

                                Sir Walter Scott

                                 Old Mortality

     (Tales of My Landlord collected and arranged by Jedediah Cleishbotham,
                 schoolmaster and parish-clerk of Gandercleugh

                                [First Series])

                           TO HIS LOVING COUNTRYMEN,
                          whether they are denominated
                   Men of the South, Gentlemen of the North,
                      People of the West, or Folk of Fife;
                                  THESE TALES,
                Illustrative of Ancient Scottish Manners, and of
                 the Traditions of Their Respective Districts,
      Are Respectfully Inscribed by Their Friend and Liege Fellow-Subject,
                             JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM.
 
 Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots,
 Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's,
 If there's a hole in a' your coats,
 I rede ye tent it;
 A chiel's amang you taken' notes,
 An' faith he'll prent it!
                                                                          Burns.
 
            Ahora bien, dijo el Cura: traedme, senor huésped, aquesos libros,
            que los quiero ver. Que me place, respondió el; y entrando en su
            aposento, sacó dél una maletilla vieja cerrada con una cadenilla, y
            abriéndola, halló en ella tres libros grandes y unos papeles de muy
            buena letra escritos de mano. -
                                              Don Quixote, Parte I. Capitulo 32.
 
            It is mighty well, said the priest: pray, landlord, bring me those
            books, for I have a mind to see them. With all my heart, answered
            the host; and going to his chamber, he brought out a little old
            cloke-bag, with a padlock and chain to it, and opening it, he took
            out three large volumes, and some manuscript papers written in a
            fine character. -
                                                           Jarvis's Translation.
 

                    Introduction to the Tales of My Landlord

              First Series. - The Black Dwarf &amp; Old Mortality.

As I may, without vanity, presume that the name and official description
prefixed to this Proem will secure it, from the sedate and reflecting part of
mankind, to whom only I would be understood to address myself, such attention as
is due to the sedulous instructor of youth, and the careful performer of my
Sabbath duties, I will forbear to hold up a candle to the daylight, or to point
out to the judicious those recommendations of my labours which they must
necessarily anticipate from the perusal of the title-page. Nevertheless, I am
not unaware, that, as Envy always dogs Merit at the heels, there may be those
who will whisper, that albeit my learning and good principles cannot (lauded be
the heavens!) be denied by any one, yet that my situation at Gandercleugh hath
been more favourable to my acquisitions in learning than to the enlargement of
my views of the ways and works of the present generation. To the which
objection, if, peradventure, any such shall be started, my answer shall be
threefold: -
    First, Gandercleugh is, as it were, the central part - the navel (si fas sit
dicere) of this our native realm of Scotland; so that men, from every corner
thereof, when travelling on their concernments of business, either towards our
metropolis of law, by which I mean Edinburgh, or towards our metropolis and mart
of gain, whereby I insinuate Glasgow, are frequently led to make Gandercleugh
their abiding stage and place of rest for the night. And it must be acknowledged
by the most sceptical, that I, who have sat in the leathern armchair, on the
left-hand side of the fire, in the common room of the Wallace Inn, winter and
summer, for every evening in my life, during forty years by-past (the Christian
Sabbaths only excepted), must have seen more of the manners and customs of
various tribes and people, than if I had sought them out by my own painful
travel and bodily labour. Even so doth the tollman at the well-frequented
turnpike on the Wellbrae-head, sitting at his ease in his own dwelling, gather
more receipt of custom, than if, moving forth upon the road, he were to require
a contribution from each person whom he chanced to meet in his journey, when,
according to the vulgar adage, he might possibly be greeted with more kicks than
halfpence.
    But, secondly, supposing it again urged, that Ithacus, the most wise of the
Greeks, acquired his renown, as the Roman poet hath assured us, by visiting
states and men, I reply to the Zoilus who shall adhere to this objection, that,
de facto, I have seen states and men also; for I have visited the famous cities
of Edinburgh and Glasgow, the former twice, and the latter three times, in the
course of my earthly pilgrimage. And, moreover, I had the honour to sit in the
General Assembly (meaning, as an auditor, in the galleries thereof), and have
heard as much goodly speaking on the law of patronage, as, with the
fructification thereof in mine own understanding, hath made me be considered as
an oracle upon that doctrine ever since my safe and happy return to
Gandercleugh.
    Again - and thirdly, If it be nevertheless pretended that my information and
knowledge of mankind, however extensive, and however painfully acquired, by
constant domestic inquiry, and by foreign travel, is, natheless, incompetent to
the task of recording the pleasant narratives of my Landlord, I will let these
critics know, to their own eternal shame and confusion, as well as to the
abashment and discomfiture of all who shall rashly take up a song against me,
that I am NOT the writer, redactor, or compiler, of the Tales of my Landlord;
nor am I, in one single iota, answerable for their contents, more or less. And
now, ye generation of critics, who raise yourselves up as if it were brazen
serpents, to hiss with your tongues, and to smite with your stings, bow
yourselves down to your native dust, and acknowledge that yours have been the
thoughts of ignorance, and the words of vain foolishness. Lo! ye are caught in
your own snare, and your own pit hath yawned for you. Turn, then, aside from the
task that is too heavy for you; destroy not your teeth by gnawing a file; waste
not your strength by spurning against a castle wall; nor spend your breath in
contending in swiftness with a fleet steed; and let those weigh the Tales of my
Landlord, who shall bring with them the scales of candour, cleansed from the
rust of prejudice by the hands of intelligent modesty. For these alone they were
compiled, as will appear from a brief narrative which my zeal for truth
compelled me to make supplementary to the present Proem.
    It is well known that my Landlord was a pleasing and a facetious man,
acceptable unto all the parish of Gandercleugh, excepting only the Laird, the
Exciseman, and those for whom he refused to draw liquor upon trust. Their causes
of dislike I will touch separately, adding my own refutation thereof.
    His honour, the Laird, accused our Landlord, deceased, of having encouraged,
in various times and places, the destruction of hares, rabbits, fowls black and
grey, partridges, moor-pouts, roe-deer, and other birds and quadrupeds, at
unlawful seasons, and contrary to the laws of this realm, which have secured, in
their wisdom, the slaughter of such animals for the great of the earth, whom I
have remarked to take an uncommon (though to me, an unintelligible) pleasure
therein. Now, in humble deference to his honour, and in justifiable defence of
my friend deceased, I reply to this charge, that howsoever the form of such
animals might appear to be similar to those so protected by the law, yet it was
a mere deceptio visus; for what resembled hares were, in fact, hill-kids, and
those partaking of the appearance of moor-fowl, were truly wood-pigeons, and
consumed and eaten eo nomine, and not otherwise.
    Again, the Exciseman pretended, that my deceased Landlord did encourage that
species of manufacture called distillation, without having an especial
permission from the Great, technically called a license, for doing so. Now, I
stand up to confront this falsehood; and, in defiance of him, his gauging-stick,
and pen and inkhorn, I tell him, that I never saw, or tasted, a glass of
unlawful aqua vitæ in the house of my Landlord; nay, that, on the contrary, we
needed not such devices, in respect of a pleasing and somewhat seductive liquor,
which was vended and consumed at the Wallace Inn, under the name of mountain dew
. If there is a penalty against manufacturing such a liquor, let him show me the
statute; and when he does, I'll tell him if I will obey it or no.
    Concerning those who came to my Landlord for liquor, and went thirsty away,
for lack of present coin, or future credit, I cannot but say it has grieved my
bowels as if the case had been mine own. Nevertheless, my Landlord considered
the necessities of a thirsty soul, and would permit them, in extreme need, and
when their soul was impoverished for lack of moisture, to drink to the full
value of their watches and wearing apparel, exclusively of their inferior
habiliments, which he was uniformly inexorable in obliging them to retain, for
the credit of the house. As to mine own part, I may well say that he never
refused me that modicum of refreshment with which I am wont to recruit nature
after the fatigues of my school. It is true, I taught his five sons English and
Latin, writing, book-keeping, with a tincture of mathematics, and that I
instructed his daughter in psalmody. Nor do I remember me of any fee or
honorarium received from him on account of these my labours, except the
compotations aforesaid; - nevertheless, this compensation suited my humour well,
since it is a hard sentence to bid a dry throat wait till quarter-day.
    But, truly, were I to speak my simple conceit and belief, I think my
Landlord was chiefly moved to waive in my behalf the usual requisition of a
symbol, or reckoning, from the pleasure he was wont to take in my conversation,
which, though solid and edifying in the main, was, like a well-built palace,
decorated with facetious narratives and devices, tending much to the enhancement
and ornament thereof. And so pleased was my Landlord of the Wallace in his
replies during such colloquies, that there was no district in Scotland, yea, and
no peculiar, and, as it were, distinctive custom therein practised, but was
discussed betwixt us; insomuch, that those who stood by were wont to say, it was
worth a bottle of ale to hear us communicate with each other. And not a few
travellers, from distant parts, as well as from the remote districts of our
kingdom, were wont to mingle in the conversation, and to tell news that had been
gathered in foreign lands, or preserved from oblivion in this our own.
    Now, I chanced to have contracted for teaching the lower classes with a
young person called Peter, or Patrick, Pattieson, who had been educated for our
Holy Kirk, - yea, had, by the license of Presbytery, his voice opened therein as
a preacher, - who delighted in the collection of olden tales and legends, and in
garnishing them with the flowers of poesy, whereof he was a vain and frivolous
professor; for he followed not the example of those strong poets whom I proposed
to him as a pattern, but formed versification of a flimsy and modern texture, to
the compounding whereof was necessary small pains and less thought. And hence I
have chide him as being one of those who bring forward the fatal revolution
prophesied by Mr. Thomas Carey, in his Vaticination on the Death of the
celebrated Dr. John Donne:
 
Now thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be
Too hard for libertines in poetry;
Till verse (by thee refined) in this last age
Turn ballad rhyme.
 
I had also disputations with him touching his indulging rather a flowing and
redundant than a concise and stately diction in his prose exercitations. But
notwithstanding these symptoms of inferior taste, and a humour of contradicting
his betters upon passages of dubious construction in Latin authors, I did
grievously lament when Peter Pattieson was removed from me by death, even as if
he had been the offspring of my own loins. And in respect his papers had been
left in my care (to answer funeral and deathbed expenses), I conceived myself
entitled to dispose of one parcel thereof, entitled, »Tales of my Landlord,« to
one cunning in the trade (as it is called) of bookselling. He was a mirthful
man, of small stature, cunning in counterfeiting of voices, and in making
facetious tales and responses, and whom I have to laud for the truth of his
dealings towards me.
    Now, therefore, the world may see the injustice that charges me with
incapacity to write these narratives, seeing, that though I have proved that I
could have written them if I would, yet, not having done so, the censure will
deservedly fall, if at all due, upon the memory of Mr. Peter Pattieson; whereas
I must be justly entitled to the praise, when any is due, seeing that, as the
Dean of St. Patrick's wittily and logically expresseth it, -
 
That without which a thing is not,
Is Causa sine qua non.
 
The work, therefore, is unto me as a child is to a parent; in the which child,
if it proveth worthy, the parent hath honour and praise; but, if otherwise, the
disgrace will deservedly attach to itself alone.
    I have only further to intimate, that Mr. Peter Pattieson, in arranging
these Tales for the press, hath more consulted his own fancy than the accuracy
of the narrative; nay, that he hath sometimes blended two or three stories
together for the mere grace of his plots: - of which infidelity, although I
disapprove and enter my testimony against it, yet I have not taken upon me to
correct the same, in respect it was the will of the deceased that his manuscript
should he submitted to the press without diminution or alteration. A fanciful
nicety it was on the part of my deceased friend, who, if thinking wisely, ought
rather to have conjured me, by all the tender ties of our friendship and common
pursuits, to have carefully revised, altered, and augmented, at my judgment and
discretion. But the will of the dead must be scrupulously obeyed, even when we
weep over their pertinacity and self-delusion. So, gentle reader, I bid you
farewell, recommending you to such fare as the mountains of your own country
produce; and I will only farther premise, that each tale is preceded by a short
introduction, mentioning the persons by whom, and the circumstances under which,
the materials thereof were collected.
    DECEMBER 1816.
                                                          JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM.
 

                         Introduction to Old Mortality

                                     1830.

The remarkable person called by the title of Old Mortality was well known in
Scotland about the end of the last century. His real name was Robert Paterson.
He was a native, it is said, of the parish of Closeburn in Dumfriesshire, and
probably a mason by profession - at least educated to the use of the chisel.
Whether family dissensions, or the deep and enthusiastic feeling of supposed
duty, drove him to leave his dwelling, and adopt the singular mode of life in
which he wandered, like a palmer, through Scotland, is not known. It could not
be poverty, however, which prompted his journeys, for he never accepted anything
beyond the hospitality which was willingly rendered him, and when that was not
proferred, he always had money enough to provide for his own humble wants. His
personal appearance, and favourite, or rather sole, occupation are accurately
described in the preliminary chapter of the following work.
    It is about thirty years since or more that the author met this singular
person in the churchyard of Dunnottar, when spending a day or two with the late
learned and excellent clergyman Mr. Walker, the minister of that parish, for the
purpose of a close examination of the ruins of the Castle of Dunnottar, and
other subjects of antiquarian research in that neighbourhood. Old Mortality
chanced to be at the same place on the usual business of his pilgrimage; for the
Castle of Dunnottar, though lying in the anti-covenanting district of the
Mearns, was, with the parish churchyard, celebrated for the oppressions
sustained there by the Cameronians in the time of James II.
    It was in 1685, when Argyle was threatening a descent upon Scotland, and
Monmouth was preparing to invade the west of England, that the Privy Council of
Scotland, with cruel precaution, made a general arrest of more than a hundred
persons in the southern and western provinces, supposed, from their religious
principles, to be inimical to Government, together with many women and children.
These captives were driven northward like a flock of bullocks, but with less
precaution to provide for their wants, and finally penned up in a subterranean
dungeon in the Castle of Dunnottar, having a window opening to the front of a
precipice which overhangs the German Ocean. They had suffered not a little on
the journey, and were much hurt both at the scoffs of the northern prelatists,
and the mocks, gibes, and contemptuous tunes played by the fiddlers and pipers
who had come from every quarter as they passed, to triumph over the revilers of
their calling. The repose which the melancholy dungeon afforded them was
anything but undisturbed. The guards made them pay for every indulgence, even
that of water; and when some of the prisoners resisted a demand so unreasonable,
and insisted on their right to have this necessary of life untaxed, their
keepers emptied the water on the prison floors, saying, »If they were obliged to
bring water for the canting whigs, they were not bound to afford them the use of
bowls or pitchers gratis.«
    In this prison, which is still termed the Whigs' Vault, several died of the
diseases incidental to such a situation; and others broke their limbs and
incurred fatal injury in desperate attempts to escape from their stern
prison-house. Over the graves of these unhappy persons their friends, after the
Revolution, erected a monument with a suitable inscription.
    This peculiar shrine of the Whig martyrs is very much honoured by their
descendants, though residing at a great distance from the land of their
captivity and death. My friend, the Rev. Mr. Walker, told me, that being once
upon a tour in the south of Scotland, probably about forty years since, he had
the bad luck to involve himself in the labyrinth of passages and tracks which
cross in every direction the extensive waste called Lochar Moss, near Dumfries,
out of which it is scarcely possible for a stranger to extricate himself; and
there was no small difficulty in procuring a guide, since such people as he saw
were engaged in digging their peats - a work of paramount necessity, which will
hardly brook interruption. Mr. Walker could, therefore, only procure
unintelligible directions in the southern brogue, which differs widely from that
of the Mearns. He was beginning to think himself in a serious dilemma, when he
stated his case to a farmer of rather the better class, who was employed, as the
others, in digging his winter fuel. The old man at first made the same excuse
with those who had already declined acting as the traveller's guide; but
perceiving him in great perplexity, and paying the respect due to his
profession, »You are a clergyman, sir?« he said. Mr. Walker assented. »And I
observe from your speech that you are from the north?« - »You are right, my good
friend,« was the reply. »And may I ask if you have ever heard of a place called
Dunnottar?« - »I ought to know something about it, my friend,« said Mr. Walker,
»since I have been several years the minister of the parish.« - »I am glad to
hear it,« said the Dumfriesian, »for one of my near relations lies buried there,
and there is, I believe, a monument over his grave. I would give half of what I
am aught to know if it is still in existence.« - »He was one of those who
perished in the Whig's Vault at the castle?« said the minister; »for there are
few southlanders besides lying in our churchyard, and none, I think, having
monuments.« - »Even sae - even sae,« said the old Cameronian, for such was the
farmer. He then laid down his spade, cast on his coat, and heartily offered to
see the minister out of the moss, if he should lose the rest of the day's dargue
. Mr. Walker was able to requite him amply, in his opinion, by reciting the
epitaph, which he remembered by heart. The old man was enchanted with finding
the memory of his grandfather, or great-grandfather, faithfully recorded amongst
the names of brother sufferers; and rejecting all other offers of recompense,
only requested, after he had guided Mr. Walker to a safe and dry road, that he
would let him have a written copy of the inscription.
    It was whilst I was listening to this story, and looking at the monument
referred to, that I saw Old Mortality engaged in his daily task of cleaning and
repairing the ornaments and epitaphs upon the tomb. His appearance and equipment
were exactly as described in the Novel. I was very desirous to see something of
a person so singular, and expected to have done so, as he took up his quarters
with the hospitable and liberal-spirited minister. But though Mr. Walker invited
him up after dinner to partake of a glass of spirits and water, to which he was
supposed not to be very averse, yet he would not speak frankly upon the subject
of his occupation. He was in bad humour, and had, according to his phrase, no
freedom for conversation with us.
    His spirit had been sorely vexed by hearing in a certain Aberdonian kirk the
psalmody directed by a pitch-pipe, or some similar instrument, which was to Old
Mortality the abomination of abominations. Perhaps, after all, he did not feel
himself at ease with his company; he might suspect the questions asked by a
north-country minister and a young barrister to savour more of idle curiosity
than profit. At any rate, in the phrase of John Bunyan, Old Mortality went on
his way, and I saw him no more.
    The remarkable figure and occupation of this ancient pilgrim was recalled to
my memory by an account transmitted by my friend Mr. Joseph Train, supervisor of
excise at Dumfries, to whom I owe many obligations of a similar nature. From
this, besides some other circumstances, among which are those of the old man's
death, I learned the particulars described in the text. I am also informed that
the old palmer's family, in the third generation, survives, and is highly
respected both for talents and worth.
    While these sheets were passing through the press, I received the following
communication from Mr. Train, whose undeviating kindness had, during the
intervals of laborious duty, collected its materials from an indubitable source:
-
    »In the course of my periodical visits to the Glenkens, I have become
intimately acquainted with Robert Paterson, a son of Old Mortality, who lives in
the little village of Balmaclellan; and although he is now in the 70th year of
his age, preserves all the vivacity of youth - has a most retentive memory, and
a mind stored with information far above what could be expected from a person in
his station of life. To him I am indebted for the following particulars relative
to his father and his descendants down to the present time.
    Robert Paterson, alias Old Mortality, was the son of Walter Paterson and
Margaret Scott, who occupied the farm of Haggisha, in the parish of Hawick,
during nearly the first half of the eighteenth century. Here Robert was born, in
the memorable year 1715.
    Being the youngest son of a numerous family, he, at an early age, went to
serve with an elder brother, named Francis, who rented from Sir John Jardine of
Applegarth a small tract in Corncockle Moor, near Lochmaben. During his
residence there he became acquainted with Elizabeth Gray, daughter of Robert
Gray, gardener to Sir John Jardine, whom he afterwards married. His wife had
been for a considerable time a cook-maid to Sir Thomas Kirkpatrick of Closeburn,
who procured for her husband, from the Duke of Queensberry, an advantageous
lease of the freestone quarry of Gatelowbrigg, in the parish of Morton. Here he
built a house, and had as much land as kept a horse and cow. My informant cannot
say, with certainty, the year in which his father took up his residence at
Gatelowbrigg, but he is sure it must have been only a short time prior to the
year 1746, as, during the memorable frost in 1740, he says his mother still
resided in the service of Sir Thomas Kirkpatrick. When the Highlanders were
returning from England on their route to Glasgow, in the year 1745-6, they
plundered Mr. Paterson's house at Gatelowbrigg, and carried him a prisoner as
far as Glenbuck, merely because he said to one of the straggling army that their
retreat might have been easily foreseen, as the strong arm of the Lord was
evidently raised, not only against the bloody and wicked house of Stuart, but
against all who attempted to support the abominable heresies of the Church of
Rome. From this circumstance it appears that Old Mortality had, even at that
early period of his life, imbibed the religious enthusiasm by which he
afterwards became so much distinguished.
    The religious sect called Hill-men, or Cameronians, was at that time much
noted for austerity and devotion, in imitation of Cameron their founder, of
whose tenets Old Mortality became a most strenuous supporter. He made frequent
journeys into Galloway to attend their conventicles, and occasionally carried
with him gravestones from his quarry at Gatelowbrigg to keep in remembrance the
righteous whose dust had been gathered to their fathers. Old Mortality was not
one of those religious devotees who, although one eye is seemingly turned
towards heaven, keep the other steadfastly fixed on some sublunary object. As
his enthusiasm increased, his journeys into Galloway became more frequent; and
he gradually neglected even the common prudential duty of providing for his
offspring. From about the year 1758 he neglected wholly to return from Galloway
to his wife and five children at Gatelowbrigg, which induced her to send her
eldest son, Walter, then only twelve years of age, to Galloway, in search of his
father. After traversing nearly the whole of that extensive district, from the
Nick of Bencorie to the Fell of Barullion, he found him at last working on the
Cameronian monuments in the old kirkyard of Kirkchrist, on the west side of the
Dee, opposite the town of Kirkcudbright. The little wanderer used all the
influence in his power to induce his father to return to his family; but in
vain. Mrs. Paterson sent even some of her female children into Galloway in
search of their father, for the same purpose of persuading him, to return home;
but without any success. At last, in the summer of 1768, she removed to the
little upland village of Balmaclellan, in the Glenkens of Galloway, where, upon
the small pittance derived from keeping a little school, she supported her
numerous family in a respectable manner.
 
  HERE LY THE BODY OF JAMES M'COMB IN CROFTS OF CROSSMICH AEL WHO DIED MAY 1TH
                                  1760 AGED 63
 
There is a small monumental stone in the farm of the Caldon, near the House of
the Hill in Wigtonshire, which is highly venerated as being the first erected by
Old Mortality to the memory of several persons who fell at that place in defence
of their religious tenets in the civil war, in the reign of Charles Second.1
    From the Caldon, the labours of Old Mortality, in the course of time, spread
over nearly all the Lowlands of Scotland. There are few churchyards in Ayrshire,
Galloway, or Dumfriesshire, where the work of his chisel is not yet to be seen.
It is easily distinguished from the work of any other artist by the primitive
rudeness of the emblems of death, and of the inscriptions which adorn the
ill-formed blocks of his erection. This task of repairing and erecting
gravestones, practised without fee or reward, was the only ostensible employment
of this singular person for upwards of forty years. The door of every
Cameronian's house was indeed open to him at all times when he chose to enter,
and he was gladly received as an inmate of the family; but he did not invariably
accept of these civilities, as may be seen by the following account of his
frugal expenses, found amongst other little papers (some of which I have
likewise in my possession) in his pocket-book after his death: -
 
                                          Gatehouse of Fleet, 4th February 1796.
                 ROBERT PATERSON debtor to MARGARET CHRYSTALE.
To drye Lodginge for seven weeks
                                                                       £ 0. 4. 1
To Four Auchlet of Ait Meal
                                                                         0. 3. 4
To 6 Lippies of Potatoes
                                                                         0. 1. 3
To Lent Money at the time of Mr. Reid's Sacrament
                                                                         0. 6. 0
To 3 Chappins of Yell with Sandy the Keelman2
                                                                         0. 0. 9
                                                                      £ 0. 15. 5
Received in part
                                                                        0. 10. 0
Unpaid
                                                                       £ 0. 5. 5
 
This statement shows the religious wanderer to have been very poor in his old
age; but he was so more by choice than through necessity, as, at the period here
alluded to, his children were all comfortably situated, and were most anxious to
keep their father at home. But no entreaty could induce him to alter his erratic
way of life; he travelled from one churchyard to another, mounted on his old
white pony, till the last day of his existence, and died as you have described,
at Bankhill, near Lockerby, on the 14th February 1801, in the 86th year of his
age. As soon as his body was found, intimation was sent to his sons at
Balmaclellan; but from the great depth of the snow at that time, the letter
communicating the particulars of his death was so long detained by the way, that
the remains of the pilgrim were interred before any of his relations could
arrive at Bankhill.
    The following is an exact copy of the account of his funeral expenses - the
original of which I have in my possession: -
 
 Memorandum, of the Funral Charges of Robert Paterson, who dyed at Bankhill on
                         the 14th day of February 1801.
 
To a Coffon
                                                                      £ 0. 12. 0
To Munting for do
                                                                         0. 2. 8
To a Shirt for him
                                                                         0. 5. 6
To a pair of Cotten Stockings
                                                                         0. 2. 0
To Bread at the Founral
                                                                         0. 2. 6
To Chise at ditto
                                                                         0. 3. 0
To 1 pint Rume
                                                                         0. 4. 6
To 1 pint Whiskie
                                                                         0. 4. 0
To a man going to Annan
                                                                         0. 2. 0
To the grave-diger
                                                                         0. 1. 0
To Linnen for a sheet to him
                                                                         0. 2. 8
                                                                      £ 2. 1. 10
Taken off him when dead
                                                                         1. 7. 6
                                                                      £ 0. 14. 4
 
The above account is authenticated by the son of the deceased.
    My friend was prevented by indisposition from even going to Bankhill to
attend the funeral of his father, which I regret very much, as he is not aware
in what churchyard he was interred.
    For the purpose of erecting a small monument to his memory, I have made
every possible inquiry wherever I thought there was the least chance of finding
out where Old Mortality was laid; but I have done so in vain, as his death is
not registered in the session-book of any of the neighbouring parishes. I am
sorry to think that in all probability this singular person, who spent so many
years of his lengthened existence in striving with his chisel and mallet to
perpetuate the memory of many less deserving than himself, must remain even
without a single stone to mark out the resting-place of his mortal remains.
    Old Mortality had three sons, Robert, Walter, and John; the former, as has
been already mentioned, lives in the village of Balmaclellan, in comfortable
circumstances, and is much respected by his neighbours. Walter died several
years ago, leaving behind him a family now respectably situated in this point.
John went to America in the year 1776, and after various turns of fortune,
settled at Baltimore.«
    Old Nol himself is said to have loved an innocent jest. (See Captain
Hodgson's Memoirs.) Old. Mortality somewhat resembled the Protector in this turn
to festivity. Like Master Silence, he had been merry twice and once in his time;
but even his jests were of a melancholy and sepulchral nature, and sometimes
attended with inconvenience to himself, as will appear from the following
anecdote: -
    The old man was at one time following his wonted occupation of repairing the
tombs of the martyrs, in the churchyard of Girthon, and the sexton of the parish
was plying his kindred task at no great distance. Some roguish urchins were
sporting near them, and by their noisy gambols disturbing the old men in their
serious occupation. The most petulant of the juvenile party were two or three
boys, grandchildren of a person well known by the name of Cooper Climent. - This
artist enjoyed almost a monopoly in Girthon and the neighbouring parishes for
making and selling ladles, coups, bickers, bowls, spoons, cogues, and trenchers,
formed of wood, for the use of the country people. It must be noticed that,
notwithstanding the excellence of the Cooper's vessels, they were apt, when new,
to impart a reddish tinge to whatever liquor was put into them, a circumstance
not uncommon in like cases.
    The grandchildren of this dealer in wooden work took it into their head to
ask the sexton what use he could possibly make of the numerous fragments of old
coffins which were thrown up in opening new graves. »Do you not know,« said Old
Mortality, »that he sells them to your grandfather, who makes them into spoons,
trenchers, bickers, bowies, and so forth?« At this assertion the youthful group
broke up in great confusion and disgust, on reflecting how many meals they had
eaten out of dishes which, by Old Mortality's account, were only fit to be used
at a banquet of witches or of ghoules. They carried the tidings home, when many
a dinner was spoiled by the loathing which the intelligence imparted; for the
account of the materials was supposed to explain the reddish tinge, which, even
in the days of the Cooper's fame, had seemed somewhat suspicious. The ware of
Cooper Climent was rejected in horror, much to the benefit of his rivals the
muggers, who dealt in earthenware. The man of cutty-spoon and ladle saw his
trade interrupted, and learned the reason by his quondam customers coming upon
him in wrath to return the goods which were composed of such unhallowed
materials, and demand repayment of their money. In this disagreeable predicament
the forlorn artist cited Old Mortality into a court of justice, where he proved
that the wood he used in his trade was that of the staves of old wine-pipes
bought from smugglers, with whom the country then abounded - a circumstance
which fully accounted for their imparting a colour to their contents. Old
Mortality himself made the fullest declaration that he had no other purpose in
making the assertion than to check the petulance of the children. But it is
easier to take away a good name than to restore it. Cooper Climent's business
continued to languish, and he died in a state of poverty.
 

                                  Preliminary

            Why seeks he with unwearied toil
             Through death's dim walks to urge his way,
             Reclaim his long-asserted spoil,
             And lead oblivion into day?
                                                                      Langhorne.
 
»Most readers,« says the Manuscript of Mr. Pattieson, »must have witnessed with
delight the joyous burst which attends the dismissing of a village-school on a
fine summer evening. The buoyant spirit of childhood, repressed with so much
difficulty during the tedious hours of discipline, may then be seen to explode,
as it were, in shout and song, and frolic, as the little urchins join in groups
on their playground, and arrange their matches of sport for the evening. But
there is one individual who partakes of the relief afforded by the moment of
dismissal, whose feelings are not so obvious to the eye of the spectator, or so
apt to receive his sympathy. I mean the teacher himself, who, stunned with the
hum, and suffocated with the closeness of his schoolroom, has spent the whole
day (himself against a host) in controlling petulance, exciting indifference to
action, striving to enlighten stupidity, and labouring to soften obstinacy; and
whose very powers of intellect have been confounded by hearing the same dull
lesson repeated a hundred times by rote, and only varied by the various blunders
of the reciters. Even the flowers of classic genius, with which his solitary
fancy is most gratified, have been rendered degraded, in his imagination, by
their connection with tears, with errors, and with punishment; so that the
Eclogues of Virgil and Odes of Horace are each inseparably allied in association
with the sullen figure and monotonous recitation of some blubbering schoolboy.
If to these mental distresses are added a delicate frame of body, and a mind
ambitious of some higher distinction than that of being the tyrant of childhood,
the reader may have some slight conception of the relief which the solitary
walk, in the cool of a fine summer evening, affords to the head which has ached,
and the nerves which have been shattered, for so many hours, in plying the
irksome task of public instruction.
    To me these evening strolls have been the happiest hours of an unhappy life;
and if any gentle reader shall hereafter find pleasure in perusing these
lucubrations, I am not unwilling he should know that the plan of them has been
usually traced in those moments when relief from toil and clamour, combined with
the quiet scenery around me, has disposed my mind to the task of composition.
    My chief haunt, in these hours of golden leisure, is the banks of the small
stream, which, winding through a lone vale of green bracken, passes in front of
the village schoolhouse of Gandercleugh. For the first quarter of a mile,
perhaps, I may be disturbed from my meditations, in order to return the scrape,
or doffed bonnet, of such stragglers among my pupils as fish for trouts or
minnows in the little brook, or seek rushes and wild flowers by its margin. But,
beyond the space I have mentioned, the juvenile anglers do not, after sunset,
voluntarily extend their excursions. The cause is, that farther up the narrow
valley, and in a recess which seems scooped out of the side of the steep heathy
bank, there is a deserted burial-ground, which the little cowards are fearful of
approaching in the twilight. To me, however, the place has an inexpressible
charm. It has been long the favourite termination of my walks, and, if my kind
patron forgets not his promise, will (and probably at no very distant day) be my
final resting-place after my mortal pilgrimage.3
    It is a spot which possesses all the solemnity of feeling attached to a
burial-ground, without exciting those of a more unpleasing description. Having
been very little used for many years, the few hillocks which rise above the
level plain are covered with the same short velvet turf. The monuments, of which
there are not above seven or eight, are half sunk in the ground, and overgrown
with moss. No newly-erected tomb disturbs the sober serenity of our reflections,
by reminding us of recent calamity, and no rank-springing grass forces upon our
imagination the recollection, that it owes its dark luxuriance to the foul and
festering remnants of mortality which ferment beneath. The daisy which sprinkles
the sod, and the hare-bell which hangs over it, derive their pure nourishment
from the dew of heaven, and their growth impresses us with no degrading or
disgusting recollections. Death has indeed been here, and its traces are before
us; but they are softened and deprived of their horror by our distance from the
period when they have been first impressed. Those who sleep beneath are only
connected with us by the reflection, that they have once been what we now are,
and that, as their relics are now identified with their mother earth, ours
shall, at some future period, undergo the same transformation.
    Yet, although the moss has been collected on the most modern of these humble
tombs during four generations of mankind, the memory of some of those who sleep
beneath them is still held in reverent remembrance. It is true, that, upon the
largest, and to an antiquary, the most interesting monument of the group, which
bears the effigies of a doughty knight in his hood of mail, with his shield
hanging on his breast, the armorial bearings are defaced by time, and a few
worn-out letters may be read, at the pleasure of the decipherer, Dns. Johan - de
Hamel, - or Johan. - de Lamel -. And it is also true, that of another tomb,
richly sculptured with an ornamental cross, mitre, and pastoral staff, tradition
can only aver that a certain nameless bishop lies interred there. But upon other
two stones which lie beside, may still be read in rude prose, and ruder rhyme,
the history of those who sleep beneath them. They belong, we are assured by the
epitaph, to the class of persecuted Presbyterians who afforded a melancholy
subject for history in the times of Charles II. and his successor.4 In returning
from the battle of Pentland Hills, a party of the insurgents had been attacked
in this glen by a small detachment of the King's troops, and three or four
either killed in the skirmish, or shot after being made prisoners, as rebels
taken with arms in their hands. The peasantry continued to attach to the tombs
of those victims of prelacy an honour which they do not render to more splendid
mausoleums; and, when they point them out to their sons, and narrate the fate of
the sufferers, usually conclude by exhorting them to be ready, should times call
for it, to resist to the death in the cause of civil and religious liberty, like
their brave forefathers.
    Although I am far from venerating the peculiar tenets asserted by those who
call themselves the followers of those men, and whose intolerance and
narrow-minded bigotry are at least as conspicuous as their devotional zeal, yet
it is without depreciating the memory of those sufferers, many of whom united
the independent sentiments of a Hampden with the suffering zeal of a Hooper or
Lattimer. On the other hand, it would be unjust to forget that many even of those
who had been most active in crushing what they conceived the rebellious and
seditious spirit of those unhappy wanderers, displayed themselves, when called
upon to suffer for their political and religious opinions, the same daring and
devoted zeal, tinctured, in their case, with chivalrous loyalty, as in the
former with republican enthusiasm. It has often been remarked of the Scottish
character, that the stubbornness with which it is moulded shows most to
advantage in adversity, when it seems akin to the native sycamore of their
hills, which scorns to be biassed in its mode of growth even by the influence of
the prevailing wind, but, shooting its branches with equal boldness in every
direction, shows no weather-side to the storm, and may be broken, but can never
be bended. It must be understood that I speak of my countrymen as they fall
under my own observation. When in foreign countries, I have been informed that
they are more docile. But it is time to return from this digression.
    One summer evening, as, in a stroll such as I have described, I approached
this deserted mansion of the dead, I was somewhat surprised to hear sounds
distinct from those which usually soothe its solitude - the gentle chiding,
namely, of the brook, and the sighing of the wind in the boughs of three
gigantic ash-trees, which mark the cemetery. The clink of a hammer was on this
occasion distinctly heard; and I entertained some alarm that a march-dike, long
meditated by the two proprietors whose estates were divided by my favourite
brook, was about to be drawn up the glen, in order to substitute its rectilinear
deformity for the graceful winding of the natural boundary.5 As I approached, I
was agreeably undeceived. An old man was seated upon the monument of the
slaughtered Presbyterians, and busily employed in deepening with his chisel the
letters of the inscription, which, announcing, in scriptural language, the
promised blessings of futurity to be the lot of the slain, anathematised the
murderers with corresponding violence. A blue bonnet of unusual dimensions
covered the grey hairs of the pious workman. His dress was a large old-fashioned
coat of the coarse cloth called hoddin-grey, usually worn by the elder peasants,
with waistcoat and breeches of the same; and the whole suit, though still in
decent repair, had obviously seen a train of long service. Strong clouted shoes,
studded with hob-nails, and gramoches or leggins, made of thick black cloth,
completed his equipment. Beside him, fed among the graves a pony, the companion
of his journey, whose extreme whiteness, as well as its projecting bones and
hollow eyes, indicated its antiquity. It was harnessed in the most simple
manner, with a pair of branks, a hair tether, or halter, and a sunk, or cushion
of straw, instead of bridle and saddle. A canvas pouch hung around the neck of
the animal, - for the purpose, probably, of containing the rider's tools, and
anything else he might have occasion to carry with him. Although I had never
seen the old man before, yet from the singularity of his employment, and the
style of his equipage, I had no difficulty in recognising a religious itinerant,
whom I had often heard talked of, and who was known in various parts of Scotland
by the title of Old Mortality.
    Where this man was born, or what was his real name, I have never been able
to learn; nor are the motives which made him desert his home, and adopt the
erratic mode of life which he pursued, known to me, except very generally.
According to the belief of most people, he was a native of either the county of
Dumfries or Galloway, and lineally descended from some of those champions of the
Covenant, whose deeds and sufferings were his favourite theme. He is said to
have held, at one period of his life, a small moorland farm; but, whether from
pecuniary losses, or domestic misfortune, he had long renounced that and every
other gainful calling. In the language of Scripture, he left his house, his
home, and his kindred, and wandered about until the day of his death, a period
of nearly thirty years.
    During this long pilgrimage, the pious enthusiast regulated his circuit so
as annually to visit the graves of the unfortunate Covenanters who suffered by
the sword, or by the executioner, during the reigns of the two fast monarchs of
the Stuart line. These are most numerous in the western districts of Ayr,
Galloway, and Dumfries; but they are also to be found in other parts of
Scotland, wherever the fugitives had fought, or fallen, or suffered by military
or civil execution. Their tombs are often apart from all human habitation, in
the remote moors and wilds to which the wanderers had fled for concealment. But
wherever they existed, Old Mortality was sure to visit them when his annual
round brought them within his reach. In the most lonely recesses of the
mountains, the moor-fowl shooter has been often surprised to find him busied in
cleaning the moss from the grey stones, renewing with his chisel the
half-defaced inscriptions, and repairing the emblems of death with which these
simple monuments are usually adorned. Motives of the most sincere, though
fanciful devotion, induced the old man to dedicate so many years of existence to
perform this tribute to the memory of the deceased warriors of the church. He
considered himself as fulfilling a sacred duty, while renewing to the eyes of
posterity the decaying emblems of the zeal and sufferings of their forefathers,
and thereby trimming, as it were, the beacon-light which was to warn future
generations to defend their religion even unto blood.
    In all his wanderings, the old pilgrim never seemed to need, or was known to
accept, pecuniary assistance. It is true, his wants were very few; for wherever
he went, he found ready quarters in the house of some Cameronian of his own
sect, or of some other religious person. The hospitality which was reverentially
paid to him he always acknowledged, by repairing the gravestones (if there
existed any) belonging to the family or ancestors of his host. As the wanderer
was usually to be seen bent on this pious task within the precincts of some
country churchyard, or reclined on the solitary tombstone among the heath,
disturbing the plover and the black-cock with the clink of his chisel and
mallet, with his old white pony grazing by his side, he acquired, from his
converse among the dead, the popular appellation of Old Mortality.
    The character of such a man could have in it little connection even with
innocent gaiety. Yet, among those of his own religious persuasion, he is
reported to have been cheerful. The descendants of persecutors, or those whom he
supposed guilty of entertaining similar tenets, and the scoffers at religion by
whom he was sometimes assailed, he usually termed the generation of vipers.
Conversing with others, he was grave and sententious, not without a cast of
severity. But he is said never to have been observed to give way to violent
passion, excepting upon one occasion, when a mischievous truant-boy defaced with
a stone the nose of a cherub's face, which the old man was engaged in
re-touching. I am in general a sparer of the rod, notwithstanding the maxim of
Solomon, for which schoolboys have little reason to thank his memory; but on
this occasion I deemed it proper to show that I did not hate the child. - But I
must return to the circumstances attending my first interview with this
interesting enthusiast.
    In accosting Old Mortality, I did not fail to pay respect to his years and
his principles, beginning my address by a respectful apology for interrupting
his labours. The old man intermitted the operation of the chisel, took off his
spectacles and wiped them, then replacing them on his nose, acknowledged my
courtesy by a suitable return. Encouraged by his affability, I intruded upon him
some questions concerning the sufferers on whose monument he was now employed.
To talk of the exploits of the Covenanters was the delight, as to repair their
monuments was the business, of his life. He was profuse in the communication of
all the minute information which he had collected concerning them, their wars,
and their wanderings. One would almost have supposed he must have been their
contemporary, and have actually beheld the passages which he related, so much
had he identified his feelings and opinions with theirs, and so much had his
narratives the circumstantiality of an eye-witness.
    We, he said, in a tone of exultation, - we are the only true Whigs. Carnal
men have assumed that triumphant appellation, following him whose kingdom is of
this world. Which of them would sit six hours on a wet hill-side to hear a godly
sermon? I trow an hour o't wad staw them. They are ne'er a hair better than them
that shame na to take upon themsells the persecuting name of bludethirsty
Tories. Self-seekers all of them, strivers after wealth, power, and worldly
ambition, and forgetters alike of what has been dree'd and done by the mighty
men who stood in the gap in the great day of wrath. Nae wonder they dread the
accomplishment of what was spoken by the mouth of the worthy Mr. Peden (that
precious servant of the Lord, none of whose words fell to the ground), that the
French monzies sall rise as fast in the glens of Ayr, and the kenns of Galloway,
as ever the Highlandmen did in 1677. And now they are gripping to the bow and to
the spear, when they should be mourning for a sinfu' land and a broken covenant.
    Soothing the old man by letting his peculiar opinions pass without
contradiction, and anxious to prolong conversation with so singular a character,
I prevailed upon him to accept that hospitality which Mr. Cleishbotham is always
willing to extend to those who need it. In our way to the schoolmaster's house,
we called at the Wallace Inn, where I was pretty certain I should find my patron
about that hour of the evening. After a courteous interchange of civilities, Old
Mortality was, with difficulty, prevailed upon to join his host in a single
glass of liquor, and that on condition that he should be permitted to name the
pledge, which he prefaced with a grace of about five minutes, and then, with
bonnet doffed, and eyes uplifted, drank to the memory of those heroes of the
Kirk who had first uplifted her banner upon the mountains. As no persuasion
could prevail on him to extend his conviviality to a second cup, my patron
accompanied him home, and accommodated him in the Prophet's Chamber, as it is
his pleasure to call the closet which holds a spare bed, and which is frequently
a place of retreat for the poor traveller.6
    The next day I took leave of Old Mortality, who seemed affected by the
unusual attention with which I had cultivated his acquaintance and listened to
his conversation. After he had mounted, not without difficulty, the old white
pony, he took me by the hand and said, The blessing of our Master be with you,
young man! My hours are like the ears of the latter harvest, and your days are
yet in the spring; and yet you may be gathered into the garner of mortality
before me, for the sickle of death cuts down the green as oft as the ripe, and
there is a colour in your cheek, that, like the bud of the rose, serveth oft to
hide the worm of corruption. Wherefore labour as one who knoweth not when his
Master calleth. And if it be my lot to return to this village after ye are gone
hame to your ain place, these auld withered hands will frame a stane of
memorial, that your name may not perish from among the people.
    I thanked Old Mortality for his kind intentions in my behalf, and heaved a
sigh, not I think, of regret, so much as of resignation, to think of the chance
that I might soon require his good offices. But though, in all human
probability, he did not err in supposing that my span of life may be abridged in
youth, he had over-estimated the period of his own pilgrimage on earth. It is
now some years since he has been missed in all his usual haunts, while moss,
lichen, and deer- are fast covering those stones, to cleanse which had been the
business of his life. About the beginning of this century, he closed his mortal
toils, being found on the highway near Lockerby, in Dumfriesshire, exhausted and
just expiring. The old white pony, the companion of all his wanderings, was
standing by the side of his dying master. There was found about his person a sum
of money sufficient for his decent interment, which serves to show that his
death was in no ways hastened by violence or by want. The common people still
regard his memory with great respect; and many are of opinion, that the stones
which he repaired will not again require the assistance of the chisel. They even
assert, that on the tombs where the manner of the martyr's murder is recorded,
their names have remained indelibly legible since the death of Old Mortality,
while those of the persecutors, sculptured on the same monuments, have been
entirely defaced. It is hardly necessary to say that this is a fond imagination,
and that, since the time of the pious pilgrim, the monuments which were the
objects of his care are hastening, like all earthly memorials, into ruin or
decay.
    My readers will of course understand, that in embodying into one compressed
narrative many of the anecdotes which I had the advantage of deriving from Old
Mortality, I have been far from adopting either his style, his opinions, or even
his facts, so far as they appear to have been distorted by party prejudice. I
have endeavoured to correct or verify them from the most authentic sources of
tradition afforded by the representatives of either party.
    On the part of the Presbyterians, I have consulted such moorland farmers
from the western districts, as, by the kindness of their landlords or otherwise,
have been able, during the late general change of property, to retain possession
of the grazings on which their grandsires fed their flocks and herds. I must
own, that of late days I have found this a limited source of information. I have
therefore called in the supplementary aid of those modest itinerants, whom the
scrupulous civility of our ancestors denominated travelling merchants, but whom,
of late, accommodating ourselves in this as in more material particulars, to the
feelings and sentiments of our more wealthy neighbours, we have learned to call
packmen or pedlars. To country weavers travelling in hopes to get rid of their
winter web, but more especially to tailors, who, from their sedentary
profession, and the necessity, in our country, of exercising it by temporary
residence in the families by whom they are employed, may be considered as
possessing a complete register of rural traditions, I have been indebted for
many illustrations of the narratives of Old Mortality, much in the taste and
spirit of the original.
    I had more difficulty in finding materials for correcting the tone of
partiality which evidently pervaded those stores of traditional learning, in
order that I might be enabled to present an unbiased picture of the manners of
that unhappy period, and at the same time to do justice to the merits of both
parties. But I have been enabled to qualify the narratives of Old Mortality and
his Cameronian friends, by the reports of more than one descendant of ancient
and honourable families, who, themselves decayed into the humble vale of life,
yet look proudly back on the period when their ancestors fought and fell in
behalf of the exiled house of Stuart. I may even boast right reverend authority
on the same score; for more than one non-juring bishop, whose authority and
income were upon as apostolical a scale as the greatest abominator of Episcopacy
could well desire, have deigned, while partaking of the humble cheer of the
Wallace Inn, to furnish me with information corrective of the facts which I
learned from others. There are also here and there a laird or two, who, though
they shrug their shoulders, profess no great shame in their fathers having
served in the persecuting squadrons of Earlshall and Claverhouse. From the
gamekeepers of these gentlemen, an office the most apt of any other to become
hereditary in such families, I have also contrived to collect much valuable
information.
    Upon the whole, I can hardly fear, that at this time, in describing the
operation which their opposite principles produced upon the good and bad men of
both parties, I can be suspected of meaning insult or injustice to either. If
recollection of former injuries, extra-loyalty, and contempt and hatred of their
adversaries, produced rigour and tyranny in the one party, it will hardly be
denied, on the other hand, that if the zeal for God's house did not eat up the
conventiclers, it devoured at least, to imitate the phrase of Dryden, no small
portion of their loyalty, sober sense, and good breeding. We may safely hope,
that the souls of the brave and sincere on either side have long looked down
with surprise and pity upon the ill-appreciated motives which caused their
mutual hatred and hostility while in this valley of darkness, blood, and tears.
Peace to their memory! Let us think of them as the heroine of our only Scottish
tragedy entreats her lord to think of her departed sire -
 
O rake not up the ashes of our fathers!
Implacable resentment was their crime,
And grievous has the expiation been.«
 

                                 Chapter First

 Summon an hundred horse by break of day,
 To wait our pleasure at the castle gates.
                                                                        Douglas.
 
Under the reign of the last Stuarts, there was an anxious wish on the part of
Government to counteract, by every means in their power, the strict or
puritanical spirit which had been the chief characteristic of the republican
government, and to revive those feudal institutions which united the vassal to
the liege lord, and both to the crown. Frequent musters and assemblies of the
people, both for military exercise and for sports and pastimes, were appointed
by authority. The interference, in the latter case, was impolitic, to say the
least; for, as usual on such occasions, the consciences which were at first only
scrupulous, became confirmed in their opinions, instead of giving way to the
terrors of authority; and the youth of both sexes, to whom the pipe and tabor in
England, or the bagpipe in Scotland, would have been in themselves an
irresistible temptation, were enabled to set them at defiance, from the proud
consciousness that they were, at the same time, resisting an act of council. To
compel men to dance and be merry by authority, has rarely succeeded even on
board of slave-ships, where it was formerly sometimes attempted by way of
inducing the wretched captives to agitate their limbs and restore the
circulation, during the few minutes they were permitted to enjoy the fresh air
upon deck. The rigour of the strict Calvinists increased in proportion to the
wishes of the Government that it should be relaxed. A judaical observance of the
Sabbath - a supercilious condemnation of all manly pastimes and harmless
recreations, as well as of the profane custom of promiscuous dancing, that is,
of men and women dancing together in the same party (for I believe they admitted
that the exercise might be inoffensive if practised by the parties separately) -
distinguishing those who professed a more than ordinary share of sanctity. They
discouraged, as far as lay in their power, even the ancient wappenschaws, as
they were termed, when the feudal array of the county was called out, and each
crown-vassal was required to appear with such muster of men and armour as he was
bound to make by his fief, and that under high statutory penalties. The
Covenanters were the more jealous of those assemblies, as the lord lieutenants
and sheriffs under whom they were held had instructions from the Government to
spare no pains which might render them agreeable to the young men who were thus
summoned together, upon whom the military exercise of the morning, and the
sports which usually closed the evening, might naturally be supposed to have a
seductive effect.
    The preachers and proselytes of the more rigid Presbyterians laboured,
therefore, by caution, remonstrance, and authority, to diminish the attendance
upon these summonses, conscious that in doing so, they lessened not only the
apparent, but the actual strength of the Government, by impeding the extension
of that esprit de corps which soon unites young men who are in the habit of
meeting together for manly sport, or military exercise. They, therefore, exerted
themselves earnestly to prevent attendance on these occasions by those who could
find any possible excuse for absence, and were especially severe upon such of
their hearers as mere curiosity led to be spectators, or love of exercise to be
partakers, of the array and the sports which took place. Such of the gentry as
acceded to these doctrines were not always, however, in a situation to be ruled
by them. The commands of the law were imperative; and the privy council, who
administered the executive power in Scotland, were severe in enforcing the
statutory penalties against the crown-vassals who did not appear at the
periodical wappenschaw. The landholders were compelled, therefore, to send their
sons, tenants, and vassals to the rendezvous, to the number of horses, men, and
spears, at which they were rated; and it frequently happened, that
notwithstanding the strict charge of their elders, to return as soon as the
formal inspection was over, the young men-at-arms were unable to resist the
temptation of sharing in the sports which succeeded the muster, or to avoid
listening to the prayers read in the churches on these occasions, and thus, in
the opinion of their repining parents, meddling with the accursed thing which is
an abomination in the sight of the Lord.
    The sheriff of the county of Lanark was holding the wappenschaw of a wild
district, called the Upper Ward of Clydesdale, on a haugh or level plain, near
to a royal borough, the name of which is no way essential to my story, on the
morning of the 5th of May 1679, when our narrative commences. When the musters
had been made, and duly reported, the young men, as was usual, were to mix in
various sports, of which the chief was to shoot at the popinjay,7 an ancient
game formerly practised with archery, but at this period with firearms. This was
the figure of a bird, decked with party-coloured feathers, so as to resemble a
popinjay or parrot. It was suspended to a pole, and served for a mark at which
the competitors discharged their fusees and carabines in rotation, at the
distance of sixty or seventy paces. He whose ball brought down the mark, held
the proud title of Captain of the Popinjay for the remainder of the day, and was
usually escorted in triumph to the most reputable change-house in the
neighbourhood, where the evening was closed with conviviality, conducted under
his auspices, and, if he was able to sustain it, at his expense.
    It will, of course, be supposed, that the ladies of the country assembled to
witness this gallant strife, those excepted who held the stricter tenets of
puritanism, and would therefore have deemed it criminal to afford countenance to
the profane gambols of the malignants. Landaus, barouches, or tilburies, there
were none in those simple days. The lord lieutenant of the county (a personage
of ducal rank) alone pretended to the magnificence of a wheel-carriage, a thing
covered with tarnished gilding and sculpture, in shape like the vulgar picture
of Noah's ark, dragged by eight long-tailed Flanders mares, bearing eight
insides and six outsides. The insides were their Graces in person, two maids of
honour, two children, a chaplain stuffed into a sort of lateral recess, formed
by a projection at the door of the vehicle, and called, from its appearance, the
boot, and an equerry to his Grace ensconced in the corresponding convenience on
the opposite side. A coachman and three postilions, who wore short swords, and
tie-wigs with three tails, had blunderbusses slung behind them, and pistols at
their saddle-bow, conducted the equipage. On the foot-board, behind this moving
mansion-house, stood, or rather hung, in triple file, six lacqueys in rich
liveries, armed up to the teeth. The rest of the gentry, men and women, old and
young, were on horseback, followed by their servants; but the company, for the
reasons already assigned, was rather select than numerous.
    Near to the enormous leathern vehicle which we have attempted to describe,
vindicating her title to precedence over the untitled gentry of the country,
might be seen the sober palfrey of Lady Margaret Bellenden, bearing the erect
and primitive form of Lady Margaret herself, decked in those widow's weeds which
the good lady had never laid aside since the execution of her husband for his
adherence to Montrose.
    Her grand-daughter, and only earthly care, the fair-haired Edith, who was
generally allowed to be the prettiest lass in the Upper Ward, appeared beside
her aged relative like Spring placed close to Winter. Her black Spanish jennet,
which she managed with much grace, her gay riding-dress, and laced side-saddle,
had been anxiously prepared to set her forth to the best advantage. But the
clustering profusion of ringlets, which, escaping from under her cap, were only
confined by a green ribbon from wantoning over her shoulders; her cast of
features, soft and feminine, yet not without a certain expression of playful
archness, which redeemed their sweetness from the charge of insipidity,
sometimes brought against blondes and blue-eyed beauties, - these attracted more
admiration from the western youth than either the splendour of her equipments or
the figure of her palfrey.
    The attendance of these distinguished ladies was rather inferior to their
birth and fashion in those times, as it consisted only of two servants on
horseback. The truth was, that the good old lady had been obliged to make all
her domestic servants turn out to complete the quota which her barony ought to
furnish for the muster, and in which she would not for the universe have been
found deficient. The old steward, who, in steel cap and jack-boots, led forth
her array, had, as he said, sweated blood and water in his efforts to overcome
the scruples and evasions of the moorland farmers, who ought to have furnished
men, horse, and harness, on these occasions. At last their dispute came near to
an open declaration of hostilities, the incensed Episcopalian bestowing on the
recusants the whole thunders of the commination, and receiving from them, in
return, the denunciations of a Calvinistic excommunication. What was to be done?
To punish the refractory tenants would have been easy enough. The privy council
would readily have imposed fines, and sent a troop of horse to collect them. But
this would have been calling the huntsman and hounds into the garden to kill the
hare.
    »For,« said Harrison to himself, »the carles have little enough gear at ony
rate, and if I call in the red-coats and take away what little they have, how is
my worshipful lady to get her rents paid at Candlemas, which is but a difficult
matter to bring round even in the best of times?«
    So he armed the fowler and falconer, the footman and the ploughman, at the
home farm, with an old drunken cavaliering butler, who had served with the late
Sir Richard under Montrose, and stunned the family nightly with his exploits at
Kilsythe and Tippermoor, and who was the only man in the party that had the
smallest zeal for the work in hand. In this manner, and by recruiting one or two
latitudinarian poachers and black-fishers, Mr. Harrison completed the quota of
men which fell to the share of Lady Margaret Bellenden, as liferentrix of the
barony of Tillietudlem and others. But when the steward, on the morning of the
eventful day, had mustered his troupe dorée before the iron gate of the tower,
the mother of Cuddie Headrigg the ploughman appeared, loaded with the
jack-boots, buff coat, and other accoutrements which had been issued forth for
the service of the day, and laid them before the steward; demurely assuring him,
that »whether it were the colic, or a qualm of conscience, she couldn't have take upon
her to decide, but sure it was, Cuddie had been in sair straits a' night, and
she couldn't have say he was muckle better this morning. The finger of Heaven,« she
said, »was in it, and her bairn should gang on nae sic errands.« Pains,
penalties, and threats of dismissal, were denounced in vain; the mother was
obstinate, and Cuddie, who underwent a domiciliary visitation for the purpose of
verifying his state of body, could or would answer only by deep groans. Mause,
who had been an ancient domestic in the family, was a sort of favourite with
Lady Margaret, and presumed accordingly. Lady Margaret had herself set forth,
and her authority could not be appealed to. In this dilemma, the good genius of
the old butler suggested an expedient.
    »He had seen mony a braw callant, far less than Guse Gibbie, fight brawly
under Montrose. What for no take Guse Gibbie?«
    This was a half-witted lad, of very small stature, who had a kind of charge
of the poultry under the old henwife; for in a Scottish family of that day there
was a wonderful substitution of labour. This urchin being sent for from the
stubble-field, was hastily muffled in the buff coat, and girded rather to than
with the sword of a full-grown man, his little legs plunged into jackboots, and
a steel cap put upon his head, which seemed, from its size, as if it had been
intended to extinguish him. Thus accoutred, he was hoisted, at his own earnest
request, upon the quietest horse of the party; and, prompted and supported by
old Gudyill the butler, as his front file, he passed muster tolerably enough;
the sheriff not caring to examine too closely the recruits of so well-affected a
person as Lady Margaret Bellenden.
    To the above cause it was owing that the personal retinue of Lady Margaret,
on this eventful day, amounted only to two lacqueys, with which diminished train
she would, on any other occasion, have been much ashamed to appear in public.
But, for the cause of royalty, she was ready at any time to have made the most
unreserved personal sacrifices. She had lost her husband and two promising sons
in the civil wars of that unhappy period; but she had received her reward, for,
on his route through the west of Scotland to meet Cromwell in the unfortunate
field of Worcester, Charles the Second had actually breakfasted at the Tower of
Tillietudlem - an incident which formed, from that moment, an important era in
the life of Lady Margaret, who seldom afterwards partook of that meal, either at
home or abroad, without detailing the whole circumstances of the royal visit,
not forgetting the salutation which his majesty conferred on each side of her
face, though she sometimes omitted to notice that he bestowed the same favour on
two buxom serving-wenches who appeared at her back, elevated for the day into
the capacity of waiting gentlewomen.
    These instances of royal favour were decisive; and if Lady Margaret had not
been a confirmed royalist already, from sense of high birth, influence of
education, and hatred to the opposite party, through whom she had suffered such
domestic calamity, the having given a breakfast to majesty, and received the
royal salute in return, were honours enough of themselves to unite her
exclusively to the fortunes of the Stuarts. These were now, in all appearance,
triumphant; but Lady Margaret's zeal had adhered to them through the worst of
times, and was ready to sustain the same severities of fortune should their
scale once more kick the beam. At present she enjoyed, in full extent, the
military display of the force which stood ready to support the crown, and
stifled, as well as she could, the mortification she felt at the unworthy
desertion of her own retainers.
    Many civilities passed between her ladyship and the representatives of
sundry ancient loyal families who were upon the ground, by whom she was held in
high reverence; and not a young man of rank passed by them in the course of the
muster, but he carried his body more erect in the saddle, and threw his horse
upon its haunches, to display his own horsemanship and the perfect bitting of
his steed to the best advantage in the eyes of Miss Edith Bellenden. But the
young cavaliers, distinguished by high descent and undoubted loyalty, attracted
no more attention from Edith than the laws of courtesy peremptorily demanded;
and she turned an indifferent ear to the compliments with which she was
addressed, most of which were little the worse for the wear, though borrowed for
the nonce from the laborious and long-winded romances of Calprenede and Scuderi,
the mirrors in which the youth of that age delighted to dress themselves, ere
Folly had thrown her ballast overboard, and cut down her vessels of the
first-rate, such as the romances of Cyrus, Cleopatra, and others, into small
craft, drawing as little water, or, to speak more plainly, consuming as little
time, as the little cockboat in which the gentle reader has deigned to embark.
It was, however, the decree of fate that Miss Bellenden should not continue to
evince the same equanimity till the conclusion of the day.
 

                                 Chapter Second

 Horsemen and horse confess'd the bitter pang,
 And arms and warrior fell with hollow clang.
                                                              Pleasures of Hope.
 
When the military evolutions had been gone through tolerably well, allowing for
the awkwardness of men and of horses, a loud shout announced that the
competitors were about to step forth for the game of the popinjay already
described. The mast, or pole, having a yard extended across it, from which the
mark was displayed, was raised amid the acclamations of the assembly; and even
those who had eyed the evolutions of the feudal militia with a sort of malignant
and sarcastic sneer, from disinclination to the royal cause in which they were
professedly embodied, could not refrain from taking considerable interest in the
strife which was now approaching. They crowded towards the goal, and criticised
the appearance of each competitor, as they advanced in succession, discharged
their pieces at the mark, and had their good or bad address rewarded by the
laughter or applause of the spectators. But when a slender young man, dressed
with great simplicity, yet not without a certain air of pretension to elegance
and gentility, approached the station with his fusee in his hand, his dark-green
cloak thrown back over his shoulder, his laced ruff and feathered cap indicating
a superior rank to the vulgar, there was a murmur of interest among the
spectators, whether altogether favourable to the young adventurer, it was
difficult to discover.
    »Ewhow, sirs, to see his father's son at the like o' thae fearless follies!«
was the ejaculation of the elder and more rigid puritans, whose curiosity had so
far overcome their bigotry as to bring them to the playground. But the
generality viewed the strife less morosely, and were contented to wish success
to the son of a deceased Presbyterian leader, without strictly examining the
propriety of his being a competitor for the prize.
    Their wishes were gratified. At the first discharge of his piece the green
adventurer struck the popinjay, being the first palpable hit of the day, though
several balls had passed very near the mark. A loud shout of applause ensued.
But the success was not decisive, it being necessary that each who followed
should have his chance, and that those who succeeded in hitting the mark, should
renew the strife among themselves, till one displayed a decided superiority over
the others. Two only of those who followed in order succeeded in hitting the
popinjay. The first was a young man of low rank, heavily built, and who kept his
face muffled in his grey cloak; the second a gallant young cavalier, remarkable
for a handsome exterior, sedulously decorated for the day. He had been since the
muster in close attendance on Lady Margaret and Miss Bellenden, and had left
them with an air of indifference, when Lady Margaret had asked whether there was
no young man of family and loyal principles who would dispute the prize with the
two lads who had been successful. In half-a-minute, young Lord Evandale threw
himself from his horse, borrowed a gun from a servant, and, as we have already
noticed, hit the mark. Great was the interest excited by the renewal of the
contest between the three candidates who had been hitherto successful. The state
equipage of the Duke was, with some difficulty, put in motion, and approached
more near to the scene of action. The riders, both male and female, turned their
horses' heads in the same direction, and all eyes were bent upon the issue of
the trial of skill.
    It was the etiquette in the second contest, that the competitors should take
their turn of firing after drawing lots. The first fell upon the young plebeian,
who, as he took his stand, half-uncloaked his rustic countenance, and said to
the gallant in green, »Ye see, Mr. Henry, if it were ony other day, I could hae
wished to miss for your sake, but Jenny Dennison is looking at us, sae I maun do
my best.«
    He took his aim, and his bullet whistled past the mark so nearly, that the
pendulous object at which it was directed was seen to shiver. Still, however, he
had not hit it, and with a downcast look he withdrew himself from further
competition, and hastened to disappear from the assembly, as if fearful of being
recognised. The green chasseur next advanced, and his ball a second time struck
the popinjay. All shouted; and from the outskirts of the assembly arose a cry of
»The good old cause for ever!«
    While the dignitaries bent their brows at these exulting shouts of the
disaffected, the young Lord Evandale advanced again to the hazard, and again was
successful. The shouts and congratulations of the well-affected and
aristocratical part of the audience attended his success; but still a subsequent
trial of skill remained.
    The green marksman, as if determined to bring the affair to a decision, took
his horse from a person who held him, having previously looked carefully to the
security of his girths and the fitting of his saddle, vaulted on his back, and
motioning with his hand for the bystanders to make way, set spurs, passed the
place from which he was to fire at a gallop, and, as he passed, threw up the
reins, turned sideways upon his saddle, discharged his carabine, and brought
down the popinjay. Lord Evandale imitated his example, although many around him
said it was an innovation on the established practice which he was not obliged
to follow. But his skill was not so perfect, or his horse was not so well
trained. The animal swerved at the moment his master fired, and the ball missed
the popinjay. Those who had been surprised by the address of the green marksman,
were now equally pleased by his courtesy. He disclaimed all merit from the last
shot, and proposed to his antagonist that it should not be counted as a hit, and
that they should renew the contest on foot.
    »I would prefer horseback, if I had a horse as well bitted, and, probably,
as well broken to the exercise, as yours,« said the young Lord, addressing his
antagonist.
    »Will you do me the honour to use him for the next trial, on condition you
will lend me yours?« said the young gentleman.
    Lord Evandale was ashamed to accept this courtesy, as conscious how much it
would diminish the value of victory; and yet unable to suppress his wish to
redeem his reputation as a marksman, he added, »that although he renounced all
pretensions to the honour of the day« (which he said somewhat scornfully), »yet
if the victor had no particular objection, he would willingly embrace his
obliging offer, and change horses with him, for the purpose of trying a shot for
love.«
    As he said so, he looked boldly towards Miss Bellenden, and tradition says
that the eyes of the young tirailleur travelled, though more covertly, in the
same direction. The young lord's last trial was as unsuccessful as the former,
and it was with difficulty that he preserved the tone of scornful indifference
which he had hitherto assumed. But, conscious of the ridicule which attaches
itself to the resentment of a losing party, he returned to his antagonist the
horse on which he had made his last unsuccessful attempt, and received back his
own; giving, at the same time, thanks to his competitor, who, he said, had
reestablished his favourite horse in his good opinion, for he had been in great
danger of transferring to the poor nag the blame of an inferiority, which every
one, as well as himself, must now be satisfied remained with the rider. - Having
made this speech, in a tone in which mortification assumed the veil of
indifference, he mounted his horse and rode off the ground.
    As is the usual way of the world, the applause and attention even of those
whose wishes had favoured Lord Evandale, were, upon his decisive discomfiture,
transferred to his triumphant rival.
    »Who is he? what is his name?« ran from mouth to mouth among the gentry who
were present, to few of whom he was personally known. His style and title having
soon transpired, and being within that class whom a great man might notice
without derogation, four of the Duke's friends, with the obedient start which
poor Malvolio ascribes to his imaginary retinue, made out to lead the victor to
his presence. As they conducted him in triumph through the crowd of spectators,
and stunned him at the same time with their compliments on his success, he
chanced to pass, or rather to be led, immediately in front of Lady Margaret and
her grand-daughter. The Captain of the Popinjay and Miss Bellenden coloured like
crimson, as the latter returned, with embarrassed courtesy, the low inclination
which the victor made, even to the saddlebow, in passing her.
    »Do you know that young person?« said Lady Margaret.
    »I - I - have seen him, madam, at my uncle's, and - and elsewhere,
occasionally,« stammered Miss Edith Bellenden.
    »I hear them say around me,« said Lady Margaret, »that the young spark is
the nephew of old Milnwood.«
    »The son of the late Colonel Morton of Milnwood, who commanded a regiment of
horse with great courage at Dunbar and Inverkeithing,« said a gentleman who sate
on horseback beside Lady Margaret.
    »Ay, and who, before that, fought for the Covenanters both at Marston Moor
and Philiphaugh,« said Lady Margaret, sighing as she pronounced the last fatal
words, which her husband's death gave her such sad reason to remember.
    »Your ladyship's memory is just,« said the gentleman smiling; »but it were
well all that were forgot now.«
    »He ought to remember it, Gilbertscleugh,« returned Lady Margaret, »and
dispense with intruding himself into the company of those to whom his name must
bring unpleasing recollections.«
    »You forget, my dear lady,« said her nomenclator, »that the young gentleman
comes to discharge suit and service in name of his uncle. I would every estate
in the country sent out as pretty a fellow.«
    »His uncle, as well as his umquhile father, is a roundhead, I presume,« said
Lady Margaret.
    »He is an old miser,« said Gilbertscleugh, »with whom a broad piece would at
any time weigh down political opinions, and therefore, although probably
somewhat against the grain, he sends the young gentleman to attend the muster,
to save pecuniary pains and penalties. As for the rest, I suppose the youngster
is happy enough to escape here for a day from the dullness of the old house at
Milnwood, where he sees nobody but his hypochondriac uncle and the favourite
housekeeper.«
    »Do you know how many men and horse the lands of Milnwood are rated at?«
said the old lady, continuing her inquiry.
    »Two horsemen with complete harness,« answered Gilbertscleugh.
    »Our land,« said Lady Margaret, drawing herself up with dignity, »has always
furnished to the muster eight men, cousin Gilbertscleugh, and often a voluntary
aid of thrice the number. I remember his sacred Majesty King Charles, when he
took his disjune at Tillietudlem, was particular in inquiring« --
    »I see the Duke's carriage in motion,« said Gilbertscleugh, partaking at the
moment an alarm common to all Lady Margaret's friends when she touched upon the
topic of the royal visit at the family mansion - »I see the Duke's carriage in
motion; I presume your ladyship will take your right of rank in leaving the
field. May I be permitted to convoy your ladyship and Miss Bellenden home?
Parties of the wild whigs have been abroad, and are said to insult and disarm
the well-affected who travel in small numbers.«
    »We thank you, cousin Gilbertscleugh,« said Lady Margaret; »but as we shall
have the escort of my own people, I trust we have less need than others to be
troublesome to our friends. Will you have the goodness to order Harrison to
bring up our people somewhat more briskly; he rides them towards us as if he
were leading a funeral procession.«
    The gentleman in attendance communicated his lady's orders to the trusty
steward.
    Honest Harrison had his own reasons for doubting the prudence of this
command; but once issued and received, there was a necessity for obeying it. He
set off, therefore, at a hand-gallop, followed by the butler, in such a military
attitude as became one who had served under Montrose, and with a look of
defiance, rendered sterner and fiercer by the inspiring fumes of a gill of
brandy, which he had snatched a moment to bolt to the king's health, and
confusion to the Covenant, during the intervals of military duty. Unhappily this
potent refreshment wiped away from the tablets of his memory the necessity of
paying some attention to the distresses and difficulties of his rear-file Goose
Gibbie. No sooner had the horses struck a canter, than Gibbie's jack-boots,
which the poor boy's legs were incapable of steadying, began to play alternately
against the horse's flanks, and, being armed with long-rowelled spurs, overcame
the patience of the animal, which bounced and plunged, while poor Gibbie's
entreaties for aid never reached the ears of the too heedless butler, being
drowned partly in the concave of the steel cap in which his head was immersed,
and partly in the martial tune of the Gallant Græmes, which Mr. Gudyill whistled
with all his power of lungs.
    The upshot was, that the steed speedily took the matter into his own hands,
and having gambolled hither and thither to the great amusement of all
spectators, set off at full speed towards the huge family-coach already
described. Gibbie's pike, escaping from its sling, had fallen to a level
direction across his hands, which I grieve to say, were seeking dishonourable
safety in as strong a grasp of the mane as their muscles could manage. His
casque, too, had slipped completely over his face, so that he saw as little in
front as he did in rear. Indeed, if he could, it would have availed him little
in the circumstances; for his horse, as if in league with the disaffected, ran
full tilt towards the solemn equipage of the Duke, which the projecting lance
threatened to perforate from window to window, at the risk of transfixing as
many in its passage as the celebrated thrust of Orlando, which, according to the
Italian epic poet, broached as many Moors as ft Frenchman spits frogs.
    On beholding the bent of this misdirected career, a panic shout of mingled
terror and wrath was set up by the whole equipage, insides and outsides, at
once, which had the effect of averting the threatened misfortune. The capricious
horse of Goose Gibbie was terrified by the noise, and stumbling as he turned
short round, kicked and plunged violently as soon as he recovered. The
jack-boots, the original cause of the disaster, maintaining the reputation they
had acquired when worn by better cavaliers, answered every plunge by a fresh
prick of the spurs, and, by their ponderous weight, kept their place in the
stirrups. Not so Goose Gibbie, who was fairly spurned out of those wide and
ponderous greaves, and precipitated over the horse's head, to the infinite
amusement of all the spectators. His lance and helmet had forsaken him in his
fall, and, for the completion of his disgrace, Lady Margaret Bellenden, not
perfectly aware that it was one of her warriors who was furnishing so much
entertainment, came up in time to see her diminutive man-at-arms stripped of his
lion's hide, - of the buff-coat, that is, in which he was muffled.
    As she had not been made acquainted with this metamorphosis, and could not
even guess its cause, her surprise and resentment were extreme, - nor were they
much modified by the excuses and explanations of her steward and butler. She
made a hasty retreat homeward, extremely indignant at the shouts and laughter of
the company, and much disposed to vent her displeasure on the refractory
agriculturist whose place Goose Gibbie had so unhappily supplied. The greater
part of the gentry now dispersed, the whimsical misfortune which had befallen
the gensd'armerie of Tillietudlem furnishing them with huge entertainment on
their road homeward. The horsemen also, in little parties, as their road lay
together, diverged from the place of rendezvous, excepting such as, having tried
their dexterity at the popinjay, were, by ancient custom, obliged to partake of
a grace-cup with their captain before their departure.
 

                                 Chapter Third

 At fairs he played before the spearmen,
 And gaily graithed in their gear then,
 Steel bonnets, pikes, and swords shone clear then
 As ony bead;
 Now what sall play before sic weir men,
 Since Habbie's dead!
                                                        Elegy on Habbie Simpson.
 
The cavalcade of horsemen, on their road to the little borough town, were
preceded by Niel Blane, the town-piper, mounted on his white galloway, armed
with his dirk and broadsword, and bearing a chanter streaming with as many
ribbons as would deck out six country belles for a fair or preaching. Niel, a
clean, tight, well-timbered, long-winded fellow, had gained the official
situation of town-piper of -- by his merit, with all the emoluments thereof; -
namely, the Piper's Croft, as it is still called, a field of about an acre in
extent; five merks, and a new livery-coat of the town's colours, yearly; some
hopes of a dollar upon the day of the election of magistrates, providing the
provost were able and willing to afford such a gratuity; and the privilege of
paying, at all the respectable houses in the neighbourhood, an annual visit at
spring-time, to rejoice their hearts with his music, to comfort his own with
their ale and brandy, and to beg from each a modicum of seed-corn.
    In addition to these inestimable advantages, Niel's personal, or
professional, accomplishments won the heart of a jolly widow, who then kept the
principal change-house in the borough. Her former husband having been a strict
Presbyterian, of such note that he usually went among his sect by the name of
Gaius the publican, many of the more rigid were scandalised by the profession of
the successor whom his relict had chosen for a second helpmate. As the browst
(or brewing) of the Howff retained, nevertheless, its unrivalled reputation,
most of the old customers continued to give it a preference. The character of
the new landlord, indeed, was of that accommodating kind, which enabled him, by
close attention to the helm, to keep his little vessel pretty steady amid the
contending tides of faction. He was a good-humoured, shrewd, selfish sort of
fellow, indifferent alike to the disputes about church and state, and only
anxious to secure the good-will of customers of every description. But his
character, as well as the state of the country, will be best understood by
giving the reader an account of the instructions which he issued to his
daughter, a girl about eighteen, whom he was initiating in those cares which had
been faithfully discharged by his wife, until about six months before our story
commences, when the honest woman had been carried to the kirkyard.
    »Jenny,« said Niel Blane, as the girl assisted to disencumber him of his
bagpipes, »this is the first day that ye are to take the place of your worthy
mother in attending to the public; a douce woman she was, civil to the
customers, and had a good name wi' Whig and Tory, baith up the street and doun
the street. It will be hard for you to fill her place, especially on sic a
thrang day as this; but Heaven's will maun be obeyed. Jenny, whatever Milnwood
ca's for, be sure he maun hae't, for he's the Captain o' the Popinjay, and auld
customs maun be supported; if he canna pay the lawing himself, as I ken he's
keep it unco short by the head, I'll find a way to shame it out o' his uncle. The
curate is playing at dice wi' Cornet Grahame. Be eident and civil to them baith
- clergy and captains can give an unco deal o' fash in thae times, where they
take an ill-will. The dragoons will be crying for ale, and they wunna want it,
and maunna want it - they are unruly chields, but they pay ane some gate or
other. I gat the humle cow, that's the best in the byre, frae black Frank Inglis
and Sergeant Bothwell, for ten pund Scots, and they drank out the price at ae
downsitting.«
    »But, father,« interrupted Jenny, »they say the twa reiving loons drave the
cow frae the gudewife o' Bell's-moor, just because she gaed to hear a
field-preaching ae Sabbath afternoon.«
    »Whisht, ye sillie tawpie!« said her father; »we have nothing to do how
they come by the bestial they sell - be that atween them and their consciences.
- Aweel - take notice, Jenny, of that dour, stour-looking carle, that sits by
the cheek o' the ingle, and turns his back on a' men. He looks like ane o' the
hill-folk, for I saw him start a wee when he saw the redcoats, and I jalouse he
wad hae liked to hae ridden by, but his horse (it's a good gelding) was ower
sair travailed; he behoved to stop whether he wad or no. Serve him cannily,
Jenny, and wi' little din, and dinna bring the sodgers on him by speering ony
questions at him; but let na him hae a room to himself - they wad say we were
hiding him. - For yoursell, Jenny, - ye'll be civil to a' the folk, and take nae
heed o' ony nonsense and daffing the young lads may say t'ye; - folk in the
hostler line maun pit up wi' muckle. Your mither - rest her saul! - could pit up
wi' as muckle as maist women - but aff hands is fair play; and if anybody be
uncivil, ye may give me a cry. - Aweel, - when the malt begins to get aboon the
meal, they'll begin to speak about government in kirk and state, and then,
Jenny, they are like to quarrel - Let them be doing - anger's a drouthy passion,
and the mair they dispute, the mair ale they'll drink; but ye were best serve
them wi' a pint o' the sma' browst - it will heat them less, and they'll never
ken the difference.«
    »But, father,« said Jenny, »if they come to lounder ilk ither, as they did
last time, suldna I cry on you?«
    »At no hand, Jenny; the redder gets aye the warst lick in the fray. If the
sodgers draw their swords, ye'll cry on the corporal and the guard; if the
country folk take the tangs and poker, ye'll cry on the bailie and town-officers;
- but in nae event cry on me, for I am wearied wi' doudling the bag o' wind a'
day, and I am gaun to eat my dinner quietly in the spence. - And, now I think
on't, the Laird of Lickitup (that's him that was the laird) was speering for
sma' drink and a saut herring - give him a pu' be the sleeve, and round into his
lug I wad be blithe o' his company to dine wi' me; he was a good customer anes
in a day, and wants nothing but means to be a good ane again - he likes drink
as well as e'er he did. And if ye ken ony puir body o' our acquaintance that's
blate for want o' siller, and has far to gang hame, ye needna stick to give them
a waught o' drink and a bannock - we'll ne'er miss't, and it looks creditable in
a house like ours. And now, hinny, gang away', and serve the folk, but first
bring me my dinner, and twa chappins o' yill and the mutchkin stoup o' brandy.«
    Having thus devolved his whole cares on Jenny as prime minister, Niel Blane
and the ci-devant laird, once his patron, but now glad to be his
trencher-companion, sate down to enjoy themselves for the remainder of the
evening, remote from the bustle of the public room.
    All in Jenny's department was in full activity. The knights of the popinjay
received and requited the hospitable entertainment of their captain, who, though
he spared the cup himself, took care it should go round with due celerity among
the rest, who might not have otherwise deemed themselves handsomely treated.
Their numbers melted away by degrees, and were at length diminished to four or
five, who began to talk of breaking up their party. At another table, at some
distance, sat two of the dragoons whom Niel Blane had mentioned, a sergeant and
a private in the celebrated John Grahame of Claverhouse's regiment of
Life-Guards. Even the non-commissioned officers and privates in these corps were
not considered as ordinary mercenaries, but rather approached to the rank of the
French mousquetaires, being regarded in the light of cadets, who performed the
duties of rank-and-file with the prospect of obtaining commissions in case of
distinguishing themselves.
    Many young men of good families were to be found in the ranks, a
circumstance which added to the pride and self-consequence of these troops. A
remarkable instance of this occurred in the person of the non- officer in
question. His real name was Francis Stewart, but he was universally known by the
appellation of Bothwell, being lineally descended from the last earl of that
name - not the infamous lover of the unfortunate Queen Mary, but Francis
Stewart, Earl of Bothwell, whose turbulence and repeated conspiracies
embarrassed the early part of James Sixth's reign, and who at length died in
exile in great poverty. The son of this Earl had sued to Charles I. for the
restitution of part of his father's forfeited estates, but the grasp of the
nobles to whom they had been allotted was too tenacious to be unclenched. The
breaking out of the civil wars utterly ruined him, by intercepting a small
pension which Charles I. had allowed him, and he died in the utmost indigence.
His son, after having served as a soldier abroad and in Britain, and passed
through several vicissitudes of fortune, was fain to content himself with the
situation of a non-commissioned officer in the Life-Guards, although lineally
descended from the royal family, the father of the forfeited Earl of Bothwell
having been a natural son of James V.8 Great personal strength and dexterity in
the use of his arms, as well as the remarkable circumstances of his descent, had
recommended this man to the attention of his officers. But he partook in a great
degree of the licentiousness and oppressive disposition, which the habit of
acting as agents for government in levying fines, exacting free quarters, and
otherwise oppressing the Presbyterian recusants, had rendered too general among
these soldiers. They were so much accustomed to such missions, that they
conceived themselves at liberty to commit all manner of license with impunity,
as if totally exempted from all law and authority, excepting the command of
their officers. On such occasions Bothwell was usually the most forward.
    It is probable that Bothwell and his companions would not so long have
remained quiet, but for respect to the presence of their Cornet, who commanded
the small party quartered in the borough, and who was engaged in a game at dice
with the curate of the place. But both of these being suddenly called from their
amusement to speak with the chief magistrate upon some urgent business, Bothwell
was not long of evincing his contempt for the rest of the company.
    »Is it not a strange thing, Halliday,« he said to his comrade, »to see a set
of bumpkins sit carousing here this whole evening, without having drank the
king's health?«
    »They have drank the king's health,« said Halliday. »I heard that green
kail-worm of a lad name his Majesty's health.«
    »Did he?« said Bothwell. »Then, Tom, we'll have them drink the Archbishop of
St. Andrews' health, and do it on their knees too.«
    »So we will, by G-!« said Halliday; »and he that refuses it, we'll have him
to the guard-house, and teach him to ride the colt foaled of an acorn, with a
brace of carabines at each foot to keep him steady.«
    »Right, Tom,« continued Bothwell; »and, to do all things in order, I'll
begin with that sulky blue-bonnet in the inglenook.«
    He rose accordingly, and taking his sheathed broadsword under his arm to
support the insolence which he meditated, placed himself in front of the
stranger noticed by Niel Blane in his admonitions to his daughter, as being, in
all probability, one of the hill-folk, or refractory Presbyterians.
    »I make so bold as to request of your precision, beloved,« said the trooper,
in a tone of affected solemnity, and assuming the snuffle of a country preacher,
»that you will arise from your seat, beloved, and, having bent your hams until
your knees do rest upon the floor, beloved, that you will turn over this measure
(called by the profane a gill) of the comfortable creature, which the carnal
denominate brandy, to the health and glorification of his Grace the Archbishop
of St. Andrews, the worthy primate of all Scotland.«
    All waited for the stranger's answer. His features, austere even to
ferocity, with a cast of the eye which, without being actually oblique,
approached nearly to a squint, and which gave a very sinister expression to his
countenance, joined to a frame, square, strong, and muscular, though something
under the middle size, seemed to announce a man unlikely to understand rude
jesting, or to receive insults with impunity.
    »And what is the consequence,« said he, »if I should not be disposed to
comply with your uncivil request?«
    »The consequence thereof, beloved,« said Bothwell, in the same tone of
raillery, »will be, firstly, that I will tweak thy proboscis or nose. Secondly,
beloved, that I will administer my fist to thy distorted visual optics; and will
conclude, beloved, with a practical application of the flat of my sword to the
shoulders of the recusant.«
    »Is it even so?« said the stranger; »then give me the cup;« and, taking it
in his hand, he said, with a peculiar expression of voice and manner, »The
Archbishop of St. Andrews, and the place he now worthily holds; - may each
prelate in Scotland soon be as the Right Reverend James Sharp!«
    »He has taken the test,« said Halliday, exultingly.
    »But with a qualification,« said Bothwell; »I don't understand what the
devil the crop-eared whig means.«
    »Come, gentlemen,« said Morton, who became impatient of their insolence, »we
are met here as good subjects, and on a merry occasion; and we have a right to
expect we shall not be troubled with this sort of discussion.«
    Bothwell was about to make a surly answer, but Halliday reminded him in a
whisper, that there were strict injunctions that the soldiers should give no
offence to the men who were sent out to the musters agreeably to the council's
orders. So, after honouring Morton with a broad and fierce stare, he said,
»Well, Mr. Popinjay, I shall not disturb your reign; I reckon it will be out by
twelve at night. - Is it not an odd thing, Halliday,« he continued, addressing
his companion, »that they should make such a fuss about cracking off their
birding pieces at a mark which any woman or boy could hit at a day's practice?
If Captain Popinjay now, or any of his troop, would try a bout, either with the
broadsword, backsword, single rapier, or rapier and dagger, for a gold noble,
the first drawn blood, there would be some soul in it, - or, zounds, would the
bumpkins but wrestle, or pitch the bar, or putt the stone, or throw the
axle-tree, if (touching the end of Morton's sword scornfully with his toe) they
carry things about them that they are afraid to draw.«
    Morton's patience and prudence now gave way entirely, and he was about to
make a very angry answer to Bothwell's insolent observations, when the stranger
stepped forward.
    »This is my quarrel,« he said, »and in the name of the good cause, I will
see it out myself. - Hark thee, friend« (to Bothwell), »wilt thou wrestle a fall
with me?«
    »With my whole spirit, beloved,« answered Bothwell; »yea, I will strive with
thee, to the downfall of one or both.«
    »Then as my trust is in him that can help,« retorted his antagonist, »I will
forthwith make thee an example to all such railing Rabshakehs.«
    With that he dropped his coarse grey horseman's coat from his shoulders,
and, extending his strong brawny arms with a look of determined resolution, he
offered himself to the contest. The soldier was nothing abashed by the muscular
frame, broad chest, square shoulders, and hardy look of his antagonist, but,
whistling with great composure, unbuckled his belt, and laid aside his military
coat. The company stood round them, anxious for the event.
    In the first struggle the trooper seemed to have some advantage, and also in
the second, though neither could be considered as decisive. But it was plain he
had put his whole strength too suddenly forth, against an antagonist possessed
of great endurance, skill, vigour, and length of wind. In the third close, the
countryman lifted his opponent fairly from the floor, and hurled him to the
ground with such violence, that he lay for an instant stunned and motionless.
His comrade, Halliday, immediately drew his sword - »You have killed my
sergeant,« he exclaimed to the victorious wrestler, »and by all that is sacred
you shall answer it!«
    »Stand back!« cried Morton and his companions, »it was all fair play; your
comrade sought a fall, and he has got it.«
    »That is true enough,« said Bothwell, as he slowly rose; »put up your bilbo,
Tom, I did not think there was a crop-ear of them all could have laid the best
cap and feather in the King's Life-Guards on the floor of a rascally
change-house. - Hark ye, friend, give me your hand.« The stranger held out his
hand. »I promise you,« said Bothwell, squeezing his hand very hard, »that the
time will come when we shall meet again, and try this game over in a more
earnest manner.«
    »And I'll promise you,« said the stranger, returning the grasp with equal
firmness, »that when we next meet, I will lay your head as low as it lay even
now, when you shall lack the power to lift it up again.«
    »Well, beloved,« answered Bothwell, »if thou be'st a whig, thou art a stout
and a brave one, and so good- to thee - Hadst best take thy nag, before the
Cornet makes the round; for I promise thee, he has stayed less
suspicious-looking persons.«
    The stranger seemed to think that the hint was not to be neglected; he flung
down his reckoning, and going into the stable, saddled and brought out a
powerful black horse, now recruited by rest and forage, and turning to Morton,
observed, »I ride towards Milnwood, which I hear is your home: will you give me
the advantage and protection of your company?«
    »Certainly,« said Morton; although there was something of gloomy and
relentless severity in the man's manner, from which his mind recoiled. His
companions, after a courteous good-night, broke up and went off in different
directions, some keeping them company for about a mile, until they dropped off
one by one, and the travellers were left alone.
    The company had not long left the Howff, as Blane's public-house was called,
when the trumpets and kettle-drums sounded. The troopers got under arms in the
market-place at this unexpected summons, while, with faces of anxiety and
earnestness, Cornet Grahame, a kinsman of Claverhouse, and the Provost of the
borough, followed by half-a-dozen soldiers, and town-officers with halberts,
entered the apartment of Niel Blane.
    »Guard the doors!« were the first words which the Cornet spoke; »let no man
leave the house. - So, Bothwell, how comes this? Did you not hear them sound
boot and saddle?«
    »He was just going to quarters, sir,« said his comrade; »he has had a bad
fall.«
    »In a fray, I suppose?« said Grahame. »If you neglect duty in this way, your
royal blood will hardly protect you.«
    »How have I neglected duty?« said Bothwell, sulkily.
    »You should have been at quarters, Sergeant Bothwell,« replied the officer;
»you have lost a golden opportunity. Here are news come that the Archbishop of
St. Andrews has been strangely and foully assassinated by a body of the rebel
whigs, who pursued and stopped his carriage on Magus-Muir, near the town of St.
Andrews, dragged him out, and despatched him with their swords and daggers.«9
    All stood aghast at the intelligence.
    »Here are their descriptions,« continued the Cornet, pulling out a
proclamation, »the reward of a thousand merks is on each of their heads.«
    »The test, the test, and the qualification!« said Bothwell to Halliday, »I
know the meaning now - Zounds, that we should not have stopped him! Go saddle our
horses, Halliday. - Was there one of the men, Cornet, very stout and
square-made, double-chested, thin in the flanks, hawk-nosed?«
    »Stay, stay,« said Cornet Grahame, »let me look at the paper. - Hackston of
Rathillet, tall, thin, black-haired.«
    »That is not my man,« said Bothwell.
    »John Balfour, called Burley, aquiline nose, red-haired, five feet eight
inches in height« --
    »It is he - it is the very man!« said Bothwell; - »skellies fearfully with
one eye?«
    »Right,« continued Grahame - »rode a strong black horse, taken from the
primate at the time of the murder.«
    »The very man,« exclaimed Bothwell, »and the very horse! he was in this room
not a quarter of an hour since.«
    A few hasty inquiries tended still more to confirm the opinion that the
reserved and stern stranger was Balfour of Burley, the actual commander of the
band of assassins, who, in the fury of misguided zeal, had murdered the primate,
whom they accidentally met, as they were searching for another person against
whom they bore enmity.10 In their excited imagination, the casual rencounter had
the appearance of a providential interference, and they put to death the
Archbishop, with circumstances of great and cold-blooded cruelty, under the
belief that the Lord, as they expressed it, had delivered him into their hands.
11
    »Horse, horse, and pursue, my lads!« exclaimed Cornet Grahame; »the
murdering dog's head is worth its weight in gold.«
 

                                 Chapter Fourth

 Arouse thee, youth! - it is no human call -
 God's church is leaguered - haste to man the wall;
 Haste where the Redcross banners wave on high,
 Signal of honoured death, or victory!
                                                                     James Duff.
 
