill, where they lay cuffing and tearing each other until
fairly exhausted by their mutual efforts.  The contest
was but of short duration.  In vain did Sir Robert
Grierson threaten with death the first man who
evinced a desire to escape.  In vain did Captain
Dalziel and Lieutenant Livingstone endeavour to
recall the panic-stricken soldiers.  Fruitless were all
their efforts to maintain order.  Overpowered by
numbers, their followers were driven from the field;
while they themselves, unable to make anything like
a stand against so superior a force, were also obliged
to seek safety in flight.

"Father, O father! and have I then saved you?"
cried John Henderson, as he clasped the old man in
his arms.  "God in heaven be praised for his kindness
unto us this day."

"Hurrah!" shouted William Hislop, tossing up
his cap in the air, as he gazed after the fugitives,
"flee awa, Laird, to your castle; and the next time ye
gie orders for an execution see that there's no listeners
near to circumvent ye in your evil doings."

Little more remains to be told.  But few hours
had elapsed since the above scene was enacted ere
Mrs. Henderson was weeping on her husband's neck;
and their son, as he clasped them alternately in his
stalwart arms, cared not to conceal the tears which
coursed down his cheeks, while he exclaimed, "Mother,
I told you my father should not die!"


It was now considerably past the middle of the day,
and the sun was shining in all its wonted splendour.
The hedges bursting forth into vernal beauty, and the
"lark at heaven's gate singing," together with the
melody of less-aspiring songsters, proclaimed the
presence of spring; while the soft freshness of the air
imparted an invigorating elasticity to the spirits.
After a walk of about an hour and a half's duration,
I at length arrived at the glen in which Lag Tower is
situated.  The nearer I advanced to my journey's
end, the more wild and solitary the scenery became.
The road wound past the foot of a hill—the scene of
many of the Laird's wild exploits; for it is related of
him that when tired of the comparative tameness of
riding upon a level road, he was in the habit of
ascending the face of the mountain upon horseback—a
circumstance which contributed not a little
towards preserving the country people's belief in his
supernatural powers.

The ground in the vicinity of the tower is marshy,
thereby affording evidence of the truth of the
statement, that when Lag was in fear of being attacked in
his stronghold, he could, by some secret process, at any
time lay the surrounding country under water, thus
preventing his enemies from approaching the tower.
With affection, still constant amidst decay and ruin,
the ivy clings to the old walls of Lag Tower, as though
to preserve it from the further inroads of Time.
Alas! unavailing protection.  The heap of broken
fragments which lie strewn around attest the fact
that Time—that ruthless destroyer—has marked it
for its prey.  Whilst indulging in these melancholy
reflections, the sound of footsteps behind me caused
me to turn my head, in order to discover who thus
intruded upon my privacy.  The good-humoured face
of one of the servant girls belonging to a neighbouring
farm, coupled with the inquiry, "Had I come to take a
look at the auld toor?"—the steadfast gaze with
which I was regarding the said tower might have
satisfied her that I had come for that special
purpose—disarmed me of any feeling of momentary anger I
might have entertained at thus being disturbed in the
midst of my pleasing reverie; and I replied that I
was there with the intention of seeing all that
remained of Lag Tower, adding, "I suppose you find it
very lonely here in the long winter nights?"

"Ay," she replied, "it's rale eerie when the owls
flee about flapping their wings and screaming from
amongst the ivy."

"Do you ever hear any strange sounds in the tower?"

"Many and many a time; every one about here
thinks the auld place haunted, and I am certain it is.
Often I canna get sleeping at night for the queer
sounds ower here."

"Are there any owls now in the ivy?"

"O yes!" she replied; "there is an owl that has
built its nest up there, and it has twa wee anes.  It
flees ower to the wood ye see yonder, and hides there
the whole day; then it comes back at night and makes
an awfu' disturbance—hissing and the like, so that we
are feared to gae oot."

I pursued my inquiries still farther, and heard it
was currently reported that whatever liquid Lag
raised to his lips turned to blood! and that
whenever he put his feet into cold water it boiled!  She
thought he must have been a dreadfu' man!  She
said she would now show me the place where he put
all the bodies of the people he murdered, and, so
saying, she called a man to assist her in removing
a stone from the mouth of what had evidently been
the draw-well for supplying the inmates of Lag Tower
with water.  This regular "murder hole" both the
girl and her companion evidently regarded with the
greatest horror.

"Wasna' that an unco-like place to put the puir
bodies in?" inquired the girl, gazing intently in my
face, evidently expecting to read there the consternation
depicted in her own.

I could not repress a smile, as I answered that I
thought Lag would not be so foolish as to pollute with
dead bodies the water he and his friends drank in the
tower.

"What wad he mind what he took?" replied the
girl, evidently rather offended at her statement being
doubted.  "Na, na; that's just the place where he
threw the murdered folk!"

After a little more conversation, she was called
away to her work, and I was left alone.  There is
something indescribably melancholy in wandering
among the ruins of some ancient castle, whose
inmates, in days gone by, bore a conspicuous part in
the annals of their country, when the courtyard,
which once resounded with the trampling of steeds
and the shrill sound of the trumpet, now only
re-echoes to the tread of some passing stranger, whom
perchance curiosity has brought out of his way to
inspect a ruin leagued with historical associations.
*I* experienced this sensation strongly as I stood gazing
on the setting sun pouring its bright rays fully on the
old Tower of Lag.  A gentle breeze had sprung up,
and the ivy bent low its head before the welcome
visitor, as if to woo its tender embraces; whilst the
low sighing of the wind amongst the crevices and
openings in the ruined walls seemed like some departing
spirit's wail o'er the bloody deeds of the wicked
persecutor.

The adventurous tourist, while exploring the
romantic valleys of Dumfriesshire, would do well to
visit this solitary spot, where lived the author of
many an evil deed, professedly done in the cause of
religion, which all who recognise the mild and gentle
precepts it inculcates, would be the first to grieve over
and condemn.

How pleasing to relate that a lineal descendant of
this famous persecutor is revered for her many deeds
of Christian charity and active benevolence, throughout
the country which formerly rung with the evil
doings of the Laird of Lag!





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.. _`THE SUTOR'S SEAT`:

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   THE SUTOR'S SEAT.

.. vspace:: 2

Having ascertained, during a recent visit in Dumfriesshire,
that Crichup Linn—celebrated on account of its
wild sublimity, but more especially for the refuge it
afforded to the Covenanters during the days of their
persecution—was distant about seven miles from the
house where I was then staying, I set off one fine
morning, with a friend, to explore the dark recesses
of that romantic spot.

Dear to the heart of the Scottish peasant is the
remembrance of those bloody days; when the mountains
and valleys of their native country resounded
with the voice of lamentation as Claverhouse and his
dragoons darted like eagles on their prey; and the
incense of praise ascended on high from the lonely
hill-side and solitary moor, uttered by the lips of
those dauntless men who took up arms in defence of
a broken Covenant and persecuted Kirk.