Morton and his companion had attained some distance from the town before either
of them addressed the other. There was something, as we have observed, repulsive
in the manner of the stranger, which prevented Morton from opening the
conversation, and he himself seemed to have no desire to talk, until, on a
sudden, he abruptly demanded, »What has your father's son to do with such
profane mummeries as I find you this day engaged in?«
    »I do my duty as a subject, and pursue my harmless recreations according to
my own pleasure,« replied Morton, somewhat offended.
    »Is it your duty, think you, or that of any Christian young man, to bear
arms in their cause who have poured out the blood of God's saints in the
wilderness as if it had been water? or is it a lawful recreation to waste time
in shooting at a bunch of feathers, and close your evening with wine-bibbing in
public-houses and market-towns, when He that is mighty is come into the land
with his fan in his hand, to purge the wheat from the chaff?«
    »I suppose, from your style of conversation,« said Morton, »that you are one
of those who have thought proper to stand out against the Government. I must
remind you that you are unnecessarily using dangerous language in the presence
of a mere stranger, and that the times do not render it safe for me to listen to
it.«
    »Thou canst not help it, Henry Morton,« said his companion; »thy Master has
his uses for thee, and when he calls, thou must obey. Well wot I thou hast not
heard the call of a true preacher, or thou hadst ere now been what thou wilt
assuredly one day become.«
    »We are of the Presbyterian persuasion, like yourself,« said Morton; for his
uncle's family attended the ministry of one of those numerous Presbyterian
clergymen, who, complying with certain regulations, were licensed to preach
without interruption from Government. This indulgence, as it was called, made a
great schism among the Presbyterians, and those who accepted of it were severely
censured by the more rigid sectaries, who refused the proffered terms. The
stranger, therefore, answered with great disdain to Morton's profession of
faith, -
    »That is but an equivocation - a poor equivocation. Ye listen on the Sabbath
to a cold, worldly, time-serving discourse, from one who forgets his high
commission so much as to hold his apostleship by the favour of the courtiers and
the false prelates, and ye call that hearing the word! Of all the baits with
which the devil has fished for souls in these days of blood and darkness, that
Black Indulgence has been the most destructive. An awful dispensation it has
been, a smiting of the shepherd and a scattering of the sheep upon the mountains
- an uplifting of one Christian banner against another, and a fighting of the
wars of darkness with the swords of the children of light!«
    »My uncle,« said Morton, »is of opinion, that we enjoy a reasonable freedom
of conscience under the indulged clergymen, and I must necessarily be guided by
his sentiments respecting the choice of a place of worship for his family.«
    »Your uncle,« said the horseman, »is one of those to whom the least lamb in
his own folds at Milnwood is dearer than the whole Christian flock. He is one
that could willingly bend down to the golden-calf of Bethel, and would have
fished for the dust thereof when it was ground to powder and cast upon the
waters. Thy father was a man of another stamp.«
    »My father,« replied Morton, »was indeed a brave and gallant man. And you
may have heard, sir, that he fought for that royal family in whose name I was
this day carrying arms.«
    »Ay; and had he lived to see these days, he would have cursed the hour he
ever drew sword in their cause. But more of this hereafter - I promise thee full
surely that thy hour will come, and then the words thou hast now heard will
stick in thy bosom like barbed arrows. My road lies there.«
    He pointed towards a pass leading up into a wild extent of dreary and
desolate hills; but as he was about to turn his horse's head into the rugged
path which led from the high-road in that direction, an old woman wrapped in a
red cloak, who was sitting by the cross-way, arose, and approaching him, said,
in a mysterious tone of voice, »If ye be of our ain folk, gangna up the pass the
night for your lives. There is a lion in the path that is there. The curate of
Brotherstane and ten soldiers hae beset the pass, to hae the lives of ony of our
puir wanderers that venture that gate to join wi' Hamilton and Dingwall.«
    »Have the persecuted folk drawn to any head among themselves?« demanded the
stranger.
    »About sixty or seventy horse and foot,« said the old dame; »but ehow! they
are puirly armed, and warse fended wi' victual.«
    »God will help his own,« said the horseman. - »Which way shall I take to
join them?«
    »It's a mere impossibility this night,« said the woman, »the troopers keep
sae strict a guard; and they say there's strange news come frae the east, that
makes them rage in their cruelty mair fierce than ever - Ye maun take shelter
somegate for the night before ye get to the muirs, and keep yoursell in hiding
till the grey o' the morning, and then you may find your way through the Drake
Moss. When I heard the awful' threatenings o' the oppressors, I e'en took my
cloak about me, and sate down by the wayside, to warn ony of our puir scattered
remnant that chanced to come this gate, before they fell into the nets of the
spoilers.«
    »Have you a house near this?« said the stranger; »and can you give me hiding
there?«
    »I have,« said the old woman, »a hut by the wayside; it may be a mile from
hence; but four men of Belial, called dragoons, are lodged therein, to spoil my
household goods at their pleasure, because I will not wait upon the thowless,
thriftless, fissenless ministry of that carnal man, John Halftext, the curate.«
    »Good night, good woman, and thanks for thy counsel,« said the stranger, as
he rode away.
    »The blessings of the promise upon you!« returned the old dame; »may He keep
you that can keep you!«
    »Amen!« said the traveller; »for where to hide my head this night, mortal
skill cannot direct me.«
    »I am very sorry for your distress,« said Morton; »and had I a house or
place of shelter that could be called my own, I almost think I would risk the
utmost rigour of the law rather than leave you in such a strait. But my uncle is
so alarmed at the pains and penalties denounced by the laws against such as
comfort, receive, or consort with intercommuned persons, that he has strictly
forbidden all of us to hold any intercourse with them.«
    »It is no less than I expected,« said the stranger; »nevertheless, I might
be received without his knowledge; - a barn, a hay-loft, a cart-shed - any place
where I could stretch me down, would be to my habits like a tabernacle of silver
set about with planks of cedar.«
    »I assure you,« said Morton, much embarrassed, »that I have not the means of
receiving you at Milnwood without my uncle's consent and knowledge; nor, if I
could do so, would I think myself justifiable in engaging him unconsciously in a
danger which, most of all others, he fears and deprecates.«
    »Well,« said the traveller, »I have but one word to say. Did you ever hear
your father mention John Balfour of Burley?«
    »His ancient friend and comrade, who saved his life, with almost the loss of
his own, in the battle of Longmarston Moor? - Often, very often.«
    »I am that Balfour,« said his companion. »Yonder stands thy uncle's house; I
see the light among the trees. The avenger of blood is behind me, add my death
certain unless I have refuge there. Now, make thy choice, young man; to shrink
from the side of thy father's friend, like a thief in the night, and to leave
him exposed to the bloody death from which he rescued thy father, or to expose
thine uncle's worldly goods to such peril, as, in this perverse generation,
attends those who give a morsel of bread or a draught of cold water to a
Christian man, when perishing for lack of refreshment!«
    A thousand recollections thronged on the mind of Morton at once. His father,
whose memory he idolised, had often enlarged upon his obligations to this man,
and regretted that, after having been long comrades, they had parted in some
unkindness at the time when the kingdom of Scotland was divided into
Resolutioners and Protesters; the former of whom adhered to Charles II. after
his father's death upon the scaffold, while the Protesters inclined rather to a
union with the triumphant Republicans. The stern fanaticism of Burley had
attached him to this latter party, and the comrades had parted in displeasure,
never, as it happened, to meet again. These circumstances the deceased Colonel
Morton had often mentioned to his son, and always with an expression of deep
regret that he had never in any manner been enabled to repay the assistance
which on more than one occasion he had received from Burley.
    To hasten Morton's decision, the night-wind, as it swept along, brought from
a distance the sullen sound of a kettle-drum, which, seeming to approach nearer,
intimated that a body of norse were upon their march towards them.
    »It must be Claverhouse, with the rest of his regiment. What can have
occasioned this night-march? If you go on, you fall into their hands - if you
turn back towards the borough-town, you are in no less danger from Cornet
Grahame's party - the path to the hill is beset. I must shelter you at Milnwood,
or expose you to instant death; - but the punishment of the law shall fall upon
myself, as in justice it should, not upon my uncle. - Follow me.«
    Burley, who had awaited his resolution with great composure, now followed
him in silence.
    The house of Milnwood, built by the father of the present proprietor, was a
decent mansion, suitable to the size of the estate, but, since the accession of
this owner, it had been suffered to go considerably into disrepair. At some
little distance from the house stood the court of offices. Here Morton paused.
    »I must leave you here for a little while,« he whispered, »until I can
provide a bed for you in the house.«
    »I care little for such a delicacy,« said Burley; »for thirty years this
head has rested oftener on the turf, or on the next grey stone, than upon either
wool or down. A draught of ale, a morsel of bread, to say my prayers, and to
stretch me upon dry hay, were to me as good as a painted chamber and a prince's
table.«
    It occurred to Morton at the same moment, that to attempt to introduce the
fugitive within the house, would materially increase the danger of detection.
Accordingly, having struck a light with implements left in the stable for that
purpose, and having fastened up their horses, he assigned Burley, for his place
of repose, a wooden bed, placed in a loft half full of hay, which an out-of-door
domestic had occupied, until dismissed by his uncle in one of those fits of
parsimony which became more rigid from day to day. In this untenanted loft
Morton left his companion, with a caution so to shade his light that no
reflection might be seen from the window, and a promise that he would presently
return with such refreshments as he might be able to procure at that late hour.
This last, indeed, was a subject on which he felt by no means confident, for the
power of obtaining even the most ordinary provisions depended entirely upon the
humour in which he might happen to find his uncle's sole confidant, the old
housekeeper. If she chanced to be a-bed, which was very likely, or out of
humour, which was not less so, Morton well knew the case to be at least
problematical.
    Cursing in his heart the sordid parsimony which pervaded every part of his
uncle's establishment, he gave the usual gentle knock at the bolted door by
which he was accustomed to seek admittance when accident had detained him abroad
beyond the early and established hours of rest at the house of Milnwood. It was
a sort of hesitating tap, which carried an acknowledgement of transgression in
its very sound, and seemed rather to solicit than command attention. After it
had been repeated again and again, the housekeeper, grumbling betwixt her teeth
as she rose from the chimney corner in the hall, and wrapping her checked
handkerchief round her head to secure her from the cold air, paced across the
stone-passage, and repeated a careful »Wha's there at this time o' night?« more
than once before she undid the bolts and bars, and cautiously opened the door.
    »This is a fine time o' night, Mr. Henry,« said the old dame, with the
tyrannic insolence of a spoilt and favourite domestic - »a braw time o' night
and a bonny, to disturb a peaceful house in, and to keep quiet folk out o' their
beds waiting for you. Your uncle's been in his maist three hours syne, and
Robin's ill o' the rheumatize, and he's to his bed too, and sae I had to sit up
for ye mysell, for as sair a hoast as I hae.«
    Here she coughed once or twice, in further evidence of the egregious
inconvenience which she had sustained.
    »Much obliged to you, Alison, and many kind thanks.«
    »Hegh, sirs, sae fair-fashioned as we are! Mony folk ca' me Mrs. Wilson, and
Milnwood himself is the only ane about this town thinks o' ca'ing me Alison, and
indeed he as often says Mrs. Alison as ony other thing.«
    »Well, then, Mrs. Alison,« said Morton, »I really am sorry to have kept you
up waiting till I came in.«
    »And now that you are come in, Mr. Henry,« said the cross old woman, »what
for do you no take up your candle and gang to your bed? and mind ye dinna let the
candle sweal as ye gang alang the wainscot parlour, and haud a' the house
scouring to get out the grease again.«
    »But, Alison, I really must have something to eat, and a draught of ale,
before I go to bed.«
    »Eat? - and ale, Mr. Henry? My certie, ye're ill to serve! Do ye think we
havena heard o' your grand popinjay wark yonder, and how ye bleezed away as
muckle pouther as wad hae shot a' the wild fowl that we'll want atween and
Candlemas - and then ganging majoring to the piper's Howff wi' a' the idle loons
in the country, and sitting there birling, at your poor uncle's cost, nae doot,
wi' a' the scaff and raff o' the water-side, till sun-down, and then coming hame
and crying for ale, as if ye were master and mair!«
    Extremely vexed, yet anxious, on account of his guest, to procure
refreshments if possible, Morton suppressed his resentment, and good-humouredly
assured Mrs. Wilson that he was really both hungry and thirsty; »and as for the
shooting at the popinjay, I have heard you say, you have been there yourself,
Mrs. Wilson - I wish you had come to look at us.«
    »Ah, Maister Henry,« said the old dame, »I wish ye binna beginning to learn
the way of blawing in a woman's lug wi' a' your whilly-what's! - Aweel, sae ye
dinna practise them but on auld wives like me, the less matter. But take heed o'
the young queans, lad. - Popinjay - ye think yoursell a braw fellow enough; and
troth!« (surveying him with the candle) »there's nae fault to find wi' the
outside, if the inside be conforming. But I mind, when I was a gilpy of a
lassock, seeing the Duke, that was him that lost his head at London - folk said
it wasna a very good ane, but it was aye a sair loss to him, puir gentleman -
Aweel, he wan the popinjay, for few cared to win it ower his Grace's head -
well, he had a comely presence, and when a' the gentles mounted to show their
capers, his Grace was as near to me as I am to you; and he said to me, Tak tent
o' yoursell, my bonny lassie (these were his very words), for my horse is not
very chancy. - And now, as ye say ye had sae little to eat or drink, I'll let
you see that I havena been sae unmindfu' o' you; for I dinna think it's safe for
young folk to gang to their bed on an empty stamach.«
    To do Mrs. Wilson justice, her nocturnal harangues upon such occasions not
unfrequently terminated with this sage apophthegm, which always prefaced the
producing of some provision a little better than ordinary, such as she now
placed before him. In fact, the principal object of her maundering was to
display her consequence and love of power; for Mrs. Wilson was not, at the
bottom, an ill-tempered woman, and certainly loved her old and young master
(both of whom she tormented extremely) better than any one else in the world.
She now eyed Mr. Henry, as she called him, with great complacency, as he partook
of her good cheer.
    »Muckle good may it do ye, my bonny man. I trow ye dinna get sic a
skirl-in-the-pan as that at Niel Blane's. His wife was a canny body, and could
dress things very well for ane in her line o' business, but no like a
gentleman's housekeeper, to be sure. But I doubt the daughter's a silly thing -
an unco cockernony she had busked on her head at the kirk last Sunday. I am
doubting there will be news o' a' thae braws. But my auld een's drawing
thegither; - dinna hurry yoursell, my bonny man; take mind about the putting out
the candle, and there's a horn of ale, and a glass of clowgillie-flower water; I
dinna give ilka body that - I keep it for a pain I hae whiles in my ain stamach,
and it's better for your young blood than brandy. Sae, good-night to ye, Mr.
Henry, and see that ye take good care o' the candle.«
    Morton promised to attend punctually to her caution, and requested her not
to be alarmed if she heard the door opened, as she knew he must again, as usual,
look to his horse, and arrange him for the night. Mrs. Wilson then retreated,
and Morton, folding up his provisions, was about to hasten to his guest, when
the nodding head of the old housekeeper was again thrust in at the door, with an
admonition to remember to take an account of his ways before he laid himself
down to rest, and to pray for protection during the hours of darkness.
    Such were the manners of a certain class of domestics, once common in
Scotland, and perhaps still to be found in some old manor-houses in its remote
counties. They were fixtures in the family they belonged to; and as they never
conceived the possibility of such a thing as dismissal to be within the chances
of their lives, they were, of course, sincerely attached to every member of it.
12 On the other hand, when spoiled by the indulgence or indolence of their
superiors, they were very apt to become ill-tempered, self-sufficient, and
tyrannical; so much so, that a mistress or master would sometimes almost have
wished to exchange their cross-grained fidelity for the smooth and accommodating
duplicity of a modern menial.
 

                                 Chapter Fifth

 Yes, this man's brow, like to a tragic leaf,
 Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.
                                                                     Shakespeare.
 
Being at length rid of the housekeeper's presence, Morton made a collection of
what he had reserved from the provisions set before him, and prepared to carry
them to his concealed guest. He did not think it necessary to take a light,
being perfectly acquainted with every turn of the road; and it was lucky he did
not do so, for he had hardly stepped beyond the threshold ere a heavy trampling
of horses announced that the body of cavalry, whose kettle-drums13 they had
before heard, were in the act of passing along the high-road which winds round
the foot of the bank on which the house of Milnwood was placed. He heard the
commanding-officer distinctly give the word halt. A pause of silence followed,
interrupted only by the occasional neighing or pawing of an impatient charger.
    »Whose house is this?« said a voice, in a tone of authority and command.
    »Milnwood, if it like your honour,« was the reply.
    »Is the owner well affected?« said the inquirer.
    »He complies with the orders of Government, and frequents an indulged
minister,« was the response.
    »Hum! ay! indulged? a mere mask for treason, very impolitically allowed to
those who are too great cowards to wear their principles barefaced. - Had we not
better send up a party, and search the house, in case some of the bloody
villains concerned in this heathenish butchery may be concealed in it?«
    Ere Morton could recover from the alarm into which this proposal had thrown
him, a third speaker rejoined, »I cannot think it at all necessary; Milnwood is
an infirm, hypochondriac old man, who never meddles with politics, and loves his
moneybags and bonds better than anything else in the world. His nephew, I hear,
was at the wappenschaw to-day, and gained the popinjay, which does not look like
a fanatic. I should think they are all gone to bed long since, and an alarm at
this time of night might kill the poor old man.«
    »Well,« rejoined the leader, »if that be so, to search the house would be
lost time, of which we have but little to throw away. Gentlemen of the
Life-Guards, forward - March!«
    A few notes on the trumpet, mingled with the occasional boom of the
kettle-drum, to mark the cadence, joined with the tramp of hoofs, and the clash
of arms, announced that the troop had resumed its march. The moon broke out as
the leading files of the column attained a hill up which the road winded, and
showed indistinctly the glittering of the steel caps; and the dark figures of
the horses and riders might be imperfectly traced through the gloom. They
continued to advance up the hill, and sweep over the top of it in such long
succession as intimated a considerable numerical force.
    When the last of them had disappeared, young Morton resumed his purpose of
visiting his guest. Upon entering the place of refuge, he found him seated on
his humble couch with a pocket Bible open in his hand, which he seemed to study
with intense meditation. His broadsword, which he had unsheathed in the first
alarm at the arrival of the dragoons, lay naked across his knees, and the little
taper that stood beside him upon the old chest, which served the purpose of a
table, threw a partial and imperfect light upon those stern and harsh features,
in which ferocity was rendered more solemn and dignified by a wild cast of
tragic enthusiasm. His brow was that of one in whom some strong o'ermastering
principle has overwhelmed all other passions and feelings, like the swell of a
high spring-tide, when the usual cliffs and breakers vanish from the eye, and
their existence is only indicated by the chafing foam of the waves that burst
and wheel over them. He raised his head, after Morton had contemplated him for
about a minute.
    »I perceive,« said Morton, looking at his sword, »that you heard the
horsemen ride by; their passage delayed me for some minutes.«
    »I scarcely heeded them,« said Balfour; »my hour is not yet come. That I
shall one day fall into their hands, and be honourably associated with the
saints whom they have slaughtered, I am full well aware. And I would, young man,
that the hour were come; it should be as welcome to me as ever wedding to
bridegroom. But if my Master has more work for me on earth, I must not do his
labour grudgingly.«
    »Eat and refresh yourself,« said Morton; »to-morrow your safety requires you
should leave this place, in order to gain the hills, so soon as you can see to
distinguish the track through the morasses.«
    »Young man,« returned Balfour, »you are already weary of me, and would be
yet more so, perchance, did you know the task upon which I have been lately put.
And I wonder not that it should be so, for there are times when I am weary of
myself. Think you not it is a sore trial for flesh and blood, to be called upon
to execute the righteous judgments of Heaven while we are yet in the body, and
continue to retain that blinded sense and sympathy for carnal suffering, which
makes our own flesh thrill when we strike a gash upon the body of another? And
think you, that when some prime tyrant has been removed from his place, that the
instruments of his punishment can at all times look back on their share in his
downfall with firm and unshaken nerves? Must they not sometimes even question
the truth of that inspiration which they have felt and acted under? - must they
not sometimes doubt the origin of that strong impulse with which their prayers
for heavenly direction under difficulties have been inwardly answered and
confirmed, and confuse, in their disturbed apprehensions, the responses of Truth
itself with some strong delusion of the enemy?«
    »These are subjects, Mr. Balfour, on which I am ill qualified to converse
with you,« answered Morton; »but I own I should strongly doubt the origin of any
inspiration which seemed to dictate a line of conduct contrary to those feelings
of natural humanity which Heaven has assigned to us as the general law of our
conduct.«
    Balfour seemed somewhat disturbed, and drew himself hastily up, but
immediately composed himself, and answered coolly, »It is natural you should
think so; you are yet in the dungeon-house of the law, a pit darker than that
into which Jeremiah was plunged, even the dungeon of Malcaiah the son of
Hamelmelech, where there was no water but mire. Yet is the seal of the covenant
upon your forehead, and the son of the righteous, who resisted to blood where
the banner was spread on the mountains, shall not be utterly lost, as one of the
children of darkness. Trow ye, that in this day of bitterness and calamity,
nothing is required at our hands but to keep the moral law as far as our carnal
frailty will permit? Think ye our conquests must be only over our corrupt and
evil affections and passions? No - we are called upon, when we have girded up
our loins, to run the race boldly, and when we have drawn the sword, we are
enjoined to smite the ungodly, though he be our neighbour, and the man of power
and cruelty, though he were of our own kindred, and the friend of our own
bosom.«
    »These are the sentiments,« said Morton, »that your enemies impute to you,
and which palliate, if they do not vindicate, the cruel measures which the
council have directed against you. They affirm, that you pretend to derive your
rule of action from what you call an inward light, rejecting the restraints of
legal magistracy, of national law, and even of common humanity, when in
opposition to what you call the spirit within you.«
    »They do us wrong,« answered the Covenanter; »it is they, perjured as they
are, who have rejected all law, both divine and civil, and who now persecute us
for adherence to the solemn League and Covenant between God and the kingdom of
Scotland, to which all of them, save a few popish malignants, have sworn in
former days, and which they now burn in the market-places, and tread under foot
in derision. When this Charles Stuart returned to these kingdoms, did the
malignants bring him back? They had tried it with strong hand, - but they
failed, I trow. Could James Grahame of Montrose, and his Highland caterans, have
put him again in the place of his father? I think their heads on the West Port
told another tale for many a long day. It was the workers of the glorious work -
the reformers of the beauty of the tabernacle, that called him again to the high
place from which his father fell. And what has been our reward? In the words of
the prophet, We looked for peace, but no good came; and for a time of health,
and behold trouble - The snorting of his horses was heard from Dan; the whole
land trembled at the sound of the neighing of his strong ones; for they are
come, and have devoured the land and all that is in it.«
    »Mr. Balfour,« answered Morton, »I neither undertake to subscribe to or
refute your complaints against the Government. I have endeavoured to repay a
debt due to the comrade of my father, by giving you shelter in your distress,
but you will excuse me from engaging myself, either in your cause, or in
controversy. I will leave you to repose, and heartily wish it were in my power
to render your condition more comfortable.«
    »But I shall see you, I trust, in the morning, ere I depart? I am not a man
whose bowels yearn after kindred and friends of this world. When I put my hand
to the plough, I entered into a covenant with my worldly affections that I
should not look back on the things I left behind me. Yet the son of mine ancient
comrade is to me as mine own, and I cannot behold him without the deep and firm
belief that I shall one day see him gird on his sword in the dear and precious
cause for which his father fought and bled.«
    With a promise on Morton's part that he would call the refugee when it was
time for him to pursue his journey, they parted for the night.
    Morton retired to a few hours' rest; but his imagination, disturbed by the
events of the day, did not permit him to enjoy sound repose. There was a blended
vision of horror before him, in which his new friend seemed to be a principal
actor. The fair form of Edith Bellenden also mingled in his dream, weeping, and
with dishevelled hair, and appearing to call on him for comfort and assistance,
which he had not in his power to render. He awoke from these unrefreshing
slumbers with a feverish impulse, and a heart which foreboded disaster. There
was already a tinge of dazzling lustre on the verge of the distant hills, and
the dawn was abroad in all the freshness of a summer morning.
    »I have slept too long,« he exclaimed to himself, »and must now hasten to
forward the journey of this unfortunate fugitive.«
    He dressed himself as fast as possible, opened the door of the house with as
little noise as he could, and hastened to the place of refuge occupied by the
Covenanter. Morton entered on tiptoe, for the determined tone and manner, as
well as the unusual language and sentiments of this singular individual, had
struck him with a sensation approaching to awe. Balfour was still asleep. A ray
of light streamed on his uncurtained couch, and showed to Morton the working of
his harsh features, which seemed agitated by some strong internal cause of
disturbance. He had not undressed. Both his arms were above the bed-cover, the
right hand strongly clenched, and occasionally making that abortive attempt to
strike, which usually attends dreams of violence; the left was extended, and
agitated, from time to time, by a movement as if repulsing some one. The
perspiration stood on his brow, »like bubbles in a late disturbed stream« and
these marks of emotion were accompanied with broken words which escaped from him
at intervals. - »Thou art taken, Judas - thou art taken - Cling not to my knees
- cling not to my knees - hew him down! - A priest? Ay, a priest of Baal, to be
bound and slain, even at the brook Kishon. - Firearms will not prevail against
him - Strike - thrust with the cold iron! - put him out of pain - put him out of
pain, were it but for the sake of his grey hairs.«
    Much alarmed at the import of these expressions, which seemed to burst from
him even in sleep with the stern energy accompanying the perpetration of some
act of violence, Morton shook his guest by the shoulder in order to awake him.
The first words he uttered were, »Bear me where ye will, I will avouch the
deed!«
    His glance around having then fully awakened him, he at once assumed all the
stern and gloomy composure of his ordinary manner, and throwing himself on his
knees, before speaking to Morton, poured forth an ejaculatory prayer for the
suffering Church of Scotland, entreating that the blood of her murdered saints
and martyrs might be precious in the sight of Heaven, and that the shield of the
Almighty might be spread over the scattered remnant, who, for His name's sake,
were abiders in the wilderness. Vengeance - speedy and ample vengeance on the
oppressors - was the concluding petition of his devotions, which he expressed
aloud in strong and emphatic language, rendered more impressive by the
Orientalism of Scripture.
    When he had finished his prayer he arose, and taking Morton by the arm, they
descended together to the stable, where the Wanderer (to give Burley a title
which was often conferred on his sect) began to make his horse ready to pursue
his journey. When the animal was saddled and bridled, Burley requested Morton to
walk with him a gunshot into the wood, and direct him to the right road for
gaining the moors. Morton readily complied, and they walked for some time in
silence, under the shade of some fine old trees, pursuing a sort of natural
path, which, after passing through woodland for about half-a-mile, led into the
bare and wild country which extends to the foot of the hills.
    There was little conversation between them, until at length Burley suddenly
asked Morton, »Whether the words he had spoken over-night had borne fruit in his
mind?«
    Morton answered, »That he remained of the same opinion which he had formerly
held, and was determined, at least as far and as long as possible, to unite the
duties of a good Christian with those of a peaceful subject.«
    »In other words,« replied Burley, »you are desirous to serve both God and
Mammon - to be one day professing the truth with your lips, and the next day in
arms, at the command of carnal and tyrannic authority, to shed the blood of
those who for the truth have forsaken all things! Think ye,« he continued, »to
touch pitch and remain undefiled? to mix in the ranks of malignants, papists,
papa-prelatists, latitudinarians, and scoffers; to partake of their sports,
which are like the meat offered unto idols; to hold intercourse, perchance, with
their daughters, as the sons of God with the daughters of men in the world
before the flood? - think you, I say, to do all these things, and yet remain
free from pollution? I say unto you, that all communication with the enemies of
the Church is the accursed thing which God hateth! Touch not - taste not -
handle not! And grieve not, young man, as if you alone were called upon to
subdue your carnal affections, and renounce the pleasures which are a snare to
your feet - I say to you, that the son of David hath denounced no better lot on
the whole generation of mankind.«
    He then mounted his horse, and turning to Morton, repeated the text of
Scripture, »An heavy yoke was ordained for the sons of Adam from the day they go
out of their mother's womb, till the day that they return to the Mother of all
things; from him who is clothed in blue silk and weareth a crown, even to him
who weareth simple linen, - wrath, envy, trouble, and unquietness, rigour,
strife, and fear of death in the time of rest.«
    Having uttered these words, he set his horse in motion, and soon disappeared
among the boughs of the forest.
    »Farewell, stern enthusiast!« said Morton, looking after him. »In some moods
of my mind, how dangerous would be the society of such a companion! If I am
unmoved by his zeal for abstract doctrines of faith, or rather by a peculiar
mode of worship« (such was the purport of his reflections), »can I be a man, and
a Scotchman, and look with indifference on that persecution which has made wise
men mad? Was not the cause of freedom, civil and religious, that for which my
father fought? and shall I do well to remain inactive, or to take the part of an
oppressive government, if there should appear any rational prospect of
redressing the insufferable wrongs to which my miserable countrymen are
subjected? - And yet, who shall warrant me that these people, rendered wild by
persecution, would not, in the hour of victory, be as cruel and as intolerant as
those by whom they are now hunted down? What degree of moderation, or of mercy,
can be expected from this Burley, so distinguished as one of their principal
champions, and who seems even now to be reeking from some recent deed of
violence, and to feel stings of remorse which even his enthusiasm cannot
altogether stifle. I am weary of seeing nothing but violence and fury around me
- now assuming the mask of lawful authority, now taking that of religious zeal.
I am sick of my country - of myself - of my dependent situation - of my
repressed feelings - of these woods, of that river - of that house - of all but
- Edith, and she can never be mine! Why should I haunt her walks? - why
encourage my own delusion, and perhaps hers? She can never be mine: her
grandmother's pride - the opposite principles of our families - my wretched
state of dependence - a poor miserable slave, for I have not even the wages of a
servant, - all circumstances give the lie to the vain hope that we can ever be
united. Why then protract a delusion so painful?«
    »But I am no slave,« he said aloud, and drawing himself up to his full
stature - »no slave in one respect surely. I can change my abode - my father's
sword is mine, and Europe lies open before me, as before him and hundreds
besides of my countrymen, who have filled it with the fame of their exploits.
Perhaps some lucky chance may raise me to a rank with our Ruthvens, our Lesleys,
our Munroes, the chosen leaders of the famous Protestant champion, Gustavus
Adolphus - or if not, a soldier's life or a soldier's grave.«
    When he had formed this determination, he found himself near the door of his
uncle's house, and resolved to lose no time in making him acquainted with it.
    »Another glance of Edith's eye, another walk by Edith's side, and my
resolution would melt away. I will take an irrevocable step, therefore, and then
see her for the last time.«
    In this mood he entered the wainscoted parlour, in which his uncle was
already placed at his morning's refreshment, a huge plate of oatmeal porridge,
with a corresponding allowance of butter-milk. The favourite housekeeper was in
attendance, half standing, half resting on the back of a chair, in a posture
betwixt freedom and respect. The old gentleman had been remarkably tall in his
earlier days, an advantage which he now lost by stooping to such a degree, that
at a meeting, where there was some dispute concerning the sort of arch which
should be thrown over a considerable brook, a facetious neighbour proposed to
offer Milnwood a handsome sum for his curved backbone, alleging that he would
sell anything that belonged to him. Splay feet of unusual size, long this hands,
garnished with nails which seldom felt the steel, a wrinkled and puckered
visage, the length of which corresponded with that of his person, together with
a pair of little sharp bargain-making grey eyes, that seemed eternally looking
out for their advantage, completed the highly unpromising exterior of Mr. Morton
of Milnwood. As it would have been very injudicious to have lodged a liberal or
benevolent disposition in such an unworthy cabinet, nature had suited his person
with a mind exactly in conformity with it, - that is to say, mean, selfish, and
covetous.
    When this amiable personage was aware of the presence of his nephew, he
hastened, before addressing him, to swallow the spoonful of porridge which he
was in the act of conveying to his mouth, and as it chanced to be scalding hot,
the pain occasioned by its descent down his throat and into his stomach,
inflamed the ill-humour with which he was already prepared to meet his kinsman.
»The deil take them that made them!« was his first ejaculation, apostrophizing
his mess of porridge.
    »They're good parritch enough,« said Mrs. Wilson, »if ye wad but take time
to sup them. I made them mysell; but if folk winna hae patience, they should get
their thrapples causewayed.«
    »Haud your peace, Alison! I was speaking to my nevoy. - How is this, sir? -
and what sort o' scampering gates are these o' going on? Ye were not at hame
last night till near midnight.«
    »Thereabouts, sir, I believe,« answered Morton, in an indifferent tone.
    »Thereabouts, sir? - What sort of an answer is that, sir? Why came ye nae
hame when other folk left the grund?«
    »I suppose you know the reason very well, sir,« said Morton; »I had the
fortune to be the best marksman of the day, and remained, as is usual, to give
some little entertainment to the other young men.«
    »The devil ye did, sir! And ye come to tell me that to my face? You pretend
to give entertainments, that canna come by a dinner except by sorning on a
carefu' man like me? But if ye put me to charges, I'se work it out o' ye. I
seena why ye shouldna haud the pleugh, now that the pleughman has left us! it
wad set ye better than wearing thae green duds, and wasting your siller on
powther and lead; it wad put ye in an honest calling, and wad keep ye in bread
without being behadden to ony ane.«
    »I am very ambitious of learning such a calling, sir, but I don't understand
driving the plough.«
    »And what for no? It's easier than your gunning and archery that ye like sae
well. Auld Davie is ca'ing it e'en now, and ye may be goadsman for the first twa
or three days, and take tent ye dinna o'erdrive the owsen, and then ye will be
fit to gang between the stilts. Ye'll ne'er learn younger, I'll be your caution.
Haggie-holm is heavy land, and Davie is ower auld to keep the coulter down now.«
    »I beg pardon for interrupting you, sir, but I have formed a scheme for
myself, which will have the same effect of relieving you of the burden and
charge attending my company.«
    »Ay? indeed? a scheme o' yours? that must be a denty ane!« said the uncle,
with a very peculiar sneer; »let's hear about it, lad.«
    »It is said in two words, sir. I intend to leave this country, and serve
abroad, as my father did before these unhappy troubles broke out at home. His
name will not be so entirely forgotten in the countries where he served, but
that it will procure his son at least the opportunity of trying his fortune as a
soldier.«
    »Gude be gracious to us!« exclaimed the housekeeper; »our young Mr. Harry
gang abroad? Na, na! eh, na! that maun never be.«
    Milnwood, entertaining no thought or purpose of parting with his nephew, who
was, moreover, very useful to him in many respects, was thunderstruck at this
abrupt declaration of independence from a person whose deference to him had
hitherto been unlimited. He recovered himself, however, immediately.
    »And what do you think is to give you the means, young man, for such a
wild-goose chase? Not I, I am sure - I can hardly support ye at hame. And ye wad
be marrying, I'se warrant, as your father did afore ye, too, and sending your
uncle hame a pack o' weans to be fighting and skirling through the house in my
auld days, and to take wing and flee aff like yoursell, whenever they were asked
to serve a turn about the town?«
    »I have no thoughts of ever marrying,« answered Henry.
    »Hear till him, now!« said the housekeeper. »It's a shame to hear a douce
young lad speak in that way, since a' the warld kens that they maun either marry
or do waur.«
    »Haud your peace, Alison,« said her master; - »and you, Harry« (he added,
more mildly), »put this nonsense out o' your head - this comes o' letting ye
gang a-sodgering for a day - mind ye hae nae siller, lad, for ony sic nonsense
plans.«
    »I beg your pardon, sir, my wants shall be very few; and would you please to
give me the gold chain, which the Margrave gave to my father after the battle of
Lutzen« --
    »Mercy on us! the gowd chain!« exclaimed his uncle.
    »The chain of gowd!« re-echoed the housekeeper, both aghast with
astonishment at the audacity of the proposal.
    »I will keep a few links,« continued the young man, »to remind me of him by
whom it was won, and the place where he won it,« continued Morton; »the rest
shall furnish me the means of following the same career in which my father
obtained that mark of distinction.«
    »Mercifu' powers!« exclaimed the governante, »my master wears it every
Sunday!«
    »Sunday and Saturday,« added old Milnwood, »whenever I put on my black
velvet coat; and Wylie Mactricket is partly of opinion it's a kind of heir-loom,
that rather belangs to the head of the house than to the immediate descendant.
It has three thousand links; I have counted them a thousand times. It's worth
three hundred pounds sterling.«
    »That is more than I want, sir; if you choose to give me the third part of
the money, and five links of the chain, it will amply serve my purpose, and the
rest will be some slight atonement for the expense and trouble I have put you
to.«
    »The laddie's in a creel!« exclaimed his uncle. »O sirs! what will become o'
the rigs o' Milnwood when I am dead and gone! He would fling the crown o'
Scotland away, if he had it.«
    »Hout, sir,« said the old housekeeper, »I maun e'en say it's partly your ain
faut. Ye maunna curb his head ower sair in neither; and, to be sure, since he
has gone doun to the Howff, ye maun just e'en pay the lawing.«
    »If it be not abune twa dollars, Alison,« said the old gentleman, very
reluctantly.
    »I'll settle it mysell wi' Niel Blane the first time I gang down to the
clachan,« said Alison, »cheaper than your honour or Mr. Harry can do;« and then
whispered to Henry, »Dinna vex him ony mair; I'll pay the lave out o' the butter
siller, and nae mair words about it.« Then proceeding aloud, »And ye maunna
speak o' the young gentleman hauding the pleugh; there's puir distressed whigs
enough about the country will be glad to do that for a bite and a soup - it sets
them far better than the like o' him.«
    »And then we'll hae the dragoons on us,« said Milnwood, »for comforting and
entertaining intercommuned rebels; - a bonny strait ye wad put us in! - But take
your breakfast, Harry, and then lay by your new green coat, and put on your
Raploch grey; it's a mair mensfu' and thrifty dress, and a mair seemly sight,
than thae dangling slops and ribbands.«
    Morton left the room, perceiving plainly that he had at present no chance of
gaining his purpose, and, perhaps, not altogether displeased at the obstacles
which seemed to present themselves to his leaving the neighbourhood of
Tillietudlem. The housekeeper followed him into the next room, patting him on
the back, and bidding him »be a good bairn, and pit by his braw things. - And
I'll loup doun your hat, and lay by the band and ribband,« said the officious
dame; »and ye maun never, at no hand, speak o' leaving the land, or of selling
the gowd chain, for your uncle has an unco pleasure in looking on you, and in
counting the links of the chainzie; and ye ken auld folk canna last for ever;
sae the chain, and the lands, and a' will be your ain ae day; and ye may marry
ony leddy in the country-side ye like, and keep a braw house at Milnwood, for
there's enough o' means; and is not that worth waiting for, my dow?«
    There was something in the latter part of the prognostic which sounded so
agreeably in the ears of Morton, that he shook the old dame cordially by the
hand, and assured her he was much obliged for her good advice, and would weigh
it carefully before he proceeded to act upon his former resolution.
 

                                 Chapter Sixth

 From seventeen years till now, almost fourscore,
 Here lived I, but now live here no more;
 At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
 But at fourscore it is too late a week.
                                                                 As You Like It.
 
We must conduct our readers to the Tower of Tillietudlem, to which Lady Margaret
Bellenden had returned, in romantic phrase, malcontent and full of heaviness, at
the unexpected, and, as she deemed it, indelible affront, which had been brought
upon her dignity by the public miscarriage of Goose Gibbie. That unfortunate
man-at-arms was forthwith commanded to drive his feathered charge to the most
remote parts of the common moor, and on no account to awaken the grief or
resentment of his lady, by appearing in her presence while the sense of the
affront was yet recent.
    The next proceeding of Lady Margaret was to hold a solemn court of justice,
to which Harrison and the butler were admitted, partly on the footing of
witnesses, partly as assessors, to inquire into the recusancy of Cuddie Headrigg
the ploughman, and the abetment which he had received from his mother - these
being regarded as the original causes of the disaster which had befallen the
chivalry of Tillietudlem. The charge being fully made out and substantiated,
Lady Margaret resolved to reprimand the culprits in person, and, if she found
them impenitent, to extend the censure into a sentence of expulsion from the
barony. Miss Bellenden alone ventured to say anything in behalf of the accused.
But her countenance did not profit them as it might have done on any other
occasion; for as soon as Edith had heard it ascertained that the unfortunate
cavalier had not suffered in his person, his disaster had affected her with an
irresistible disposition to laugh, which, in spite of Lady Margaret's
indignation, or rather irritated, as usual, by restraint, had broke out
repeatedly on her return homeward, until her grandmother, in no shape imposed
upon by the several fictitious causes which the young lady assigned for her
ill-timed risibility, upbraided her in very bitter terms with being insensible
to the honour of her family. Miss Bellenden's intercession, therefore, had on
this occasion little or no chance to be listened to.
    As if to evince the rigour of her disposition, Lady Margaret, on this solemn
occasion, exchanged the ivory-headed cane with which she commonly walked, for an
immense gold-headed staff which had belonged to her father, the deceased Earl of
Torwood, and which, like a sort of mace of office, she only made use of on
occasions of special solemnity. Supported by this awful baton of command, Lady
Margaret Bellenden entered the cottage of the delinquents.
    There was an air of consciousness about old Mause, as she rose from her
wicker chair in the chimney-nook, not with the cordial alertness of visage which
used, on other occasions, to express the honour she felt in the visit of her
lady, but with a certain solemnity and embarrassment, like an accused party on
his first appearance in presence of his judge, before whom he is, nevertheless,
determined to assert his innocence. Her arms were folded, her mouth primmed into
an expression of respect mingled with obstinacy, her whole mind apparently bent
up to the solemn interview. »With her best courtesy to the ground, and a mute
motion of reverence, Mause pointed to the chair which on former occasions Lady
Margaret (for the good lady was somewhat of a gossip) had deigned to occupy for
half-an-hour sometimes at a time, hearing the news of the country and of the
borough. But at present her mistress was far too indignant for such
condescension. She rejected the mute invitation with a haughty wave of her hand,
and drawing herself up as she spoke, she uttered the following interrogatory in
a tone calculated to overwhelm the culprit.
    Is it true, Mause, as I am informed by Harrison, Gudyill, and others of my
people, that you hae taken it upon you, contrary to the faith you owe to God and
the King, and to me, your natural lady and mistress, to keep back your son frae
the wappenschaw held by the order of the sheriff, and to return his armour and
abulyiements at a moment when it was impossible to find a suitable delegate in
his stead, whereby the barony of Tillietudlem, baith in the person of its
mistress and indwellers, has incurred sic a disgrace and dishonour as hasna
befa'en the family since the days of Malcolm Canmore?«
    Mause's habitual respect for her mistress was extreme; - she hesitated, and
one or two short coughs expressed the difficulty she had in defending herself.
    »I am sure - my leddy - hem! hem! - I am sure I am sorry - very sorry that
ony cause of displeasure should hae occurred - but my son's illness« --
    »Dinna tell me of your son's illness, Mause! Had he been sincerely unweel,
ye would hae been at the Tower by daylight to get something that wad do him
good; there are few ailments that I havena medical receipts for, and that ye ken
fu' well.«
    »O ay, my leddy! I am sure ye hae wrought wonderful cures; the last thing ye
sent Cuddie, when he had the batts, e'en wrought like a charm.«
    »Why, then, woman, did ye not apply to me, if there was ony real need? - but
there was none, ye fause-hearted vassal that ye are!«
    »Your leddyship never ca'd me sic a word as that before. Ohon! that I should
live to be ca'd sae,« she continued, bursting into tears, »and me a born servant
o' the house o' Tillietudlem! I am sure they belie baith Cuddie and me sair, if
they said he wadna fight ower the boots in blude for your leddyship and Miss
Edith, and the auld Tower - ay should he, and I would rather see him buried
beneath it, than he should give way; but thir ridings and wappenschawings, my
leddy, I hae nae broo o' them ava - I can find nae warrant for them whatsoever.«
    »Nae warrant for them?« cried the high-born dame. »Do ye na ken, woman, that
ye are bound to be liege vassals in all hunting, hosting, watching, and warding,
when lawfully summoned thereto in my name? Your service is not gratuitous - I
trow ye hae land for it. Ye're kindly tenants; hae a cot-house, a kale-yard, and
a cow's grass on the common. Few hae been brought farther been, and ye grudge
your son should give me a day's service in the field?«
    »Na, my leddy - na, my leddy, it's no that,« exclaimed Mause, greatly
embarrassed, »but ane canna serve twa maisters; and, if the truth maun e'en come
out, there's Ane abune whase commands I maun obey before your leddyship's. I am
sure I would put neither king's nor kaisar's, nor ony earthly creature's afore
them.«
    »How mean ye by that, ye auld fule woman? - D'ye think that I order anything
against conscience?«
    »I dinna pretend to say that, my leddy, in regard o' your leddyship's
conscience, which has been brought up, as it were, wi' prelatic principles; but
ilka ane maun walk by the light o' their ain; and mine,« said Mause, waxing
bolder as the conference became animated, »tells me that I should leave a' - cot,
kale yard, and cow's grass - and suffer a', rather than that I or mine should
put on harness in an unlawfu' cause.«
    »Unlawfu'!« exclaimed her mistress; »the cause to which you are called by
your lawful leddy and mistress - by the command of the king - by the writ of the
privy council - by the order of the lord-lieutenant - by the warrant of the
sheriff?«
    »Ay, my leddy, nae doubt; but no to displeasure your leddyship, ye'll mind
that there was ance a king in Scripture they ca'd Nebuchadnezzar, and he set up
a golden image in the plain o' Dura, as it might be in the haugh yonder by the
water side, where the array were warned to meet yesterday; and the princes, and
the governors, and the captains, and the judges themsells, forby the treasurers,
the counsellors, and the sheriffs, were warned to the dedication thereof, and
commanded to fall down and worship at the sound of the cornet, flute, harp,
sackbut, psaltery, and all kinds of music.«
    »And what o' a' this, ye fule wife! Or what had Nebuchadnezzar to do with
the wappenschaw of the Upper Ward of Clydesdale?«
    »Only just thus far, my leddy,« continued Mause, firmly, »that prelacy is
like the great golden image in the plain of Dura, and that as Shadrach, Meshach,
and Abednego, were borne out in refusing to bow down and worship, so neither
shall Cuddie Headrigg, your leddyship's poor pleughman, at least wi' his auld
mither's consent, make murgeons or jennyflections as they ca' them, in the house
of the prelates and curates, nor gird him wi' armour to fight in their cause,
either at the sound of kettle-drums, organs, bagpipes, or ony other kind of
music whatever.«
    Lady Margaret Bellenden heard this exposition of Scripture with the greatest
possible indignation, as well as surprise.
    »I see which way the wind blaws,« she exclaimed, after a pause of
astonishment; »the evil spirit of the year sixteen hundred and forty-twa is at
wark again as merrily as ever, and ilka auld wife in the chimley-neuk will be
for knapping doctrine wi' doctors o' divinity and the godly fathers o' the
church.«
    »If your leddyship means the bishops and curates, I'm sure they hae been but
stepfathers to the Kirk o' Scotland. And since your leddyship is pleased to
speak o' parting wi' us, I am free to tell you a piece o' my mind in another
article. Your leddyship and the steward hae been pleased to propose that my son
Cuddie should work in the barn wi' a new-fangled machine14 for dighting the corn
frae the chaff, thus impiously thwarting the will of Divine Providence, by
raising wind for your leddyship's ain particular use by human art, instead of
soliciting it by prayer, or waiting patiently for whatever dispensation of wind
Providence was pleased to send upon the sheeling-hill. Now, my leddy« --
    »The woman would drive ony reasonable being daft!« said Lady Margaret; then
resuming her tone of authority and indifference, she concluded, »Weel, Mause,
I'll just end where I sud hae begun - ye're ower learned and ower godly for me
to dispute wi'; sae I have just this to say, - either Cuddie must attend musters
when he's lawfully warned by the ground-officer, or the sooner he and you flit
and quit my bounds the better; there's nae scarcity o' auld wives or ploughmen;
but if there were, I had rather that the rigs of Tillietudlem bare nothing but
windle-straes and sandy lavrocks15 than that they were ploughed by rebels to the
king.«
    »Aweel, my leddy,« said Mause, »I was born here, and thought to die where my
father died; and your leddyship has been a kind mistress, I'll ne'er deny that,
and I'se ne'er cease to pray for you and for Miss Edith, and that ye may be
brought to see the error of your ways. But still« --
    »The error of my ways!« interrupted Lady Margaret, much incensed - »the
error of my ways, ye uncivil woman?«
    »Ou, ay, my leddy, we are blinded that live in this valley of tears and
darkness, and hae a' ower mony errors, grit folks as well as sma' - but, as I
said, my puir bennison will rest wi' you and yours wherever I am. I will be wae
to hear o' your affliction, and blythe to hear o' your prosperity, temporal and
spiritual. But I canna prefer the commands of an earthly mistress to those of a
heavenly master, and sae I am e'en ready to suffer for righteousness' sake.« »It
is very well,« said Lady Margaret, turning her back in great displeasure; »ye
ken my will, Mause, in the matter. I'll hae nae whiggery in the barony of
Tillietudlem - the next thing wad be to set up a conventicle in my very
withdrawing room.«
    Having said this, she departed, with an air of great dignity; and Mause,
giving way to feelings which she had suppressed during the interview, - for she,
like her mistress, had her own feeling of pride, - now lifted up her voice and
wept aloud.
    Cuddie, whose malady, real or pretended, still detained him in bed, lay
perdu during all this conference, snugly ensconced within his boarded bedstead,
and terrified to death lest Lady Margaret, whom he held in hereditary reverence,
should have detected his presence, and bestowed on him personally some of those
bitter reproaches with which she loaded his mother. But as soon as he thought
her ladyship fairly out of hearing, he bounced up in his nest.
    »The foul fa' ye, that I should say sae,« he cried out to his mother, »for a
lang-tongued clavering wife, as my father, honest man, aye ca'd ye! Couldna ye
let the leddy alane wi' your whiggery? And I was e'en as great a gomeral to let
ye persuade me to lie up here amang the blankets like a hurcheon, instead o'
gaun to the wappenschaw like other folk. - Od, but I put a trick on ye, for I
was out at the window-bole when your auld back was turned, and away' down by to
hae a baff at the popinjay, and I shot within twa on't. I cheated the leddy for
your clavers, but I wasna gaun to cheat my joe. But she may marry whae she likes
now, for I'm clean dung ower. This is a waur dirdum than we got frae Mr. Gudyill
when ye garr'd me refuse to eat the plum-porridge on Yule-eve, as if it were ony
matter to God or man whether a pleughman had suppit on minched pies or sour
sowens.«
    »Oh, whisht, my bairn! whisht!« replied Mause; »thou kensna about thae
things - It was forbidden meat, things dedicated to set days and holidays, which
are inhibited to the use of Protestant Christians.«
    »And now,« continued her son, »ye hae brought the leddy hersell on our
hands! - An I could but hae gotten some decent claes in, I wad hae spanged out
o' bed, and told her I wad ride where she liked, night or day, an she wad but
leave us the free house, and the yaird that grew the best early kale in the
haill country, and the cow's grass.«
    »O wow! my winsome bairn, Cuddie,« continued the old dame, »murmur not at
the dispensation; never grudge suffering in the good cause.«
    »But what ken I if the cause is good or no, mither,« rejoined Cuddie, »for
a' ye bleeze out sae muckle doctrine about it? It's clean beyond my
comprehension a'thegither. - I see nae sae muckle difference atween the twa ways
o't as a' the folk pretend. It's very true the curates read aye the same words
ower again; and if they be right words, what for no? - a good tale's no the waur
o' being twice told, I trow; and a body has aye the better chance to understand
it. Everybody's no sae gleg at the uptake as ye are yoursell, mither.«
    »O, my dear Cuddie, this is the sairest distress of a',« said the anxious
mother - »O, how aften have I shown ye the difference between a pure evangelical
doctrine, and ane that's corrupt wi' human inventions? O, my bairn, if no for
your ain saul's sake, yet for my grey hairs« --
    »Weel, mither,« said Cuddie, interrupting her, »what need ye make sae muckle
din about it? I hae aye dune whate'er ye bade me, and gaed to kirk whare'er ye
likit on the Sundays, and fended well for ye in the ilka days besides. And
that's what vexes me mair than a' the rest, when I think how I am to fend for ye
now in thae brickle times. I am no clear if I can pleugh ony place but the Mains
and Mucklewhame, at least I never tried ony other grund, and it wadna come
natural to me. And nae neighbouring heritors will daur to take us, after being
turned aff thae bounds for non-enormity.«
    »Non-conformity, hinnie,« sighed Mause, »is the name that thae warldly men
give us.«
    »Aweel, aweel - we'll hae to gang to a far country, maybe twall or fifteen
miles aff. I could be a dragoon, nae doubt, for I can ride and play wi' the
broadsword a bit, but ye wad be roaring about your blessing and your grey
hairs.« (Here Mause's exclamations became extreme.) »Weel, well, I but spoke
o't; besides, ye're ower auld to be sitting cocked up on a baggage-wagon, wi'
Eppie Dumblane, the corporal's wife. Sae what's to come o' us I canna well see -
I doubt I'll hae to take the hills wi' the wild whigs, as they ca' them, and
then it will be my lot to be shot down like a mawkin at some dike-side, or to be
sent to Heaven wi' a Saint Johnstone's tippet about my hause.«
    »O, my bonny Cuddie,« said the zealous Mause, »forbear sic carnal,
self-seeking language, whilk is just a misdoubting o' Providence - I have not
seen the son of the righteous begging his bread, - sae says the text; and your
father was a douce honest man, though somewhat warldly in his dealings, and
cumbered about earthly things, e'en like yoursell, my jo!«
    »Aweel,« said Cuddie, after a little consideration, »I see but ae gate
for't, and that's a cauld coal to blaw at, mither. Howsomever, mither, ye hae
some guess o' a wee bit kindness that's atween Miss Edith and young Mr. Henry
Morton, that should be ca'd young Milnwood, and that I hae whiles carried a bit
book, or maybe a bit letter, quietly atween them, and made believe never to ken
what it cam frae, though I ken'd brawly. There's whiles convenience in a body
looking a wee stupid - and I have aften seen them walking at e'en on the little
path by Dinglewood-burn; but nobody ever ken'd a word about it frae Cuddie. I
ken I'm gey thick in the head, but I'm as honest as our auld fore-hand ox, puir
fallow, that I'll ne'er work ony mair - I hope they'll be as kind to him that
come ahint me as I hae been. - But, as I was saying, we'll away' down to Milnwood
and tell Mr. Harry our distress. They want a pleughman, and the grund's no
unlike our ain - I am sure Mr. Harry will stand my part, for he's a kind-hearted
gentleman. - I'll get but little penny-fee, for his uncle, auld Nippie Milnwood,
has as close a grip as the deil himself. But we'll aye win a bit bread, and a
drap kale, and a fire-side, and theeking ower our heads; and that's a' we'll
want for a season. - Sae get up, mither, and sort your things to gang away; for
since sae it is that gang we maun, I wad like ill to wait till Mr. Harrison and
auld Gudyill cam to pu' us out by the lug and the horn.«
 

                                Chapter Seventh

            The devil a puritan or anything else he is, but a time-server.
                                                                  Twelfth Night.
 
It was evening when Mr. Henry Morton perceived an old woman wrapped in her
tartan plaid, supported by a stout, stupid-looking fellow, in hodden-grey,
approach the house of Milnwood. Old Mause made her courtesy, but Cuddie took the
lead in addressing Morton. Indeed, he had previously stipulated with his mother,
that he was to manage matters his own way; for though he readily allowed his
general inferiority of understanding, and filially submitted to the guidance of
his mother on most ordinary occasions, yet he said, »For getting a service, or
getting forward in the warld, he could somegate gar the wee pickle sense he had
gang muckle farther than hers, though she could crack like ony minister o' them
a'.«
    Accordingly, he thus opened the conversation with young Morton: -
    »A braw night this for the rye, your honour; the west park will be breering
bravely this e'en.«
    »I do not doubt it, Cuddie; but what can have brought your mother - this is
your mother, is it not?« (Cuddie nodded). »What can have brought your mother and
you down the water so late?«
    »Troth, stir, just what gars the auld wives trot - neshessity, stir - I'm
seeking for service, stir.«
    »For service, Cuddie, and at this time of the year? how comes that?«
    Mause could forbear no longer. Proud alike of her cause and her sufferings,
she commenced with an affected humility of tone, »It has pleased Heaven, an it
like your honour, to distinguish us by a visitation« --
    »Deil's in the wife, and nae good!« whispered Cuddie to his mother; »an ye
come out wi' your whiggery, they'll no daur open a door to us through the haill
country!« Then, aloud, and addressing Morton, »My mother's auld, stir, and she
has rather forgotten hersell in speaking to my leddy, that canna well bide to be
contradickit (as I ken nobody likes it if they could help themselves),
especially by her ain folk; and Mr. Harrison the steward, and Gudyill the
butler, they're no very fond o' us, and it's ill sitting at Rome and striving
wi' the Pope; sae I thought it best to flit before ill came to waur - and here's
a wee bit line to your honour frae a friend will maybe say some mair about it.«
    Morton took the billet, and crimsoning up to the ears between joy and
surprise, read these words: »If you can serve these poor helpless people, you
will oblige E.B.«
    It was a few instants before he could attain composure enough to ask, »And
what is your object, Cuddie? and how can I be of use to you?«
    »Wark, stir, wark, and a service, is my object - a bit beild for my mither
and mysell - we hae good plenishing o' our ain, if we had the cast o' a cart to
bring it down - and milk and meal, and greens enough, for I'm gey gleg at
meal-time, and sae is my mither, lang may it be sae - And, for the penny-fee and
a' that, I'll just leave it to the laird and you. I ken ye'll no see a poor lad
wranged, if ye can help it.«
    Morton shook his head. »For the meat and lodging, Cuddie, I think I can
promise something; but the penny-fee will be a hard chapter, I doubt.«
    »I'll take my chance o't, stir,« replied the candidate for service, »rather
than gang down about Hamilton, or ony sic far country.«
    »Well, step into the kitchen, Cuddie, and I'll do what I can for you.«
    The negotiation was not without difficulties. Morton had first to bring over
the housekeeper, who made a thousand objections, as usual, in order to have the
pleasure of being besought and entreated; but, when she was gained over, it was
comparatively easy to induce old Milnwood to accept of a servant whose wages
were to be in his own option. An outhouse was, therefore, assigned to Mause and
her son for their habitation, and it was settled that they were for the time to
be admitted to eat of the frugal fare provided for the family, until their own
establishment should be completed. As for Morton, he exhausted his own very
slender stock of money, in order to make Cuddie such a present, under the name
of arles, as might show his sense of the value of the recommendation delivered
to him.
    »And now we're settled ance mair,« said Cuddie to his mother, »and if we're
no sae bien and comfortable as we were up yonder, yet life's life ony gate, and
we're wi' decent kirk-ganging folk o' your ain persuasion, mither; there will be
nae quarrelling about that.«
    »Of my persuasion, hinny!« said the too-enlightened Mause; »wae's me for thy
blindness and theirs. O, Cuddie, they are but in the court of the Gentiles, and
will ne'er win farther been, I doubt; they are but little better than the
prelatists themsells. They wait on the ministry of that blinded man, Peter
Poundtext, ance a precious teacher of the Word, but now a backsliding pastor,
that has, for the sake of stipend and family maintenance, forsaken the strict
path, and gone astray after the black Indulgence. O, my son, had ye but profited
by the gospel doctrines ye hae heard in the Glen of Bengonnar, frae the dear
Richard Rumbleberry, that sweet youth, who suffered martyrdom in the
Grassmarket, afore Candlemas! Didna ye hear him say, that Erastianism was as bad
as Prelacy, and that the Indulgence was as bad as Erastianism?«
    »Heard ever anybody the like o' this!« interrupted Cuddie; »we'll be driven
out o' house and ha' again afore we ken where to turn oursells. Weel, mither, I
hae just ae word mair - An I hear ony mair o' your din - afore folk, that is,
for I dinna mind your clavers mysell, they aye set me sleeping - but if I hear
ony mair din afore folk, as I was saying, about Poundtexts and Rumbleberries,
and doctrines and malignants, I'se e'en turn a single sodger mysell, or maybe a
sergeant or a captain, if ye plague me the mair, and let Rumbleberry and you
gang to the deil thegither. I ne'er gat ony good by his doctrine, as ye ca't,
but a sour fit o' the batts wi' sitting amang the wat moss-hags for four hours
at a yoking, and the leddy cured me wi' some hickery-pickery; mair by token, an
she had ken'd how I came by the disorder, she wadna hae been in sic a hurry to
mend it.«
    Although groaning in spirit over the obdurate and impenitent state, as she
thought it, of her son Cuddie, Mause durst neither urge him farther on the
topic, nor altogether neglect the warning he had given her. She knew the
disposition of her deceased helpmate, whom this surviving pledge of their union
greatly resembled, and remembered, that although submitting implicitly in most
things to her boast of superior acuteness, he used on certain occasions, when
driven to extremity, to be seized with fits of obstinacy, which neither
remonstrance, flattery, nor threats, were capable of overpowering. Trembling,
therefore, at the very possibility of Cuddie's fulfilling his threat, she put a
guard over her tongue; and even when Poundtext was commended in her presence, as
an able and fructifying preacher, she had the good sense to suppress the
contradiction which thrilled upon her tongue, and to express her sentiments no
otherwise than by deep groans, which the hearers charitably construed to flow
from a vivid recollection of the more pathetic parts of his homilies. How long
she could have repressed her feelings, it is difficult to say - an unexpected
accident relieved her from the necessity.
    The Laird of Milnwood kept up all old fashions which were connected with
economy. It was, therefore, still the custom in his house, as it had been
universal in Scotland about fifty years before, that the domestics, after having
placed the dinner on the table, sate down at the lower end of the board, and
partook of the share which was assigned to them, in company with their masters.
On the day, therefore, after Cuddie's arrival, being the third from the opening
of this narrative, old Robin, who was butler, valet-de-chamber, footman,
gardener, and what not, in the house of Milnwood, placed on the table an immense
charger of broth, thickened with oatmeal and colewort, in which ocean of liquid
were indistinctly discovered, by close observers, two or three short ribs of
lean mutton sailing to and fro. Two huge baskets, one of bread made of barley
and pease, and one of oat-cakes, flanked this standing dish. A large boiled
salmon would now-a-days have indicated more liberal housekeeping; but at that
period salmon was caught in such plenty in the considerable rivers in Scotland,
that instead of being accounted a delicacy, it was generally applied to feed the
servants, who are said sometimes to have stipulated that they should not be
required to eat a food so luscious and surfeiting in its quality above five
times a-week. The large black jack, filled with very small beer of Milnwood's
own brewing, was allowed to the company at discretion, as were the bannocks,
cakes, and broth; but the mutton was reserved for the heads of the family, Mrs.
Wilson included; and a measure of ale somewhat deserving the name, was set apart
in a silver tankard for their exclusive use. A huge kebbock (a cheese, that is,
made with ewe-milk mixed with cow's milk) and a jar of salt butter, were in
common to the company.
    To enjoy this exquisite cheer, was placed, at the head of the table, the old
Laird himself, with his nephew on the one side, and the favourite housekeeper on
the other. At a long interval, and beneath the salt of course, sate old Robin, a
meagre, half-starved serving-man, rendered cross and cripple by rheumatism, and
a dirty drab of a housemaid, whom use had rendered callous to the daily
exercitations which her temper underwent at the hands of her master and Mrs.
Wilson. A barn-man, a white-headed cow-herd boy, with Cuddie the new ploughman
and his mother, completed the party. The other labourers belonging to the
property resided in their own houses, happy at least in this, that if their
cheer was not more delicate than that which we have described, they could eat
their fill, unwatched by the sharp, envious, grey eyes of Milnwood, which seemed
to measure the quantity that each of his dependants swallowed, as closely as if
their glances attended each mouthful in its progress from the lips to the
stomach. This close inspection was unfavourable to Cuddie, who sustained much
prejudice in his new master's opinion, by the silent celerity with which he
caused the victuals to disappear before him. And ever and anon Milnwood turned
his eyes from the huge feeder to cast indignant glances upon his nephew, whose
repugnance to rustic labour was the principal cause of his needing a ploughman,
and who had been the direct means of his hiring this very cormorant.
    »Pay thee wages, quotha?« said Milnwood to himself, - »Thou wilt eat in a
week the value of mair than thou canst work for in a month.«
    These disagreeable ruminations were interrupted by a loud knocking at the
outer gate. It was a universal custom in Scotland, that, when the family was at
dinner, the outer gate of the court-yard, if there was one, and if not, the door
of the house itself, was always shut and locked, and only guests of importance,
or persons upon urgent business, sought or received admittance at that time.16
The family of Milnwood were therefore surprised, and, in the unsettled state of
the times, something alarmed, at the earnest and repeated knocking with which
the gate was now assailed. Mrs. Wilson ran in person to the door, and having
reconnoitred those who were so clamorous for admittance, through some secret
aperture with which most Scottish doorways were furnished for the express
purpose, she returned wringing her hands in great dismay, exclaiming, »The
red-coats! the red-coats!«
    »Robin - Ploughman - what ca' they ye? - Barnsman - Nevoy Harry - open the
door, open the door!« exclaimed old Milnwood, snatching up and slipping into his
pocket the two or three silver spoons with which the upper end of the table was
garnished, those beneath the salt being of goodly horn »Speak them fair, sirs -
Lord love ye, speak them fair! - they winna bide thrawing! - We're a' harried -
we're a' harried!«
    While the servants admitted the troopers, whose oaths and threats already
indicated resentment at the delay they had been put to, Cuddie took the
opportunity to whisper to his mother, »Now, ye daft auld carline, make yoursell
deaf - ye hae made us a' deaf ere now - and let me speak for ye. - I wad like
ill to get my neck raxed for an auld wife's clashes, though ye be our mither.«
    »O, hinny, aye; I'se be silent or thou sall come to ill,« was the
corresponding whisper of Mause; »but bethink ye, my dear, them that deny the
Word, the Word will deny« --
    Her admonition was cut short by the entrance of the Life-Guardsmen, a party
of four troopers, commanded by Bothwell.
    In they tramped, making a tremendous clatter upon the stone floor with the
iron-shod heels of their large jack-boots, and the clash and clang of their
long, heavy, basket-hilted broadswords. Milnwood and his housekeeper trembled,
from well-grounded apprehensions of the system of exaction and plunder carried
on during these domiciliary visits. Henry Morton was discomposed with more
special cause, for he remembered that he stood answerable to the laws for having
harboured Burley. The widow Mause Headrigg, between fear for her son's life and
an overstrained and enthusiastic zeal which reproached her for consenting even
tacitly to belie her religious sentiments, was in a strange quandary. The other
servants quaked for they knew not well what. Cuddie alone, with the look of
supreme indifference and stupidity which a Scottish peasant can at times assume
as a mask for considerable shrewdness and craft, continued to swallow large
spoonfuls of his broth, to command which he had drawn within his sphere the
large vessel that contained it, and helped himself, amid the confusion, to a
sevenfold portion.
    »What is your pleasure here, gentlemen?« said Milnwood, humbling himself
before the satellites of power.
    »We come in behalf of the king,« answered Bothwell; »why the devil did you
keep us so long standing at the door?«
    »We were at dinner,« answered Milnwood, »and the door was locked, as is
usual in landward towns17 in this country. I am sure, gentlemen, if I had ken'd
ony servants of our good king hae stood at the door - But wad ye please to drink
some ale - or some brandy - or a cup of canary sack, or claret wine?« making a
pause between each offer as long as a stingy bidder at an auction, who is loath
to advance his offer for a favourite lot.
    »Claret for me,« said one fellow.
    »I like ale better,« said another, »provided it is right juice of John
Barleycorn.«
    »Better never was malted,« said Milnwood; »I can hardly say sae muckle for
the claret. It's thin and cauld, gentlemen.«
    »Brandy will cure that,« said a third fellow; »a glass of brandy to three
glasses of wine prevents the curmurring in the stomach.«
    »Brandy, ale, sack, and claret! - we'll try them all,« said Bothwell, »and
stick to that which is best. There's good sense in that, if the damn'dest whig
in Scotland had said it.«
    Hastily, yet with a reluctant quiver of his muscles, Milnwood lugged out two
ponderous keys, and delivered them to the governante.
    »The housekeeper,« said Bothwell, taking a seat, and throwing himself upon
it, »is neither so young nor so handsome as to tempt a man to follow her to the
gauntrees, and devil a one here is there worth sending in her place. - What's
this? - meat?« (searching with a fork among the broth, and fishing up a cutlet
of mutton) - »I think I could eat a bit - why, it's as tough as if the devil's
dam had hatched it.«
    »If there is anything better in the house, sir,« said Milnwood, alarmed at
these symptoms of disapprobation --
    »No, no,« said Bothwell, »it's not worth while; I must proceed to business.
- You attend Poundtext the Presbyterian parson, I understand, Mr. Morton?«
    Mr. Morton hastened to slide in a confession and apology.
    »By the indulgence of his gracious Majesty and the Government, for I wad do
nothing out of law - I hae nae objection whatever to the establishment of a
moderate episcopacy, but only that I am a country-bred man, and the ministers
are a hamelier kind of folk, and I can follow their doctrine better; and, with
reverence, sir, it's a mair frugal establishment for the country.«
    »Well, I care nothing about that,« said Bothwell; »they are indulged, and
there's an end of it; but, for my part, if I were to give the law, never a
crop-ear'd cur of the whole pack should bark in a Scotch pulpit. However, I am
to obey commands. - There comes the liquor; put it down, my good old lady.«
    He decanted about one-half of a quart bottle of claret into a wooden quaigh
or bicker, and took it off at a draught.
    »You did your good wine injustice, my friend; - it's better than your
brandy, though that's good too. Will you pledge me to the king's health?«
    »With pleasure,« said Milnwood, »in ale, - but I never drink claret, and
keep only a very little for some honoured friends.«
    »Like me, I suppose,« said Bothwell; and then pushing the bottle to Henry,
he said, »Here, young man, pledge you the king's health.«
    Henry filled a moderate glass in silence, regardless of the hints and pushes
of his uncle, which seemed to indicate that he ought to have followed his
example in preferring beer to wine.
    »Well,« said Bothwell, »have you all drank the toast? - What is that old
wife about? Give her a glass of brandy, she shall drink the king's health, by
--«
    »If your honour pleases,« said Cuddie, with great stolidity of aspect, »this
is my mither, stir; and she's as deaf as Corra Linn; we canna make her hear day
nor door; but if your honour pleases, I am ready to drink the king's health for
her in as mony glasses of brandy as ye think neshessary.«
    »I dare swear you are,« answered Bothwell; »you look like a fellow that
would stick to brandy - help thyself, man; all's free where'er I come. - Tom,
help the maid to a comfortable cup, though she's but a dirty jilt neither. Fill
round once more. Here's to our noble commander, Colonel Graham of Claverhouse!
What the devil is the old woman groaning for? She looks as very a whig as ever
sate on a hill-side - Do you renounce the Covenant, good woman?«
    »Whilk Covenant is your honour meaning? - is it the Covenant of Works, or
the Covenant of Grace?« said Cuddie, interposing.
    »Any Covenant - all covenants that ever were hatched,« answered the trooper.
    »Mither,« cried Cuddie, affecting to speak as to a deaf person, »the
gentleman wants to ken if ye will renunce the Covenant of Works?«
    »With all my heart, Cuddie,« said Mause, »and pray that my feet may be
delivered from the snare thereof.«
    »Come,« said Bothwell, »the old dame has come more frankly off than I
expected. Another cup round, and then we'll proceed to business. - Yon have all
heard, I suppose, of the horrid and barbarous murder committed upon the person
of the Archbishop of St. Andrews, by ten or eleven armed fanatics?«
    All started and looked at each other; at length Milnwood himself answered,
»They had heard of some such misfortune, but were in hopes it had not been
true.«
    »There is the relation published by Government, old gentleman; what do you
think of it?«
    »Think, sir? Wh - wh - whatever the council please to think of it,«
stammered Milnwood.
    »I desire to have your opinion more explicitly, my friend,« said the
dragoon, authoritatively.
    Milnwood's eyes hastily glanced through the paper to pick out the strongest
expressions of censure with which it abounded, in gleaning which he was greatly
aided by their being printed in italics.
    »I think it a - bloody and execrable - murder and parricide - devised by
hellish and implacable cruelty - utterly abominable, and a scandal to the land.«
    »Well said, old gentleman!« said the querist - »Here's to thee, and I wish
you joy of your good principles. You owe me a cup of thanks for having taught
you them; nay, thou shalt pledge me in thine own sack - sour ale sits ill upon a
loyal stomach. - Now comes your turn, young man; what think you of the matter in
hand?«
    »I should have little objection to answer you,« said Henry, »if I knew what
right you had to put the question.«
    »The Lord preserve us!« said the old housekeeper, »to ask the like o' that
at a trooper, when a' folk ken they do whatever they like through the haill
country wi' man and woman, beast and body.«
    The old gentleman exclaimed, in the same horror at his nephew's audacity,
»Hold your peace, sir, or answer the gentleman discreetly. Do you mean to
affront the king's authority in the person of a sergeant of the Life-Guards?«
    »Silence, all of you!« exclaimed Bothwell, striking his hand fiercely on the
table - »Silence, every one of you, and hear me! - You ask me for my right to
examine you, sir« (to Henry); »my cockade and my broadsword are my commission,
and a better one than ever Old Nol gave to his roundheads; and if you want to
know more about it, you may look at the act of council empowering his Majesty's
officers and soldiers to search for, examine, and apprehend suspicious persons;
and therefore, once more, I ask you your opinion of the death of Archbishop
Sharp - it's a new touchstone we have got for trying people's mettle.«
    Henry had, by this time, reflected upon the useless risk to which he would
expose the family by resisting the tyrannical power which was delegated to such
rude hands; he therefore read the narrative over, and replied, composedly, »I
have no hesitation to say, that the perpetrators of this assassination have
committed, in my opinion, a rash and wicked action, which I regret the more, as
I foresee it will be made the cause of proceedings against many who are both
innocent of the deed, and as far from approving it as myself.«
    While Henry thus expressed himself, Bothwell, who bent his eyes keenly upon
him, seemed suddenly to recollect his features.
    »Aha! my friend Captain Popinjay! I think I have seen you before, and in
very suspicious company.«
    »I saw you once,« answered Henry, »in the public-house of the town of --.«
    »And with whom did you leave that public-house, youngster? - was it not with
John Balfour of Burley, one of the murderers of the Archbishop?«
    »I did leave the house with the person you have named,« answered Henry - »I
scorn to deny it; but, so far from knowing him to be a murderer of the primate,
I did not even know at the time that such a crime had been committed.«
    »Lord have mercy on me! I am ruined! - utterly ruined and undone!« exclaimed
Milnwood. »That callant's tongue will rin the head aff his ain shoulders, and
waste my gudes to the very grey cloak on my back!«
    »But you knew Burley,« continued Bothwell, still addressing Henry, and
regardless of his uncle's interruption, »to be an intercommuned rebel and
traitor, and you knew the prohibition to deal with such persons. You knew, that,
as a loyal subject, you were prohibited to reset, supply, or intercommune with
this attainted traitor, to correspond with him by word, writ, or message, or to
supply him with meat, drink, house, harbour, or victual, under the highest pains
- you knew all this, and yet you broke the law.« (Henry was silent.) »Where did
you part with him?« continued Bothwell; »was it in the highway, or did you give
him harbourage in this very house?«
    »In this house!« said his uncle, »he dared not for his neck bring ony
traitor into a house of mine.«
    »Dare he deny that he did so?« said Bothwell.
    »As you charge it to me as a crime,« said Henry, »you will excuse my saying
anything that will criminate myself.«
    »O, the lands of Milnwood! - the bonny lands of Milnwood, that have been in
the name of Morton twa hundred years!« exclaimed his uncle; »they are barking
and fleeing, outfield and infield, haugh and holme!«
    »No, sir,« said Henry, »you shall not suffer on my account. - I own,« he
continued, addressing Bothwell, »I did give this man a night's lodging, as to an
old military comrade of my father. But it was not only without my uncle's
knowledge, but contrary to his express general orders. I trust, if my evidence
is considered as good against myself, it will have some weight in proving my
uncle's innocence.«
    »Come, young man,« in a somewhat milder tone, »you're a smart spark enough,
and I am sorry for you; and your uncle here is a fine old Trojan - kinder, I
see, to his guests than himself, for he gives us wine, and drinks his own thin
ale; - tell me all you know about this Burley, what he said when you parted from
him, where he went, and where he is likely now to be found; and, d-n it, I'll
wink as hard on your share of the business as my duty will permit. There's a
thousand merks on the murdering whigamore's head, an I could but light on it. -
Come, out with it - where did you part with him?«
    »You will excuse my answering that question, sir,« said Morton; »the same
cogent reasons which induced me to afford him hospitality at considerable risk
to myself and my friends, would command me to respect his secret, if, indeed, he
had trusted me with any.«
    »So you refuse to give me an answer?« said Bothwell.
    »I have none to give,« returned Henry.
    »Perhaps I could teach you to find one, by tying a piece of lighted match
between your fingers,« answered Bothwell.
    »O, for pity's sake, sir,« said old Alison, apart to her master, »give them
siller - it's siller they're seeking - they'll murder Mr. Henry, and yoursell
next!«
    Milnwood groaned in perplexity and bitterness of spirit, and, with a tone as
if he was giving up the ghost, exclaimed, »If twenty p - p - punds would make up
this unhappy matter« --
    »My master,« insinuated Alison to the sergeant, »would give twenty punds
sterling« --
    »Punds Scotch, ye b-h!« interrupted Milnwood; for the agony of his avarice
overcame alike his puritanic precision and the habitual respect he entertained
for his housekeeper.
    »Punds sterling,« insisted the housekeeper, »if ye wad hae the gudeness to
look ower the lad's misconduct; he's that dour ye may tear him to pieces, and ye
wad ne'er get a word out o' him; and it wad do ye little good, I'm sure, to burn
his bonny finger-ends.«
    »Why,« said Bothwell, hesitating, »I don't know - most of my cloth would
have the money and take off the prisoner too; but I bear a conscience, and if
your master will stand to your offer, and enter into a bond to produce his
nephew, and if all in the house will take the test-oath, I do not know but« --
    »O ay, ay, sir,« cried Mrs. Wilson, »ony test, ony oaths ye please!« And
then aside to her master, »Haste ye away, sir, and get the siller, or they will
burn the house about our lugs.«
    Old Milnwood cast a rueful look upon his adviser, and moved off, like a
piece of Dutch clock-work, to set at liberty his imprisoned angels in this dire
emergency. Meanwhile, Sergeant Bothwell began to put the test-oath with such a
degree of solemn reverence as might have been expected, being just about the
same which is used to this day in his Majesty's custom-house.
    »You - what's your name, woman?«
    »Alison Wilson, sir.«
    »You, Alison Wilson, solemnly swear, certify, and declare that you judge it
unlawful for subjects under pretext of reformation, or any other pretexts
whatsoever, to enter into Leagues and Covenants« --
    Here the ceremony was interrupted by a strife between Cuddie and his mother,
which, long conducted in whispers, now became audible.
    »Oh, whisht, mither, whisht! they're upon communing - Oh, whisht! and
they'll agree well eneuch e'enough.«
    »I will not whisht, Cuddie,« replied his mother, »I will uplift my voice and
spare not - I will confound the man of sin, even the scarlet man, and through my
voice shall Mr. Henry be freed from the net of the fowler.«
    »She has her leg ower the harrows now,« said Cuddie, »stop her what can - I
see her cocked up behint a dragoon on her way to the Tolbooth - I find my ain
legs tied below a horse's belly. Ay - she has just mustered up her sermon, and
there - wi' that grane - out it comes, and we are a' ruined, horse and foot!«
    »And div ye think to come here,« said Mause, her withered hand shaking in
concert with her keen though wrinkled visage, animated by zealous wrath, and
emancipated, by the very mention of the test, from the restraints of her own
prudence and Cuddie's admonition - »div ye think to come here wi' your
soul-killing, saint-seducing, conscience-confounding oaths, and tests, and bands
- your snares, and your traps, and your gins? - Surely it is in vain that a net
is spread in the sight of any bird.«
    »Eh! what, good dame?« said the soldier. - »Here's a whig miracle, egad! the
old wife has got both her ears and tongue, and we are like to be driven deaf in
our turn. - Go to, hold your peace, and remember whom you talk to, you old
idiot.«
    »Whae do I talk to! Eh, sirs, ower well may the sorrowing land ken what ye
are. Malignant adherents ye are to the prelates, foul props to a feeble and
filthy cause, bloody beasts of prey, and burdens to the earth.«
    »Upon my soul,« said Bothwell, astonished as a mastiff-dog might be should a
hen-partridge fly at him in defence of her young, »this is the finest language I
ever heard! Can't you give us some more of it?«
    »Gie ye some mair o't?« said Mause, clearing her voice with a preliminary
cough - »I will take up my testimony against you ance and again. Philistines ye
are, and Edomites - leopards are ye, and foxes - evening wolves, that gnaw not
the bones till the morrow - wicked dogs, that compass about the chosen -
thrusting kine, and pushing bulls of Bashan - piercing serpents ye are, and
allied baith in name and nature with the great Red Dragon; Revelations, twalfth
chapter, third and fourth verses.«
    Here the old lady stopped, apparently much more from lack of breath than of
matter.
    »Curse the old hag!« said one of the dragoons - »gag her, and take her to
head-quarters.«
    »For shame, Andrews!« said Bothwell; »remember the good lady belongs to the
fair sex, and uses only the privilege of her tongue. - But, hark ye, good woman
- every bull of Bashan and Red Dragon will not be so civil as I am, or be
contented to leave you to the charge of the constable and ducking-stool. In the
meantime, I must necessarily carry off this young man to head-quarters. I cannot
answer to my commanding-officer to leave him in a house where I have heard so
much treason and fanaticism.«
    »See now, mither, what ye hae dune,« whispered Cuddie; »there's the
Philistines, as ye ca' them, are gaun to whirry away' Mr. Henry, and a' wi' your
nash-gab, deil be on't!«
    »Haud yere tongue, ye cowardly loon,« said the mother, »and layna the wyte
on me; if you and thae thowless gluttons, that are sitting staring like cows
bursting on clover, wad testify wi' your hands as I have testified wi' my
tongue, they should never harle the precious young lad away' to captivity.«
    While this dialogue passed, the soldiers had already bound and secured their
prisoner. Milnwood returned at this instant, and, alarmed at the preparations he
beheld, hastened to proffer to Bothwell, though with many a grievous groan, the
purse of gold which he had been obliged to rummage out as ransom for his nephew.
The trooper took the purse with an air of indifference, weighed it in his hand,
chucked it up into the air, and caught it as it fell, then shook his head, and
said, »There's many a merry night in this nest of yellow boys, but d-n me if I
dare venture for them - that old woman has spoken too loud, and before all the
men too. - Hark ye, old gentleman,« to Milnwood, »I must take your nephew to
head-quarters, so I cannot, in conscience, keep more than is my due as
civility-money;« then opening the purse, he gave a gold piece to each of the
soldiers, and took three to himself. »Now,« said he, »you have the comfort to
know that your kinsman, young Captain Popinjay, will be carefully looked after
and civilly used; and the rest of the money I return to you.«
    Milnwood eagerly extended his hand.
    »Only you know,« said Bothwell, still playing with the purse, »that every
landholder is answerable for the conformity and loyalty of his household, and
that these fellows of mine are not obliged to be silent on the subject of the
fine sermon we have had from that old puritan in the tartan plaid there; and I
presume you are aware that the consequences of delation will be a heavy fine
before the Council.«
    »Good sergeant! - worthy captain!« exclaimed the terrified miser, »I am sure
there is no person in my house, to my knowledge, would give cause of offence.«
    »Nay,« answered Bothwell, »you shall hear her give her testimony, as she
calls it, herself. - You, fellow« (to Cuddie), »stand back, and let your mother
speak her mind. I see she's primed and loaded again since her first discharge.«
    »Lord! noble sir,« said Cuddie, »an auld wife's tongue's but a feckless
matter to make sic a fash about. Neither my father nor me ever minded muckle what
our mither said.«
    »Hold your peace, my lad, while you are well,« said Bothwell; »I promise you
I think you are slyer than you would like to be supposed. - Come, good dame, you
see your master will not believe that you can give us so bright a testimony.«
    Mause's zeal did not require this spur to set her again on full career.
    »Woe to the compilers and carnal self-seekers,« she said, »that daub over
and drown their consciences by complying with wicked exactions, and giving
mammon of unrighteousness to the sons of Belial, that it may make their peace
with them! It is a sinful compliance, a base confederacy with the Enemy. It is
the evil that Menahem did in the sight of the Lord, when he gave a thousand
talents to Pul, King of Assyria, that his hand might be with him - Second Kings,
feifteen chapter, nineteen verse. It is the evil deed of Ahab, when he sent
money to Tiglath-Peleser; see the saame Second Kings, saxteen and aught. And if
it was accounted a backsliding even in godly Hezekiah that he complied with
Sennacherib, giving him money, and offering to bear that which was put upon him
(see the saame Second Kings, aughteen chapter, fourteen and feifteen verses),
even so it is with them that in this contumacious and backsliding generation
pays localities and fees, and cess and fines, to greedy and unrighteous
publicans, and extortions and stipends to hireling curates (dumb dogs which bark
not, sleeping, lying down, loving to slumber), and gives gifts to be helps and
hires to our oppressors and destroyers. They are all like the casters of a lot
with them - like the preparing of a table for the troop, and the furnishing a
drink-offering to the number.«
    »There's a fine sound of doctrine for you, Mr. Morton! How like you that?«
said Bothwell; »or how do you think the Council will like it? I think we can
carry the greatest part of it in our heads without a kylevine pen and a pair of
tablets, such as you bring to conventicles. She denies paying cess, I think,
Andrews?«
    »Yes, by G-,« said Andrews; »and she swore it was a sin to give a trooper a
pot of ale, or ask him to sit down to a table.«
    »You hear,« said Bothwell, addressing Milnwood; »but it's your own affair;«
and he proffered back the purse with its diminished contents, with an air of
indifference.
    Milnwood, whose head seemed stunned by the accumulation of his misfortunes,
extended his hand mechanically to take the purse.
    »Are ye mad?« said his housekeeper, in a whisper, »tell them to keep it -
they will keep it either by fair means or foul, and it's our only chance to make
them quiet.«
    »I canna do it, Ailie - I canna do it,« said Milnwood, in the bitterness of
his heart. »I canna part wi' the siller I hae counted sae often ower, to thae
blackguards.«
    »Then I maun do it mysell, Milnwood,« said the housekeeper, »or see a' gang
wrang thegither. - My master, sir,« she said, addressing Bothwell, »canna think
o' taking back ony-thing at the hand of an honourable gentleman like you; he
implores ye to pit up the siller, and be as kind to his nephew as ye can, and be
favourable in reporting our dispositions to Government, and let us take nae wrong
for the daft speeches of an auld jaud« (here she turned fiercely upon Mause, to
indulge herself for the effort which it cost her to assume a mild demeanour to
the soldiers), »a daft auld whig randy, that ne'er was in the house (foul fa'
her!) till yesterday afternoon, and that sall ne'er cross the door-stane again,
an anes I had her out o't.«
    »Ay, ay,« whispered Cuddie to his parent, »e'en sae! I ken'd we wad be put
to our travels again, whene'er ye should get three words spoken to an end. I was
sure that wad be the upshot o't, mither.«
    »Whisht, my bairn,« said she, »and dinna murmur at the cross - Cross their
door-stane! well I wot I'll ne'er cross their door-stane. There's nae mark on
their threshold for a signal that the destroying angel should pass by. They'll
get a backcast o' his hand yet, that think sae muckle o' the creature and sae
little o' the Creator - sae muckle o' warld's gear and sae little o' a broken
covenant - sae muckle about thae wheen pieces o' yellow muck, and sae little
about the pure gold o' the Scripture - sae muckle about their ain friend and
kinsman, and sae little about the elect, that are tried wi' hornings,
harassings, huntings, searchings, chasings, catchings, imprisonments,
torturings, banishments, headings, hangings, dismemberings, and quarterings
quick, forby the hundreds forced from their ain habitations to the deserts,
mountains, muirs, mosses, moss-flows, and peat-hags, there to hear the word like
bread eaten in secret.«
    »She's at the Covenant now, sergeant; shall we not have her away?« said one
of the soldiers.
    »You be d-d!« said Bothwell, aside to him; »cannot you see she's better
where she is, so long as there is a respectable, sponsible, money-broking
heritor, like Mr. Morton of Milnwood, who has the means of atoning her
trespasses? Let the old mother fly to raise another brood - she's too tough to
be made anything of herself. - Here,« he cried, »one other round to Milnwood and
his roof-tree, and to our next merry meeting with him! - which I think will not
be far distant, if he keeps such a fanatical family.«
    He then ordered the party to take their horses, and pressed the best in
Milnwood's stable into the king's service to carry the prisoner. Mrs. Wilson,
with weeping eyes, made up a small parcel of necessaries for Henry's compelled
journey, and as she bustled about, took an opportunity, unseen by the party, to
slip into his hand a small sum of money. Bothwell and his troopers, in other
respects, kept their promise, and were civil. They did not bind their prisoner,
but contented themselves with leading his horse between a file of men. They then
mounted, and marched off with much mirth and laughter among themselves, leaving
the Milnwood family in great confusion. The old Laird himself, overpowered by
the loss of his nephew, and the unavailing outlay of twenty pounds sterling, did
nothing the whole evening but rock himself backwards and forwards in his great
leathern easy-chair, repeating the same lamentation, of »Ruined on a' sides!
ruined on a' sides! - harried and undone! harried and undone! - body and gudes!
body and gudes!«
    Mrs. Alison Wilson's grief was partly indulged and partly relieved by the
torrent of invectives with which she accompanied Mause and Cuddie's expulsion
from Milnwood.
    »Ill luck be in the graning corse o' thee! - the prettiest lad in Clydesdale
this day maun be a sufferer, and a' for you and your daft whiggery!«
    »Gae wa',« replied Mause; »I trow ye are yet in the bonds of sin, and in the
gall of iniquity, to grudge your bonniest and best in the cause of Him that gave
ye a' ye hae - I promise I hae dune as muckle for Mr. Harry as I wad do for my
ain; for if Cuddie was found worthy to bear testimony in the Grassmarket« --
    »And there's good hope o't,« said Alison, »unless you and he change your
courses.«
    »- And if,« continued Mause, disregarding the interruption, »the bloody
Doegs and the flattering Zephites were to seek to ensnare me with a proffer of
his remission upon sinful compliances, I wad persevere, natheless, in lifting my
testimony against popery, prelacy, antinomianism, erastianism, lapsarianism,
sublapsarianism, and the sins and snares of the times - I wad cry as a woman in
labour against the black Indulgence, that has been a stumbling-block to
professors - I wad uplift my voice as a powerful preacher.«
    »Hout, tout, mither,« cried Cuddie, interfering and dragging her off
forcibly, »dinna deave the gentlewoman wi' your testimony! ye hae preached
enough for sax days. Ye preached us out o' our canny free-house and good
kale-yard, and out o' this new city o' refuge afore our hinder end was well
hafted in it; and ye hae preached Mr. Harry away' to the prison; and ye hae
preached twenty punds out o' the Laird's pocket, that he likes as ill to quit
wi'; and sae ye may haud sae for ae wee while, without preaching me up a ladder
and down a tow. Sae, come away', come away'; the family hae had enough o' your
testimony to mind it for ae while.«
    So saying he dragged off Mause, the words »Testimony - Covenant - malignants
- indulgence,« still thrilling upon her tongue, to make preparations for
instantly renewing their travels in quest of an asylum.
    »Ill-far'd, crazy, crack-brained gowk that she is!« exclaimed the
housekeeper, as she saw them depart, »to set up to be sae muckle better than
ither folk, the auld besom, and to bring sae muckle distress on a douce quiet
family! If it hadna been that I am mair than half a gentlewoman by my station, I
wad hae tried my ten nails in the wizen'd hide o' her!«
 

                                 Chapter Eighth

 I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars,
 And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;
 This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,
 When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.
                                                                          Burns.
 
»Don't be too much cast down,« said Sergeant Bothwell to his prisoner, as they
journeyed on towards the head-quarters; »you are a smart pretty lad, and well
connected; the worst that will happen will be strapping up for it, and that is
many an honest fellow's lot. I tell you fairly your life's within the compass of
the law, unless you make submission, and get off by a round fine upon your
uncle's estate; he can well afford it.«
    »That vexes me more than the rest,« said Henry. »He parts with his money
with regret; and as he had no concern whatever with my having given this person
shelter for a night, I wish to Heaven, if I escape a capital punishment, that
the penalty may be of a kind I could bear in my own person.«
    »Why, perhaps,« said Bothwell, »they will propose to you to go into one of
the Scotch regiments that are serving abroad. It's no bad line of service; if
your friends are active, and there are any knocks going, you may soon get a
commission.«
    »I am by no means sure,« answered Morton, »that such a sentence is not the
best thing that can happen to me.«
    »Why, then, you are no real whig after all!« said the sergeant.
    »I have hitherto meddled with no party in the state,« said Henry, »but have
remained quietly at home; and sometimes I have had serious thoughts of joining
one of our foreign regiments.«
    »Have you?« replied Bothwell; »why, I honour you for it; I have served in
the Scotch French Guards myself many a long day; it's the place for learning
discipline, d-n me. They never mind what you do when you are off duty; but miss
you the roll-call, and see how they'll arrange you - D-n me, if old Captain
Montgomery didn't make me mount guard upon the arsenal in my steel-back and
breast, plate-sleeves, and headpiece, for six hours at once, under so burning a
sun, that, gad, I was baked like a turtle at Port Royal. I swore never to miss
answering to Francis Stewart again, though I should leave my hand of cards upon
the drum-head - Ah! discipline is a capital thing.«
    »In other respects you liked the service?« said Morton.
    »Par excellence,« said Bothwell; »women, wine, and wassail, all to be had
for little but the asking; and if you find it in your conscience to let a fat
priest think he has some chance to convert you, and, he'll help you to these
comforts himself, just to gain a little ground in your good affection. Where
will you find a cropeared whig parson will be so civil?«
    »Why, nowhere, I agree with you,« said Henry. »But what was your chief
duty?«
    »To guard the King's person,« said Bothwell, »to look after the safety of
Louis le Grand, my boy, and now and then to take a turn among the Huguenots
(Protestants, that is). And there we had fine scope; it brought my hand pretty
well in for the service in this country. But, come, as you are to be a bon
camerado, as the Spaniards say, I must put you in cash with some of your old
uncle's broad pieces. This is cutter's law; we must not see a pretty fellow
want, if we have cash ourselves.«
    Thus speaking, he pulled out his purse, took out some of the contents, and
offered them to Henry without counting them. Young Morton declined the favour;
and, not judging it prudent to acquaint the sergeant, notwithstanding his
apparent generosity, that he was actually in possession of some money, he
assured him he should have no difficulty in getting a supply from his uncle.
    »Well,« said Bothwell, »in that case these yellow rascals must serve to
ballast my purse a little longer. I always make it a rule never to quit the
tavern (unless ordered on duty) while my purse is so weighty that I can chuck it
over the signpost.18 When it is so light that the wind blows it back, then, boot
and saddle, - we must fall on some way of replenishing. - But what tower is that
before us, rising so high upon the steep bank, out of the woods that surround it
on every side?«
    »It is the tower of Tillietudlem,« said one of the soldiers. »Old Lady
Margaret Bellenden lives there. She's one of the best affected women in the
country, and one that's a soldier's friend. When I was hurt by one of the d-d
whig dogs that shot at me from behind a fauld-dike, I lay a month there, and
would stand such another wound to be in as good quarters again.«
    »If that be the case,« said Bothwell, »I will pay my respects to her as we
pass, and request some refreshment for men and horses; I am as thirsty already
as if I had drunk nothing at Milnwood. But it is a good thing in these times,«
he continued, addressing himself to Henry, »that the King's soldier cannot pass
a house without getting a refreshment. In such houses as Tillie - what d'ye call
it? - you are served for love; in the houses of the avowed fanatics you help
yourself by force; and among the moderate Presbyterians and other suspicious
persons, you are well treated from fear; so your thirst is always quenched on
some terms or other.«
    »And you propose,« said Henry anxiously, »to go upon that errand up to the
Tower yonder?«
    »To be sure I do,«, answered Bothwell. »How should I be able to report
favourably to my officers of the worthy lady's sound principles, unless I know
the taste of her sack, for sack she will produce - that I take for granted; it
is the favourite consoler of your old dowager of quality, as small claret is the
potation of your country laird.«
    »Then, for Heaven's sake,« said Henry, »if you are determined to go there,
do not mention my name, or expose me to a family that I am acquainted with. Let
me be muffled up for the time in one of your soldier's cloaks, and only mention
me generally as a prisoner under your charge.«
    »With all my heart,« said Bothwell; »I promised to use you civilly, and I
scorn to break my word. - Here, Andrews, wrap a cloak round the prisoner, and do
not mention his name, nor where we caught him, unless you would have a trot on a
horse of wood.«19
    They were at this moment at an arched gateway, battlemented and flanked with
turrets, one whereof was totally ruinous, excepting the lower storey, which
served as a cow-house to the peasant whose family inhabited the turret that
remained entire. The gate had been broken down by Monk's soldiers during the
civil war, and had never been replaced, therefore presented no obstacle to
Bothwell and his party. The avenue, very steep and narrow, and causewayed with
large round stones, ascended the side of the precipitous bank in an oblique and
zigzag course, now showing, now hiding, a view of the Tower and its exterior
bulwarks, which seemed to rise almost perpendicularly above their heads. The
fragments of Gothic defences which it exhibited were upon such a scale of
strength, as induced Bothwell to exclaim, »It's well this place is in honest and
loyal hands. Egad, if the enemy had it, a dozen of old whigamore wives with
their distaffs might keep it against a troop of dragoons, at least if they had
half the spunk of the old girl we left at Milnwood. Upon my life,« he continued,
as they came in front of the large double tower and its surrounding defences and
flankers, »it is a superb place, founded, says the worn inscription over the
gate - unless the remnant of my Latin has given me the slip - by Sir Ralph de
Bellenden in 1350 - a respectable antiquity. I must greet the old lady with due
honour, though it should put me to the labour of recalling some of the
compliments that I used to dabble in when I was wont to keep that sort of
company.«
    As he thus communed with himself, the butler, who had reconnoitred the
soldiers from an arrow-slit in the wall, announced to his lady, that a commanded
party of dragoons, or, as he thought, Life-Guardsmen, waited at the gate with a
prisoner under their charge.
    »I am certain,« said Gudyill, »and positive, that the sixth man is a
prisoner; for his horse is led, and the two dragoons that are before have their
carabines out of their budgets, and rested upon their thighs. It was aye the way
we guarded prisoners in the days of the great Marquis.«
    »King's soldiers?« said the lady; »probably in want of refreshment. Go,
Gudyill, make them welcome, and let them be accommodated with what provision and
forage the tower can afford. And stay, tell my gentlewoman to bring my black
scarf and manteau. I will go down myself to receive them; one cannot show the
King's Life-Guards too much respect in times when they are doing so much for
royal authority. And, d'ye hear, Gudyill, let Jenny Dennison slip on her
pearlings to walk before my niece and me, and the three women to walk behind;
and bid my niece attend me instantly.«
    Fully accoutred, and attended according to her directions, Lady Margaret now
sailed out into the court-yard of her tower with great courtesy and dignity.
Sergeant Bothwell saluted the grave and reverend lady of the manor with an
assurance which had something of the light and careless address of the
dissipated men of fashion in Charles the Second's time, and did not at all
savour of the awkward or rude manners of a noncommissioned officer of dragoons.
His language, as well as his manners, seemed also to be refined for the time and
occasion; though the truth was, that, in the fluctuations of an adventurous and
profligate life, Bothwell had sometimes kept company much better suited to his
ancestry than to his present situation of life. To the lady's request to know
whether she could be of service to them, he answered, with a suitable bow, »That
as they had to march some miles farther that night, they would be much
accommodated by permission to rest their horses for an hour before continuing
their journey.«
    »With the greatest pleasure,« answered Lady Margaret, »and I trust that my
people will see that neither horse nor men want suitable refreshment.«
    »We are well aware, madam,« continued Bothwell, »that such has always been
the reception, within the walls of Tillietudlem, of those who served the King.«
    »We have studied to discharge our duty faithfully and loyally on all
occasions, sir,« answered Lady Margaret, pleased with the compliment, »both to
our monarchs and to their followers, particularly to their faithful soldiers. It
is not long ago, and it probably has not escaped the recollection of his sacred
Majesty now on the throne, since he himself honoured my poor house with his
presence, and breakfasted in a room in this castle, Mr. Sergeant, which my
waiting gentlewoman shall show you; we still call it the King's room.«
    Bothwell had by this time dismounted his party, and committed the horses to
the charge of one file, and the prisoner to that of another; so that he himself
was at liberty to continue the conversation which the lady had so
condescendingly opened.
    »Since the King, my master, had the honour to experience your hospitality, I
cannot wonder that it is extended to those that serve him, and whose principal
merit is doing it with fidelity. And yet I have a nearer relation to his Majesty
than this coarse red coat would seem to indicate.«
    »Indeed, sir? Probably,« said Lady Margaret, »you have belonged to his
household?«
    »Not exactly, madam, to his household, but rather to his house; a connection
through which I may claim kindred with most of the best families in Scotland,
not, I believe, exclusive of that of Tillietudlem.«
    »Sir!« said the old lady, drawing herself up with dignity at hearing what
she conceived an impertinent jest; »I do not understand you.«
    »It's but a foolish subject for one in my situation to talk of, madam,«
answered the trooper; »but you must have heard of the history and misfortunes of
my grandfather Francis Stewart, to whom James I., his cousin-German, gave the
title of Bothwell, as my comrades give me the nickname. It was not, in the long
run, more advantageous to him than it is to me.«
    »Indeed!« said Lady Margaret, with much sympathy and surprise; »I have
indeed always understood that the grandson of the last Earl was in necessitous
circumstances, but I should never have expected to see him so low in the
service. With such connections, what ill fortune could have reduced you«--
    »Nothing much out of the ordinary course, I believe, madam,« said Bothwell,
interrupting and anticipating the question. »I have had my moments of good luck
like my neighbours - have drunk my bottle with Rochester, thrown a merry main
with Buckingham, and fought at Tangiers side by side with Sheffield. But my luck
never lasted; I could not make useful friends out of my jolly companions -
Perhaps I was not sufficiently aware,« he continued, with some bitterness, »how
much the descendant of the Scottish Stewarts was honoured by being admitted into
the convivialities of Wilmot and Villiers.«
    »But your Scottish friends, Mr. Stewart - your relations here, so numerous
and so powerful?«
    »Why, ay, my lady,« replied the sergeant; »I believe some of them might have
made me their gamekeeper, for I am a tolerable shot - some of them would have
entertained me as their bravo, for I can use my sword well - and here and there
was one, who, when better company was not to be had, would have made me his
companion, since I can drink my three bottles of wine. But I don't know how it
is - between service and service among my kinsmen, I prefer that of my cousin
Charles as the most creditable of them all, although the pay is but poor, and
the livery far from splendid.«
    »It is a shame! it is a burning scandal!« said Lady Margaret. »Why do you
not apply to his most sacred Majesty? he cannot but be surprised to hear that a
scion of his august family« --
    »I beg your pardon, madam,« interrupted the sergeant; »I am but a blunt
soldier, and I trust you will excuse me when I say, his most sacred Majesty is
more busy in grafting scions of his own, than with nourishing those which were
planted by his grandfather's grandfather.«
    »Well, Mr. Stewart,« said Lady Margaret, »one thing you must promise me -
remain at Tillietudlem to-night; to-morrow I expect your commanding officer, the
gallant Claverhouse, to whom king and country are so much obliged for his
exertions against those who would turn the world upside down. I will speak to
him on the subject of your speedy promotion; and I am certain he feels too much,
both what is due to the blood which is in your veins, and to the request of a
lady so highly distinguished as myself by his most sacred Majesty, not to make
better provision for you than you have yet received.«
    »I am much obliged to your ladyship, and I certainly will remain here with
my prisoner, since you request it, especially as it will be the earliest way of
presenting him to Colonel Grahame, and obtaining his ultimate orders about the
young spark.«
    »Who is your prisoner, pray you?« said Lady Margaret.
    »A young fellow of rather the better class in this neighbourhood, who has
been so incautious as to give countenance to one of the murderers of the
primate, and to facilitate the dog's escape.«
    »O, fie upon him!« said Lady Margaret. »I am but too apt to forgive the
injuries I have received at the hands of these rogues, though some of them, Mr.
Stewart, are of a kind not like to be forgotten; but those who would abet the
perpetrators of so cruel and deliberate a homicide on a single man, an old man,
and a man of the Archbishop's sacred profession - O fie upon him! if you wish to
make him secure, with little trouble to your people, I will cause Harrison, or
Gudyill, look for the key of our pit, or principal dungeon. It has not been open
since the week after the victory of Kilsythe, when my poor Sir Arthur Bellenden
put twenty whigs into it; but it is not more than two storeys beneath ground, so
it cannot be unwholesome, especially as I rather believe there is somewhere an
opening to the outer air.«
    »I beg your pardon, madam,« answered the sergeant; »I dare say the dungeon
is a most admirable one; but I have promised to be civil to the lad, and I will
take care he is watched so as to render escape impossible. I'll set those to
look after him shall keep him as fast as if his legs were in the boots, or his
fingers in the thumbikins.«
    »Well, Mr. Stewart,« rejoined the lady, »you best know your own duty. I
heartily wish you good evening, and commit you to the care of my steward,
Harrison. I would ask you to keep ourselves company, but a - a - a -«
    »O, madam, it requires no apology; I am sensible the coarse red coat of King
Charles II. does and ought to annihilate the privileges of the red blood of King
James V.«
    »Not with me, I do assure you, Mr. Stewart; you do me injustice if you think
so. I will speak to your officer to-morrow; and I trust you shall soon find
yourself in a rank where there shall be no anomalies to be reconciled.«
    »I believe, madam,« said Bothwell, »your goodness will find itself deceived;
but I am obliged to you for your intention, and, at all events, I will have a
merry night with Mr. Harrison.«
    Lady Margaret took a ceremonious leave, with all the respect which she owed
to royal blood, even when flowing in the veins of a sergeant of the Life-Guards;
again assuring Mr. Stewart, that whatever was in the Tower of Tillietudlem was
heartily at his service and that of his attendants.
    Sergeant Bothwell did not fail to take the lady at her word, and readily
forgot the height from which his family had descended, in a joyous carousal,
during which Mr. Harrison exerted himself to produce the best wine in the
cellar, and to excite his guest to be merry, by that seducing example which, in
matters of conviviality, goes further than precept. Old Gudyill associated
himself with a party so much to his taste, pretty much as Davy, in the Second
Part of Henry the Fourth, mingles in the revels of his master, Justice Shallow.
He ran down to the cellar at the risk of breaking his neck, to ransack some
private catacomb, known, as he boasted, only to himself, and which never either
had, or should, during his superintendence, render forth a bottle of its
contents to any one but a real king's friend.
    »When the Duke dined here,« said the butler, seating himself at a distance
from the table, being somewhat overawed by Bothwell's genealogy, but yet
hitching his seat half-a-yard nearer at every clause of his speech, »my leddy
was importunate to have a bottle of that burgundy« - (here he advanced his seat
a little) »but I dinna ken how it was, Mr. Stewart, I misdoubted him. I jaloused
him, sir, no to be the friend to Government he pretends: the family are not to
lippen to. That auld Duke James lost his heart before he lost his head; and the
Worcester man was but wersh parritch, neither good to fry, boil, nor sup cauld.«
(With this witty observation, he completed his first parallel, and commenced a
zigzag, after the manner of an experienced engineer, in order to continue his
approaches to the table.) »Sae, sir, the faster my leddy cried Burgundy to his
Grace, the auld Burgundy - the choice Burgundy - the Burgundy that came ower in
the Thirty-nine - the mair did I say to mysell, Deil a drap gangs down his hause
unless I was mair sensible o' his principles; sack and claret may serve him. Na,
na, gentlemen, as lang as I hae the trust o' butler in this house o'
Tillietudlem, I'll take it upon me to see that nae disloyal or doubtfu' person is
the better o' our binns. But when I can find a true friend to the king and his
cause, and a moderate episcopacy - when I find a man, as I say, that will stand
by church and crown as I did mysell in my master's life, and all through
Montrose's time, I think there's nothing in the cellar ower good to be spared
on him.«
    By this time he had completed a lodgement in the body of the place, or, in
other words, advanced his seat close to the table.
    »And now, Mr. Francis Stewart of Bothwell, I have the honour to drink your
good health, and a commission t'ye, and much luck may ye have in raking this
country clear o' whigs and roundheads, fanatics and Covenanters.«
    Bothwell, who, it may well be believed, had long ceased to be very
scrupulous in point of society, which he regulated more by his convenience and
station in life than his ancestry, readily answered the butler's pledge,
acknowledging, at the same time, the excellence of the wine; and Mr. Gudyill,
thus adopted a regular member of the company, continued to furnish them with the
means of mirth until an early hour in the next morning.
 

                                 Chapter Ninth

 Did I but purpose to embark with thee
 On the smooth surface of a summer sea,
 And would forsake the skiff and make the shore
 When the winds whistle and the tempests roar?
                                                                          Prior.
 
While Lady Margaret held, with the high-descended sergeant of dragoons, the
conference which we have detailed in the preceding pages, her grand-daughter,
partaking in a less degree her ladyship's enthusiasm for all who were sprung of
the blood-royal, did not honour Sergeant Bothwell with more attention than a
single glance, which showed her a tall powerful person, and a set of hardy
weather-beaten features, to which pride and dissipation had given an air where
discontent mingled with the reckless gaiety of desperation. The other soldiers
offered still less to detach her consideration; but from the prisoner, muffled
and disguised as he was, she found it impossible to withdraw her eyes. Yet she
blamed herself for indulging a curiosity which seemed obviously to give pain to
him who was its object.
    »I wish,« she said to Jenny Dennison, who was the immediate attendant on her
person, »I wish we knew who that poor fellow is.«
    »I was just thinking sae mysell, Miss Edith,« said the waiting woman; »but
it canna be Cuddie Headrigg, because he's taller and no sae stout.«
    »Yet,« continued Miss Bellenden, »it may be some poor neighbour, for whom we
might have cause to interest ourselves.«
    »I can sune learn what he is,« said the enterprising Jenny, »if the sodgers
were anes settled and at leisure, for I ken ane o' them very well - the
best-looking and the youngest o' them.«
    »I think you know all the idle young fellows about the country,« answered
her mistress.
    »Na, Miss Edith, I am no sae free o' my acquaintance as that,« answered the
fille-de-chamber. »To be sure, folk canna help kenning the folk by head-mark
that they see aye glowering and looking at them at kirk and market; but I ken
few lads to speak to unless it be them o' the family, and the three Steinsons,
and Tam Rand, and the young miller, and the five Howiesons in Nethersheils, and
lang Tam Gilry, and« --
    »Pray cut short a list of exceptions which threatens to be a long one, and
tell me how you come to know this young soldier,« said Miss Bellenden.
    »Lord, Miss Edith, it's Tam Halliday - Trooper Tam, as they ca' him, - that
was wounded by the hill-folk at the conventicle at Outer-side Muir, and lay here
while he was under cure. I can ask him anything, and Tam will no refuse to
answer me, I'll be caution for him.«
    »Try, then,« said Miss Edith, »if you can find an opportunity to ask him the
name of his prisoner, and come to my room and tell me what he says.«
    Jenny Dennison proceeded on her errand, but soon returned with such a face
of surprise and dismay as evinced a deep interest in the fate of the prisoner.
    »What is the matter?« said Edith anxiously; »does it prove to be Cuddie,
after all, poor fellow?«
    »Cuddie, Miss Edith? Na! na! it's nae Cuddie,« blubbered out the faithful
fille-de-chamber, sensible of the pain which her news were about to inflict on
her young mistress. »O dear, Miss Edith, it's young Milnwood himself!«
    »Young Milnwood!« exclaimed Edith, aghast in her turn, »it is impossible -
totally impossible! His uncle attends the clergyman indulged by law, and has no
connection whatever with the refractory people; and he himself has never
interfered in this unhappy dissension; he must be totally innocent, unless he
has been standing up for some invaded right.«
    »O, my dear Miss Edith,« said her attendant, »these are not days to ask
what's right or what's wrang; if he were as innocent as the new-born infant,
they would find some way of making him guilty, if they liked; but Tam Halliday
says it will touch his life, for he has been resetting ane o' the Fife gentlemen
that killed that auld carle of an Archbishop.«
    »His life!« exclaimed Edith, starting hastily up, and speaking with a
hurried and tremulous accent; - »they cannot - they shall not - I will speak for
him - they shall not hurt him!«
    »O, my dear young leddy, think on your grandmother; think on the danger and
the difficulty,« added Jenny; »for he's kept under close confinement till
Claverhouse comes up in the morning, and if he doesna give him full satisfaction,
Tam Halliday says there will be brief wark wi' him - Kneel down - make ready -
present - fire - just as they did wi' auld deaf John Macbriar, that never
understood a single question they pat till him, and sae lost his life for lack
o' hearing.«
    »Jenny,« said the young lady, »if he should die, I will die with him; there
is no time to talk of danger or difficulty. I will put on a plaid, and slip down
with you to the place where they have kept him - I will throw myself at the feet
of the sentinel, and entreat him, as he has a soul to be saved« --
    »Eh, guide us!« interrupted the maid, »our young leddy at the feet o'
Trooper Tam, and speaking to him about his soul, when the puir chield hardly
kens whether he has ane or no, unless that he whiles swears by it! - that will
never do; but what maun be maun be, and I'll never desert a true-love cause -
And sae, if ye maun see young Milnwood, though I ken nae good it will do, but to
make baith your hearts the sairer, I'll e'en take the risk o't, and try to manage
Tam Halliday; but ye maun let me hae my ain gate, and no speak ae word - he's
keeping guard o'er Milnwood in the eastern round of the tower.«
    »Go, go, fetch me a plaid,« said Edith. »Let me but see him, and I will find
some remedy for his danger - Haste ye, Jenny, as ever ye hope to have good at my
hands.«
    Jenny hastened, and soon returned with a plaid, in which Edith muffled
herself so as completely to screen her face, and in part to disguise her person.
This was a mode of arranging the plaid very common among the ladies of that
century, and the earlier part of the succeeding one; so much so, indeed, that
the venerable sages of the Kirk, conceiving that the mode gave tempting
facilities for intrigue, directed more than one act of Assembly against this use
of the mantle. But fashion, as usual, proved too strong for authority, and while
plaids continued to be worn, women of all ranks occasionally employed them as a
sort of muffler or veil.20 Her face and figure thus concealed, Edith, holding by
her attendant's arm, hastened with trembling steps to the place of Morton's
confinement.
    This was a small study or closet, in one of the turrets, opening upon a
gallery in which the sentinel was pacing to and fro; for Sergeant Bothwell,
scrupulous in observing his word, and perhaps touched with some compassion for
the prisoner's youth and genteel demeanour, had waived the indignity of putting
his guard into the same apartment with him. Halliday, therefore, with his
carabine on his arm, walked up and down the gallery, occasionally solacing
himself with a draught of ale, a huge flagon of which stood upon the table at
one end of the apartment, and at other times humming the lively Scottish air -
 
Between Saint Johnstone and Bonny Dundee
I'll gar ye be fain to follow me.
 
Jenny Dennison cautioned her mistress once more to let her take her own way.
    »I can manage the trooper well enough,« she said, »for as rough as he is - I
ken their nature well; but ye maunna say a single word.«
    She accordingly opened the door of the gallery just as the sentinel had
turned his back from it, and taking up the tune which he hummed, she sung in a
coquettish tone of rustic raillery -
 
If I were to follow a poor sodger lad,
My friends wad be angry, my minnie be mad;
A laird, or a lord, they were fitter for me,
Sae I'll never be fain to follow thee. --
 
»A fair challenge, by Jove,« cried the sentinel, turning round, »and from two at
once; but it's not easy to bang the soldier with his bandoleers;« then taking up
the song where the damsel had stopped -
 
To follow me ye well may be glad,
A share of my supper, a share of my bed,
To the sound of the drum to range fearless and free,
I'll gar ye be fain to follow me.
 
»Come, my pretty lass, and kiss me for my song.«
    »I should not have thought of that, Mr. Halliday,« answered Jenny, with a
look and tone expressing just the necessary degree of contempt at the proposal,
»and, I'se assure ye, ye'll hae but little o' my company unless ye show gentler
havings - It wasna to hear that sort o' nonsense that brought me here wi' my
friend, and ye should think shame o' yoursell, 'at should ye.«
    »Umph! and what sort of nonsense did bring you here, then, Mrs. Dennison?«
    »My kinswoman has some particular business with your prisoner, young Mr.
Harry Morton, and I am come wi' her to speak till him.«
    »The devil you are!« answered the sentinel. »And pray, Mrs. Dennison, how do
your kinswoman and you propose to get in? You are rather too plump to whisk
through a keyhole, and opening the door is a thing not to be spoke of.«
    »It's no a thing to be spoken o', but a thing to be dune,« replied the
persevering damsel.
    »We'll see about that, my bonny Jenny;« and the soldier resumed his march,
humming, as he walked to and fro along the gallery -
 
Keek into the draw-well,
Janet, Janet,
Then ye'll see your bonny sell,
My joe Janet.
 
»So ye're no thinking to let us in, Mr. Halliday? Weel, well; good e'en to ye -
ye hae seen the last o' me, and o' this bonny die too,« said Jenny, holding
between her finger and thumb a splendid silver dollar.
    »Give him gold, give him gold,« whispered the agitated young lady.
    »Silver's e'en ower good for the like o' him,« replied Jenny, »that disna
care for the blink o' a bonny lassie's ee - and what's waur, he wad think there
was something mair in't than a kinswoman o' mine. My certy! siller's no sae
plenty wi' us, let alane gowd.« Having addressed this advice aside to her
mistress, she raised her voice and said, »My cousin winna stay ony langer, Mr.
Halliday; sae, if ye please, good e'en t'ye.«
    »Halt a bit, halt a bit,« said the trooper; »rein up and parley, Jenny. If I
let your kinswoman in to speak to my prisoner, you must stay here and keep me
company till she come out again, and then we'll all be well pleased, you know.«
    »The fiend be in my feet then,« said Jenny; »d'ye think my kinswoman and me
are gaun to lose our good name wi' cracking clavers wi' the like o' you or your
prisoner either, without somebody by to see fair play? Hegh, hegh, sirs! to see
sic a difference between folks' promises and performance! Ye were aye willing to
slight puir Cuddie; but an I had asked him to oblige me in a thing, though it
had been to cost his hanging, he wadna hae stude twice about it.«
    »D-n Cuddie!« retorted the dragoon, »he'll be hanged in good earnest, I
hope. I saw him to-day at Milnwood with his old puritanical b-- of a mother, and
if I had thought I was to have had him cast in my dish, I would have brought him
up at my horse's tail - we had law enough to bear us out.«
    »Very well, very well - See if Cuddie winna hae a lang shot at you ane o'
thae days, if ye gar him take the muir wi' sae mony honest folk. He can hit a
mark brawly; he was third at the popinjay: and he's as true of his promise as of
ee and hand, though he disna make sic a phrase about it as some acquaintance o'
yours - But it's a' ane to me - Come, cousin, we'll away.«
    »Stay, Jenny; d-n me, if I hang fire more than another when I have said a
thing,« said the soldier, in a hesitating tone. »Where is the sergeant?«
    »Drinking and driving ower,« quoth Jenny, »wi' the steward and John
Gudyill.«
    »So, so - he's safe enough - and where are my comrades?« asked Halliday.
    »Birling the brown bowl wi' the fowler and the falconer, and some o' the
serving folk.«
    »Have they plenty of ale?«
    »Sax gallons, as good as e'er was masked,« said the maid.
    »Well, then, my pretty Jenny,« said the relenting sentinel, »they are fast
till the hour of relieving guard, and perhaps something later; and so, if you
will promise to come alone the next time« --
    »Maybe I will, and maybe I winna,« said Jenny; »but if ye get the dollar,
ye'll like that just as well.«
    »I'll be d-n'd if I do,« said Halliday, taking the money, however; »but it's
always something for my risk; for if Claverhouse hears what I have done, he will
build me a horse as high as the Tower of Tillietudlem. But every one in the
regiment takes what they can come by; I am sure Bothwell and his blood-royal
shows us a good example. And if I were trusting to you, you little jilting
devil, I should lose both pains and powder; whereas this fellow,« looking at the
piece, »will be good as far as he goes. So, come - there is the door open for
you; do not stay groaning and praying with the young whig now, but be ready,
when I call at the door, to start, as if they were sounding Horse and away.«
    So speaking, Halliday unlocked the door of the closet, admitted Jenny and
her pretended kinswoman, locked it behind them, and hastily reassumed the
indifferent measured step and time-killing whistle of a sentinel upon his
regular duty.
    The door, which slowly opened, discovered Morton with both arms reclined
upon a table, and his head resting upon them in a posture of deep dejection. He
raised his face as the door opened, and perceiving the female figures which it
admitted, started up in great surprise. Edith, as if modesty had quelled the
courage which despair had bestowed, stood about a yard from the door, without
having either the power to speak or to advance. All the plans of aid, relief, or
comfort, which she had proposed to lay before her lover, seemed at once to have
vanished from her recollection, and left only a painful chaos of ideas, with
which was mingled a fear that she had degraded herself in the eyes of Morton by
a step which might appear precipitate and unfeminine. She hung motionless and
almost powerless upon the arm of her attendant, who in vain endeavoured to
reassure and inspire her with courage, by whispering, »We are in now, madam, and
we maun make the best o' our time; for, doubtless, the corporal or the sergeant
will gang the rounds, and it wad be a pity to hae the poor lad Halliday punished
for his civility.«
    Morton, in the meantime, was timidly advancing, suspecting the truth; for
what other female in the house, excepting Edith herself, was likely to take an
interest in his misfortunes? and yet afraid, owing to the doubtful twilight and
the muffled dress, of making some mistake which might be prejudicial to the
object of his affections. Jenny, whose ready wit and forward manners well
qualified her for such an office, hastened to break the ice.
    »Mr. Morton, Miss Edith's very sorry for your present situation, and« --
    It was needless to say more; he was at her side, almost at her feet,
pressing her unresisting hands, and loading her with a profusion of thanks and
gratitude which would be hardly intelligible from the mere broken words, unless
we could describe the tone, the gesture, the impassioned and hurried indications
of deep and tumultuous feeling, with which they were accompanied.
    For two or three minutes, Edith stood as motionless as the statue of a saint
which receives the adoration of a worshipper; and when she recovered herself
sufficiently to withdraw her hands from Henry's grasp, she could at first only
faintly articulate, »I have taken a strange step, Mr. Morton - a step,« she
continued with more coherence, as her ideas arranged themselves in consequence
of a strong effort, »that perhaps may expose me to censure in your eyes - But I
have long permitted you to use the language of friendship - perhaps I might say
more - too long to leave you when the world seems to have left you. How, or why,
is this imprisonment? what can be done? can my uncle, who thinks so highly of
you - can your own kinsman, Milnwood, be of no use? are there no means? and what
is likely to be the event?«
    »Be what it will,« answered Henry, contriving to make himself master of the
hand that had escaped from him, but which was now again abandoned to his clasp,
»be what it will, it is to me from this moment the most welcome incident of a
weary life. To you, dearest Edith - forgive me, I should have said Miss
Bellenden, but misfortune claims strange privileges - to you I have owed the few
happy moments which have gilded a gloomy existence; and if I am now to lay it
down, the recollection of this honour will be my happiness in the last hour of
suffering.«
    »But is it even thus, Mr. Morton?« said Miss Bellenden. »Have you, who used
to mix so little in these unhappy feuds, become so suddenly and deeply
implicated, that nothing short of« --
    She paused, unable to bring out the word which should have come next.
    »Nothing short of my life, you would say?« replied Morton, in a calm, but
melancholy tone; »I believe that will be entirely in the bosoms of my judges. My
guards spoke of a possibility of exchanging the penalty for entry into foreign
service. I thought I could have embraced the alternative; and yet, Miss
Bellenden, since I have seen you once more, I feel that exile would be more
galling than death.«
    »And is it then true,« said Edith, »that you have been so desperately rash
as to entertain communication with any of those cruel wretches who assassinated
the primate?«
    »I knew not even that such a crime had been committed,« replied Morton,
»when I gave unhappily a night's lodging and concealment to one of those rash
and cruel men, the ancient friend and comrade of my father. But my ignorance
will avail me little; for who, Miss Bellenden, save you, will believe it? And
what is worse, I am at least uncertain whether, even if I had known the crime, I
could have brought my mind, under all the circumstances, to refuse a temporary
refuge to the fugitive.«
    »And by whom,« said Edith, anxiously, »or under what authority, will the
investigation of your conduct take place?«
    »Under that of Colonel Grahame of Claverhouse, I am given to understand,«
said Morton; »one of the military commission, to whom it has pleased our king,
our privy council, and our parliament, that used to be more tenacious of our
liberties, to commit the sole charge of our goods and of our lives.«
    »To Claverhouse!« said Edith, faintly; »merciful Heaven! you are lost ere
you are tried! He wrote to my grandmother that he was to be here to-morrow
morning, on his road to the head of the county, where some desperate men,
animated by the presence of two or three of the actors in the primate's murder,
are said to have assembled for the purpose of making a stand against the
Government. His expressions made me shudder, even when I could not guess that -
that - a friend« --
    »Do not be too much alarmed on my account, my dearest Edith,« said Henry, as
he supported her in his arms. »Claverhouse, though stern and relentless, is, by
all accounts, brave, fair, and honourable. I am a soldier's son, and will plead
my cause like a soldier. He will perhaps listen more favourably to a blunt and
unvarnished defence, than a truckling and time-serving judge might do. And
indeed, in a time when justice is in all its branches so completely corrupted, I
would rather lose my life by open military violence, than be conjured out of it
by the hocus-pocus of some arbitrary lawyer, who lends the knowledge he has of
the statutes made for our protection, to wrest them to our destruction.«
    »You are lost - you are lost, if you are to plead your cause with
Claverhouse!« sighed Edith; »root and branchwork is the mildest of his
expressions. The unhappy primate was his intimate friend and early patron. No
excuse, no subterfuge, said his letter, shall save either those connected with
the deed, or such as have given them countenance and shelter, from the ample and
bitter penalty of the law, until I shall have taken as many lives in vengeance
of this atrocious murder, as the old man had grey hairs upon his venerable head.
There is neither ruth nor favour to be found with him.«
    Jenny Dennison, who had hitherto remained silent, now ventured, in the
extremity of distress which the lovers felt, but for which they were unable to
devise a remedy, to offer her own advice.
    »Wi' your leddyship's pardon, Miss Edith, and young Mr. Morton's, we maunna
waste time. Let Milnwood take my plaid and gown; I'll slip them aff in the dark
corner, if he'll promise no to look about, and he may walk past Tam Halliday,
who is half blind with his ale, and I can tell him a canny way to get out o' the
Tower, and your leddyship will gang quietly to your ain room, and I'll row
mysell in his grey cloak, and pit on his hat, and play the prisoner till the
coast's clear, and then I'll cry in Tam Halliday, and gar him let me out.«
    »Let you out?« said Morton; »they'll make your life answer it.«
    »Ne'er a bit,« replied Jenny: »Tam daurna tell he let anybody in, for his
ain sake; and I'll gar him find some other gate to account for the escape.«
    »Will you, by G-?« said the sentinel, suddenly opening the door of the
apartment; »if I am half blind, I am not deaf, and you should not plan an escape
quite so loud, if you expect to go through with it. Come, come, Mrs. Janet -
march, troop - quick time - trot, d-n me! - And you, madam kinswoman, - I won't
ask your real name, though you were going to play me so rascally a trick, - but
I must make a clear garrison; so beat a retreat, unless you would have me turn
out the guard.«
    »I hope,« said Morton, very anxiously, »you will not mention this
circumstance, my good friend, and trust to my honour to acknowledge your
civility in keeping the secret. If you overheard our conversation, you must have
observed that we did not accept of, or enter into, the hasty proposal made by
this good-natured girl.«
    »Oh, devilish good-natured, to be sure,« said Halliday, »As for the rest, I
guess how it is, and I scorn to bear malice, or tell tales, as much as another;
but no thanks to that little jilting devil, Jenny Dennison, who deserves a tight
skelping for trying to lead an honest lad into a scrape, just because he was so
silly as to like her good-for-little chit face.«
    Jenny had no better means of justification than the last apology to which
her sex trust, and usually not in vain; she pressed her handkerchief to her
face, sobbed with great vehemence, and either wept, or managed, as Halliday
might have said, to go through the motions wonderfully well.
    »And now,« continued the soldier, somewhat mollified, »if you have anything
to say, say it in two minutes, and let me see your backs turned; for if Bothwell
take it into his drunken head to make the rounds half-an-hour too soon, it will
be a black business to us all.«
    »Farewell, Edith,« whispered Morton, assuming a firmness he was far from
possessing; »do not remain here - leave me to my fate - it cannot be beyond
endurance since you are interested in it. - Good-night, good-night! - Do not
remain here till you are discovered.«
    Thus saying, he resigned her to her attendant, by whom she was quietly led
and partly supported out of the apartment.
    »Every one has his taste, to be sure,« said Halliday; »but d-n me if I would
have vexed so sweet a girl as that is, for all the whigs that ever swore the
Covenant.«
    When Edith had regained her apartment, she gave way to a burst of grief
which alarmed Jenny Dennison, who hastened to administer such scraps of
consolation as occurred to her.
    »Dinna vex yoursell sae muckle, Miss Edith,« said that faithful attendant;
»what kens what may happen to help young Milnwood? He's a brave lad, and a bonny,
and a gentleman of a good fortune, and they winna string the like o' him up as
they do the puir whig bodies that they catch in the muirs, like straps o'
onions. Maybe his uncle will bring him aff, or maybe your ain grand-uncle will
speak a good word for him - he's well acquent wi' a' the red-coat gentlemen.«
    »You are right, Jenny - you are right,« said Edith, recovering herself from
the stupor into which she had sunk; »this is no time for despair, but for
exertion. You must find some one to ride this very night to my uncle's with a
letter.«
    »To Charnwood, madam? It's unco late, and it's sax miles an' a bittock doun
the water. I doubt if we can find man and horse the night, mair especially as
they hae mounted a sentinel before the gate. Puir Cuddie! he's gone, puir
fallow, that wad hae dune aught in the warld I bade him, and ne'er asked a
reason - an' I've had nae time to draw up wi' the new pleughlad yet; forby that,
they say he's gaun to be married to Meg Murdieson, ill-faur'd cuttie as she is.«
    »You must find some one to go, Jenny; life and death depend upon it.
    I wad gang mysell, my leddy, for I could creep out at the window o' the
pantry, and speel down by the auld yew-tree well enough - I hae played that
trick ere now. But the road's unco wild, and sae mony red-coats about, forby the
whigs, that are no muckle better (the young lads o' them) if they meet a fraim
body their lane in the muirs. I wadna stand for the walk - I can walk ten miles
by moonlight well enough.«
    »Is there no one you can think of, that, for money or favour, would serve me
so far?« asked Edith, in great anxiety.
    »I dinna ken,« said Jenny, after a moment's consideration, »unless it be
Guse Gibbie; and he'll maybe no ken the way, though it's no sae difficult to
hit, if he keep the horse-road, and mind the turn at the Cappercleugh, and dinna
drown himself in the Whomlekirn-pule, or fa' ower the scaur at the Deil's
Loaning, or miss ony o' the kittle steps at the Pass o' Walkwary, or be carried
to the hills by the whigs, or be taken to the tolbooth by the red-coats.«
    »All ventures must be run,« said Edith, cutting short the list of chances
against Goose Gibbie's safe arrival at the end of his pilgrimage; - »all risks
must be run, unless you can find a better messenger. Go, bid the boy get ready,
and get him out of the Tower as secretly as you can. If he meets any one, let
him say he's carrying a letter to Major Bellenden of Charnwood, but without
mentioning any names.«
    »I understand, madam,« said Jenny Dennison; »I warrant the callant will do
well enough, and Tib, the hen-wife, will take care o' the geese for a word o' my
mouth; and I'll tell Gibbie your leddyship will make his peace wi' Lady Margaret,
and we'll give him a dollar.«
    »Two, if he does his errand well,« said Edith.
    Jenny departed to rouse Goose Gibbie out of his slumbers, to which he was
usually consigned at sundown, or shortly after, he keeping the hours of the
birds under his charge. During her absence, Edith took her writing materials,
and prepared against her return the following letter, superscribed, - »For the
hands of Major Bellenden of Charnwood, my much honoured uncle, These:
 
        My dear Uncle - This will serve to inform you I am desirous to know how
        your gout is, as we did not see you at the wappenschaw, which made both
        my grandmother and myself very uneasy. And if it will permit you to
        travel, we shall be happy to see you at our poor house to-morrow at the
        hour of breakfast, as Colonel Grahame of Claverhouse is to pass this way
        on his march, and we would willingly have your assistance to receive and
        entertain a military man of such distinction, who, probably, will not be
        much delighted with the company of women. Also, my dear uncle, I pray
        you to let Mrs. Carefor't, your housekeeper, send me my double-trimmed
        paduasoy with the hanging sleeves, which she will find in the third
        drawer of the walnut press in the green room, which you are so kind as
        to call mine. Also, my dear uncle, I pray you to send me the second
        volume of the Grand Cyrus, as I have only read as far as the
        imprisonment of Philidaspes upon the seven hundredth and thirty- third
        page; but, above all, I entreat you to come to us to-morrow before eight
        of the clock, which, as your pacing nag is so good, you may well do
        without rising before your usual hour. So, praying to God to preserve
        your health, I rest your dutiful and loving niece,
                                                                EDITH BELLENDEN.
        Postscriptum. A party of soldiers have last night brought your friend,
        young Mr. Henry Morton of Milnwood, hither as a prisoner. I conclude you
        will be sorry for the young gentleman, and therefore let you know this,
        in case you may think of speaking to Colonel Grahame in his behalf. I
        have not mentioned his name to my grandmother, knowing her prejudice
        against the family.«
 
This epistle being duly sealed and delivered to Jenny, that faithful confidant
hastened to put the same in the charge of Goose Gibbie, whom she found in
readiness to start from the castle. She then gave him various instructions
touching the road, which she apprehended he was likely to mistake, not having
travelled it above five or six times, and possessing only the same slender
proportion of memory as of judgment. Lastly, she smuggled him out of the
garrison through the pantry window into the branchy yew-tree which grew close
beside it, and had the satisfaction to see him reach the bottom in safety, and
take the right turn at the commencement of his journey. She then returned to
persuade her young mistress to go to bed, and to lull her to rest, if possible,
with assurances of Gibbie's success in his embassy, only qualified by a passing
regret that the trusty Cuddie, with whom the commission might have been more
safely reposed, was no longer within reach of serving her.
    More fortunate as a messenger than as a cavalier, it was Gibbie's good hap
rather than his good management, which, after he had gone astray not oftener
than nine times, and given his garments a taste of the variation of each bog,
brook, and slough, between Tillietudlem and Charnwood, placed him about daybreak
before the gate of Major Bellenden's mansion, having completed a walk of ten
miles (for the bittock as usual, amounted to four) in little more than the same
number of hours.
 

                                 Chapter Tenth

 At last comes the troop, by the word of command
 Drawn up in our court, where the Captain cries, Stand!
                                                                          Swift.
 
Major Bellenden's ancient valet, Gideon Pike, as he adjusted his master's
clothes by his bed-side, preparatory to the worthy veteran's toilet, acquainted
him, as an apology for disturbing him an hour earlier than his usual time of
rising, that there was an express from Tillietudlem.
    »From Tillietudlem!« said the old gentleman, rising hastily in his bed, and
sitting bolt upright. »Open the shutters, Pike - I hope my sister-in-law is well
- furl up the bed-curtain. What have we all here?« (glancing at Edith's note).
»The gout? why, she knows I have not had a fit since Candlemas. - The
wappenschaw? I told her a month since I was not to be there. Paduasoy and
hanging-sleeves? why, hang the gipsy herself! - Grand Cyrus and Philipdastus? -
Philip Devil! - is the wench gone crazy all at once? was it worth while to send
an express and wake me at five in the morning for all this trash? - But what
says her postscriptum? - Mercy on us!« he exclaimed on perusing it - »Pike,
saddle old Kilsythe instantly, and another horse for yourself.«
    »I hope nae ill news frae the Tower, sir?« said Pike, astonished at his
master's sudden emotion.
    »Yes - no - yes - that is, I must meet Claverhouse there on some express
business; so boot and saddle, Pike, as fast as you can. O Lord! what times are
these! - the poor lad - my old cronie's son! - and the silly wench sticks it
into her postscriptum, as she calls it, at the tail of all this trumpery about
old gowns and new romances!«
    In a few minutes the good old officer was fully equipped; and having mounted
upon his arm-gaunt charger as soberly as Mark Antony himself could have done, he
paced forth his way to the Tower of Tillietudlem.
    On the road he formed the prudent resolution to say nothing to the old lady
(whose dislike to Presbyterians of all kinds he knew to be inveterate) of the
quality and rank of the prisoner detained within her walls, but to try his own
influence with Claverhouse to obtain Morton's liberation.
    »Being so loyal as he is, he must do something for so old a cavalier as I
am,« said the veteran to himself; »and if he is so good a soldier as the world
speaks of, why, he will be glad to serve an old soldier's son. I never knew a
real soldier that was not a frank-hearted, honest fellow; and I think the
execution of the laws (though it's a pity they find it necessary to make them so
severe) may be a thousand times better entrusted with them than with peddling
lawyers and thick-skulled country gentlemen.«
    Such were the ruminations of Major Miles Bellenden, which were terminated by
John Gudyill (not more than half-drunk) taking hold of his bridle, and assisting
him to dismount in the rough-paved court of Tillietudlem.
    »Why, John,« said the veteran, »what devil of a discipline is this you have
been keeping? You have been reading Geneva print this morning already.«
    »I have been reading the Litany,« said John, shaking his head with a look of
drunken gravity, and having only caught one word of the Major's address to him;
»life is short, sir; we are flowers of the field, sir« - hiccup - »and lilies of
the valley.«
    »Flowers and lilies? Why, man, such carles as thou and I can hardly be
called better than old hemlocks, decayed nettles, or withered rag-weed; but I
suppose you think that we are still worth watering.«
    »I am an old soldier, sir, I thank Heaven« - hiccup -
    »An old skinker, you mean, John. But come, never mind, show me the way to
your mistress, old lad.«
    John Gudyill led the way to the stone hall, where Lady Margaret was
fidgeting about, superintending, arranging, and re-forming the preparations made
for the reception of the celebrated Claverhouse, whom one party honoured and
extolled as a hero, and another execrated as a bloodthirsty oppressor.
    »Did I not tell you,« said Lady Margaret to her principal female attendant -
»did I not tell you, Mysie, that it was my especial pleasure on this occasion to
have everything in the precise order wherein it was upon that famous morning
when his most sacred Majesty partook of his disjune at Tillietudlem?«
    »Doubtless, such were your ladyship's commands, and to the best of my
remembrance« -- was Mysie answering, when her ladyship broke in with, »Then
wherefore is the venison pasty placed on the left side of the throne, and the
stoup of claret upon the right, when ye may right well remember, Mysie, that his
most sacred Majesty with his ain hand shifted the pasty to the same side with
the flagon, and said they were too good friends to be parted?«
    »I mind that well, madam,« said Mysie; »and if I had forgot, I have heard
your leddyship often speak about that grand morning sin' syne; but I thought
everything was to be placed just as it was when his Majesty, God bless him, came
into this room, looking mair like an angel than a man, if he hadna been sae
black-a-vised.«
    »Then ye thought nonsense, Mysie; for in whatever way his most sacred
Majesty ordered the position of the trenchers and flagons, that, as well as his
royal pleasure in greater matters, should be a law to his subjects, and shall
ever be to those of the house of Tillietudlem.«
    »Weel, madam,« said Mysie, making the alterations required, »it's easy
mending the error; but if every thing is just to be as his Majesty left it,
there should be an unco hole in the venison pasty.«
    At this moment the door opened.
    »Who is that, John Gudyill?« exclaimed the old lady. »I can speak to no one
just now. Is it you, my dear brother?« she continued, in some surprise, as the
Major entered; »this is a right early visit.«
    »Not more early than welcome, I hope,« replied Major Bellenden, as he
saluted the widow of his deceased brother; »but I heard by a note which Edith
sent to Charnwood about some of her equipage and books, that you were to have
Claver'se here this morning, so I thought, like an old firelock as I am, that I
should like to have a chat with this rising soldier. I caused Pike saddle
Kilsythe, and here we both are.«
    »And most kindly welcome you are,« said the old lady; »it is just what I
should have prayed you to do, if I had thought there was time. You see I am busy
in preparation. All is to be in the same order as when« --
    »The King breakfasted at Tillietudlem,« said the Major, who, like all Lady
Margaret's friends, dreaded the commencement of that narrative, and was desirous
to cut it short, - »I remember it well; you know I was waiting on his Majesty.«
    »You were, brother,« said Lady Margaret, »and perhaps you can help me to
remember the order of the entertainment.«
    »Nay, good sooth,« said the Major, »the damnable dinner that Noll gave us at
Worcester a few days afterwards drove all your good cheer out of my memory. But
how's this? - you have even the great Turkey-leather elbow-chair with the
tapestry cushions, placed in state.«
    »The throne, brother, if you please,« said Lady Margaret gravely.
    »Well, the throne be it, then,« continued the Major. »Is that to be
Claver'se's post in the attack upon the pasty?«
    »No, brother,« said the lady; »as these cushions have been once honoured by
accommodating the person of our most sacred Monarch, they shall never, please
Heaven, during my lifetime, be pressed by any less dignified weight.«
    »You should not, then,« said the old soldier, »put them in the way of an
honest old cavalier, who has ridden ten miles before breakfast; for, to confess
the truth, they look very inviting. But where is Edith?«
    »On the battlements of the warder's turret,« answered the old lady, »looking
out for the approach of our guests.«
    »Why, I'll go there too; and so should you, Lady Margaret, as soon as you
have your line of battle properly formed in the hall here. It's a pretty thing,
I can tell you, to see a regiment of horse upon the march.«
    Thus speaking, he offered his arm with an air of old-fashioned gallantry,
which Lady Margaret accepted with such a courtesy of acknowledgement as ladies
were wont to make in Holyroodhouse before the year 1642, which, for one while,
drove both courtesies and courts out of fashion.
    Upon the bartizan of the turret, to which they ascended by many a winding
passage and uncouth staircase, they found Edith, not in the attitude of a young
lady who watches with fluttering curiosity the approach of a smart regiment of
dragoons, but pale, downcast, and evincing by her countenance that sleep had not
during the preceding night been the companion of her pillow. The good old
veteran was hurt at her appearance, which, in the hurry of preparation, her
grandmother had omitted to notice.
    »What is come over you, you silly girl?« he said; - »why, you look like an
officer's wife when she opens the News-letter after an action, and expects to
find her husband among the killed and wounded. But I know the reason - you will
persist in reading these nonsensical romances, day and night, and whimpering for
distresses that never existed. Why, how the devil can you believe that
Artamenes, or what d'ye call him, fought single-handed with a whole battalion?
One to three is as great odds as ever fought and won, and I never knew anybody
that cared to take that, except old Corporal Raddlebanes. But these d-d books
put all pretty men's actions out of countenance. I daresay you would think very
little of Raddlebanes, if he were alongside of Artamenes. I would have the
fellows that write such nonsense brought to the piquet for leasing-making.«21
    Lady Margaret, herself somewhat attached to the perusal of romances, took up
the cudgels.
    »Monsieur Scuderi,« she said, »is a soldier, brother; and, as I have heard,
a complete one; and so is the Sieur d'Urfé.«
    »More shame for them; they should have known better what they were writing
about. For my part, I have not read a book these twenty years except my Bible,
The Whole Duty of Man, and, of late days, Turner's Pallas Armata, or Treatise on
the Ordering of the Pike Exercise,22 and I don't like his discipline much
neither. He wants to draw up the cavalry in front of a stand of pikes, instead
of being upon the wings. Sure am I, if we had done so at Kilsythe, instead of
having our handful of horse on the flanks, the first discharge would have sent
them back among our Highlanders. - But I hear the kettledrums.«
    All heads were now bent from the battlements of the turret, which commanded
a distant prospect down the vale of the river. The Tower of Tillietudlem stood,
or perhaps yet stands, upon the angle of a very precipitous bank, formed by the
junction of a considerable brook with the Clyde.23 There was a narrow bridge of
one steep arch across the brook near its mouth, over which, and along the foot
of the high and broken bank, winded the public road; and the fortalice, thus
commanding both bridge and pass, had been, in times of war, a post of
considerable importance, the possession of which was necessary to secure the
communication of the upper and wilder districts of the country with those
beneath, where the valley expands and is more capable of cultivation. The view
downwards is of a grand woodland character; but the level ground and gentle
slopes near the river form cultivated fields of an irregular shape, interspersed
with hedgerow-trees and copses, the enclosures seeming to have been individually
cleared out of the forest which surrounds them, and which occupies, in unbroken
masses, the steeper declivities and more distant banks. The stream, in colour a
clear and sparkling brown, like the hue of the Cairngorm pebbles, rushes through
this romantic region in bold sweeps and curves, partly visible and partly
concealed by the trees which clothe its banks. With a providence unknown in
other parts of Scotland, the peasants have in most places planted orchards
around their cottages, and the general blossom of the apple-trees at this season
of the year gave all the lower part of the view the appearance of a
flower-garden.
    Looking up the river, the character of the scene was varied considerably for
the worse. A hilly, waste, and uncultivated country approached close to the
banks; the trees were few, and limited to the neighbourhood of the stream, and
the rude moors swelled at a little distance into shapeless and heavy hills,
which were again surmounted in their turn by a range of lofty mountains, dimly
seen on the horizon. Thus the tower commanded two prospects, the one richly
cultivated and highly adorned, the other exhibiting the monotonous and dreary
character of a wild and inhospitable moorland.
    The eyes of the spectators on the present occasion were attracted to the
downward view, not alone by its superior beauty, but because the distant sounds
of military music began to be heard from the public high-road which winded up
the vale, and announced the approach of the expected body of cavalry. Their
glimmering ranks were shortly afterwards seen in the distance, appearing and
disappearing as the trees and the windings of the road permitted them to be
visible, and distinguished chiefly by the flashes of light which their arms
occasionally reflected against the sun. The train was long and imposing, for
there were about two hundred and fifty horse upon the march, and the glancing of
the swords and waving of their banners, joined to the clang of their trumpets
and kettledrums, had at once a lively and awful effect upon the imagination. As
they advanced still nearer and nearer, they could distinctly see the files of
those chosen troops following each other in long succession, completely equipped
and superbly mounted.
    »It's a sight that makes me thirty years younger,« said the old cavalier;
»and yet I do not much like the service that these poor fellows are to be
engaged in. Although I had my share of the civil war, I cannot say I had ever so
much real pleasure in that sort of service as when I was employed on the
Continent, and we were hacking at fellows with foreign faces and outlandish
dialect. It's a hard thing to hear a hamely Scotch tongue cry quarter, and be
obliged to cut him down just the same as if he called out miséricorde. - So,
there they come through the Netherwood haugh; upon my word, fine-looking
fellows, and capitally mounted. - He that is galloping from the rear of the
column must be Claver'se himself; - ay, he gets into the front as they cross the
bridge, and now they will be with us in less than five minutes.«
    At the bridge beneath the Tower, the cavalry divided, and the greater part,
moving up the left bank of the brook, and crossing at a ford a little above,
took the road of the Grange, as it was called, a large set of farm-offices
belonging to the Tower, where Lady Margaret had ordered preparation to be made
for their reception and suitable entertainment. The officers alone, with their
colours, and an escort to guard them, were seen to take the steep road up to the
gate of the Tower, appearing by intervals as they gained the ascent, and again
hidden by projections of the bank and of the huge old trees with which it is
covered. When they emerged from this narrow path, they found themselves in front
of the old Tower, the gates of which were hospitably open for their reception.
Lady Margaret, with Edith and her brother-in-law, having hastily descended from
their post of observation, appeared to meet and to welcome their guests, with a
retinue of domestics in as good order as the orgies of the preceding evening
permitted. The gallant young cornet (a relation as well as namesake of
Claverhouse, with whom the reader has been already made acquainted) lowered the
standard amid the fanfare of the trumpets, in homage to the rank of Lady
Margaret, and the charms of her grand-daughter, and the old walls echoed to the
flourish of the instruments, and the stamp and neigh of the chargers.
    Claverhouse24 himself alighted from a black horse, the most beautiful
perhaps in Scotland. He had not a single white hair upon his whole body - a
circumstance which, joined to his spirit and fleetness, and to his being so
frequently employed in pursuit of the Presbyterian recusants, caused an opinion
to prevail among them, that the steed had been presented to his rider by the
great Enemy of Mankind, in order to assist him in persecuting the fugitive
wanderers. When Claverhouse had paid his respects to the ladies with military
politeness, had apologised for the trouble to which he was putting Lady
Margaret's family, and had received the corresponding assurances that she could
not think anything an inconvenience which brought within the walls of
Tillietudlem so distinguished a soldier, and so loyal a servant of his sacred
Majesty; when, in short, all forms of hospitable and polite ritual had been duly
complied with, the Colonel requested permission to receive the report of
Bothwell, who was now in attendance, and with whom he spoke apart for a few
minutes. Major Bellenden took that opportunity to say to his niece, without the
hearing of her grandmother, »What a trifling foolish girl you are, Edith, to
send me by express a letter crammed with nonsense about books and gowns, and to
slide the only thing I cared a marvedie about into the postscript!«
    »I did not know,« said Edith, hesitating very much, »whether it would be
quite - quite proper for me to« --
    »I know what you would say - whether it would be right to take any interest
in a Presbyterian. But I knew this lad's father well. He was a brave soldier;
and, if he was once wrong, he was once right too. I must commend your caution,
Edith, for having said nothing of this young gentleman's affair to your
grandmother - you may rely on it I shall not - I will take an opportunity to
speak to Claver'se. Come, my love, they are going to breakfast. Let us follow
them.«
 

                                Chapter Eleventh

 Their breakfast so warm to be sure they did eat,
 A custom in travellers mighty discreet.
                                                                          Prior.
 
The breakfast of Lady Margaret Bellenden no more resembled a modern déjeûné,
than the great stone hall at Tillietudlem could brook comparison with a modern
drawing-room. No tea, no coffee, no variety of rolls, but solid and substantial
viands, - the priestly ham, the knightly sirloin, the noble baron of beef, the
princely venison pasty; while silver flagons, saved with difficulty from the
claws of the Covenanters, now mantled, some with ale, some with mead, and some
with generous wine of various qualities and descriptions. The appetites of the
guests were in correspondence to the magnificence and solidity of the
preparation, - no piddling - no boy's-play, but that steady and persevering
exercise of the jaws which is best learned by early morning hours, and by
occasional hard commons.
    Lady Margaret beheld with delight the cates which she had provided
descending with such alacrity into the persons of her honoured guests, and had
little occasion to exercise, with respect to any of the company saving
Claverhouse himself, the compulsory urgency of pressing to eat, to which, as to
the peine forte et dure, the ladies of that period were in the custom of
subjecting their guests.
    But the leader himself, more anxious to pay courtesy to Miss Bellenden, next
whom he was placed, than to gratify his appetite, appeared somewhat negligent of
the good cheer set before him. Edith heard, without reply, many courtly speeches
addressed to her, in a tone of voice of that happy modulation which could alike
melt in the low tones of interesting conversation, and rise amid the din of
battle, »loud as a trumpet with a silver sound.« The sense that she was in the
presence of the dreadful chief upon whose fiat the fate of Henry Morton must
depend - the recollection of the terror and awe which were attached to the very
name of the commander, deprived her for some time, not only of the courage to
answer, but even of the power of looking upon him. But when, emboldened by the
soothing tones of his voice, she lifted her eyes to frame some reply, the person
on whom she looked bore, in his appearance at least, none of the terrible
attributes in which her apprehensions had arrayed him.
    Grahame of Claverhouse was in the prime of life, rather low of stature, and
slightly, though elegantly, formed; his gesture, language, and manners, were
those of one whose life had been spent among the noble and the gay. His features
exhibited even feminine regularity. An oval face, a straight and well-formed
nose, dark hazel eyes, a complexion just sufficiently tinged with brown to save
it from the charge of effeminacy, a short upper lip, curved upward like that of
a Grecian statue, and slightly shaded by small mustachios of light brown, joined
to a profusion of long curled locks of the same colour, which fell down on each
side of his face, contributed to form such a countenance as limners love to
paint and ladies to look upon.
    The severity of his character, as well as the higher attributes of undaunted
and enterprising valour which even his enemies were compelled to admit, lay
concealed under an exterior which seemed adapted to the court or the saloon
rather than to the field. The same gentleness and gaiety of expression which
reigned in his features seemed to inspire his actions and gestures; and, on the
whole, he was generally esteemed, at first sight, rather qualified to be the
votary of pleasure than of ambition. But under this soft exterior was hidden a
spirit unbounded in daring and in aspiring, yet cautious and prudent as that of
Machiavel himself. Profound in politics, and imbued, of course, with that
disregard for individual rights which its intrigues usually generate, this
leader was cool and collected in danger, fierce and ardent in pursuing success,
careless of facing death himself, and ruthless in inflicting it upon others.
Such are the characters formed in times of civil discord, when the highest
qualities, perverted by party spirit, and inflamed by habitual opposition, are
too often combined with vices and excesses which deprive them at once of their
merit and of their lustre.
    In endeavouring to reply to the polite trifles with which Claverhouse
accosted her, Edith showed so much confusion, that her grandmother thought it
necessary to come to her relief.
    »Edith Bellenden,« said the old lady, »has, from my retired mode of living,
seen so little of those of her own sphere, that truly she can hardly frame her
speech to suitable answers. A soldier is so rare a sight with us, Colonel
Grahame, that unless it be my young Lord Evandale, we have hardly had an
opportunity of receiving a gentleman in uniform. And, now I talk of that
excellent young nobleman, may I inquire if I was not to have had the honour of
seeing him this morning with the regiment?«
    »Lord Evandale, madam, was on his march with us,« answered the leader, »but
I was obliged to detach him with a small party to disperse a conventicle of
those troublesome scoundrels, who have had the impudence to assemble within five
miles of my head-quarters.«
    »Indeed!« said the old lady; »that is a height of presumption to which I
would have thought no rebellious fanatics would have ventured to aspire. But
these are strange times! There is an evil spirit in the land, Colonel Grahame,
that excites the vassals of persons of rank to rebel against the very house that
holds and feeds them. There was one of my able-bodied men the other day who
plainly refused to attend the wappenschaw at my bidding. Is there no law for
such recusancy, Colonel Grahame?«
    »I think I could find one,« said Claverhouse, with great composure, »if your
ladyship will inform me of the name and residence of the culprit.«
    »His name,« said Lady Margaret, »is Cuthbert Headrigg; I can say nothing of
his domicile, for ye may well believe, Colonel Grahame, he did not dwell long in
Tillietudlem, but was speedily expelled for his contumacy. I wish the lad no
severe bodily injury; but incarceration, or even a few stripes, would be a good
example in this neighbourhood. His mother, under whose influence I doubt he
acted, is an ancient domestic of this family, which makes me incline to mercy;
although,« continued the old lady, looking towards the pictures of her husband
and her sons, with which the wall was hung, and heaving, at the same time, a
deep sigh, »I, Colonel Grahame, have in my ain person but little right to
compassionate that stubborn and rebellious generation. They have made me a
childless widow, and, but for the protection of our sacred Sovereign and his
gallant soldiers, they would soon deprive me of lands and goods, of hearth and
altar. Seven of my tenants, whose joint rent-mail may amount to well-nigh a
hundred merks, have already refused to pay either cess or rent, and had the
assurance to tell my steward that they would acknowledge neither king nor
landlord but who should have taken the Covenant.«
    »I will take a course with them - that is, with your ladyship's permission,«
answered Claverhouse. »It would ill become me to neglect the support of lawful
authority when it is lodged in such worthy hands as those of Lady Margaret
Bellenden. But I must needs say, this country grows worse and worse daily, and
reduces me to the necessity of taking measures with the recusants that are much
more consonant with my duty than with my inclinations. And, speaking of this, I
must not forget that I have to thank your ladyship for the hospitality you have
been pleased to extend to a party of mine who have brought in a prisoner,
charged with having resetted25 the murdering villain, Balfour of Burley.«
    »The house of Tillietudlem,« answered the lady, »hath ever been open to the
servants of his Majesty, and I hope that the stones of it will no longer rest on
each other when it surceases to be as much at their command as at ours. And this
reminds me, Colonel Grahame, that the gentleman who commands the party can
hardly be said to be in his proper place in the army, considering whose blood
flows in his veins; and if I might flatter myself that anything would be granted
to my request, I would presume to entreat that he might be promoted on some
favourable opportunity.«
    »Your ladyship means Sergeant Francis Stewart, whom we call Bothwell?« said
Claverhouse, smiling. »The truth is, he is a little too rough in the country,
and has not been uniformly so amenable to discipline as the rules of the service
require. But to instruct me how to oblige Lady Margaret Bellenden, is to lay
down the law to me. - Bothwell,« he continued, addressing the sergeant, who just
then appeared at the door, »go kiss Lady Margaret Bellenden's hand, who
interests herself in your promotion, and you shall have a commission the first
vacancy.«
    Bothwell went through the salutation in the manner prescribed, but not
without evident marks of haughty reluctance, and when he had done so, said
aloud, »To kiss a lady's hand can never disgrace a gentleman; but I would not
kiss a man's save the King's, to be made a general.«
    »You hear him,« said Claverhouse, smiling; »there's the rock he splits upon:
he cannot forget his pedigree.« »I know, my noble Colonel,« said Bothwell, in
the same tone, »that you will not forget your promise; and then, perhaps, you
may permit Cornet Stewart to have some recollection of his grandfather, though
the Sergeant must forget him.«
    »Enough of this, sir,« said Claverhouse, in the tone of command which was
familiar to him; »and let me know what you came to report to me just now.«
    »My Lord Evandale and his party have halted on the high road with some
prisoners,« said Bothwell.
    »My Lord Evandale?« said Lady Margaret. »Surely, Colonel Grahame, you will
permit him to honour me with his society, and to take his poor disjune here,
especially considering, that even his most sacred Majesty did not pass the Tower
of Tillietudlem without halting to partake of some refreshment.«
    As this was the third time in the course of the conversation that Lady
Margaret had adverted to this distinguished event, Colonel Grahame, as speedily
as politeness would permit, took advantage of the first pause to interrupt the
farther progress of the narrative, by saying, »We are already too numerous a
party of guests; but as I know what Lord Evandale will suffer« (looking towards
Edith) »if deprived of the pleasure which we enjoy, I will run the risk of
overburdening your ladyship's hospitality. - Bothwell, let Lord Evandale know
that Lady Margaret Bellenden requests the honour of his company.«
    »And let Harrison take care,« added Lady Margaret, »that the people and
their horses are suitably seen to.«
    Edith's heart sprung to her lips during this conversation; for it instantly
occurred to her, that, through her influence over Lord Evandale, she might find
some means of releasing Morton from his present state of danger in case her
uncle's intercession with Claverhouse should prove ineffectual. At any other
time she would have been much averse to exert this influence; for, however
inexperienced in the world, her native delicacy taught her the advantage which a
beautiful young woman gives to a young man when she permits him to lay her under
an obligation. And she would have been the farther disinclined to request any
favour of Lord Evandale, because the voice of the gossips in Clydesdale had, for
reasons hereafter to be made known, assigned him to her as a suitor, and because
she could not disguise from herself that very little encouragement was necessary
to realise conjectures which had hitherto no foundation. This was the more to be
dreaded, that, in the case of Lord Evandale's making a formal declaration, he
had every chance of being supported by the influence of Lady Margaret and her
other friends, and that she would have nothing to oppose to their solicitations
and authority, except a predilection, to avow which she knew would be equally
dangerous and unavailing. She determined, therefore, to wait the issue of her
uncle's intercession, and, should it fail, which she conjectured she should soon
learn, either from the looks or language of the open-hearted veteran, she would
then, as a last effort, make use in Morton's favour of her interest with Lord
Evandale. Her mind did not long remain in suspense on the subject of her uncle's
application.
    Major Bellenden, who had done the honours of the table, laughing and
chatting with the military guests who were at that end of the board, was now, by
the conclusion of the repast, at liberty to leave his station, and accordingly
took an opportunity to approach Claverhouse, requesting from his niece, at the
same time, the honour of a particular introduction. As his name and character
were well known, the two military men met with expressions of mutual regard; and
Edith, with a beating heart, saw her aged relative withdraw from the company,
together with his new acquaintance, into a recess formed by one of the arched
windows of the hall. She watched their conference with eyes almost dazzled by
the eagerness of suspense, and, with observation rendered more acute by the
internal agony of her mind, could guess, from the pantomimic gestures which
accompanied the conversation, the progress and fate of the intercession in
behalf of Henry Morton.
    The first expression of the countenance of Claverhouse betokened that open
and willing courtesy, which, ere it requires to know the nature of the favour
asked, seems to say, how happy the party will be to confer an obligation on the
suppliant. But as the conversation proceeded, the brow of that officer became
darker and more severe, and his features, though still retaining the expression
of the most perfect politeness, assumed, at least, to Edith's terrified
imagination, a harsh and inexorable character. His lip was now compressed as if
with impatience; now curled slightly upward, as if in civil contempt of the
arguments urged by Major Bellenden. The language of her uncle, as far as
expressed in his manner, appeared to be that of earnest intercession, urged with
all the affectionate simplicity of his character, as well as with the weight
which his age and reputation entitled him to use. But it seemed to have little
impression upon Colonel Grahame, who soon changed his posture, as if about to
cut short the Major's importunity, and to break up their conference with a
courtly expression of regret, calculated to accompany a positive refusal of the
request solicited. This movement brought them so near Edith, that she could
distinctly hear Claverhouse say, »It cannot be, Major Bellenden; lenity, in his
case, is altogether beyond the bounds of my commission, though in anything else
I am heartily desirous to oblige you. - And here comes Evandale with news, as I
think. - What tidings do you bring us, Evandale?« he continued, addressing the
young lord, who now entered in complete uniform, but with his dress disordered,
and his boots spattered, as if by riding hard.
    »Unpleasant news, sir,« was his reply. »A large body of whigs are in arms
among the hills, and have broken out into actual rebellion. They have publicly
burnt the Act of Supremacy, that which established episcopacy, that for
observing the martyrdom of Charles I., and some others, and have declared their
intention to remain together in arms for furthering the covenanted work of
reformation.«
    This unexpected intelligence struck a sudden and painful surprise into the
minds of all who heard it, excepting Claverhouse.
    »Unpleasant news call you them?« replied Colonel Grahame, his dark eyes
flashing fire; »they are the best I have heard these six months. Now that the
scoundrels are drawn into a body, we will make short work with them. When the
adder crawls into daylight,« he added, striking the heel of his boot upon the
floor, as if in the act of crushing a noxious reptile, »I can trample him to
death; he is only safe when he remains lurking in his den or morass. - Where are
these knaves?« he continued, addressing Lord Evandale.
    »About ten miles off among the mountains, at a place called Loudon Hill,«
was the young nobleman's reply. »I dispersed the conventicle against which you
sent me, and made prisoner an old trumpeter of rebellion - an intercommuned
minister, that is to say - who was in the act of exhorting his hearers to rise
and be doing in the good cause, as well as one or two of his hearers who seemed
to be particularly insolent; and from some country people and scouts I learned
what I now tell you.«
    »What may be their strength?« asked his commander.
    »Probably a thousand men, but accounts differ widely.«
    »Then,« said Claverhouse, »it is time for us to be up and be doing also -
Bothwell, bid them sound to horse.«
    Bothwell, who, like the war-horse of Scripture, snuffed the battle afar off,
hastened to give orders to six Negroes, in white dresses richly laced, and
having massive silver collars and armlets. These sable functionaries acted as
trumpeters, and speedily made the castle and the woods around it ring with their
summons.
    »Must you then leave us?« said Lady Margaret, her heart sinking under
recollection of former unhappy times; »had ye not better send to learn the force
of the rebels? - O, how many a fair face hae I heard these fearfu' sounds call
away frae the Tower of Tillietudlem, that my auld een were ne'er to see return
to it!«
    »It is impossible for me to stop,« said Claverhouse; »there are rogues
enough in this country to make the rebels five times their strength, if they are
not checked at once.«
    »Many,« said Evandale, »are flocking to them already, and they give out that
they expect a strong body of the indulged Presbyterians, headed by young
Milnwood, as they call him, the son of the famous old roundhead, Colonel Silas
Morton.«
    This speech produced a very different effect upon the hearers. Edith almost
sunk from her seat with terror, while Claverhouse darted a glance of sarcastic
triumph at Major Bellenden, which seemed to imply - »You see what are the
principles of the young man you are pleading for.«
    »It's a lie - it's a d-d lie of these rascally fanatics,« said the Major
hastily. »I will answer for Henry Morton as I would for my own son. He is a lad
of as good church principles as any gentleman in the Life-Guards - I mean no
offence to any one. He has gone to church service with me fifty times, and I
never heard him miss one of the responses in my life. Edith Bellenden can bear
witness to it as well as I. He always read on the same Prayer-book with her, and
could look out the lessons as well as the curate himself. Call him up; let him
be heard for himself.«
    »There can be no harm in that.« said Claverhouse, »whether he be innocent or
guilty. - Major Allan,« he said, turning to the officer next in command, »take a
guide, and lead the regiment forward to London Hill by the best and shortest
road. Move steadily, and do not let the men blow the horses. Lord Evandale and I
will overtake you in a quarter of an hour. Leave Bothwell with a party to bring
up the prisoners.«
    Allan bowed, and left the apartment, with all the officers, excepting
Claverhouse and the young nobleman. In a few minutes the sound of the military
music and the clashing of hoofs announced that the horsemen were leaving the
castle. The sounds were presently heard only at intervals, and soon died away
entirely.
    While Claverhouse endeavoured to soothe the terrors of Lady Margaret, and to
reconcile the veteran Major to his opinion of Morton, Evandale, getting the
better of that conscious shyness which renders an ingenuous youth diffident in
approaching the object of his affections, drew near to Miss Bellenden, and
accosted her in a tone of mingled respect and interest.
    »We are to leave you,« he said, taking her hand, which he pressed with much
emotion - »to leave you for a scene which is not without its dangers. Farewell,
dear Miss Bellenden; - let me say for the first, and perhaps the last time, dear
Edith! We part in circumstances so singular as may excuse some solemnity in
bidding farewell to one whom I have known so long, and whom I - respect so
highly.«
    The manner, differing from the words, seemed to express a feeling much
deeper and more agitating than was conveyed in the phrase he made use of. It was
not in woman to be utterly insensible to his modest and deep-felt expression of
tenderness. Although borne down by the misfortunes and imminent danger of the
man she loved, Edith was touched by the hopeless and reverential passion of the
gallant youth, who now took leave of her to rush into dangers of no ordinary
description.
    »I hope - I sincerely trust,« she said, »there is no danger. I hope there is
no occasion for this solemn ceremonial - that these hasty insurgents will be
dispersed rather by fear than force, and that Lord Evandale will speedily return
to be what he must always be, the dear and valued friend of all in this castle.«
    »Of all,« he repeated, with a melancholy emphasis upon the word. »But be it
so - whatever is near you is dear and valued to me, and I value their
approbation accordingly. Of our success I am not sanguine. Our numbers are so
few, that I dare not hope for so speedy, so bloodless, or so safe an end of this
unhappy disturbance. These men are enthusiastic, resolute, and desperate, and
have leaders not altogether unskilled in military matters. I cannot help
thinking that the impetuosity of our Colonel is hurrying us against them rather
prematurely. But there are few that have less reason to shun danger than I
have.«
    Edith had now the opportunity she wished to bespeak the young nobleman's
intercession and protection for Henry Morton, and it seemed the only remaining
channel of interest by which he could be rescued from impending destruction. Yet
she felt at that moment as if, in doing so, she was abusing the partiality and
confidence of the lover, whose heart was as open before her, as if his tongue
had made an express declaration. Could she with honour engage Lord Evandale in
the service of a rival? or could she with prudence make him any request, or lay
herself under any obligation to him, without affording ground for hopes which
she could never realise? But the moment was too urgent for hesitation, or even
for those explanations with which her request might otherwise have been
qualified.
    »I will but dispose of this young fellow,« said Claverhouse, from the other
side of the hall, »and then, Lord Evandale - I am sorry to interrupt again your
conversation - but then we must mount. - Bothwell, why do you not bring up the
prisoner? and, hark ye, let two files load their carabines.«
    In these words, Edith conceived she heard the death-warrant of her lover.
She instantly broke through the restraint which had hitherto kept her silent.
    »My Lord Evandale,« she said, »this young gentleman is a particular friend
of my uncle's; - your interest must be great with your colonel - let me request
your intercession in his favour - it will confer on my uncle a lasting
obligation.«
    »You overrate my interest, Miss Bellenden,« said Lord Evandale; »I have been
often unsuccessful in such applications, when I have made them on the mere score
of humanity.«
    »Yet try once again for my uncle's sake.«
    »And why not for your own?« said Lord Evandale. »Will you not allow me to
think I am obliging you personally in this matter? Are you so diffident of an
old friend that you will not allow him even the satisfaction of thinking that he
is gratifying your wishes?«
    »Surely - surely,« replied Edith; »you will oblige me infinitely - I am
interested in the young gentleman on my uncle's account - Lose no time, for
God's sake!«
    She became bolder and more urgent in her entreaties, for she heard the steps
of the soldiers who were entering with their prisoner.
    »By heaven! then,« said Evandale, »he shall not die, if I should die in his
place! - But will not you,« he said, resuming the hand, which in the hurry of
her spirits she had not courage to withdraw, »will not you grant me one suit, in
return for my zeal in your service?«
    »Anything you can ask, my Lord Evandale, that sisterly affection can give.«
    »And is this all,« he continued, »all you can grant to my affection living,
or my memory when dead?«
    »Do not speak thus, my lord,« said Edith; »you distress me, and do injustice
to yourself. There is no friend I esteem more highly, or to whom I would more
readily grant every mark of regard - providing - But« --
    A deep sigh made her turn her head suddenly, ere she had well uttered the
last word; and as she hesitated how to frame the exception with which she meant
to close the sentence, she became instantly aware she had been overheard by
Morton, who, heavily ironed and guarded by soldiers, was now passing behind her
in order to be presented to Claverhouse. As their eyes met each other, the sad
and reproachful expression of Morton's glance seemed to imply that he had
partially heard, and altogether misinterpreted, the conversation which had just
passed. There wanted but this to complete Edith's distress and confusion. Her
blood, which rushed to her brow, made a sudden revulsion to her heart, and left
her as pale as death. This change did not escape the attention of Evandale,
whose quick glance easily discovered that there was between the prisoner and the
object of his attachment, some singular and uncommon connection. He resigned the
hand of Miss Bellenden, again surveyed the prisoner with more attention, again
looked at Edith, and plainly observed the confusion which she could no longer
conceal.
    »This,« he said, after a moment's gloomy silence, »is, I believe, the young
gentleman who gained the prize at the shooting match.«
    »I am not sure,« hesitated Edith - »yet - I rather think not,« scarce
knowing what she replied.
    »It is he,« said Evandale, decidedly; »I know him well. A victor,« he
continued, somewhat haughtily, »ought to have interested a fair spectator more
deeply.«
    He then turned from Edith, and advancing towards the table at which
Claverhouse now placed himself, stood at a little distance, resting on his
sheathed broadsword, a silent, but not an unconcerned, spectator of that which
passed.
 