Of the many places of refuge sought after by the
Covenanters of Dumfriesshire in their hour of danger,
Crichup Linn was the most frequently resorted to by
them, as its narrow and tortuous paths afforded little
scope for the mounted dragoon; while all along the
base of the rocks, which rose dark and frowning from
the depths of the abyss, Nature had formed a series
of caves, as if with a view of sheltering those suffering
children who fled to her bosom for protection.

A guide being procured—in the person of a grey-haired
labourer, to point out the precise spots where
lurked those hapless defenders of Scotland's spiritual
freedom—we entered the sequestered shades of Crichup
Linn.  Few persons could visit this picturesque
solitude without being deeply impressed by the almost
terrific grandeur of the scene presented to their view
while traversing the narrow path along which we
followed our venerable guide, who, staff in hand, strode
slowly onwards, with head and eyes bent towards the
ground, as though he was ruminating, sadly perhaps,
on the vanished past.  Above our heads gigantic
masses of rock towered upward, dark and menacing
in their rugged strength, from whose crevices burst
forth some withered-looking trees, which wreathed
their distorted limbs into fantastic shapes around the
huge blocks of stone to which they clung; while at
an immeasurable distance beneath, the water—from
whence the linn derives its name—fell with a
murmuring sound into the basins Nature had formed to
receive it.

Evidently enjoying the delighted surprise with
which we gazed on the startling scene, our guide
exclaimed, as if in answer to his own thoughts, while
he pointed with his stick to the gloomy depths
below:—"Yes! beneath the shade of these frowning rocks
the persecuted Covenanter—friendless and homeless,
heart-sick and weary—could lay himself down to rest
in as much security as the sleeping child reposing on
its mother's breast!"  The old man's colour rose as
he gave utterance to these words; his eyes flashed,
and he grasped his staff with a firmness which
convinced me that he himself, had he lived in those times,
would have been a staunch supporter of the Covenanting
cause.  I ventured to hint as much, upon which
he replied—"Maybe, maybe! there is no saying what
either of us might have been had we lived in those
wild days; but praise be to God! they are gone—I
trust never to return in Scotland."

Re-echoing this heartfelt prayer, we pursued our
way along the giddy ledge of the precipice which
stretched beneath.  The farther we advanced, the
more wild and gloomy the scenery became, until at
length we paused, mutually overcome with the stern
sublimity of the, formerly believed to be, haunted
linn.  By means of fissures in the rocks, worn away
in some places so as to resemble huge skeletons, we
beheld winding passages and numberless cascades—the
noise of whose falling waters alone broke upon the
stillness of the scene; while in the abyss beneath,
gigantic masses of hyperstein-looking rock, jutting
boldly out from each bank, seemed to form, what well
might have been, the entrance to some subterranean
palace of the Genii.  So perfect was the resemblance,
that, as we gazed affrighted on the towering portals
and listened to the murmurs of the water gurgling
along its pebbled bed, we almost feared to see some
of its terrible inhabitants issue forth, and with
denouncing gestures, compel us to enter their unblest
abode.  After pointing out for our observation the
numerous caves which formerly sheltered the adherents
of the Covenant, our guide attracted our attention
to a seat, in the form of a chair, hollowed out in the
solid rock, remarking, as he did so, "You told me you
thought from my appearance that I would have been
a Covenanter had I lived in their time, and well might
you say so, for my forefathers were staunch in the
rightful cause; and for many a long hour did my
great-grandfather sit in that seat, when Claverhouse
and his dragoons were guarding the entrance to the
linn.  He was a shoemaker in this parish, and from
that circumstance alone it is still known as the
'Sutor's Seat.'"

"Is there any tradition handed down in connection
with your great-grandfather?" I inquired.

"Yes, ma'm, there is; and if you would care to
hear it, you are welcome to all that I can remember."  So
saying, the old man seated himself on a neighbouring
stone and related the story which, clothed in my
own language, is now presented to the reader under
the name of the

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.. class:: center

   SUTOR'S SEAT.

.. vspace:: 2

It was late on the evening of the first of June,
sixteen hundred and seventy-nine, and the wife and
family of Abel Armstrong, who resided in the parish of
Closeburn, were engaged in offering up fervent
supplications at the throne of mercy in behalf of all those
who had gone forth to fight the battles of the Lord;
but the face of the mother waxed pale, and her lips
trembled with emotion as she prayed, more especially
for the safety of her husband and her son, who had
also enrolled themselves beneath the banners of the
Covenant.  While thus engaged, a low knocking at the
outer door caused them to start hastily to their feet,
and they stood gazing on each other with looks of
eager alarm, at a loss to comprehend the meaning of
this unwelcome summons.  Again it was repeated;
but this time a feeble voice was heard entreating for
admission in the name of God.  Unable to withstand
this earnest appeal, Mrs. Armstrong ran to the door
and undid the bar; it flew open, and an officer of
dragoons staggered into the cottage.  At the sight of the
armed intruder, Mrs. Armstrong and her daughters
uttered wild screams of alarm; while the sole male
inmate of the kitchen, a youth of not more than fifteen
years of age, darted to the farthest, corner where stood
a loaded gun, and grasping it in his hand, gazed on
the soldier with scowling brows, irresolute how to act.

"Fear nought from me," faintly exclaimed the
dragoon, observing the hostile attitude assumed by the
boy; "I mean you no harm, nor have I the power to
inflict an injury, even had I the inclination."

As he spoke, a stream of blood, welling from a deep
wound in his side, dyed the cottage floor with a
crimson stain.

"Water! water!" he murmured, and sank fainting
into the nearest chair.

With all their womanly sympathies aroused within
them at the sight of the helpless condition of the
stranger who had thus thrown himself upon their
hospitality, Mrs. Armstrong and her eldest daughter,
Lucy, ran to his assistance; the one to bathe his
forehead with vinegar, and the other to fetch bandages to
bind up anew his bleeding wound.

"O but he has a bonnie sweet face o' his ain!" said
Mrs. Armstrong in pitying accents, as she undid his
helmet and stroked down his long fair hair, which, in
obedience to the prevailing custom of the Cavaliers,
descended in ringlets to his shoulders, "and so young
too!  My poor lad, what could have tempted you to
leave your home to engage in such unprofitable warfare?"

As she spoke, a faint smile stole over the pallid
features of the wounded dragoon; he opened his eyes,
and warmly pressing the kind hand at that instant
engaged in staunching the blood which still flowed
from his side, he murmured the name of mother.

"O, an' it's maybe you have a lady mother who is
even now praying for the safety of her darling son, as I
have done for that of mine this night!" exclaimed
Mrs. Armstrong, the tears coursing down her cheeks as she
spoke; "but fear ye nought, for although you are far
from home and kindred, and in the house of one who
is hostile to your cause, yet are you as safe beneath
the humble roof-tree of Abel Armstrong as though
you were lying in your stately hall with your mother's
arms around your neck."