                                Chapter Twelfth

 O, my Lord, beware of jealousy.
                                                                        Othello.
 
To explain the deep effect which the few broken passages of the conversation we
have detailed made upon the unfortunate prisoner by whom they were overheard, it
is necessary to say something of his previous state of mind, and of the origin
of his acquaintance with Edith.
    Henry Morton was one of those gifted characters which possess a force of
talent unsuspected by the owner himself. He had inherited from his father an
undaunted courage, and a firm and uncompromising detestation of oppression,
whether in politics or religion. But his enthusiasm was unsullied by fanatic
zeal, and unleavened by the sourness of the puritanical spirit. From these his
mind had been freed, partly by the active exertions of his own excellent
understanding, partly by frequent and long visits at Major Bellenden's, where he
had an opportunity of meeting with many guests whose conversation taught him,
that goodness and worth were not limited to those of any single form of
religious observance.
    The base parsimony of his uncle had thrown many obstacles in the way of his
education; but he had so far improved the opportunities which offered
themselves, that his instructors as well as his friends were surprised at his
progress under such disadvantages. Still, however, the current of his soul was
frozen by a sense of dependence - of poverty - above all, of an imperfect and
limited education. These feelings impressed him with a diffidence and reserve,
which effectually concealed from all but very intimate friends, the extent of
talent and the firmness of character which we have stated him to be possessed
of. The circumstances of the times had added to this reserve an air of
indecision and indifference; for, being attached to neither of the factions
which divided the kingdom, he passed for dull, insensible, and uninfluenced by
the feeling of religion or of patriotism. No conclusion, however, could be more
unjust; and the reasons of the neutrality which he had hitherto professed had
root in very different and most praiseworthy motives. He had formed few
congenial ties with those who were the objects of persecution, and was disgusted
alike by their narrow-minded and selfish party-spirit, their gloomy fanaticism,
their abhorrent condemnation of all elegant studies or innocent exercises, and
the envenomed rancour of their political hatred. But his mind was still more
revolted by the tyrannical and oppressive conduct of the Government - the
misrule, license, and brutality of the soldiery - the executions on the
scaffold, the slaughters in the open field, the free quarters and exactions
imposed by military law, which placed the lives and fortunes of a free people on
a level with Asiatic slaves. Condemning, therefore, each party as its excesses
fell under his eyes, disgusted with the sight of evils which he had no means of
alleviating, and hearing alternate complaints and exultations with which he
could not sympathise, he would long ere this have left Scotland, had it not been
for his attachment to Edith Bellenden.
    The earlier meetings of these young people had been at Charnwood, when Major
Bellenden, who was as free from suspicion on such occasions as Uncle Toby
himself, had encouraged their keeping each other constant company, without
entertaining any apprehension of the natural consequences. Love, as usual in
such cases, borrowed the name of friendship, used her language, and claimed her
privileges. When Edith Bellenden was recalled to her mother's castle, it was
astonishing by what singular and recurring accidents she often met young Morton
in her sequestered walks, especially considering the distance of their place of
abode. Yet it somehow happened that she never expressed the surprise which the
frequency of these rencontres ought naturally to have excited, and that their
intercourse assumed gradually a more delicate character, and their meetings
began to wear the air of appointments. Books, drawings, letters, were exchanged
between them, and every trifling commission, given or executed, gave rise to a
new correspondence. Love, indeed, was not yet mentioned between them by name,
but each knew the situation of their own bosom, and could not but guess at that
of the other. Unable to desist from an intercourse which possessed such charms
for both, yet trembling for its too probable consequences, it had been continued
without specific explanation until now, when fate appeared to have taken the
conclusion into its own hands.
    It followed, as a consequence of this state of things, as well as of the
diffidence of Morton's disposition at this period, that his confidence in
Edith's return of his affection had its occasional cold fits. Her situation was
in every respect so superior to his own, her worth so eminent, her
accomplishments so many, her face so beautiful, and her manners so bewitching,
that he could not but entertain fears that some suitor more favoured than
himself by fortune, and more acceptable to Edith's family than he durst hope to
be, might step in between him and the object of his affections. Common rumour
had raised up such a rival in Lord Evandale, whom birth, fortune, connections,
and political principles, as well as his frequent visits at Tillietudlem, and
his attendance upon Lady Bellenden and her niece at all public places, naturally
pointed out as a candidate for her favour. It frequently and inevitably
happened, that engagements to which Lord Evandale was a party interfered with
the meeting of the lovers; and Henry could not but mark that Edith either
studiously avoided speaking of the young nobleman, or did so with obvious
reserve and hesitation.
    These symptoms, which in fact arose from the delicacy of her own feelings
towards Morton himself, were misconstrued by his diffident temper; and the
jealousy which they excited was fermented by the occasional observations of
Jenny Dennison. This true-bred serving-damsel was, in her own person, a complete
country coquette, and when she had no opportunity of teasing her own lovers,
used to take some occasional opportunity to torment her young lady's. This arose
from no ill-will to Henry Morton, who, both on her mistress's account and his
own handsome form and countenance, stood high in her esteem. But then Lord
Evandale was also handsome; he was liberal far beyond what Morton's means could
afford, and he was a lord, moreover; and, if Miss Edith Bellenden should accept
his hand, she would become a baron's lady; and, what was more, little Jenny
Dennison, whom the awful housekeeper at Tillietudlem huffed about at her
pleasure, would be then Mrs. Dennison, Lady Evandale's own woman, or perhaps her
ladyship's lady-in-waiting. The impartiality of Jenny Dennison, therefore, did
not, like that of Mrs. Quickly, extend to a wish that both the handsome suitors
could wed her young lady; for it must be owned that the scale of her regard was
depressed in favour of Lord Evandale, and her wishes in his favour took many
shapes extremely tormenting to Morton - being now expressed as a friendly
caution, now as an article of intelligence, and anon as a merry jest, but always
tending to confirm the idea that, sooner or later, his romantic intercourse with
her young mistress must have a close, and that Edith Bellenden would, in spite
of summer walks beneath the greenwood tree, exchange of verses, of drawings, and
of books, end in becoming Lady Evandale.
    These hints coincided so exactly with the very point of his own suspicions
and fears, that Morton was not long of feeling that jealousy which every one has
felt who has truly loved, but to which those are most liable whose love is
crossed by the want of friends' consent, or some other envious impediment of
fortune. Edith herself, unwittingly, and in the generosity of her own frank
nature, contributed to the error into which her lover was in danger of falling.
Their conversation once chanced to turn upon some late excesses committed by the
soldiery on an occasion when it was said (inaccurately however) that the party
was commanded by Lord Evandale. Edith, as true in friendship as in love, was
somewhat hurt at the severe strictures which escaped from Morton on this
occasion, and which, perhaps, were not the less strongly expressed on account of
their supposed rivalry. She entered into Lord Evandale's defence with such
spirit as hurt Morton to the very soul, and afforded no small delight to Jenny
Dennison, the usual companion of their walks. Edith perceived her error, and
endeavoured to remedy it; but the impression was not so easily erased, and it
had no small effect in inducing her lover to form that resolution of going
abroad, which was disappointed in the manner we have already mentioned.
    The visit which he received from Edith during his confinement, the deep and
devoted interest which she had expressed in his fate, ought of themselves to
have dispelled his suspicions; yet, ingenious in tormenting himself, even this
he thought might be imputed to anxious friendship, or, at most, to a temporary
partiality, which would probably soon give way to circumstances, the entreaties
of her friends, the authority of Lady Margaret, and the assiduities of Lord
Evandale.
    »And to what do I owe it,« he said, »that I cannot stand up like a man, and
plead my interest in her ere I am thus cheated out of it? - to what, but to the
all-pervading and accursed tyranny which afflicts at once our bodies, souls,
estates, and affections? And is it to one of the pensioned cut-throats of this
oppressive Government that I must yield my pretensions to Edith Bellenden? - I
will not, by Heaven! - It is a just punishment on me for being dead to public
wrongs, that they have visited me with their injuries in a point where they can
be least brooked or borne.«
    As these stormy resolutions boiled in his bosom, and while he ran over the
various kinds of insult and injury which he had sustained in his own cause and
in that of his country, Bothwell entered the tower, followed by two dragoons,
one of whom carried handcuffs.
    »You must follow me, young man,« said he, »but first we must put you in
trim.«
    »In trim!« said Morton. »What do you mean?«
    »Why, we must put on these rough bracelets. I durst not - nay, d-n it, I
durst do anything - but I would not for three hours' plunder of a stormed town
bring a whig before my Colonel without his being ironed. Come, come, young man,
don't look sulky about it.«
    He advanced to put on the irons, but seizing the oaken seat upon which he
had rested, Morton threatened to dash out the brains of the first who should
approach him.
    »I could manage you in a moment, my youngster,« said Bothwell, »but I had
rather you would strike sail quietly.«
    Here indeed he spoke the truth, not from either fear or reluctance to adopt
force, but because he dreaded the consequences of a noisy scuffle, through which
it might probably be discovered that he had, contrary to express orders,
suffered his prisoner to pass the night without being properly secured.
    »You had better be prudent,« he continued, in a tone which he meant to be
conciliatory, »and don't spoil your own sport. They say here in the castle, that
Lady Margaret's niece is immediately to marry our young Captain, Lord Evandale.
I saw them close together in the hall yonder, and I heard her ask him to
intercede for your pardon. She looked so devilish handsome and kind upon him,
that on my soul - But what the devil's the matter with you? - You are as pale as
a sheet - Will you have some brandy?«
    »Miss Bellenden ask my life of Lord Evandale?« said the prisoner, faintly.
    »Ay, ay; there's no friend like the women - their interest carries all in
court and camp. Come, you are reasonable now - Ay, I thought you would come
round.«
    Here he employed himself in putting on the fetters, against which Morton,
thunderstruck by this intelligence, no longer offered the least resistance.
    »My life begged of him, and by her! - Ay, ay - put on the irons - my limbs
shall not refuse to bear what has entered into my very soul - My life begged by
Edith, and begged of Evandale!«
    »Ay, and he has power to grant it too,« said Bothwell - »He can do more with
the Colonel than any man in the regiment.«
    And as he spoke, he and his party led their prisoner towards the hall. In
passing behind the seat of Edith, the unfortunate prisoner heard enough, as he
conceived, of the broken expressions which passed between Edith and Lord
Evandale, to confirm all that the soldier had told him. That moment made a
singular and instantaneous revolution in his character. The depth of despair to
which his love and fortunes were reduced - the peril in which his life appeared
to stand - the transference of Edith's affections, her intercession in his
favour, which rendered her fickleness yet more galling, - seemed to destroy
every feeling for which he had hitherto lived, but at the same time awakened
those which had hitherto been smothered by passions more gentle though more
selfish. Desperate himself, he determined to support the rights of his country,
insulted in his person. His character was for the moment as effectually changed
as the appearance of a villa, which, from being the abode of domestic quiet and
happiness, is, by the sudden intrusion of an armed force, converted into a
formidable post of defence.
    We have already said that he cast upon Edith one glance, in which reproach
was mingled with sorrow, as if to bid her farewell for ever; his next motion was
to walk firmly to the table at which Colonel Grahame was seated.
    »By what right is it, sir,« said he, firmly, and without waiting till he was
questioned - »by what right is it that these soldiers have dragged me from my
family, and put fetters on the limbs of a free man?«
    »By my commands,« answered Claverhouse, - »and I now lay my commands on you
to be silent and hear my questions.«
    »I will not,« replied Morton, in a determined tone, while his boldness
seemed to electrify all around him. »I will know whether I am in lawful custody,
and before a civil magistrate, ere the charter of my country shall be forfeited
in my person.«
    »A pretty springald this, upon my honour!« said Claverhouse.
    »Are you mad?« said Major Bellenden to his young friend. »For God's sake,
Henry Morton,« he continued, in a tone between rebuke and entreaty, »remember
you are speaking to one of his Majesty's officers high in the service.«
    »It is for that very reason, sir,« returned Henry, firmly, »that I desire to
know what right he has to detain me without a legal warrant. Were he a civil
officer of the law, I should know my duty was submission.«
    »Your friend, here,« said Claverhouse to the veteran, coolly, »is one of
those scrupulous gentlemen, who, like the madman in the play, will not tie his
cravat without the warrant of Mr. Justice Overdo; but I will let him see, before
we part, that my shoulder-knot is as legal a badge of authority as the mace of
the Justiciary. - So, waiving this discussion, you will be pleased, young man,
to tell me directly when you saw Balfour of Burley.«
    »As I know no right you have to ask such a question,« replied Morton, »I
decline replying to it.«
    »You confessed to my sergeant,« said Claverhouse, »that you saw and
entertained him, knowing him to be an intercommuned traitor: why are you not so
frank with me?«
    »Because,« replied the prisoner, »I presume you are, from education, taught
to understand the rights upon which you seem disposed to trample; and I am
willing you should be aware there are yet Scotsmen who can assert the liberties
of Scotland.«
    »And these supposed rights you would vindicate with your sword, I presume?«
said Colonel Grahame.
    »Were I armed as you are, and we were alone upon a hillside, you should not
ask me the question twice.«
    »It is quite enough,« answered Claverhouse, calmly; - »your language
corresponds with all I have heard of you; - but you are the son of a soldier,
though a rebellious one, and you shall not die the death of a dog; I will save
you that indignity.«
    »Die in what manner I may,« replied Morton, »I will die like the son of a
brave man; and the ignominy you mention shall remain with those who shed
innocent blood.«
    »Make your peace, then, with Heaven, in five minutes' space. - Bothwell,
lead him down to the courtyard, and draw up your party.«
    The appalling nature of this conversation, and of its result, struck the
silence of horror into all but the speakers. But now those who stood around
broke forth into clamour and expostulation. Old Lady Margaret, who, with all the
prejudices of rank and party, had not laid aside the feelings of her sex, was
loud in her intercession.
    »O, Colonel Grahame,« she exclaimed, »spare his young blood! Leave him to
the law - do not repay my hospitality by shedding men's blood on the threshold
of my doors!«
    »Colonel Grahame,« said Major Bellenden, »you must answer this violence.
Don't think, though I am old and feckless, that my friend's son shall be
murdered before my eyes with impunity. I can find friends that shall make you
answer it.«
    »Be satisfied, Major Bellenden, I will answer it,« replied Claverhouse,
totally unmoved. »And you, madam, might spare me the pain of resisting this
passionate intercession for a traitor, when you consider the noble blood your
own house has lost by such as he is.«
    »Colonel Grahame,« answered the lady, her aged frame trembling with anxiety,
»I leave vengeance to God, who calls it his own. The shedding of this young
man's blood will not call back the lives that were dear to me; and how can it
comfort me to think that there has maybe been another widowed mother made
childless, like mysell, by a deed done at my very door-stane!«
    »This is stark madness,« said Claverhouse - »I must do my duty to church and
state. Here are a thousand villains hard by in open rebellion, and you ask me to
pardon a young fanatic who is enough of himself to set a whole kingdom in a
blaze! It cannot be - Remove him, Bothwell.«
    She who was most interested in this dreadful decision, had twice strove to
speak, but her voice had totally failed her - her mind refused to suggest words,
and her tongue to utter them. She now sprung up, and attempted to rush forward,
but her strength gave way, and she would have fallen flat upon the pavement had
she not been caught by her attendant.
    »Help!« cried Jenny - »Help, for God's sake! my young lady is dying.«
    At this exclamation, Evandale, who, during the preceding part of the scene,
had stood motionless, leaning upon his sword, now stepped forward, and said to
his commanding officer, »Colonel Grahame, before proceeding in this matter, will
you speak a word with me in private?«
    Claverhouse looked surprised, but instantly rose and withdrew with the young
nobleman into a recess, where the following brief dialogue passed between them:
-
    »I think I need not remind you, Colonel, that when our family interest was
of service to you last year in that affair in the privy-council, you considered
yourself as laid under some obligation to us?«
    »Certainly, my dear Evandale,« answered Claverhouse, »I am not a man who
forgets such debts; yon will delight me by showing how I can evince my
gratitude.«
    »I will hold the debt cancelled,« said Lord Evandale, »if you will spare
this young man's life.«
    »Evandale,« replied Grahame, in great surprise, »you are mad! - absolutely
mad! What interest can you have in this young spawn of an old roundhead? His
father was positively the most dangerous man in all Scotland - cool, resolute,
soldierly, and inflexible in his principles. His son seems his very model; you
cannot conceive the mischief he may do. I know mankind, Evandale - were he an
insignificant, fanatical, country booby, do you think I would have refused such
a trifle as his life to Lady Margaret and this family? But this is a lad of
fire, zeal, and education - and these knaves want but such a leader to direct
their blind enthusiastic hardiness. I mention this, not as refusing your
request, but to make you fully aware of the possible consequences. I will never
evade a promise, or refuse to return an obligation - if you ask his life he
shall have it.«
    »Keep him close prisoner,« answered Evandale, »but do not be surprised if I
persist in requesting you will not put him to death. I have most urgent reasons
for what I ask.«
    »Be it so then,« replied Grahame. »But, young man, should you wish in your
future life to rise to eminence in the service of your king and country, let it
be your first task to subject to the public interest, and to the discharge of
your duty, your private passions, affections, and feelings. These are not times
to sacrifice to the dotage of greybeards, or the tears of silly women, the
measures of salutary severity which the dangers around compel us to adopt. And
remember, that if I now yield this point, in compliance with your urgency, my
present concession must exempt me from future solicitations of the same nature.«
    He then stepped forward to the table, and bent his eyes keenly on Morton, as
if to observe what effect the pause of awful suspense between death and life,
which seemed to freeze the bystanders with horror, would produce upon the
prisoner himself. Morton maintained a degree of firmness, which nothing but a
mind that had nothing left upon earth to love or to hope, could have supported
at such a crisis.
    »You see him?« said Claverhouse, in a half whisper to Lord Evandale; »he is
tottering on the verge between time and eternity, a situation more appalling
than the most hideous certainty; yet his is the only cheek unblenched, the only
eye that is calm, the only heart that keeps its usual time, the only nerves that
are not quivering. Look at him well, Evandale - If that man shall ever come to
head an army of rebels, you will have much to answer for on account of this
morning's work.« He then said aloud, »Young man, your life is for the present
safe, through the intercession of your friends - Remove him, Bothwell, and let
him be properly guarded, and brought along with the other prisoners.«
    »If my life,« said Morton, stung with the idea that he owed his respite to
the intercession of a favoured rival, »if my life be granted at Lord Evandale's
request« --
    »Take the prisoner away, Bothwell,« said Colonel Grahame, interrupting him;
»I have neither time to make nor to hear fine speeches.«
    Bothwell forced off Morton, saying, as he conducted him into the courtyard,
»Have you three lives in your pocket, besides the one in your body, my lad, that
you can afford to let your tongue run away with them at this rate? Come, come,
I'll take care to keep you out of the Colonel's way; for, egad, you will not be
five minutes with him before the next tree or the next ditch will be the word.
So come along to your companions in bondage.«
    Thus speaking, the sergeant, who, in his rude manner did not altogether want
sympathy for a gallant young man, hurried Morton down to the courtyard, where
three other prisoners (two men and a woman), who had been taken by Lord
Evandale, remained under an escort of dragoons.
    Meantime, Claverhouse took his leave of Lady Margaret. But it was difficult
for the good lady to forgive his neglect of her intercession.
    »I have thought till now,« she said, »that the Tower of Tillietudlem might
have been a place of succour to those that are ready to perish, even if they
werena sae deserving as they should have been - but I see auld fruit has little
savour - our suffering and our services have been of an ancient date.«
    »They are never to be forgotten by me, let me assure your ladyship,« said
Claverhouse. »Nothing but what seemed my sacred duty could make me hesitate to
grant a favour requested by you and the Major. Come, my good lady, let me hear
you say you have forgiven me, and, as I return to-night, I will bring a drove of
two hundred whigs with me, and pardon fifty head of them for your sake.«
    »I shall be happy to hear of your success, Colonel,« said Major Bellenden;
»but take an old soldier's advice, and spare blood when battle's over - and once
more let me request to enter bail for young Morton.«
    »We will settle that when I return,« said Claverhouse. »Meanwhile, be
assured his life shall be safe.«
    During this conversation Evandale looked anxiously around for Edith; but the
precaution of Jenny Dennison had occasioned her mistress being transported to
her own apartment.
    Slowly and heavily he obeyed the impatient summons of Claverhouse, who,
after taking a courteous leave of Lady Margaret and the Major, had hastened to
the courtyard. The prisoners with their guard were already on their march, and
the officers with their escort mounted and followed. All pressed forward to
overtake the main body, as it was supposed they would come in sight of the enemy
in little more than two hours.
 

                               Chapter Thirteenth

 My hounds may a' rin masterless,
 My hawks may fly frae tree to tree,
 My lord may grip my vassal lands,
 For there again maun I never be.
                                                                     Old Ballad.
 
We left Morton, along with three companions in captivity, travelling in the
custody of a small body of soldiers, who formed the rear-guard of the column
under the command of Claverhouse, and were immediately under the charge of
Sergeant Bothwell. Their route lay towards the hills in which the insurgent
Presbyterians were reported to be in arms. They had not prosecuted their march a
quarter of a mile ere Claverhouse and Evandale galloped past them, followed by
their orderly-men, in order to take their proper places in the column which
preceded them. No sooner were they past, than Bothwell halted the body which he
commanded, and disencumbered Morton of his irons.
    »King's blood must keep word,« said the dragoon. »I promised you should be
civilly treated as far as rested with me. - Here, Corporal Inglis, let this
gentleman ride alongside of the other young fellow who is prisoner; and you may
permit them to converse together at their pleasure, under their breath, but take
care they are guarded by two files with loaded carabines. If they attempt an
escape, blow their brains out. - You cannot call that using you uncivilly,« he
continued, addressing himself to Morton; »it's the rules of war, you know. -
And, Inglis, couple up the parson and the old woman - they are fittest company
for each other, d-n me; a single file may guard them well enough. If they speak
a word of cant or fanatical nonsense let them have a strapping with a
shoulder-belt. There's some hope of choking a silenced parson; if he is not
allowed to hold forth, his own treason will burst him.«
    Having made this arrangement, Bothwell placed himself at the head of the
party, and Inglis, with six dragoons, brought up the rear. The whole then set
forward at a trot, with the purpose of overtaking the main body of the regiment.
    Morton, overwhelmed with a complication of feelings, was totally indifferent
to the various arrangements made for his secure custody, and even to the relief
afforded him by his release from the fetters. He experienced that blank and
waste of the heart which follows the hurricane of passion, and, no longer
supported by the pride and conscious rectitude which dictated his answers to
Claverhouse, he surveyed with deep dejection the glades through which he
travelled, each turning of which had something to remind him of past happiness
and disappointed love. The eminence which they now ascended was that from which
he used first and last to behold the ancient tower when approaching or retiring
from it; - and it is needless to add, that there he was wont to pause, and gaze
with a lover's delight on the battlements which, rising at a distance out of the
lofty wood, indicated the dwelling of her whom he either hoped soon to meet, or
had recently parted from. Instinctively he turned his head back to take a last
look of a scene formerly so dear to him, and no less instinctively he heaved a
deep sigh. It was echoed by a loud groan from his companion in misfortune, whose
eyes, moved, perchance, by similar reflections, had taken the same direction.
This indication of sympathy on the part of the captive was uttered in a tone
more coarse than sentimental; it was, however, the expression of a grieved
spirit, and so far corresponded with the sigh of Morton. In turning their heads
their eyes met, and Morton recognised the stolid countenance of Cuddie Headrigg,
bearing a rueful expression, in which sorrow for his own lot was mixed with
sympathy for the situation of his companion. »Hegh, sirs!« was the expression of
the ci-devant ploughman of the mains of Tillietudlem - »it's an unco thing that
decent folk should be harled through the country this gate, as if they were a
warld's wonder.«
    »I am sorry to see you here, Cuddie,« said Morton, who, even in his own
distress, did not lose feeling for that of others.
    »And sae am I, Mr. Henry,« answered Cuddie, »baith for mysell and you; but
neither of our sorrows will do muckle good, that I can see. To be sure, for me,
continued the captive agriculturist, relieving his heart by talking, though he
well knew it was to little purpose - to be sure, for my part, I hae nae right to
be here ava', for I never did nor said a word against either king or curate; but
my mither, puir body, couldn't have haud the auld tongue o' her, and we maun baith pay
for't, it's like.«
    »Your mother is their prisoner, likewise?« said Morton, hardly knowing what
he said.
    »In troth is she, riding ahint ye there like a bride, wi' that auld carle o'
a minister that they ca' Gabriel Kettledrummle - Deil that he had been in the
inside of a drum or a kettle either, for my share o' him! Ye see, we were nae
sooner chased out o' the doors o' Milnwood, and your uncle and the housekeeper
banging them to and barring them ahint us, as if we had had the plague on our
bodies, than I says to my mother, What are we to do neist? for every hole and
bole in the country will be steekit against us, now that ye hae affronted my
auld leddy, and gar't the troopers take up young Milnwood. Sae she says to me,
Binna cast doun, but gird yoursell up to the great task o' the day, and give your
testimony like a man upon the mount of the Covenant.«
    »And so I suppose you went to a conventicle?« said Morton.
    »Ye sall hear,« continued Cuddie. - »Aweel, I kendna muckle better what to
do, sae I e'en gaed wi' her to an auld daft carline like hersell, and we got
some water-broo and bannocks; and mony a weary grace they said, and mony a psalm
they sang, or they wad let me win to, for I was amaist famished wi' vexation.
Aweel, they had me up in the grey o' the morning, and I behoved to whig away wi'
them, reason or nane, to a great gathering o' their folk at the Miry-sikes; and
there this chield Gabriel Kettledrummle was blasting away to them on the
hill-side, about lifting up their testimony, nae doubt, and ganging down to the
battle of Roman Gilead or some sic place. Eh, Mr. Henry! but the carle gave them
a screed o' doctrine! Ye might hae heard him a mile down the wind - he routed
like a cow in a fremd loaning. Weel, thinks I, there's nae place in this country
they ca' Roman Gilead - it will be some gate in the west muirlands; and or we
win there I'll see to slip away wi' this mither o' mine, for I winna rin my neck
into a tether for ony Kettledrummle in the country side - Aweel,« continued
Cuddie, relieving himself by detailing his misfortunes, without being scrupulous
concerning the degree of attention which his companion bestowed on his
narrative, »just as I was wearying for the tail of the preaching, cam word that
the dragoons were upon us. Some ran, and some cried, Stand! and some cried, Down
wi' the Philistines! I was at my mither to get her away sting and ling or the red
coats cam up, but I might as well hae tried to drive our auld fore-a-hand ox
without the goad - deil a stap wad she budge. - Weel, after a', the cleugh we
were in was strait, and the mist cam thick, and there was good hope the dragoons
wad hae missed us if we could hae held our tongues; but, as if auld
Kettledrummle himself hadna made din enough to waken the very dead, they behoved
a' to skirl up a psalm that ye wad hae heard as far as Lanrick! Aweel, to make a
lang tale short, up cam my young Lord Evandale, skelping as fast as his horse
could trot, and twenty redcoats at his back. Twa or three chields wad needs
fight, wi' the pistol and the whinger in the tae hand, and the Bible in the
tother, and they got their crouns well cloured; but there wasna muckle skaith
dune, for Evandale aye cried to scatter us, but to spare life.«
    »And did you not resist?« said Morton, who probably felt, that at that
moment he himself would have encountered Lord Evandale on much slighter grounds.
    »Na, truly,« answered Cuddie, - »I keep it aye before the auld woman, and
cried for mercy to life and limb; but twa o' the red-coats cam up, and ane o'
them was gaun to strike my mither wi' the side o' his broadsword - So I got up
my kebbie at them, and said I wad give them as good. Weel, they turned on me, and
clinked at me wi' their swords, and I garr'd my hand keep my head as well as I
could till Lord Evandale came up, and then I cried out I was a servant at
Tillietudlem - ye ken yoursell, he was aye judged to hae a look after the young
leddy - and he bade me fling down my kent, and sae me and my mither yielded
oursells prisoners. I'm thinking we wad hae been letten slip away, but
Kettledrummle was taken near us - for Andrew Wilson's naig that he was riding on
had been a dragooner lang syne, and the sairer Kettledrummle spurred to win away,
the readier the dour beast ran to the dragoons when he saw them draw up. -
Aweel, when my mother and him forgathered, they set till the sodgers, and I
think they gave them their kale through the reek! Bastards o' the hure o' Babylon
was the best words in their wame. Sae then the kiln was in a bleeze again, and
they brought us a' three on wi' them to make us an example, as they ca't.«
    »It is most infamous and intolerable oppression!« said Morton, half speaking
to himself. »Here's a poor peaceable fellow, whose only motive for joining the
conventicle was a sense of filial piety, and he is chained up like a thief or
murderer, and likely to die the death of one, but without the privilege of a
formal trial which our laws indulge to the worst malefactor! Even to witness
such tyranny, and still more to suffer under it, is enough to make the blood of
the tamest slave boil within him.«
    »To be sure,« said Cuddie, hearing and partly understanding what had broken
from Morton in resentment of his injuries, »it's no right to speak evil o'
dignities - my auld leddy aye said that, as nae doubt she had a good right to
do, being in a place o' dignity hersell; and troth I listened to her very
patiently, for she aye ordered a dram, or a sowp kale, or something to us, after
she had gien us a hearing on our duties. But deil a dram, or kale, or anything
else - no sae muckle as a cup o' cauld water - do thae lords at Edinburgh give
us; and yet they are heading and hanging amang us, and trailing us after thae
blackguard troopers, and taking our goods and gear as if we were outlaws. I
canna say I take it kind at their hands.«
    »It would be very strange if you did,« answered Morton, with suppressed
emotion.
    »And what I like warst o' a',« continued poor Cuddie, »is thae ranting
red-coats coming amang the lasses, and taking away our joes. I had a sair heart
o' my ain when I passed the Mains down at Tillietudlem this morning about
parritch time, and saw the reek comin' out at my ain lum-head, and ken'd there
was some ither body than my auld mither sitting by the ingle-side. But I think
my heart was e'en sairer, when I saw that hellicat trooper, Tam Halliday,
kissing Jenny Dennison afore my face. I wonder women can hae the impudence to do
sic things; but they are a' for the red-coats. Whiles I hae thought o' being a
trooper mysell, when I thought nothing else wad gave down wi' Jenny - and yet
I'll no blame her ower muckle neither, for maybe it was a' for my sake that she
loot Tam touzle her tap-knots that gate.«
    »For your sake?« said Morton, unable to refrain from taking some interest in
a story which seemed to bear a singular coincidence with his own.
    »E'en sae, Milnwood,« replied Cuddie, »for the puir queen gat leave to come
near me wi' speaking the loon fair (d-n him, that I should say sae!); and sae she
bade me God speed, and she wanted to stap siller into my hand; - I'se warrant it
was the tae half o' her fee and bountith, for she wared the ither half on
pinners and pearlings to gang to see us shoot yon day at the popinjay.«
    »And did you take it, Cuddie?« said Morton.
    »Troth did I no, Milnwood; I was sic a fule as to fling it back to her - my
heart was ower grit to be behadden to her when I had seen that loon slavering
and kissing at her. But I was a great fule for my pains; it wad hae dune my
mither and me some good, and she'll ware't a' on duds and nonsense.«
    There was a deep and long pause. Cuddie was probably engaged in regretting
the rejection of his mistress's bounty, and Henry Morton in considering from
what motives, or upon what conditions, Miss Bellenden had succeeded in procuring
the interference of Lord Evandale in his favour.
    Was it not possible, suggested his awakening hopes, that he had construed
her influence over Lord Evandale hastily and unjustly? Ought he to censure her
severely, if, submitting to dissimulation for his sake, she had permitted the
young nobleman to entertain hopes which she had no intention to realise? Or what
if she had appealed to the generosity which Lord Evandale was supposed to
possess, and had engaged his honour to protect the person of a favoured rival?
    Still, however, the words which he had overheard recurred ever and anon to
his remembrance, with a pang which resembled the sting of an adder.
    »Nothing that she could refuse him! - was it possible to make a more
unlimited declaration of predilection? The language of affection has not, within
the limits of maidenly delicacy, a stronger expression. She is lost to me
wholly, and for ever; and nothing remains for me now, but vengeance for my own
wrongs, and for those which are hourly inflicted on my country.«
    Apparently, Cuddie, though with less refinement, was following out a
similiar train of ideas; for he suddenly asked Morton in a low whisper - »Wad
there be ony ill in getting out o' thae chields' hands an ane could compass it?«
    »None in the world,« said Morton; »and if an opportunity occurs of doing so,
depend on it I for one will not let it slip.«
    »I'm blythe to hear ye say sae,« answered Cuddie. »I'm but a puir silly
fallow, but I canna think there wad be muckle ill in breaking out by strength o'
hand, if ye could make it anything feasible. I am the lad that will ne'er fear to
lay on, if it were come to that; but our auld leddy wad hae ca'd that a
resisting o' the king's authority.«
    »I will resist any authority on earth.« said Morton. »that invades
tyrannically my chartered rights as a freeman; and I am determined I will not be
unjustly dragged to a jail, or perhaps a gibbet, if I can possibly make my
escape from these men either by address or force.«
    »Weel, that's just my mind too, aye supposing we hae a feasible opportunity
o' breaking loose. But then ye speak o' a charter; now these are things that
only belang to the like o' you that are a gentleman, and it mightna bear me
through that am but a husbandman.«
    »The charter that I speak of,« said Morton, »is common to the meanest
Scotchman. It is that freedom from stripes and bondage which was claimed, as you
may read in Scripture, by the Apostle Paul himself, and which every man who is
free-born is called upon to defend, for his own sake and that of his
countrymen.«
    »Hegh, sirs!« replied Cuddie, »it wad hae been lang or my Leddy Margaret, or
my mither either, wad hae fund out sic a wiselike doctrine in the Bible! The
tane was aye graning about giving tribute to Cæsar, and the tither is as daft
wi' her whiggery. I hae been clean spoilt, just wi' listening to twa blethering
auld wives; but if I could get a gentleman that wad let me take on to be his
servant, I am confident I wad be a clean contrary creature; and I hope your
honour will think on what I am saying, if ye were ance fairly delivered out o'
this house of bondage, and just take me to be your ain wally-de-shamble.«
    »My valet, Cuddie?« answered Morton - »alas! that would be sorry preferment,
even if we were at liberty.«
    »I ken what ye're thinking - that because I am landward bred, I wad be
bringing ye to disgrace afore folk. But ye maun ken I'm gey gleg at the uptak;
there was never anything dune wi' hand but I learned gey readily, 'septing
reading, writing, and ciphering; but there's no the like o' me at the fitba',
and I can play wi' the broadsword as well as Corporal Inglis there. I hae broken
his head or now, for as massy as he's riding ahint us. - And then ye'll no be
gaun to stay in this country?« - said he, stopping and interrupting himself.
    »Probably not,« replied Morton.
    »Weel, I carena a boddle. Ye see I wad get my mither bestowed wi' her auld
graning tittie, auntie Meg in the Gallowgate o' Glasgow, and then I trust they
wad neither burn her for a witch, or let her fail for faut o' fude, or hang her
up for an auld whig wife; for the provost, they say, is very regardfu' o' sic
puir bodies. And then you and me wad gang and pouss our fortunes, like the folk
i' the daft auld tales about Jock the Giant-killer and Valentine and Orson: and
we wad come back to merry Scotland, as the sang says, and I wad take to the
stilts again, and turn sic furs on the bonny rigs o' Milnwood holms, that it wad
be worth a pint but to look at them.«
    »I fear,« said Morton, »there is very little chance, my good friend Cuddie,
of our getting back to our old occupation.«
    »Hout, stir, - hout, stir,« replied Cuddie, »it's aye good to keep up a
hardy heart - as broken a ship's come to land. But what's that I hear? never
stir, if my auld mither isna at the preaching again! I ken the sough o' her
texts, that sound just like the wind blawing through the spence; and there's
Kettledrummle setting to wark, too - Lordsake, if the sodgers anes get angry,
they'll murder them baith, and us for company!«
    Their farther conversation was in fact interrupted by a blatant noise which
rose behind them, in which the voice of the preacher emitted, in unison with
that of the old woman, tones like the grumble of a bassoon combined with the
screaking of a cracked fiddle. At first the aged pair of sufferers had been
contented to condole with each other in smothered expressions of complaint and
indignation; but the sense of their injuries became more pungently aggravated as
they communicated with each other, and they became at length unable to suppress
their ire.
    »Woe! woe! and a threefold woe unto you, ye bloody and violent persecutors!«
exclaimed the Reverend Gabriel Kettledrummle - »Woe! and threefold woe unto you,
even to the breaking of seals, the blowing of trumpets, and the pouring forth of
vials.«
    »Ay - ay - a black cast to a' their ill-fa'ur'd faces, and the outside o'
the loof to them at the last day!« echoed the shrill counter-tenor of Mause,
falling in like the second part of a catch.
    »I tell you,« continued the divine, »that your rankings and your ridings -
your neighings and your prancings - your bloody, barbarous, and inhuman
cruelties - your benumbing, deadening, and debauching the conscience of poor
creatures by oaths, soul-damning and self-contradictory, have arisen from earth
to Heaven like a foul and hideous outcry of perjury for hastening the wrath to
come - hugh! hugh! hugh!«
    »And I say,« cried Mause, in the same tune, and nearly at the same time,
»that wi' this auld breath o' mine, and it's sair taken down wi' the asthmatics
and this rough trot« --
    »Deil gin they would gallop,« said Cuddie, »wad it but gar her haud her
tongue!«
    »- Wi' this auld and brief breath,« continued Mause, »will I testify against
the backslidings, defections, defalcations, and declinings of the land - against
the grievances and the causes of wrath!«
    »Peace, I pr'ythee - Peace, good woman,« said the preacher, who had just
recovered from a violent fit of coughing, and found his own anathema borne down
by Mause's better wind; »peace, and take not the word out of the mouth of a
servant of the altar. - I say, I uplift my voice and tell you, that before the
play is played out - ay, before this very sun gaes down, ye sall learn that
neither a desperate Judas, like your prelate Sharp that's gone to his place; nor
a sanctuary-breaking Holofernes, like bloody-minded Claverhouse; nor an
ambitious Diotrephes, like the lad Evandale; nor a covetous and warld-following
Demas, like him they ca' Sergeant Bothwell, that makes every wife's plack and
her meal-ark his ain; neither your carabines, nor your pistols, nor your
broadswords, nor your horses, nor your saddles, bridles, surcingles, nose-bags,
nor martingales, shall resist the arrows that are whetted and the bow that is
bent against you!«
    »That shall they never, I trow,« echoed Mause. »Castaways are they ilk ane
o' them - besoms of destruction, fit only to be flung into the fire when they
have sweepit the filth out o' the Temple - whips of small cords, knotted for the
chastisement of those what like their warldly gudes and gear better than the
Cross or the Covenant, but when that wark's done, only meet to make latchets to
the deil's brogues.«
    »Fiend hae me,« said Cuddie, addressing himself to Morton, »if I dinna think
our mither preaches as well as the minister! But it's a sair pity o' his hoast,
for it aye comes on just when he's at the best o't, and that lang routing he
made air this morning, is sair again him too - Deil an I care if he wad roar her
dumb, and then he would hae't a' to answer for himself - It's lucky the road's
rough, and the troopers are no taking muckle tent to what they say, wi' the
rattling o' the horses' feet; but an we were anes on saft grund, we'll hear news
o' a' this.«
    Cuddie's conjectures were but too true. The words of the prisoners had not
been much attended to, while drowned by the clang of horses' hoofs on a rough
and stony road; but they now entered upon the moorlands, where the testimony of
the two zealous captives lacked this saving accompaniment. And accordingly, no
sooner had their steeds begun to tread heath and greensward, and Gabriel
Kettledrummle had again raised his voice with, »Also I uplift my voice like that
of a pelican in the wilderness« --
    »And I mine,« had issued from Mause, »like a sparrow on the house-tops« --
    When »Hollo, ho!« cried the corporal from the rear; »rein up your tongues,
the devil blister them, or I'll clap a martingale on them.«
    »I will not peace at commands of the profane,« said Gabriel.
    »Nor I neither,« said Mause, »for the bidding of no earthly potsherd, though
it be painted as red as a brick from the Tower of Babel, and ca' itsell a
corporal.«
    »Halliday,« cried the corporal, »hast got never a gag about thee, man? - We
must stop their mouths before they talk us all dead.«
    Ere any answer could be made, or any measure taken in consequence of the
corporal's motion, a dragoon galloped towards Sergeant Bothwell, who was
considerably ahead of the party he commanded. On hearing the orders which he
brought, Bothwell instantly rode back to the head of his party, ordered them to
close their files, to mend their pace, and to move with silence and precaution,
as they would soon be in presence of the enemy.
 

                               Chapter Fourteenth

 Quantum in nobis, we've thought good
 To save the expense of Christian blood,
 And try if we by mediation
 Of treaty, and accommodation.
 Can end the quarrel, and compose
 This bloody duel without blows.
                                                                         Butler.
 
The increased pace of the party of horsemen soon took away from their zealous
captives the breath, if not the inclination necessary for holding forth. They
had now for more than a mile got free of the woodlands, whose broken glades had,
for some time, accompanied them after they had left the woods of Tillietudlem. A
few birches and oaks still feathered the narrow ravines, or occupied in
dwarf-clusters the hollow plains of the moor. But these were gradually
disappearing; and a wide and waste country lay before them, swelling into bare
hills or dark heath, intersected by deep gullies; being the passages by which
torrents forced their course in winter, and during summer the disproportioned
channels for diminutive rivulets that winded their puny way among heaps of
stones and gravel, the effects and tokens of their winter fury; - like so many
spendthrifts dwindled down by the consequences of former excesses and
extravagance. This desolate region seemed to extend farther than the eye could
reach, without grandeur, without even the dignity of mountain wildness, yet
striking, from the huge proportion which it seemed to bear to such more favoured
spots of the country as were adapted to cultivation, and fitted for the support
of man; and thereby impressing irresistibly the mind of the spectator with a
sense of the omnipotence of Nature, and the comparative inefficacy of the
boasted means of amelioration which man is capable of opposing to the
disadvantages of climate and soil.
    It is a remarkable effect of such extensive wastes, that they impose an idea
of solitude even upon those who travel through them in considerable numbers; so
much is the imagination affected by the disproportion between the desert around
and the party who are traversing it. Thus the members of a caravan of a thousand
souls may feel, in the deserts of Africa or Arabia, a sense of loneliness
unknown to the individual traveller whose solitary course is through a thriving
and cultivated country.
    It was not, therefore, without a peculiar feeling of emotion, that Morton
beheld, at the distance of about half-a-mile, the body of the cavalry to which
his escort belonged, creeping up a steep and winding path which ascended from
the more level moor into the hills. Their numbers, which appeared formidable
when they crowded through narrow roads, and seemed multiplied by appearing
partially, and at different points, among the trees, were now apparently
diminished by being exposed at once to view, and in a landscape whose extent
bore such immense proportion to the columns of horses and men which, showing
more like a drove of black cattle than a body of soldiers, crawled slowly along
the face of the hill, their force and their numbers seeming trifling and
contemptible.
    »Surely,« said Morton to himself, »a handful of resolute men may defend any
defile in these mountains against such a small force as this is, provided that
their bravery is equal to their enthusiasm.«
    While he made these reflections, the rapid movement of the horsemen who
guarded him, soon traversed the space which divided them from their companions;
and ere the front of Claverhouse's column had gained the brow of the hill which
they had been seen ascending, Bothwell, with his rear-guard and prisoners, had
united himself, or nearly so, with the main body led by his commander. The
extreme difficulty of the road, which was in some places steep and in others
boggy, retarded the progress of the column, especially in the rear; for the
passage of the main body, in many instances, poached up the swamps through which
they passed, and rendered them so deep, that the last of their followers were
forced to leave the beaten path, and find safer passage where they could.
    On these occasions, the distresses of the Reverend Gabriel Kettledrummle and
of Mause Headrigg were considerably augmented, as the brutal troopers, by whom
they were guarded, compelled them, at all risks which such inexperienced riders
were likely to incur, to leap their horses over drains and gullies, or to push
them through morasses and swamps.
    »Through the help of the Lord I have luppen ower a wall,« cried poor Mause,
as her horse was, by her rude attendants, brought up to leap the turf enclosure
of a deserted fold, in which feat her curch flew off, leaving her grey hairs
uncovered.
    »I am sunk in deep mire where there is no standing - I am come into deep
waters where the floods overflow me,« exclaimed Kettledrummle, as the charger on
which he was mounted plunged up to the saddle-girths in a well-head, as the
springs are called which supply the marshes, the sable streams beneath spouting
over the face and person of the captive preacher.
    These exclamations excited shouts of laughter among their military
attendants; but events soon occurred which rendered them all sufficiently
serious.
    The leading files of the regiment had nearly attained the brow of the steep
hill we have mentioned, when two or three horsemen, speedily discovered to be a
part of their own advanced guard who had acted as a patrol, appeared returning
at full gallop, their horses much blown, and the men apparently in a disordered
flight. They were followed upon the spur by five or six riders, well armed with
sword and pistol, who halted upon the top of the hill on observing the approach
of the Life-Guards. One or two who had carabines dismounted, and, taking a
leisurely and deliberate aim at the foremost rank of the regiment, discharged
their pieces, by which two troopers were wounded, one severely. They then
mounted their horses, and disappeared over the ridge of the hill, retreating
with so much coolness as evidently showed, that, on the one hand, they were
undismayed by the approach of so considerable a force as was moving against
them, and conscious, on the other, that they were supported by numbers
sufficient for their protection. This incident occasioned a halt through the
whole body of cavalry, and while Claverhouse himself received the report of his
advanced guard, which had been thus driven back upon the main body, Lord
Evandale advanced to the top of the ridge over which the enemy's horsemen had
retired, and Major Allan, Cornet Grahame, and the other officers, employed
themselves in extricating the regiment from the broken ground, and drawing them
up on the side of the hill in two lines, the one to support the other.
    The word was then given to advance; and in a few minutes the first line
stood on the brow, and commanded the prospect on the other side. The second line
closed upon them, and also the rear-guard with the prisoners; so that Morton and
his companions in captivity could in like manner see the form of opposition
which was now offered to the farther progress of their captors.
    The brow of the hill on which the Royal Life-Guards were now drawn up,
sloped downwards (on the side opposite to that which they had ascended) with a
gentle declivity, for more than a quarter of a mile, and presented ground,
which, though unequal in some places, was not altogether unfavourable for the
manoeuvres of cavalry, until near the bottom, when the slope terminated in a
marshy level, traversed through its whole length by what seemed either a natural
gully, or a deep artificial drain, the sides of which were broken by springs,
trenches filled with water, out of which peats and turf had been dug, and here
and there by some straggling thickets of alders, which loved the moistness so
well, that they continued to live as bushes, although too much dwarfed by the
sour soil and the stagnant bog-water to ascend into trees. Beyond this ditch or
gully, the ground arose into a second heathy swell, or rather hill, near to the
foot of which, and, as if with the object of defending the broken ground and
ditch that covered their front, the body of insurgents appeared to be drawn up
with the purpose of abiding battle.
    Their infantry was divided into three lines. The first, tolerably provided
with firearms, were advanced almost close to the verge of the bog, so that their
fire must necessarily annoy the royal cavalry as they descended the opposite
hill (the whole front of which was exposed), and would probably be yet more
fatal if they attempted to cross the morass. Behind this first line was a body
of pikemen, designed for their support in case the dragoons should force the
passage of the marsh. In their rear was their third line, consisting of
countrymen armed with scythes set straight on poles, hay-forks, spits, clubs,
goads, fish-spears, and such other rustic implements as hasty resentment had
converted into instruments of war. On each flank of the infantry, but a little
backward from the bog, as if to allow themselves dry and sound ground whereon to
act in case their enemies should force the pass, there was drawn up a small body
of cavalry, who were, in general, but indifferently armed and worse mounted, but
full of zeal for the cause, being chiefly either landholders of small property,
or farmers of the better class, whose means enabled them to serve on horseback.
A few of those who had been engaged in driving back the advanced guard of the
royalists might now be seen returning slowly towards their own squadrons. These
were the only individuals of the insurgent army which seemed to be in motion.
All the others stood firm and motionless, as the grey stones that lay scattered
on the heath around them.
    The total number of the insurgents might amount to about a thousand men, but
of these there were scarce a hundred cavalry, nor were the half of them even
tolerably armed. The strength of their position, however - the sense of their
having taken a desperate step, the superiority of their numbers - but, above
all, the ardour of their enthusiasm, were the means on which their leaders
reckoned for supplying the want of arms, equipage, and military discipline.
    On the side of the hill that rose above the array of battle which they had
adopted, were seen the women, and even the children, whom zeal, opposed to
persecution, had driven into the wilderness. - They seemed stationed there to be
spectators of the engagement, by which their own fate, as well as that of their
parents, husbands, and sons, was to be decided. Like the females of the ancient
German tribes, the shrill cries which they raised, when they beheld the
glittering ranks of their enemy appear on the brow of the opposing eminence,
acted as an incentive to their relatives to fight to the last in defence of that
which was dearest to them. Such exhortations seemed to have their full and
emphatic effect; for a wild halloo, which went from rank to rank on the
appearance of the soldiers, intimated the resolution of the insurgents to fight
to the uttermost.
    As the horsemen halted their lines on the ridge of the hill, their trumpets
and kettledrums sounded a bold and warlike flourish of menace and defiance, that
ran along the waste like the shrill summons of a destroying angel. The
wanderers, in answer, united their voices, and sent forth, in solemn modulation,
the two first verses of the seventy-sixth Psalm, according to the metrical
version of the Scottish Kirk: -
 
»In Judah's land God is well known,
His name's in Israel great:
In Salem is his tabernacle,
In Zion is his seat.
 
There arrows of the bow he brake,
The shield, the sword, the war.
More glorious thou than hills of prey,
More excellent art far.«
 
A shout, or rather a solemn acclamation, attended the close of the stanza; and
after a dead pause, the second verse was resumed by the insurgents, who applied
the destruction of the Assyrians as prophetical of the issue of their own
impending contest: -
 
»Those that were stout of heart are spoiled,
They slept their sleep outright;
And none of those their hands did find,
That were the men of might.
 
When thy rebuke, O Jacob's God,
Had forth against them past,
Their horses and their chariots both
Were in a deep sleep cast.«
 
There was another acclamation, which was followed by the most profound silence.
    While these solemn sounds, accented by a thousand voices, were prolonged
amongst the waste hills, Claverhouse looked with great attention on the ground,
and on the order of battle which the wanderers had adopted, and in which they
determined to await the assault.
    »The churls,« he said, »must have some old soldiers with them; - it was no
rustic that made choice of that ground.«
    »Burley is said to be with them for certain,« answered Lord Evandale, »and
also Hackston of Rathillet, Paton of Meadowhead, Cleland, and some other men of
military skill.«
    »I judged as much,« said Claverhouse, »from the style in which these
detached horsemen leapt their horses over the ditch, as they returned to their
position. It was easy to see that there were a few roundheaded troopers amongst
them, the true spawn of the old Covenant. We must manage this matter warily as
well as boldly. Evandale, let the officers come to this knoll.«
    He moved to a small moss-grown cairn, probably the resting-place of some
Celtic chief of other times, and the call of »Officers to the front,« soon
brought them around their commander.
    »I do not call you around me, gentlemen,« said Claverhouse, »in the formal
capacity of a council of war, for I will never turn over on others the
responsibility which my rank imposes on myself. I only want the benefit of your
opinions, reserving to myself, as most men do when they ask advice, the liberty
of following my own. - What say you, Cornet Grahame? Shall we attack these
fellows who are bellowing yonder? You are youngest and hottest, and therefore
will speak first whether I will or no.«
    »Then,« said Cornet Grahame, »while I have the honour to carry the standard
of the Life-Guards, it shall never, with my will, retreat before rebels. I say,
charge, in God's name and the King's!«
    »And what say you, Allan?« continued Claverhouse, »for Evandale is so
modest, we shall never get him to speak till you have said what you have to
say.«
    »These fellows,« said Major Allan, an old cavalier officer of experience,
»are three or four to one - I should not mind that much upon a fair field, but
they are posted in a very formidable strength, and show no inclination to quit
it. I therefore think, with deference to Cornet Grahame's opinion, that we
should draw back to Tillietudlem, occupy the pass between the hills and the open
country, and send for reinforcements to my Lord Ross, who is lying at Glasgow
with a regiment of infantry. In this way we should cut them off from the Strath
of Clyde, and either compel them to come out of their stronghold, and give us
battle on fair terms, or, if they remain here, we will attack them so soon as
our infantry has joined us, and enabled us to act with effect among these
ditches, bogs, and quagmires.«
    »Pshaw!« said the young Cornet, »what signifies strong ground, when it is
only held by a crew of canting, psalm-singing old women?«
    »A man may fight never the worse,« retorted Major Allan, »for honouring both
his Bible and Psalter. These fellows will prove as stubborn as steel; I know
them of old.«
    »Their nasal psalmody,« said the Cornet, »reminds our Major of the race of
Dunbar.«
    »Had you been at that race, young man,« retorted Allan, »you would have
wanted nothing to remind you of it for the longest day you have to live.«
    »Hush! hush! gentlemen!« said Claverhouse - »these are untimely repartees -
I should like your advice well, Major Allan, had our rascally patrols (whom I
will see duly punished) brought us timely notice of the enemy's numbers and
position. But having once presented ourselves before them in line, the retreat
of the Life-Guards would argue gross timidity, and be the general signal for
insurrection throughout the west. In which case, so far from obtaining any
assistance from my Lord Ross, I promise you I should have great apprehensions of
his being cut off before we can join him, or he us. A retreat would have quite
the same fatal effect upon the King's cause as the loss of a battle - and as to
the difference of risk or of safety it might make with respect to ourselves,
that, I am sure, no gentleman thinks a moment about. There must be some gorges
or passes in the morass through which we can force our way; and, were we once on
firm ground, I trust there is no man in the Life-Guards who supposes our
squadrons, though so weak in numbers, are unable to trample into dust twice the
number of these unpractised clowns. - What say you, my Lord Evandale?«
    »I humbly think,« said Lord Evandale, »that, go the day how it will, it must
be a bloody one; and that we shall lose many brave fellows, and probably be
obliged to slaughter a great number of these misguided men, who, after all, are
Scotchmen and subjects of King Charles as well as we are.«
    »Rebels! rebels! and undeserving the name either of Scotchmen or of
subjects!« said Claverhouse. »But come, my Lord, what does your opinion point
at?«
    »To enter into a treaty with these ignorant and misled men,« said the young
nobleman.
    »A treaty! and with rebels having arms in their hands? Never while I live!«
answered his commander.
    »At least send a trumpet and flag of truce summoning them to lay down their
weapons and disperse,« said Lord Evandale, »upon promise of a free pardon - I
have always heard that had that been done before the battle of Pentland Hills,
much blood might have been saved.«
    »Well,« said Claverhouse, »and who the devil do you think would carry a
summons to these headstrong and desperate fanatics? They acknowledge no laws of
war. Their leaders, who have been all most active in the murder of the
Archbishop of St. Andrews, fight with a rope round their necks, and are likely
to kill the messenger, were it but to dip their followers in loyal blood, and to
make them as desperate of pardon as themselves.«
    »I will go myself,« said Evandale, »if you will permit me. I have often
risked my blood to spill that of others - let me do so now in order to save
human lives.«
    »You shall not go on such an errand, my lord,« said Claverhouse; »your rank
and situation render your safety of too much consequence to the country in an
age when good principles are so rare. - Here's my brother's son, Dick Grahame,
who fears shot or steel as little as if the devil had given him armour of proof
against it, as the fanatics say he has given to his uncle.26 He shall take a
flag of truce and a trumpet, and ride down to the edge of the morass to summon
them to lay down their arms and disperse.«
    »With all my soul, Colonel,« answered the Cornet; »and I'll tie my cravat on
a pike to serve for a white flag - the rascals never saw such a pennon of
Flanders lace in their lives before.«
    »Colonel Grahame,« said Evandale, while the young officer prepared for his
expedition, »this young gentleman is your nephew and your apparent heir; for
God's sake, permit me to go. It was my counsel, and I ought to stand the risk.«
    »Were he my only son,« said Claverhouse, »this is no cause and time to spare
him. I hope my private affections will never interfere with my public duty. If
Dick Grahame falls, the loss is chiefly mine; were your lordship to die, the
King and country would be the sufferers. - Come, gentlemen, each to his post. If
our summons is unfavourably received we will instantly attack; and, as the old
Scottish blazon has it, God shaw the right!«
 

                               Chapter Fifteenth

 With many a stiff thwack, many a bang,
 Hard crab-tree and old iron rang.
                                                                       Hudibras.
 
Cornet Richard Grahame descended the hill, bearing in his hand the extempore
flag of truce, and making his managed horse keep time by bounds and curvets to
the tune which he whistled. The trumpeter followed. Five or six horsemen, having
something the appearance of officers, detached themselves from each flank of the
Presbyterian army, and, meeting in the centre, approached the ditch which
divided the hollow as near as the morass would permit. Towards this group, but
keeping the opposite side of the swamp, Cornet Grahame directed his horse, his
motions being now the conspicuous object of attention to both armies; and
without disparagement to the courage of either, it is probable there was a
general wish on both sides that this embassy might save the risks and bloodshed
of the impending conflict.
    When he had arrived right opposite to those who, by their advancing to
receive his message, seemed to take upon themselves as the leaders of the enemy,
Cornet Grahame commanded his trumpeter to sound a parley. The insurgents having
no instrument of martial music wherewith to make the appropriate reply, one of
their number called out with a loud, strong voice, demanding to know why he
approached their leaguer.
    »To summon you in the King's name, and in that of Colonel John Grahame of
Claverhouse, specially commissioned by the right honourable Privy Council of
Scotland,« answered the Cornet, »to lay down your arms, and dismiss the
followers whom ye have led into rebellion, contrary to the laws of God, of the
King, and of the country.«
    »Return to them that sent thee,« said the insurgent leader, »and tell them
that we are this day in arms for a broken Covenant and a persecuted Kirk; tell
them that we renounce the licentious and perjured Charles Stuart, whom you call
king, even as he renounced the Covenant, after having once and again sworn to
prosecute to the utmost of his power all the ends thereof, really, constantly,
and sincerely, all the days of his life, having no enemies but the enemies of
the Covenant, and no friends but its friends. Whereas, far from keeping the oath
he had called God and angels to witness, his first step, after his incoming into
these kingdoms, was the fearful grasping at the prerogative of the Almighty, by
that hideous Act of Supremacy, together with his expulsing, without summons,
libel, or process of law, hundreds of famous faithful preachers, thereby
wringing the bread of life out of the mouth of hungry, poor creatures, and
forcibly cramming their throats with the lifeless, saltless, foisonless,
lukewarm drammock of the fourteen false prelates, and their sycophantic, formal,
carnal, scandalous creature-curates.«
    »I did not come to hear you preach,« answered the officer, »but to know, in
one word, if you will disperse yourselves on condition of a free pardon to all
but the murderers of the late Archbishop of St. Andrews; or whether you will
abide the attack of his Majesty's forces, which will instantly advance upon
you.«
    »In one word, then,« answered the spokesman, »we are here with our swords on
our thighs, as men that watch in the night. We will take one part and portion
together, as brethren in righteousness. Whosoever assails us in our good cause,
his blood be on his own head. So return to them that sent thee, and God give
them and thee a sight of the evil of your ways!«
    »Is not your name,« said the Cornet, who began to recollect having seen the
person whom he was now speaking with, »John Balfour of Burley?«
    »And if it be,« said the spokesman, »hast thou ought to say against it?«
    »Only,« said the Cornet, »that as you are excluded from pardon in the name
of the King and of my commanding officer, it is to these country people, and not
to you, that I offer it; and it is not with you, or such as you, that I am sent
to treat.«
    »Thou art a young soldier, friend,« said Burley, »and scant well learned in
thy trade, or thou wouldst know that the bearer of a flag of truce cannot treat
with the army but through their officers; and that if he presume to do otherwise
he forfeits his safe-conduct.«
    While speaking these words, Burley unslung his carabine, and held it in
readiness.
    »I am not to be intimidated from the discharge of my duty by the menaces of
a murderer,« said Cornet Grahame. - »Hear me, good people! - I proclaim in the
name of the King, and of my commanding officer, full and free pardon to all,
excepting« --
    »I give thee fair warning,« said Burley, presenting his piece.
    »A free pardon to all,« continued the young officer, still addressing the
body of the insurgents - »to all but« --
    »Then the Lord grant grace to thy soul - amen!« said Burley.
    With these words he fired, and Cornet Richard Grahame dropped from his
horse. The shot was mortal. The unfortunate young gentleman had only strength to
turn himself on the ground and mutter forth, »My poor mother!« when life forsook
him in the effort. His startled horse fled back to the regiment at the gallop,
as did his scarce less affrighted attendant.
    »What have you done?« said one of Balfour's brother officers.
    »My duty,« said Balfour firmly. »Is it not written, Thou shalt be zealous
even to slaying? Let those who dare NOW venture to speak of truce or pardon!«27
    Claverhouse saw his nephew fall. He turned his eye on Evandale, while a
transitory glance of indescribable emotion disturbed, for a second's space, the
serenity of his features, and briefly said, »You see the event.«
    »I will avenge him or die!« exclaimed Evandale; and putting his horse into
motion, rode furiously down the hill, followed by his own troop and that of the
deceased Cornet, which broke down without orders; and, each striving to be the
foremost to revenge their young officer, their ranks soon fell into confusion.
These forces formed the first line of the royalists. It was in vain that
Claverhouse exclaimed, »Halt! halt! this rashness will undo us.« It was all that
he could accomplish, by galloping along the second line, entreating, commanding,
and even menacing the men with his sword, that he could restrain them from
following an example so contagious.
    »Allan,« he said, as soon as he had rendered the men in some degree more
steady, »lead them down the hill to support Lord Evandale, who is about to need
it very much. - Bothwell, thou art a cool and a daring fellow« --
    »Ay,« muttered Bothwell, »you can remember that in a moment like this.«
    »Lead ten file up the hollow to the right,« continued his commanding
officer, »and try every means to get through the bog; then form and charge the
rebels in flank and rear, while they are engaged with us in front.«
    Bothwell made a signal of intelligence and obedience, and moved off with his
party at a rapid pace.
    Meantime, the disaster which Claverhouse had apprehended did not fail to
take place. The troopers who, with Lord Evandale, had rushed down upon the
enemy, soon found their disorderly career interrupted by the impracticable
character of the ground. Some stuck fast in the morass as they attempted to
struggle through, some recoiled from the attempt and remained on the brink,
others dispersed to seek a more favourable place to pass the swamp. In the midst
of this confusion, the first line of the enemy, of which the foremost rank
knelt, the second stooped, and the third stood upright, poured in a close and
destructive fire that emptied at least a score of saddles, and increased tenfold
the disorder into which the horsemen had fallen. Lord Evandale, in the meantime,
at the head of a very few well-mounted men, had been able to clear the ditch,
but was no sooner across than he was charged by the left body of the enemy's
cavalry, who, encouraged by the small number of opponents that had made their
way through the broken ground, set upon them with the utmost fury, crying, »Woe,
woe to the uncircumcised Philistines! down with Dagon and all his adherents!«
    The young nobleman fought like a lion; but most of his followers were
killed, and he himself could not have escaped the same fate but for a heavy fire
of carabines, which Claverhouse, who had now advanced with the second line near
to the ditch, poured so effectually upon the enemy, that both horse and foot for
a moment began to shrink, and Lord Evandale, disengaged from his unequal combat,
and finding himself nearly alone, took the opportunity to effect his retreat
through the morass. But notwithstanding the loss they had sustained by
Claverhouse's first fire, the insurgents became soon aware that the advantage of
numbers and of position was so decidedly theirs, that, if they could but persist
in making a brief but resolute defence, the Life-Guards must necessarily be
defeated. Their leaders flew through their ranks exhorting them to stand firm,
and pointing out how efficacious their fire must be where both men and horse
were exposed to it; for the troopers according to custom, fired without having
dismounted. Claverhouse more than once, when he perceived his best men dropping
by a fire which they could not effectually return, made desperate efforts to
pass the bog at various points, and renew the battle on firm ground and fiercer
terms. But the close fire of the insurgents, joined to the natural difficulties
of the pass foiled his attempts in every point.
    »We must retreat,« he said to Evandale, »unless Bothwell can effect a
diversion in our favour. In the meantime, draw the men out of fire, and leave
skirmishers behind these patches of alderbushes to keep the enemy in check.«
    These directions being accomplished, the appearance of Bothwell with his
party was earnestly expected. But Bothwell had his own disadvantages to struggle
with. His detour to the right had not escaped the penetrating observation of
Burley, who made a corresponding movement with the left wing of the mounted
insurgents, so that when Bothwell, after riding a considerable way up the
valley, found a place at which the bog could be passed, though with some
difficulty, he perceived he was still in front of a superior enemy. His daring
character was in no degree checked by this unexpected opposition.
    »Follow me, my lads!« he called to his men; »never let it be said that we
turned our backs before these canting roundheads!«
    With that, as if inspired by the spirit of his ancestors, he shouted,
»Bothwell! Bothwell!« and throwing himself into the morass, he struggled through
it at the head of his party, and attacked that of Burley with such fury that he
drove them back above a pistol shot, killing three men with his own hand.
Burley, perceiving the consequences of a defeat on this point, and that his men,
though more numerous, were unequal to the regulars in using their arms and
managing their horses, threw himself across Bothwell's way, and attacked him
hand to hand. Each of the combatants was considered as the champion of his
respective party, and a result ensued more usual in romance than in real story.
Their followers, on either side, instantly paused, and looked on as if the fate
of the day were to be decided by the event of the combat between these two
redoubted swordsmen. The combatants themselves seemed of the same opinion; for,
after two or three eager cuts and pushes had been exchanged, they paused, as if
by joint consent, to recover the breath which preceding exertions had exhausted,
and to prepare for a duel in which each seemed conscious he had met his match.
    »You are the murdering villain, Burley,« said Bothwell, griping his sword
firmly, and setting his teeth close - »you escaped me once, but« (he swore an
oath too tremendous to be written down) - »thy head is worth its weight of
silver, and it shall go home at my saddle-bow, or my saddle shall go home empty
for me.«
    »Yes,« replied Burley, with stern and gloomy deliberation, »I am that John
Balfour who promised to lay thy head where thou shouldst never lift it again;
and God do so unto me, and more also, if I do not redeem my word!«
    »Then a bed of heather, or a thousand merks!« said Bothwell, striking at
Burley with his full force.
    »The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!« answered Balfour, as he parried and
returned the blow.
    There have seldom met two combatants more equally matched in strength of
body, skill in the management of their weapons and horses, determined courage,
and unrelenting hostility. After exchanging many desperate blows, each receiving
and inflicting several wounds, though of no great consequence, they grappled
together as if with the desperate impatience of mortal hate, and Bothwell,
seizing his enemy by the shoulder-belt, while the grasp of Balfour was upon his
own collar, they came headlong to the ground. The companions of Burley hastened
to his assistance, but were repelled by the dragoons, and the battle became
again general. But nothing could withdraw the attention of the combatants from
each other, or induce them to unclose the deadly clasp in which they rolled
together on the ground, tearing, struggling, and foaming, with the inveteracy of
thorough-bred bull-dogs.
    Several horses passed over them in the mélée without their quitting hold of
each other, until the sword-arm of Bothwell was broken by the kick of a charger.
He then relinquished his grasp with a deep and suppressed groan, and both
combatants started to their feet. Bothwell's right hand dropped helpless by his
side, but his left griped to the place where his dagger hung; it had escaped
from the sheath in the struggle, - and, with a look of mingled rage and despair,
he stood totally defenceless, as Balfour, with a laugh of savage joy, flourished
his sword aloft, and then passed it through his adversary's body. Bothwell
received the thrust without falling - it had only grazed on his ribs. He
attempted no further defence, but looking at Burley with a grin of deadly
hatred, exclaimed - »Base peasant churl, thou hast spilt the blood of a line of
kings!«
    »Die, wretch! - die!« said Balfour, redoubling the thrust with better aim;
and, setting his foot on Bothwell's body as he fell, he a third time transfixed
him with his sword - »Die, bloodthirsty dog! die as thou hast lived! - die, like
the beasts that perish - hoping nothing - believing nothing« -
    »And FEARING nothing!« said Bothwell, collecting the last effort of
respiration to utter these desperate words, and expiring as soon as they were
spoken.
    To catch a stray horse by the bridle, throw himself upon it, and rush to the
assistance of his followers, was, with Burley, the affair of a moment. And as
the fall of Bothwell had given to the insurgents all the courage of which it had
deprived his comrades, the issue of this partial contest did not remain long
undecided. Several soldiers were slain, the rest driven back over the morass,
and dispersed, and the victorious Burley, with his party, crossed it in their
turn, to direct against Claverhouse the very manoeuvre which he had instructed
Bothwell to execute. He now put his troop in order, with the view of attacking
the right wing of the royalists; and, sending news of his success to the main
body, exhorted them, in the name of Heaven, to cross the marsh, and work out the
glorious work of the Lord by a general attack upon the enemy.
    Meanwhile, Claverhouse, who had in some degree remedied the confusion
occasioned by the first irregular and unsuccessful attack, and reduced the
combat in front to a distant skirmish with firearms, chiefly maintained by some
dismounted troopers whom he had posted behind the cover of the shrubby copses of
alders which in some places covered the edge of the morass, and whose close,
cool, and well-aimed fire greatly annoyed the enemy, and concealed their own
deficiency of numbers, - Claverhouse, while he maintained the contest in this
manner, still expecting that a diversion by Bothwell and his party might
facilitate a general attack, was accosted by one of the dragoons, whose bloody
face and jaded horse bore witness he was come from hard service.
    »What is the matter, Halliday?« said Claverhouse, for he knew every man in
his regiment by name - »Where is Bothwell?«
    »Bothwell is down,« replied Halliday, »and many a pretty fellow with him.«
    »Then the king,« said Claverhouse, with his usual composure, »has lost a
stout soldier. The enemy have passed the marsh, I suppose?«
    »With a strong body of horse, commanded by the devil incarnate that killed
Bothwell,« answered the terrified soldier.
    »Hush! hush!« said Claverhouse, putting his finger on his lips - »not a word
to any one but me. - Lord Evandale, we must retreat. The fates will have it so.
Draw together the men that are dispersed in the skirmishing work. Let Allan form
the regiment, and do you two retreat up the hill in two bodies, each halting
alternately as the other falls back. I'll keep the rogues in check with the
rear-guard, making a stand, and facing from time to time. They will be over the
ditch presently, for I see their whole line in motion and preparing to cross;
therefore lose no time.«
    »Where is Bothwell with his party?« said Lord Evandale, astonished at the
coolness of his commander.
    »Fairly disposed of,« said Claverhouse, in his ear - »the king has lost a
servant, and the devil has got one. But away to business, Evandale - ply your
spurs and get the men together. Allan and you must keep them steady. This
retreating is new work for us all; but our turn will come round another day.«
    Evandale and Allan betook themselves to their task; but ere they had
arranged the regiment for the purpose of retreating in two alternate bodies, a
considerable number of the enemy had crossed the marsh. Claverhouse, who had
retained immediately around his person a few of his most active and tried men,
charged those who had crossed in person, while they were yet disordered by the
broken ground. Some they killed, others they repulsed into the morass, and
checked the whole so as to enable the main body, now greatly diminished, as well
as disheartened by the loss they had sustained, to commence their retreat up the
hill.
    But the enemy's van being soon reinforced and supported, compelled
Claverhouse to follow his troops. Never did man, however, better maintain the
character of a soldier than he did that day. Conspicuous by his black horse and
white feather, he was first in the repeated charges which he made at every
favourable opportunity, to arrest the progress of the pursuers, and to cover the
retreat of his regiment. The object of aim to every one, he seemed as if he were
impassive to their shot. The superstitious fanatics, who looked upon him as a
man gifted by the Evil Spirit with supernatural means of defence, averred that
they saw the bullets recoil from his jack-boots and buff-coat like hailstones
from a rock of granite, as he galloped to and fro amid the storm of the battle.
Many a whig that day loaded his musket with a dollar cut into slugs, in order
that a silver bullet (such was their belief) might bring down the persecutor of
the holy kirk, on whom lead had no power.
    »Try him with the cold steel,« was the cry at every renewed charge - »powder
is wasted on him. Ye might as well shoot at the Auld Enemy himself.«28
    But though this was loudly shouted, yet the awe on the insurgents' minds was
such, that they gave way before Claverhouse as before a supernatural being, and
few men ventured to cross swords with him. Still, however, he was fighting in
retreat, and with all the disadvantages attending that movement. The soldiers,
behind him, as they beheld the increasing number of enemies who poured over the
morass, became unsteady; and at every successive movement, Major Allan and Lord
Evandale found it more and more difficult to bring them to halt and form line
regularly, while, on the other hand, their motions in the act of retreating
became, by degrees, much more rapid than was consistent with good order. As the
retiring soldiers approached nearer to the top of the ridge, from which in so
luckless an hour they had descended, the panic began to increase. Every one
became impatient to place the brow of the hill between him and the continued
fire of the pursuers; nor could any individual think it reasonable that he
should be the last in the retreat, and thus sacrifice his own safety for that of
others. In this mood, several troopers set spurs to their horses and fled
outright, and the others became so unsteady in their movements and formations,
that their officers every moment feared they would follow the same example.
    Amid this scene of blood and confusion, the trampling of the horses, the
groans of the wounded, the continued fire of the enemy, which fell in a
succession of unintermitted musketry, while loud shouts accompanied each bullet
which the fall of a trooper showed to have been successfully aimed - amid all
the terrors and disorders of such a scene, and when it was dubious how soon they
might be totally deserted by their dispirited soldiery, Evandale could not
forbear remarking the composure of his commanding officer. Not at Lady
Margaret's breakfast-table that morning did his eye appear more lively, or his
demeanour more composed. He had closed up to Evandale for the purpose of giving
some orders, and picking out a few men to reinforce his rear-guard.
    »If this bout lasts five minutes longer,« he said in a whisper, »our rogues
will leave you, my lord, old Allan, and myself, the honour of fighting this
battle with our own hands. I must do something to disperse the musketeers who
annoy them so hard, or we shall be all shamed. Don't attempt to succour me if
you see me go down, but keep at the head of your men; get off as you can in
God's name, and tell the king and the council I died in my duty!«
    So saying, and commanding about twenty stout men to follow him, he gave,
with this small body, a charge so desperate and unexpected, that he drove the
foremost of the pursuers back to some distance. In the confusion of the assault
he singled out Burley, and desirous to strike terror into his followers, he
dealt him so severe a blow on the head, as cut through his steel headpiece, and
threw him from his horse, stunned for the moment, though unwounded. A wonderful
thing it was afterwards thought that one so powerful as Balfour should have sunk
under the blow of a man to appearance so slightly made as Claverhouse; and the
vulgar, of course, set down to supernatural aid the effect of that energy which
a determined spirit can give to a feebler arm. Claverhouse had in this last
charge, however, involved himself too deeply among the insurgents, and was
fairly surrounded.
    Lord Evandale saw the danger of his commander, his body of dragoons being
then halted, while that commanded by Allan was in the act of retreating.
Regardless of Claverhouse's disinterested command to the contrary, he ordered
the party which he headed to charge down hill and extricate their Colonel. Some
advanced with him - most halted and stood uncertain - many ran away. With those
who followed Evandale, he disengaged Claverhouse. His assistance just came in
time, for a rustic had wounded his horse in a most ghastly manner by the blow of
a scythe, and was about to repeat the stroke when Lord Evandale cut him down. As
they got out of the press, they looked round them. Allan's division had ridden
clear over the hill, that officer's authority having proved altogether unequal
to halt them. Evandale's troop was scattered and in total confusion.
    »What is to be done, Colonel?« said Lord Evandale.
    »We are the last men in the field, I think,« said Claverhouse; »and when men
fight as long as they can, there is no shame in flying. Hector himself would
say, Devil take the hindmost, when there are but twenty against a thousand. -
Save yourselves, my lads, and rally as soon as you can. Come, my lord, we must
e'en ride for it.«
    So saying, he put spurs to his wounded horse, and the generous animal, as if
conscious that the life of his rider depended on his exertions, pressed forward
with speed, unabated either by pain or loss of blood.29 A few officers and
soldiers followed him, but in a very irregular and tumultuary manner. The flight
of Claverhouse was the signal for all the stragglers who yet offered desultory
resistance, to fly as fast as they could, and yield up the field of battle to
the victorious insurgents.
 

                               Chapter Sixteenth

 But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
 What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
                                                                       Campbell.
 
During the severe skirmish of which we have given the details, Morton, together
with Cuddie and his mother, and the Reverend Gabriel Kettledrummle, remained on
the brow of the hill, near to the small cairn, or barrow, beside which
Claverhouse had held his preliminary council of war, so that they had a
commanding view of the action which took place in the bottom. They were guarded
by Corporal Inglis and four soldiers, who, as may readily be supposed, were much
more intent on watching the fluctuating fortunes of the battle, than in
attending to what passed among their prisoners.
    »If yon lads stand to their tackle,« said Cuddie, »we'll hae some chance o'
getting our necks out o' the brecham again; but I misdoubt them - they hae
little skeel o' arms.«
    »Much is not necessary, Cuddie,« answered Morton: »they have a strong
position, and weapons in their hands, and are more than three times the number
of their assailants. If they cannot fight for their freedom now, they and theirs
deserve to lose it for ever.«
    »O, sirs!« exclaimed Mause, »here's a goodly spectacle indeed! My spirit is
like that of the blessed Elihu - it burns within me; my bowels are as wine which
lacketh vent - they are ready to burst like new bottles. O that He may look
after His ain people in this day of judgment and deliverance! - And now, what
ailest thou, precious Mr. Gabriel Kettledrummle? I say, what ailest thou, that
wert a Nazarite purer than snow, whiter than milk, more ruddy than sulphur«
(meaning, perhaps, sapphires) - »I say, what ails thee now, that thou art
blacker than a coal, that thy beauty is departed, and thy loveliness withered
like a dry potsherd? Surely it is time to be up and be doing, to cry loudly and
to spare not, and to wrestle for the puir lads that are yonder testifying with
their ain blude and that of their enemies.«
    This expostulation implied a reproach on Mr. Kettledrummle, who, though an
absolute Boanerges, or son of thunder, in the pulpit, when the enemy were afar,
and indeed sufficiently contumacious, as we have seen, when in their power, had
been struck dumb by the firing, shouts, and shrieks, which now arose from the
valley, and - as many an honest man might have been, in a situation where he
could neither fight nor fly - was too much dismayed to take so favourable an
opportunity to preach the terrors of Presbytery, as the courageous Mause had
expected at his hand, or even to pray for the successful event of the battle.
His presence of mind was not, however, entirely lost, any more than his jealous
respect for his reputation as a pure and powerful preacher of the word.
    »Hold your peace, woman!« he said, »and do not perturb my inward meditations
and the wrestlings wherewith I wrestle. - But of a verity the shooting of the
foeman doth begin to increase! peradventure, some pellet may attain unto us even
here. Lo! I will esconce me behind the cairn, as behind a strong wall of
defence.«
    »He's but a coward body after a',« said Cuddie, who was himself by no means
deficient in that sort of courage which consists in insensibility to danger;
»he's but a daidling coward body. He'll never fill Rumbleberry's bonnet. - Od!
Rumbleberry fought and flyted like a fleeing dragon. It was a great pity, puir
man, he couldn't have cheat the woodie. But they say he gaed singing and rejoicing
till't, just as I wad gang to a bicker o' brose supposing me hungry, as I stand
a good chance to be. - Eh, sirs! yon's an awful' sight, and yet ane canna keep
their een aff frae it!«
    Accordingly, strong curiosity on the part of Morton and Cuddie, together
with the heated enthusiasm of old Mause, detained them on the spot from which
they could best hear and see the issue of the action, leaving to Kettledrummle
to occupy alone his place of security. The vicissitudes of combat, which we have
already described, were witnessed by our spectators from the top of the
eminence, but without their being able positively to determine to what they
tended. That the Presbyterians defended themselves stoutly, was evident from the
heavy smoke, which, illumined by frequent flashes of fire, now eddied along the
valley, and hid the contending parties in its sulphureous shade. On the other
hand, the continued firing from the nearer side of the morass indicated that the
enemy persevered in their attack - that the affair was fiercely disputed - and
that everything was to be apprehended from a continued contest in which
undisciplined rustics had to repel the assaults of regular troops, so completely
officered and armed.
    At length horses, whose caparisons showed that they belonged to the
Life-Guards, began to fly masterless out of the confusion. Dismounted soldiers
next appeared, forsaking the conflict, and straggling over the side of the hill,
in order to escape from the scene of action. As the numbers of these fugitives
increased, the fate of the day seemed no longer doubtful. A large body was then
seen emerging from the smoke, forming irregularly on the hill-side, and with
difficulty kept stationary by their officers, until Evandale's corps also
appeared in full retreat. The result of the conflict was then apparent, and the
joy of the prisoners was corresponding to their approaching deliverance.
    »They hae dune the job for ance,« said Cuddie, »an they ne'er do't again.«
    »They flee! - they flee!« exclaimed Mause, in ecstasy. »O the truculent
tyrants! they are riding now as they never rode before. O the false Egyptians -
the proud Assyrians - the Philistines - the Moabites - the Edomites - the
Ishmaelites! - the Lord has brought sharp swords upon them, to make them food
for the fowls of heaven and the beasts of the field. See how the clouds roll,
and the fire flashes ahint them, and goes forth before the chosen of the
Covenant, e'en like the pillar o' cloud and the pillar o' flame that led the
people of Israel out o' the land of Egypt! This is indeed a day of deliverance
to the righteous, a day of pouring out of wrath to the persecutors and the
ungodly!«
    »Lord save us, mither,« said Cuddie, »haud the clavering tongue o' ye, and
lie down ahint the cairn, like Kettledrummle, honest man! The whigamore bullets
ken unco little discretion, and will just as sune knock out the harns o' a
psalm-singing auld wife as a swearing dragoon.«
    »Fear nothing for me, Cuddie,« said the old dame, transported to ecstasy by
the success of her party - »fear nothing for me! I will stand like Deborah, on
the tap o' the cairn, and take up my sang o' reproach against these men of
Harosheth of the Gentiles, whose horse-hoofs are broken by their prancing.«
    The enthusiastic old woman would, in fact, have accomplished her purpose of
mounting on the cairn, and becoming, as she said, a sign and a banner to the
people, had not Cuddie, with more filial tenderness than respect, detained her
by such force as his shackled arms would permit him to exert. »Eh, sirs!« he
said, having accomplished this task, »look out yonder, Milnwood! - saw ye ever
mortal fight like the devil Claver'se? Yonder he's been thrice doun amang them,
and thrice cam free aff. But I think we'll soon be free oursells, Milnwood.
Inglis and his troopers look ower their shouthers very aften, as if they liked
the road ahint them better than the road afore.«
    Cuddie was not mistaken; for, when the main tide of fugitives passed at a
little distance from the spot where they were stationed, the corporal and his
party fired their carabines at random upon the advancing insurgents, and,
abandoning all charge of their prisoners, joined the retreat of their comrades.
Morton and the old woman whose hands were at liberty, lost no time in undoing
the bonds of Cuddie and of the clergyman, both of whom had been secured by a
cord tied round their arms above the elbows. By the time this was accomplished,
the rear-guard of the dragoons, which still preserved some order, passed beneath
the hillock or rising ground which was surmounted by the cairn already
repeatedly mentioned. They exhibited all the hurry and confusion incident to a
forced retreat, but still continued in a body. Claverhouse led the van, his
naked sword deeply dyed with blood, as were his face and clothes. His horse was
all covered with gore, and now reeled with weakness. Lord Evandale, in not much
better plight, brought up the rear, still exhorting the soldiers to keep
together and fear nothing. Several of the men were wounded, and one or two
dropped from their horses as they surmounted the hill.
    Mause's zeal broke forth once more at this spectacle, while she stood on the
heath with her head uncovered, and her grey hair streaming in the wind, no bad
representation of a superannuated bacchante, or Thessalian witch in the agonies
of incantation. She soon discovered Claverhouse at the head of the fugitive
party, and exclaimed with bitter irony, »Tarry, tarry, ye what were aye sae
blithe to be at the meetings of the saints, and wad ride every muir in Scotland
to find a conventicle! Wilt thou not tarry, now thou hast found ane? Wilt thou
not stay for one word mair? Wilt thou na bide the afternoon preaching? - Wae
betide ye!« she said, suddenly changing her tone, »and cut the houghs of the
creature whase fleetness ye trust in! - Sheugh! sheugh! - away wi' ye, that hae
spilled sae muckle blude, and now wad save your ain! - away wi' ye for a railing
Rabshakeh, a cursing Shimei, a bloodthirsty Doeg! The sword's drawn now that
winna be lang o' ertaking ye, ride as fast as ye will.«
    Claverhouse, it may be easily supposed, was too busy to attend to her
reproaches, but hastened over the hill, anxious to get the remnant of his men
out of gun-shot, in hopes of again collecting the fugitives round his standard.
But as the rear of his followers rode over the ridge, a shot struck Lord
Evandale's horse, which instantly sunk down dead beneath him. Two of the whig
horsemen, who were the foremost in the pursuit, hastened up with the purpose of
killing him, for hitherto there had been no quarter given. Morton, on the other
hand, rushed forward to save his life, if possible, in order at once to indulge
his natural generosity, and to requite the obligation which Lord Evandale had
conferred on him that morning, and under which circumstances had made him wince
so acutely. Just as he had assisted Evandale, who was much wounded, to extricate
himself from his dying horse, and to gain his feet, the two horsemen came up,
and one of them exclaiming, »Have at the red-coated tyrant!« made a blow at the
young nobleman, which Morton parried with difficulty, exclaiming to the rider,
who was no other than Burley himself, »Give quarter to this gentleman, for my
sake - for the sake,« he added, observing that Burley did not immediately
recognise him, »of Henry Morton, who so lately sheltered you.«
    »Henry Morton!« replied Burley, wiping his bloody brow with his bloodier
hand; »did I not say that the son of Silas Morton would come forth out of the
land of bondage, nor be long an indweller in the tents of Ham? Thou art a brand
snatched out of the burning - But for this booted apostle of prelacy, he shall
die the death! - We must smite them hip and thigh, even from the rising to the
going down of the sun. It is our commission to slay them like Amalek, and
utterly destroy all they have, and spare neither man nor woman, infant nor
suckling; therefore, hinder me not,« he continued, endeavouring again to cut
down Lord Evandale, »for this work must not be wrought negligently.«
    »You must not, and you shall not, slay him, more especially while incapable
of defence,« said Morton, planting himself before Lord Evandale so as to
intercept any blow that should be aimed at him; »I owed my life to him this
morning - my life, which was endangered solely by my having sheltered you; and
to shed his blood when he can offer no effectual resistance, were not only a
cruelty abhorrent to God and man, but detestable ingratitude both to him and to
me.«
    Burley paused. - »Thou art yet,« he said, »in the court of the Gentiles, and
I compassionate thy human blindness and frailty. Strong meat is not fit for
babes, nor the mighty and grinding dispensation under which I draw my sword, for
those whose hearts are yet dwelling in huts of clay, whose footsteps are tangled
in the mesh of mortal sympathies, and who clothe themselves in the righteousness
that is as filthy rags. But to gain a soul to the truth is better than to send
one to Tophet; therefore I give quarter to this youth, providing the grant is
confirmed by the general council of God's army, whom he hath this day blessed
with so signal a deliverance - Thou art unarmed - Abide my return here. I must
yet pursue these sinners, the Amalekites, and destroy them till they be utterly
consumed from the face of the land, even from Havilah unto Shur.«
    So saying, he set spurs to his horse, and continued to pursue the chase.
    »Cuddie,« said Morton, »for God's sake catch a horse as quickly as you can.
I will not trust Lord Evandale's life with these obdurate men. - You are
wounded, my lord - are you able to continue your retreat?« he continued,
addressing himself to his prisoner, who, half-stunned by the fall, was but
beginning to recover himself.
    »I think so,« replied Lord Evandale. »But is it possible? - do I owe my life
to Mr. Morton?«
    »My interference would have been the same from common humanity,« replied
Morton; - »to your lordship it was a sacred debt of gratitude.«
    Cuddie at this instant returned with a horse.
    »God-sake, munt - munt, and ride like a fleeing hawk, my lord,« said the
good-natured fellow, »for ne'er be in me if they arena killing every ane o' the
wounded and prisoners!«
    Lord Evandale mounted the horse, while Cuddie officiously held the stirrup.
    »Stand off, good fellow, thy courtesy may cost thy life. - Mr. Morton,« he
continued, addressing Henry, »this makes us more than even - rely on it, I will
never forget your generosity - Farewell.«
    He turned his horse, and rode swiftly away in the direction which seemed
least exposed to pursuit.
    Lord Evandale had just rode off, when several of the insurgents, who were in
the front of the pursuit, came up, denouncing vengeance on Henry Morton and
Cuddie for having aided the escape of a Philistine, as they called the young
nobleman.
    »What wad ye hae had us to do?« cried Cuddie. »Had we aught to stop a man
wi' that had twa pistols and a sword? Sudna ye hae come faster up yoursells,
instead of flyting at huz?«
    This excuse would hardly have passed current; but Kettledrummle, who now
awoke from his trance of terror, and was known to, and reverenced by, most of
the wanderers, together with Mause, who possessed their appropriate language as
well as the preacher himself, proved active and effectual intercessors.
    »Touch them not! harm them not!« exclaimed Kettledrummle, in his very best
double-bass tones. »This is the son of the famous Silas Morton, by whom the Lord
wrought great things in this land at the breaking forth of the reformation from
prelacy, when there was a plentiful pouring forth of the Word and a renewing of
the Covenant; a hero and champion of those blessed days, when there was power
and efficacy, and convincing and converting of sinners, and heart-exercises, and
fellowships of saints, and a plentiful flowing forth of the spices of the garden
of Eden.«
    »And this is my son Cuddie,« exclaimed Mause, in her turn, »the son of his
father, Judden Headrigg, what was a douce honest man, and of me, Mause Middlemas,
an unworthy professor and follower of the pure gospel, and ane o' your ain folk.
Is it not written, Cut ye not off the tribe of the families of the Kohathites
from among the Levites? Numbers, fourth and aughteenth - O sirs! dinna be
standing here prattling wi' honest folk, when ye should be following forth your
victory with which Providence has blessed ye.«
    This party having passed on, they were immediately beset by another, to whom
it was necessary to give the same explanation. Kettledrummle, whose fear was
much dissipated since the firing had ceased, again took upon him to be
intercessor, and grown bold, as he felt his good word necessary for the
protection of his late fellow-captives, he laid claim to no small share of the
merit of the victory, appealing to Morton and Cuddie, whether the tide of battle
had not turned while he prayed on the Mount of Jehovah-Nissi, like Moses, that
Israel might prevail over Amalek; but granting them, at the same time, the
credit of holding up his hands when they waxed heavy, as those of the prophet
were supported by Aaron and Hur. It seems probable that Kettledrummle allotted
this part in the success to his companions in adversity, lest they should be
tempted to disclose his carnal self-seeking and falling away, in regarding too
closely his own personal safety. These strong testimonies in favour of the
liberated captives quickly flew abroad, with many exaggerations, among the
victorious army. The reports on the subject were various; but it was universally
agreed, that young Morton of Milnwood, the son of the stout soldier of the
Covenant, Silas Morton, together with the precious Gabriel Kettledrummle, and a
singular devout Christian woman, whom many thought as good as himself at
extracting a doctrine or an use, whether of terror or consolation, had arrived
to support the good old cause with a reinforcement of a hundred well-armed men
from the Middle Ward.30
 

                              Chapter Seventeenth

 When pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
 Was beat with fist instead of a stick.
                                                                       Hudibras.
 
In the meantime, the insurgent cavalry returned from the pursuit, jaded and worn
out with their unwonted efforts, and the infantry assembled on the ground which
they had won, fatigued with toil and hunger. Their success, however, was a
cordial to every bosom, and seemed even to serve in the stead of food and
refreshment. It was, indeed, much more brilliant than they durst have ventured
to anticipate; for, with no great loss on their part, they had totally routed a
regiment of picked men, commanded by the first officer in Scotland, and one
whose very name had long been a terror to them. Their success seemed even to
have upon their spirits the effect of a sudden and violent surprise, so much had
their taking up arms been a measure of desperation rather than of hope. Their
meeting was also casual and they had hastily arranged themselves under such
commanders as were remarkable for zeal and courage, without much respect to any
other qualities. It followed, from this state of disorganisation, that the whole
army appeared at once to resolve itself into a general committee for considering
what steps were to be taken in consequence of their success, and no opinion
could be started so wild that it had not some favourers and advocates. Some
proposed they should march to Glasgow, some to Hamilton, some to Edinburgh, some
to London. Some were for sending a deputation of their number to London to
convert Charles II. to a sense of the error of his ways; and others, less
charitable, proposed either to call a new successor to the crown, or to declare
Scotland a free republic. A free parliament of the nation, and a free assembly
of the Kirk, were the objects of the more sensible and moderate of the party. In
the meanwhile, a clamour arose among the soldiers for bread and other
necessaries, and while all complained of hardship and hunger, none took the
necessary measures to procure supplies. In short, the camp of the Covenanters,
even in the very moment of success, seemed about to dissolve like a rope of
sand, from want of the original principles of combination and union.
    Burley, who had now returned from the pursuit, found his followers in this
distracted state. With the ready talent of one accustomed to encounter
exigencies, he proposed that one hundred of the freshest men should be drawn out
for duty - that a small number of those who had hitherto acted as leaders,
should constitute a committee of direction until officers should be regularly
chosen - and that, to crown the victory, Gabriel Kettledrummle should be called
upon to improve the providential success which they had obtained, by a word in
season addressed to the army. He reckoned very much, and not without reason, on
this last expedient, as a means of engaging the attention of the bulk of the
insurgents, while he himself, and two or three of their leaders, held a private
council of war, undisturbed by the discordant opinions, or senseless clamour, of
the general body.
    Kettledrummle more than answered the expectations of Burley. Two mortal
hours did he preach at a breathing; and certainly no lungs, or doctrine,
excepting his own, could have kept up, for so long a time, the attention of men
in such precarious circumstances. But he possessed in perfection a sort of rude
and familiar eloquence peculiar to the preachers of that period, which, though
it would have been fastidiously rejected by an audience which possessed any
portion of taste, was a cake of the right leaven for the palates of those whom
he now addressed. His text was from the forty-ninth chapter of Isaiah, »Even the
captives of the mighty shall be taken away, and the prey of the terrible shall
be delivered: for I will contend with him that contendeth with thee, and I will
save thy children.«
    »And I will feed them that oppress thee with their own flesh; and they shall
be drunken with their own blood, as with sweet wine: and all flesh shall know
that I the Lord am thy Saviour and thy Redeemer, the Mighty One of Jacob.«
    The discourse which he pronounced upon this subject was divided into fifteen
heads, each of which was garnished with seven uses of application, two of
consolation, two of terror, two declaring the causes of backsliding and of
wrath, and one announcing the promised and expected deliverance. The first part
of his text he applied to his own deliverance and that of his companions; and
took occasion to speak a few words in praise of young Milnwood, of whom, as of a
champion of the Covenant, he augured great things. The second part he applied to
the punishments which were about to fall upon the persecuting government. At
times he was familiar and colloquial - now he was loud, energetic, and
boisterous. Some parts of his discourse might be called sublime, and others sunk
below burlesque. Occasionally he vindicated with great animation the right of
every freeman to worship God according to his own conscience; and presently he
charged the guilt and misery of the people on the awful negligence of their
rulers, who had not only failed to establish Presbytery as the national
religion, but had tolerated sectaries of various descriptions, Papists,
Prelatists, Erastians, assuming the name of Presbyterians, Independents,
Socinians, and Quakers; all of whom Kettledrummle proposed, by one sweeping act,
to expel from the land, and thus re-edify in its integrity the beauty of the
sanctuary. He next handled very pithily the doctrine of defensive arms and of
resistance to Charles II., observing, that, instead of a nursing father to the
Kirk, that monarch had been a nursing father to none but his own bastards. He
went at some length through the life and conversation of that joyous prince, few
parts of which, it must be owned, were qualified to stand the rough handling of
so uncourtly an orator, who conferred on him the hard names of Jeroboam, Omri,
Ahab, Shallum, Pekah, and every other evil monarch recorded in the Chronicles,
and concluded with a round application of the Scriptures - »Tophet is ordained
of old; yea, for the KING it is provided: he hath made it deep and large; the
pile thereof is fire and much wood; the breath of the Lord, like a stream of
brimstone, doth kindle it.«
    Kettledrummle had no sooner ended his sermon, and descended from the huge
rock which had served him for a pulpit, than his post was occupied by a pastor
of a very different description. The reverend Gabriel was advanced in years,
somewhat corpulent, with a loud voice, a square face, and a set of stupid and
unanimated features, in which the body seemed more to predominate over the
spirit than was seemly in a sound divine. The youth who succeeded him in
exhorting this extraordinary convocation, Ephraim Macbriar by name, was hardly
twenty years old; yet his thin features already indicated that a constitution,
naturally hectic, was worn out by vigils, by fasts, by the rigour of
imprisonment, and the fatigues incident to a fugitive life. Young as he was, he
had been twice imprisoned for several months, and suffered many severities,
which gave him great influence with those of his own sect. He threw his faded
eyes over the multitude and over the scene of battle; and a light of triumph
arose in his glance, his pale yet striking features were coloured with a
transient and hectic blush of joy. He folded his hands, raised his face to
heaven, and seemed lost in mental prayer and thanksgiving ere he addressed the
people. When he spoke, his faint and broken voice seemed at first inadequate to
express his conceptions. But the deep silence of the assembly, the eagerness
with which the ear gathered every word, as the famished Israelites collected the
heavenly manna, had a corresponding effect upon the preacher himself. His words
became more distinct, his manner more earnest and energetic; it seemed as if
religious zeal was triumphing over bodily weakness and infirmity. His natural
eloquence was not altogether untainted with the coarseness of his sect; an yet,
by the influence of a good natural taste, it was freed from the grosser and more
ludicrous errors of his contemporaries; and the language of Scripture, which, in
their mouths, was sometimes degraded by misapplication, gave, in Macbriar's
exhortation, a rich and solemn effect, like that which is produced by the beams
of the sun streaming through the storied representation of saints and martyrs on
the Gothic window of some ancient cathedral.
    He painted the desolation of the church, during the late period of her
distresses, in the most affecting colours. He described her, like Hagar watching
the waning life of her infant amid the fountainless desert; like Judah under her
palm-tree, mourning for the devastation of her temple; like Rachel, weeping for
her children and refusing comfort. But he chiefly rose into rough sublimity when
addressing the men yet reeking from battle. He called on them to remember the
great things which God had done for them, and to persevere in the career which
their victory had opened.
    »Your garments are dyed - but not with the juice of the wine-press; your
swords are filled with blood,« he exclaimed - »but not with the blood of goats
or lambs; the dust of the desert on which ye stand is made fat with gore - but
not with the blood of bullocks, for the Lord hath a sacrifice in Bozrah, and a
great slaughter in the land of Idumea. These were not the firstlings of the
flock, the small cattle of burnt-offerings, whose bodies lie like dung on the
ploughed field of the husbandman; this is not the savour of myrrh, of
frankincense, or of sweet herbs, that is steaming in your nostrils; but these
bloody trunks are the carcasses of those who held the bow and the lance, who
were cruel, and would show no mercy, whose voice roared like the sea, who rode
upon horses, every man in array as if to battle - they are the carcasses even of
the mighty men of war that came against Jacob in the day of his deliverance, and
the smoke is that of the devouring fires that have consumed them. And those wild
hills that surround you are not a sanctuary planked with cedar and plated with
silver; nor are ye ministering priests at the altar, with censers and with
torches; but ye hold in your hands the sword, and the bow, and the weapons of
death. And yet verily, I say unto you, that not when the ancient Temple was in
its first glory was there offered sacrifice more acceptable than that which you
have this day presented, giving to the slaughter the tyrant and the oppressor,
with the rocks for your altars, and the sky for your vaulted sanctuary, and your
own good swords for the instruments of sacrifice. Leave not, therefore, the
plough in the furrow - turn not back from the path in which you have entered
like the famous worthies of old, whom God raised up for the glorifying of his
name and the deliverance of his afflicted people - halt not in the race you are
running, lest the latter end should be worse than the beginning. Wherefore, set
up a standard in the land; blow a trumpet upon the mountains; let not the
shepherd tarry by his sheep-fold, or the seedsman continue in the ploughed
field; but make the watch strong, sharpen the arrows, burnish the shields, name
ye the captains of thousands, and captains of hundreds, of fifties, and of tens;
call the footmen like the rushing of winds, and cause the horsemen to come up
like the sound of many waters; for the passages of the destroyers are stopped,
their rods are burned, and the face of their men of battle hath been turned to
flight. Heaven has been with you, and has broken the bow of the mighty; then let
every man's heart be as the heart of the valiant Maccabeus, every man's hand as
the hand of the mighty Samson, every man's sword as that of Gideon, which turned
not back from the slaughter; for the banner of Reformation is spread abroad on
the mountains in its first loveliness, and the gates of hell shall not prevail
against it.
    Well is he this day that shall barter his house for a helmet, and sell his
garment for a sword, and cast in his lot with the children of the Covenant, even
to the fulfilling of the promise; and woe, woe unto him who, for carnal ends and
self-seeking, shall withhold himself from the great work, for the curse shall
abide with him - even the bitter curse of Meroz, because he came not to the help
of the Lord against the mighty. Up, then, and be doing! the blood of martyrs,
reeking upon scaffolds, is crying for vengeance; the bones of saints, which lie
whitening in the highways, are pleading for retribution; the groans of innocent
captives from desolate isles of the sea, and from the dungeons of the tyrants'
high places, cry for deliverance; the prayers of persecuted Christians,
sheltering themselves in dens and deserts from the sword of their persecutors,
famished with hunger, starving with cold, lacking fire, food, shelter, and
clothing, because they serve God rather than man - all are with you, pleading,
watching, knocking, storming the gates of heaven in your behalf. Heaven itself
shall fight for you, as the stars in their courses fought against Sisera. Then
whoso will deserve immortal fame in this world, and eternal happiness in that
which is to come, let them enter into God's service, and take arles at the hand
of his servant, - a blessing, namely, upon him and his household, and his
children, to the ninth generation, even the blessing of the promise, for ever
and ever! Amen.«
    The eloquence of the preacher was rewarded by the deep hum of stern
approbation which resounded through the armed assemblage at the conclusion of an
exhortation so well suited to that which they had done, and that which remained
for them to do. The wounded forgot their pain, the faint and hungry their
fatigues and privations, as they listened to doctrines which elevated them alike
above the wants and calamities of the world, and identified their cause with
that of the Deity. Many crowded around the preacher, as he descended from the
eminence on which he stood, and, clasping him with hands on which the gore was
not yet hardened, pledged their sacred vow that they would play the part of
Heaven's true soldiers. Exhausted by his own enthusiasm, and by the animated
fervour which he had exerted in his discourse, the preacher could only reply, in
broken accents, - »God bless you, my brethren! It is HIS cause. Stand strongly
up and play the men - the worst that can befall us is but a brief and bloody
passage to heaven.«
    Balfour, and the other leaders, had not lost the time which was employed in
these spiritual exercises. Watch-fires were lighted, sentinels were posted, and
arrangements were made to refresh the army with such provisions as had been
hastily collected from the nearest farm-houses and villages. - The present
necessity thus provided for, they turned their thoughts to the future. They had
despatched parties to spread the news of their victory, and to obtain, either by
force or favour, supplies of what they stood most in need of. In this they had
succeeded beyond their hopes, having at one village seized a small magazine of
provisions, forage, and ammunition, which had been provided for the royal
forces. This success not only gave them relief at the time, but such hopes for
the future, that whereas formerly some of their number had begun to slacken in
their zeal, they now unanimously resolved to abide together in arms, and commit
themselves and their cause to the event of war.
    And whatever may be thought of the extravagance or narrow-minded bigotry of
many of their tenets, it is impossible to deny the praise of devoted courage to
a few hundred peasants, who, without leaders, without money, without magazines,
without any fixed plan of action, and almost without arms, borne out only by
their innate zeal, and a detestation of the oppression of their rulers, ventured
to declare open war against an established Government, supported by a regular
army and the whole force of three kingdoms.
 

                               Chapter Eighteenth

 Why, then, say an old man can do somewhat.
                                                              Henry IV. Part II.
 
We must now return to the tower of Tillietudlem, which the march of the
Life-Guards, on the morning of this eventful day, had left to silence and
anxiety. The assurances of Lord Evandale had not succeeded in quelling the
apprehensions of Edith. She knew him generous, and faithful to his word; but it
seemed too plain that he suspected the object of her intercession to be a
successful rival; and was it not expecting from him an effort above human
nature, to suppose that he was to watch over Morton's safety, and rescue him
from all the dangers to which his state of imprisonment, and the suspicions
which he had incurred, must repeatedly expose him? She therefore resigned
herself to the most heartrending apprehensions, without admitting, and indeed
almost without listening to, the multifarious grounds of consolation which Jenny
Dennison brought forward, one after another, like a skilful general who charges
with the several divisions of his troops in regular succession.
    First, Jenny was morally positive that young Milnwood would come to no harm
- then, if he did, there was consolation in the reflection, that Lord Evandale
was the better and more appropriate match of the two - then, there was every
chance of a battle, in which the said Lord Evandale might be killed, and there
wad be nae mair fash about that job - then, if the whigs gat the better,
Milnwood and Cuddie might come to the Castle, and carry off the beloved of their
hearts by the strong hand.
    »For I forgot to tell ye, madam,« continued the damsel, putting her
handkerchief to her eyes, »that puir Cuddie's in the hands of the Philistines as
well as young Milnwood, and he was brought here a prisoner this morning, and I
was fain to speak Tam Halliday fair, and fleech him, to let me near the puir
creature; but Cuddie wasna sae thankfu' as he needed till hae been neither,« she
added, and at the same time changed her tone, and briskly withdrew the
handkerchief from her face - »so I will ne'er waste my een wi' greeting about
the matter. There wad be aye enough o' young men left, if they were to hang the
tae half o' them.«
    The other inhabitants of the Castle were also in a state of dissatisfaction
and anxiety. Lady Margaret thought that Colonel Grahame, in commanding an
execution at the door of her house, and refusing to grant a reprieve at her
request, had fallen short of the deference due to her rank, and had even
encroached on her seignorial rights.
    »The Colonel,« she said, »ought to have remembered, brother, that the barony
of Tillietudlem has the baronial privilege of pit and gallows; and therefore, if
the lad was to be executed on my estate (which I consider as an unhandsome
thing, seeing it is in the possession of females, to whom such tragedies cannot
be acceptable), he ought, at common law, to have been delivered up to my bailie,
and justified at his sight.«
    »Martial law, sister,« answered Major Bellenden, »supersedes every other.
But I must own I think Colonel Grahame rather deficient in attention to you; and
I am not over and above preeminently flattered by his granting to young Evandale
(I suppose because he is a lord, and has interest with the privy council) a
request which he refused to so old a servant of the king as I am. But so long as
the poor young fellow's life is saved, I can comfort myself with the fag-end of
a ditty as old as myself.« And therewithal, he hummed a stanza: -
 
»And what though winter will pinch severe,
Through locks of grey and a cloak that's old?
Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier,
For a cup of sack shall fence the cold.
 
I must be your guest here to-day, sister. I wish to hear the issue of this
gathering on Loudon Hill, though I cannot conceive their standing a body of
horse appointed like our guests this morning. - Woe's me! the time has been,
that I would have liked ill to have sate in biggit wa's waiting for the news of
a skirmish to be fought within ten miles of me! But, as the old song goes -
 
For time will rust the brightest blade,
And years will break the strongest bow;
Was ever wight so starkly made,
But time and years would overthrow?«
 
»We are well pleased you will stay, brother,« said Lady Margaret. »I will take
my old privilege to look after my household, whom this collation has thrown into
some disorder, although it is uncivil to leave you alone.«
    »Oh, I hate ceremony as I hate a stumbling horse,« replied the Major.
»Besides, your person would be with me, and your mind with the cold meat and
reversionary pasties. - Where is Edith?«
    »Gone to her room a little evil-disposed, I am informed, and laid down in
her bed for a gliff,« said her grandmother: »as soon as she wakes she shall take
some drops.«
    »Pooh! pooh! she's only sick of the soldiers,« answered Major Bellenden.
»She's not accustomed to see one acquaintance led out to be shot, and another
marching off to actual service, with some chance of not finding his way back
again. She would soon be used to it, if the civil war were to break out again.«
    »God forbid, brother!« said Lady Margaret.
    »Ay, Heaven forbid, as you say! - and in the meantime, I'll take a hit at
trick-track with Harrison.« »He has ridden out, sir,« said Gudyill, »to try if
he can hear any tidings of the battle.«
    »D-n the battle!« said the Major; »it puts this family as much out of order
as if there had never been such a thing in the country before - and yet there
was such a place as Kilsythe, John.«
    »Ay, and as Tippermuir, your honour,« replied Gudyill, »where I was his
honour my late master's rear-rank man.«
    »And Alford, John,« pursued the Major, »where I commanded the horse; and
Innerlochy, where I was the Great Marquis's aid-de-camp; and Auld Earn, and Brig
o' Dee.«
    »And Philiphaugh, your honour,« said John.
    »Umph!« replied the Major; »the less, John, we say about that matter the
better.«
    However, being once fairly embarked on the subject of Montrose's campaigns,
the Major and John Gudyill carried on the war so stoutly, as for a considerable
time to keep at bay the formidable enemy called Time, with whom retired
veterans, during the quiet close of a bustling life, usually wage an unceasing
hostility.
    It has been frequently remarked, that the tidings of important events fly
with a celerity almost beyond the power of credibility, and that reports,
correct in the general point, though inaccurate in details, precede the certain
intelligence, as if carried by the birds of the air. Such rumours anticipate the
reality, not unlike to the »shadows of coming events,« which occupy the
imagination of the Highland seer. Harrison, in his ride, encountered some such
report concerning the event of the battle, and turned his horse back to
Tillietudlem in great dismay. He made it his first business to seek out the
Major, and interrupted him in the midst of a prolix account of the siege and
storm of Dundee, with the ejaculation, »Heaven send, Major, that we do not see a
siege of Tillietudlem before we are many days older!« »How is that, Harrison? -
what the devil do you mean?« exclaimed the astonished veteran.
    »Troth, sir, there is strong and increasing belief that Claver'se is clean
broken, some say killed; that the soldiers are all dispersed, and that the
rebels are hastening this way, threatening death and devastation to a' that will
not take the Covenant.«
    »I will never believe that,« said the Major, starting on his feet - »I will
never believe that the Life-Guards would retreat before rebels; and yet why need
I say that,« he continued, checking himself, »when I have seen such sights
myself? - Send out Pike, and one or two of the servants, for intelligence, and
let all the men in the Castle and in the village that can be trusted, take up
arms. This old tower may hold them play a bit, if it were but victualled and
garrisoned, - and it commands the pass between the high and low countries. It's
lucky I chanced to be here. - Go, muster men, Harrison. - You, Gudyill, look
what provisions you have, or can get brought in, and be ready, if the news be
confirmed, to knock down as many bullocks as you have salt for. - The well never
goes dry. - There are some old-fashioned guns on the battlements; if we had but
ammunition, we should do well enough.«
    »The soldiers left some casks of ammunition at the Grange this morning, to
bide their return,« said Harrison.
    »Hasten, then,« said the Major, »and bring it into the Castle, with every
pike, sword, pistol, or gun, that is within our reach; don't leave so much as a
bodkin - Lucky that I was here! - I will speak to my sister instantly.«
    Lady Margaret Bellenden was astounded at intelligence so unexpected and so
alarming. It had seemed to her that the imposing force which had that morning
left her walls was sufficient to have routed all the disaffected in Scotland, if
collected in a body; and now her first reflection was upon the inadequacy of
their own means of resistance to an army strong enough to have defeated
Claverhouse and such select troops. »Woe's me! woe's me!« said she; »what will
all that we can do avail us, brother? - what will resistance do but bring sure
destruction on the house, and on the bairn Edith; for, God knows, I thinkna on
my ain auld life.«
    »Come, sister,« said the Major, »you must not be cast down; the place is
strong, the rebels ignorant and ill-provided: my brother's house shall not be
made a den of thieves and rebels while old Miles Bellenden is in it. My hand is
weaker than it was, but I thank my old grey hairs that I have some knowledge of
war yet. Here comes Pike with intelligence. - What news, Pike? Another
Philiphaugh job, eh?«
    »Ay, ay,« said Pike composedly; »a total scattering. I thought this morning
little good would come of their newfangled gate of slinging their carabines.«
    »Whom did you see? - Who gave you the news?« asked the Major.
    »O, mair than half-a-dozen dragoon fellows that are a' on the spur whilk to
get first to Hamilton. They'll win the race, I warrant them, win the battle what
like.« »Continue your preparations, Harrison,« said the alert veteran; »get your
ammunition in, and the cattle killed. Send down to the borough-town for what
meal you can gather. We must not lose an instant. - Had not Edith and you,
sister, better return to Charnwood, while we have the means of sending you
there?«
    »No, brother,« said Lady Margaret, looking very pale, but speaking with the
greatest composure; »since the auld house is to be held out, I will take my
chance in it. I have fled twice from it in my days, and I have aye found it
desolate of its bravest and its bonniest when I returned; sae that I will e'en
abide now, and end my pilgrimage in it.«
    »It may, on the whole, be the safest course both for Edith and you,« said
the Major; »for the whigs will rise all the way between this and Glasgow, and
make your travelling there, or your dwelling at Charnwood, very unsafe.«
    »So be it, then,« said Lady Margaret. »And, dear brother, as the nearest
blood-relation of my deceased husband, I deliver to you, by this symbol,« -
(here she gave into his hand the venerable gold-headed staff of the deceased
Earl of Torwood) - »the keeping and government and seneschalship of my Tower of
Tillietudlem, and the appurtenances thereof, with full power to kill, slay, and
damage those who shall assail the same, as freely as I might do myself. And I
trust you will so defend it, as becomes a house in which his most sacred Majesty
has not disdained« --
    »Pshaw! sister,« interrupted the Major, »we have no time to speak about the
King and his breakfast just now.«
    And, hastily leaving the room, he hurried, with all the alertness of a young
man of twenty-five, to examine the state of his garrison, and superintend the
measures which were necessary for defending the place.
    The Tower of Tillietudlem, having very thick walls and very narrow windows -
having also a very strong court-yard wall, with flanking turrets on the only
accessible side, and rising on the other from the very verge of a precipice, was
fully capable of defence against anything but a train of heavy artillery.
    Famine or escalade was what the garrison had chiefly to fear. For artillery,
the top of the Tower was mounted with some antiquated wall-pieces, and small
cannons, which bore the old-fashioned names of culverins, sakers, demi-sakers,
falcons, and falconets. These the Major, with the assistance of John Gudyill,
caused to be scaled and loaded, and pointed them so as to command the road over
the brow of the opposite hill by which the rebels must advance, causing, at the
same time, two or three trees to be cut down, which would have impeded the
effect of the artillery, when it should be necessary to use it. With the trunks
of these trees, and other materials, he directed barricades to be constructed
upon the winding avenue which rose to the Tower along the high-road, taking care
that each should command the other. The large gate of the courtyard he
barricadoed yet more strongly, leaving only a wicket open for the convenience of
passage. What he had most to apprehend, was the slenderness of his garrison; for
all the efforts of the steward were unable to get more than nine men under arms,
himself and Gudyill included - so much more popular was the cause of the
insurgents than that of the Government; Major Bellenden, and his trusty servant
Pike, made the garrison eleven in number, of whom one-half were old men. The
round dozen might indeed have been made up, would Lady Margaret have consented
that Goose Gibbie should again take up arms. But she recoiled from the proposal,
when moved by Gudyill, with such abhorrent recollection of the former
achievements of that luckless cavalier, that she declared she would rather the
castle were lost than that he were to be enrolled in the defence of it. With
eleven men, however, himself included, Major Bellenden determined to hold out
the place to the uttermost.
    The arrangements for defence were not made without the degree of fracas
incidental to such occasions. Women shrieked - cattle bellowed - dogs howled -
men ran to and fro, cursing and swearing without intermission - the lumbering of
the old guns backwards and forwards shook the battlements - the court resounded
with the hasty gallop of messengers who went and returned upon errands of
importance, and the din of warlike preparation was mingled with the sound of
female laments.
    Such a Babel of discord might have awakened the slumbers of the very dead,
and, therefore, was not long ere it dispelled the abstracted reveries of Edith
Bellenden. She sent out Jenny to bring her the cause of the tumult which shook
the castle to its very basis; but Jenny, once engaged in the bustling tide,
found so much to ask and to hear, that she forgot the state of anxious
uncertainty in which she had left her young mistress. Having no pigeon to
dismiss in pursuit of information when her raven messenger had failed to return
with it, Edith was compelled to venture in quest of it out of the ark of her own
chamber into the deluge of confusion which overflowed the rest of the castle.
Six voices speaking at once, informed her, in reply to her first inquiry, that
Claver'se and all his men were killed, and that ten thousand whigs were marching
to besiege the castle, headed by John Balfour of Burley, young Milnwood, and
Cuddie Headrigg. This strange association of persons seemed to infer the
falsehood of the whole story, and yet the general bustle in the castle intimated
that danger was certainly apprehended.
    »Where is Lady Margaret?« was Edith's second question.
    »In her oratory,« was the reply, a cell adjoining to the chapel, in which
the good old lady was wont to spend the greater part of the days destined by the
rules of the Episcopal Church to devotional observances, as also the
anniversaries of those on which she had lost her husband and her children, and,
finally, those hours, in which a deeper and more solemn address to Heaven was
called for, by national or domestic calamity.
    »Where, then,« said Edith, much alarmed, »is Major Bellenden?«
    »On the battlements of the Tower, madam, pointing the cannon,« was the
reply.
    To the battlements, therefore, she made her way, impeded by a thousand
obstacles, and found the old gentleman in the midst of his natural military
element, commanding, rebuking, encouraging, instructing, and exercising all the
numerous duties of a good governor. »In the name of God, what is the matter,
uncle?« exclaimed Edith.
    »The matter, my love?« answered the Major coolly, as, with spectacles on his
nose, he examined the position of a gun - »The matter? Why - raise her breech a
thought more, John Gudyill - The matter? Why, Claver'se is routed, my dear, and
the whigs are coming down upon us in force, that's all the matter.«
    »Gracious powers!« said Edith, whose eye at that instant caught a glance of
the road which ran up the river; »and yonder they come!«
    »Yonder! - where?« said the veteran; and, his eyes taking the same
direction, he beheld a large body of horsemen coming down the path. »Stand to
your guns, my lads!« was the first exclamation; »we'll make them pay toll as
they pass the heugh. - But stay, stay, - these are certainly the Life-Guards.«
    »Oh no, uncle, no,« replied Edith; »see how disorderly they ride, and how
ill they keep their ranks! These cannot be the fine soldiers who left us this
morning.« »Ah! my dear girl,« answered the Major, »you do not know the
difference between men before a battle and after a defeat; but the Life-Guards
it is, for I see the red and blue and the King's colours. I am glad they have
brought them off, however.«
    His opinion was confirmed as the troopers approached nearer, and finally
halted on the road beneath the Tower; while their commanding officer, leaving
them to breathe and refresh their horses, hastily rode up the hill.
    »It is Claverhouse, sure enough,« said the Major; »I am glad he has escaped;
but he has lost his famous black horse. Let Lady Margaret know, John Gudyill;
order some refreshments; get oats for the soldiers' horses; - and let us to the
hall, Edith, to meet him. I surmise we shall hear but indifferent news.«
 

                               Chapter Nineteenth

 With careless gesture, mind unmoved,
 On rade he north the plain,
 His seem in thrang of fiercest strife,
 When winner aye the same.
                                                                     Hardyknute.
 
Colonel Grahame of Claverhouse met the family assembled, in the hall of the
Tower, with the same serenity and the same courtesy which had graced his manners
in the morning. He had even had the composure to rectify in part the derangement
of his dress, to wash the signs of battle from his face and hands, and did not
appear more disordered in his exterior, than if returned from a morning ride.
    »I am grieved, Colonel Grahame,« said the reverend old lady, the tears
trickling down her face, »deeply grieved.«
    »And I am grieved, my dear Lady Margaret,« replied Claverhouse, »that this
misfortune may render your remaining at Tillietudlem dangerous for you,
especially considering your recent hospitality to the King's troops, and your
well-known loyalty. And I came here chiefly to request Miss Bellenden and you to
accept my escort (if you will not scorn that of a poor runaway) to Glasgow, from
whence I will see you safely sent either to Edinburgh or to Dumbarton Castle, as
you shall think best.«
    »I am much obliged to you, Colonel Grahame,« replied Lady Margaret; »but my
brother, Major Bellenden, has taken on him the responsibility of holding out
this house against the rebels; and, please God, they shall never drive Margaret
Bellenden from her ain hearth-stane while there's a brave man that says he can
defend it.« »And will Major Bellenden undertake this?« said Claverhouse hastily,
a joyful light glancing from his dark eye as he turned it on the veteran. »Yet
why should I question it? it is of a piece with the rest of his life. But have
you the means, Major?«
    »All, but men and provisions, with which we are ill supplied,« answered the
Major.
    »As for men,« said Claverhouse, »I will leave you a dozen or twenty fellows
who will make good a breach against the devil. It will be of the utmost service,
if you can defend the place but a week, and by that time you must surely be
relieved.«
    »I will make it good for that space, Colonel,« replied the Major, »with
twenty-five good men and store of ammunition, if we should gnaw the soles of our
shoes for hunger; but I trust we shall get in provisions from the country.«
    »And, Colonel Grahame, if I might presume a request,« said Lady Margaret, »I
would entreat that Sergeant Francis Stewart might command the auxiliaries whom
you are so good as to add to the garrison of our people, it may serve to
legitimate his promotion, and I have a prejudice in favour of his noble birth.«
    »The sergeant's wars are ended, madam,« said Grahame, in an unaltered tone,
»and he now needs no promotion that an earthly master can give.«
    »Pardon me,« said Major Bellenden, taking Claverhouse by the arm, and
turning him away from the ladies, »but I am anxious for my friends. I fear you
have other and more important loss. I observe another officer carries your
nephew's standard.«
    »You are right, Major Bellenden,« answered Claverhouse, firmly; »my nephew
is no more - he has died in his duty, as became him.«
    »Great God!« exclaimed the Major, »how unhappy! - the handsome, gallant,
high-spirited youth!«
    »He was indeed all you say,« answered Claverhouse; »poor Richard was to me
as an eldest son, the apple of my eye, and my destined heir; but he died in his
duty, and I - I - Major Bellenden« - (he wrung the Major's hand hard as he
spoke) - »I live to avenge him.«
    »Colonel Grahame,« said the affectionate veteran, his eyes filling with
tears, »I am glad to see you bear this misfortune with such fortitude.«
    »I am not a selfish man,« replied Claverhouse, »though the world will tell
you otherwise: I am not selfish either in my hopes or fears, my joys or sorrows.
I have not been severe for myself, or grasping for myself, or ambitious for
myself. The service of my master and the good of the country are what I have
tried to aim at. I may, perhaps, have driven severity into cruelty, but I acted
for the best; and now I will not yield to my own feelings a deeper sympathy than
I have given to those of others.«
    »I am astonished at your fortitude under all the unpleasant circumstances of
this affair,« pursued the Major.
    »Yes,« replied Claverhouse; - »my enemies in the council will lay this
misfortune to my charge - I despise their accusations. They will calumniate me
to my sovereign - I can repel their charge. The public enemy will exult in my
flight - I shall find a time to show them that they exult too early. This youth
that has fallen stood betwixt a grasping kinsman and my inheritance, for you
know that my marriage-bed is barren; yet peace be with him! the country can
better spare him than your friend Lord Evandale, who, after behaving very
gallantly, has, I fear, also fallen.«
    »What a fatal day!« ejaculated the Major. »I heard a report of this, but it
was again contradicted; it was added, that the poor young nobleman's impetuosity
had occasioned the loss of this unhappy field.«
    »Not so, Major,« said Grahame; »let the living officers bear the blame, if
there be any; and let the laurels flourish untarnished on the grave of the
fallen. I do not, however, speak of Lord Evandale's death as certain; but
killed, or prisoner, I fear he must be. Yet he was extricated from the tumult
the last time we spoke together. We were then on the point of leaving the field
with a rear-guard of scarce twenty men; the rest of the regiment were almost
dispersed.«
    »They have rallied again soon,« said the Major, looking from the window on
the dragoons, who were feeding their horses and refreshing themselves beside the
brook. »Yes,« answered Claverhouse, »my blackguards had little temptation either
to desert, or to straggle farther than they were driven by their first panic.
There is small friendship and scant courtesy between them and the boors of this
country; every village they pass is likely to rise on them, and so the
scoundrels are driven back to their colours by a wholesome terror of spits,
pike-staves, hay-forks, and broomsticks. - But now let us talk about your plans
and wants, and the means of corresponding with you. To tell you the truth, I
doubt being able to make a long stand at Glasgow, even when I have joined my
Lord Ross; for this transient and accidental success of the fanatics will raise
the devil through all the western counties.«
    They then discussed Major Bellenden's means of defence, and settled a plan
of correspondence, in case a general insurrection took place, as was to be
expected. Claverhouse renewed his offer to escort the ladies to a place of
safety; but, all things considered, Major Bellenden thought they would be in
equal safety at Tillietudlem.
    The Colonel then took a polite leave of Lady Margaret and Miss Bellenden,
assuring them, that, though he was reluctantly obliged to leave them for the
present in dangerous circumstances, yet his earliest means should be turned to
the redemption of his character as a good knight and true, and that they might
speedily rely on hearing from or seeing him.
    Full of doubt and apprehension, Lady Margaret was little able to reply to a
speech so much in unison with her usual expressions and feelings, but contented
herself with bidding Claverhouse farewell, and thanking him for the succours
which he had promised to leave them. Edith longed to inquire the fate of Henry
Morton, but could find no pretext for doing so, and could only hope that it had
made a subject of some part of the long private communication which her uncle
had held with Claverhouse. On this subject, however, she was disappointed; for
the old cavalier was so deeply immersed in the duties of his own office, that he
had scarce said a single word to Claverhouse, excepting upon military matters,
and most probably would have been equally forgetful, had the fate of his own
son, instead of his friends, lain in the balance.
    Claverhouse now descended the bank on which the Castle is founded, in order
to put his troops again in motion, and Major Bellenden accompanied him to
receive the detachment who were to be left in the tower.
    »I shall leave Inglis with you,« said Claverhouse, »for, as I am situated, I
cannot spare an officer of rank; it is all we can do, by our joint efforts, to
keep the men together. But should any of our missing officers make their
appearance, I authorise you to detain them; for my fellows can with difficulty
be subjected to any other authority.«
    His troop being now drawn up, he picked out sixteen men by name, and
committed them to the command of Corporal Inglis, whom he promoted to the rank
of sergeant on the spot.
    »And hark ye, gentlemen,« was his concluding harangue, - »I leave you to
defend the house of a lady, and under the command of her brother, Major
Bellenden, a faithful servant to the king. You are to behave bravely, soberly,
regularly, and obediently, and each of you shall be handsomely rewarded on my
return to relieve the garrison. In case of mutiny, cowardice, neglect of duty,
or the slightest excess in the family, the provost-marshal and cord - you know I
keep my word for good and evil.«
    He touched his hat as he bade them farewell, and shook hands cordially with
Major Bellenden.
    »Adieu,« he said, »my stout-hearted old friend! Good luck be with you, and
better times to us both!«
    The horsemen whom he commanded had been once more reduced to tolerable order
by the exertions of Major Allan; and, though shorn of their splendour, and with
their gilding all besmirched, made a much more regular and military appearance
on leaving, for the second time, the Tower of Tillietudlem, than when they
returned to it after their rout.
    Major Bellenden, now left to his own resources, sent out several videttes,
both to obtain supplies of provisions, and especially of meal, and to get
knowledge of the motions of the enemy. All the news he could collect on the
second subject tended to prove that the insurgents meant to remain on the field
of battle for that night. But they, also, had abroad their detachments and
advanced guards, to collect supplies; and great was the doubt and distress of
those who received contrary orders, in the name of the King and in that of the
Kirk, - the one commanding them to send provisions to victual the Castle of
Tillietudlem, and the other enjoining them to forward supplies to the camp of
the godly professors of true religion, now in arms for the cause of covenanted
reformation, presently pitched at Drumclog, nigh to Loudon Hill. Each summons
closed with a denunciation of fire and sword if it was neglected; for neither
party could confide so far in the loyalty or zeal of those whom they addressed,
as to hope they would part with their property upon other terms. So that the
poor people knew not what hand to turn themselves to; and to say truth, there
were some who turned themselves to more than one.
    »Thir kittle times will drive the wisest o' us daft,« said Niel Blane, the
prudent host of the Howff; »but I'se aye keep a calm sough. - Jenny, what meal
is in the girnel?«
    »Four bows o' aitmeal, twa bows o' bear, and twa bows o' pease,« was Jenny's
reply.
    »Aweel, hinny,« continued Niel Blane, sighing deeply, »let Bauldy drive the
pease and bear meal to the camp at Drumclog - he's a whig, and was the auld
gudewife's pleughman - the mashlum bannocks will suit their muirland stamachs
well. He maun say it's the last unce o' meal in the house, or, if he scruples to
tell a lie (as it's no likely he will when it's for the good o' the house), he
may wait till Duncan Glen, the auld drucken trooper, drives up the aitmeal to
Tillietudlem, wi' my dutifu' service to my Leddy and the Major, and I haena as
muckle left as will make my parritch; and if Duncan manage right, I'll give him a
tass o' whisky shall make the blue low come out at his mouth.«
    »And what are we to eat ourselves, then, father,« asked Jenny, »when we hae
sent away the haill meal in the ark and the girnel?«
    »We maun gar wheat-flour serve us for a blink,« said Niel, in a tone of
resignation; »it's no that ill food, though far frae being sae hearty or kindly
to a Scotchman's stamach as the curney aitmeal is; the Englishers live amaist
upon't; but to be sure, the pock-puddings ken nae better.«
    While the prudent and peaceful endeavoured, like Niel Blane, to make fair
weather with both parties, those who had more public (or party) spirit began to
take arms on all sides. The royalists in the country were not numerous, but were
respectable from their fortune and influence, being chiefly landed proprietors
of ancient descent, who, with their brothers, cousins, and dependants to the
ninth generation, as well as their domestic servants, formed a sort of militia,
capable of defending their own peel-houses against detached bodies of the
insurgents, of resisting their demand of supplies, and intercepting those which
were sent to the Presbyterian camp by others. The news that the Tower of
Tillietudlem was to be defended against the insurgents, afforded great courage
and support to these feudal volunteers, who considered it as a stronghold to
which they might retreat in case it should become impossible for them to
maintain the desultory war they were now about to wage.
    On the other hand, the towns, the villages, the farm-houses, the properties
of small heritors, sent forth numerous recruits to the Presbyterian interest.
These men had been the principal sufferers during the oppression of the time.
Their minds were fretted, soured, and driven to desperation, by the various
exactions and cruelties to which they had been subjected; and, although by no
means united among themselves, either concerning the purpose of this formidable
insurrection, or the means by which that purpose was to be obtained, most of
them considered it as a door opened by Providence to obtain the liberty of
conscience of which they had been long deprived, and to shake themselves free of
a tyranny, directed both against body and soul. Numbers of these men, therefore,
took up arms; and in the phrase of their time and party, prepared to cast in
their lot with the victors of Loudon Hill.
 

                               Chapter Twentieth

 Ananias. - I do not like the man! He is a heathen,
 And speaks the language of Canaan truly.
 Tribulation. - You must await his calling, and the coming
 Of the good spirit. You did ill to upbraid him.
                                                                  The Alchemist.
 
We return to Henry Morton, whom we left on the field of battle. He was eating,
by one of the watch-fires, his portion of the provisions which had been
distributed to the army, and musing deeply on the path which he was next to
pursue, when Burley suddenly came up to him, accompanied by the young minister
whose exhortation after the victory had produced such a powerful effect.
    »Henry Morton,« said Balfour, abruptly, »the council of the army of the
Covenant, confiding that the son of Silas Morton can never prove a lukewarm
Laodicean, or an indifferent Gallio, in this great day, have nominated you to be
a captain of their host, with the right of a vote in their council, and all
authority fitting for an officer who is to command Christian men.«
    »Mr. Balfour,« replied Morton, without hesitation, »I feel this mark of
confidence, and it is not surprising that a natural sense of the injuries of my
country, not to mention those I have sustained in my own person, should make me
sufficiently willing to draw my sword for liberty and freedom of conscience. But
I will own to you, that I must be better satisfied concerning the principles on
which you bottom your cause, ere I can agree to take a command amongst you.«
    »And can you doubt of our principles,« answered Burley, »since we have
stated them to be the reformation both of church and state, the rebuilding of
the decayed sanctuary, the gathering of the dispersed saints, and the
destruction of the man of sin?«
    »I will own frankly, Mr. Balfour,« replied Morton, »much of this sort of
language, which, I observe, is so powerful with others, is entirely lost on me.
It is proper you should be aware of this before we commune further together.«
(The young clergyman here groaned deeply.) »I distress you, sir,« said Morton;
»but perhaps it is because you will not hear me out. I revere the Scriptures as
deeply as you or any Christian can do. I look into them with humble hope of
extracting a rule of conduct and a law of salvation. But I expect to find this
by an examination of their general tenor, and of the spirit which they uniformly
breathe, and not by wresting particular passages from their context, or by the
application of Scriptural phrases to circumstances and events with which they
have often very slender relation.«
    The young divine seemed shocked and thunderstruck with this declaration, and
was about to remonstrate. »Hush, Ephraim!« said Burley; »remember he is but as a
babe in swaddling clothes. - Listen to me, Morton. I will speak to thee in the
worldly language of that carnal reason, which is for the present, thy blind and
imperfect guide. What is the object for which thou art content to draw thy
sword? Is it not that the church and state should be reformed by the free voice
of a free parliament, with such laws as shall hereafter prevent the executive
government from spilling the blood, torturing and imprisoning the persons,
exhausting the estates, and trampling upon the consciences of men, at their own
wicked pleasure?«
    »Most certainly,« said Morton; »such I esteem legitimate causes of warfare,
and for such I will fight while I can wield a sword.«
    »Nay, but,« said Macbriar, »ye handle this matter too tenderly; nor will my
conscience permit me to fard or daub over the causes of divine wrath« --
    »Peace, Ephraim Macbriar!« again interrupted Burley.
    »I will not peace,« said the young man. »Is it not the cause of my Master
who hath sent me? Is it not a profane and Erastian destroying of his authority,
usurpation of his power, denial of his name, to place either King or Parliament
in his place as the master and governor of his household, the adulterous husband
of his spouse?«
    »You speak well,« said Burley, dragging him aside, »but not wisely. Your own
ears have heard this night in council how this scattered remnant are broken and
divided, and would ye now make a veil of separation between them? - would ye
build a wall with unslaked mortar? - if a fox go up, it will breach it.«
    »I know,« said the young clergyman, in reply, »that thou art faithful,
honest, and zealous, even unto slaying; but, believe me, this worldly craft,
this temporising with sin and with infirmity, is in itself a falling away; and,
I fear me, Heaven will not honour us to do much more for his glory, when we seek
to carnal cunning and to a fleshly arm. The sanctified end must be wrought by
sanctified means.«
    »I tell thee,« answered Balfour, »thy zeal is too rigid in this matter; we
cannot yet do without the help of the Laodiceans and the Erastians; we must
endure for a space the indulged in the midst of the council - the sons of
Zeruiah are yet too strong for us.«
    »I tell thee I like it not,« said Macbriar. »God can work deliverance by a
few as well as by a multitude. The host of the faithful that was broken upon
Pentland Hills, paid but the fitting penalty of acknowledging the carnal
interest of that tyrant and oppressor, Charles Stuart.« »Well, then,« said
Balfour, »thou knows the healing resolution that the council have adopted - to
make a comprehending declaration, that may suit the tender consciences of all
who groan under the yoke of our present oppressors. Return to the council if
thou wilt, and get them to recall it, and send forth one upon narrower grounds.
But abide not here to hinder my gaining over this youth, whom my soul travails
for; his name alone will call forth hundreds to our banners.« »Do as thou wilt,
then,« said Macbriar; »but I will not assist to mislead the youth, nor bring him
into jeopardy of life, unless upon such grounds as will insure his eternal
reward.«
    The more artful Balfour then dismissed the impatient preacher and returned
to his proselyte.
    That we may be enabled to dispense with detailing at length the arguments by
which he urged Morton to join the insurgents, we shall take this opportunity to
give a brief sketch of the person by whom they were used, and the motives which
he had for interesting himself so deeply in the conversion of young Morton to
his cause.
    John Balfour of Kinloch, or Burley (for he is designated both ways in the
histories and proclamations of that melancholy period), was a gentleman of some
fortune, and of good family, in the county of Fife, and had been a soldier from
his youth upwards. In the younger part of his life he had been wild and
licentious, but had early laid aside open profligacy, and embraced the strictest
tenets of Calvinism. Unfortunately, habits of excess and intemperance were more
easily rooted out of his dark, saturnine, and enterprising spirit, than the
vices of revenge and ambition, which continued, notwithstanding his religious
professions, to exercise no small sway over his mind. Daring in design,
precipitate and violent in execution, and going to the very extremity of the
most rigid recusancy, it was his ambition to place himself at the head of the
Presbyterian interest.
    To attain this eminence among the whigs, he had been active in attending
their conventicles, and more than once had commanded them when they appeared in
arms, and beaten off the forces sent to disperse them. At length, the
gratification of his own fierce enthusiasm, joined, as some say, with motives of
private revenge, placed him at the head of that party who assassinated the
Primate of Scotland, as the author of the sufferings of the Presbyterians. The
violent measures adopted by Government to revenge this deed, not on the
perpetrators only, but on the whole professors of the religion to which they
belonged, together with long previous sufferings, without any prospect of
deliverance, except by force of arms, occasioned the insurrection, which, as we
have already seen, commenced by the defeat of Claverhouse in the bloody skirmish
of Loudon Hill.
    But Burley, notwithstanding the share he had in the victory, was far from
finding himself at the summit which his ambition aimed at. This was partly owing
to the various opinions entertained among the insurgents concerning the murder
of Archbishop Sharp. The more violent among them did, indeed, approve of this
act as a deed of justice, executed upon a persecutor of God's church through the
immediate inspiration of the Deity; but the greater part of the Presbyterians
disowned the deed as a crime highly culpable, though they admitted that the
Archbishop's punishment had by no means exceeded his deserts. The insurgents
differed in another main point, which has been already touched upon. The more
warm and extravagant fanatics condemned, as guilty of a pusillanimous
abandonment of the rights of the church, those preachers and congregations who
were contented, in any manner, to exercise their religion through the permission
of the ruling government. This, they said, was absolute Erastianism, or
subjection of the church of God to the regulations of an earthly government, and
therefore but one degree better than prelacy or popery. - Again, the more
moderate party were content to allow the king's title to the throne, and in
secular affairs to acknowledge his authority, so long as it was exercised with
due regard to the liberties of the subject, and in conformity to the laws of the
realm. But the tenets of the wilder sect (called, from their leader Richard
Cameron, by the name of Cameronians) went the length of disowning the reigning
monarch, and every one of his successors who should not acknowledge the Solemn
League and Covenant. The seeds of disunion were, therefore, thickly sown in this
ill-fated party; and Balfour, however enthusiastic, and however much attached to
the most violent of those tenets which we have noticed, saw nothing but ruin to
the general cause, if they were insisted on during this crisis, when unity was
of so much consequence. Hence he disapproved, as we have seen, of the honest,
downright, and ardent zeal of Macbriar, and was extremely desirous to receive
the assistance of the moderate party of Presbyterians in the immediate overthrow
of the Government, with the hope of being hereafter able to dictate to them what
should be substituted in its place.
    He was, on this account, particularly anxious to secure the accession of
Henry Morton to the cause of the insurgents. The memory of his father was
generally esteemed among the Presbyterians; and as few persons of any decent
quality had joined the insurgents, this young man's family and prospects were
such as almost insured his being chosen a leader. Through Morton's means, as
being the son of his ancient comrade, Burley conceived he might exercise some
influence over the more liberal part of the army, and ultimately, perhaps,
ingratiate himself so far with them, as to be chosen commander-in-chief, which
was the mark at which his ambition aimed. He had, therefore, without waiting
till any other person took up the subject, exalted to the council the talents
and disposition of Morton, and easily obtained his elevation to the painful rank
of a leader in this disunited and undisciplined army.
    The arguments by which Balfour pressed Morton to accept of this dangerous
promotion, as soon as he had gotten rid of his less wary and uncompromising
companion, Macbriar, were sufficiently artful and urgent. He did not affect
either to deny or to disguise that the sentiments which he himself entertained
concerning church government, went as far as those of the preacher who had just
left them; but he argued, that when the affairs of the nation were at such a
desperate crisis, minute difference of opinion should not prevent those who, in
general, wished well to their oppressed country, from drawing their swords in
its behalf. Many of the subjects of division - as, for example, that concerning
the Indulgence itself - arose, he observed, out of circumstances which would
cease to exist, provided their attempt to free the country should be successful,
seeing that the Presbytery, being in that case triumphant, would need to make no
such compromise with the Government; and, consequently, with the abolition of
the Indulgence, all discussion of its legality would be at once ended. He
insisted much and strongly upon the necessity of taking advantage of this
favourable crisis, upon the certainty of their being joined by the force of the
whole western shires, and upon the gross guilt which those would incur, who,
seeing the distress of the country, and the increasing tyranny with which it was
governed, should, from fear or indifference, withhold their active aid from the
good cause.
    Morton wanted not these arguments to induce him to join in any insurrection
which might appear to have a feasible prospect of freedom to the country. He
doubted, indeed, greatly, whether the present attempt was likely to be supported
by the strength sufficient to ensure success, or by the wisdom and liberality of
spirit necessary to make a good use of the advantages that might be gained. Upon
the whole, however, considering the wrongs he had personally endured, and those
which he had seen daily inflicted on his fellow subjects - meditating also upon
the precarious and dangerous situation in which he already stood with relation
to the Government, he conceived himself, in every point of view, called upon to
join the body of Presbyterians already in arms.
    But while he expressed to Burley his acquiescence in the vote which had
named him a leader among the insurgents, and a member of their council of war,
it was not without a qualification.
    »I am willing,« he said, »to contribute every thing within my limited power
to effect the emancipation of my country. But do not mistake me. I disapprove,
in the utmost degree, of the action in which this rising seems to have
originated; and no arguments should induce me to join it, if it is to be carried
on by such measures as that with which it has commenced.« Burley's blood rushed
to his face, giving a ruddy and dark glow to his swarthy brow.
    »You mean,« he said, in a voice which he designed should not betray any
emotion - »You mean the death of James Sharp?«
    »Frankly,« answered Morton, »such is my meaning.« »You imagine, then,« said
Burley, »that the Almighty, in times of difficulty, does not raise up
instruments to deliver his church from her oppressors? You are of opinion that
the justice of an execution consists, not in the extent of the sufferer's crime,
or in his having merited punishment, or in the wholesome and salutary effect
which that example is likely to produce upon other evil-doers, but hold that it
rests solely in the robe of the judge, the height of the bench, and the voice of
the doomster! Is not just punishment justly inflicted, whether on the scaffold
or the moor? And where constituted judges, from cowardice, or from having cast
in their lot with transgressors, suffer them not only to pass at liberty through
the land, but to sit in the high places, and dye their garments in the blood of
the saints, - is it not well done in any brave spirits who shall draw their
private swords in the public cause?«
    »I have no wish to judge this individual action,« replied Morton, »further
than is necessary to make you fully aware of my principles. I therefore repeat,
that the case you have supposed does not satisfy my judgment. That the Almighty,
in his mysterious providence, may bring a bloody man to an end deservedly
bloody, does not vindicate those who, without authority of any kind, take upon
themselves to be the instruments of execution, and presume to call them the
executors of divine vengeance.«
    »And were we not so?« said Burley, in a tone of fierce enthusiasm. »Were not
we - was not every one who owned the interests of the Covenanted Church of
Scotland, bound by that Covenant to cut off the Judas who had sold the cause of
God for fifty thousand merks a-year? Had we met him by the way as he came down
from London, and there smitten him with the edge of the sword, we had done but
the duty of men faithful to our cause, and to our oaths recorded in heaven. Was
not the execution itself a proof of our warrant? Did not the Lord deliver him
into our hands when we looked out but for one of his inferior tools of
persecution? Did we not pray to be resolved how we should act, and was it not
borne in on our hearts as if it had been written on them with the point of a
diamond, Ye shall surely take him and slay him? - Was not the tragedy full
half-an-hour in acting ere the sacrifice was completed, and that in an open
heath, and within the patrols of their garrisons - and yet who interrupted the
great work? - What dog so much as bayed us during the pursuit, the taking, the
slaying, and the dispersing? Then, who will say - who dare say - that a mightier
arm than ours was not herein revealed?«
    »You deceive yourself, Mr. Balfour,« said Morton; »such circumstances of
facility of execution and escape have often attended the commission of the most
enormous crimes. - But it is not mine to judge you. I have not forgotten that
the way was opened to the former liberation of Scotland by an act of violence
which no man can justify - the slaughter of Cumming by the hand of Robert Bruce;
and, therefore, condemning this action, as I do and must, I am not unwilling to
suppose that you may have motives vindicating it in your own eyes, though not in
mine, or in those of sober reason. I only now mention it, because I desire you
to understand that I join a cause supported by men engaged in open war, which it
is proposed to carry on according to the rules of civilised nations, without in
any respect approving of the act of violence which gave immediate rise to it.«
    Balfour bit his lip, and with difficulty suppressed a violent answer. He
perceived, with disappointment, that, upon points of principle, his young
brother-in-arms possessed a clearness of judgment, and a firmness of mind, which
afforded but little hope of his being able to exert that degree of influence
over him which he had expected to possess. After a moment's pause, however, he
said, with coolness, »My conduct is open to men and angels. The deed was not
done in a corner - I am here in arms to avow it, and care not where, or by whom,
I am called on to do so - whether in the council, the field of battle, the place
of execution, or the day of the last great trial. I will not now discuss it
further with one who is yet on the other side of the veil. But if you will cast
in your lot with us as a brother, come with me to the council, who are still
sitting, to arrange the future march of the army, and the means of improving our
victory.«
    Morton arose and followed him in silence, - not greatly delighted with his
associate, and better satisfied with the general justice of the cause which he
had espoused, than either with the measures or the motives of many of those who
were embarked in it.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-First

 And look how many Grecian tents do stand
 Hollow upon this plain - so many hollow factions.
                                                           Troilus and Cressida.
 
In a hollow of the hill, about a quarter of a mile from the field of battle, was
a shepherd's hut - a miserable cottage, which, as the only enclosed spot within
a moderate distance, the leaders of the Presbyterian army had chosen for their
council-house. Towards this spot Burley guided Morton, who was surprised, as he
approached it, at the multifarious confusion of sounds which issued from its
precincts. The calm and anxious gravity which it might be supposed would have
presided in councils held on such important subjects, and at a period so
critical, seemed to have given place to discord wild, and loud uproar, which
fell on the ear of their new ally as an evil augury of their future measures. As
they approached the door, they found it open indeed, but choked up with the
bodies and heads of countrymen, who, though no members of the council, felt no
scruple in intruding themselves upon deliberations in which they were so deeply
interested. By expostulation, by threats, and even by some degree of violence,
Burley, the sternness of whose character maintained a sort of superiority over
these disorderly forces, compelled the intruders to retire, and, introducing
Morton into the cottage, secured the door behind them against impertinent
curiosity. At a less agitating moment, the young man might have been entertained
with the singular scene of which he now found himself an auditor and a
spectator.
    The precincts of the gloomy and ruinous hut were enlightened partly by some
furze which blazed on the hearth, the smoke whereof, having no legal vent,
eddied around, and formed over the heads of the assembled council a clouded
canopy - as opaque as their metaphysical theology - through which, like stars
through mist, were dimly seen to twinkle a few blinking candles, or rather
rushes dipped in tallow, the property of the poor owner of the cottage, which
were stuck to the walls by patches of wet clay. This broken and dusky light
showed many a countenance elated with spiritual pride, or rendered dark by
fierce enthusiasm; and some whose anxious, wandering, and uncertain looks,
showed they felt themselves rashly embarked in a cause which they had neither
courage nor conduct to bring to a good issue, yet knew not how to abandon, for
very shame. They were, indeed, a doubtful and disunited body. The most active of
their number were those concerned with Burley in the death of the Primate, four
or five of whom had found their way to Loudon Hill, together with other men of
the same relentless and uncompromising zeal, who had in various ways given
desperate and unpardonable offence to the Government.
    With them were mingled their preachers, men who had spurned at the
indulgence offered by Government, and preferred assembling their flocks in the
wilderness, to worshipping in temples built by human hands, if their doing the
latter should be construed to admit any right on the part of their rulers to
interfere with the supremacy of the Kirk. The other class of councillors were
such gentlemen of small fortune, and substantial farmers, as a sense of
intolerable oppression had induced to take arms and join the insurgents. These
also had their clergymen with them; and such divines, having many of them taken
advantage of the indulgence, were prepared to resist the measures of their more
violent brethren, who proposed a declaration in which they should give testimony
against the warrants and instructions for indulgence as sinful and unlawful
acts. This delicate question had been passed over in silence in the first
draught of the manifestoes which they intended to publish of the reasons of
their gathering in arms; but it had been stirred anew during Balfour's absence,
and, to his great vexation, he now found that both parties had opened upon it in
full cry, - Macbriar, Kettledrummle, and other teachers of the wanderers, being
at the very spring-tide of polemical discussion with Peter Poundtext, the
indulged pastor of Milnwood's parish, who, it seems, had e'en girded himself
with a broadsword, but, e'er he was called upon to fight for the good cause of
Presbytery in the field, was manfully defending his own dogmata in the council.
It was the din of this conflict, maintained chiefly between Poundtext and
Kettledrummle, together with the clamour of their adherents, which had saluted
Morton's ears upon approaching the cottage. Indeed, as both the divines were men
well gifted with words and lungs, and each fierce, ardent, and intolerant in
defence of his own doctrine, prompt in the recollection of texts wherewith they
battered each other without mercy, and deeply impressed with the importance of
the subject of discussion, the noise of the debate betwixt them fell little
short of that which might have attended an actual bodily conflict.
    Burley, scandalised at the disunion implied in this virulent strife of
tongues, interposed between the disputants, and, by some general remarks on the
unseasonableness of discord, a soothing address to the vanity of each party, and
the exertion of the authority which his services in that day's victory entitled
him to assume, at length succeeded in prevailing upon them to adjourn farther
discussion of the controversy. But although Kettledrummle and Poundtext were
thus for the time silenced, they continued to eye each other like two dogs, who,
having been separated by the authority of their masters while fighting, have
retreated, each beneath the chair of his owner, still watching each other's
motions, and indicating, by occasional growls, by the erected bristles of the
back and ears, and by the red glance of the eye, that their discord is
unappeased, and that they only wait the first opportunity afforded by any
general movement or commotion in the company, to fly once more at each other's
throats.
    Balfour took advantage of the momentary pause to present to the council Mr.
Henry Morton of Milnwood, as one touched with a sense of the evils of the times,
and willing to peril goods and life in the precious cause for which his father,
the renowned Silas Morton, had given in his time a soul-stirring testimony.
Morton was instantly received with the right hand of fellowship by his ancient
pastor, Poundtext, and by those among the insurgents who supported the more
moderate principles. The others muttered something about Erastianism, and
reminded each other in whispers, that Silas Morton, once a stout and worthy
servant of the Covenant, had been a backslider in the day when the resolutioners
had led the way in owning the authority of Charles Stuart, thereby making a gap
whereat the present tyrant was afterwards brought in, to the oppression both of
Kirk and country. They added, however, that, on this great day of calling, they
would not refuse society with any who should put hand to the plough; and so
Morton was installed in his office of leader and councillor, if not with the
full approbation of his colleagues, at least without any formal or avowed
dissent. They proceeded, on Burley's motion, to divide among themselves the
command of the men who had assembled, and whose numbers were daily increasing.
In this partition, the insurgents of Poundtext's parish and congregation were
naturally placed under the command of Morton; an arrangement mutually agreeable
to both parties, as he was recommended to their confidence, as well by his
personal qualities, as having been born among them.
    When this task was accomplished, it became necessary to determine what use
was to be made of their victory. Morton's heart throbbed high when he heard the
Tower of Tillietudlem named as one of the most important positions to be seized
upon. It commanded, as we have often noticed, the pass between the more wild and
the more fertile country, and must furnish, it was plausibly urged, a stronghold
and place of rendezvous to the cavaliers and malignants of the district,
supposing the insurgents were to march onward and leave it uninvested. This
measure was particularly urged as necessary by Poundtext and those of his
immediate followers, whose habitations and families might be exposed to great
severities, if this strong place were permitted to remain in possession of the
royalists.
    »I opine,« said Poundtext, - for, like the other divines of the period, he
had no hesitation in offering his advice upon military matters, of which he was
profoundly ignorant - »I opine that we should take in and raze that stronghold
of the woman Lady Margaret Bellenden, even though we should build a fort and
raise a mount against it; for the race is a rebellious and a bloody race, and
their hand has been heavy on the children of the Covenant, both in the former
and the latter times. Their hook hath been in our noses, and their bridle
betwixt our jaws.«
    »What are their means and men of defence?« said Burley. »The place is
strong; but I cannot conceive that two women can make it good against a host.«
    »There is also,« said Poundtext, »Harrison the steward, and John Gudyill,
even the lady's chief butler, who boasteth himself a man of war from his youth
upward, and who spread the banner against the good cause with that man of
Belial, James Grahame of Montrose.«
    »Pshaw!« returned Burley, scornfully - »a butler!«
    »Also, there is that ancient malignant,« replied Poundtext, »Miles Bellenden
of Charnwood, whose hands have been dipped in the blood of the saints.«
    »If that,« said Burley, »be Miles Bellenden, the brother of Sir Arthur, he
is one whose sword will not turn back from battle; but he must now be stricken
in years.« »There was word in the country as I rode along,« said an other of the
council, »that so soon as they heard of the victory which had been given to us,
they caused shut the gates of the Tower, and called in men, and collected
ammunition. They were ever a fierce and a malignant house.«
    »We will not, with my consent,« said Burley, »engage in a siege which may
consume time. We must rush forward, and follow our advantage by occupying
Glasgow; for I do not fear that the troops we have this day beaten, even with
the assistance of my Lord Ross's regiment, will judge it safe to await our
coming.«
    »Howbeit,« said Poundtext, »we may display a banner before the Tower, and
blow a trumpet, and summon them to come forth. It may be that they will give
over the place into our mercy, though they be a rebellious people. And we will
summon the women to come forth of their stronghold, that is, Lady Margaret
Bellenden and her grand-daughter, and Jenny Dennison, which is a girl of an
ensnaring eye, and the other maids, and we will give them a safe-conduct, and
send them in peace to the city, even to the town of Edinburgh. But John Gudyill,
and Hugh Harrison, and Miles Bellenden, we will restrain with fetters of iron,
even as they, in times bypast, have done to the martyred saints.«
    »Who talks of safe-conduct and of peace?« said a shrill, broken, and
overstrained voice, from the crowd. »Peace, brother Habakkuk,« said Macbriar, in
a soothing tone, to the speaker.
    »I will not hold my peace,« reiterated the strange and unnatural voice; »is
this a time to speak of peace, when the earth quakes, and the mountains are
rent, and the rivers are changed into blood, and the two-edged sword is drawn
from the sheath to drink gore as if it were water, and devour flesh as the fire
devours dry stubble?«
    While he spoke thus, the orator struggled forward to the inner part of the
circle, and presented to Morton's wondering eyes a figure worthy of such a voice
and such language. The rags of a dress which had once been black, added to the
tattered fragments of a shepherd's plaid, composed a covering scarce fit for the
purposes of decency, much less for those of warmth or comfort. A long beard, as
white as snow, hung down on his breast, and mingled with bushy, uncombed,
grizzled hair, which hung in elf-locks around his wild and staring visage. The
features seemed to be attenuated by penury and famine, until they hardly
retained the likeness of a human aspect. The eyes, grey, wild, and wandering,
evidently betokened a bewildered imagination. He held in his hand a rusty sword,
clotted with blood, as were his long lean hands, which were garnished at the
extremity with nails like eagle's claws.
    »In the name of Heaven, who is he?« said Morton, in a whisper to Poundtext,
- surprised, shocked, and even startled, at this ghastly apparition, which
looked more like the resurrection of some cannibal priest, or Druid red from his
human sacrifice, than like an earthly mortal.
    »It is Habakkuk Mucklewrath,« answered Poundtext, in the same tone, »whom
the enemy hath long detained in captivity in forts and castles, until his
understanding hath departed from him, and, as I fear, an evil demon hath
possessed him. Nevertheless, our violent brethren will have it, that he speaketh
of the Spirit, and that they fructify by his pouring forth.«
    Here he was interrupted by Mucklewrath, who cried, in a voice that made the
very beams of the roof quiver - »Who talks of peace and safe-conduct? who speaks
of mercy to the bloody house of the malignants? I say, take the infants and dash
them against the stones - take the daughters and the mothers of the house, and
hurl them from the battlements of their trust, that the dogs may fatten on their
blood as they did on that of Jezebel, the spouse of Ahab, and that their
carcasses may be dung to the face of the field even in the portion of their
fathers!«
    »He speaks right,« said more than one sullen voice from behind. »We will be
honoured with little service in the great cause, if we already make fair weather
with Heaven's enemies.«
    »This is utter abomination and daring impiety,« said Morton, unable to
contain his indignation - »What blessing can you expect in a cause, in which you
listen to the mingled ravings of madness and atrocity?« »Hush, young man!« said
Kettledrummle, »and reserve thy censure for that for which thou canst render a
reason. It is not for thee to judge into what vessels the Spirit may be poured.«
    »We judge of the tree by the fruit,« said Poundtext, »and allow not that to
be of divine inspiration that contradicts the divine laws.«
    »You forget, brother Poundtext,« said Macbriar, »that these are the latter
days, when signs and wonders shall be multiplied.«
    Poundtext stood forward to reply: but, ere he could articulate a word, the
insane preacher broke in with a scream that drowned all competition.
    »Who talks of signs and wonders? Am not I Habakkuk Mucklewrath, whose name
is changed to Magor-Missabib, because I am made a terror unto myself and unto
all that are around me? - I heard it - When did I hear it? - was it not in the
Tower of the Bass, that overhangeth the wide wild sea? - and it howled in the
winds, and it roared in the billows, and it screamed, and it whistled, and it
clanged, with the screams and the clang and the whistle of the sea-birds, as
they floated, and flew, and dropped, and dived, on the bosom of the waters. I
saw it - Where did I see it? - was it not from the high peaks of Dumbarton, when
I looked westward upon the fertile land, and northward on the wild Highland
hills; when the clouds gathered and the tempest came, and the lightnings of
heaven flashed in sheets as wide as the banners of an host? - What did I see? -
Dead corpses and wounded horses, the rushing together of battle, and garments
rolled in blood. - What heard I? - The voice that cried, Slay, slay - smite -
slay utterly - let not your eye have pity! slay utterly, old and young, the
maiden, the child, and the woman whose head is grey! - Defile the house, and
fill the courts with the slain!«
    »We receive the command!« exclaimed more than one of the company. »Six days
he hath not spoken nor broken bread, and now his tongue is unloosed: - We
receive the command, - as he hath said, so will we do.«
    Astonished, disgusted, and horror-struck at what he had seen and heard,
Morton turned away from the circle and left the cottage. He was followed by
Burley, who had his eye on his motions.
    »Whither are you going?« said the latter, taking him by the arm.
    »Anywhere, - I care not whither; but here I will abide no longer.«
    »Art thou so soon weary, young man?« answered Burley. »Thy hand is but now
put to the plough, and wouldst thou already abandon it? Is this thy adherence to
the cause of thy father?«
    »No cause,« replied Morton, indignantly - »no cause can prosper, so
conducted. One party declares for the ravings of a bloodthirsty madman; another
leader is an old scholastic pedant; a third« - he stopped, and his companion
continued the sentence - »Is a desperate homicide, thou wouldst say, like John
Balfour of Burley? - I can bear thy misconstruction without resentment. Thou
dost not consider, that it is not men of sober and self-seeking minds, who arise
in these days of wrath to execute judgment and to accomplish deliverance. Hadst
thou but seen the armies of England, during her Parliament of 1640, whose ranks
were filled with sectaries and enthusiasts, wilder than the anabaptists of
Munster, thou wouldst have had more cause to marvel; and yet these men were
unconquered on the field, and their hands wrought marvellous things for the
liberties of the land.«
    »But their affairs,« replied Morton, »were wisely conducted, and the
violence of their zeal expended itself in their exhortations and sermons,
without bringing divisions into their councils, or cruelty into their conduct. I
have often heard my father say so, and protest, that he wondered at nothing so
much as the contrast between the extravagance of their religious tenets, and the
wisdom and moderation with which they conducted their civil and military
affairs. But our councils seem all one wild chaos of confusion.« »Thou must have
patience, Henry Morton,« answered Balfour; »thou must not leave the cause of thy
religion and country either for one wild word, or one extravagant action. Hear
me. I have already persuaded the wiser of our friends, that the councillors are
too numerous, and that we cannot expect that the Midianites shall, by so large a
number, be delivered into our hands. They have hearkened to my voice, and our
assemblies will be shortly reduced within such a number as can consult and act
together; and in them thou shalt have a free voice, as well as in ordering our
affairs of war, and protecting those to whom mercy should be shown. - Art thou
now satisfied?«
    »It will give me pleasure, doubtless,« answered Morton, »to be the means of
softening the horrors of civil war; and I will not leave the post I have taken,
unless I see measures adopted at which my conscience revolts. But to no bloody
executions after quarter asked, or slaughter without trial, will I lend
countenance or sanction; and you may depend on my opposing them, with both heart
and hand, as constantly and resolutely, if attempted by our own followers, as
when they are the work of the enemy.«
    Balfour waved his hand impatiently.
    »Thou wilt find,« he said, »that the stubborn and hard-hearted generation
with whom we deal, must be chastised with scorpions ere their hearts be humbled,
and ere they accept the punishment of their iniquity. The word is gone forth
against them, I will bring a sword upon you that shall avenge the quarrel of my
Covenant. But what is done shall be done gravely, and with discretion, like that
of the worthy James Melvin, who executed judgment on the tyrant and oppressor,
Cardinal Beaton.«
    »I own to you,« replied Morton, »that I feel still more abhorrent at
cold-blooded and premeditated cruelty, than at that which is practised in the
heat of zeal and resentment.«
    »Thou art yet but a youth,« replied Balfour, »and hast not learned how light
in the balance are a few drops of blood in comparison to the weight and
importance of this great national testimony. But be not afraid, - thyself shall
vote and judge in these matters; it may be we shall see little cause to strive
together anent them.« With this concession Morton was compelled to be satisfied
for the present; and Burley left him, advising him to lie down and get some
rest, as the host would probably move in the morning.
    »And you,« answered Morton, - »do not you go to rest also?«
    »No,« said Burley; »my eyes must not yet know slumber. This is no work to be
done lightly. I have yet to perfect the choosing of the committee of leaders,
and I will call you by times in the morning, to be present at their
consultation.«
    He turned away, and left Morton to his repose.
    The place in which he found himself was not ill adapted for the purpose,
being a sheltered nook, beneath a large rock, well protected from the prevailing
wind. A quantity of moss, with which the ground was overspread, made a couch
soft enough for one who had suffered so much hardship and anxiety. Morton
wrapped himself in the horseman's cloak which he had still retained, stretched
himself on the ground, and had not long indulged in melancholy reflections on
the state of the country and upon his own condition, ere he was relieved from
them by deep and sound slumber.
    The rest of the army slept on the ground, dispersed in groups, which chose
their beds on the fields as they could best find shelter and convenience. A few
of the principal leaders held wakeful conference with Burley on the state of
their affairs, and some watchmen were appointed, who kept themselves on the
alert by chanting psalms, or listening to the exercises of the more gifted of
their number.
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Second

 Got with much ease - now merrily to horse.
                                                               Henry IV. Part I.
 