The exhausted youth again pressed her hand in
token of his gratitude for her promised protection, and
speedily relapsed into insensibility.  Deeply moved
on beholding his extreme weakness, Mrs. Armstrong,
with the assistance of Lucy, relieved him of his armour,
and raising him gently in her arms, conveyed him
into their sole remaining apartment, where, according
to the usual Scottish custom, two beds were placed in
the wall, in one of which they laid the dragoon.
Having succeeded, by means of a reviving cordial, in
restoring him to consciousness, the tender-hearted
woman hastened to examine his bandages, fearful lest
they might have slipped during his removal; but their
fears proving groundless, they bade God bless him, and
left him to repose.

Scarcely had Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter
resumed their seats by the kitchen fire, when a low
tap on the window pane caused them to tremble anew
with apprehension.  But soon their fears were allayed
when the well-known voice of Abel Armstrong was
heard demanding admittance.

With a scream of joy, Mrs. Armstrong darted towards
the door which speedily opened to admit her husband
and son, accompanied by several others of the
Covenanting party.

"My husband! my son!" was all the weeping woman
could exclaim, as the clasped them alternately in her
arms.

"Father! oh thank God you have returned in safety! but
where is William Crosbie? speak!" cried Lucy, as
she turned to greet her brother; "Oh, Jamie, is he
wounded or dead?"

"Neither!" said her brother, smiling fondly in the
face upturned to his with a look of wistful inquiry;
"only have patience, and you will see him presently;
he is tending his horse, and will be here ere many
minutes have elapsed."

"Oh God in heaven be praised for his goodness in
thus having lent an attentive ear to the humble
petitions of his servants, which ascended from afflicted,
yet trusting hearts!" piously exclaimed both mother
and daughter; and they gazed upwards with streaming
eyes and hearts full of thankfulness for the safe return
of those beloved ones whose absence had paled their
cheeks and filled their bosoms with apprehensions of
evil.

"Yes, let us praise Him!" said Abel Armstrong,
uncovering his head as he spoke, "who hath this day
upheld the cause of his saints, and scattered their foes
as the dust flies before the winds of heaven."

"What mean you, Abel?"

"That our arms have been victorious in battle.
This morning we encountered the enemy on the moor
of Drumclog.  We beheld them advancing towards us
with helmets glancing and banners waving.  We
noticed the proud scorn with which they regarded us
as we prayed that our cause might be blessed and our
hands guided in the fight; and we marked well the
contempt written on their countenances as they beheld
us drawn up to meet them.  But they knew not our
hearts.  *They* could not understand the mighty spell
that bound us together, and animated our souls with
hopes of victory.  The bloody Claverhouse, secure in
the power of his might, boasted 'He would soon lay
the psalm-singing caitiffs low!' but we, trusting only
in One whose arm is mighty to save, commended our
cause to Him, and went forth to battle.  We met;
they were scattered.  Some fled; others lay stretched
on the plain.  Then we raised our standards aloft, and
returned thanks to the God of heaven."

"The Lord be praised!" said Mrs. Armstrong, "for
he hath indeed showered rich blessings on our sinful
heads this day; he hath blessed our arms in the field,
and restored those dear ones who went forth to fight
in his service.  Oh, Abel," she continued, again
clasping him in her arms, "God in his mercy grant that
you may long be spared; for were you to be taken
away from me, the trial would indeed be greater than
I could bear."

"Do not speak thus," said Abel Armstrong, fondly
returning his wife's embrace: "we are all in the Lord's
keeping; that life we enjoy came from him, and at his
command we must resign it.  We have, therefore, no
right to murmur when those we love are taken from us.
At all times let us commend ourselves to him, and he
will give us strength to endure the severest trials, and
cause us to come forth purified from the furnace of
affliction."

Scarcely had Abel Armstrong finished speaking,
when the door opened, and a young man entered.
This was William Crosbie, who, at the time of the
breaking out of the religious disturbances then
agitating Scotland, had followed the occupation of a
shoe-maker in the neighbourhood of Abel Armstrong's
cottage.  He and Lucy had been lovers since the days of
their childhood, and were to have been married some
months previously; but on the morning of the day
appointed for the wedding, the aged minister, engaged
to perform the ceremony, was taken prisoner by some
of Claverhouse's dragoons, and lodged in Dumfries jail.
As no one could be procured to supply his place,
the marriage was necessarily postponed until the
return of more tranquil days.  The disappointment of
his hopes, coupled with the imprisonment of one whom
he had always regarded in the light of a parent, so
wrought upon the hitherto peaceful disposition of
William Crosbie, that he, long taught to regard the
measures adopted by the then existing Government as
being in the highest degree tyrannical, at length threw
up his employment, and went forth to fight on the
aide of the Covenanters.

On the entrance of her lover, Lucy darted towards
him, and exclaiming—"William, you too are safe!"
threw herself sobbing on his neck.  With a low cry of
pain young Crosbie disengaged himself from Lucy's
embrace, and staggered back against the wall; while
the excessive pallor overspreading his countenance
attested the agony under which he laboured.

"William!" shrieked Lucy, gazing on her lover's
face with lips white and trembling as his own, "you are
wounded—perhaps mortally!"

"Oh, no, dearest, it is nothing!" replied her lover,
struggling manfully to regain his composure; "it
is only a mere scratch in the shoulder; but a sudden
twinge of pain caused me to wax somewhat faint——"

"Ha, then; he hit you after all!" said Abel
Armstrong, his brows contracting as he spoke.

"How chanced it, William? by whom were you
wounded?" anxiously inquired Lucy, who had in
some measure regained her composure on being
assured by one of the men who had proceeded to
examine the wound, that it was not of a serious
nature—the ball having merely grazed the fleshy part of the
arm.

"It was a cowardly dragoon who fired the shot,"
replied Abel Armstrong; "the fellow fled in this
direction, and we pursued him on horses taken from
the enemy.  William Crosbie, who was far ahead of us
all, called upon him to surrender; when, for answer,
the dastardly fellow turned round in the saddle, and
discharged his pistol at him, wounding him, as it now
appears, in the shoulder.  We soon lost sight of the
fugitive in the darkness; but he seems to have found
refuge somewhere in this neighbourhood, for we
discovered his horse grazing at no very great distance
from hence; but of the dragoon himself we saw
nothing.

"Why, how came these things here?" suddenly
exclaimed one of the party, pointing, as he spoke, to
the pieces of armour Mrs. Armstrong had taken off
the person of her wounded guest ere removing him
from the kitchen, and which, till that instant, had
remained unobserved in a corner of the apartment.
Mrs. Armstrong and Lucy exchanged quick glances
of alarm, but vouchsafed no answer to the startling
inquiry.

"The fellow must be here!" said several of his
companions; handling the triggers of their guns in a
manner which boded no good to the unfortunate youth,
should he fall into their hands.

"Wife!" exclaimed Abel Armstrong in a low stern
whisper, "you hear the inquiry—'How came these
things here?'  Why answer ye not?  Speak—I
command you."

"Oh, Abel, press me not to tell; indeed I cannot!"
said the distracted woman, wringing her hands and
gazing beseechingly in her husband's face.

"What!" he cried in wrath; "have you then dared
to shelter one of our foes beneath this roof of mine?
Woman, you have done me a foul wrong; but tell us
instantly where you have concealed him, that we may
yet revenge ourselves."

"He lies there," said Mrs. Armstrong in trembling
accents, and shrinking from the fiery glance of her
husband's eye.

"Ha, then, he dies!" shouted divers others of the
party; and they rushed towards the door as they
spoke.

"You shall not touch him," cried Mrs. Armstrong,
throwing herself on her knees before them, and
endeavouring to prevent their egress; "you dare not
pollute my threshold with a stranger's blood!  Oh,
spare his young life!" she continued, in tones of
earnest entreaty, "and crush not your own souls with
the crime of murder——"

"Woman, prevent us not," was the stern reply; "he
is the foe of the Covenant, and as such must die!"
and the speaker threw Mrs. Armstrong from him, and
darted into the next apartment, followed by several of
his companions, eager to wreak their vengeance on the
wounded youth.

"Abel!  Abel! will you stand idly by and see
murder committed beneath your roof.  Oh, save him!"
and as she uttered these words Mrs. Armstrong seized
her husband by the arm, and dragged him from the
kitchen.  It was a strange wild scene that greeted her
eyes on gaining the door of the sleeping apartment.
The sterner portion of the Covenanters stood grouped
together; their hands grasping their ready muskets,
their eyes, whose glances were dark and menacing,
glared on the wounded youth, who, aroused from his
slumbers by the stormy entrance of the party, sat
upright in his bed, and, with undaunted mien, repaid
their scowling regards with looks of haughty scorn,
while he indignantly exclaimed, "Come you here with
the purpose of murder in your hearts that you gaze thus
gloomily on me!  If so, approach and do your bloody
work; I fear you not.  It will be a deed worthy of
your base-born natures to slay a youth, and he a
defenceless one.  I despise you from the depths of my
heart," he continued, in tones of withering scorn,
heedless of the fiery glances and threatening gestures
of the infuriated men who surrounded him; "and learn
this, if you need an incentive to urge you to the deed,
that on the plain of Drumclog my good broadsword
caused one or more of your body to bite the dust."

"Ha! boastest thou of thy evil doings! villain, thou
diest."  And with these words several of the
Covenanters rushed towards the undaunted youth, with
their guns uplifted, as if to strike him dead where he
lay, when Mrs. Armstrong, with a scream of terror,
threw her arms around the neck of the wounded
dragoon, to shield him from danger, while she exclaimed,
"Oh, forbear to slay him!  How can you condemn
your enemies for their cruelties, if you do such evil
deeds as this?  Shame on your manhood, ever to
dream of harming a defenceless foe, and he a mere boy.
You shall not touch him," she cried, pushing back the
men who stood nearest her; "he came to my house,
wounded and bleeding, and begged admission in the
name of God.  Could I refuse to listen to the voice of
suffering, even when coming from the lips of an enemy?
No; I tended him as though he were mine own child.
He spoke of his mother.  I too am a mother.  And I
thought on my husband and son, who even at that
instant might be entreating aid from the hands of
strangers, and my heart melted within me.  Will you
be less kind—less forgiving?  It is true you heard it
from his own mouth that this day his hand was raised
against the soldiers of the Covenant, and that to the
destruction of some of our party; but did you spare
those who fell into your hands?  Think ye on that,
and forgive the part he hath chosen."

As Mrs. Armstrong finished her touching address,
William Crosbie, who had been speaking apart with
Lucy, advanced towards her, and placing one hand in
hers, grasped with the other that of the young soldier,
and turning round to his still frowning companions,
said in a stern voice, "Now look you, my friends, if I,
who this evening barely escaped being killed by the
hands of this misguided youth, can say I freely forgive
and mean him no injury, surely you may do the same.
Mrs. Armstrong is right.  It is with men like
ourselves we should wage war, and not with beardless
boys.  On the open field and in the broad daylight we
should attack our enemy; not in the darkness of
night and beneath the roof of one who hath promised
him protection.  Let the lad go.  Remember with
what horror we regard the cold-blooded murders daily
committed by those who are opposed to our cause;
and in what respect should we differ from them did
we yield to the dictates of our baser natures, and stain
our hearths with the sacred blood of a guest?  No, no;
let us act as men who have the fear of God before
their eyes, and if an enemy fall into our hands,
friendless and wounded, as this poor youth is, let us succour
him till he is well, and then bid him go in peace from
our dwelling."

"You are right, William," cried Abel Armstrong,
dropping his gun on the floor, and motioning on the
others to imitate his example, "let us do good even to
an enemy; and if this poor lad hath shed some of our
blood this day, his own hath flowed freely in exchange.
So come, my friends, let us mount and ride; there is
yet much for us to perform, and we must hasten to
rejoin our comrades, lest they be uneasy concerning
our safety.  Nay, nay, now; look not thus sullen at
being deprived of your revenge!  Remember the
nobler purpose that brought us together, namely, to
fight for the spiritual freedom of Scotland, and
abandon all thoughts which would lead away the heart
from the mighty end to be accomplished."  The men
hesitated a moment ere they obeyed the voice of their
leader; but the command being repeated in a sterner
tone, they reluctantly quitted the room, casting, as
they did so, lowering glances in the direction of the
young soldier, who, wholly overcome by the excitement
of the scene, coupled with his late fearful loss of
blood, sunk back exhausted on his pillow.  As William
Crosbie was preparing to follow his companions, the
dragoon called him to his bed-side, and clasping his
hand in his, said in a faltering voice,—"Young man,
under the providence of God, I this night owe to you
a life which is precious to me for my mother's sake.  I
am her only remaining son, and it would have killed
her had anything happened unto me.  I will not
insult you by offering you money; but, should the
chances of war ever throw you into the power of our
party, inquire for Lieutenant Musgrave of Claverhouse's
dragoons, and display this chain; it will secure
you safety and attention in the meanwhile; and if
spared to redeem my promise, I will procure your
pardon, even should I die to obtain it."

With these words, the grateful youth threw a
massive gold chain around the neck of William Crosbie,
who, after warmly thanking the dragoon for his
promised aid, rejoined his companions.

"God bless and protect you both in the midst of
battle," sobbed Mrs. Armstrong, her voice failed her
and she turned weeping from the door as her husband
and son once more departed from their home to join
the Covenanting host.

"And must we then part?" cried Lucy, gazing
with tearful eyes in the face of her lover, who had
lingered on the threshold to exchange a few parting
words with her, as she now clung to him in all the
abandonment of grief.

"Yes, dearest; but only for a time; ere the song
of the reapers is heard in the fields, I will
return—never more to leave you."