With the first peep of day Henry awoke, and found the faithful Cuddie standing
beside him with a portmanteau in his hand.
    »I hae been just putting your honour's things in readiness again ye were
waking,« said Cuddie, »as is my duty, seeing ye hae been sae good as to take me
into your service.«
    »I take you into my service, Cuddie?« said Morton; »you must be dreaming.«
    »Na, na, stir,« answered Cuddie; »didna I say, when I was tied on the horse
yonder, that if ever ye gat loose I would be your servant, and ye didna say no?
and if that isna hiring, I kenna what is. Ye gave me nae arles, indeed, but ye
had gien me enough before at Milnwood.«
    »Well, Cuddie, if you insist on taking the chance of my unprosperous
fortunes« --
    »Ou ay, I'se warrant us a' prosper well enough,« answered Cuddie,
cheeringly, »an ance my auld mither was well putten up. I hae begun the
campaigning trade at an end that is easy enough to learn.«
    »Pillaging, I suppose?« said Morton, »for how else could you come by that
portmanteau?«
    »I wotna if it's pillaging, or how ye ca't,« said Cuddie; »but it comes
natural to a body, and it's a profitable trade. Our folk had tirled the dead
dragoons as bare as bawbees before we were loose amaist. - But when I saw the
whigs a' well yokit by the lugs to Kettledrummle and the other chield, I set off
at the lang trot on my ain errand and your honour's. Sae I took up the syke a
wee bit, away to the right, where I saw the marks o' mony a horse-foot, and sure
enough I cam to a place where there had been some clean leatherin', and a' the
puir chields were lying there buskit wi' their claes just as they had put them
on that morning - nobody had found out that pose o' carcages - and what should be
in the midst thereof (as my mither says) but our auld acquaintance, Sergeant
Bothwell?«
    »Ay! has that man fallen?« said Morton.
    »Troth has he,« answered Cuddie; »and his een were open and his brow bent,
and his teeth clenched thegither, like the jaws of a trap for foumarts when the
spring's doun - I was amaist feared to look at him; however, I thought to hae
turn about wi' him, and sae I e'en riped his pouches, as he had dune mony an
honester man's; and here's your ain siller again (or your uncle's, which is the
same) that he got at Milnwood that unlucky night that made us a' sodgers
thegither.«
    »There can be no harm, Cuddie,« said Morton, »in making use of this money,
since we know how he came by it; but you must divide with me.«
    »Bide a wee, bide a wee,« said Cuddie. »Weel, and there's a bit ring he had
hinging in a black ribbon doun on his breast. I am thinking it has been a
love-token, puir fallow - there's nobody sae rough but they hae aye a kind
heart to the lasses - and there's a book wi' a wheen papers; and I got twa or
three odd things, that I'll keep to mysell, forby.«
    »Upon my word, you have made a very successful foray for a beginner,« said
his new master,
    »Haena I e'en now?« said Cuddie, with great exultation. »I told ye I wasna
that dooms stupid, if it cam to lifting things. - And forby, I hae gotten twa
good horse. A feckless loon of a Straven weaver, that has left his loom and his
bein house to sit skirling on a cauld hill-side, had caught twa dragoon naigs,
and he could neither gar them hup nor wind, sae he took a gowd noble for them
baith - I should hae tried him wi' half the siller, but it's an unco ill place to
get change in - Ye'll find the siller's missing out o' Bothwell's purse.«
    »You have made a most excellent and useful purchase, Cuddie; - but what is
that portmanteau?«
    »The pockmantle?« answered Cuddie; »it was Lord Evandale's yesterday, and
it's yours the day. I fand it ahint the bush o' broom yonder - Ilka dog has its
day - Ye ken what the auld sang says,
 
                 Take turn about, mither, quo' Tam o' the Linn.
 
And, speaking o' that, I maun gang and see about my mither, puir auld body, if
your honour hasna ony immediate commands.«
    »But, Cuddie,« said Morton, »I really cannot take these things from you
without some recompense.«
    »Hout fie, stir,« answered Cuddie, »ye should aye be taking, - for recompense,
ye may think about that some other time - I hae seen gey well to mysell wi' some
things that fit me better. What could I do wi' Lord Evandale's braw claes?
Sergeant Bothwell's will serve me well enough.«
    Not being able to prevail on the self-constituted and disinterested follower
to accept of anything for himself out of these warlike spoils, Morton resolved
to take the first opportunity of returning Lord Evandale's property, supposing
him yet to be alive; and, in the meanwhile, did not hesitate to avail himself of
Cuddie's prize, so far as to appropriate some changes of linen, and other
trifling articles amongst those of more value which the portmanteau contained.
    He then hastily looked over the papers which were found in Bothwell's
pocket-book. These were of a miscellaneous description. The roll of his troop,
with the names of those absent on furlough, memorandums of tavern bills, and
lists of delinquents who might be made subjects of fine and persecution, first
presented themselves, along with a copy of a warrant from the Privy Council to
arrest certain persons of distinction therein named. In another pocket of the
book were one or two commissions which Bothwell had held at different times, and
certificates of his services abroad, in which his courage and military talents
were highly praised. But the most remarkable paper was an accurate account of
his genealogy, with reference to many documents for establishment of its
authenticity; - subjoined was a list of the ample possessions of the forfeited
Earls of Bothwell, and a particular account of the proportions in which King
James VI. had bestowed them on the courtiers and nobility, by whose descendants
they were at present actually possessed; beneath this list was written, in red
letters, in the hand of the deceased, Haud Immemor, F. S. E. B., the initials
probably intimating Francis Stewart, Earl of Bothwell. To these documents, which
strongly painted the character and feelings of their deceased proprietor, were
added some which showed him in a light greatly different from that in which we
have hitherto presented him to the reader.
    In a secret pocket of the book, which Morton did not discover without some
trouble, were one or two letters, written in a beautiful female hand. They were
dated about twenty years back, bore no address, and were subscribed only by
initials. Without having time to peruse them accurately, Morton perceived that
they contained the elegant yet fond expressions of female affection directed
towards an object whose jealousy they endeavoured to soothe, and of whose hasty,
suspicious, and impatient temper the writer seemed gently to complain. The ink
of these manuscripts had faded by time, and, notwithstanding the great care
which had obviously been taken for their preservation, they were in one or two
places chafed so as to be illegible.
    »It matters not« (these words were written on the envelope of that which had
suffered most), »I have them by heart.«
    With these letters was a lock of hair wrapped in a copy of verses, written
obviously with a feeling which atoned, in Morton's opinion, for the roughness of
the poetry, and the conceits with which it abounded, according to the taste of
the period: -
 
Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright,
As in that well-remembered night,
When first thy mystic braid was wove,
And first my Agnes whispered love.
Since then, how often hast thou pressed
The torrid zone of this wild breast,
Whose wrath and hate hath sworn to dwell
With the first sin which peopled hell!
A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean,
Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion! -
O, if such clime thou canst endure,
Yet keep thy hue unstained and pure,
What conquest o'er each erring thought
Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought!
I had not wandered wild and wide,
With such an angel for my guide;
Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me
If she had lived, and lived to love me.
Not then this world's wild joys had been
To me one savage hunting-scene,
My sole delight the headlong race.
And frantic hurry of the chase,
To start, pursue, and bring to bay,
Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey,
Then from the carcass turn away;
Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,
And soothed each wound which pride inflamed; -
Yes, God and man might now approve me,
If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me!
 
As he finished reading these lines, Morton could not forbear reflecting with
compassion on the fate of this singular and most unhappy being, who it appeared,
while in the lowest state of degradation, and almost of contempt, had his
recollections continually fixed on the high station to which his birth seemed to
entitle him; and, while plunged in gross licentiousness, was in secret looking
back with bitter remorse to the period of his youth, during which he had
nourished a virtuous though unfortunate attachment.
    »Alas! what are we,« said Morton, »that our best and most praiseworthy
feelings can be thus debased and depraved - that honourable pride can sink into
haughty and desperate indifference for general opinion, and the sorrow of
blighted affection inhabit the same bosom which license, revenge, and rapine,
have chosen for their citadel? But it is the same throughout: the liberal
principles of one man sink into cold and unfeeling indifference: the religious
zeal of another hurries him into frantic and savage enthusiasm. Our resolutions,
our passions, are like the waves of the sea, and, without the aid of Him who
formed the human breast, we cannot say to its tides, Thus far shall ye come, and
no farther.«
    While he thus moralised, he raised his eyes, and observed that Burley stood
before him.
    »Already awake?« said that leader - »It is well, and shows zeal to tread the
path before you. What papers are these?« he continued.
    Morton gave him some brief account of Cuddie's successful marauding party,
and handed him the pocket-book of Bothwell, with its contents. The Cameronian
leader looked with some attention on such of the papers as related to military
affairs, or public business; but when he came to the verses, he threw them from
him with contempt.
    »I little thought,« he said, »when, by the blessing of God, I passed my
sword three times through the body of that arch tool of cruelty and persecution,
that a character so desperate and so dangerous could have stooped to an art as
trifling as it is profane. But I see that Satan can blend the most different
qualities in his well-beloved and chosen agents, and that the same hand which
can wield a club or a slaughter-weapon against the godly in the valley of
destruction, can touch a tinkling lute, or a gittern, to soothe the ears of the
dancing daughters of perdition in their Vanity Fair.«
    »Your ideas of duty, then,« said Morton, »exclude love of the fine arts,
which have been supposed in general to purify and to elevate the mind?«
    »To me, young man,« answered Burley, »and to those who think as I do, the
pleasures of this world, under whatever name disguised, are vanity, as its
grandeur and power are a snare. We have but one object on earth, and that is to
build up the temple of the Lord.« »I have heard my father observe,« replied
Morton, »that many who assumed power in the name of Heaven, were as severe in
its exercise, and as unwilling to part with it, as if they had been solely moved
by the motives of worldly ambition - But of this another time. Have you
succeeded in obtaining a committee of the council to be nominated?«
    »I have,« answered Burley. »The number is limited to six, of which you are
one, and I come to call you to their deliberations.«
    Morton accompanied him to a sequestered grass-plot, where their colleagues
awaited them. In this delegation of authority, the two principal factions which
divided the tumultuary army had each taken care to send three of their own
number. On the part of the Cameronians, were Burley, Macbriar, and
Kettledrummle; and on that of the moderate party, Poundtext, Henry Morton, and a
small proprietor called the Laird of Langcale. Thus the two parties were equally
balanced by their representatives in the committee of management, although it
seemed likely that those of the most violent opinions were, as is usual in such
cases, to possess and exert the greater degree of energy. Their debate, however,
was conducted more like men of this world than could have been expected from
their conduct on the preceding evening. After maturely considering their means
and situation, and the probable increase of their numbers, they agreed that they
would keep their position for that day, in order to refresh their men, and give
time to reinforcements to join them, and that, on the next morning, they would
direct their march towards Tillietudlem, and summon that stronghold, as they
expressed it, of malignancy. If it was not surrendered to their summons, they
resolved to try the effect of a brisk assault; and, should that miscarry, it was
settled that they should leave a part of their number to blockade the place, and
reduce it, if possible, by famine, while their main body should march forward to
drive Claverhouse and Lord Ross from the town of Glasgow. Such was the
determination of the council of management; and thus Morton's first enterprise
in active life was likely to be the attack of a castle belonging to the parent
of his mistress, and defended by her relative, Major Bellenden, to whom he
personally owed many obligations! He felt fully the embarrassment of his
situation, yet consoled himself with the reflection, that his newly-acquired
power in the insurgent army would give him, at all events, the means of
extending to the inmates of Tillietudlem a protection which no other
circumstance could have afforded them; - and he was not without hope that he
might be able to mediate such an accommodation betwixt them and the Presbyterian
army, as should secure them a safe neutrality during the war which was about to
ensue.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Third

 There came a knight from the field of slain,
 His steed was drenched in blood and rain.
                                                                         Finlay.
 
We must now return to the fortress of Tillietudlem and its inhabitants. The
morning, being the first after the battle of Loudon Hill, had dawned upon its
battlements, and the defenders had already resumed the labours by which they
proposed to render the place tenable, when the watchman, who was placed in a
high turret called the Warder's Tower, gave the signal that a horseman was
approaching. As he came nearer, his dress indicated an officer of the
Life-Guards; and the slowness of his horse's pace, as well as the manner in
which the rider stooped on the saddle-bow, plainly showed that he was sick or
wounded. The wicket was instantly opened to receive him, and Lord Evandale rode
into the courtyard, so reduced by loss of blood, that he was unable to dismount
without assistance. As he entered the hall, leaning upon a servant, the ladies
shrieked with surprise and terror; for, pale as death, stained with blood, his
regimentals soiled and torn, and his hair matted and disordered, he resembled
rather a spectre than a human being. But their next exclamation was that of joy
at his escape. »Thank God!« exclaimed Lady Margaret, »that you are here, and
have escaped the hands of the bloodthirsty murderers who have cut off so many of
the king's loyal servants!«
    »Thank God!« added Edith, »that you are here and in safety! We have dreaded
the worst. But you are wounded, and I fear we have little the means of assisting
you.«
    »My wounds are only sword-cuts,« answered the young nobleman, as he reposed
himself on a seat; »the pain is not worth mentioning, and I should not even feel
exhausted but for the loss of blood. - But it was not my purpose to bring my
weakness to add to your danger and distress, but to relieve them, if possible.
What can I do for you? - Permit me,« he added, addressing Lady Margaret -
»permit me to think and act as your son, my dear madam - as your brother,
Edith!«
    He pronounced the last part of the sentence with some emphasis, as if he
feared that the apprehension of his pretensions as a suitor might render his
proffered services unacceptable to Miss Bellenden. She was not insensible to his
delicacy, but there was no time for exchange of sentiments.
    »We are preparing for our defence,« said the old lady with great dignity; -
»my brother has taken charge of our garrison, and, by the grace of God, we will
give the rebels such a reception as they deserve.«
    »How gladly,« said Evandale, »would I share in the defence of the Castle!
But in my present state, I should be but a burden to you - nay, something worse;
for, the knowledge that an officer of the Life-Guards was in the Castle would be
sufficient to make these rogues more desperately earnest to possess themselves
of it. If they find it defended only by the family, they may possibly march on
to Glasgow rather than hazard an assault.«
    »And can you think so meanly of us, my lord,« said Edith, with the generous
burst of feeling which woman so often evinces, and which becomes her so well -
her voice faltering through eagerness, and her brow colouring with the noble
warmth which dictated her language - »can you think so meanly of your friends,
as that they would permit such considerations to interfere with their sheltering
and protecting you at a moment when you are unable to defend yourself, and when
the whole country is filled with the enemy? Is there a cottage in Scotland whose
owners would permit a valued friend to leave it in such circumstances? And can
you think we will allow you to go from a castle which we hold to be strong
enough for our own defence?«
    »Lord Evandale need never think of it,« said Lady Margaret. »I will dress
his wounds myself; it is all an old wife is fit for in war time; but to quit the
Castle of Tillietudlem when the sword of the enemy is drawn to slay him, - the
meanest trooper that ever wore the king's coat on his back should not do so,
much less my young Lord Evandale. - Ours is not a house that ought to brook such
dishonour. The Tower of Tillietudlem has been too much distinguished by the
visit of his most sacred« --
    Here she was interrupted by the entrance of the Major. »We have taken a
prisoner, my dear uncle,« said Edith - »a wounded prisoner, and he wants to
escape from us. You must help us to keep him by force.«
    »Lord Evandale!« exclaimed the veteran. »I am as much pleased as when I got
my first commission. Claverhouse reported you were killed, or missing at least.«
    »I should have been slain, but for a friend of yours,« said Lord Evandale,
speaking with some emotion, and bending his eyes on the ground, as if he wished
to avoid seeing the impression that what he was about to say would make upon
Miss Bellenden. »I was unhorsed and defenceless, and the sword raised to
despatch me, when young Mr. Morton, the prisoner for whom you interested
yourself yesterday morning, interposed in the most generous manner, preserved my
life, and furnished me with the means of escaping.«
    As he ended the sentence, a painful curiosity overcame his first resolution;
he raised his eyes to Edith's face, and imagined he could read in the glow of
her cheek and the sparkle of her eye, joy at hearing of her lover's safety and
freedom, and triumph at his not having been left last in the race of generosity.
Such, indeed, were her feelings; but they were also mingled with admiration of
the ready frankness with which Lord Evandale had hastened to bear witness to the
merit of a favoured rival, and to acknowledge an obligation which, in all
probability, he would rather have owed to any other individual in the world.
    Major Bellenden, who would never have observed the emotions of either party,
even had they been much more markedly expressed, contented himself with saying,
»Since Henry Morton has influence with these rascals, I am glad he has so
exerted it; but I hope he will get clear of them as soon as he can. Indeed, I
cannot doubt it. I know his principles, and that he detests their cant and
hypocrisy. I have heard him laugh a thousand times at the pedantry of that old
Presbyterian scoundrel, Poundtext, who, after enjoying the indulgence of the
Government for so many years, has now, upon the very first ruffle, shown himself
in his own proper colours, and set off, with three parts of his crop-eared
congregation, to join the host of the fanatics - But how did you escape after
leaving the field, my lord?«
    »I rode for my life, as a recreant knight must,« answered Lord Evandale,
smiling. »I took the route where I thought I had least chance of meeting with
any of the enemy, and I found shelter for several hours - you will hardly guess
where.«
    »At Castle Bracklan, perhaps,« said Lady Margaret, »or in the house of some
other loyal gentleman?«
    »No, madam. I was repulsed, under one mean pretext or another, from more
than one house of that description, for fear of the enemy following my traces;
but I found refuge in the cottage of a poor widow, whose husband had been shot
within these three months by a party of our corps, and whose two sons are at
this very moment with the insurgents.« »Indeed!« said Lady Margaret Bellenden;
»and was a fanatic woman capable of such generosity? But she disapproved, I
suppose, of the tenets of her family?« »Far from it, madam,« continued the young
nobleman; »she was in principle a rigid recusant, but she saw my danger and
distress, considered me as a fellow-creature, and forgot that I was a cavalier
and a soldier. She bound my wounds, and permitted me to rest upon her bed,
concealed me from a party of the insurgents who were seeking for stragglers,
supplied me with food, and did not suffer me to leave my place of refuge until
she had learned that I had every chance of getting to this tower without
danger.«
    »It was nobly done,« said Miss Bellenden; »and I trust you will have an
opportunity of rewarding her generosity.«
    »I am running up an arrear of obligation on all sides, Miss Bellenden,
during these unfortunate occurrences,« replied Lord Evandale; »but when I can
attain the means of showing my gratitude, the will shall not be wanting.«
    All now joined in pressing Lord Evandale to relinquish his intention of
leaving the Castle; but the argument of Major Bellenden proved the most
effectual.
    »Your presence in the Castle will be most useful, if not absolutely
necessary, my lord, in order to maintain, by your authority, proper discipline
among the fellows whom Claverhouse has left in garrison here, and who do not
prove to be of the most orderly description of inmates; and, indeed, we have the
Colonel's authority, for that very purpose, to detain any officer of his
regiment who might pass this way.«
    »That,« said Lord Evandale, »is an unanswerable argument, since it shows me
that my residence here may be useful, even in my present disabled state.« »For
your wounds, my lord,« said the Major, »if my sister, Lady Bellenden, will
undertake to give battle to any feverish symptom, if such should appear, I will
answer that my old campaigner, Gideon Pike, shall dress a flesh-wound with any
of the incorporation of Barber-Surgeons. He had enough of practice in Montrose's
time, for we had few regularly-bred army chirurgeons, as you may well suppose. -
You agree to stay with us, then?«
    »My reasons for leaving the Castle,« said Lord Evandale, glancing a look
towards Edith, »though they evidently seemed weighty, must needs give way to
those which infer the power of serving you. May I presume, Major, to inquire
into the means and plan of defence which you have prepared? or can I attend you
to examine the works?«
    It did not escape Miss Bellenden, that Lord Evandale seemed much exhausted
both in body and mind. »I think, sir,« she said, addressing the Major, »that
since Lord Evandale condescends to become an officer of our garrison, you should
begin by rendering him amenable to your authority, and ordering him to his
apartment, that he may take some refreshment ere he enters on military
discussions.«
    »Edith is right,« said the old lady; »you must go instantly to bed, my lord,
and take some febrifuge, which I will prepare with my own hand; and my
lady-in-waiting, Mistress Martha Weddell, shall make some friar's-chicken, or
something very light; I would not advise wine. - John Gudyill, let the
housekeeper make ready the chamber of dais - Lord Evandale must lie down
instantly. Pike will take off the dressings, and examine the state of the
wounds.«
    »These are melancholy preparations, madam,« said Lord Evandale, as he
returned thanks to Lady Margaret, and was about to leave the hall; »but I must
submit to your ladyship's directions, and I trust that your skill will soon make
me a more able defender of your Castle than I am at present. You must render my
body serviceable as soon as you can, for you have no use for my head while you
have Major Bellenden.« With these words he left the apartment.
    »An excellent young man, and a modest,« said the Major.
    »None of that conceit,« said Lady Margaret, »that often makes young folk
suppose they know better how their complaints should be treated than people that
have had experience.«
    »And so generous and handsome a young nobleman,« said Jenny Dennison, who
had entered during the latter part of this conversation, and was now left alone
with her mistress in the hall, - the Major returning to his military cares, and
Lady Margaret to her medical preparations.
    Edith only answered these encomiums with a sigh; but, although silent, she
felt and knew better than any one how much they were merited by the person on
whom they were bestowed. Jenny, however, failed not to follow up her blow.
    »After a', it's true that my leddy says - there's nae trusting a
Presbyterian; they are a' faithless man-sworn loons. Whae wad hae thought that
young Milnwood and Cuddie Headrigg wad hae taken on wi' thae rebel blackguards?«
    »What do you mean by such improbable nonsense, Jenny?« said her young
mistress, very much displeased.
    »I ken it's no pleasing for you to hear, madam,« answered Jenny, hardily,
»and it's as little pleasant for me to tell; but as good ye should ken a' about it
sune as syne, for the haill Castle's ringing wi't.«
    »Ringing with what, Jenny? Have you a mind to drive me mad?« answered Edith,
impatiently.
    »Just that Henry Morton of Milnwood is out wi' the rebels, and ane o' their
chief leaders.«
    »It is a falsehood!« said Edith - »a most base calumny! and you are very
bold to dare to repeat it to me. Henry Morton is incapable of such treachery to
his king and country - such cruelty to me - to - to all the innocent and
defenceless victims, I mean, who must suffer in a civil war - I tell you he is
utterly incapable of it, in every sense.«
    »Dear! dear! Miss Edith,« replied Jenny, still constant to her text, »they
maun be better acquainted wi' young men than I am, or ever wish to be, that can
tell preceesely what they're capable or no capable o'. But there has been
Trooper Tam, and another chield, out in bonnets and grey plaids, like
countrymen, to recon - reconnoitre - I think John Gudyill ca'd it; and they hae
been amang the rebels, and brought back word that they had seen young Milnwood
mounted on ane o' the dragoon horses that was taken at Loudon Hill, armed wi'
swords and pistols, like what but him, and hand and glove wi' the foremost o'
them, and dreeling and commanding the men; and Cuddie at the heels o' him, in
ane o' Sergeant Bothwell's laced waistcoats, and a cockit hat with a bab o' blue
ribbands at it for the auld cause o' the Covenant (but Cuddie aye liked a blue
ribband), and a ruffled sark, like ony lord o' the land - it sets the like o'
him, indeed!«
    »Jenny,« said her young mistress, hastily, »it is impossible these men's
report can be true; my uncle has heard nothing of it at this instant.«
    »Because Tam Halliday,« answered the handmaiden, »came in just five minutes
after Lord Evandale; and when he heard his lordship was in the Castle, he swore
(the profane loon!) he would be d-d ere he would make the report, as he ca'd it,
of his news to Major Bellenden, since there was an officer of his ain regiment
in the garrison. Sae he wad have said nothing till Lord Evandale wakened the
next morning; only he told me about it« (here Jenny looked a little down),
»just to vex me about Cuddie.«
    »Poh! you silly girl,« said Edith, assuming some courage - »it is all a
trick of that fellow to tease you.«
    »Na, madam, it canna be that, for John Gudyill took the other dragoon (he's
an auld hard-favoured man, I wotna his name) into the cellar, and gave him a tass
o' brandy to get the news out o' him, and he said just the same as Tam Halliday,
word for word; and Mr. Gudyill was in sic a rage, that he told it a' ower again
to us, and says the haill rebellion is owing to the nonsense o' my Leddy and the
Major, and Lord Evandale, that begged off young Milnwood and Cuddie yesterday
morning, for that, if they had suffered, the country wad hae been quiet - and
troth I am muckle o' that opinion mysell.« This last commentary Jenny added to
her tale, in resentment of her mistress's extreme and obstinate incredulity. She
was instantly alarmed, however, by the effect which her news produced upon her
young lady - an effect rendered doubly violent by the High Church principles and
prejudices in which Miss Bellenden had been educated. Her complexion became as
pale as a corpse - her respiration so difficult, that it was on the point of
altogether failing her - and her limbs so incapable of supporting her, that she
sunk, rather than sat, down upon one of the seats in the hall, and seemed on the
eve of fainting. Jenny tried cold water, burnt feathers, cutting of laces, and
all other remedies usual in hysterical cases, but without any immediate effect.
    »God forgie me! what hae I dune?« said the repentant fille-de-chamber. »I
wish my tongue had been cuttit out! - Wha wad hae thought o' her taking on that
way, and a' for a young lad? - O, Miss Edith! dear Miss Edith! haud your heart
up about it - it's maybe no true for a' that I hae said - O, I wish my mouth had
been blistered! A'body tells me my tongue will do me a mischief some day. What
if my Leddy comes? or the Major? - and she's sitting in the throne, too, that
nobody has sate in since that weary morning the King was here! - O! what will I
do? O! what will become o' us?«
    While Jenny Dennison thus lamented herself and her mistress Edith slowly
returned from the paroxysm into which she had been thrown by this unexpected
intelligence. - »If he had been unfortunate,« she said, »I never would have
deserted him - I never did so, even when there was danger and disgrace in
pleading his cause. If he had died, I would have mourned him - if he had been
unfaithful, I would have forgiven him; but a rebel to his King - a traitor to
his country - the associate and colleague of cut-throats and common stabbers -
the persecutor of all that is noble - the professed and blasphemous enemy of all
that is sacred - I will tear him from my heart, if my life-blood should ebb in
the effort!«
    She wiped her eyes, and rose hastily from the great chair (or throne, as
Lady Margaret used to call it), while the terrified damsel hastened to shake up
the cushion, and efface the appearance of any one having occupied that sacred
seat; although King Charles himself, considering the youth and beauty, as well
as the affliction of the momentary usurper of his hallowed chair, would probably
have thought very little of the profanation. She then hastened officiously to
press her support on Edith, as she paced the hall, apparently in deep
meditation. - »Tak my arm, madam; better just take my arm; sorrow maun hae its
vent, and doubtless« --
    »No, Jenny,« said Edith with firmness; »you have seen my weakness, and you
shall see my strength.«
    »But ye leaned on me the other morning, Miss Edith, when ye were sae sair
grieved.«
    »Misplaced and erring affection may require support, Jenny - duty can
support itself. Yet I will do nothing rashly; - I will be aware of the reasons
of his conduct - and then - cast him off for ever,« was the firm and determined
answer of her young lady.
    Overawed by a manner of which she could neither conceive the motive, nor
estimate the merit, Jenny muttered between her teeth, »Od, when the first
flight's ower, Miss Edith taks it as easy as I do, and muckle easier, and I'm
sure I ne'er cared half sae muckle about Cuddie Headrigg as she did about young
Milnwood. Forby that, it's maybe as well to hae a friend on baith sides; for if
the whigs should come to take the Castle, as it's like they may, when there's sae
little victual, and the dragoons wasting what's o't, - ou, in that case,
Milnwood and Cuddie wad hae the upper hand, and their friendship wad be worth
siller - I was thinking sae this morning or I heard the news.«
    With this consolatory reflection the damsel went about her usual
occupations, leaving her mistress to school her mind as she best might, for
eradicating the sentiments which she had hitherto entertained towards Henry
Morton.
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Fourth

 Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!
                                                                        Henry V.
 
On the evening of this day, all the information which they could procure led
them to expect that the insurgent army would be with early dawn on their march
against Tillietudlem. Lord Evandale's wounds had been examined by Pike, who
reported them in a very promising state. They were numerous, but none of any
consequence; and the loss of blood, as much perhaps as the boasted specific of
Lady Margaret, had prevented any tendency to fever; so that, notwithstanding he
felt some pain and great weakness, the patient maintained that he was able to
creep about with the assistance of a stick. In these circumstances he refused to
be confined to his apartment, both that he might encourage the soldiers by his
presence, and suggest any necessary addition to the plan of defence, which the
Major might be supposed to have arranged upon something of an antiquated fashion
of warfare. - Lord Evandale was well qualified to give advice on such subjects,
having served, during his early youth, both in France and in the Low Countries.
There was little or no occasion, however, for altering the preparations already
made; and excepting on the article of provisions, there seemed no reason to fear
for the defence of so strong a place against such assailants as those by whom it
was threatened.
    With the peep of day, Lord Evandale and Major Bellenden were on the
battlements again, viewing and re-viewing the state of their preparations, and
anxiously expecting the approach of the enemy. I ought to observe, that the
report of the spies had now been regularly made and received; but the Major
treated the report that Morton was in arms against the Government with the most
scornful incredulity.
    »I know the lad better,« was the only reply he deigned to make; - »the
fellows have not dared to venture near enough, and have been deceived by some
fanciful resemblance, or have picked up some story.«
    »I differ from you, Major,« answered Lord Evandale; »I think you will see
that young gentleman at the head of the insurgents; and, though I shall be
heartily sorry for it, I shall not be greatly surprised.«
    »You are as bad as Claverhouse,« said the Major, »who contended yesterday
morning down my very throat, that this young fellow, who is as high-spirited and
gentleman-like a boy as I have ever known, wanted but an opportunity to place
himself at the head of the rebels.«
    »And considering the usage which he has received, and the suspicions under
which he lies,« said Lord Evandale, »what other course is open to him? For my
own part, I should hardly know whether he deserved most blame or pity.«
    »Blame, my lord! - Pity!« echoed the Major, astonished at hearing such
sentiments: »he would deserve to be hanged, that's all; and, were he my own son,
I should see him strung up with pleasure - Blame, indeed! But your lordship
cannot think as you are pleased to speak?«
    »I give you my honour, Major Bellenden, that I have been for some time of
opinion, that our politicians and prelates have driven matters to a painful
extremity in this country, and have alienated, by violence of various kinds, not
only the lower classes, but all those in the upper ranks, whom strong
party-feeling, or a desire of court-interest, does not attach to their
standard.«
    »I am no politician,« answered the Major, »and I do not understand nice
distinctions. My sword is the King's, and when he commands, I draw it in his
cause.«
    »I trust,« replied the young lord, »you will not find me more backward than
yourself, though I heartily wish that the enemy were foreigners. It is, however,
no time to debate that matter, for yonder they come, and we must defend
ourselves as well as we can.«
    As Lord Evandale spoke, the van of the insurgents began to make their
appearance on the road which crossed the top of the hill, and thence descended
opposite to the Tower. They did not, however, move downwards, as if aware that,
in doing so, their columns would be exposed to the fire of the artillery of the
place. But their numbers, which at first seemed few, appeared presently so to
deepen and concentrate themselves, that, judging of the masses which occupied
the road behind the hill from the closeness of the front which they presented on
the top of it, their force appeared very considerable. There was a pause of
anxiety on both sides; and, while the unsteady ranks of the Covenanters were
agitated, as if by pressure behind, or uncertainty as to their next movement,
their arms, picturesque from their variety, glanced in the morning sun, whose
beams were reflected from a grove of pikes, muskets, halberds, and battle-axes.
The armed mass occupied, for a few minutes, this fluctuating position, until
three or four horsemen, who seemed to be leaders, advanced from the front, and
occupied the height a little nearer to the Castle. John Gudyill, who was not
without some skill as an artilleryman, brought a gun to bear on this detached
group.
    »I'll flee the falcon« - (so the small cannon was called) - »I'll flee the
falcon whene'er your honour gies command; my certie, she'll ruffle their
feathers for them!«
    The Major looked at Lord Evandale.
    »Stay a moment,« said the young nobleman; - »they send us a flag of truce.«
    In fact, one of the horsemen at that moment dismounted, and, displaying a
white cloth on a pike, moved forward towards the Tower, while the Major and Lord
Evandale, descending from the battlement of the main fortress, advanced to meet
him as far as the barricade, judging it unwise to admit him within the precincts
which they designed to defend. At the same time that the ambassador set forth,
the group of horsemen, as if they had anticipated the preparations of John
Gudyill for their annoyance, withdrew from the advanced station which they had
occupied, and fell back to the main body.
    The envoy of the Covenanters, to judge by his mien and manner, seemed fully
imbued with that spiritual pride which distinguished his sect. His features were
drawn up to a contemptuous primness, and his half-shut eyes seemed to scorn to
look upon the terrestrial objects around, while, at every solemn stride, his
toes were pointed outwards with an air that appeared to despise the ground on
which they trode. Lord Evandale could not suppress a smile at this singular
figure.
    »Did you ever,« said he to Major Bellenden, »see such an absurd automaton?
One would swear it moves upon springs - Can it speak, think you?«
    »O, ay,« said the Major; »that seems to be one of my old acquaintance, a
genuine puritan of the right pharisaical leaven.
    Stay - he coughs and hems; he is about to summon the castle with the
butt-end of a sermon, instead of a parley on the trumpet.«
    The veteran, who in his day had had many an opportunity to become acquainted
with the manners of these religionists, was not far mistaken in his conjecture;
only that, instead of a prose exordium, the Laird of Langcale - for it was no
less a personage - uplifted, with a stentorian voice, a verse of the
twenty-fourth Psalm:
 
»Ye gates lift up your heads! ye doors,
Doors that do last for aye,
Be lifted up« -
 
»I told you so,« said the Major to Evandale, - and then presented himself at the
entrance of the barricade, demanding to know for what purpose or intent he made
that doleful noise, like a hog in a high wind, beneath the gates of the Castle.
    »I come,« replied the ambassador in a high and shrill voice, and without any
of the usual salutations or deferences - »I come from the godly army of the
Solemn League and Covenant, to speak with two carnal malignants, William
Maxwell, called Lord Evandale, and Miles Bellenden of Charnwood.«
    »And what have you to say to Miles Bellenden and Lord Evandale?« answered
the Major.
    »Are you the parties?« said the Laird of Langcale, in the same sharp,
conceited, disrespectful tone of voice. »Even so, for fault of better,« said the
Major.
    »Then there is the public summons,« said the envoy, putting a paper into
Lord Evandale's hand, »and there is a private letter for Miles Bellenden from a
godly youth, who is honoured with leading a part of our host. Bead them quickly,
and God give you grace to fructify by the contents, though it is muckle to be
doubted.« The summons ran thus: »We, the named and constituted leaders of the
gentlemen, ministers, and others, presently in arms for the cause of liberty and
true religion, do warn and summon William Lord Evandale and Miles Bellenden of
Charnwood, and others presently in arms, and keeping garrison in the Tower of
Tillietudlem, to surrender the said Tower upon fair conditions of quarter, and
license to depart with bag and baggage, otherwise to suffer such extremity of
fire and sword as belong by the laws of war to those who hold out an untenable
post. And so may God defend his own good cause!«
    This summons was signed by John Balfour of Burley, as quarter-master-general
of the army of the Covenant, for himself, and in name of the other leaders.
    The letter to Major Bellenden was from Henry Morton. It was couched in the
following language: -
 
        »I have taken a step, my venerable friend, which, among many painful
        consequences, will, I am afraid, incur your very decided disapprobation.
        But I have taken my resolution in honour and good faith, and with the
        full approval of my own conscience. I can no longer submit to have my
        own rights and those of my fellow-subjects trampled upon, our freedom
        violated, our persons insulted, and our blood spilt, without just cause
        or legal trial. Providence, through the violence of the oppressors
        themselves, seems now to have opened a way of deliverance from this
        intolerable tyranny, and I do not hold him deserving of the name and
        rights of a freeman, who, thinking as I do, shall withhold his arm from
        the cause of his country. But God, who knows my heart, be my witness,
        that I do not share the angry or violent passions of the oppressed and
        harassed sufferers with whom I am now acting. My most earnest and
        anxious desire is, to see this unnatural war brought to a speedy end, by
        the union of the good, wise, and moderate of all parties, and a peace
        restored, which, without injury to the King's constitutional rights, may
        substitute the authority of equal laws to that of military violence,
        and, permitting to all men to worship God according to their own
        consciences, may subdue fanatical enthusiasm by reason and mildness,
        instead of driving it to frenzy by persecution and intolerance.
            With these sentiments, you may conceive with what pain I appear in
        arms before the house of your venerable relative, which we understand
        you propose to hold out against us. Permit me to press upon you the
        assurance, that such a measure will only lead to the effusion of blood -
        that if repulsed in the assault, we are yet strong enough to invest the
        place, and reduce it by hunger, being aware of your indifferent
        preparations to sustain a protracted siege. It would grieve me to the
        heart to think what would be the sufferings in such a case, and upon
        whom they would chiefly fall.
            Do not suppose, my respected friend, that I would propose to you any
        terms which could compromise the high and honourable character which you
        have so deservedly won, and so long borne. If the regular soldiers (to
        whom I will ensure a safe retreat) are dismissed from the place, I trust
        no more will be required than your parole to remain neuter during this
        unhappy contest; and I will take care that Lady Margaret's property, as
        well as yours, shall be duly respected, and no garrison intruded upon
        you. I could say much in favour of this proposal; but I fear, as I must
        in the present instance appear criminal in your eyes, good arguments
        would lose their influence when coming from an unwelcome quarter. I
        will, therefore, break off with assuring you, that whatever your
        sentiments may be hereafter towards me, my sense of gratitude to you can
        never be diminished or erased; and it would be the happiest moment of my
        life that should give me more effectual means than mere words to assure
        you of it. Therefore, although in the first moment of resentment you may
        reject the proposal I make to you, let not that prevent you from
        resuming the topic, if future events should render it more acceptable;
        for whenever, or howsoever I can be of service to you, it will always
        afford the greatest satisfaction to
                                                                  HENRY MORTON.«
 
Having read this long letter with the most marked indignation, Major Bellenden
put it into the hands of Lord Evandale.
    »I would not have believed this,« he said, »of Henry Morton, if half mankind
had sworn it! The ungrateful, rebellious traitor! - rebellious in cold blood,
and without even the pretext of enthusiasm, that warms the liver of such a
crack-brained fop as our friend the envoy there. But I should have remembered he
was a Presbyterian - I ought to have been aware that I was nursing a wolf-cub,
whose diabolical nature would make him tear and snatch at me on the first
opportunity. Were Saint Paul on earth again, and a Presbyterian, he would be a
rebel in three months - it is in the very blood of them.«
    »Well,« said Lord Evandale, »I will be the last to recommend surrender; but
if our provisions fail, and we receive no relief from Edinburgh or Glasgow, I
think we ought to avail ourselves of this opening, to get the ladies, at least,
safe out of the Castle.«
    »They will endure all, ere they would accept the protection of such a
smooth-tongued hypocrite,« answered the Major, indignantly; »I would renounce
them for relatives were it otherwise. But let us dismiss the worthy ambassador.
- My friend,« he said turning to Langcale, »tell your leaders, and the mob they
have gathered yonder, that if they have not a particular opinion of the hardness
of their own skulls, I would advise them to beware how they knock them against
these old walls. And let them send no more flags of truce, or we will hang up
the messenger in retaliation of the murder of Cornet Grahame.«
    With this answer the ambassador returned to those by whom he had been sent.
He had no sooner reached the main body, than a murmur was heard amongst the
multitude, and there was raised in front of their ranks an ample red flag, the
borders of which were edged with blue. As the signal of war and defiance spread
out its large folds upon the morning wind, the ancient banner of Lady Margaret's
family, together with the royal ensign, was immediately hoisted on the walls of
the Tower, and at the same time, a round of artillery was discharged against the
foremost ranks of the insurgents, by which they sustained some loss. Their
leaders instantly withdrew them to the shelter of the brow of the hill.
    »I think,« said John Gudyill, while he busied himself in re-charging his
guns, »they hae fund the falcon's neb a bit ower hard for them - It's no for
nought that the hawk whistles.«
    But as he uttered these words, the ridge was once more crowded with the
ranks of the enemy. A general discharge of their firearms was directed against
the defenders upon the battlements. Under cover of the smoke, a column of picked
men rushed down the road with determined courage, and, sustaining with firmness
a heavy fire from the garrison, they forced their way, in spite of opposition,
to the first barricade by which the avenue was defended. They were led on by
Balfour in person, who displayed courage equal to his enthusiasm; and, in spite
of every opposition, forced the barricade, killing and wounding several of the
defenders, and compelling the rest to retreat to their second position. The
precautions, however, of Major Bellenden rendered this success unavailing; for
no sooner were the Covenanters in possession of the post, than a close and
destructive fire was poured into it from the Castle, and from those stations
which commanded it in the rear. Having no means of protecting themselves from
this fire, or of returning it with effect against men who were under cover of
their barricades and defences, the Covenanters were obliged to retreat; but not
until they had with their axes destroyed the stockade, so as to render it
impossible for the defenders to reoccupy it.
    Balfour was the last man that retired. He even remained for a short space
almost alone, with an axe in his hand, labouring like a pioneer amid the storm
of balls, many of which were specially aimed against him. The retreat of the
party he commanded was not effected without heavy loss, and served as a severe
lesson concerning the local advantages possessed by the garrison.
    The next attack of the Covenanters was made with more caution. A strong
party of marksmen (many of them competitors at the game of the popinjay), under
the command of Henry Morton, glided through the woods where they afforded them
the best shelter, and, avoiding the open road, endeavoured, by forcing their way
through the bushes and trees, and up the rocks which surrounded it on either
side, to gain a position from which, without being exposed in an intolerable
degree, they might annoy the flank of the second barricade, while it was menaced
in front by a second attack from Burley. The besieged saw the danger of this
movement, and endeavoured to impede the approach of the marksmen, by firing upon
them at every point where they showed themselves. The assailants, on the other
hand, displayed great coolness, spirit, and judgment, in the manner in which
they approached the defences. This was in a great measure to be ascribed to the
steady and adroit manner in which they were conducted by their youthful leader,
who showed as much skill in protecting his own followers as spirit in annoying
the enemy.
    He repeatedly enjoined his marksmen to direct their aim chiefly upon the
red-coats, and to save the others engaged in the defence of the Castle; and,
above all, to spare the life of the old Major, whose anxiety made him more than
once expose himself in a manner, that, without such generosity on the part of
the enemy, might have proved fatal. A dropping fire of musketry now glanced from
every part of the precipitous mount on which the Castle was founded. From bush
to bush - from crag to crag - from tree to tree, the marksmen continued to
advance, availing themselves of branches and roots to assist their ascent, and
contending at once with the disadvantages of the ground and the fire of the
enemy. At length they got so high on the ascent, that several of them possessed
an opportunity of firing into the barricade against the defenders, who then lay
exposed to their aim, and Burley, profiting by the confusion of the moment,
moved forward to the attack in front. His onset was made with the same
desperation and fury as before, and met with less resistance, the defenders
being alarmed at the progress which the sharpshooters had made in turning the
flank of their position. Determined to improve his advantage, Burley with his
axe in his hand, pursued the party whom he had dislodged even to the third and
last barricade, and entered it along with them.
    »Kill! kill! down with the enemies of God and his people! - No quarter! -
the Castle is ours!« were the cries by which he animated his friends; the most
undaunted of whom followed him close, whilst the others, with axes, spades, and
other implements, threw up earth, cut down trees, hastily labouring to establish
such a defensive cover in the rear of the second barricade as might enable them
to retain possession of it, in case the Castle was not carried by this
coup-de-main.
    Lord Evandale could no longer restrain his impatience. He charged with a few
soldiers who had been kept in reserve in the courtyard of the Castle; and
although his arm was in a sling, encouraged them, by voice and gesture, to
assist their companions who were engaged with Burley. The combat now assumed an
air of desperation. The narrow road was crowded with the followers of Burley,
who pressed forward to support their companions. The soldiers, animated by the
voice and presence of Lord Evandale, fought with fury, their small numbers being
in some measure compensated by their greater skill, and by their possessing the
upper ground, which they defended desperately with pikes and halberts, as well
as with the butts of the carabines and their broadswords. Those within the
Castle endeavoured to assist their companions, whenever they could so level they
guns as to fire upon the enemy without endangering their friends. The
sharpshooters, dispersed around, were firing incessantly on each object that was
exposed upon the battlement. The Castle was enveloped with smoke, and the rocks
rang to the cries of the combatants. In the midst of this scene of confusion, a
singular accident had nearly given the besiegers possession of the fortress.
    Cuddie Headrigg, who had advanced among the marksmen, being well acquainted
with every rock and bush in the vicinity of the Castle, where he had so often
gathered nuts with Jenny Dennison, was enabled, by such local knowledge, to
advance farther and with less danger, than most of his companions, excepting
some three or four who had followed him close. Now Cuddie, though a brave enough
fellow upon the whole, was by no means fond of danger, either for its own sake,
or for that of the glory which attends it. In his advance, therefore, he had
not, as the phrase goes, taken the bull by the horns, or advanced in front of
the enemy's fire. On the contrary, he had edged gradually away from the scene of
action, and turning his line of ascent rather to the left, had pursued it until
it brought him under a front of the Castle different from that before which the
parties were engaged, and to which the defenders had given no attention,
trusting to the steepness of the precipice. There was, however, on this point, a
certain window belonging to a certain pantry, and communicating with a certain
yew-tree, which grew out of a steep cleft of the rock, being the very pass
through which Goose Gibbie was smuggled out of the Castle in order to carry
Edith's express to Charnwood, and which had probably, in its day, been used for
other contraband purposes. Cuddie, resting upon the butt of his gun, and looking
up at this window, observed to one of his companions, - »There's a place I ken
well; mony a time I hae helped Jenny Dennison out o' the winnock, forby creeping
in whiles mysell to get some daffin at e'en after the pleugh was loosed.«
    »And what's to hinder us to creep in just now?« said the other, who was a
smart enterprising young fellow.
    »There's no muckle to hinder us, an that were a',« answered Cuddie; »but
what were we to do neist?«
    »We'll take the Castle,« cried the other; »here are five or six o' us, and
a' the sodgers are engaged at the gate.«
    »Come away wi' you, then,« said Cuddie; »but mind, deil a finger ye maun lay
on Lady Margaret, or Miss Edith, or the auld Major, or, aboon a', on Jenny
Dennison, anybody but the sodgers - cut and quarter among them as ye like, I
carena.«
    »Ay, ay,« said the other; »let us once in, and we will make our ain terms
with them a'.«
    Gingerly, and as if treading upon eggs, Cuddie began to ascend the
well-known pass, not very willingly; for, besides that he was something
apprehensive of the reception he might meet with in the inside, his conscience
insisted that he was making but a shabby requital for Lady Margaret's former
favours and protection. He got up, however, into the yew-tree, followed by his
companions, one after another. The window was small, and had been secured by
stanchions of iron; but these had been long worn away by time, or forced out by
the domestics to possess a free passage for their own occasional convenience.
Entrance was therefore easy, providing there was no one in the pantry - a point
which Cuddie endeavoured to discover before he made the final and perilous step.
While his companions, therefore, were urging and threatening him behind, and he
was hesitating and stretching his neck to look into the apartment, his head
became visible to Jenny Dennison, who had ensconced herself in said pantry as
the safest place in which to wait the issue of the assault. So soon as this
object of terror caught her eye, she set up a hysteric scream, flew to the
adjacent kitchen, and in the desperate agony of fear, seized on a pot of
kail-brose which she herself had hung on the fire before the combat began,
having promised to Tam Halliday to prepare his breakfast for him. Thus burdened,
she returned to the window of the pantry, and still exclaiming, »Murder! murder!
- we are a' harried and ravished! - the Castle's taken! - take it amang ye!« she
discharged the whole scalding contents of the pot, accompanied with a dismal
yell, upon the person of the unfortunate Cuddie. However welcome the mess might
have been, if Cuddie and it had become acquainted in a regular manner, the
effects, as administered by Jenny, would probably have cured him of soldiering
for ever, had he been looking upwards when it was thrown upon him. But,
fortunately for our man of war, he had taken the alarm upon Jenny's first
scream, and was in the act of looking down, expostulating with his comrades, who
impeded the retreat which he was anxious to commence; so that the steel cap and
buff coat which formerly belonged to Sergeant Bothwell, being garments of an
excellent endurance, protected his person against the greater part of the
scalding brose. Enough, however, reached him to annoy him severely, so that in
the pain and surprise he jumped hastily out of the tree, oversetting his
followers, to the manifest danger of their limbs, and, without listening to
arguments, entreaties, or authority, made the best of his way by the most safe
road to the main body of the army whereunto he belonged, and could neither by
threats nor persuasion be prevailed upon to return to the attack.
    As for Jenny, when she had thus conferred upon one admirer's outward man the
viands which her fair hands had so lately been in the act of preparing for the
stomach of another, she continued her song of alarm, running a screaming
division upon all those crimes, which the lawyers call the four pleas of the
crown - namely, murder, fire, rape, and robbery. These hideous exclamations gave
so much alarm, and created such confusion within the Castle, that Major
Bellenden and Lord Evandale judged it best to draw off from the conflict without
the gates, and, abandoning to the enemy all the exterior defences of the avenue,
confine themselves to the Castle itself, for fear of its being surprised on some
unguarded point. Their retreat was unmolested; for the panic of Cuddie and his
companions had occasioned nearly as much confusion on the side of the besiegers
as the screams of Jenny had caused to the defenders.
    There was no attempt on either side to renew the action that day. The
insurgents had suffered most severely; and, from the difficulty which they had
experienced in carrying the barricadoed positions without the precincts of the
Castle, they could have but little hope of storming the place itself. On the
other hand, the situation of the besieged was dispiriting and gloomy. In the
skirmishing they had lost two or three men, and had several wounded; and though
their loss was in proportion greatly less than that of the enemy, who had left
twenty men dead on the place, yet their small number could much worse spare it,
while the desperate attacks of the opposite party plainly showed how serious the
leaders were in the purpose of reducing the place, and how well seconded by the
zeal of their followers. But, especially, the garrison had to fear for hunger,
in case blockade should be resorted to as the means of reducing them. The
Major's directions had been imperfectly obeyed in regard to laying in
provisions; and the dragoons, in spite of all warning and authority, were likely
to be wasteful in using them. It was, therefore, with a heavy heart, that Major
Bellenden gave directions for guarding the window through which the Castle had
so nearly been surprised, as well as all others which offered the most remote
facility for such an enterprise.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Fifth

 -- The king hath drawn
 The special head of all the land together.
                                                              Henry IV. Part II.
 
The leaders of the Presbyterian army had a serious consultation upon the evening
of the day in which they had made the attack on Tillietudlem. They could not but
observe that their followers were disheartened by the loss which they had
sustained, and which, as usual in such cases, had fallen upon the bravest and
most forward. It was to be feared, that if they were suffered to exhaust their
zeal and efforts in an object so secondary as the capture of this petty fort,
their numbers would melt away by degrees, and they would lose all the advantages
arising out of the present unprepared state of the Government. Moved by these
arguments, it was agreed that the main body of the army should march against
Glasgow, and dislodge the soldiers who were lying in that town. The council
nominated Henry Morton, with others, to this last service, and appointed Burley
to the command of a chosen body of five hundred men, who were to remain behind,
for the purpose of blockading the Tower of Tillietudlem. Morton testified the
greatest repugnance to this arrangement.
    »He had the strongest personal motives,« he said, »for desiring to remain
near Tillietudlem; and if the management of the siege were committed to him, he
had little doubt but that he would bring it to such an accommodation, as,
without being rigorous to the besieged, would fully answer the purpose of the
besiegers.«
    Burley readily guessed the cause of his young colleague's reluctance to move
with the army; for, interested as he was in appreciating the characters with
whom he had to deal, he had contrived, through the simplicity of Cuddie, and the
enthusiasm of old Mause, to get much information concerning Morton's relations
with the family of Tillietudlem. He therefore took the advantage of Poundtext's
arising to speak to business, as he said, for some short space of time (which
Burley rightly interpreted to mean an hour at the very least), and seized that
moment to withdraw Morton from the hearing of their colleagues, and to hold the
following argument with him: -
    »Thou art unwise, Henry Morton, to desire to sacrifice this holy cause to
thy friendship for an uncircumcised Philistine, or thy lust for a Moabitish
woman.«
    »I neither understand your meaning, Mr. Balfour, nor relish your allusions,«
replied Morton, indignantly; »and I know no reason you have to bring so gross a
charge, or to use such uncivil language.«
    »Confess, however, the truth,« said Balfour, »and own that there are those
within yon dark Tower, over whom thou wouldst rather be watching like a mother
over her little ones, than thou wouldst bear the banner of the Church of
Scotland over the necks of her enemies.«
    »If you mean, that I would willingly terminate this war without any bloody
victory, and that I am more anxious to do this than to acquire any personal fame
or power, you may be,« replied Morton, »perfectly right.«
    »And not wholly wrong,« answered Burley, »in deeming that thou wouldst not
exclude from so general a pacification thy friends in the garrison of
Tillietudlem.« »Certainly,« replied Morton, »I am too much obliged to Major
Bellenden, not to wish to be of service to him, as far as the interest of the
cause I have espoused will permit. I never made a secret of my regard for him.«
    »I am aware of that,« said Burley; »but, if thou hadst concealed it, I
should, nevertheless, have found out thy riddle. Now, hearken to my words. This
Miles Bellenden hath means to subsist his garrison for a month.«
    »This is not the case,« answered Morton; »we know his stores are hardly
equal to a week's consumption.«
    »Ay, but,« continued Burley, »I have since had proof of the strongest
nature, that such a report was spread in the garrison by that wily and
grey-headed malignant, partly to prevail on the soldiers to submit to a
diminution of their daily food, partly to detain us before the walls of his
fortress until the sword should be whetted to smite and destroy us.«
    »And why was not the evidence of this laid before the council of war?« said
Morton.
    »To what purpose?« said Balfour. »Why need we undeceive Kettledrummle,
Macbriar, Poundtext, and Langcale, upon such a point? Thyself must own, that
whatever is told to them escapes to the host out of the mouth of the preacher at
their next holding-forth. They are already discouraged by the thoughts of lying
before the fort a week - what would be the consequence were they ordered to
prepare for the leaguer of a month?«
    »But why conceal it, then, from me? or why tell it me now? and, above all,
what proofs have you got of the fact?« continued Morton.
    »There are many proofs,« replied Burley; and he put into his hands a number
of requisitions sent forth by Major Bellenden, with receipts on the back, to
various proprietors, for cattle, corn, meal, etc., to such an amount, that the
sum-total seemed to exclude the possibility of the garrison being soon
distressed for provisions. But Burley did not inform Morton of a fact which he
himself knew full well - namely, that most of these provisions never reached the
garrison, owing to the rapacity of the dragoons sent to collect them, who
readily sold to one man what they took from another, and abused the Major's
press for stores, pretty much as Sir John Falstaff did that of the King for men.
    »And now,« continued Balfour, observing that he had made the desired
impression, »I have only to say, that I concealed this from thee no longer than
it was concealed from myself, for I have only received these papers this
morning; and I tell it unto thee now, that thou mayst go on thy way rejoicing,
and work the great work willingly at Glasgow, being assured that no evil can
befall thy friends in the malignant party, since their fort is abundantly
victualled, and I possess not numbers sufficient to do more against them than to
prevent their sallying forth.«
    »And why,« continued Morton, who felt an inexpressible reluctance to
acquiesce in Balfour's reasoning - »why not permit me to remain in the command
of this smaller party, and march forward yourself to Glasgow? It is the more
honourable charge.«
    »And therefore, young man,« answered Burley, »have I laboured that it should
be committed to the son of Silas Morton. I am waxing old, and this grey head has
had enough of honour where it could be gathered by danger. I speak not of the
frothy bubble which men call earthly fame, but the honour belonging to him that
doth not the work negligently. But thy career is yet to run - thou hast to
vindicate the high trust which has been bestowed on thee through my assurance
that it was dearly well-merited. At Loudon Hill thou wert a captive, and at the
last assault it was thy part to fight under cover, whilst I led the more open
and dangerous attack; and, shouldst thou now remain before these walls when
there is active service elsewhere, trust me that men will say that the son of
Silas Morton hath fallen away from the paths of his father.«
    Stung by this last observation, to which, as a gentleman and soldier, he
could offer no suitable reply, Morton hastily acquiesced in the proposed
arrangement. Yet he was unable to divest himself of certain feelings of distrust
which he involuntarily attached to the quarter from which he received this
information.
    »Mr. Balfour,« he said, »let us distinctly understand each other. You have
thought it worth your while to bestow particular attention upon my private
affairs and personal attachments; - be so good as to understand, that I am as
constant to them as to my political principles. It is possible, that, during my
absence, you may possess the power of soothing or of wounding those feelings. Be
assured, that whatever may be the consequences to the issue of our present
adventure, my eternal gratitude, or my persevering resentment, will attend the
line of conduct you may adopt on such an occasion; and however young and
inexperienced I am, I have no doubt of finding friends to assist me in
expressing my sentiments in either case.«
    »If there be a threat implied in that denunciation,« replied Burley, coldly
and haughtily, »it had better have, been spared. I know how to value the regard
of my friends, and despise from my soul the threats of my enemies. But I will
not take occasion of offence. Whatever happens here in your absence shall be
managed with as much deference to your wishes, as the duty I owe to a higher
power can possibly permit.« With this qualified promise Morton was obliged to
rest satisfied.
    »Our defeat will relieve the garrison,« said he, internally, »ere they can
be reduced to surrender at discretion; and, in case of victory, I already see,
from the numbers of the moderate party, that I shall have a voice as powerful as
Burley's in determining the use which shall be made of it.«
    He therefore followed Balfour to the council, where they found Kettledrummle
adding to his lastly a few words of practical application. When these were
expended, Morton testified his willingness to accompany the main body of the
army, which was destined to drive the regular troops from Glasgow. His
companions in command were named, and the whole received a strengthening
exhortation from the preachers who were present. Next morning, at break of day,
the insurgent army broke up from their encampment, and marched towards Glasgow.
    It is not our intention to detail at length incidents which may be found in
the history of the period. It is sufficient to say, that Claverhouse and Lord
Ross, learning the superior force which was directed against them, intrenched,
or rather barricadoed themselves, in the centre of the city, where the
town-house and old jail were situated, with the determination to stand the
assault of the insurgents rather than to abandon the capital of the West of
Scotland. The Presbyterians made their attack in two bodies, one of which
penetrated into the city in the line of the College and Cathedral Church, while
the other marched up the Gallowgate, or principal access from the south-east.
Both divisions were led by men of resolution, and behaved with great spirit. But
the advantages of military skill and situation were too great for their
undisciplined valour.
    Ross and Claverhouse had carefully disposed parties of their soldiers in
houses, at the heads of the streets, and in the entrances of closes, as they are
called, or lanes, besides those who were entrenched behind breastworks which
reached across the streets. The assailants found their ranks thinned by a fire
from invisible opponents, which they had no means of returning with effect. It
was in vain that Morton and other leaders exposed their persons with the utmost
gallantry, and endeavoured to bring their antagonists to a close action; their
followers shrunk from them in every direction. And yet, though Henry Morton was
one of the very last to retire, and exerted himself in bringing up the rear,
maintaining order in the retreat, and checking every attempt which the enemy
made to improve the advantage they had gained by the repulse, he had still the
mortification to hear many of those in his ranks muttering to each other, »that
this came of trusting to the latitudinarian boys; and that, had honest faithful
Burley led the attack, as he did that of the barricades of Tillietudlem, the
issue would have been as different as might be.«
    It was with burning resentment that Morton heard these reflections thrown
out by the very men who had soonest exhibited signs of discouragement. The
unjust reproach, however, had the effect of firing his emulation, and making him
sensible that, engaged as he was in a perilous cause, it was absolutely
necessary that he should conquer or die.
    »I have no retreat,« he said to himself. »All shall allow - even Major
Bellenden - even Edith - that in courage, at least, the rebel Morton was not
inferior to his father.«
    The condition of the army after the repulse was so undisciplined, and in
such disorganisation, that the leaders thought it prudent to draw off some miles
from the city to gain time for reducing them once more into such order as they
were capable of adopting. Recruits, in the meanwhile, came fast in, more moved
by the extreme hardships of their own condition, and encouraged by the advantage
obtained at Loudon Hill, than deterred by the last unfortunate enterprise. Many
of these attached themselves particularly to Morton's division. He had, however,
the mortification to see that his unpopularity among the more intolerant part of
the Covenanters increased rapidly. The prudence beyond his years, which he
exhibited in improving the discipline and arrangement of his followers, they
termed a trusting in the arm of flesh; and his avowed tolerance for those of
religious sentiments and observances different from his own, obtained him, most
unjustly, the nickname of Gallio, who cared for none of those things. What was
worse than these misconceptions, the mob of the insurgents, always loudest in
applause of those who push political or religious opinions to extremity, and
disgusted with such as endeavour to reduce them to the yoke of discipline,
preferred avowedly the more zealous leaders, in whose ranks enthusiasm in the
cause supplied the want of good order and military subjection, to the restraints
which Morton endeavoured to bring them under. In short, while bearing the
principal burden of command - (for his colleagues willingly relinquished in his
favour everything that was troublesome and obnoxious in the office of general) -
Morton found himself without that authority which alone could render his
regulations effectual.31 Yet, notwithstanding these obstacles, he had, during
the course of a few days, laboured so hard to introduce some degree of
discipline into the army, that he thought he might hazard a second attack upon
Glasgow with every prospect of success.
    It cannot be doubted that Morton's anxiety to measure himself with Colonel
Grahame of Claverhouse, at whose hands he had sustained such injury, had its
share in giving motive to his uncommon exertions. But Claverhouse disappointed
his hopes; for, satisfied with having the advantage in repulsing the first
attack upon Glasgow, he determined that he would not, with the handful of troops
under his command, await a second assault from the insurgents, with more
numerous and better disciplined forces than had supported their first
enterprise. He therefore evacuated the place, and marched at the head of his
troops towards Edinburgh. The insurgents of course entered Glasgow without
resistance, and without Morton having the opportunity, which he so deeply
coveted, of again encountering Claverhouse personally. But although he had not
an opportunity of wiping away the disgrace which had befallen his division of
the army of the Covenant, the retreat of Claverhouse, and the possession of
Glasgow, tended greatly to animate the insurgent army, and to increase its
numbers. The necessity of appointing new officers, of organising new regiments
and squadrons, of making them acquainted with at least the most necessary points
of military discipline, were labours, which, by universal consent, seemed to be
devolved upon Henry Morton, and which he the more readily undertook, because his
father had made him acquainted with the theory of the military art, and because
he plainly saw, that, unless he took this ungracious but absolutely necessary
labour, it was vain to expect any other to engage in it.
    In the meanwhile, fortune appeared to favour the enterprise of the
insurgents more than the most sanguine durst have expected. The Privy Council of
Scotland, astonished at the extent of resistance which their arbitrary measures
had provoked, seemed stupefied with terror, and incapable of taking active steps
to subdue the resentment which these measures had excited. There were but very
few troops in Scotland, and these they drew towards Edinburgh, as if to form an
army for protection of the metropolis. The feudal array of the crown-vassals in
the various counties was ordered to take the field, and render to the king the
military service due for their fiefs. But the summons was very slackly obeyed.
The quarrel was not generally popular among the gentry; and even those who were
not unwilling themselves to have taken arms, were deterred by the repugnance of
their wives, mothers, and sisters, to their engaging in such a cause.
    Meanwhile, the inadequacy of the Scottish Government to provide for their
own defence, or to put down a rebellion of which the commencement seemed so
trifling, excited at the English court doubts at once of their capacity, and of
the prudence of the severities they had exerted against the oppressed
Presbyterians. It was therefore resolved to nominate to the command of the army
of Scotland the unfortunate Duke of Monmouth, who had by marriage a great
interest, large estate, and a numerous following, as it was called, in the
southern parts of that kingdom. The military skill which he had displayed on
different occasions abroad was supposed more than adequate to subdue the
insurgents in the field; while it was expected that his mild temper, and the
favourable disposition which he showed to Presbyterians in general, might soften
men's minds, and tend to reconcile them to the Government. The Duke was
therefore invested with a commission containing high powers for settling the
distracted affairs of Scotland, and despatched from London with strong succours
to take the principal military command in that country.
 
                        DUKE OF MONMOUTH'S CERTIFICATE.
 
 Referred to in the Case of Lord Melville. - See Acts of the Scots Parliament,
                             vol. viii. pp. 57, 59.
 
These are to certify that, in the time I had command of His Majesty's Forces in
Scotland against the Rebells that were then in armes, I did direct and authorize
the Lord Melvill to send propositions to the Rebells, and receive some from, in
order to laying downe their armes and submitting to the King's mercy. In
wittness whereof I have sett my hand and seale att London, this 10th day of June
1680.
                                                                       MONMOUTH.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Sixth

 -- I am bound to Bothwell Hill,
 Where I maun either do or die.
                                                                     Old Ballad.
 
There was now a pause in the military movements on both sides. The Government
seemed contented to prevent the rebels advancing towards the capital, while the
insurgents were intent upon augmenting and strengthening their forces. For this
purpose they established a sort of encampment in the park belonging to the ducal
residence at Hamilton, a central situation for receiving their recruits, and
where they were secured from any sudden attack by having the Clyde, a deep and
rapid river, in front of their position, which is only passable by a long and
narrow bridge near the castle and village of Bothwell.
    Morton remained here for about a fortnight after the attack on Glasgow,
actively engaged in his military duties. He had received more than one
communication from Burley, but they only stated, in general, that the Castle of
Tillietudlem continued to hold out. Impatient of suspense upon this most
interesting subject, he at length intimated to his colleagues in command his
desire, or rather his intention - for he saw no reason why he should not assume
a license which was taken by every one else in this disorderly army - to go to
Milnwood for a day or two to arrange some private affairs of consequence. The
proposal was by no means approved of; for the military council of the insurgents
were sufficiently sensible of the value of his services to fear to lose them,
and felt somewhat conscious of their own inability to supply his place. They
could not, however, pretend to dictate to him laws more rigid than they
submitted to themselves, and he was suffered to depart on his journey without
any direct objection being stated. The Reverend Mr. Poundtext took the same
opportunity to pay a visit to his own residence in the neighbourhood of
Milnwood, and favoured Morton with his company on the journey. As the country
was chiefly friendly to their cause, and in possession of their detached
parties, excepting here and there the stronghold of some old cavaliering Baron,
they travelled without any other attendant than the faithful Cuddie.
    It was near sunset when they reached Milnwood, where Poundtext bid adieu to
his companions, and travelled forward alone to his own manse, which was situated
half-a-mile's march beyond Tillietudlem. When Morton was left alone to his own
reflections, with what a complication of feelings did he review the woods,
banks, and fields, that had been familiar to him! His character, as well as his
habits, thoughts, and occupations, had been entirely changed within the space of
little more than a fortnight, and twenty days seemed to have done upon him the
work of as many years. A mild, romantic, gentle-tempered youth, bred up in
dependence, and stooping patiently to the control of a sordid and tyrannical
relation, had suddenly, by the rod of oppression and the spur of injured
feeling, been compelled to stand forth a leader of armed men, was earnestly
engaged in affairs of a public nature, had friends to animate and enemies to
contend with, and felt his individual fate bound up in that of a national
insurrection and revolution. It seemed as if he had at once experienced a
transition from the romantic dreams of youth to the labours and cares of active
manhood. All that had formerly interested him was obliterated from his memory,
excepting only his attachment to Edith; and even his love seemed to have assumed
a character more manly and disinterested as it had become mingled and contrasted
with other duties and feelings. As he revolved the particulars of this sudden
change, the circumstances in which it originated, and the possible consequences
of his present career, the thrill of natural anxiety which passed along his mind
was immediately banished by a glow of generous and high-spirited confidence.
    »I shall fall young,« he said, »if fall I must, my motives misconstrued, and
my actions condemned, by those whose approbation is dearest to me. But the sword
of liberty and patriotism is in my hand, and I will neither fall meanly nor
unavenged. They may expose my body, and gibbet my limbs; - but other days will
come, when the sentence of infamy will recoil against those who may pronounce
it; and that Heaven, whose name is so often profaned during this unnatural war,
will bear witness to the purity of the motives by which I have been guided.«
    Upon approaching Milnwood, Henry's knock upon the gate no longer intimated
the conscious timidity of a stripling who has been out of bounds, but the
confidence of a man in full possession of his own rights, and master of his own
actions, - bold, free, and decided. The door was cautiously opened by his old
acquaintance, Mrs. Alison Wilson, who started back when she saw the steel cap
and nodding plume of the martial visitor. - »Where is my uncle, Alison?« said
Morton, smiling at her alarm. »Lordsake, Mr. Harry! is this you?« returned the
old lady. »In troth ye garr'd my heart loup to my very mouth - But it canna be
your ainsell, for ye look taller and mair manly-like than ye used to do.«
    »It is, however, my own self,« said Henry, sighing and smiling at the same
time. »I believe this dress may make me look taller, and these times, Ailie,
make men out of boys.«
    »Sad times indeed!« echoed the old woman; - »and oh that you should be
endangered wi' them! But what can help it? - ye were ill enough guided, and, as I
tell your uncle, if you tread on a worm it will turn.«
    »You were always my advocate, Ailie,« said he, and the housekeeper no longer
resented the familiar epithet, »and would let no one blame me but yourself, I am
aware of that. - Where is my uncle?«
    »In Edinburgh,« replied Alison; - »the honest man thought it was best to
gang and sit by the chimley when the reek rase. A vex'd man he's been, and a
feared - But ye ken the Laird as well as I do.«
    »I hope he has suffered nothing in health?« said Henry. »Naething to speak
of,« answered the housekeeper, »nor in gudes neither. We fended as well as we
could; and, though the troopers of Tillietudlem took the red cow and auld Hackie
(ye'll mind them well), yet they sauld us a good bargain o' four they were
driving to the Castle.«
    »Sold you a bargain?« said Morton, »how do you mean?«
    »Ou, they cam out to gather marts for the garrison,« answered the
housekeeper; »but they just fell to their auld trade, and rade through the
country couping and selling a' that they gat, like sae mony west-country
drovers. My certie, Major Bellenden was laird o' the least share o' what they
lifted, though it was taken in his name.«
    »Then,« said Morton hastily, »the garrison must be straitened for
provisions?«
    »Stressed enough,« replied Ailie, »there's little doubt o' that.«
    A light instantly glanced on Morton's mind.
    »Burley must have deceived me - craft as well as cruelty is permitted by his
creed.« Such was his inward thought: he said aloud, »I cannot stay, Mrs. Wilson
- I must go forward directly.«
    »But, oh! bide to eat a mouthfu',« entreated the affectionate housekeeper,
»and I'll make it ready for you as I used to do afore thae sad days.«
    »It is impossible,« answered Morton. - »Cuddie, get our horses ready.«
    »They're just eating their corn,« answered the attendant.
    »Cuddie!« exclaimed Ailie; »what garr'd ye bring that ill-faur'd unlucky
loon alang wi' ye? - It was him and his randie mother began a' the mischief in
this house.« »Tut, tut,« replied Cuddie, »ye should forget and forgie, mistress.
Mither's in Glasgow wi' her tittie, and sall plague ye nae mair; and I'm the
Captain's wallie now, and I keep him tighter in thack and rape than ever ye did;
- saw ye him ever sae well put on as he is now?« »In troth and that's true,«
said the old housekeeper, looking with great complacency at her young master,
whose mien she thought much improved by his dress. »I'm sure ye ne'er had a
laced cravat like that when ye were at Milnwood; - that's nane o' my sewing.«
    »Na, na, mistress,« replied Cuddie, »that's a cast o' my hand - that's ane
o' Lord Evandale's braws.«
    »Lord Evandale!« answered the old lady; »that's him that the whigs are gaun
to hang the morn, as I hear say.«
    »The whigs about to hang Lord Evandale?« said Morton, in the greatest
surprise.
    »Ay, troth are they,« said the housekeeper. - »Yesterday night he made a
sally, as they ca't - (my mother's name was Sally - I wonder they give Christian
folk's names to sic unchristian doings) - but he made an outbreak to get
provisions, and his men were driven back and he was taken, an' the whig Captain
Balfour garr'd set up a gallows, and swore (or said upon his conscience, for
they winna swear) that if the garrison was not gi'en ower the morn by daybreak,
he would hing up the young lord, poor thing, as high as Haman. - These are sair
times! - but folk canna help them - sae do ye sit doun and take bread and cheese
until better meat's made ready. Ye suldna hae ken'd a word about it, an I had
thought it was to spoil your dinner, hinny.«
    »Fed or unfed,« exclaimed Morton, »saddle the horses instantly, Cuddie. We
must not rest until we get before the Castle.«
    And, resisting all Ailie's entreaties, they instantly resumed their journey.
    Morton failed not to halt at the dwelling of Poundtext, and summon him to
attend him to the camp. That honest divine had just resumed for an instant his
pacific habits, and was perusing an ancient theological treatise, with a pipe in
his mouth, and a small jug of ale beside him, to assist his digestion of the
argument. It was with bitter ill-will that he relinquished these comforts (which
he called his studies) in order to recommence a hard ride upon a high-trotting
horse. However, when he knew the matter in hand, he gave up, with a deep groan,
the prospect of spending a quiet evening in his own little parlour; for he
entirely agreed with Morton, that whatever interest Burley might have in
rendering the breach between the Presbyterians and the Government
irreconcilable, by putting the young nobleman to death, it was by no means that
of the moderate party to permit such an act of atrocity. And it is but doing
justice to Mr. Poundtext to add, that, like most of his own persuasion, he was
decidedly adverse to any such acts of unnecessary violence; besides, that his
own present feelings induced him to listen with much complacence to the
probability held out by Morton, of Lord Evandale's becoming a mediator for the
establishment of peace upon fair and moderate terms. With this similarity of
views, they hastened their journey, and arrived about eleven o'clock at night at
a small hamlet adjacent to the Castle of Tillietudlem, where Burley had
established his headquarters.
    They were challenged by the sentinel who made his melancholy walk at the
entrance of the hamlet, and admitted upon declaring their names and authority in
the army. Another soldier kept watch before a house, which they conjectured to
be the place of Lord Evandale's confinement, for a gibbet, of such great height
as to be visible from the battlements of the Castle, was erected before it, in
melancholy confirmation of the truth of Ms. Wilson's report.32 Morton instantly
demanded to speak with Burley, and was directed to his quarters. They found him
reading the Scriptures, with his arms lying beside him, as if ready for any
sudden alarm. He started upon the entrance of his colleagues in office.
    »What has brought ye hither?« said Burley, hastily. »Is there bad news from
the army?«
    »No,« replied Morton; »but we understand that there are measures adopted
here in which the safety of the army is deeply concerned - Lord Evandale is your
prisoner?«
    »The Lord,« replied Burley, »hath delivered him into our hands.«
    »And you will avail yourself of that advantage granted you by Heaven, to
dishonour our cause in the eyes of all the world, by putting a prisoner to an
ignominious death?«
    »If the house of Tillietudlem be not surrendered by day-break,« replied
Burley, »God do so to me and more also, if he shall not die that death to which
his leader and patron, John Grahame of Claverhouse, hath put so many of God's
saints.«
    »We are in arms,« replied Morton, »to put down such cruelties, and not to
imitate them, far less to avenge upon the innocent the acts of the guilty. By
what law can you justify the atrocity you would commit?«
    »If thou art ignorant of it,« replied Burley, »thy companion is well aware
of the law which gave the men of Jericho to the sword of Joshua the son of Nun.«
»But we,« answered the divine, »live under a better dispensation, which
instructeth us to return good for evil, and to pray for those who despitefully
use us and persecute us.«
    »That is to say,« said Burley, »that thou wilt join thy grey hairs to his
green youth to controvert me in this matter?«
    »We are,« rejoined Poundtext, »two of those to whom, jointly with thyself,
authority is delegated over this host, and we will not permit thee to hurt a
hair of the prisoner's head. It may please God to make him a means of healing
these unhappy breaches in our Israel.« »I judged it would come to this,«
answered Burley, »when such as thou wert called into the council of the elders.«
    »Such as I?« answered Poundtext - »And who am I, that you should name me
with such scorn? - Have I not kept the flock of this sheepfold from the wolves
for thirty years? Ay, even while thou, John Balfour, wert fighting in the ranks
of uncircumcision, a Philistine of hardened brow and bloody hand - Who am I,
say'st thou?«
    »I will tell thee what thou art, since thou wouldst so fain know,« said
Burley. »Thou art one of those who would reap where thou hast not sowed, and
divide the spoil while others fight the battle; thou art one of those that
follow the gospel for the loaves and for the fishes - that love their own manse
better than the Church of God, and that would rather draw their stipends under
prelatists or heathens, than be a partaker with those noble spirits who have
cast all behind them for the sake of the Covenant.«
    »And I will tell thee, John Balfour,« returned Poundtext, deservedly
incensed - »I will tell thee what thou art. Thou art one of those, for whose
bloody and merciless disposition a reproach is flung upon the whole church of
this suffering kingdom, and for whose violence and blood-guiltiness, it is to be
feared, this fair attempt to recover our civil and religious rights will never
be honoured by Providence with the desired success.« »Gentlemen,« said Morton,
»cease this irritating and unavailing recrimination, and do you, Mr. Balfour,
inform us, whether it is your purpose to oppose the liberation of Lord Evandale,
which appears to us a profitable measure in the present position of our
affairs?«
    »You are here,« answered Burley, »as two voices against one; but you will
not refuse to tarry until the united council shall decide upon this matter!«
    »This,« said Morton, »we would not decline, if we could trust the hands in
whom we are to leave the prisoner. But you know well,« he added, looking sternly
at Burley, »that you have already deceived me in this matter.«
    »Go to,« said Burley, disdainfully, - »thou art an idle inconsiderate boy,
who, for the black eye-brows of a silly girl, would barter thy own faith and
honour, and the cause of God, and of thy country.«
    »Mr. Balfour,« said Morton, laying his hand on his sword, »this language
requires satisfaction.«
    »And thou shalt have it, stripling, when and where thou darest,« said
Burley; - »I plight thee my good word on it.«
    Poundtext, in his turn, interfered to remind them of the madness of
quarrelling, and effected with difficulty a sort of sullen reconciliation.
    »Concerning the prisoner,« said Burley, »deal with him as ye think fit. I
wash my hands free from all consequences. He is my prisoner, made by my sword
and spear, while you, Mr. Morton, were playing the adjutant at drills and
parades, and you, Mr. Poundtext, were warping the Scriptures into Erastianism.
Take him unto you, nevertheless, and dispose of him as ye think meet. -
Dingwall,« he continued, calling a sort of aid-de-camp, who slept in the next
apartment, »let the guard posted on the malignant Evandale give up their post to
those whom Captain Morton shall appoint to relieve them. - The prisoner,« he
said, again addressing Poundtext and Morton, »is now at your disposal,
gentlemen. But remember, that for all these things there will one day come a
term of heavy accounting.«
    So saying, he turned abruptly into an inner apartment, without bidding them
good-evening. - His two visitors, after a moment's consideration, agreed it
would be prudent to ensure the prisoner's personal safety, by placing over him
an additional guard, chosen from their own parishioners. A band of them happened
to be stationed in the hamlet, having been attached, for the time, to Burley's
command, in order that the men might be gratified by remaining as long as
possible near to their own homes. They were, in general, smart, active young
fellows, and were usually called by their companions the Marksmen of Milnwood.
By Morton's desire, four of these lads readily undertook the task of sentinels,
and he left with them Headrigg, on whose fidelity he could depend, with
instructions to call him if anything remarkable happened.
    This arrangement being made, Morton and his colleague took possession, for
the night, of such quarters as the over-crowded and miserable hamlet could
afford them. They did not, however, separate for repose till they had drawn up a
memorial of the grievances of the moderate Presbyterians, which was summed up
with a request of free toleration for their religion in future, and that they
should be permitted to attend gospel ordinances as dispensed by their own
clergymen, without oppression or molestation. Their petition proceeded to
require that a free parliament should be called for settling the affairs of
church and state, and for redressing the injuries sustained by the subject; and
that all those who either now were, or had been, in arms, for obtaining these
ends, should be indemnified. Morton could not but strongly hope that these
terms, which comprehended all that was wanted, or wished for, by the moderate
party among the insurgents, might, when thus cleared of the violence of
fanaticism, find advocates, even among the royalists, as claiming only the
ordinary rights of Scottish freemen.
    He had the more confidence of a favourable reception, that the Duke of
Monmouth, to whom Charles had entrusted the charge of subduing this rebellion,
was a man of gentle, moderate, and accessible disposition, well known to be
favourable to the Presbyterians, and invested by the king with full powers to
take measures for quieting the disturbances in Scotland. It seemed to Morton,
that all that was necessary for influencing him in their favour was to find a
fit and sufficiently respectable channel of communication, and such seemed to be
opened through the medium of Lord Evandale. He resolved, therefore, to visit the
prisoner early in the morning, in order to sound his dispositions to undertake
the task of mediator; but an accident happened which led him to anticipate his
purpose.
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Seventh

 Gie ower your house, lady, he said, -
 Gie ower your house to me
                                                                 Edom of Gordon.
 