As William Crosbie uttered these words, a dark
cloud passed over the face of the moon; and as Lucy
beheld the sudden eclipse of its bright rays, a sense of
coming evil smote her heart, and a shudder passed
through her slender frame, as though the hope of
future happiness she ventured to entertain was doomed
to wither ere it bloomed.  The voice of Abel
Armstrong was now heard calling on William Crosbie to
join the party.  On hearing the fatal summons, Lucy
clung yet closer to her lover; and her lips trembled
as she bade God guard him from all danger and restore
him in safety to her, in company with her father and
her brother.

"Think on the coming harvest," whispered William
Crosbie, as he clasped Lucy again and again to his
throbbing heart; then resigning her almost inanimate
form into the arms of her mother, he mounted his
horse, and without daring to turn his head in the
direction of her from whom it was almost death to
part, galloped after his companions.

Under the fostering care of his kind hostess and
her daughter, the soldier speedily recovered from the
effects of his wound; the glow of returning health
mantled on his cheek, and in the course of a few days
he declared his intention of proceeding to Dumfries,
there to join his regiment, commanded by the
redoubted Claverhouse in person.  Mrs. Armstrong was
deeply moved as she bade farewell to the departing
dragoon, and said, raising the corner of her apron to
her eyes as she spoke, "That although a follower of
the bloody Clavers, and a dweller in the tents of the
wicked, he had such a kindly heart and gentle manners
that she loved him as if he were her own son.  And
oh!" she exclaimed, gazing imploringly in his face,
"should you chance to encounter in battle those who
are dearer to rue than life, remember the night you
found shelter in my house, and spare them for the
sake of one who tended you with a mother's care."

"I will; I will!" answered the soldier, wringing
her hand in the fervour of his gratitude.  "God is my
witness that I will protect them with my latest
breath; and rest assured, my sweet maiden," he said,
addressing Lucy, "your lover's interference on my
behalf, when the hearts of his cowardly companions
were intent on my destruction, will never fade from
my memory.  I have sworn to save him should his
life be in danger; and if at any time you think
of quitting this part of the country, come to
Cumberland; there I will give you a home, and my mother
will be the first to welcome those who succoured and
befriended her wounded son.  Farewell.  God grant
we may meet again, and that I may be able to testify
my gratitude for kindness which can never be repaid
and will never be forgotten."

"Farewell, farewell!" said the gentle-hearted women,
and with tearful eyes they stood on the threshold
gazing after the departing soldier till his nodding plume
disappeared in the distance.

Barely three short weeks had elapsed since the
victory of Drumclog, when the fatal battle of
Bothwell Bridge extinguished, it seemed, almost for ever,
the hopes of the Covenanting party in Scotland.  A
prey to treachery, and divided among themselves, the
soldiers of the Covenant were slaughtered without
mercy by Claverhouse and his dragoons, who burned
to wipe out the stain of their defeat on the moor of
Drumclog.  Tidings that a great battle had been
fought, and the Covenanters defeated, found their way
to the sequestered home of Abel Armstrong, filling
the minds of both mother and daughter with fearful
apprehensions lest those they loved might be among
the number of the slain.  Each succeeding day beheld
Lucy—trembling, yet hopeful—stationed at the door,
eager to obtain the first glimpse of their well-known
forms—but she looked in vain.  At distant intervals
a few way-worn Covenanters—fugitives from the
disastrous field of Bothwell—might be seen dragging
their weary steps along, but all passed on their way,
unable to afford any information regarding the
missing men.  Then hope for ever fled from the mother's
breast, and she wept in the solitude of her dwelling
for those whom she felt she should never more behold
on earth.  The younger portion of her children—whose
tender years did not permit of their sharing in
their mother's grief—stood gazing in wondering silence
on beholding her bitter sorrow; while Lucy strove to
reassure her by comforting words regarding the speedy
return of her father and brother, the tears running
down her own pale cheeks as she thought on the
probable fate of one still more loved than they.  Weeks
rolled on.  The vernal tints of summer had given
place to the more sober hues of autumn, still they
came not.  Then she too ceased to hope, and mourned
for her absent relatives and lover as one mourneth for
the dead.

One lovely evening, towards the end of August,
Lucy—too wretched to enjoy the childish prattle of
her younger brothers and sisters—went forth from the
cottage to indulge, in solitude, in her own sad thoughts.
She paused on the threshold, overcome with the
tranquil beauty of the scene.  The sun was slowly sinking
behind the distant hills, and its bright rays tinged with
a yet richer hue the now golden corn as it slowly
waved to and fro in the grateful breeze.  With a heart
torn with anguish, Lucy recalled her lover's parting
words—"Ere the song of the reapers is heard in the
fields, I will return!" and she wept, for the harvest
was come—but where was he?  Unconsciously, as it
were, she lifted her eyes to traverse the far-stretching
plain, when the figure of a young man, approaching in
the direction of the cottage, at once arrested her
attention.  For the quick eye of affection one glance sufficed.
It was William Crosbie who was rapidly advancing
towards her.  With a scream of "Mother, he is come!"
Lucy darted forward to meet him.  Already she is
within two hundred paces of him.  He sees her—he
quickens his pace—their arms are outstretched to
embrace each other, when, oh, horror! the sun's bright rays
flash on the brass helmets of two mounted dragoons as
they gallop swiftly across the plain.  Paralysed at the
sight, Lucy endeavours in vain to apprise her lover of
his danger.  She warns him back.  He notices them
not.  Thinking only of her, he rushes eagerly forward.
Suddenly the stern command—"Halt, in the King's
name!" rings out in the silence of the night.  He
staggers at the awful sound.  He turns to fly—too
late.  The soldiers dismount from their horses, and
with unslung carbines, command him to yield—or die!

"O, Lucy! and is it thus we meet?" groaned forth
William Crosbie, as the frantic girl rushed madly
forward, and throwing herself on her knees before the
dragoons, besought them in the most moving terms to
free her lover.  "For many a weary day, when hungry
and homeless, and forced to seek refuge in the caves of
the earth, did I comfort myself with thoughts of my
return to claim you as mine.  I dreamt of it—prayed
for it; and now I have seen you, but to lose
you for ever."

"Say not so, William!  Men, men! you have
hearts—God gave you them—hearts to feel—to share
in another's sorrow.  O think on mine—close not your
breasts to the voice of pity; free him—let him go, and
I will bless you!" and the distracted girl clung in her
agony to the knees of the rude soldiers, who repulsed
her with violence, and laughed at all her efforts to
move their stern natures to compassion.

"Waste not your breath on us!" one of them
exclaimed, "you will require it soon; there are those
behind us to whom you may kneel for mercy——"

"But to little purpose I fear," said the other with
a laugh, in which his companion joined.  "Sir Robert
Grierson, not to mention our own worthy leader, is by
no means fond of being bothered by praying women
when in the discharge of duty; so you need not expect
to obtain any favour from him," he said, addressing
Lucy, who became deadly pale on hearing those
dreadful words, and with one more frantic appeal for
mercy, she sank senseless on the ground.

"Lucy! oh heavens, you have killed her by your
brutal speech!" cried William Crosbie in an agony of
fear, on beholding her death-like countenance, "let me
go—let me—men, devils! will you not release me?"
and he made violent efforts to free himself from their
grasp, but in vain.  And incensed by his stout resistance,
the soldiers seized him by the throat, and beat
him with the butt-end of their muskets till he reeled
beneath their blows.  At this instant a large party of
dragoons, headed by the stern Claverhouse, rode up to
the spot.

"What is the meaning of this?" said the dreaded
leader, gazing alternately on William Crosbie and
Lucy Armstrong, who, in some measure recovered from
her faint, lay on the ground, her hair dishevelled, and
her eyes fixed on the dragoons with a vacant stare, as
though unable to comprehend the nature of the scene.

"Why, most noble Colonel," said one of the soldiers,
"as we, in obedience to your commands, were scouring
the fields in search of rebels, we came upon this young
fellow who was running to meet his sweetheart.  It
appears he was returning to marry her, and——"

"So, ho! then we have arrived most opportunely
to witness a bridal!" said Sir Robert Grierson, who
accompanied Claverhouse on this occasion; "what say
you, my friend," addressing Sir James Graham, "to
hanging them both on a tree, and having a stone
placed beneath, bearing this inscription—'They were
lovely in their lives, and in death they were not
divided?'"  And the speaker laughed long and loudly.

"Surely I have seen this fellow before," said
Claverhouse, gazing sternly on William Crosbie, who
met his eye with a gaze unflinching as his own.
"Tell me, young man, were you at Bothwell?"

"I was."

"You confess it?"

"I do."

"And you were one of those who slew the dragoon
and bore back your colours from the bridge?"

"I did the deed myself!" said William Crosbie proudly.

"Ha!  I thought so!  Soldiers, unsling your carbines—he dies!"

.. _`"Mercy, mercy!" cried Lucy, now fully alive to the horrors of her lover's situation; and dragging herself to the feet of Claverhouse, she seized his hand and besought him in the most heart-rending terms to spare her lover.`:

.. figure:: images/img-290.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "Mercy, mercy!" cried Lucy, now fully alive to the horrors of her lover's situation; and dragging herself to the feet of Claverhouse, she seized his hand and besought him in the most heart-rending terms to spare her lover.

   "Mercy, mercy!" cried Lucy, now fully alive to the horrors of her lover's situation; and dragging herself to the feet of Claverhouse, she seized his hand and besought him in the most heart-rending terms to spare her lover.

"Mercy, mercy!" cried Lucy, now fully alive to
the horrors of her lover's situation; and dragging
herself to the feet of Claverhouse, she seized his hand and
besought him in the most heart-rending terms to spare
her lover.  "He will never more fight against the
King," she said, "he was returning here to live in
peace—oh let him go!"

With a calm, cold smile, Claverhouse withdrew his
hand from her hold, and made a signal to his men to
prepare their arms.

"Mother, mother!" shrieked Lucy, as Mrs. Armstrong,
almost breathless from her exertions, reached
the spot where she knelt, "kneel with me before these
men.  The sight of your grey hairs may move their
hearts to compassion, and they may grant you the
mercy they have denied me."

"William!" exclaimed Mrs. Armstrong in faltering
accents, "what of my husband and son—where are
they?"

Young Crosbie's lips trembled.  He sadly shook his
head.  She was answered—both had fallen at
Bothwell Bridge.

"Now may I indeed kneel—kneel in sorrow and
in anguish, for I am bereaved!"  And with these
words the weeping widow threw herself on her knees,
and with clasped hands and upturned eyes, besought
pardon for the youth about to suffer.

"O!" she exclaimed, "if your hearts still retain
one human feeling; if they are not yet wholly seared
by the bloody scenes through which you have passed,
hearken unto me this night.  It is a heart-broken
woman who addresses you—one who is sorrowful even
unto death.  Husband and son have fallen.  The lover
of my youth, and he who would have been the stay of
mine old age, are taken from me; and yet, I trust, in
the midst of my affliction, I can say, God's will, not
mine, be done!  Will not, then, the blood of two
suffice you——?"

"Two!" shouted Sir Robert Grierson, "though you
had lost twenty such rebellious knaves, what matters
it to us? death to all such rascals!"

"Surely," continued the widow, regardless of the
interruption, "you will feel for me, and grant my
prayer.  Kill not the prisoner.  I have grown old and
gray with affliction, and my time on earth may not be
long; but my daughter is young in years, and her
happiness is bound up in the life of this young man.
O spare her the fearful trial of losing him—bring not
down her youthful hairs with sorrow to the grave.
Pardon him, I beseech you!"

Claverhouse sternly answered "No!" and
impatiently waved his hand for them to be gone.

"Lucy, Lucy!" cried William Crosbie, "let not
your mother kneel to these cold-blooded wretches!
Do not debase yourself by imploring mercy from
creatures who know it not.  I can face death like a
man.  I do not fear it.  Farewell, Lucy, we shall, I
trust, meet in another and a better world where none
can part us."  Then bidding the soldiers do their
worst, the brave youth uncovered his head, and stood
prepared to receive the fatal fire.  These last words,
uttered in a louder tone, reached the ears of a young
officer who stood at some little distance from his
companions, as though unwilling to witness the bloody
tragedy about to be enacted.  He started on hearing
the familiar voice; and coming hastily forward, gazed
earnestly on the prisoner as he stood bold and erect
before the dragoons.  A flush passed over the officer's
face, and advancing to the spot where Claverhouse
stood conversing with Sir Robert Grierson, he requested
to speak a few words with him in private.  Claverhouse
at once complied with the request; and withdrawing
his horse a little apart from the others, a long
and earnest conversation ensued.  The conference
seemed to terminate unfavourably, for a darker frown
sat upon Claverhouse's brow, and his voice sounded
harsh and cruel as he uttered these last words aloud—"I
am sorry to refuse your request; but his life is
forfeited by the laws of this land, and my conscience would
for ever upbraid me should I fail in my duty to my
king and my country."  The red blood mantled on
the cheeks of the supplicant; and he seemed about
to make an angry reply, but instantly checking the
impulse, he bowed his head, and then added carelessly,
"As you please, Colonel; but since the poor fellow
must suffer, have I your permission to exchange a few
words with him ere he dies?  I should like to tell him
I have done what I could to procure his pardon, as I
promised faithfully to save him."

"Most certainly!" said Claverhouse with a courtly
smile, apparently well satisfied to get off with so small
a concession.  "Soldiers, down muskets!  Lieutenant
Musgrave wishes to speak with the prisoner."