Morton had finished the revisal and the making out of a fair copy of the paper
on which he and Poundtext had agreed to rest as a full statement of the
grievances of their party, and the conditions on which the greater part of the
insurgents would be contented to lay down their arms; and he was about to betake
himself to repose, when there was a knocking at the door of his apartment.
    »Enter,« said Morton; and the round bullet-head of Cuddie Headrigg was
thrust into the room. »Come in,« said Morton, »and tell me what you want. Is
there any alarm?«
    »Na, stir; but I hae brought ane to speak wi' you.«
    »Who is that, Cuddie?« inquired Morton.
    »Ane o' your auld acquaintance,« said Cuddie; and, opening the door more
fully, he half led, half dragged in a woman, whose face was muffled in her plaid
- »Come, come, ye needna be sae bashfu' before auld acquaintance, Jenny,« said
Cuddie, pulling down the veil, and discovering to his master the well-remembered
countenance of Jenny Dennison. »Tell his honour, now - there's a braw lass -
tell him what ye were wanting to say to Lord Evandale, mistress.«
    »What was I wanting to say,« answered Jenny, »to his honour himself the
other morning, when I visited him in captivity, ye muckle hash! - D'ye think
that folk dinna want to see their friends in adversity, ye dour crowdy-eater?«
    This reply was made with Jenny's usual volubility; but her voice quivered,
her cheek was thin and pale, the tears stood in her eyes, her hand trembled, her
manner was fluttered, and her whole presence bore marks of recent suffering and
privation, as well as nervous and hysterical agitation.
    »What is the matter, Jenny?« said Morton, kindly. »You know how much I owe
you in many respects, and can hardly make a request that I will not grant, if in
my power.«
    »Many thanks, Milnwood,« said the weeping damsel; »but ye were aye a kind
gentleman, though folk say ye hae become sair changed now.«
    »What do they say of me?« answered Morton.
    »A'body says,« replied Jenny, »that you and the whigs hae made a vow to ding
King Charles aff the throne, and that neither he nor his posteriors from
generation to generation, shall sit upon it ony mair; and John Gudyill threeps
ye're to give a' the church-organs to the pipers, and burn the Book o' Common- by
the hands of the common hangman, in revenge of the Covenant that was burnt when
the King cam hame.«
    »My friends at Tillietudlem judge too hastily and too ill of me,« answered
Morton. »I wish to have free exercise of my own religion, without insulting any
other; and as to your family, I only desire an opportunity to show them I have
the same friendship and kindness as ever.«
    »Bless your kind heart for saying sae!« said Jenny, bursting into a flood of
tears, »and they never needed kindness or friendship mair, for they are famished
for lack o' food.«
    »Good God!« replied Morton - »I have heard of scarcity, but not of famine!
Is it possible? Have the ladies and the Major« --
    »They hae suffered like the lave o' us,« replied Jenny; »for they shared
every bit and sup wi' the whole folk in the Castle - I'm sure my poor een see
fifty colours wi' faintness, and my head's sae dizzy wi' the mirligoes that I
canna stand my lane.«
    The thinness of the poor girl's cheek, and the sharpness of her features,
bore witness to the truth of what she said. Morton was greatly shocked.
    »Sit down,« he said, »for God's sake!« forcing her into the only chair the
apartment afforded, while he himself strode up and down the room in horror and
impatience. »I knew not of this,« he exclaimed in broken ejaculations, - »I
could not know of it. - Cold-blooded, iron-hearted fanatic - deceitful villain!
- Cuddie, fetch refreshments - food - wine, if possible - whatever you can
find.«
    »Whisky is good enough for' her,« muttered Cuddie; »ane wadna hae thought
that good meal was sae scant amang them, when the queen threw sae muckle good
kail-brose scalding het about my lugs.«
    Faint and miserable as Jenny seemed to be, she could not hear the allusion
to her exploit during the storm of the Castle, without bursting into a laugh
which weakness soon converted into a hysterical giggle. Confounded at her state,
and reflecting with horror on the distress which must have been in the Castle,
Morton repeated his commands to Headrigg in a peremptory manner; and when he had
departed, endeavoured to soothe his visitor.
    »You come, I suppose, by the orders of your mistress, to visit Lord
Evandale? - Tell me what she desires; her orders shall be my law.«
    Jenny appeared to reflect a moment, and then said, »Your honour is sae auld
a friend, I must needs trust to you, and tell the truth.«
    »Be assured, Jenny,« said Morton, observing that she hesitated, »that you
will best serve your mistress by dealing sincerely with me.«
    »Weel, then, ye maun ken we're starving, as I said before, and have been
mair days than ane; and the Major has sworn that he expects relief daily, and
that he will not give ower the house to the enemy till we have eaten up his auld
boots, - and they are unco thick in the soles, as ye may well mind, forby being
teugh in the upper-leather. The dragoons, again, they think they will be forced
to give up at last, and they canna bide hunger well, after the life they led at
free quarters for this while bypast; and since Lord Evandale's taken, there's nae
guiding them; and Inglis says he'll give up the garrison to the whigs, and the
Major and the leddies into the bargain, if they will but let the troopers gang
free themsells.«
    »Scoundrels!« said Morton; »why do they not make terms for all in the
Castle?«
    »They are fear'd for denial o' quarter to themsells, having dune sae muckle
mischief through the country; and Burley has hanged ane or twa o' them already -
sae they want to draw their ain necks out o' the collar at hazard o' honest
folk's.«
    »And you were sent,« continued Morton, »to carry to Lord Evandale the
unpleasant news of the men's mutiny?«
    »Just e'en sae,« said Jenny; »Tam Halliday took the rue, and told me a'
about it, and gat me out o' the Castle to tell Lord Evandale, if possibly I
could win at him.«
    »But how can he help you?« said Morton, »he is a prisoner.«
    »Well-a-day, ay,« answered the afflicted damsel; »but maybe he could make
fair terms for us - or, maybe he could give us some good advice - or, maybe he
might send his orders to the dragoons to be civil - or« --
    »Or, maybe,« said Morton, »you were to try if it were possible to set him at
liberty?«
    »If it were sae,« answered Jenny, with spirit, »it wadna be the first time I
hae dune my best to serve a friend in captivity.«
    »True, Jenny,« replied Morton - »I were most ungrateful to forget it. But
here comes Cuddie with refreshments. I will go and do your errand to Lord
Evandale, while you take some food and wine.«
    »It willna be amiss ye should ken,« said Cuddie to his master, »that this
Jenny - this Mrs. Dennison, was trying to cuittle favour wi' Tam Rand, the
miller's man, to win into Lord Evandale's room without anybody kennin'. She
wasna thinking, the gipsy, that I was at her elbow.«
    »And an unco fright ye gave me when ye cam ahint and took a grip o' me,« said
Jenny, giving him a sly twitch with her finger and her thumb - »if ye hadna been
an auld acquaintance, ye daft gomeril« --
    Cuddie, somewhat relenting, grinned a smile on his artful mistress, while
Morton wrapped himself up in his cloak, took his sword under his arm, and went
straight to the place of the young nobleman's confinement. He asked the
sentinels if anything extraordinary had occurred - »Nothing worth notice,« they
said, »excepting the lass that Cuddie took up, and two couriers that Captain
Balfour had despatched, one to the Reverend Ephraim Macbriar, another to
Kettledrummle,« both of whom were beating the drum ecclesiastic in different
towns between the position of Burley and the head-quarters of the main army near
Hamilton.
    »The purpose, I presume,« said Morton, with an affectation of indifference,
»was to call them hither.«
    »So I understand,« answered the sentinel, who had spoke with the messengers.
    »He is summoning a triumphant majority of the council,« thought Morton to
himself, »for the purpose of sanctioning whatever action of atrocity he may
determine upon, and thwarting opposition by authority. I must be speedy, or I
shall lose my opportunity.«
    When he entered the place of Lord Evandale's confinement, he found him
armed, and reclining on a flock-bed in the wretched garret of a miserable
cottage. He was either in a slumber, or in a deep meditation, when Morton
entered, and turned on him, when aroused, a countenance so much reduced by loss
of blood, want of sleep, and scarcity of food, that no one could have have
recognised in it the gallant soldier who had behaved with so much spirit at the
skirmish of Loudon Hill. He displayed some surprise at the sudden entrance of
Morton.
    »I am sorry to see you thus, my lord,« said that youthful leader.
    »I have heard you are an admirer of poetry,« answered the prisoner; »in that
case, Mr. Morton, you may remember these lines, -
 
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Or iron bars a cage;
A free and quiet mind can take
These for a hermitage.
 
    But, were my imprisonment less endurable, I am given to expect to-morrow a
total enfranchisement.«
    »By death?« said Morton.
    »Surely,« answered Lord Evandale; »I have no other prospect. Your comrade,
Burley, has already dipped his hand in the blood of men whose meanness of rank
and obscurity of extraction might have saved them. I cannot boast such a shield
from his vengeance, and I expect to meet its extremity.«
    »But Major Bellenden,« said Morton, »may surrender, in order to preserve
your life.«
    »Never, while there is one man to defend the battlement, and that man has
one crust to eat. I know his gallant resolution, and grieved should I be if he
changed it for my sake.«
    Morton hastened to acquaint him, with the mutiny among the dragoons, and
their resolution to surrender the Castle, and put the ladies of the family, as
well as the Major, into the hands of the enemy. Lord Evandale seemed at first
surprised, and something incredulous, but immediately afterwards deeply
affected.
    »What is to be done?« he said - »How is this misfortune to be averted?«
    »Hear me, my lord,« said Morton. »I believe you may not be unwilling to bear
the olive branch between our master the King, and that part of his subjects
which is now in arms, not from choice, but necessity.«
    »You construe me but justly,« said Lord Evandale; »but to what does this
tend?«
    »Permit me, my lord,« continued Morton. »I will set you at liberty upon
parole; nay, you may return to the Castle, and shall have a safe-conduct for the
ladies, the Major, and all who leave it, on condition of its instant surrender.
In contributing to bring this about, you will only submit to circumstances; for,
with a mutiny in the garrison, and without provisions, it will be found
impossible to defend the place twenty-four hours longer. Those, therefore, who
refuse to accompany your lordship, must take their fate. You and your followers
shall have a free pass to Edinburgh, or wherever the Duke of Monmouth may be. In
return for your liberty, we hope that you will recommend to the notice of his
Grace, as Lieutenant-General of Scotland, this humble petition and remonstrance,
containing the grievances which have occasioned this insurrection, a redress of
which being granted, I will answer with my head, that the great body of the
insurgents will lay down their arms.«
    Lord Evandale read over the paper with attention.
    »Mr. Morton,« he said, »in my simple judgment, I see little objection that
can be made to the measures here recommended; nay, farther, I believe, in many
respects, they may meet the private sentiments of the Duke of Monmouth: and yet,
to deal frankly with you, I have no hopes of their being granted, unless, in the
first place, you were to lay down your arms.«
    »The doing so,« answered Morton, »would be virtually conceding that we had
no right to take them up; and that, for one, I will never agree to.«
    »Perhaps it is hardly to be expected you should,« said Lord Evandale; »and
yet, on that point I am certain the negotiations will be wrecked. I am willing,
however, having frankly told you my opinion, to do all in my power to bring
about a reconciliation.«
    »It is all we can wish or expect,« replied Morton; »the issue is in God's
hands, who disposes the hearts of princes. - You accept then, the safe-conduct?«
    »Certainly,« answered Lord Evandale, »and if I do not enlarge upon the
obligation incurred by your having saved my life a second time, believe that I
do not feel it the less.«
    »And the garrison of Tillietudlem?« said Morton.
    »Shall be withdrawn as you propose,« answered the young nobleman. »I am
sensible the Major will be unable to bring the mutineers to reason; and I
tremble to think of the consequences, should the ladies and the brave old man be
delivered up to this bloodthirsty ruffian, Burley.«
    »You are in that case free,« said Morton. »Prepare to mount on horseback; a
few men whom I can trust shall attend you till you are in safety from our
parties.«
    Leaving Lord Evandale in great surprise and joy at this unexpected
deliverance, Morton hastened to get a few chosen men under arms and on
horseback, each rider holding the rein of a spare horse. Jenny, who, while she
partook of her refreshment, had contrived to make up her breach with Cuddie,
rode on the left hand of that valiant cavalier. The tramp of their horses was
soon heard under the window of Lord Evandale's prison. Two men, whom he did not
know, entered the apartment, disencumbered him of his fetters, and, conducting
him down stairs, mounted him in the centre of the detachment. They set out at a
round trot towards Tillietudlem.
    The moonlight was giving way to the dawn when they approached that ancient
fortress, and its dark massive tower had just received the first pale colouring
of the morning. The party halted at the Tower barrier, not venturing to approach
nearer for fear of the fire of the place. Lord Evandale alone rode up to the
gate, followed at a distance by Jenny Dennison. As they approached the gate,
there was heard to arise in the courtyard a tumult, which accorded ill with the
quiet serenity of a summer dawn. Cries and oaths were heard, a pistol-shot or
two were discharged, and everything announced that the mutiny had broken out. At
this crisis Lord Evandale arrived at the gate where Halliday was sentinel. On
hearing Lord Evandale's voice, he instantly and gladly admitted him, and that
nobleman arrived among the mutinous troopers like a man dropped from the clouds.
They were in the act of putting their design into execution, of seizing the
place into their own hands, and were about to disarm and overpower Major
Bellenden and Harrison, and others of the Castle, who were offering the best
resistance in their power.
    The appearance of Lord Evandale changed the scene. He seized Inglis by the
collar, and, upbraiding him with his villainy, ordered two of his comrades to
seize and bind him, assuring the others, that their only chance of impunity
consisted in instant submission. He then ordered the men into their ranks. They
obeyed. He commanded them to ground their arms. They hesitated; but the instinct
of discipline, joined to their persuasion that the authority of their officer,
so boldly exerted, must be supported by some forces without the gate, induced
them to submit.
    »Take away those arms,« said Lord Evandale to the people of the Castle;
»they shall not be restored until these men know better the use for which they
are entrusted with them. - And now,« he continued, addressing the mutineers,
»begone! - Make the best use of your time, and of a truce of three hours which
the enemy are contented to allow you. Take the road to Edinburgh, and meet me at
the House-of-Muir. I need not bid you beware of committing violence by the way;
you will not, in your present condition, provoke resentment for your own sakes.
Let your punctuality show that you mean to atone for this morning's business.«
    The disarmed soldiers shrunk in silence from the presence of their officer,
and, leaving the Castle, took the road to the place of rendezvous, making such
haste as was inspired by the fear of meeting with some detached party of the
insurgents, whom their present defenceless condition, and their former violence,
might inspire with thoughts of revenge. Inglis, whom Evandale destined for
punishment, remained in custody. Halliday was praised for his conduct, and
assured of succeeding to the rank of the culprit. These arrangements being
hastily made, Lord Evandale accosted the Major, before whose eyes the scene had
seemed to pass like the change of a dream.
    »My dear Major, we must give up the place.«
    »Is it even so?« said Major Bellenden. »I was in hopes you had brought
reinforcements and supplies.«
    »Not a man - not a pound of meal,« answered Lord Evandale.
    »Yet I am blithe to see you,« returned the honest Major; »we were informed
yesterday that these psalm-singing rascals had a plot on your life, and I had
mustered the scoundrelly dragoons ten minutes ago in order to beat up Burley's
quarters and get you out of limbo, when the dog Inglis, instead of obeying me,
broke out into open mutiny. - But what is to be done now?«
    »I have, myself, no choice,« said Lord Evandale; »I am a prisoner, released
on parole, and bound for Edinburgh. You and the ladies must take the same route.
I have, by the favour of a friend, a safe-conduct and horses for you and your
retinue; for God's sake make haste. You cannot propose to hold out with seven or
eight men, and without provisions. Enough has been done for honour, and enough
to render the defence of the highest consequence to Government; - more were
needless, as well as desperate. The English troops are arrived at Edinburgh, and
will speedily move upon Hamilton - the possession of Tillietudlem by the rebels
will be but temporary.«
    »If you think so, my lord,« said the veteran, with a reluctant sigh, - »I
know you only advise what is honourable. If, then, you really think the case
inevitable, I must submit; for the mutiny of these scoundrels would render it
impossible to man the walls. - Gudyill, let the women call up their mistresses,
and all be ready to march. - But if I could believe that my remaining in these
old walls till I was starved to a mummy, could do the king's cause the least
service, old Miles Bellenden would not leave them while there was a spark of
life in his body!«
    The ladies, already alarmed by the mutiny, now heard the determination of
the Major, in which they readily acquiesced, though not without some groans and
sighs on the part of Lady Margaret, which referred, as usual, to the déjeûné of
his most sacred Majesty in the halls which were now to be abandoned to rebels.
Hasty preparations were made for evacuating the Castle; and long ere the dawn
was distinct enough for discovering objects with precision, the ladies, with
Major Bellenden, Harrison, Gudyill, and the other domestics, were mounted on the
led horses, and others which had been provided in the neighbourhood, and
proceeded towards the north, still escorted by four of the insurgent horsemen.
The rest of the party who had accompanied Lord Evandale from the hamlet, took
possession of the deserted Castle, carefully forbearing all outrage or acts of
plunder. And when the sun arose, the scarlet and blue colours of the Scottish
Covenant floated from the Keep of Tillietudlem.
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Eighth

 And to my breast, a bodkin in her hand
 Were worth a thousand daggers.
                                                                         Marlow.
 
The cavalcade which left the Castle of Tillietudlem halted for a few minutes at
the small town of Bothwell, after passing the outposts of the insurgents, to
take some slight refreshments which their attendants had provided, and which
were really necessary to persons who had suffered considerably by want of proper
nourishment. They then pressed forward upon the road towards Edinburgh, amid the
lights of dawn which were now rising on the horizon. It might have been
expected, during the course of the journey, that Lord Evandale would have been
frequently by the side of Miss Edith Bellenden. Yet, after his first salutations
had been exchanged, and every precaution solicitously adopted which could serve
for her accommodation, he rode in the van of the party with Major Bellenden, who
seemed to abandon the charge of immediate attendance upon his lovely niece to
one of the insurgent cavaliers, whose dark military cloak, with the large
flapped hat and feather, which drooped over his face, concealed at once his
figure and his features. They rode side by side in silence for more than two
miles, when the stranger addressed Miss Bellenden in a tremulous and suppressed
voice.
    »Miss Bellenden,« he said, »must have friends wherever she is known; even
among those whose conduct she now disapproves. Is there anything that such can
do to show their respect for her, and their regret for her sufferings?«
    »Let them learn, for their own sakes,« replied Edith, »to venerate the laws,
and to spare innocent blood. Let them return to their allegiance, and I can
forgive them all that I have suffered, were it ten times more.«
    »You think it impossible, then,« rejoined the cavalier, »for any one to
serve in our ranks, having the weal of his country sincerely at heart, and
conceiving himself in the discharge of a patriotic duty?«
    »It might be imprudent, while so absolutely in your power,« replied Miss
Bellenden, »to answer that question.«
    »Not in the present instance, I plight you the word of a soldier,« replied
the horseman.
    »I have been taught candour from my birth,« said Edith; »and, if I am to
speak at all, I must utter my real sentiments. God only can judge the heart -
men must estimate intentions by actions. Treason - murder by the sword and by
gibbet - the oppression of a private family such as ours, who were only in arms
for the defence of the established government, and of our own property - are
actions which must needs sully all that have accession to them, by whatever
specious terms they may be gilded over.«
    »The guilt of civil war,« rejoined the horseman - »the miseries which it
brings in its train, lie at the door of those who provoked it by illegal
oppression, rather than of such as are driven to arms in order to assert their
natural rights as freemen.«
    »That is assuming the question,« replied Edith, »which ought to be proved.
Each party contends that they are right in point of principle, and therefore the
guilt must lie with them who first drew the sword; as, in an affray, law holds
those to be the criminals who are the first to have recourse to violence.«
    »Alas!« said the horseman, »were our vindication to rest there, how easy
would it be to show that we have suffered with a patience which almost seemed
beyond the power of humanity, ere we were driven by oppression into open
resistance! - But I perceive,« he continued, sighing deeply, »that it is vain to
plead before Miss Bellenden a cause which she has already prejudged, perhaps as
much from her dislike of the persons as of the principles of those engaged in
it.«
    »Pardon me,« answered Edith. »I have stated with freedom my opinion of the
principles of the insurgents; of their persons I know nothing - excepting in one
solitary instance.«
    »And that instance,« said the horseman, »has influenced your opinion of the
whole body?«
    »Far from it,« said Edith; »he is - at least I once thought him - one in
whose scale few were fit to be weighed. He is - or he seemed - one of early
talent, high faith, pure morality, and warm affections. Can I approve of a
rebellion which has made such a man, formed to ornament, to enlighten, and to
defend his country, the companion of gloomy and ignorant fanatics, or canting
hypocrites, - the leader of brutal clowns, - the brother in arms to banditti and
highway murderers? Should you meet such an one in your camp, tell him that Edith
Bellenden has wept more over his fallen character, blighted prospects, and
dishonoured name, than over tho distresses of her own house, - and that she has
better endured that famine which has wasted her cheek and dimmed her eye, than
the pang of heart which attended the reflection by and through whom these
calamities were inflicted.«
    As she thus spoke, she turned upon her companion a countenance whose faded
cheek attested the reality of her sufferings, even while it glowed with the
temporary animation which accompanied her language. The horseman was not
insensible to the appeal; he raised his hand to his brow with the sudden motion
of one who feels a pang shoot along his brain, passed it hastily over his face,
and then pulled the shadowing hat still deeper on his forehead. The movement,
and the feelings which it excited, did not escape Edith, nor did she remark them
without emotion.
    »And yet,« she said, »should the person of whom I speak seem to you too
deeply affected by the hard opinion of - of - an early friend, say to him, that
sincere repentance is next to innocence; - that, though fallen from a height not
easily recovered, and the author of much mischief, because gilded by his
example, he may still atone in some measure for the evil he has done.«
    »And in what manner?« asked the cavalier, in the same suppressed, and almost
choked voice.
    »By lending his efforts to restore the blessings of peace to his distracted
countrymen, and to induce the deluded rebels to lay down their arms. By saving
their blood, he may atone for that which has been already spilt; - and he that
shall be most active in accomplishing this great end will best deserve the
thanks of this age, and an honoured remembrance in the next.«
    »And in such a peace,« said her companion, with a firm voice, »Miss
Bellenden would not wish, I think, that the interests of the people were
sacrificed unreservedly to those of the crown?«
    »I am but a girl,« was the young lady's reply; »and I scarce can think on
the subject without presumption. But, since I have gone so far, I will fairly
add, I would wish to see a peace which should give rest to all parties, and
secure the subjects from military rapine, which I detest as much as I do the
means now adopted to resist it.«
    »Miss Bellenden,« answered Henry Morton, raising his face, and speaking in
his natural tone, »the person who has lost such a highly-valued place in your
esteem, has yet too much spirit to plead his cause as a criminal; and, conscious
that he can no longer claim a friend's interest in your bosom, he would be
silent under your hard censure, were it not that he can refer to the honoured
testimony of Lord Evandale, that his earnest wishes and most active exertions
are, even now, directed to the accomplishment of such a peace as the most loyal
cannot censure.«
    He bowed with dignity to Miss Bellenden, who, though her language intimated
that she well knew to whom she had been speaking, probably had not expected that
he would justify himself with so much animation. She returned his salute,
confused and in silence. Morton then rode forward to the head of the party.
    »Henry Morton!« exclaimed Major Bellenden, surprised at the sudden
apparition.
    »The same,« answered Morton; »who is sorry that he labours under the harsh
construction of Major Bellenden and his family. He commits to my Lord Evandale,«
he continued, turning towards the young nobleman, and bowing to him, »the charge
of undeceiving his friends, both regarding the particulars of his conduct and
the purity of his motives. Farewell, Major Bellenden - All happiness attend you
and yours; - may we meet again in happier and better times!«
    »Believe me,« said Lord Evandale, »your confidence, Mr. Morton, is not
misplaced; I will endeavour to repay the great services I have received from you
by doing my best to place your character on its proper footing with Major
Bellenden, and all whose esteem you value.«
    »I expected no less from your generosity, my lord,« said Morton.
    He then called his followers, and rode off along the heath in the direction
of Hamilton, their feathers waving, and their steel caps glancing in the beams
of the rising sun. Cuddie Headrigg alone remained an instant behind his
companions to take an affectionate farewell of Jenny Dennison, who had
contrived, during this short morning's ride, to re-establish her influence over
his susceptible bosom. A straggling tree or two obscured, rather than concealed,
their tête-à-tête, as they halted their horses to bid adieu.
    »Fare ye well, Jenny,« said Cuddie, with a loud exertion of his lungs,
intended perhaps to be a sigh, but rather resembling the intonation of a groan -
»Ye'll think o' puir Cuddie sometimes - an honest lad that lo'es ye, Jenny;
ye'll think o' him now and then?«
    »Whiles - at brose-time,« answered the malicious damsel, unable either to
suppress the repartee, or the arch smile which attended it.
    Cuddie took his revenge as rustic lovers are wont, and as Jenny probably
expected, - caught his mistress round the neck, kissed her cheeks and lips
heartily, and then turned his horse and trotted after his master.
    »Deil's in the fallow!« said Jenny, wiping her lips and adjusting her
head-dress; »he has twice the spunk o' Tam Halliday, after a'. - Coming, my
leddy, coming - Lord have a care o' us, I trust the auld leddy didna see us!«
    »Jenny,« said Lady Margaret, as the damsel came up, »was not that young man
who commanded the party the same that was captain of the popinjay, and who was
afterwards prisoner at Tillietudlem on the morning Claverhouse came there?«
    Jenny, happy that the query had no reference to her own little matters,
looked at her young mistress, to discover, if possible, whether it was her cue
to speak truth or not. Not being able to catch any hint to guide her, she
followed her instinct as a lady's maid, and lied.
    »I dinna believe it was him, my leddy,« said Jenny, as confidently as if she
had been saying her catechism; »he was a little black man, that.«
    »You must have been blind, Jenny,« said the Major: »Henry Morton is tall and
fair, and that youth is the very man.«
    »I had ither thing ado than be looking at him,« said Jenny, tossing her
head; »he may be as fair as a farthing candle for me.«
    »Is it not,« said Lady Margaret, »a blessed escape which we have made, out
of the hands of so desperate and bloodthirsty a fanatic?«
    »You are deceived, Madam,« said Lord Evandale; »Mr. Morton merits such a
title from no one, but least from us. That I am now alive, and that you are now
on your safe retreat to your friends, instead of being prisoners to a real
fanatical homicide, is solely and entirely owing to the prompt, active, and
energetic humanity of this young gentleman.«
    He then went into a particular narrative of the events with which the reader
is acquainted, dwelling upon the merits of Morton, and expatiating on the risk
at which he had rendered them these important services, as if he had been a
brother instead of a rival.
    »I were worse than ungrateful,« he said, »were I silent on the merits of the
man who has twice saved my life.«
    »I would willingly think well of Henry Morton, my lord,« replied Major
Bellenden; »and I own he has behaved handsomely to your Lordship and to us; but
I cannot have the same allowances which it pleases your lordship to entertain
for his present courses.«
    »You are to consider,« replied Lord Evandale, »that he has been partly
forced upon them by necessity; and I must add, that his principles, though
differing in some degree from my own, are such as to command respect.
Claverhouse, whose knowledge of men is not to be disputed, spoke justly of him
as to his extraordinary qualities - but with prejudice, and harshly, concerning
his principles and motives.«
    »You have not been long in learning all his extraordinary qualities, my
lord,« answered Major Bellenden. »I, who have known him from boyhood, could,
before this affair, have said much of his good principles and good-nature; but
as to his high talents« --
    »They were probably hidden, Major,« replied the generous Lord Evandale,
»even from himself, until circumstances called them forth; and, if I have
detected them, it was only because our intercourse and conversation turned on
momentous and important subjects. He is now labouring to bring this rebellion to
an end, and the terms he has proposed are so moderate, that they shall not want
my hearty recommendation.«
    »And have you hopes,« said Lady Margaret, »to accomplish a scheme so
comprehensive?«
    »I should have, madam, were every whig as moderate as Morton, and every
loyalist as disinterested as Major Bellenden. But such is the fanaticism and
violent irritation of both parties, that I fear nothing will end this civil war
save the edge of the sword.«
    It may be readily supposed that Edith listened with the deepest interest to
this conversation. While she regretted that she had expressed herself harshly
and hastily to her lover, she felt a conscious and proud satisfaction that his
character was, even in the judgment of his noble-minded rival, such as her own
affection had once spoke it.
    »Civil feuds and domestic prejudices,« she said, »may render it necessary
for me to tear his remembrance from my heart; but it is no small relief to know
assuredly, that it is worthy of the place it has so long retained there,«
    While Edith was thus retracting her unjust resentment, her lover arrived at
the camp of the insurgents near Hamilton, which he found in considerable
confusion. Certain advices had arrived that the royal army, having been
recruited from England by a large detachment of the King's Guards, were about to
take the field. Fame magnified their numbers and their high state of equipment
and discipline, and spread abroad other circumstances which dismayed the courage
of the insurgents. What favour they might have expected from Monmouth, was
likely to be intercepted by the influence of those associated with him in
command. His Lieutenant - General was the celebrated General Thomas Dalzell,
who, having practised the art of war in the then barbarous country of Russia,
was as much feared for his cruelty and indifference to human life and human
sufferings, as respected for his steady loyalty and undaunted valour. This man
was second in command to Monmouth, and the horse were commanded by Claverhouse,
burning with desire to revenge the death of his nephew, and his defeat at
Drumclog. To these accounts was added the most formidable and terrific
description of the train of artillery and the cavalry force with which the royal
army took the field.33
    Large bodies, composed of the Highland clans, having in language, religion,
and manners, no connection with the insurgents, had been summoned to join the
royal army under their various chieftains; and these Amorites, or Philistines,
as the insurgents termed them, came like eagles to the slaughter. In fact, every
person who could ride or run at the King's command, was summoned to arms,
apparently with the purpose of forfeiting and fining such men of property whom
their principles might deter from joining the royal standard, though prudence
prevented them from joining that of the insurgent Presbyterians. In short, every
rumour tended to increase the apprehension among the insurgents, that the King's
vengeance had only been delayed in order that it might fall more certain and
more heavy.
    Morton endeavoured to fortify the minds of the common people by pointing out
the probable exaggeration of these reports, and by reminding them of the
strength of their own situation, with an unfordable river in front, only
passable by a long and narrow bridge. He called to their remembrance their
victory over Claverhouse when their numbers were few, and then much worse
disciplined and appointed for battle than now; showed them that the ground on
which they lay afforded, by its undulation, and the thickets which intercepted
it, considerable protection against artillery, and even against cavalry, if
stoutly defended; and that their safety, in fact, depended on their own spirit
and resolution.
    But while Morton thus endeavoured to keep up the courage of the army at
large, he availed himself of those discouraging rumours to endeavour to impress
on the minds of the leaders the necessity of proposing to the Government
moderate terms of accommodation, while they were still formidable as commanding
an unbroken and numerous army. He pointed out to them, that, in the present
humour of their followers, it could hardly be expected that they would engage
with advantage the well-appointed and regular force of the Duke of Monmouth; and
that if they chanced, as was most likely, to be defeated and dispersed, the
insurrection in which they had engaged, so far from being useful to the country,
would be rendered the apology for oppressing it more severely.
    Pressed by these arguments, and feeling it equally dangerous to remain
together, or to dismiss their forces, most of the leaders readily agreed, that
if such terms could be obtained as had been transmitted to the Duke of Monmouth
by the hands of Lord Evandale, the purpose for which they had taken up arms
would be, in a great measure, accomplished. They then entered into similar
resolutions, and agreed to guarantee, the petition and remonstrance which had
been drawn up by Morton. On the contrary, there were still several leaders, and
those men whose influence with the people exceeded that of persons of more
apparent consequence, who regarded every proposal of treaty which did not
proceed on the basis of the Solemn League and Covenant of 1640, as utterly null
and void, impious, and unchristian. These men diffused their feelings among the
multitude, who had little foresight, and nothing to lose, and persuaded many
that the timid counsellors who recommended peace upon terms short of the
dethronement of the royal family, and the declared independence of the Church
with respect to the State, were cowardly labourers, who were about to withdraw
their hands from the plough, and despicable trimmers, who sought only a specious
pretext for deserting their brethren in arms. These contradictory opinions were
fiercely argued in each tent of the insurgent army, or rather in the huts or
cabins which served in the place of tents. Violence in language often led to
open quarrels and blows, and the divisions into which the army of sufferers was
rent served as too plain a presage of their future state.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Ninth

 The curse of growing factions and divisions
 Still vex your councils.
                                                               Venice Preserved.
 
The prudence of Morton found sufficient occupation in stemming the furious
current of these contending parties, when, two days after his return to
Hamilton, he was visited by his friend and colleague, the Reverend Mr.
Poundtext, flying, as he presently found, from the face of John Balfour of
Burley, whom he left not a little incensed at the share he had taken in the
liberation of Lord Evandale. When the worthy divine had somewhat recruited his
spirits, after the hurry and fatigue of his journey, he proceeded to give Morton
an account of what had passed, in the vicinity of Tillietudlem after the
memorable morning of his departure.
    The night march of Morton had been accomplished with such dexterity, and the
men were so faithful to their trust, that Burley received no intelligence of
what had happened until the morning was far advanced. His first inquiry was,
whether Macbriar and Kettledrummle had arrived, agreeably to the summons which
he had despatched at midnight. Macbriar had come, and Kettledrummle, though a
heavy traveller, might, he was informed, be instantly expected. Burley then
despatched a messenger to Morton's quarters to summon him to an immediate
council. The messenger returned with news that he had left the place. Poundtext
was next summoned; but he, thinking, as he said himself, that it was ill dealing
with fractious folk, had withdrawn to his own quiet manse, preferring a dark
ride, though he had been on horseback the whole preceding day, to a renewal in
the morning of a controversy with Burley, whose ferocity overawed him when
unsupported by the firmness of Morton. Burley's next inquiries were directed
after Lord Evandale; and great was his rage when he learned that he had been
conveyed away over night by a party of the marksmen of Milnwood, under the
immediate command of Henry Morton himself.
    »The villain!« exclaimed Burley, addressing himself to Macbriar; - »The
base, mean-spirited traitor, to curry favour for himself with the Government,
hath set at liberty the prisoner taken by my own right hand, through means of
whom, I have little doubt, the possession of the place of strength which hath
wrought us such trouble, might now have been in our hands!«
    »But is it not in our hands?« said Macbriar, looking up towards the Keep of
the Castle; »and are not these the colours of the Covenant that float over its
walls?«
    »A stratagem - a mere trick,« said Burley - »an insult over our
disappointment, intended to aggravate and embitter our spirits.«
    He was interrupted by the arrival of one of Morton's followers, sent to
report to him the evacuation of the place, and its occupation by the insurgent
forces. Burley was rather driven to fury than reconciled by the news of this
success.
    »I have watched,« he said - »I have fought - I have plotted - I have striven
for the reduction of this place - I have forborne to seek to head enterprises of
higher command and of higher honour - I have narrowed their outgoings, and cut
off the springs, and broken the staff of bread within their walls; and when the
men were about to yield themselves to my hand, that their sons might be
bondsmen, and their daughters a laughing-stock to our whole camp, cometh this
youth, without a beard on his chin, and takes it on him to thrust his sickle
into the harvest, and to rend the prey from the spoiler! Surely the labourer is
worthy of his hire, and the city, with its captives, should be given to him that
wins it?«
    »Nay,« said Macbriar, who was surprised at the degree of agitation which
Balfour displayed, »chafe not thyself because of the ungodly. Heaven will use
its own instruments; and who knows but this youth« --
    »Hush! hush!« said Burley; »do not discredit thine own better judgment. It
was thou that first badest me beware of this painted sepulchre - this lacquered
piece of copper, that passed current with me for gold. It fares ill, even with
the elect, when they neglect the guidance of such pious pastors as thou. But our
carnal affections will mislead us - this ungrateful boy's father was mine
ancient friend. They must be as earnest in their struggles as thou, Ephraim
Macbriar, that would shake themselves clear of the clogs and chains of
humanity.«
    This compliment touched the preacher in the most sensible part; and Burley
deemed, therefore, he should find little difficulty in moulding his opinions to
the support of his own views, more especially as they agreed exactly in their
high-strained opinions of church government.
    »Let us instantly,« he said, »go up to the Tower; there is that among the
records in yonder fortress, which, well used as I can use it, shall be worth to
us a valiant leader and an hundred horsemen.«
    »But will such be the fitting aids of the children of the Covenant?« said
the preacher. »We have already among us too many who hunger after lands, and
silver, and gold, rather than after the Word; - it is not by such that our
deliverance shall be wrought out.«
    »Thou errest,« said Burley; »we must work by means, and these worldly men
shall be our instruments. At all events, the Moabitish woman shall be despoiled
of her inheritance, and neither the malignant Evandale, nor the erastian Morton,
shall possess yonder castle and lands, though they may seek in marriage the
daughter thereof.«
    So saying, he led the way to Tillietudlem, where he seized upon the plate
and other valuables for the use of the army, ransacked the charter-room, and
other receptacles for family papers, and treated with contempt the remonstrances
of those who reminded him, that the terms granted to the garrison had guaranteed
respect to private property.
    Burley and Macbriar, having established themselves in their new acquisition,
were joined by Kettledrummle in the course of the day, and also by the Laird of
Langcale, whom that active divine had contrived to seduce, as Poundtext termed
it, from the pure light in which he had been brought up. Thus united, they sent
to the said Poundtext an invitation, or rather a summons, to attend a council at
Tillietudlem. He remembered, however, that the door had an iron grate, and the
Keep a dungeon, and resolved not to trust himself with his incensed colleagues.
He therefore retreated, or rather fled, to Hamilton, with the tidings, that
Burley, Macbriar, and Kettledrummle, were coming to Hamilton as soon as they
could collect a body of Cameronians sufficient to overawe the rest of the army.
    »And ye see,« concluded Poundtext, with a deep sigh, »that they will then
possess a majority in the council; for Langcale, though he has always passed for
one of the honest and rational party, cannot be suitably or preceesely termed
either fish, or flesh, or good red-herring; - whoever has the stronger party has
Langcale.«
    Thus concluded the heavy narrative of honest Poundtext, who sighed deeply,
as he considered the danger in which he was placed betwixt unreasonable
adversaries amongst themselves and the common enemy from without. Morton
exhorted him to patience, temper, and composure; informed him of the good hope
he had of negotiating for peace and indemnity through means of Lord Evandale,
and made out to ham a very fair prospect that he should again return to his own
parchment-bound Calvin, his evening pipe of tobacco, and his noggin of inspiring
ale, providing always he would afford his effectual support and concurrence to
the measures which he (Morton) had taken for a general pacification.34 Thus
backed and comforted, Poundtext resolved magnanimously to await the coming of
the Cameronians to the general rendezvous.
    Burley and his confederates had drawn together a considerable body of these
sectaries, amounting to a hundred horse and about fifteen hundred foot, clouded
and severe in aspect, morose, and jealous in communication, haughty of heart,
and confident as men who believed that the pale of salvation was open for them
exclusively; while all other Christians, however slight were the shades of
difference of doctrine from their own, were in fact little better than outcasts
or reprobates. These men entered the Presbyterian camp, rather as dubious and
suspicious allies, or possibly antagonists, than as men who were heartily
embarked in the same cause, and exposed to the same dangers, with their more
moderate brethren in arms. Burley made no private visits to his colleagues, and
held no communication with them on the subject of the public affairs, otherwise
than by sending a dry invitation to them to attend a meeting of the general
council for that evening.
    On the arrival of Morton and Poundtext at the place of as sembly, they found
their brethren already seated. Slight greeting passed between them, and it was
easy to see that no amicable conference was intended by those who convoked the
council. The first question was put by Macbriar, the sharp eagerness of whose
zeal urged him to the van on all occasions. He desired to know by whose
authority the malignant, called Lord Evandale, had been freed from the doom of
death, justly denounced against him.
    »By my authority and Mr. Morton's,« replied Poundtext; who, besides being
anxious to give his companion a good opinion of his courage, confided heartily
in his support, and, moreover, had much less fear of encountering one of his own
profession, and who confined himself to the weapons of theological controversy,
in which Poundtext feared no man, than of entering into debate with the stern
homicide Balfour.
    »And who, brother,« said Kettledrummle, - »who gave you authority to
interpose in such a high matter?«
    »The tenor of our commission,« answered Poundtext, »gives us authority to
bind and to loose. If Lord Evandale was justly doomed to die by the voice of one
of our number, he was of a surety lawfully redeemed from death by the warrant of
two of us.«
    »Go to, go to,« said Burley; »we know your motives; it was to send that
silkworm - that gilded trinket - that embroidered trifle of a lord, to bear
terms of peace to the tyrant.«
    »It was so,« replied Morton, who saw his companion begin to flinch before
the fierce eye of Balfour - »it was so; and what then? - Are we to plunge the
nation in endless war in order to pursue schemes which are equally wild, wicked,
and unattainable?«
    »Hear him!« said Balfour; »he blasphemeth.«
    »It is false,« said Morton; »they blaspheme who pretend to expect miracles,
and neglect the use of the human means with which Providence has blessed them. I
repeat it - Our avowed object is the re-establishment of peace on fair and
honourable terms of security to our religion and our liberty. We disclaim any
desire to tyrannise over those of others.«
    The debate would now have run higher than ever, but they were interrupted by
intelligence that the Duke of Monmouth had commenced his march towards the west,
and was already advanced half-way from Edinburgh. This news silenced their
divisions for the moment, and it was agreed that the next day should be held as
a fast of general humiliation for the sins of the land; that the Reverend Mr.
Poundtext should preach to the army in the morning, and Kettledrummle in the
afternoon; that neither should touch upon any topics of schism or of division,
but animate the soldiers to resist to the blood, like brethren in a good cause.
This healing overture having been agreed to, the moderate party ventured upon
another proposal, confiding that it would have the support of Langcale, who
looked extremely blank at the news which they had just received, and might be
supposed reconverted to moderate measures. It was to be presumed, they said,
that since the King had not entrusted the command of his forces upon the present
occasion to any of their active oppressors, but, on the contrary, had employed a
nobleman distinguished by gentleness of temper, and a disposition favourable to
their cause, there must be some better intention entertained towards them than
they had yet experienced. They contended, that it was not only prudent but
necessary to ascertain, from a communication with the Duke of Monmouth, whether
he was not charged with some secret instructions in their favour. This could
only be learned by despatching an envoy to his army.
    »And who will undertake the task?« said Burley, evading a proposal too
reasonable to be openly resisted - »who will go up to their camp, knowing that
John Grahame of Claverhouse hath sworn to hang up whomsoever we shall despatch
towards them, in revenge of the death of the young man his nephew?«
    »Let that be no obstacle,« said Morton - »I will with pleasure encounter any
risk attached to the bearer of your errand.«
    »Let him go,« said Balfour, apart to Macbriar; »our councils will be well
rid of his presence.«
    The motion, therefore, received no contradiction even from those who were
expected to have been most active in opposing it; and it was agreed that Henry
Morton should go to the camp of the Duke of Monmouth, in order to discover upon
what terms the insurgents would be admitted to treat with him. As soon as his
errand was made known, several of the more moderate party joined in requesting
him to make terms upon the footing of the petition entrusted to Lord Evandale's
hands; for the approach of the King's army spread a general trepidation, by no
means allayed by the high tone assumed by the Cameronians, which had so little
to support it excepting their own headlong zeal. With these instructions, and
with Cuddie as his attendant, Morton set forth towards the royal camp, at all
the risks which attend those who assume the office of mediator during the heat
of civil discord.
    Morton had not proceeded six or seven miles, before he perceived that he was
on the point of falling in with the van of the royal forces; and, as he ascended
a height, saw all the roads in the neighbourhood occupied by armed men marching
in great order towards Bothwell Muir, an open common, on which they proposed to
encamp for that evening, at the distance of scarcely two miles from the Clyde,
on the farther side of which river the army of the insurgents was encamped. He
gave himself up to the first advanced-guard of cavalry which he met, as bearer
of a flag of truce, and communicated his desire to obtain access to the Duke of
Monmouth. The non-commissioned officer who commanded the party made his report
to his superior, and he again to another in still higher command, and both
immediately rode to the spot where Morton was detained.
    »You are but losing your time, my friend, and risking your life,« said one
of them, addressing Morton; »the Duke of Monmouth will receive no terms from
traitors with arms in their hands, and your cruelties have been such as to
authorise retaliation of every kind. Better trot your nag back, and save his
mettle to-day, that he may save your life to-morrow.«
    »I cannot think,« said Morton, »that even if the Duke of Monmouth should
consider us as criminals, he would condemn so large a body of his
fellow-subjects without even hearing what they have to plead for themselves. On
my part I fear nothing. I am conscious of having consented to, or authorised, no
cruelty, and the fear of suffering innocently for the crimes of others shall not
deter me from executing my commission.«
    The two officers looked at each other.
    »I have an idea,« said the younger, »that this is the young man of whom Lord
Evandale spoke.«
    »Is my Lord Evandale in the army?« said Morton.
    »He is not,« replied the officer; »we left him at Edinburgh, too much
indisposed to take the field. Your name, sir, I presume, is Henry Morton?«
    »It is, sir,« answered Morton.
    »We will not oppose your seeing the Duke, sir,« said the officer, with more
civility of manner; »but you may assure yourself it will be to no purpose; for,
were his Grace disposed to favour your people, others are joined in commission
with him who will hardly consent to his doing so.«
    »I shall be sorry to find it thus,« said Morton, »but my duty requires that
I should persevere in my desire to have an interview with him.«
    »Lumley,« said the superior officer, »let the Duke know of Mr. Morton's
arrival, and remind his Grace that this is the person of whom Lord Evandale
spoke so highly.«
    The officer returned with a message that the General could not see Mr.
Morton that evening, but would see him betimes in the ensuing morning. He was
detained in a neighbouring cottage all night, but treated with civility, and
everything provided for his accommodation. Early on the next morning the officer
he had first seen came to conduct him to his audience.
    The army was drawn out, and in the act of forming column for march or
attack. The Duke was in the centre, nearly a mile from the place where Morton
had passed the night. In riding towards the General, he had an opportunity of
estimating the force which had been assembled for the suppression of the hasty
and ill-concerted insurrection. There were three or four regiments of English,
the flower of Charles's army - there were the Scottish Life-Guards, burning with
desire to revenge their late defeat - other Scottish regiments of regulars were
also assembled, and a large body of cavalry, consisting partly of gentleman
volunteers, partly of the tenants of the crown who did military duty for their
fiefs. Morton also observed several strong parties of Highlanders drawn from the
points nearest to the Lowland frontiers, - a people, as already mentioned,
particularly obnoxious to the western whigs, and who hated and despised them in
the same proportion. These were assembled under their chiefs, and made part of
this formidable array. A complete train of field-artillery accompanied these
troops; and the whole had an air so imposing, that it seemed nothing short of an
actual miracle could prevent the ill-equipped, ill-modelled, and tumultuary army
of the insurgents, from being utterly destroyed. The officer who accompanied
Morton endeavoured to gather from his looks the feelings with which this
splendid and awful parade of military force had impressed him. But, true to the
cause he had espoused, he laboured successfully to prevent the anxiety which he
felt from appearing in his countenance, and looked around him on the warlike
display as on a sight which he expected, and to which he was indifferent.
    »You see the entertainment prepared for you,« said the officers.
    »If I had no appetite for it,« replied Morton, »I should not have been
accompanying you at this moment. But I shall be better pleased with a more
peaceful regale, for the sake of all parties.«
    As they spoke thus, they approached the commander-in-chief, who, surrounded
by several officers, was seated upon a knoll commanding an extensive prospect of
the distant country, and from which could be easily discovered the windings of
the majestic Clyde, and the distant camp of the insurgents on the opposite bank.
The officers of the royal army appeared to be surveying the ground, with the
purpose of directing an immediate attack. When Captain Lumley, the officer who
accompanied Morton, had whispered in Monmouth's ear his name and errand, the
Duke made a signal for all around him to retire, excepting only two general
officers of distinction. While they spoke together in whispers for a few minutes
before Morton was permitted to advance, he had time to study the appearance of
the persons with whom he was to treat.
    It was impossible for any one to look upon the Duke of Monmouth without
being captivated by his personal graces and accomplishments, of which the great
High Priest of all the Nine afterwards recorded -
 
Whate'er he did was done with so much ease,
In him alone 'twas natural to please;
His motions all accompanied with grace,
And Paradise was opened in his face.
 
Yet to a strict observer, the manly beauty of Monmouth's face was occasionally
rendered less striking by an air of vacillation and uncertainty, which seemed to
imply hesitation and doubt at moments when decisive resolution was most
necessary.
    Beside him stood Claverhouse, whom we have already fully described, and
another general officer whose appearance was singularly striking. His dress was
of the antique fashion of Charles the First's time, and composed of chamois
leather, curiously slashed, and covered with antique lace and garniture. His
boots and spurs might be referred to the same distant period. He wore a
breastplate, over which descended a grey beard of venerable length, which he
cherished as a mark of mourning for Charles the First, having never shaved since
that monarch was brought to the scaffold. His head was uncovered, and almost
perfectly bald. His high and wrinkled forehead, piercing grey eyes, and marked
features, evinced age unbroken by infirmity, and stern resolution unsoftened by
humanity. Such is the outline, however feebly expressed, of the celebrated
General Thomas Dalzell,35 a man more feared and hated by the whigs than even
Claverhouse himself, and who executed the same violences against them out of a
detestation of their persons, or perhaps an innate severity of temper, which
Grahame only resorted to on political accounts, as the best means of
intimidating the followers of Presbytery, and of destroying that sect entirely.
    The presence of these two generals, one of whom he knew by person, and the
other by description, seemed to Morton decisive of the fate of his embassy. But,
notwithstanding his youth and inexperience, and the unfavourable reception which
his proposals seemed likely to meet with, he advanced boldly towards them upon
receiving a signal to that purpose, determined that the cause of his country,
and of those with whom he had taken up arms, should suffer nothing from being
entrusted to him. Monmouth received him with the graceful courtesy which
attended even his slightest actions; Dalzell regarded him with a stern, gloomy,
and impatient frown; and Claverhouse, with a sarcastic smile and inclination of
his head, seemed to claim him as an old acquaintance.
    »You come, sir, from these unfortunate people, now assembled in arms,« said
the Duke of Monmouth, »and your name, I believe, is Morton: will you favour us
with the purport of your errand?«
    »It is contained, my Lord,« answered Morton, »in a paper, termed a
Remonstrance and Supplication, which my Lord Evandale has placed, I presume, in
your Grace's hands?«
    »He has done so, sir,« answered the Duke; »and I understand, from Lord
Evandale, that Mr. Morton has behaved in these unhappy matters with much
temperance and generosity, for which I have to request his acceptance of my
thanks.«
    Here Morton observed Dalzell shake his head indignantly, and whisper
something into Claverhouse's ear, who smiled in return, and elevated his
eyebrows, but in a degree so slight as scarce to be perceptible. The Duke,
taking the petition from his pocket, proceeded, obviously struggling between the
native gentleness of his own disposition, and perhaps his conviction that the
petitioners demanded no more than their rights, and the desire, on the other
hand, of enforcing the King's authority, and complying with the sterner opinions
of the colleagues in office who had been assigned for the purpose of controlling
as well as advising him.
    »There are, Mr. Morton, in this paper, proposals, as to the abstract
propriety of which I must now waive delivering any opinion. Some of them appear
to me reasonable and just; and although I have no express instructions from the
King upon the subject, yet I assure you, Mr. Morton, and I pledge my honour,
that I will interpose in your behalf, and use my utmost influence to procure you
satisfaction from his Majesty. But you must distinctly understand, that I can
only treat with supplicants, not with rebels; and, as a preliminary to every act
of favour on my side, I must insist upon your followers laying down their arms
and despersing themselves.«
    »To do so, my Lord Duke,« replied Morton, undauntedly, »were to acknowledge
ourselves the rebels that our enemies term us. Our swords are drawn for recovery
of a birthright wrested from us; your Grace's moderation and good sense have
admitted the general justice of our demand - a demand which would never have
been listened to had it not been accompanied with the sound of the trumpet. We
cannot, therefore, and dare not, lay down our arms, even on your Grace's
assurance of indemnity, unless it were accompanied with some reasonable prospect
of the redress of our wrongs which we complain of.«
    »Mr. Morton,« replied the Duke, »you are young, but you must have seen
enough of the world to perceive, that requests, by no means dangerous or
unreasonable in themselves, may become so by the way in which they are pressed
and supported.«
    »We may reply, my lord,« answered Morton, »that this disagreeable mode has
not been resorted to until all others have failed.«
    »Mr. Morton,« said the Duke, »I must break this conference short. We are in
readiness to commence the attack; yet I will suspend it for an hour, until you
can communicate my answer to the insurgents. If they please to disperse their
followers, lay down their arms, and send a peaceful deputation to me, I will
consider myself bound in honour to do all I can to procure redress of their
grievances; if not, let them stand on their guard and expect the consequences. -
I think, gentlemen,« he added, turning to his two colleagues, »this is the
utmost length to which I can stretch my instructions in favour of these
misguided persons?«
    »By my faith,« answered Dalzell, suddenly, »and it is a length to which my
poor judgment durst not have stretched, considering I had both the King and my
conscience to answer to! But, doubtless, your Grace knows more of the King's
private mind than we, who have only the letter of our instructions to look to.«
    Monmouth blushed deeply. »You hear,« he said, addressing Morton, »General
Dalzell blames me for the length which I am disposed to go in your favour.«
    »General Dalzell's sentiments, my lord,« replied Morton, »are such as we
expected from him; your Grace's such as we were prepared to hope you might
please to entertain. Indeed, I cannot help adding, that, in the case of the
absolute submission upon which you are pleased to insist, it might still remain
something less than doubtful how far, with such counsellors around the King,
even your Grace's intercession might procure us effectual relief. But I will
communicate to our leaders your Grace's answer to our supplication; and, since
we cannot obtain peace, we must bid war welcome as well as we may.«
    »Good morning, sir,« said the Duke. »I suspend the movements of attack for
one hour, and for one hour only. If you have an answer to return within that
space of time, I will receive it here, and earnestly entreat it may be such as
to save the effusion of blood.«
    At this moment another smile of deep meaning passed between Dalzell and
Claverhouse. The Duke observed it, and repeated his words with great dignity -
»Yes, gentlemen, I said I trusted the answer might be such as would save the
effusion of blood. I hope the sentiment neither needs your scorn, nor incurs
your displeasure.«
    Dalzell returned the Duke's frown with a stern glance, but made no answer.
Claverhouse, his lip just curled with an ironical smile, bowed, and said, »It
was not for him to judge the propriety of his Grace's sentiments.«
    The Duke made a signal to Morton to withdraw. He obeyed; and, accompanied by
his former escort, rode slowly through the army to return to the camp of the
non-conformists. As he passed the fine corps of Life-Guards, he found
Claverhouse was already at their head. That officer no sooner saw Morton, than
he advanced and addressed him with perfect politeness of manner.
    »I think this is not the first time I have seen Mr. Morton of Milnwood?«
    »It is not Colonel Grahame's fault,« said Morton, smiling sternly, »that he
or any one else should be now incommoded by my presence.«
    »Allow me at least to say,« replied Claverhouse, »that Mr. Morton's present
situation authorises the opinion I have entertained of him, and that my
proceedings at our last meeting only squared to my duty.«
    »To reconcile your actions to your duty, and your duty to your conscience,
is your business, Colonel Grahame, not mine,« said Morton, justly offended at
being thus, in a manner, required to approve of the sentence under which he had
so nearly suffered.
    »Nay, but stay an instant,« said Claverhouse. »Evandale insists that I have
some wrongs to acquit myself of in your instance. I trust I shall always make
some difference between a high-minded gentleman, who, though misguided, acts
upon generous principles, and the crazy fanatical clowns yonder, with the
bloodthirsty assassins who head them. Therefore, if they do not disperse upon
your return, let me pray you instantly come over to our army and surrender
yourself, for, be assured, they cannot stand our assault for half-an-hour. If
you will be ruled and do this, be sure to inquire for me. Monmouth, strange as
it may seem, cannot protect you - Dalzell will not; - I both can and will; and I
have promised to Evandale to do so if you will give me an opportunity.«
    »I should owe Lord Evandale my thanks,« answered Morton, coldly, »did not
his scheme imply an opinion that I might be prevailed on to desert those with
whom I am engaged. For you, Colonel Grahame, if you will honour me with a
different species of satisfaction, it is probable that, in an hour's time, you
will find me at the west end of Bothwell Bridge with my sword in my hand.«
    »I shall be happy to meet you there,« said Claverhouse, »but still more so
should you think better on my first proposal.«
    They then saluted and parted.
    »That is a pretty lad, Lumley,« said Claverhouse, addressing himself to the
other officer; »but he is a lost man - his blood be upon his head.«
    So saying, he addressed himself to the task of preparation for instant
battle.
 

                               Chapter Thirtieth

 But hark! the tent has changed its voice,
 There's peace and rest nae langer.
                                                                          Burns.
 
 The Lowdien Mallisha they
 Came with their coats of blew;
 Five hundred men from London came,
 Claid in a reddish hue.
                                                                 Bothwell Lines.
 
When Morton had left the well-ordered outposts of the regular army, and arrived
at those which were maintained by his own party, he could not but be peculiarly
sensible of the difference of discipline, and entertain a proportional degree of
fear for the consequences. The same discords which agitated the councils of the
insurgents, raged even among their meanest followers; and their picquets and
patrols were more interested and occupied in disputing the true occasion and
causes of wrath, and defining the limits of Erastian heresy, than in looking out
for and observing the motions of their enemies, though within hearing of the
royal drums and trumpets.
    There was a guard, however, of the insurgent army, posted at the long and
narrow bridge of Bothwell, over which the enemy must necessarily advance to the
attack; but, like the others, they were divided and disheartened; and,
entertaining the idea that they were posted on a desperate service, they even
meditated withdrawing themselves to the main body. This would have been utter
ruin; for on the defence or loss of this pass the fortune of the day was most
likely to depend. All beyond the bridge was a plain open field, excepting a few
thickets of no great depth, and, consequently, was ground on which the
undisciplined forces of the insurgents, deficient as they were in cavalry, and
totally unprovided with artillery, were altogether unlikely to withstand the
shock of regular troops.
    Morton therefore viewed the pass carefully, and formed the hope, that by
occupying two or three houses on the left bank of the river, with the copse and
thickets of alders and hazels that lined its side, and by blockading the passage
itself, and shutting the gates of a portal, which, according to the old fashion,
was built on the central arch of the bridge of Bothwell, it might be easily
defended against a very superior force. He issued directions accordingly, and
commanded the parapets of the bridge, on the farther side of the portal, to be
thrown down, that they might afford no protection to the enemy when they should
attempt the passage. Morton then conjured the party at this important post to be
watchful and upon their guard, and promised them a speedy and strong
reinforcement. He caused them to advance videttes beyond the river to watch the
progress of the enemy, which outposts he directed should be withdrawn to the
left bank as soon as they approached; finally, he charged them to send regular
information to the main body of all that they should observe. Men under arms,
and in a situation of danger, are usually sufficiently alert in appreciating the
merit of their officers. Morton's intelligence and activity gained the
confidence of these men, and with better hope and heart than before, they began
to fortify their position in the manner he recommended, and saw him depart with
three loud cheers.
    Morton now galloped hastily towards the main body of the insurgents, but was
surprised and shocked at the scene of confusion and clamour which it exhibited,
at the moment when good order and concord were of such essential consequence.
Instead of being drawn up in line of battle, and listening to the commands of
their officers, they were crowding together in a confused mass, that rolled and
agitated itself like the waves of the sea, while a thousand tongues spoke, or
rather vociferated, and not a single ear was found to listen. Scandalised at a
scene so extraordinary, Morton endeavoured to make his way through the press, to
learn, and if possible to remove, the cause of this so untimely disorder. While
he is thus engaged, we shall make the reader acquainted with that which he was
some time in discovering.
    The insurgents had proceeded to hold their day of humiliation, which,
agreeably to the practice of the puritans during the earlier civil war, they
considered as the most effectual mode of solving all difficulties, and waiving
all discussions. It was usual to name an ordinary week-day for this purpose, but
on this occasion the Sabbath itself was adopted, owing to the pressure of the
time and the vicinity of the enemy. A temporary pulpit, or tent, was erected in
the middle of the encampment; which, according to the fixed arrangement, was
first to be occupied by the Reverend Peter Poundtext, to whom the post of honour
was assigned, as the eldest clergyman present. But as the worthy divine, with
slow and stately steps, was advancing towards the rostrum which had been
prepared for him, he was prevented by the unexpected apparition of Habakkuk
Mucklewrath, the insane preacher whose appearance had so much startled Morton at
the first council of the insurgents after their victory at London Hill. It is
not known whether he was acting under the influence and instigation of the
Cameronians, or whether he was merely compelled by his own agitated imagination,
and the temptation of a vacant pulpit before him, to seize the opportunity of
exhorting so respectable a congregation. It is only certain that he took
occasion by the forelock, sprung into the pulpit, cast his eyes wildly around
him, and, undismayed by the murmurs of many of the audience, opened the Bible,
read forth as his text from the thirteenth chapter of Deuteronomy, »Certain men,
the children of Belial, are gone out from among you, and have withdrawn the
inhabitants of their city, saying, Let us go and serve other gods, which you
have not known;« and then rushed at once into the midst of his subject.
    The harangue of Mucklewrath was as wild and extravagant as his intrusion was
unauthorised and untimely; but it was provokingly coherent, in so far as it
turned entirely upon the very subjects of discord, of which it had been agreed
to adjourn the consideration until some more suitable opportunity. Not a single
topic did he omit which had offence in it; and, after charging the moderate
party with heresy, with crouching to tyranny, with seeking to be at peace with
God's enemies, he applied to Morton, by name, the charge that he had been one of
those men of Belial, who, in the words of his text, had gone out from amongst
them, to withdraw the inhabitants of his city, and to go astray after false
gods. To him, and all who followed him or approved of his conduct, Mucklewrath
denounced fury and vengeance, and exhorted those who would hold themselves pure
and undefiled to come up from the midst of them.
    »Fear not,« he said, »because of the neighing of horses, or the glittering
of breastplates. Seek not aid of the Egyptians because of the enemy, though they
may be numerous as locusts, and fierce as dragons. Their trust is not as our
trust, nor their rock as our rock; how else shall a thousand fly before one, and
two put ten thousand to the flight! I dreamed it in the visions of the night,
and the voice said, Habakkuk, take thy fan and purge the wheat from the chaff,
that they be not both consumed with the fire of indignation and the lightning of
fury.' Wherefore, I say, take this Henry Morton - this wretched Achan, who hath
brought the accursed thing among ye, and made himself brethren in the camp of
the enemy - take him and stone him with stones, and thereafter burn him with
fire, that the wrath may depart from the children of the Covenant. He hath not
taken a Babylonish garment, but he hath sold the garment of righteousness to the
woman of Babylon - he hath not taken two hundred shekels of fine silver, but he
hath bartered the truth, which is more precious than shekels of silver or wedges
of gold.«
    At this furious charge, brought so unexpectedly against one of their most
active commanders, the audience broke out into open tumult, some demanding that
there should instantly be a new election of officers, into which office none
should hereafter be admitted who had, in their phrase, touched of that which was
accursed, or temporised more or less with the heresies and corruptions of the
times. While such was the demand of the Cameronians, they vociferated loudly,
that those who were not with them were against them, - that it was no time to
relinquish the substantial part of the covenanted testimony of the Church, if
they expected a blessing on their arms and their cause, - and that, in their
eyes, a lukewarm Presbyterian was little better than a Prelatist, an
anti-Covenanter, and a Nullifidian.
    The parties accused repelled the charge of criminal compliance and defection
from the truth with scorn and indignation, and charged their accusers with
breach of faith, as well as with wrong-headed and extravagant zeal in
introducing such divisions into an army the joint strength of which could not,
by the most sanguine, be judged more than sufficient to face their enemies.
Poundtext, and one or two others, made some faint efforts to stem the increasing
fury of the factious, exclaiming to those of the other party, in the words of
the Patriarch, - »Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee, and
between thy herdsmen and my herdsmen, for we be brethren.« No pacific overture
could possibly obtain audience. It was in vain that even Burley himself, when he
saw the dissension proceed to such ruinous lengths, exerted his stern and deep
voice, commanding silence and obedience to discipline. The spirit of
insubordination had gone forth, and it seemed as if the exhortation of Habakkuk
Mucklewrath had communicated a part of his frenzy to all who heard him. The
wiser, or more timid part of the assembly, were already withdrawing themselves
from the field, and giving up their cause as lost. Others were moderating a
harmonious call, as they somewhat improperly termed it, to new officers, and
dismissing those formerly chosen, and that with a tumult and clamour worthy of
the deficiency of good sense and good order implied in the whole transaction. It
was at this moment when Morton arrived in the field and joined the army, in
total confusion, and on the point of dissolving itself. His arrival occasioned
loud exclamations of applause on the one side, and of imprecation on the other.
    »What means this ruinous disorder at such a moment?« he exclaimed to Burley,
who, exhausted with his vain exertions to restore order, was now leaning on his
sword, and regarding the confusion with an eye of resolute despair.
    »It means,« he replied, »that God has delivered us into the hands of our
enemies.«
    »Not so,« answered Morton, with a voice and gesture which compelled many to
listen; »it is not God who deserts us - it is we who desert him, and dishonour
ourselves by disgracing and betraying the cause of freedom and religion. - Hear
me!« he exclaimed, springing to the pulpit which Mucklewrath had been compelled
to evacuate by actual exhaustion - »I bring from the enemy an offer to treat, if
you incline to lay down your arms. I can assure you the means of making an
honourable defence, if you are of more manly tempers. The time flies fast on.
Let us resolve either for peace or war; and let it not be said of us in future
days, that six thousand Scottish men in arms had neither courage to stand their
ground and fight it out, nor prudence to treat for peace, nor even the coward's
wisdom to retreat in good time and with safety. What signifies quarrelling on
points of church-discipline, when the whole edifice is threatened with total
destruction? O remember, my brethren, that the last and worst evil which God
brought upon the people whom he had once chosen - the last and worst punishment
of their blindness and hardness of heart, was the bloody dissensions which rent
asunder their city, even when the enemy were thundering at its gates!«
    Some of the audience testified their feeling of this exhortation, by loud
exclamations of applause - others by hooting, and exclaiming - »To your tents, O
Israel!«
    Morton, who beheld the columns of the enemy already beginning to appear on
the right bank, and directing their march upon the bridge, raised his voice to
its utmost pitch, and pointing at the same time with his hand, exclaimed, -
»Silence your senseless clamours! Yonder is the enemy! On maintaining the bridge
against him, depend our lives, as well as our hope to reclaim our laws and
liberties. There shall at least one Scottish man die in their defence. Let any
one who loves his country follow me!«
    The multitude had turned their heads in the direction to which he pointed.
The sight of the glittering files of the English Foot-Guards, supported by
several squadrons of horse, of the cannon which the artillerymen were busily
engaged in planting against the bridge, of the plaided clans who seemed to
search for a ford, and of the long succession of troops which were destined to
support the attack, silenced at once their clamorous uproar, and struck them
with as much consternation as if it were an unexpected apparition, and not the
very thing which they ought to have been looking out for. They gazed on each
other, and on their leaders, with looks resembling those that indicate the
weakness of a patient when exhausted by a fit of frenzy. Yet when Morton,
springing from the rostrum, directed his steps towards the bridge, he was
followed by about an hundred of the young men who were particularly attached to
his command.
    Burley turned to Macbriar - »Ephraim« he said, »it is Providence points us
the way, through the worldly wisdom of this latitudinarian youth. - He that
loves the light, let him follow Burley!«
    »Tarry,« replied Macbriar; »it is not by Henry Morton, or such as he, that
our goings-out and our comings-in are to be meted; therefore tarry with us. I
fear treachery to the host from this nullifidian Achan - Thou shalt not go with
him - thou art our chariots and our horsemen.«
    »Hinder me not,« replied Burley; »he hath well said that all is lost, if the
enemy win the bridge - therefore let me not. Shall the children of this
generation be called wiser or braver than the children of the sanctuary? - Array
yourselves under your leaders - let us not lack supplies of men and ammunition;
and accursed be he who turneth back from the work on this great day!«
    Having thus spoken, he hastily marched towards the bridge, and was followed
by about two hundred of the most gallant and zealous of his party. There was a
deep and disheartened pause when Morton and Burley departed. The commanders
availed themselves of it to display their lines in some sort of order, and
exhorted those who were most exposed to throw themselves upon their faces to
avoid the cannonade which they might presently expect. The insurgents ceased to
resist or to remonstrate; but the awe which had silenced their discords had
dismayed their courage. They suffered themselves to be formed into ranks with
the docility of a flock of sheep, but without possessing, for the time, more
resolution or energy; for they experienced a sinking of the heart, imposed by
the sudden and imminent approach of the danger which they had neglected to
provide against while it was yet distant. They were, however, drawn out with
some regularity; and as they still possessed the appearance of an army, their
leaders had only to hope that some favourable circumstance would restore their
spirits and courage.
    Kettledrummle, Poundtext, Macbriar, and other preachers, busied themselves
in their ranks, and prevailed on them to raise a psalm. But the superstitious
among them observed, as an ill omen, that their song of praise and triumph sunk
into »a quaver of consternation,« and resembled rather a penitentiary stave sung
on the scaffold of a condemned criminal, than the bold strain which had
resounded along the wild heath of Loudon Hill, in anticipation of that day's
victory. The melancholy melody soon received a rough accompaniment; the royal
soldiers shouted, the Highlanders yelled, the cannon began to fire on one side,
and the musketry on both, and the bridge of Bothwell, with the banks adjacent,
were involved in wreaths of smoke.
 

                              Chapter Thirty-First

 As e'er ye saw the rain doun fa',
 Or yet the arrow from the bow,
 Sae our Scots lads fell even down,
 And they lay slain on every knowe.
                                                                     Old Ballad.
 
Ere Morton or Burley had reached the post to be defended, the enemy had
commenced an attack upon it with great spirit. The two regiments of Foot-Guards,
formed into a close column, rushed forward to the river; one corps, deploying
along the right bank, commenced a galling fire on the defenders of the pass,
while the other pressed on to occupy the bridge. The insurgents sustained the
attack with great constancy and courage; and while part of their number returned
the fire across the river, the rest maintained a discharge of musketry upon the
farther end of the bridge itself, and every avenue by which the soldiers
endeavoured to approach it. The latter suffered severely, but still gained
ground, and the head of their column was already upon the bridge, when the
arrival of Morton changed the scene; and his marksmen, commencing upon the pass
a fire as well aimed as it was sustained and regular, compelled the assailants
to retire with much loss. They were a second time brought up to the charge, and
a second time repulsed with still greater loss, as Burley had now brought his
party into action. The fire was continued with the utmost vehemence on both
sides, and the issue of the action seemed very dubious.
    Monmouth, mounted on a superb white charger, might be discovered on the top
of the right bank of the river, urging, entreating, and animating the exertions
of his soldiers. By his orders, the cannon, which had hitherto been employed in
annoying the distant main body of the Presbyterians, were now turned upon the
defenders of the bridge. But these tremendous engines, being wrought much more
slowly than in modern times, did not produce the effect of annoying or
terrifying the enemy to the extent proposed. The insurgents, sheltered by the
copsewood along the bank of the river, or stationed in the houses already
mentioned, fought under cover, while the royalists, owing to the precautions of
Morton, were entirely exposed. The defence was so protracted and obstinate, that
the royal generals began to fear it might be ultimately successful. While
Monmouth threw himself from his horse, and, rallying the Foot-Guards, brought
them on to another close and desperate attack, he was warmly seconded by
Dalzell, who, putting himself at the head of a body of Lennox Highlanders,
rushed forward with their tremendous war-cry of Loch-sloy.36 The ammunition of
the defenders of the bridge began to fail at this important crisis; messages,
commanding and imploring succours and supplies, were in vain despatched, one
after the other, to the main body of the Presbyterian army, which remained
inactively drawn up on the open fields in the rear. Fear, consternation, and
misrule, had gone abroad among them, and while the post on which their safety
depended required to be instantly and powerfully reinforced, there remained none
either to command or to obey.
    As the fire of the defenders of the bridge began to slacken, that of the
assailants increased, and in its turn became more fatal. Animated by the example
and exhortations of their generals, they obtained a footing upon the bridge
itself, and began to remove the obstacles by which it was blockaded. The
portal-gate was broke open, the beams, trunks of trees, and other materials of
the barricade, pulled down and thrown into the river. This was not accomplished
without opposition. Morton and Burley fought in the very front of their
followers, and encouraged them with their pikes, halberds, and partisans, to
encounter the bayonets of the Guards, and the broadswords of the Highlanders.
But those behind the leaders began to shrink from the unequal combat, and fly
singly, or in parties of two or three, towards the main body, until the
remainder were, by the mere weight of the hostile column as much as by their
weapons, fairly forced from the bridge. The passage being now open, the enemy
began to pour over. But the bridge was long and narrow, which rendered the
manoeuvre slow as well as dangerous; and those who first passed had still to
force the houses, from the windows of which the Covenanters continued to fire.
Burley and Morton were near each other at this critical moment.
    »There is yet time,« said the former, »to bring down horse to attack them,
ere they can get into order; and, with the aid of God, we may thus regain the
bridge. Hasten thou to bring them down, while I make the defence good with this
old and wearied body.«
    Morton saw the importance of the advice, and, throwing himself on the horse
which Cuddie held in readiness for him behind the thicket, galloped towards a
body of cavalry which chanced to be composed entirely of Cameronians. Ere he
could speak his errand, or utter his orders, he was saluted by the execrations
of the whole body.
    »He flies!« they exclaimed - »the cowardly traitor flies like a hart from
the hunters, and hath left valiant Burley in the midst of the slaughter!«
    »I do not fly,« said Morton. »I come to lead you to the attack. Advance
boldly, and we shall yet do well.«
    »Follow him not! - Follow him not!« - such were the tumultuous exclamations
which resounded from the ranks; - »he hath sold you to the sword of the enemy!«
    And while Morton argued, entreated, and commanded in vain, the moment was
lost in which the advance might have been useful; and the outlet from the
bridge, with all its defences, being in complete possession of the enemy, Burley
and his remaining followers were driven back upon the main body, to whom the
spectacle of their hurried and harassed retreat was far from restoring the
confidence which they so much wanted.
    In the meanwhile, the forces of the King crossed the bridge at their
leisure, and securing the pass, formed in line of battle; while Claverhouse, who
like a hawk perched on a rock, and eyeing the time to pounce on its prey, had
watched the event of the action from the opposite bank, now passed the bridge at
the head of his cavalry, at full trot, and leading them in squadrons, through
the intervals and round the flanks of the royal infantry, formed them in line on
the moor, and led them to the charge, advancing in front with one large body,
while other two divisions threatened the flanks of the Covenanters. Their
devoted army was now in that situation when the slightest demonstration towards
an attack was certain to inspire panic. Their broken spirits and disheartened
courage were unable to endure the charge of the cavalry, attended with all its
terrible accompaniments of sight and sound, - the rush of the horses at full
speed, the shaking of the earth under their feet, the glancing of the swords,
the waving of the plumes, and the fierce shouts of the cavaliers. The front
ranks hardly attempted one ill-directed and disorderly fire, and their rear were
broken and flying in confusion ere the charge had been completed; and in less
than five minutes the horsemen were mixed with them, cutting and hewing without
mercy. The voice of Claverhouse was heard, even above the din of conflict,
exclaiming to his soldiers - »Kill! kill! no quarter! think on Richard Grahame!«
The dragoons, many of whom had shared the disgrace of Loudon Hill, required no
exhortations to vengeance as easy as it was complete. Their swords drank deep of
slaughter among the unresisting fugitives. Screams for quarter were only
answered by the shouts with which the pursuers accompanied their blows, and the
whole field presented one general scene of confused slaughter, flight, and
pursuit.
    About twelve hundred of the insurgents who remained in a body a little apart
from the rest, and out of the line of the charge of cavalry, threw down their
arms and surrendered at discretion, upon the approach of the Duke of Monmouth at
the head of the infantry. That mild-tempered nobleman instantly allowed them the
quarter which they prayed for; and, galloping about through the field, exerted
himself as much to stop the slaughter, as he had done to obtain the victory.
While busied in this humane task, he met with General Dalzell, who was
encouraging the fierce Highlanders and royal volunteers to show their zeal for
King and country, by quenching the flame of the rebellion with the blood of the
rebels.
    »Sheath your sword. I command you, General!« exclaimed the Duke, »and sound
the retreat. Enough of blood has been shed; give quarter to the King's misguided
subjects.«
    »I obey your Grace,« said the old man, wiping his bloody sword and returning
it to the scabbard; »but I warn you at the same time, that enough has not been
done to intimidate these desperate rebels. Has not your Grace heard that Basil
Olifant has collected several gentlemen and men of substance in the West, and is
in the act of marching to join them?«
    »Basil Olifant?« said the Duke; »who, or what is he?«
    »The next male heir to the last Earl of Torwood. He is disaffected to
Government from his claim to the estate being set aside in favour of Lady
Margaret Bellenden; and I suppose the hope of getting the inheritance has set
him in motion.«
    »Be his motives what they will,« replied Monmouth, »he must soon disperse
his followers, for this army is too much broken to rally again; - therefore,
once more, I command that the pursuit be stopped.«
    »It is your Grace's province to command, and to be responsible for your
commands,« answered Dalzell, as he gave reluctant orders for checking the
pursuit.
    But the fiery and vindictive Grahame was already far out of hearing of the
signal of retreat, and continued with his cavalry an unwearied and bloody
pursuit, breaking, dispersing, and cutting to pieces all the insurgents whom
they could come up with.
    Burley and Morton were both hurried off the field by the confused tide of
fugitives. They made some attempt to defend the streets of the town of Hamilton;
but while labouring to induce the fliers to face about and stand to their
weapons, Burley received a bullet which broke his sword-arm.
    »May the hand be withered that shot the shot!« he exclaimed, as the sword
which he was waving over his head fell powerless to his side. »I can fight no
longer.«37
    Then turning his horse's head, he retreated out of the confusion. Morton
also now saw that the continuing his unavailing efforts to rally the fliers
could only end in his own death or captivity, and, followed by the faithful
Cuddie, he extricated himself from the press, and, being well mounted, leaped
his horse over one or two enclosures, and got into the open country.
    From the first hill which they gained in their flight, they looked back, and
beheld the whole country covered with their fugitive companions, and with the
pursuing dragoons, whose wild shouts and halloo, as they did execution on the
groups whom they overtook, mingled with the groans and screams of their victims,
rose shrilly up the hill.
    »It is impossible they can ever make head again,« said Morton.
    »The head's taken aff them, as clean as I wad bite it off a sybo!« rejoined
Cuddie. »Eh, Lord! see how the broadswords are flashing! War's a fearsome thing.
They'll be cunning that catches me at this wark again. - But, for God's sake,
sir, let us make for some strength!«
    Morton saw the necessity of following the advice of his trusty squire. They
resumed a rapid pace, and continued it without intermission, directing their
course towards the wild and mountainous country, where they thought it likely
some part of the fugitives might draw together, for the sake either of making
defence, or of obtaining terms.
 

                             Chapter Thirty-Second

 They require
 Of Heaven the hearts of lions, breath of tigers,
 Yea and the fierceness too.
                                                                       Fletcher.
 