At mention of the name, Lucy, who had been
weeping passionately on her mother's shoulder, raised
her head, a ray of hope animated her countenance, and
she watched the young officer's movements in breathless
anxiety—William Crosbie also looked disturbed
and anxious.  With a swaggering gait and careless
mien, young Musgrave approached the prisoner, and
taking him by the arm, led him some little distance
apart, when he addressed him as follows:—"I have
vainly endeavoured to procure your pardon.  I vowed
to save you; and my oath must be kept.  Therefore
listen to me.  Accept this purse; you may stand in
need of money, and when I say aloud farewell! dart
off as quickly as you can in the direction of Crichup
Linn.  The darkness will favour your escape, and I
will, if necessary, prevent the soldiers from following,
until you are beyond their reach.  Fear not for Lucy!
I will protect her as though she were mine own sister.
God bless you—farewell!"  Scarcely had the word
escaped Lieutenant Musgrave's lips, ere William
Crosbie was speeding along the plain towards Crichup
Linn; and so thoroughly was the whole party
overwhelmed with astonishment at this unlooked-for
proceeding on the part of the prisoner, that ere the
soldiers could mount their horses and set off in
pursuit, he was already lost in the gloom.  With a cry of
thankfulness Lucy fell down on her knees; but not to
man she knelt.  She was breathing a prayer of
gratitude to Heaven for her lover's safety.

"Traitor!" shouted Claverhouse, his eyes sparkling
with fury, "how dare you do this?  By heavens! you
shall answer for it, and that presently."

"When and where you please," said Lieutenant
Musgrave haughtily; "you have yourself to blame
for what I have done.  I begged the young man's
life.  I told you this good woman and her daughter
had sheltered me when wounded, and that William
Crosbie had prevented my blood being shed by his
companions.  In return, I vowed I would protect him
if ever he fell into your hands.  You refused to listen
to my petition.  It was the first request I had ever
made, and I told you it should be the last; but you
scorned my entreaties, and now you have reaped the
fruits of your cruel refusal.  Disgusted by your
cold-blooded murders,——"

"Ha! this insolence to your commanding officer?
Consider yourself under arrest!  Captain Lennox,
relieve Lieutenant Musgrave of his sword."

"Never!" said young Musgrave; "here I resign
my commission, and for ever abandon a cause characterised
only by cruelty and oppression."

With these words he drew his sword from its sheath,
and breaking it across his knee, threw the pieces on
the ground.  Then taking Mrs. Armstrong by the
hand, he led her and Lucy from the spot.  Claverhouse
remained motionless with rage on beholding
himself deprived of his revenge; while Sir Robert
Grierson exclaimed with a shrug of his shoulders—"We
are well rid of the fellow.  He has been too
long in the society of these psalm-singing rascals not
to have imbibed some of their notions.  Let him go.
He is not fit for the society of loyal-hearted subjects
like ourselves; his place is the conventicle; there he
will have whining and praying enough."  Unwilling
to exhibit any further annoyance before his soldiers,
Ciaverhouse joined in the laugh occasioned by this
speech of Sir Robert's, and after issuing a command
to one of his men to follow in the direction of the
dragoons and ascertain whether they had discovered
any traces of the fugitive, he set out on his return to
Dumfries.  Favoured by the darkness which now
enveloped the earth like a mantle, William Crosbie
succeeded in baffling the dragoons.  More than once
their bullets whistled close past his ears, and their
voices sounded ominously near, still he held on his
way; and at length, when nearly exhausted, he gained
the entrance to Crichup Linn.  With a shout of
triumph, which sounded in the ears of his pursuers
like the yell of a demon, William Crosbie darted into
its friendly shades; and, as he sped along its narrow
path, he heard with unmingled pleasure the voices of
the dragoons—who, unwilling to encounter the evil
spirits said to infest the linn, had turned back from
the pursuit—grow faint in the distance.  The first act
of the grateful Covenanter, on reaching a place of
safety, was to fall on his knees and return thanks to
God for his deliverance.  This done, he proceeded, so
far as the increasing darkness would permit, to
examine the nature of the place he had chosen as a refuge
against his enemies.  For never before had he dared
to venture within the haunted precincts of Crichup
Linn.

The shades of night lent a still deeper gloom to the
savage character of the linn; and as William Crosbie
gazed on the huge rocks, which seemed from their
tottering appearance as though the slightest touch
would dislodge them, and listened to the noise of the
ceaseless cascades, as they fell from rock to rock, a
feeling of wonder, not unmixed with awe, took
possession of his breast.  As he stood beneath the shade
of a beetling crag, his eyes striving to penetrate the
darkness below, all the strange tales he had heard told
around the cottager's ingle-nook regarding the linn,
rose up, unbidden guests, in his imagination.  He
remembered, with cold shudderings, the weird dance
described by his uncle as having been seen by him
when forced, from adverse circumstances, to seek
refuge among its caves; and how the precise spot where
he beheld the midnight revelry of the unearthly crew
was still familiarly known as the "Elf's Kirk,"[#] and
the strange lights frequently seen leaping from crag to
crag by those whom necessity had forced to be unwilling
spectators of the unnatural flame.  All these and more
did fancy conjure up, like spectral demons, to haunt
him with their presence, until at length, excited
beyond measure at their remembrance and the thought
of spending an entire night in a place so infested with
horrors, William Crosbie wrought himself up to believe
that he too was about to become the victim of
supernatural agency.  The air seemed filled with wild
unearthly sounds.  The blasted trees which burst forth
from the rocks above his head appeared like so many
hideous forms pointing at him with warning gestures
from amid the gloom, while the abyss beneath was
peopled with gigantic beings, who, as they issued
forth from the portals of their unhallowed mansion,
regarded him with malignant eyes, and tossed their
menacing arms aloft in the air, as though invoking
the elements to lash themselves into fury and descend
on the doomed head of him who had thus dared to
invade their dominions.  As if in obedience to their
call, a loud peal of thunder suddenly broke overhead,
announcing an approaching storm.  Another and
another succeeded, and the blue electric fluid, fraught
with death and disaster, quivered in the air like the
sword of Divine wrath suspended over a guilty world.
William Crosbie stood trembling and aghast as the
storm, which had now reached the climax of its fury,
rolled along the sky in terrible majesty.  Crash
followed crash with incredible velocity, while the forked
lightning darted through the gloom like some heavenly
messenger sent from the realms of bliss on an errand
of mercy to the pit of woe.  Appalled at the scene,
the terror-stricken Covenanter, in acknowledgment of
the Almighty's power to preserve him in this awful
hour, fell on his knees amid the fierce strife of the
elements, and raised his right arm on high as though
appealing for protection against the horrors that
surrounded him.  To his inexpressible relief, the
storm-cloud, having spent its fury, at length passed over the
linn.  The flashes of lightning became less frequent;
the peals of thunder waxed fainter and fainter, and
then died away in broken murmurs in the distance.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Crichup Linn, *vide* Fordyce's Beauties at Scotland,
vol. 2, page 312.

.. vspace:: 2

Under cover of a protecting rock, William Crosbie
passed, what seemed to his terror-struck imagination,
an eternal night; and, as soon as the early beams of
the rising sun proclaimed the presence of morning, he
forsook his hard couch and made for the nearest
outlet; determined rather to face Claverhouse and all his
host, than be doomed again to encounter the horrors
of a night spent in Crichup Linn.  While threading
his way through the tangled brushwood, which then
almost obscured the entrance to the linn, William
Crosbie was startled on observing several persons running
in his direction.  Apprehensive of danger, he screened
his person behind some bushes, in order that he might
ascertain their purpose ere discovering himself to
them.  On they came, panting and breathless,
evidently making for the linn.  On their nearer approach,
William Crosbie discovered them to be friends of his
own, and staunch adherents of the Covenanting party.
He then came forth from his place of concealment, and
addressed them by their names.

"Back! back!" they cried with one voice, "he is
coming! he is coming!"

"Who is coming?"

"Claverhouse! do you not see him yonder?"

William Crosbie turned his eyes in the indicated
direction, and there he beheld the dreaded persecutor,
mounted on a splendid black charger, galloping furiously
towards them, followed by his dragoons.

"Come back with us!" said one of the new-comers,
addressing William Crosbie, "we know the way to the
caves; there we shall be safe."

"You need not fear pursuit now!" said one of his
companions, "not even the evil spirit, were he mounted
on horse-back, would dare to follow us hither!"

As he spoke, a crashing of the boughs behind them
caused them to start and look back, when to their
unutterable horror they beheld their terrible enemy
dashing through amidst the trees.  William Crosbie
stood transfixed at the sight.  He had neither power
to move nor speak, while Claverhouse, with dishevelled
locks and flashing eyes, rode towards him, with his
sword uplifted in the air as if to hew him down.

"Have you a mind to be killed that you stand
there while the arch-fiend himself is within a few paces
of you?" said one of the men, and seizing William
Crosbie by the arm he dragged him onwards to the verge
of the precipice.  "Down, down!" he cried, "we will
cheat him yet!" and with these words the man, still
holding young Crosbie by the hand, slid down among
the rocks, whither his companions had gone before.
"He has lost his prey; he dare not follow us."

The speaker was interrupted by a cry of horror
proceeding from his companions.  He looked up, and
beheld the horse with its rider bounding over the
chasm.  In his eager haste to capture the men,
Claverhouse did not perceive the danger which lay in
his path, until too late to retreat; so clapping spurs
to his steed, which equalled in spirit its fiery master,
he urged it to the leap.  His horse cleared the chasm
at a single bound, and landed its rider safe on the
opposite side.  The noble animal fared not so well;
one of its legs was broken in the effort; and from his
seat in the face of the rock William Crosbie beheld
with admiration the feat achieved by the gallant
charger, and witnessed with sorrow its death inflicted
by the hands of his master.  The dragoons on foot
now rushed into the linn, and discharged their
muskets down the abyss, thereby hoping to kill or
wound some of the men who had taken refuge there.
But their bullets glanced harmlessly off the rocks;
and at length, wearied with their futile attempts to
capture the Covenanters, they departed, venting
maledictions on all such rebels.  For the space of four
days and nights did William Crosbie and his
companions remained concealed in Crichup Linn.  Their
food was regularly supplied by a shepherd boy, who
always managed to visit them unseen, and to furnish
them with information regarding the movements of
the dragoons.

On the morning of the fifth day he brought the
welcome tidings that the soldiers, wearied of guarding
the entrance to the linn, had abandoned their post,
and gone off in search of a more promising expedition.
This was indeed joyful news to the oppressed hearts
of the Covenanters; and when the shades of evening
rendered their escape easy, they abandoned their
hiding-places, and set out for their respective
habitations.  William Crosbie at once directed his steps
towards Mrs. Armstrong's cottage; the door of which
was opened by Lucy in person.  The meeting of the
lovers, after the fearful scene through which they had so
lately passed, may be better imagined than described.
Suffice it to say that Lucy clung to her lover's neck,
and cried and laughed alternately; while William
Crosbie kissed the tears away, and whispered sweet
words of affection, which soon restored the rose to
Lucy's cheek.  During this affecting scene, Mrs. Armstrong
stood a little apart; her eyes were filled with
tears, and her lips moved as though engaged in mental
prayer.  It was so.  Her tears were to the memory of
her husband and son; while her prayer was for the
continued happiness of those who had, through the
providence of God, been permitted to taste of joy after
having drunk so deeply of the cup of affliction.
Lucy listened in breathless awe as William Crosbie
recounted the horrors he had experienced during his
solitary vigil in Crichup Linn; and in her turn she
related all that had befallen her since that fearful
evening, dwelling at considerable length on the more
than brotherly kindness of Lieutenant Musgrave, who
had done everything in his power to render her happy
during the absence of her lover.  "And what do you
think, William?" she said at the conclusion of her
recital, "he has offered us all a home in Cumberland;
and my mother, to whom this part of the country has
now became unbearable, has decided upon accepting
his kind offer, so it only remains for you to consent to
accompany us."

The answer her lover gave is not recorded; but that
it was in the affirmative may be gathered from the
fact that in the course of a few days Mrs. Armstrong,
her family and her future son-in-law, set out on their
journey to another home.  As the humble vehicle,
which bore the travellers, proceeded on its way, the
eyes of Lucy, beaming with love and happiness, were
fixed on the blue hills of Cumberland, as they rose up
before her in yet distant beauty, while the tear-stained
eyes of the widow wandered back to the lowly cottage,
which never seemed so dear to her as at that instant
when she was leaving it for ever.  Youth was looking
hopefully to the future—age was ruminating sadly on
the past.

On their arrival at their destination, they found
Mr., no longer Lieutenant, Musgrave in waiting to receive
them; who, taking Mrs. Armstrong by the hand, led
her towards a lovely little cottage embowered in
woodbine and roses.

"This," he said, "is your home; and yonder,"
pointing as he spoke to a smiling farm-house peeping
out from amongst some venerable poplar-trees, "stands
the future residence of William and Lucy."

"O, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Armstrong with streaming
eyes, "your kindness——"

"Nay, thank not me!" he replied with a smile, "it
is the gift——"

"Of a grateful mother," said a soft womanly voice,
and the speaker, a mild-benevolent looking lady—whom
Mr. Musgrave speedily introduced as his mother—came
forth from the cottage, and, with deep emotion,
welcomed the Scottish Covenanters to their English
home.

At her bridal, which took place shortly after her
arrival in Cumberland, Lucy looked more than
usually pretty in her simple white muslin dress;
while her neck was adorned with the gold chain given
to her lover by the grateful benefactor, to whom, they
were proud to say, they owed all their present
happiness.  Long and happily did William Crosbie and his
Lucy live on the shores of Cumberland; and even
Mrs. Armstrong forgot, for a while, the sorrows of the past,
as she dandled her fair-haired grandchildren on her
knee.  Some of the descendants of this worthy family
are still to be found on the banks of the Solway; and
in their possession may be seen the massive gold chain,
which is carefully treasured up by them in remembrance
of the sufferings their forefathers were called upon to
endure in the dark and dismal days of persecution.

Still is the story of Claverhouse's daring leap
related in the parish of Closeburn; and the natural
chair in which the young shoemaker sat during his
brief sojourn in Crichup Linn is pointed out to the
curious visitor, as

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   THE SUTOR'S SEAT.

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