Evening had fallen; and, for the last two hours, they had seen none of their
ill-fated companions, when Morton and his faithful attendant gained the
moorland, and approached a large and solitary farm-house, situated in the
entrance of a wild glen, far remote from any other habitation.
    »Our horses,« said Morton, »will carry us no farther without rest or food,
and we must try to obtain them here, if possible.«
    So speaking, he led the way to the house. The place had every appearance of
being inhabited. There was smoke issuing from the chimney in a considerable
volume, and the marks of recent hoofs were visible around the door. They could
even hear the murmuring of human voices within the house. But all the lower
windows were closely secured; and when they knocked at the door, no answer was
returned. After vainly calling and entreating admittance, they withdrew to the
stable or shed, in order to accommodate their horses, ere they used farther
means of gaining admission. In this place they found ten or twelve horses, whose
state of fatigue, as well as the military yet disordered appearance of their
saddles and accoutrements, plainly indicated that their owners were fugitive
insurgents in their own circumstances.
    »This meeting bodes luck,« said Cuddie; »and they hae walth a' beef, that's
ae thing certain, for here's a raw hide that has been about the hurdies o' a
stot not half-an-hour syne - it's warm yet.«
    Encouraged by these appearances, they returned again to the house, and
announcing themselves as men in the same predicament with the inmates, clamoured
loudly for admittance.
    »Whoever ye be,« answered a stern voice from the window, after a long and
obdurate silence, »disturb not those who mourn for the desolation and captivity
of the land, and search out the causes of wrath and of defection, that the
stumbling-blocks may be removed over which we have stumbled.«
    »They are wild western whigs,« said Cuddie, in a whisper to his master; »I
ken by their language. Fiend hae me if I like to venture on them!«
    Morton, however, again called to the party within, and insisted on
admittance; but finding his entreaties still disregarded, he opened one of the
lower windows, and pushing asunder the shutters, which were but slightly
secured, stepped into the large kitchen from which the voice had issued. Cuddie
followed him, muttering betwixt his teeth, as he put his head within the window,
»That he hoped there was nae scalding brose on the fire;« and master and servant
both found themselves in the company of ten or twelve armed men, seated around
the fire on which refreshments were preparing, and busied apparently in their
devotions.
    In the gloomy countenances, illuminated by the fire-light, Morton had no
difficulty in recognising several of those zealots who had most distinguished
themselves by their intemperate opposition to all moderate measures, together
with their noted pastor, the fanatical Ephraim Macbriar, and the maniac,
Ha-bakkuk Mucklewrath. The Cameronians neither stirred tongue nor hand to
welcome their brethren in misfortune, but continued to listen to the low
murmured exercise of Macbriar, as he prayed that the Almighty would lift up his
hand from his people, and not make an end in the day of his anger. That they
were conscious of the presence of the intruders only appeared from the sullen
and indignant glances which they shot at them, from time to time, as their eyes
encountered.
    Morton, finding into what unfriendly society he had unwittingly intruded,
began to think of retreating; but, on turning his head, observed with some
alarm, that two strong men had silently placed themselves beside the window
through which they had entered. One of these ominous sentinels whispered to
Cuddie, »Son of that precious woman, Mause Headrigg, do not cast thy lot farther
with this child of treachery and perdition - Pass on thy way, and tarry not, for
the avenger of blood is behind thee.«
    With this he pointed to the window, out of which Cuddie jumped without
hesitation; for the intimation he had received plainly implied the personal
danger he would otherwise incur.
    »Winnocks are no lucky wi' me,« was his first reflection when he was in the
open air; his next was upon the probable fate of his master. »They'll kill him,
the murdering loons, and think they're doing a good turn! but I'se take the back
road for Hamilton, and see if I canna get some o' our ain folk to bring help in
time of necessity.«
    So saying, Cuddie hastened to the stable, and taking the best horse he could
find instead of his own tired animal, he galloped off in the direction he
proposed.
    The noise of his horse's tread alarmed for an instant the devotion of the
fanatics. As it died in the distance, Macbriar brought his exercise to a
conclusion, and his audience raised themselves from the stooping posture, and
louring downward look, with which they had listened to it, and all fixed their
eyes sternly on Henry Morton.
    »You bend strange countenances on me, gentlemen,« said he, addressing them.
»I am totally ignorant in what manner I can have deserved them.«
    »Out upon thee! out upon thee!« exclaimed Mucklewrath, starting up; »the
word that thou hast spurned shall become a rock to crush and to bruise thee; the
spear which thou wouldst have broken shall pierce thy side; we have prayed, and
wrestled, and petitioned, for an offering to atone the sins of the congregation,
and lo! the very head of the offence is delivered into our hand. He hath burst
in like a thief through the window; he is a ram caught in the thicket, whose
blood shall be a drink-offering to redeem vengeance from the church, and the
place shall from henceforth be called Jehovah-Jireh, for the sacrifice is
provided. Up then, and bind the victim with cords to the horns of the altar!«
    There was a movement among the party; and deeply did Morton regret at that
moment the incautious haste with which he had ventured into their company. He
was armed only with his sword, for he had left his pistols at the bow of his
saddle; and, as the whigs were all provided with firearms, there was little or
no chance of escaping from them by resistance. The interposition, however, of
Macbriar protected him for the moment.
    »Tarry yet a while, brethren! - let us not use the sword rashly, lest the
load of innocent blood lie heavy on us. - Come,« he said, addressing himself to
Morton, »we will reckon with thee ere we avenge the cause thou hast betrayed. -
Hast thou not,« he continued, »made thy face as hard as flint against the truth
in all the assemblies of the host?«
    »He has - he has,« murmured the deep voices of the assistants.
    »He hath ever urged peace with the malignants,« said one.
    »And pleaded for the dark and dismal guilt of the Indulgence,« said another.
    »And would have surrendered the host into the hands of Monmouth,« echoed a
third; »and was the first to desert the honest and manly Burley, while he yet
resisted at the pass. I saw him on the moor, with his horse bloody with
spurring, long ere the firing had ceased at the bridge.«
    »Gentlemen,« said Morton, »if you mean to bear me down by clamour, and take
my life without hearing me, it is perhaps a thing in your power; but you will
sin before God and man by the commission of such a murder.«
    »I say, hear the youth,« said Macbriar; »for Heaven knows our bowels have
yearned for him, that he might be brought to see the truth, and exert his gifts
in its defence. But he is blinded by his carnal knowledge, and has spurned the
light when it blazed before him.«
    Silence being obtained, Morton proceeded to assert the good faith which he
had displayed in the treaty with Monmouth, and the active part he had borne in
the subsequent action.
    »I may not, gentlemen,« he said, »be fully able to go the lengths you
desire, in assigning to those of my own religion the means of tyrannising over
others; but none shall go farther in asserting our own lawful freedom. And I
must needs aver, that had others been of my mind in counsel, or disposed to
stand by my side in battle, we should this evening, instead of being a defeated
and discordant remnant, have sheathed our weapons in an useful and honourable
peace, or brandished them triumphantly after a decisive victory.«
    »He hath spoken the word,« said one of the assembly - »he hath avowed his
carnal self-seeking and Erastianism; - let him die the death!«
    »Peace yet again,« said Macbriar, »for I will try him further. - Was it not
by thy means that the malignant Evandale twice escaped from death and captivity?
Was it not through thee that Miles Bellenden and his garrison of cut-throats
were saved from the edge of the sword?«
    »I am proud to say, that you have spoken the truth in both instances,«
replied Morton.
    »Lo! you see!« said Macbriar - »again hath his mouth spoken it. - And didst
thou not do this for the sake of a Midianitish woman, one of the spawn of
prelacy, a toy with which the arch-enemy's trap is baited? Didst thou not do all
this for the sake of Edith Bellenden?«
    »You are incapable,« answered Morton, boldly, »of appreciating my feelings
towards that young lady; but all that I have done I would have done had she
never existed.«
    »Thou art a hardy rebel to the truth,« said another dark-brow'd man. »And
didst thou not so act, that, by conveying away the aged woman, Margaret
Bellenden, and her granddaughter, thou mightest thwart the wise and godly
project of John Balfour of Burley for bringing forth to battle Basil Olifant,
who had agreed to take the field if he were insured possession of these women's
worldly endowments?«
    »I never heard of such a scheme,« said Morton, »and therefore I could not
thwart it. - But does your religion permit you to take such discreditable and
immoral modes of recruiting?«
    »Peace! « said Macbriar, somewhat disconcerted; »it is not for thee to
instruct tender professors, or to construe Covenant obligations. For the rest,
you have acknowledged enough of sin and sorrowful defection, to draw down defeat
on a host, were it as numerous as the sands on the sea-shore. And it is our
judgment, that we are not free to let you pass from us safe and in life, since
Providence hath given you into our hands at the moment that we prayed with godly
Joshua, saying, 'What shall we say when Israel turneth their backs before their
enemies?' - Then camest thou, delivered to us as it were by lot, that thou
mightest sustain the punishment of one that hath wrought folly in Israel.
Therefore, mark my words. This is the Sabbath, and our hand shall not be on thee
to spill thy blood upon this day; but, when the twelfth hour shall strike, it is
a token that thy time on earth hath run! Wherefore improve thy span, for it
flitteth fash away. - Seize on the prisoner, brethren, and take his weapon.«
    The command was so unexpectedly given, and so suddenly executed by those of
the party who had gradually closed behind and around Morton, that he was
overpowered, disarmed, and a horse girth passed round his arms, before he could
offer any effectual resistance. When this was accomplished, a dead and stern
silence took place. The fanatics ranged themselves around a large oaken table,
placing Morton amongst them bound and helpless, in such a manner as to be
opposite to the clock which was to strike his knell. Food was placed before
them, of which they offered their intended victim a share; but, it will readily
be believed, he had little appetite. When this was removed, the party resumed
their devotions. Macbriar, whose fierce zeal did not perhaps exclude some
feelings of doubt and compunction, began to expostulate in prayer, as if to
wring from the Deity a signal that the bloody sacrifice they proposed was an
acceptable service. The eyes and ears of his hearers were anxiously strained as
if to gain some sight or sound which might be converted or wrested into a type
of approbation, and ever and anon dark looks were turned on the dial-plate of
the time-piece, to watch its progress towards the moment of execution.
    Morton's eye frequently took the same course, with the sad reflection, that
there appeared no possibility of his life being expanded beyond the narrow
segment which the index had yet to travel on the circle until it arrived at the
fatal hour. - Faith in his religion, with a constant unyielding principle of
honour, and the sense of conscious innocence, enabled him to pass through this
dreadful interval with less agitation than he himself could have expected, had
the situation been prophesied to him. Yet there was a want of that eager and
animating sense of right which supported him in similar circumstances, when in
the power of Claverhouse. Then he was conscious, that, amid the spectators, were
many who were lamenting his condition, and some who applauded his conduct. But
now, among these pale-eyed and ferocious zealots, whose hardened brows were soon
to be bent, not merely with indifference, but with triumph, upon his execution -
without a friend to speak a kindly word, or give a look either of sympathy or
encouragement - awaiting till the sword destined to slay him crept out of the
scabbard gradually, and, as it were, by straw-breadths, and condemned to drink
the bitterness of death drop by drop, - it is no wonder that his feelings were
less composed than they had been on any former occasion of danger. His destined
executioners, as he gazed around them, seemed to alter their forms and features,
like spectres in a feverish dream; their figures became larger, and their faces
more disturbed; and, as an excited imagination predominated over the realities
which his eyes received, he could have thought himself surrounded rather by a
band of demons than of human beings; the walls seemed to drop with blood, and
the light tick of the clock thrilled on his ear with such loud; painful
distinctness, as if each sound were the prick of a bodkin inflicted on the naked
nerve of the organ.
    It was with pain that he felt his mind wavering while on the brink between
this and the future world. He made a strong effort to compose himself to
devotional exercises, and unequal, during that fearful strife of nature, to
arrange his own thoughts into suitable expressions, he had, instinctively,
recourse to the petition for deliverance and for composure of spirit which is to
be found in the Book of Common Prayer of the Church of England. - Macbriar,
whose family were of that persuasion, instantly recognised the words, which the
unfortunate prisoner pronounced half aloud.
    »There lacked but this,« he said, his pale cheek kindling with resentment,
»to root out my carnal reluctance to see his blood spilt. He is a prelatist, who
has sought the camp under the disguise of an Erastian, and all, and more than
all, that has been said of him must needs be verity. His blood be on his head,
the deceiver! - let him go down to Tophet, with the illmumbled mass which he
calls a prayer-book in his right hand!«
    »I take up my song against him!« exclaimed the maniac. »As the sun went back
on the dial ten degrees for intimating the recovery of holy Hezekiah, so shall
it now go forward, that the wicked may be taken away from among the people, and
the Covenant established in its purity.«
    He sprang to a chair with an attitude of frenzy, in order to anticipate the
fatal moment by putting the index forward; and several of the party began to
make ready their slaughter-weapons for immediate execution, when Mucklewrath's
hand was arrested by one of his companions.
    »Hist!« he said - »I hear a distant noise.«
    »It is the rushing of the brook over the pebbles,« said one.
    »It is the sough of the wind among the bracken,« said another.
    »It is the galloping of horse,« said Morton to himself, his sense of hearing
rendered acute by the dreadful situation in which he stood - »God grant they may
come as my deliverers!«
    The noise approached rapidly, and became more and more distinct.
    »It is horse!« cried Macbriar. »Look out and descry who they are.«
    »The enemy are upon us!« cried one, who had opened the window in obedience
to his order.
    A thick trampling and loud voices were heard immediately round the house.
Some rose to resist, and some to escape; the doors and windows were forced at
once, and the red coats of the troopers appeared in the apartment.
    »Have at the bloody rebels! - Remember Cornet Grahame!« was shouted on every
side.
    The lights were struck down, but the dubious glare of the fire enabled them
to continue the fray. Several pistol-shots were fired; the whig who stood next
to Morton received a shot as he was rising, stumbled against the prisoner, whom
he bore down with his weight, and lay stretched above him a dying man. This
accident probably saved Morton from the damage he might otherwise have received
in so close a struggle, where firearms were discharged and sword-blows given for
upwards of five minutes.
    »Is the prisoner safe?« exclaimed the well-known voice of Claverhouse; »look
about for him, and despatch the whig dog who is groaning there.«
    Both orders were executed. The groans of the wounded man were silenced by a
thrust with a rapier, and Morton, disencumbered of his weight, was speedily
raised and in the arms of the faithful Cuddie, who blubbered for joy when he
found that the blood with which his master was covered had not flowed from his
own veins. A whisper in Morton's ear, while his trusty follower relieved him
from his bonds, explained the secret of the very timely appearance of the
soldiers.
    »I fell into Claverhouse's party when I was seeking for some o' our ain folk
to help ye out o' the hands of the whigs, sae being atween the deil and the deep
sea, I e'en thought it best to bring him on wi' me, for he'll be wearied wi'
felling folk the night, and the morn's a new day, and Lord Evandale awes ye a
day in ha'arst; and Monmouth gies quarter, the dragoons tell me, for the asking.
Sae haud up your heart, an I'se warrant we'll do a' well enough yet.«38
 

                              Chapter Thirty-Third

 Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
 To all the sensual world proclaim,
 One crowded hour of glorious life
 Is worth an age without a name.
                                                                       Anonymus.
 
When the desperate affray had ceased, Claverhouse commanded his soldiers to
remove the dead bodies, to refresh themselves and their horses, and prepare for
passing the night at the farm-house, and for marching early in the ensuing
morning. He then turned his attention to Morton, and there was politeness, and
even kindness, in the manner in which he addressed him.
    »You would have saved yourself risk from both sides, Mr. Morton, if you had
honoured my counsel yesterday morning with some attention - But I respect your
motives. You are a prisoner-of-war at the disposal of the King and Council, but
you shall be treated with no incivility; and I will be satisfied with your
parole that you will not attempt an escape.«
    When Morton had passed his word to that effect, Claverhouse bowed civilly,
and, turning away from him, called for his sergeant-major. - »How many
prisoners, Halliday, and how many killed?«
    »Three killed in the house, sir, two cut down in the court, and one in the
garden - six in all; four prisoners.«
    »Armed or unarmed?« said Claverhouse.
    »Three of them armed to the teeth,« answered Halliday; »one without arms -
he seems to be a preacher.«
    »Ay - the trumpeter to the long-ear'd rout, I suppose,« replied Claverhouse,
glancing slightly round upon his victims; »I will talk with him to-morrow. Take
the other three down to the yard, draw out two files, and fire upon them; and,
d'ye hear, make a memorandum in the orderly book of three rebels taken in arms
and shot, with the date and name of the place - Drumshinnel, I think, they call
it. - Look after the preacher till to-morrow: as he was not armed, he must
undergo a short examination. Or better, perhaps, take him before the Privy
Council; I think they should relieve me of a share of this disgusting drudgery.
- Let Mr. Morton be civilly used, and see that the men look well after their
horses; and let my groom wash Wildblood's shoulder with some vinegar - the
saddle has touched him a little.«
    All these various orders, - for life and death, the securing of his
prisoners, and the washing of his charger's shoulder, - were given in the same
unmoved and equable voice, of which no accent or tone intimated that the speaker
considered one direction as of more importance than another.
    The Cameronians, so lately about to be the willing agents of a bloody
execution, were now themselves to undergo it. They seemed prepared alike for
either extremity, nor did any of them show the least sign of fear, when ordered
to leave the room for the purpose of meeting instant death. Their severe
enthusiasm sustained them in that dreadful moment, and they departed with a firm
look and in silence, excepting that one of them, as he left the apartment,
looked Claverhouse full in the face, and pronounced, with a stern and steady
voice, - »Mischief shall haunt the violent man!« to which Grahame only answered
by a smile of contempt.
    They had no sooner left the room than Claverhouse applied himself to some
food, which one or two of his party had hastily provided, and invited Morton to
follow his example, observing, it had been a busy day for them both. Morton
declined eating; for the sudden change of circumstances - the transition from
the verge of the grave to a prospect of life, had occasioned a dizzy revulsion
in his whole system. But the same confused sensation was accompanied by a
burning thirst, and he expressed his wish to drink.
    »I will pledge you, with all my heart,« said Claverhouse; »for here is a
black jack full of ale, and good it must be, if there be good in the country,
for the whigs never miss to find it out. - My service to you, Mr. Morton,« he
said, filling one horn of ale for himself, and handing another to his prisoner.
    Morton raised it to his head, and was just about to drink, when the
discharge of carabines beneath the window, followed by a deep and hollow groan,
repeated twice or thrice, and more faint at each interval, announced the fate of
the three men who had just left them. Morton shuddered, and set down the
untasted cup.
    »You are but young in these matters, Mr. Morton,« said Claverhouse, after he
had very composedly finished his draught; »and I do not think the worse of you
as a young soldier for appearing to feel them acutely. But habit, duty, and
necessity, reconcile men to everything.«
    »I trust,« said Morton, »they will never reconcile me to such scenes as
these.«
    »You would hardly believe,« said Claverhouse in reply, »that, in the
beginning of my military career, I had as much aversion to seeing blood spilt as
ever man felt - it seemed to me to be wrung from my own heart; and yet, if you
trust one of those whig fellows, he will tell you I drink a warm cup of it every
morning before I breakfast.39 But in truth, Mr. Morton, why should we care so
much for death, light upon us or around us whenever it may? Men die daily - not
a bell tolls the hour but it is the death-note of some one or other; and why
hesitate to shorten the span of others, or take over-anxious care to prolong our
own? It is all a lottery. - When the hour of midnight came, you were to die - it
has struck, you are alive and safe, and the lot has fallen on those fellows who
were to murder you. It is not the expiring pang that is worth thinking of in an
event that must happen one day, and may befall us on any given moment - it is
the memory which the soldier leaves behind him, like the long train of light
that follows the sunken sun - that is all which is worth caring for, which
distinguishes the death of the brave or the ignoble. When I think of death, Mr.
Morton, as a thing worth thinking of, it is in the hope of pressing one day some
well-fought and hard-won field of battle, and dying with the shout of victory in
my ear - that would be worth dying for, and more, it would be worth having lived
for!«
    At the moment when Grahame delivered these sentiments, his eye glancing with
the martial enthusiasm which formed such a prominent feature in his character, a
gory figure, which seemed to rise out of the floor of the apartment, stood
upright before him, and presented the wild person and hideous features of the
maniac so often mentioned. His face, where it was not covered with
blood-streaks, was ghastly pale, for the hand of death was on him. He bent upon
Claverhouse eyes, in which the grey light of insanity still twinkled, though
just about to flit for ever, and exclaimed, with his usual wildness of
ejaculation, »Wilt thou trust in thy bow and in thy spear, in thy steed and in
thy banner? And shall not God visit thee for innocent blood? - Wilt thou glory
in thy wisdom, and in thy courage, and in thy might? And shall not the Lord
judge thee? - Behold, the princes, for whom thou hast sold thy soul to the
destroyer, shall be removed from their place, and banished to other lands, and
their names shall be a desolation, and an astonishment, and a hissing, and a
curse. And thou, who hast partaken of the wine-cup of fury, and hast been
drunken and mad because thereof, the wish of thy heart shall be granted to thy
loss, and the hope of thine own pride shall destroy thee. I summon thee, John
Grahame, to appear before the tribunal of God, to answer for this innocent
blood, and the seas besides which thou hast shed.«
    He drew his right hand across his bleeding face, and held it up to heaven as
he uttered these words, which he spoke very loud, and then added more faintly,
»How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge the blood of
thy saints!«
    As he uttered the last word, he fell backwards without an attempt to save
himself, and was a dead man ere his head touched the floor.
    Morton was much shocked at this extraordinary scene, and the prophecy of the
dying man, which tallied so strangely with the wish which Claverhouse had just
expressed; and he often thought of it afterwards when that wish seemed to be
accomplished. Two of the dragoons who were in the apartment, hardened as they
were, and accustomed to such scenes, showed great consternation at the sudden
apparition, the event, and the words which preceded it. Claverhouse alone was
unmoved. At the first instant of Mucklewrath's appearance, he had put his hand
to his pistol, but on seeing the situation of the wounded wretch, he immediately
withdrew it, and listened with great composure to his dying exclamation.
    When he dropped, Claverhouse asked, in an unconcerned tone of voice - »How
came the fellow here? - Speak, you staring fool!« he added, addressing the
nearest dragoon, »unless you would have me think you such a poltroon as to fear
a dying man.«
    The dragoon crossed himself, and replied with a faltering voice, »That the
dead fellow had escaped their notice when they removed the other bodies, as he
chanced to have fallen where a cloak or two had been flung aside, and covered
him.«
    »Take him away now, then, you gaping idiot, and see that he does not bite
you, to put an old proverb to shame. - This is a new incident, Mr. Morton, that
dead men should rise and push us from our stools. I must see that my blackguards
grind their swords sharper; they used not to do their work so slovenly. - But we
have had a busy day; they are tired, and their blades blunted with their bloody
work; and I suppose you, Mr. Morton, as well as I, are well disposed for a few
hours' repose.«
    So saying, he yawned, and taking a candle which a soldier had placed ready,
saluted Morton courteously, and walked to the apartment which had been prepared
for him.
    Morton was also accommodated, for the evening, with a separate room. Being
left alone, his first occupation was the returning thanks to Heaven for
redeeming him from danger, even through the instrumentality of those who seemed
his most dangerous enemies; he also prayed sincerely for the Divine assistance
in guiding his course through times which held out so many dangers and so many
errors. And having thus poured out his spirit in prayer before the Great Being
who gave it, he betook himself to the repose which he so much required.
 

                             Chapter Thirty-Fourth

 The charge is prepared, the lawyers are met,
 The judges all ranged - a terrible show!
                                                                 Beggar's Opera.
 
So deep was the slumber which succeeded the agitation and embarrassment of the
preceding day, that Morton hardly knew where he was when it was broken by the
tramp of horses, the hoarse voice of men, and the wild sound of the trumpets
blowing the réveillé. The sergeant-major immediately afterwards came to summon
him, which he did in a very respectful manner, saying the General (for
Claverhouse now held that rank) hoped for the pleasure of his company upon the
road. In some situations an intimation is a command, and Morton considered that
the present occasion was one of these. He waited upon Claverhouse as speedily as
he could, found his own horse saddled for his use, and Cuddie in attendance.
Both were deprived of their firearms, though they seemed, otherwise, rather to
make part of the troop than of the prisoners; and Morton was permitted to retain
his sword, the wearing which was, in those days, the distinguishing mark of a
gentleman. Claverhouse seemed also to take pleasure in riding beside him, in
conversing with him, and in confounding his ideas when he attempted to
appreciate his real character. The gentleness and urbanity of that officer's
general manners, the high and chivalrous sentiments of military devotion which
he occasionally expressed, his deep and accurate insight into the human bosom,
demanded at once the approbation and the wonder of those who conversed with him;
while, on the other hand, his cold indifference to military violence and cruelty
seemed altogether inconsistent with the social, and even admirable qualities
which he displayed. Morton could not help, in his heart, contrasting him with
Balfour of Burley; and so deeply did the idea impress him, that he dropped a
hint of it as they rode together at some distance from the troop.
    »You are right,« said Claverhouse, with a smile - »you are very right. We
are both fanatics; but there is some distinction between the fanaticism of
honour and that of dark and sullen superstition.«
    »Yet you both shed blood without mercy or remorse,« said Morton, who could
not suppress his feelings.
    »Surely,« said Claverhouse, with the same composure; »but of what kind? -
There is a difference, I trust, between the blood of learned and reverend
prelates and scholars, of gallant soldiers and noble gentlemen, and the red
puddle that stagnates in the veins of psalm-singing mechanics, crack-brained
demagogues, and silly boors; - some distinction, in short, between spilling a
flask of generous wine, and dashing down a can full of base muddy ale?«
    »Your distinction is too nice for my comprehension,« replied Morton. »God
gives every spark of life - that of the peasant as well as of the prince; and
those who destroy his work recklessly or causelessly, must answer in either
case. What right, for example, have I to General Grahame's protection now, more
than when I first met him?«
    »And narrowly escaped the consequences, you would say?« answered
Claverhouse. »Why, I will answer you frankly. Then I thought I had to do with
the son of an old roundheaded rebel, and the nephew of a sordid Presbyterian
laird; now I know your points better, and there is that about you which I
respect in an enemy as much as I like in a friend. I have learned a good deal
concerning you since our first meeting, and I trust that you have found that my
construction of the information has not been unfavourable to you.«
    »But yet,« said Morton --
    »But yet,« interrupted Grahame, taking up the word, »you would say, you were
the same when I first met you that you are now? True; but then, how could I know
that? though, by the by, even my reluctance to suspend your execution may show
you how high your abilities stood in my estimation.«
    »Do you expect, General,« said Morton, »that I ought to be particularly
grateful for such a mark of your esteem?«
    »Poh! poh! you are critical,« returned Claverhouse. »I tell you I thought
you a different sort of a person. Did you ever read Froissart?«
    »No,« was Morton's answer.
    »I have half a mind,« said Claverhouse, »to contrive you should have six
months' imprisonment in order to procure you that pleasure. His chapters inspire
me with more enthusiasm than even poetry itself. And the noble canon, with what
true chivalrous feeling he confines his beautiful expressions of sorrow to the
death of the gallant and high-bred knight, of whom it was a pity to see the
fall, such was his loyalty to his king, pure faith to his religion, hardihood
towards his enemy, and fidelity to his lady-love! - Ah, benedicite! how he will
mourn over the fall of such a pearl of knighthood, be it on the side he happens
to favour, or on the other. But, truly, for sweeping from the face of the earth
some few hundreds of villain churls, who are born but to plough it, the
high-born and inquisitive historian has marvellous little sympathy - as little,
or less, perhaps, than John Grahame of Claverhouse.«
    »There is one ploughman in your possession, General, for whom,« said Morton,
»in despite of the contempt in which you hold a profession which some
philosophers have considered as useful as that of a soldier, I would humbly
request your favour.«
    »You mean,« said Claverhouse, looking at a memorandum-book, »one Hatherick -
Hedderick - or - or - Headrigg. Ay, Cuthbert, or Cuddie Headrigg - here I have
him. O, never fear him, if he will be but tractable. The ladies of Tillietudlem
made interest with me on his account some time ago. He is to marry their
waiting-maid, I think. He will be allowed to slip off easy, unless his obstinacy
spoils his good fortune.«
    »He has no ambition to be a martyr, I believe,« said Morton.
    »'Tis the better for him,« said Claverhouse. »But, besides, although the
fellow had more to answer for, I should stand his friend, for the sake of the
blundering gallantry which threw him into the midst of our ranks last night,
when seeking assistance for you. I never desert any man who trusts me with such
implicit confidence. But, to deal sincerely with you, he has long been in our
eye. Here, Halliday, bring me up the black book.«
    The sergeant, having committed to his commander this ominous record of the
disaffected, which was arranged in alphabetical order, Claverhouse, turning over
the leaves as he rode on, began to read names as they occurred.
    »Gumblegumption, a minister, aged 50, indulged, close, sly, and so forth -
Pooh! pooh! - He - He - I have him here - Heathercat; outlawed - a preacher - a
zealous Cameronian - keeps a conventicle among the Campsie Hills - Tush! - Oh,
here is Headrigg - Cuthbert; his mother a bitter puritan - himself a simple
fellow - like to be forward in action, but of no genius for plots - more for the
hand than the head, and might be drawn to the right side, but for his attachment
to« -- (Here Claverhouse looked at Morton, and then shut the book and changed
his tone.) »Faithful and true are words never thrown away upon me, Mr. Morton.
You may depend on the young man's safety.«
    »Does it not revolt a mind like yours,« said Morton, »to follow a system
which is to be supported by such minute inquiries after obscure individuals?«
    »You do not suppose we take the trouble?« said the General, haughtily. »The
curates, for their own sakes, willingly collect all these materials for their
own regulation in each parish; - they know best the black sheep of the flock. I
have had your picture for three years.«
    »Indeed!« replied Morton. »Will you favour me by imparting it?«
    »Willingly,« said Claverhouse; »it can signify little, for you cannot avenge
yourself on the curate, as you will probably leave Scotland for some time.«
    This was spoken in an indifferent tone. Morton felt an involuntary shudder
at hearing words which implied a banishment from his native land; - but ere he
answered, Claverhouse proceeded to read, »Henry Morton, son of Silas Morton,
Colonel of horse for the Scottish Parliament, nephew and apparent heir of Morton
of Milnwood - imperfectly educated, but with spirit beyond his years - excellent
at all exercises - indifferent to forms of religion, but seems to incline to the
Presbyterian - has high-flown and dangerous notions about liberty of thought and
speech, and hovers between a latitudinarian and an enthusiast. Much admired and
followed by the youth of his own age - modest, quiet, and unassuming in manner,
but in his heart peculiarly bold and intractable. He is -- Here follow three red
crosses, Mr. Morton, which signify triply dangerous. You see how important a
person you are. - But what does this fellow want?«
    A horseman rode up as he spoke, and gave a letter. Claverhouse glanced it
over, laughed scornfully, bade him tell his master to send his prisoners to
Edinburgh, for there was no answer; and, as the man turned back, said
contemptuously to Morton - »Here is an ally of yours deserted from you, or
rather, I should say, an ally of your good friend Burley - Hear how he sets
forth - 'Dear Sir' (I wonder when we were such intimates), 'may it please your
Excellency to accept my humble congratulations on the victory' - hum - hum -
'blessed his Majesty's army. I pray you to understand I have my people under
arms to take and intercept all fugitives, and have already several prisoners,'
and so forth. Subscribed Basil Olifant - You know the fellow by name, I
suppose?«
    »A relative of Lady Margaret Bellenden,« replied Morton, »is he not?«
    »Ay,« replied Grahame, »and heir-male of her father's family, though a
distant one, and moreover a suitor to the fair Edith, though discarded as an
unworthy one; but, above all, a devoted admirer of the estate of Tillietudlem,
and all thereunto belonging.«
    »He takes an ill mode of recommending himself,« said Morton, suppressing his
feelings, »to the family at Tillietudlem, by corresponding with our unhappy
party.«
    »Oh, this precious Basil will turn cat in pan with any man!« replied
Claverhouse. »He was displeased with the Government, because they would not
overturn in his favour a settlement of the late Earl of Torwood, by which his
lordship gave his own estate to his own daughter; he was displeased with Lady
Margaret, because she avowed no desire for his alliance, and with the pretty
Edith, because she did not like his tall ungainly person. So he held a close
correspondence with Burley, and raised his followers with the purpose of helping
him, provided always he needed no help, - that is, if you had beat us yesterday.
And now the rascal pretends he was all the while proposing the King's service,
and, for aught I know, the Council will receive his pretext for current coin,
for he knows how to make friends among them - and a dozen scores of poor
vagabond fanatics will be shot, or hanged, while this cunning scoundrel lies hid
under the double cloak of loyalty, well lined with the fox-fur of hypocrisy.«
    With conversation on this and other matters they beguiled the way,
Claverhouse all the while speaking with great frankness to Morton, and treating
him rather as a friend and companion than as a prisoner; so that, however
uncertain of his fate, the hours he passed in the company of this remarkable man
were so much lightened by the varied play of his imagination, and the depth of
his knowledge of human nature, that since the period of his becoming a prisoner
of war, which relieved him at once from the cares of his doubtful and dangerous
station among the insurgents, and from the consequences of their suspicious
resentment, his hours flowed on less anxiously than at any time since his having
commenced actor in public life. He was now, with respect to his fortune, like a
rider who has flung his reins on the horse's neck, and, while he abandoned
himself to circumstances, was at least relieved from the task of attempting to
direct them. In this mood he journeyed on, the number of his companions being
continually augmented by detached parties of horse who came in from every
quarter of the country, bringing with them, for the most part, the unfortunate
persons who had fallen into their power. At length they approached Edinburgh.
    »Our Council,« said Claverhouse, »being resolved, I suppose, to testify by
their present exultation the extent of their former terror, have decreed a kind
of triumphal entry to us victors and our captives; but as I do not quite approve
the taste of it, I am willing to avoid my own part in the show, and, at the same
time, to save you from yours.«
    So saying, he gave up the command of the forces to Allan, (now a
Lieutenant-Colonel), and, turning his horse into a bylane, rode into the city
privately, accompanied by Morton and two or three servants. When Claverhouse
arrived at the quarters which he usually occupied in the Canongate, he assigned
to his prisoner a small apartment, with an intimation that his parole confined
him to it for the present.
    After about a quarter of an hour spent in solitary musing on the strange
vicissitudes of his late life, the attention of Morton was summoned to the
window by a great noise in the street beneath. Trumpets, drums, and kettledrums,
contended in noise with the shouts of a numerous rabble, and apprised him that
the royal cavalry were passing in the triumphal attitude which Claverhouse had
mentioned. The magistrates of the city, attended by their guard of halberts, had
met the victors with their welcome at the gate of the city, and now preceded
them as a part of the procession. The next object was two heads borne upon
pikes; and before each bloody head were carried the hands of the dismembered
sufferers, which were, by the brutal mockery of those who bore them, often
approached towards each other as if in the attitude of exhortation or prayer.
These bloody trophies belonged to two preachers who had fallen at Bothwell
Bridge. After them came a cart led by the executioner's assistant, in which were
placed Macbriar and other two prisoners, who seemed of the same profession. They
were bareheaded, and strongly bound, yet looked around them with an air rather
of triumph than dismay, and appeared in no respect moved either by the fate of
their companions, of which the bloody evidences were carried before them, or by
dread of their own approaching execution, which these preliminaries so plainly
indicated.
    Behind these prisoners, thus held up to public infamy and derision, came a
body of horse, brandishing their broadswords, and filling the wide street with
acclamations, which were answered by the tumultuous outcries and shouts of the
rabble, who, in every considerable town, are too happy in being permitted to
huzza for anything whatever which calls them together. In the rear of these
troopers came the main body of the prisoners, at the head of whom were some of
their leaders, who were treated with every circumstance of inventive mockery and
insult. Several were placed on horseback with their faces to the animal's tail;
others were chained to long bars of iron, which they were obliged to support in
their hands, like the galley-slaves in Spain when travelling to the port where
they are to be put on shipboard. The heads of others who had fallen were borne
in triumph before the survivors, some on pikes and halberds, some in sacks,
bearing the names of the slaughtered persons labelled on the outside. Such were
the objects who headed the ghastly procession, who seemed as effectually doomed
to death as if they wore the san-benitos of the condemned heretics in an
auto-da-fe.40 Behind them came on the nameless crowd to the number of several
hundreds, some retaining under their misfortunes a sense of confidence in the
cause for which they suffered captivity, and were about to give a still more
bloody testimony; others seemed pale, dispirited, dejected, questioning in their
own minds their prudence in espousing a cause which Providence seemed to have
disowned, and, looking about for some avenue through which they might escape
from the consequences of their rashness. Others there were who seemed incapable
of forming an opinion on the subject, or of entertaining either hope,
confidence, or fear, but who, foaming with thirst and fatigue, trumbled along
like over-driven oxen, lost to everything but their present sense of
wretchedness, and without having any distinct idea whether they were led to the
shambles or to the pasture. These unfortunate men were guarded on each hand by
troopers, and behind them came the main body of the cavalry, whose military
music resounded back from the high houses on each side of the street, and
mingled with their own songs of jubilee and triumph, and the wild shouts of the
rabble.
    Morton felt himself heart-sick while he gazed on the dismal spectacle, and
recognised in the bloody heads, and still more miserable and agonised features
of the living sufferers, faces which had been familiar to him during the brief
insurrection. He sunk down in a chair in a bewildered and stupefied state, from
which he was awakened by the voice of Cuddie.
    »Lord forgie us, sir!« said the poor fellow, - his teeth chattering like a
pair of nut-crackers, his hair erect like boars' bristles, and his face as pale
as that of a corpse - »Lord forgie us, sir! we maun instantly gang before the
Council! - O Lord! what made them send for a puir bodie like me, sae mony braw
lords and gentles'? - and there's my mither come on the lang tramp frae Glasgow
to see to gar me testify, as she ca's it, that is to say, confess and be hanged;
but deil take me if they make sic a guse o' Cuddie, if I can do better. But here's
Claverhouse himself - the Lord preserve and forgie us, I say ance mair!«
    »You must immediately attend the Council, Mr. Morton,« said Claverhouse, who
entered while Cuddie spoke. »And your servant must go with you. You need be
under no apprehension for the consequences to yourself personally. But I warn
you that you will see something that will give you much pain, and from which I
would willingly have saved you, if I had possessed the power. My carriage waits
us - shall we go?«
    It will be readily supposed that Morton did not venture to dispute this
invitation, however unpleasant. He rose and accompanied Claverhouse.
    »I must apprise you,« said the latter, as he led the way down stairs, »that
you will get off cheap; and so will your servant, provided he can keep his
tongue quiet.«
    Cuddie caught these last words, to his exceeding joy.
    »Deil a fear o' me,« said he, »an my mither disna pit her finger in the
pie.«
    At that moment his shoulder was seized by old Mause, who had contrived to
thrust herself forward into the lobby of the apartment.
    »O, hinny, hinny!« said she to Cuddie, hanging upon his neck, »glad and
proud, and sorry and humbled am I, a' in ane and the same instant, to see my
bairn ganging to testify for the truth gloriously with his mouth in Council, as
he did with his weapon in the field!«
    »Whisht, whisht, mither!« cried Cuddie, impatiently. »Od, ye daft wife, is
this a time to speak o' thae things? I tell ye I'll testify nothing either ae
gate or another. I hae spoken to Mr. Poundtext, and I'll take the declaration, or
whate'er they ca' it, and we're a' to win free off if we do that - he's gotten
life for himself and a' his folk, and that's a minister for my siller; I like
nane o' your sermons that end in a psalm at the Grassmarket.«41
    »O Cuddie, man, laith wad I be they should hurt ye,« said old Mause, divided
grievously between the safety of her son's soul and that of his body; »but mind,
my bonny bairn, ye hae battled for the faith, and dinna let the dread o' losing
creature-comforts withdraw ye frae the good fight.«
    »Hout tout, mither,« replied Cuddie, »I hae fought e'en ower muckle already,
and, to speak plain, I'm wearied o' the trade. I hae swaggered wi' a' thae arms,
and muskets, and pistols, buffcoats, and bandoliers, lang enough, and I like the
pleugh-paidle a hantle better. I ken nothing should gar a man fight (that's to
say, when he's no angry), by and out-taken the dread o' being hanged or killed
if he turns back.«
    »But, my dear Cuddie,« continued the persevering Mause, »your bridal garment
- Oh, hinny, dinna sully the marriage garment!«
    »Awa, away, mither,« replied Cuddie; »dinna ye see the folks waiting for me?
- Never fear me - I ken how to turn this far better than ye do - for ye're
bleezing away about marriage, and the job is how we are to win by hanging.«
    So saying, he extricated himself out of his mother's embraces, and requested
the soldiers who took him in charge to conduct him to the place of examination
without delay. He had been already preceded by Claverhouse and Morton.
 

                              Chapter Thirty-Fifth

 My native land, good night!
                                                                     Lord Byron.
 
The Privy Council of Scotland, in whom the practice since the union of the
crowns vested great judicial powers, as well as the general superintendence of
the executive department, was met in the ancient dark Gothic room adjoining to
the house of Parliament in Edinburgh, when General Grahame entered and took his
place amongst the members at the council-table.
    »You have brought us a leash of game to-day, General,« said a nobleman of
high place amongst them. »Here is a craven to confess - a cock of the game to
stand at bay - and what shall I call the third, General?«
    »Without further metaphor, I will entreat your Grace to call him a person in
whom I am specially interested,« replied Claverhouse.
    »And a whig into the bargain?« said the nobleman, lolling out a tongue which
was at all times too big for his mouth, and accommodating his coarse features to
a sneer, to which they seemed to be familiar.
    »Yes, please your Grace, a whig; as your Grace was in 1641,« replied
Claverhouse, with his usual appearance of imperturbable civility.
    »He has you there, I think, my Lord Duke,« said one of the Privy
Councillors.
    »Ay, ay,« returned the Duke, laughing; »there's no speaking to him since
Drumclog - But come, bring in the prisoners; and do you, Mr. Clerk, read the
record.«
    The clerk read forth a bond, in which General Grahame of Claverhouse and
Lord Evandale entered themselves securities, that Henry Morton, younger of
Milnwood, should go abroad and remain in foreign parts, until his Majesty's
pleasure was further known, in respect of the said Henry Morton's accession to
the late rebellion, and that under penalty of life and limb to the said Henry
Morton, and of ten thousand marks to each of his securities.
    »Do you accept of the King's mercy upon these terms, Mr. Morton?« said the
Duke of Lauderdale, who presided in the Council.
    »I have no other choice, my lord,« replied Morton.
    »Then subscribe your name in the record.«
    Morton did so without reply, conscious that, in the circumstances of his
case, it was impossible for him to have escaped more easily. Macbriar, who was
at the same instant brought to the foot of the council-table, bound upon a
chair, for his weakness prevented him from standing, beheld Morton in the act of
what he accounted apostasy.
    »He hath summed his defection by owning the carnal power of the tyrant!« he
exclaimed, with a deep groan - »A fallen star! - a fallen star!«
    »Hold your peace, sir,« said the Duke, »and keep your ain breath to cool
your ain porridge - ye'll find them scalding hot. I promise you. - Call in the
other fellow, who has some common sense. One sheep will leap the ditch when
another goes first.«
    Cuddie was introduced unbound, but under the guard of two halberdiers, and
placed beside Macbriar at the foot of the table. The poor fellow cast a piteous
look around him, in which were mingled awe for the great men in whose presence
he stood, and compassion for his fellow-sufferers, with no small fear of the
personal consequences which impended over himself. He made his clownish
obeisances with a double portion of reverence, and then awaited the opening of
the awful scene.
    »Were you at the battle of Bothwell Brigg?« was the first question which was
thundered in his ears.
    Cuddie meditated a denial, but had sense enough, upon reflection, to
discover that the truth would be too strong for him; so he replied, with true
Caledonian indirectness of response, »I'll no say but it may be possible that I
might hae been there.«
    »Answer directly, you knave - yes, or no? - You know you were there.«
    »It's no for me to contradict your Lordship's Grace's honour,« said Cuddie.
    »Once more, sir, were you there? - yes, or no?« said the Duke impatiently.
    »Dear stir,« again replied Cuddie, »how can ane mind preceesely where they
hae been a' the days o' their life?«
    »Speak out, you scoundrel,« said General Dalzell, »or I'll dash your teeth
out with my dudgeon-haft! - Do you think we can stand here all day to be turning
and dodging with you like greyhounds after a hare?«42
    »Aweel, then,« said Cuddie, »since nothing else will please ye, write down
that I canna deny but I was there.«
    »Well, sir,« said the Duke, »and do you think that the rising upon that
occasion was rebellion or not?«
    »I'm no just free to give my opinion, stir,« said the cautious captive, »on
what might cost my neck; but I doubt it will be very little better.«
    »Better than what?«
    »Just than rebellion, as your honour ca's it,« replied Cuddie.
    »Well, sir, that's speaking to the purpose,« replied his Grace. »And are you
content to accept of the King's pardon for your guilt as a rebel, and to keep
the church, and pray for the King?«
    »Blithely, stir,« answered the unscrupulous Cuddle; »and drink his health
into the bargain, when the ale's good.«
    »Egad!« said the Duke, »this is a hearty cock. - What brought you into such
a scrape, mine honest friend?«
    »Just ill example, stir,« replied the prisoner, »and a daft auld jade of a
mither, wi' reverence to your Grace's honour.«
    »Why, God-a-mercy, my friend,« replied the Duke, »take care of bad advice
another time; I think you are not likely to commit treason on your own score. -
Make out his free pardon, and bring forward the rogue in the chair.«
    Macbriar was then moved forward to the post of examination.
    »Were you at the battle of Bothwell Bridge?« was, in like manner, demanded
of him.
    »I was,« answered the prisoner, in a bold and resolute tone.
    »Were you armed?«
    »I was not - I went in my calling as a preacher of God's word, to encourage
them that drew the sword in His cause.«
    »In other words, to aid and abet the rebels?« said the Duke.
    »Thou hast spoken it,« replied the prisoner.
    »Well, then,« continued the interrogator, »let us know if you saw John
Balfour of Burley among the party? - I presume you know him?«
    »I bless God that I do know him,« replied Macbriar; »he is a zealous and a
sincere Christian.«
    »And when and where did you last see this pious personage?« was the query
which immediately followed.
    »I am here to answer for myself,« said Macbriar, in the same dauntless
manner, »and not to endanger others.«
    »We shall know,« said Dalzell, »how to make you find your tongue.«
    »If you can make him fancy himself in a conventicle,« answered Lauderdale,
»he will find it without you. - Come, laddie, speak while the play is good -
you're too young to bear the burden will be laid on you else.«
    »I defy you,« retorted Macbriar. »This has not been the first of my
imprisonments or of my sufferings; and, young as I may be, I have lived long
enough to know how to die when I am called upon.«
    »Ay, but there are some things which must go before an easy death, if you
continue obstinate,« said Lauderdale, and rung a small silver bell which was
placed before him on the table.
    A dark crimson curtain, which covered a sort of niche, or Gothic recess in
the wall, rose at the signal, and displayed the public executioner, a tall,
grim, and hideous man, having an oaken table before him, on which lay
thumb-screws, and an iron case, called the Scottish boot, used in those
tyrannical days to torture accused persons. Morton, who was unprepared for this
ghastly apparition, started when the curtain arose, but Macbriar's nerves were
more firm. He gazed upon the horrible apparatus with much composure; and if a
touch of nature called the blood from his cheek for a second, resolution sent it
back to his brow with greater energy.
    »Do you know who that man is?« said Lauderdale, in a low, stern voice,
almost sinking into a whisper.
    »He is, I suppose,« replied Macbriar, »the infamous executioner of your
bloodthirsty commands upon the persons of God's people. He and you are equally
beneath my regard; and, I bless God, I no more fear what he can inflict than
what you can command. Flesh and blood may shrink under the sufferings you can
doom me to, and poor frail nature may shed tears, or send forth cries; but I
trust my soul is anchored firmly on the rock of ages.«
    »Do your duty,« said the Duke to the executioner.
    The fellow advanced, and asked, with a harsh and discordant voice, upon
which of the prisoner's limbs he should first employ his engine.
    »Let him choose for himself,« said the Duke; »I should like to oblige him in
anything that is reasonable.«
    »Since you leave it to me,« said the prisoner, stretching forth his right
leg, »take the best - I willingly bestow it in the cause for which I suffer.«43
    The executioner, with the help of his assistants, enclosed the leg and knee
within the tight iron boot, or case, and then placing a wedge of the same metal
between the knee and the edge of the machine, took a mallet in his hand, and
stood waiting for further orders. A well-dressed man, by profession a surgeon,
placed himself by the other side of the prisoner's chair, bared the prisoner's
arm, and applied his thumb to the pulse, in order to regulate the torture
according to the strength of the patient. When these preparations were made, the
President of the Council repeated with the same stern voice the question »When
and where did you last see John Balfour of Burley?«
    The prisoner, instead of replying to him, turned his eyes to heaven as if
imploring Divine strength, and muttered a few words, of which the last were
distinctly audible, »Thou hast said thy people shall be willing in the day of
thy power!«
    The Duke of Lauderdale glanced his eye around the Council as if to collect
their suffrages, and, judging from their mute signs, gave on his part a nod to
the executioner, whose mallet instantly descended on the wedge, and, forcing it
between the knee and the iron boot, occasioned the most exquisite pain, as was
evident from the flush which instantly took place on the brow and on the cheeks
of the sufferer. The fellow then again raised his weapon, and stood prepared to
give a second blow.
    »Will you yet say,« repeated the Duke of Lauderdale, »where and when you
last parted from Balfour of Burley?«
    »You have my answer,« said the sufferer resolutely, - and the second blow
fell. The third and fourth succeeded; but at the fifth, when a larger wedge had
been introduced, the prisoner set up a scream of agony.
    Morton, whose blood boiled within him at witnessing such cruelty, could bear
no longer, and, although unarmed and himself in great danger, was springing
forward, when Claverhouse, who observed his emotion, withheld him by force,
laying one hand on his arm and the other on his mouth, while he whispered, »For
God's sake, think where you are!«
    This movement, fortunately for him, was observed by no other of the
councillors, whose attention was engaged with the dreadful scene before them.
    »He is gone,« said the surgeon - »he has fainted, my Lords, and human nature
can endure no more.«
    »Release him,« said the Duke; and added, turning to Dalzell, »He will make
an old proverb good, for he'll scarce ride to-day, though he has had his boots
on. I suppose we must finish with him?«
    »Ay, despatch his sentence, and have done with him; we have plenty of
drudgery behind.«
    Strong waters and essences were busily employed to recall the senses of the
unfortunate captive; and, when his first faint gasps intimated a return of
sensation, the Duke pronounced sentence of death upon him, as a traitor taken in
the act of open rebellion, and adjudged him to be carried from the bar to the
common place of execution, and there hanged by the neck; his head and hands to
be stricken off after death, and disposed of according to the pleasure of the
Council,44 and all and sundry his moveable goods and gear escheat and inbrought
to his Majesty's use.
    »Doomster,« he continued, »repeat the sentence to the prisoner.«
    The office of Doomster was in those days, and till a much later period, held
by the executioner in commendam with his ordinary functions.45 The duty
consisted in reciting to the unhappy criminal the sentence of the law as
pronounced by the judge, which acquired an additional and horrid emphasis from
the recollection, that the hateful personage by whom it was uttered was to be
the agent of the cruelties he announced. Macbriar had scarce understood the
purport of the words as first pronounced by the Lord President of the Council;
but he was sufficiently recovered to listen and to reply to the sentence when
uttered by the harsh and odious voice of the ruffian who was to execute it, and
at the last awful words, »And this I pronounce for doom,« he answered boldly -
»My Lords, I thank you for the only favour I looked for, or would accept, at
your hands, namely, that you have sent the crushed and maimed carcass, which has
this day sustained your cruelty, to this hasty end. It were indeed little to me
whether I perish on the gallows or in the prison-house; but if death, following
close on what I have this day suffered, had found me in my cell of darkness and
bondage, many might have lost the sight how a Christian man can suffer in the
good cause. For the rest, I forgive you, my Lords, for what you have appointed
and I have sustained - And why should I not? - Ye send me to a happy exchange -
to the company of angels and the spirits of the just, for that of frail dust and
ashes - Ye send me from darkness into day - from mortality to immortality - and,
in a word, from earth to heaven! - If the thanks, therefore, and pardon of a
dying man can do you good, take them at my hand, and may your last moments be as
happy as mine!« As he spoke thus with a countenance radiant with joy and
triumph, he was withdrawn by those who had brought him into the apartment, and
executed within half-an-hour, dying with the same enthusiastic firmness which
his whole life had evinced.
    The Council broke up, and Morton found himself again in the carriage with
General Grahame.
    »Marvellous firmness and gallantry,« said Morton, as he reflected upon
Macbriar's conduct: »what a pity it is that with such self-devotion and heroism
should have been mingled the fiercer features of his sect!«
    »You mean,« said Claverhouse, »his resolution to condemn you to death? - To
that he would have reconciled himself by a single text; for example, 'And
Phinehas arose and executed judgment,' or something to the same purpose. - But
wot ye where you are now bound, Mr. Morton?«
    »We are on the road to Leith, I observe,« answered Morton. »Can I not be
permitted to see my friends ere I leave my native land?«
    »Your uncle,« replied Grahame, »has been spoken to, and declines visiting
you. The good gentleman is terrified, and not without some reason, that the
crime of your treason may extend itself over his lands and tenements; - he sends
you, however, his blessing, and a small sum of money. Lord Evandale continues
extremely indisposed. Major Bellenden is at Tillietudlem, putting matters in
order. The scoundrels have made great havoc there with Lady Margaret's muniments
of antiquity, and have desecrated and destroyed what the good lady called the
Throne of his most Sacred Majesty. Is there any one else whom you would wish to
see?«
    Morton sighed deeply as he answered, »No - it would avail nothing. - But my
preparations, - small as they are, some must be necessary.«
    »They are all ready for you,« said the General. »Lord Evandale has
anticipated all you wish. Here is a packet from him, with letters of
recommendation for the court of the Stadtholder Prince of Orange, to which I
have added one or two. I made my first campaigns under him, and first saw fire
at the battle of Seneff.46 There are also bills of exchange for your immediate
wants, and more will be sent when you require it.«
    Morton heard all this and received the parcel with an astounded and confused
look, so sudden was the execution of the sentence of banishment.
    »And my servant?« he said.
    »He shall be taken care of, and replaced, if it be practicable, in the
service of Lady Margaret Bellenden; I think he will hardly neglect the parade of
the feudal retainers, or go a-whigging a second time. - But here we are upon the
quay, and the boat waits you.«
    It was even as Claverhouse said. A boat waited for Captain Morton, with the
trunks and baggage belonging to hia rank, Claverhouse shook him by the hand, and
wished him good fortune, and a happy return to Scotland in quieter times.
    »I shall never forget,« he said, »the gallantry of your behaviour to my
friend Evandale, in circumstances when many men would have sought to rid him out
of their way.«
    Another friendly pressure, and they parted. As Morton descended the pier to
get into the boat, a hand placed in his a letter folded up in a very small
space. He looked round. The person who gave it seemed much muffled up; he
pressed his finger upon his lip, and then disappeared among the crowd. The
incident awakened Morton's curiosity; and when he found himself on board of a
vessel bound for Rotterdam, and saw all his companions of the voyage busy making
their own arrangements, he took an opportunity to open the billet thus
mysteriously thrust upon him. It ran thus: - »Thy courage on the fatal day when
Israel fled before his enemies, hath, in some measure, atoned for thy unhappy
owning of the Erastian interest. These are not days for Ephraim to strive with
Israel. - I know thy heart is with the daughter of the stranger. - But turn from
that folly, for in exile, and in flight, and even in death itself, shall my hand
be heavy against that bloody and malignant house, and Providence hath given me
the means of meting unto them with their own measure of ruin and confiscation.
The resistance of their stronghold was the main cause of our being scattered at
Bothwell Bridge, and I have bound it upon my soul to visit it upon them.
Wherefore, think of her no more, but join with our brethren in banishment, whose
hearts are still towards this miserable land to save and to relieve her. There
is an honest remnant in Holland whose eyes are looking out for deliverance. Join
thyself unto them, like the true son of the stout and worthy Silas Morton, and
thou wilt have good acceptance among them for his sake and for thine own
working. Shouldst thou be found worthy again to labour in the vineyard, thou
wilt at all times hear of my in-comings and out-goings, by inquiring after
Quintin Mackell of Irongray, at the house of that singular Christian woman,
Bessie Macleur, near to the place called the Howff, where Niel Blane
entertaineth guests. So much from him who hopes to hear again from thee in
brotherhood, resisting unto blood, and striving against sin. - Meanwhile,
possess thyself in patience. Keep thy sword girded, and thy lamp burning, as one
that wakes in the night; for He who shall judge the Mount of Esau, and shall
make false professors as straw, and malignants as stubble, will come in the
fourth watch with garments dyed in blood, and the house of Jacob shall be for
spoil, and the house of Joseph for fire. I am he that hath written it, whose
hand hath been on the mighty in the waste field.«
    This extraordinary letter was subscribed J.B. of B.; but the signature of
these initials was not necessary for pointing out to Morton that it could come
from no other than Burley. It gave him new occasion to admire the indomitable
spirit of this man, who, with art equal to his courage and obstinacy, was even
now endeavouring to re-establish the web of conspiracy which had been so lately
torn to pieces. But he felt no sort of desire, in the present moment, to sustain
a correspondence which must be perilous, or to renew an association which in so
many ways had been nearly fatal to him. The threats which Burley held out
against the family of Bellenden, he considered as a mere expression of his
spleen on account of their defence of Tillie tudlem; and nothing seemed less
likely than that, at the very moment of their party being victorious, their
fugitive and distressed adversary could exercise the least influence over their
fortunes.
    Morton, however, hesitated for an instant, whether he should not send the
Major or Lord Evandale intimation of Burley's threats. Upon consideration, he
thought he could not do so without betraying his confidential correspondence;
for to warn them of his menaces would have served little purpose, unless he had
given them a clue to prevent them, by apprehending his person; while, by doing
so, he deemed he should commit an ungenerous breach of trust to remedy an evil
which seemed almost imaginary. Upon mature consideration, therefore, he tore the
letter, having first made a memorandum of the name and place where the writer
was to be heard of, and threw the fragments into the sea.
    While Morton was thus employed, the vessel was unmoored, and the white sails
swelled out before a favourable north-west wind. The ship leaned her side to the
gale, and went roaring through the waves, leaving a long and rippling furrow to
track her course. The city and port from which he had sailed became
undistinguishable in the distance; the hills by which they were surrounded
melted finally into the blue sky, and Morton was separated for several years
from the land of his nativity.
 

                              Chapter Thirty-Sixth

 Whom does time gallop withal?
 As you like it.
 
It is fortunate for tale-tellers that they are not tied down like theatrical
writers to the unities of time and place, but may conduct their personages to
Athens and Thebes at their pleasure, and bring them back at their convenience.
Time, to use Rosalind's simile, has hitherto paced with the hero of our tale;
for, betwixt Morton's first appearance as a competitor for the popinjay, and his
final departure for Holland, hardly two months elapsed. Years, however, glided
away ere we find it possible to resume the thread of our narrative, and Time
must be held to have galloped over the interval. Craving, therefore, the
privilege of my caste, I entreat the reader's attention to the continuation of
the narrative, as it starts from a new era, being the year immediately
subsequent to the British Revolution.
    Scotland had just begun to repose from the convulsion occasioned by a change
of dynasty, and, through the prudent tolerance of King William, had narrowly
escaped the horrors of a protracted civil war. Agriculture began to revive; and
men, whose minds had been disturbed by the violent political concussions, and
the general change of government in church and state, had begun to recover their
ordinary temper, and to give the usual attention to their own private affairs in
lieu of discussing those of the public. The Highlanders alone resisted the
newly-established order of things, and were in arms in a considerable body under
the Viscount of Dundee, whom our readers have hitherto known by the name of
Grahame of Claverhouse. But the usual state of the Highlands was so unruly, that
their being more or less disturbed was not supposed greatly to affect the
general tranquillity of the country, so long as their disorders were confined
within their own frontiers. In the Lowlands, the Jacobites, now the undermost
party, had ceased to expect any immediate advantage by open resistance, and
were, in their turn, driven to hold private meetings, and form associations for
mutual defence, which the Government termed treason, while they cried out
persecution.
    The triumphant whigs, while they re-established Presbytery as the national
religion, and assigned to the General Assemblies of the Kirk their natural
influence, were very far from going the lengths which the Cameronians and the
more extravagant portion of the non-conformists under Charles and James loudly
demanded. They would listen to no proposal for re-establishing the Solemn League
and Covenant; and those who had expected to find in King William a zealous
Covenanted Monarch were grievously disappointed when he intimated, with the
phlegm peculiar to his country, his intention to tolerate all forms of religion
which were consistent with the safety of the state. The principles of indulgence
thus espoused and gloried in by the Government gave great offence to the more
violent party, who condemned them as diametrically contrary to Scripture; for
which narrow-spirited doctrine they cited various texts, all, as it may well be
supposed, detached from their context, and most of them derived from the charges
given to the Jews in the Old Testament dispensation, to extirpate idolaters out
of the promised land. They also murmured highly against the influence assumed by
secular persons in exercising the rights of patronage, which they termed a rape
upon the chastity of the Church. They censured and condemned as Erastian many of
the measures by which Government after the Revolution showed an inclination to
interfere with the management of the Church, and they positively refused to take
the oath of allegiance to King William and Queen Mary until they should on their
part, have sworn to the Solemn League and Covenant, - the Magna Charta, as they
termed it, of the Presbyterian Church.
    This party, therefore, remained grumbling and dissatisfied, and made
repeated declarations against defections and causes of wrath, which, had they
been prosecuted as in the two former reigns, would have led to the same
consequence of open rebellion. But as the murmurers were allowed to hold their
meetings un-interrupted, and to testify as much as they pleased against
Socinianism, Erastianism, and all the compliances and defections of the time,
their zeal, unfanned by persecution, died gradually away, their numbers became
diminished, and they sank into the scattered remnant of serious, scrupulous, and
harmless enthusiasts, of whom Old Mortality, whose legends have afforded the
groundwork of my tale, may be taken as no bad representative. But in the years
which immediately succeeded the Revolution, the Cameronians continued a sect
strong in numbers and vehement in their political opinions, whom Government
wished to discourage, while they prudently temporised with them. These men
formed one violent party in the state; and the Episcopalian and Jacobite
interest, notwithstanding their ancient and national animosity, yet repeatedly
endeavoured to intrigue among them, and avail themselves of their discontents,
to obtain their assistance in recalling the Stuart family. The Revolutionary
Government, in the meanwhile, was supported by the great bulk of the Lowland
interest, who were chiefly disposed to a moderate Presbytery, and formed in a
great measure the party, who, in the former oppressive reigns, were stigmatised
by the Cameronians for having exercised that form of worship under the
declaration of Indulgence issued by Charles II. Such was the state of parties in
Scotland immediately subsequent to the Revolution.
    It was on a delightful summer evening, that a stranger, well mounted, and
having the appearance of a military man of rank, rode down a winding descent
which terminated in view of the romantic ruins of Bothwell Castle and the river
Clyde, which winds so beautifully between rocks and woods to sweep around the
towers formerly built by Aymer de Valence. Bothwell Bridge was at a little
distance, and also in sight. The opposite field, once the scene of slaughter and
conflict, now lay as placid and quiet as the surface of a summer lake. The trees
and bushes, which grew around in romantic variety of shade, were hardly seen to
stir under the influence of the evening breeze. The very murmur of the river
seemed to soften itself into unison with the stillness of the scene around.
    The path through which the traveller descended was occasionally shaded by
detached trees of great size, and elsewhere by the hedges and boughs of
flourishing orchards, now laden with summer fruits. - The nearest object of
consequence was a farm-house, or, it might be, the abode of a small proprietor,
situated on the side of a sunny bank, which was covered by apple and pear trees.
At the foot of the path which led up to this modest mansion, was a small
cottage, pretty much in the situation of a porter's lodge, though obviously not
designed for such a purpose. The hut seemed comfortable, and more neatly
arranged than is usual in Scotland. It had its little garden, where some
fruit-trees and bushes were mingled with kitchen herbs; a cow and six sheep fed
in a paddock hard by; the cock strutted, and crowed, and summoned his family
around him before the door; a heap of brushwood and turf, neatly made up,
indicated that the winter fuel was provided; and the thin blue smoke which
ascended from the straw-bound chimney, and winded slowly out from among the
green trees, showed that the evening meal was in the act of being made ready. To
complete the little scene of rural peace and comfort, a girl of about five years
old was fetching water in a pitcher from a beautiful fountain of the purest
transparency, which bubbled up at the root of a decayed old oak-tree, about
twenty yards from the end of the cottage.
    The stranger reined up his horse, and called to the little nymph, desiring
to know the way to Fairy-Knowe. The child set down her water-pitcher, hardly
understanding what was said to her, put her fair flaxen hair apart on her brows,
and opened her round blue eyes with the wondering, »What's your wull?« which is
usually a peasant's first answer, if it can be called one, to all questions
whatever.
    »I wish to know the way to Fairy-Knowe.«
    »Mammie, mammie,« exclaimed the little rustic, running towards the door of
the hut, »come out and speak to the gentleman.«
    Her mother appeared, - a handsome young countrywoman, to whose features,
originally sly and espiegle in expression, matrimony had given that decent
matronly air which peculiarly marks the peasant's wife of Scotland. She had an
infant in one arm, and with the other she smoothed down her apron, to which hung
a chubby child of two years old. The elder girl, whom the traveller had first
seen, fell back behind her mother as soon as she appeared, and kept that
station, occasionally peeping out to look at the stranger.
    »What was your pleasure, sir?« said the woman, with an air of respectful
breeding, not quite common in her rank of life, but without anything resembling
forwardness.
    The stranger looked at her with great earnestness for a moment, and then
replied, »I am seeking a place called Fairy-Knowe, and a man called Cuthbert
Headrigg. You can probably direct me to him?«
    »It's my gudeman, sir,« said the young woman, with a smile of welcome. »Will
you alight, sir, and come into our puir dwelling?« - »Cuddie! Cuddie!« - (a
white-headed rogue of four years appeared at the door of the hut) - »rin away, my
bonny man, and tell your father a gentleman wants him - Or stay - Jenny, ye'll
hae mair sense - rin ye away and tell him; he's down at the Four-acres Park. -
Winna ye light down and bide a blink, sir? - Or would ye take a mouthfu' o' bread
and cheese, or a drink o' ale, till our gudeman comes? It's good ale, though I
shouldna say sae that brews it; but ploughman-lads work hard, and maun hae
something to keep their hearts abune by ordinar, sae I aye pit a good gowpin o'
maut to the browst.«
    As the stranger declined her courteous offer, Cuddie, the reader's old
acquaintance, made his appearance in person. His countenance still presented the
same mixture of apparent dullness with occasional sparkles, which indicated the
craft so often found in the clouted shoe. He looked on the rider as on one whom
he never had before seen; and, like his daughter and wife, opened the
conversation with the regular query, »What's your wull wi' me, sir?«
    »I have a curiosity to ask some questions about this country,« said the
traveller, »and I was directed to you as an intelligent man who can answer
them.«
    »Nae doubt, sir,« said Cuddie, after a moment's hesitation - »But I would
first like to ken what sort of questions they are. I hae had sae mony questions
speered at me in my day, and in sic queer ways, that if ye ken'd a', ye wadna
wonder at my jalousing a'thing about them. My mother gar'd me learn the Single
Carritch, whilk was a great vex; then I behoved to learn about my godfathers and
godmothers to please the auld leddy; and whiles I jumbled them thegither and
pleased nane o' them; and when I cam to man's yestate, cam another kind o'
questioning in fashion, that I liked waur than Effectual Calling; and the 'did
promise and vow' of the tane were yoked to the end o' the tother. Sae ye see,
sir, I aye like to hear questions asked before I answer them.«
    »You have nothing to apprehend from mine, my good friend; they only relate
to the state of the country.«
    »Country?« replied Cuddie. »Ou, the country's well enough, an it werena that
dour devil, Claver'se (they ca' him Dundee now), that's stirring about yet in
the Highlands, they say, wi' a' the Donalds, and Duncans, and Dugalds, that ever
wore bottomless breeks, driving about wi' him, to set things asteer again, now
we hae gotten them a' reasonably well settled. But Mackay will pit him down,
there's little doubt o' that; he'll give him his fairing, I'll be caution for
it.«
    »What makes you so positive of that, my friend?« asked the horseman.
    »I heard it wi' my ain lugs,« answered Cuddie, »foretauld to him by a man
that had been three hours stane dead, and came back to this earth again just to
tell him his mind. It was at a place they ca,' Drumshinnel.«
    »Indeed?« said the stranger. »I can hardly believe you, my friend.«
    »Ye might ask my mither, then, if she were in life,« said Cuddie, »it was
her explained it a' to me, for I thought the man had only been wounded. At ony
rate, he spoke of the casting out of the Stuarts by their very names, and the
vengeance that was brewing for Claver'se and his dragoons. They ca'd the man
Habakkuk Mucklewrath; his brain was a wee ajee, but he was a braw preacher for
a' that.«
    »You seem,« said the stranger, »to live in a rich and peaceful country.«
    »It's no to compleen o', sir, an we get the crap well in,« quoth Cuddie;
»but if ye had seen the blude rinnin' as fast on the tap o' that brigg yonder as
ever the water ran below it, ye wadna hae thought it sae bonny a spectacle.«
    »You mean the battle some years since? I was waiting upon Monmouth that
morning, my good friend, and did see some part of the action,« said the
stranger.
    »Then ye saw a bonny stour,« said Cuddie, »that sall serve me for fighting
a' the days o' my life. - I judged ye wad be a trooper, by your red scarlet
lace-coat and your looped hat.«
    »And which side were you upon, my friend?« continued the inquisitive
stranger.
    »Aha, lad!« retorted Cuddie, with a knowing look, or what he designed for
such - »there's nae use in telling that, unless I ken'd what was asking me.«
    »I commend your prudence, but it is unnecessary; I know you acted on that
occasion as servant to Henry Morton.«
    »Aye!« said Cuddie, in surprise, »how came ye by that secret? No that I need
care a bodle about it, for the sun's on our side o' the hedge now. I wish my
master were living to get a blink o't.«
    »And what became of him?« said the rider.
    »He was lost in the vessel gaun to that weary Holland - clean lost, and
a'body perished, and my poor master amang them. Neither man nor mouse was ever
heard o' mair.« Then Cuddie uttered a groan.
    »You had some regard for him, then?« continued the stranger.
    »How could I help it? - His face was made of a fiddle, as they say, for
a'body that looked on him liked him. And a braw soldier he was. O, an ye had but
seen him down at the brigg there, fleeing about like a fleeing dragon to gar
folk fight that had unco little will till't. There was he and that sour
whigamore they ca'd Burley - if twa men could hae won a field, we wadna hae
gotten our skins paid that day.«
    »You mention Burley - Do you know if he yet lives?«
    »I kenna muckle about him. Folk say he was abroad, and our sufferers wad
hold no communion wi' him, because o' his having murdered the archbishop. Sae he
cam hame ten times dourer than ever, and broke aff wi' mony o' the
Presbyterians; and, at this last coming of the Prince of Orange, he could get
nae countenance nor command for fear of his deevilish temper, and he hasna been
heard of since; only some folk say, that pride and anger hae driven him clean
wud.«
    »And - and,« said the traveller, after considerable hesitation, - »do you
know anything of Lord Evandale?«
    »Div I ken anything o' Lord Evandale? Div I no? Is not my young leddy up by
yonder at the house, that's as good as married to him?«
    »And are they not married then?« said the rider, hastily.
    »No; only what they ca' betrothed - me and my wife were witnesses - it's no
mony months bypast. It was a lang courtship - few folk ken'd the reason by Jenny
and mysell. But will ye no light doun? I downa bide to see ye sitting up there,
and the clouds are casting up thick in the west ower Glasgow-ward, and maist
skeily folk think that bodes rain.«
    In fact, a deep black cloud had already surmounted the setting sun; a few
large drops of rain fell, and the murmurs of distant thunder were heard.
    »The deil's in this man,« said Cuddie to himself, »I wish he would either
light aff or ride on, that he may quarter himself in Hamilton or the shower
begin.«
    But the rider sate motionless on his horse for two or three moments after
his last question, like one exhausted by some uncommon effort. At length,
recovering himself, as if with a sudden and painful effort, he asked Cuddie, »if
Lady Margaret Bellenden still lived?«
    »She does,« replied Cuddie, »but in a very sma' way. They hae been a sad
changed family since thae rough times began; they hae suffered enough first and
last - and to lose the auld Tower, and a' the bonny barony, and the holms that I
hae pleughed sae often, and the Mains, and my kale-yard, that I should hae gotten
back again, and a' for nothing, as a body may say, but just the want o' some
bits of sheep-skin that were lost in the confusion of the taking of
Tillietudlem.«
    »I have heard something of this,« said the stranger, deepening his voice,
and averting his head. »I have some interest in the family, and would willingly
help them if I could. Can you give me a bed in your house to-night, my friend?«
    »It's but a corner of a place, sir,« said Cuddie, »but we'se try, rather
than ye should ride on in the rain and thunner; for, to be free wi' ye, sir, I
think ye seem no that ower well.«
    »I am liable to a dizziness,« said the stranger, »but it will soon wear
off.«
    »I ken we can give ye a decent supper, sir,« said Cuddie: »and well see about
a bed as well as we can. We wad be laith a stranger should lack what we have,
though we are jimply provided for in beds rather; for Jenny has sae mony bairns,
(God bless them and her!) that troth I maun speak to Lord Evandale to give us a
bit eik, or outshot o' some sort, to the onstead.«
    »I shall be easily accommodated,« said the stranger, as he entered the
house.
    »And ye may rely on your naig being well sorted,« said Cuddie; »I ken well
what belangs to suppering a horse, and this is a very good ane.«
    Cuddie took the horse to the little cow-house, and called to his wife to
attend in the meanwhile to the stranger's accommodation. The officer entered,
and threw himself on a settle at some distance from the fire, and carefully
turning his back to the little lattice window. Jenny (or Mrs. Headrigg, if the
reader pleases) requested him to lay aside the cloak, belt, and flapped hat,
which he wore upon his journey, but he excused himself under pretence of feeling
cold; and, to divert the time till Cuddie's return, he entered into some chat
with the children, carefully avoiding, during the interval, the inquisitive
glances of his landlady.
 

                             Chapter Thirty-Seventh

 What tragic tears bedim the eye!
 What deaths we suffer ere we die!
 Our broken friendships we deplore,
 And loves of youth that are no more.
                                                                          Logan.
 
Cuddie soon returned, assuring the stranger, with a cheerful voice, »that the
horse was properly suppered up, and that the gudewife should make a bed up for
him at the house, mair purpose-like and comfortable than the like o' them could
give him.«
»Are the family at the house?« said the stranger, with an interrupted and broken
voice.
    »No, stir, they're away' wi' a' the servants; - they keep only twa
now-a-days, and my gudewife there has the keys and the charge, though she's no a
fee'd servant. She has been born and bred in the family, and has a' trust and
management. If they were there, we behovedna to take sic freedom without their
order; but when they are away, they will be well pleased we serve a stranger
gentleman. Miss Bellenden wad help a' the haill warld, an her power were as good
as her will; and her grandmother, Leddy Margaret, has an unco respect for the
gentry, and she's no ill to the poor bodies neither. - And now, wife, what for
are ye no getting forrit wi' the sowens?«
    »Never mind, lad,« rejoined Jenny, »ye sall hae them in good time; I ken
well that ye like your brose het.«
    Cuddie fidgeted, and laughed with a peculiar expression of intelligence at
this repartee, which was followed by a dialogue of little consequence betwixt
his wife and him, in which the stranger took no share. At length he suddenly
interrupted them by the question - »Can you tell me when Lord Evandale's
marriage takes place?«
    »Very soon, we expect,« answered Jenny, before it was possible for her
husband to reply; »it wad hae been ower afore now, but for the death o' auld
Major Bellenden.«
    »The excellent old man!« said the stranger; »I heard at Edinburgh he was no
more. Was he long ill?«
    »He couldn't have be said to haud up his head after his brother's wife and his
niece were turned out o' their ain house; and he had himself sair borrowing
siller to stand the law - but it was in the latter end o' King James's days -
and Basil Olifant, who claimed the estate, turned a papist to please the
managers, and then nothing was to be refused him; sae the law gaed again the
leddies at last, after they had fought a weary sort o' years about it; and, as I
said before, the Major ne'er held up his head again. And then cam the pitting
away o' the Stuart line and, though he had but little reason to like them, he
couldn't have brook that, and it clean broke the heart o' him, and creditors cam to
Charnwood and cleaned out a' that was there - he was never rich, the good auld
man, for he dow'd na see anybody want.«
    »He was indeed,« said the stranger, with a faltering voice, »an admirable
man - that is, I have heard that he was so. - So the ladies were left without
fortune, as well as without a protector?«
    »They will neither want the tane nor the tother while Lord Evandale lives,«
said Jenny. »He has been a true friend in their griefs - E'en to the house they
live in is his lordship's; and never man, as my auld gudemother used to say,
since the days of the patriarch Jacob, served sae lang and sae sair for a wife
as good Lord Evandale has dune.«
    »And why,« said the stranger, with a voice that quivered with emotion, »why
was he not sooner rewarded by the object of his attachment?«
    »There was the lawsuit to be ended,« said Jenny readily, »forby many other
family arrangements.«
    »Na, but,« said Cuddie, »there was another reason forby; for the young
leddy« --
    »Whisht - haud your tongue, and sup your sowens,« said his wife. »I see the
gentleman's far frae well, and downa eat our coarse supper. I wad kill him a
chicken in an instant.«
    »There's no occasion,« said the stranger, »I shall want only a glass of
water, and to be left alone.«
    »You'll give yoursell the trouble then to follow me,« said Jenny, lighting a
small lantern, »and I'll show you the way.«
    Cuddie also proffered his assistance; but his wife reminded him, »That the
bairns would be left to fight thegither, and coup ane anither into the fire;« so
that he remained to take charge of the menage.
    His wife led the way up a little winding path, which, after threading some
thickets of sweetbrier and honeysuckle, conducted to the back-door of a small
garden. Jenny undid the latch, and they passed through an old-fashioned
flower-garden, with its clipped yew hedges and formal parterres, to a
glass-sashed door, which she opened with a master-key, and lighting a candle,
which she placed upon a small work-table, asked pardon for leaving him there for
a few minutes until she prepared his apartment. She did not exceed five minutes
in these preparations; but when she returned, was startled to find that the
stranger had sunk forward with his head upon the table, in what she at first
apprehended to be a swoon. As she advanced to him, however, she could discover
by his short-drawn sobs that it was a paroxysm of mental agony. She prudently
drew back until he raised his head, and then showing herself, without seeming to
have observed his agitation, informed him that his bed was prepared. The
stranger gazed at her a moment, as if to collect the sense of her words. She
repeated them, and only bending his head, as an indication that he understood
her, he entered the apartment, the door of which she pointed out to him. It was
a small bedchamber, used, as she informed him, by Lord Evandale when a guest at
Fairy-Knowe, connecting, on one side, with a little china-cabinet which opened
to the garden, and on the other with a saloon, from which it was only separated
by a thin wainscot partition. Having wished the stranger better health and good
rest, Jenny descended as speedily as she could to her own mansion.
    »O Cuddie!« she exclaimed to her helpmate as she entered, »I doubt we're
ruined folk!«
    »How can that be? What's the matter wi' ye?« returned the imperturbed
Cuddie, who was one of those persons who do not easily take alarm at anything.
    »Wha d'ye think yon gentleman is? - Oh, that ever ye should hae asked him to
light here?« exclaimed Jenny.
    »Why, what the muckle deil d'ye say he is? There's nae law against harbouring
and inter-communicating now,« said Cuddie; »sae, whig or tory, what need we care
what he be?«
    »Ay, but it's ane will ding Lord Evandale's marriage ajee yet, if it's no
the better looked to,« said Jenny; »it's Miss Edith's first joe, your ain auld
master, Cuddie.«
    »The deil, woman!« exclaimed Cuddie, starting up, »trow ye that I'm blind? I
wad hae ken'd Mr. Harry Morton amang a hunder.«
    »Ay, but, Cuddie lad,« replied Jenny, »though ye are no blind, ye are no sae
notice-taking as I am.«
    »Weel, what for needs ye cast that up to me just now? or what did you see
about the man that was like our master Harry?«
    »I will tell ye,« said Jenny. »I jaloused his keeping his face frae us, and
speaking wi' a made-like voice, sae I e'en tried him wi' some tales o' lang
syne, and when I spoke o' the brose, ye ken, he didna just laugh - he's ower
grave for that now-a-days - but he gave a gledge wi' his ee that I ken'd he took
up what I said. And a' his distress is about Miss Edith's marriage, and I ne'er
saw a man mair taken down wi' true love in my days - I might say man or woman -
only I mind how ill Miss Edith was when she first gat word that him and you (you
muckle graceless loon) were coming against Tillietudlem wi' the rebels. But
what's the matter wi' the man now?«
    »What's the matter wi' me, indeed!« said Cuddie, who was again hastily
putting on some of the garments he had stripped himself of, »am I no gaun up
this instant to see my master?«
    »Atweel, Cuddie, ye are gaun nae sic gate,« said Jenny, coolly and
resolutely.
    »The deil's in the wife,« said Cuddie, »d'ye think I am to be John Tamson's
man, and maistered by woman a' the days o' my life?«
    »And whase man wad ye be? And what wad ye hae to master ye but me, Cuddie
lad?« answered Jenny. »I'll gar ye comprehend in the making of a hay-band.
Naebody kens that this young gentleman is living but oursells, and frae that he
keeps himself up sae close, I am judging that he's purposing, if he fand Miss
Edith either married, or just gaun to be married, he wad just slide away easy,
and give them nae mair trouble. But if Miss Edith ken'd that he was living, and
if she were standing before the very minister wi' Lord Evandale when it was
told to her, I'se warrant she wad sae No when she should say Yes.«
    »Weel,« replied Cuddie, »and what's my business wi' that? If Miss Edith
likes her auld joe better than her new ane, what for should she no be free to
change her mind like other folk? - Ye ken, Jenny, Halliday aye threeps he had a
promise frae yoursell.«
    »Halliday's a liar, and ye're nothing but a gomeril to hearken till him,
Cuddie. And then for this leddy's choice, - lack-a-day! ye may be sure a' the
gowd Mr. Morton has is on the outside o' his coat, and how can he keep Lady
Margaret and the young leddy?«
    »Isna there Milnwood?« said Cuddie. »Nae doubt, the auld laird left his
housekeeper the life-rent, as he heard nought o' his nephew; but it's but
speaking the auld wife fair, and they may a' live brawly thegither, Leddy
Margaret and a'.«
    »Hout tout, lad,« replied Jenny, »ye ken them little to think leddies o'
their rank wad set up house wi' auld Ailie Wilson, when they're maist ower proud
to take favours frae Lord Evandale himself. Na, na, they maun follow the camp if
she take Morton.«
    »That wad sort ill wi' the auld leddy, to be sure,« said Cuddie; »she wad
hardly win ower a long day in the baggage wain.«
    »Then sic a flyting as there wad be between them, a' about whig and tory,«
continued Jenny.
    »To be sure,« said Cuddie, »the auld leddy's unco kittle in thae points.«
    »And then. Cuddie.« continued his helpmate, who had reserved her strongest
argument till the last, »if this marriage wi' Lord Evandale is broken off, what
comes o' our ain bit free house, and the kale-yard, and the cow's grass? I trow
that baith us and thae bonny bairns will be turned on the wide warld!«
    Here Jenny began to whimper - Cuddie writhed himself this way and that way,
the very picture of indecision. At length he broke out, »Weel, woman, canna ye
tell us what we should do, without a' this din about it?«
    »Just do nothing at a',« said Jenny. »Never seem to ken anything about this
gentleman, and for your life say a word that he should hae been here, or up at the
house! - An I had ken'd, I wad hae gien him my ain bed, and sleepit in the byre,
or he had gone up by; but it canna be helpit now. The neist thing's to get him
cannily away the morn, and I judge he'll be in nae hurry to come back again.«
    »My puir master!« said Cuddie; »and maun I no speak to him, then?«
    »For your life, no,« said Jenny; »ye're no obliged to ken him; and I wadna
hae told ye, only I feared ye wad ken him in the morning.«
    »Aweel,« said Cuddie, sighing heavily. »I'se away to pleugh the outfield
then; for if I am no to speak to him I wad rather be out o' the gate.«
    »Very right, my dear hinny;« replied Jenny, »nobody has better sense than
you when ye crack a bit wi' me ower your affairs, but ye should ne'er do anything
aff hand out o' your ain head.«
    »Ane wad think it's true,« quoth Cuddie; »for I hae aye had some carline or
queen or another to gar me gang their gate instead o' my ain. There was first my
mither,« he continued, as he undressed and tumbled himself into bed - »then
there was Leddy Margaret didna let me ca' my soul my ain - then my mither and
her quarrelled, and pu'ed me twa ways at ance as if ilk ane had an end o' me,
like Punch and the Deevil rugging about the Baker at the fair - and now I hae
gotten a wife,« he murmured in continuation, as he stowed the blankets around
his person, »and she's like to take the guiding o' me a'thegither.«
    »And amna I the best guide ye ever had in a' your life?« said Jenny, as she
closed the conversation by assuming her place beside her husband, and
extinguishing the candle.
    Leaving this couple to their repose, we have next to inform the reader that,
early on the next morning, two ladies on horseback, attended by their servants,
arrived at the house of Fairy-Knowe, whom, to Jenny's utter confusion, she
instantly recognised as Miss Bellenden and Lady Emily Hamilton, a sister of Lord
Evandale.
    »Had I no better gang to the house to put things to rights?« said Jenny,
confounded with this unexpected apparition.
    »We want nothing but the pass-key,« said Miss Bellenden; »Gudyill will open
the windows of the little parlour.«
    »The little parlour's locked, and the lock's spoiled,« answered Jenny, who
recollected the local sympathy between that apartment and the bedchamber of her
guest.
    »In the red parlour, then,« said Miss Bellenden, and rode up to the front of
the house, but by an approach different from that through which Morton had been
conducted.
    »All will be out,« thought Jenny, »unless I can get him smuggled out of the
house the back way.«
    So saying, she sped up the bank in great tribulation and uncertainty.
    »I had better hae said at ance there was a stranger there,« was her next
natural reflection. »But then they wad hae been for asking him to breakfast. O
safe us! what will I do? - And there's Gudyill walking in the garden, too!« she
exclaimed internally on approaching the wicket - »and I daurna gang in the back
way till he's aff the coast. O sirs! what will become of us?«
    In this state of perplexity she approached the ci-devant butler with the
purpose of decoying him out of the garden. But John Gudyill's temper was not
improved by his decline in rank and increase in years. Like many peevish people,
too, he seemed to have an intuitive perception as to what was most likely to
tease those whom he conversed with; and on the present occasion all Jenny's
efforts to remove him from the garden served only to root him in it as fast as
if he had been one of the shrubs. Unluckily, also, he had commenced florist
during his residence at Fairy-Knowe, and, leaving all other things to the charge
of Lady Emily's servant, his first care was dedicated to the flowers, which he
had taken under his special protection, and which he propped, dug, and watered,
prosing all the while upon their respective merits to poor Jenny, who stood by
him trembling, and almost crying with anxiety, fear, and impatience.
    Fate seemed determined to win a match against Jenny this unfortunate
morning. As soon as the ladies entered the house they observed that the door of
the little parlour, the very apartment out of which she was desirous of
excluding them on account of its contiguity to the room in which Morton slept,
was not only unlocked, but absolutely ajar. Miss Bellenden was too much engaged
with her own immediate subjects of reflection to take much notice of the
circumstance, but desiring the servant to open the window-shutters, walked into
the room along with her friend.
    »He is not yet come,« she said. »What can your brother possibly mean? - why
express so anxious a wish that we should meet him here? and why not come to
Castle Dinnan as he proposed? I own, my dear Emily, that, even engaged as we are
to each other, and with the sanction of your presence, I do not feel that I have
done quite right in indulging him.«
    »Evandale was never capricious,« answered his sister; »I am sure he will
satisfy us with his reasons, and if he does not I will help you to scold him.«
    »What I chiefly fear,« said Edith, »is his having engaged in some of the
plots of this fluctuating and unhappy time. I know his heart is with that
dreadful Claverhouse and his army, and I believe he would have joined them ere
now but for my uncle's death, which gave him so much additional trouble on our
account. How singular, that one so rational, and so deeply sensible of the
errors of the exiled family, should be ready to risk all for their restoration!«
    »What can I say?« answered Lady Emily: »it is a point of honour with
Evandale. Our family have always been loyal - he served long in the Guards - the
Viscount of Dundee was his commander and his friend for years - he is looked on
with an evil eye by many of his own relations, who set down his inactivity to
the score of want of spirit. You must be aware, my dear Edith, how often family
connections, and early predilections, influence our actions more than abstract
arguments. But I trust Evandale will continue quiet - though, to tell you truth,
I believe you are the only one who can keep him so.«
    »And how is it in my power?« said Miss Bellenden.
    »You can furnish him with the Scriptural apology for not going forth with
the host - he has married a wife, and therefore cannot come.«
    »I have promised,« said Edith in a faint voice; »but I trust I shall not be
urged on the score of time.«
    »Nay,« said Lady Emily, »I will leave Evandale (and here he comes) to plead
his own cause.«
    »Stay, stay, for God's sake!« said Edith, endeavouring to detain her.
    »Not I, not I,« said the young lady, making her escape, »the third person
makes a silly figure on such occasions. When you want me for breakfast I will be
found in the willow-walk by the river.«
    As she tripped out of the room Lord Evandale entered - »Good-morrow,
brother, and good-bye till breakfast-time,« said the lively young lady; »I trust
you will give Miss Bellenden some good reasons for disturbing her rest so early
in the morning.«
    And so saying, she left them together, without waiting a reply.
    »And now, my lord,« said Edith, »may I desire to know the meaning of your
singular request to meet you here at so early an hour?«
    She was about to add that she hardly felt herself excusable in having
complied with it; but upon looking at the person whom she addressed, she was
struck dumb by the singular and agitated expression of his countenance, and
interrupted herself to exclaim - »For God's sake, what is the matter?«
    »His Majesty's faithful subjects have gained a great and most decisive
victory near Blair of Athole; but, alas! my gallant friend, Lord Dundee« --
    »Has fallen?« said Edith, anticipating the rest of his tidings.
    »True - most true - he has fallen in the arms of victory, and not a man
remains of talents and influence, sufficient to fill up his loss in King James's
service. This, Edith, is no time for temporising with our duty. I have given
directions to raise my followers, and I must take leave of you this evening.«
    »Do not think of it, my lord,« answered Edith; »your life is essential to
your friends; do not throw it away in an adventure so rash. What can your single
arm, and the few tenants or servants who might follow you, do against the force
of almost all Scotland, the Highland clans only excepted?«
    »Listen to me, Edith,« said Lord Evandale. »I am not so rash as you may
suppose me, nor are my present motives of such light importance as to affect
only those personally dependent on myself. The Life-Guards, with whom I served
so long, although new-modelled and new-officered by the Prince of Orange, retain
a predilection for the cause of their rightful master; and« - (and here he
whispered as if he feared even the walls of the apartment had ears) - »when my
foot is known to be in the stirrup, two regiments of cavalry have sworn to
renounce the usurper's service, and fight under my orders. They delayed only
till Dundee should descend into the Lowlands; - but, since he is no more, which
of his successors dare take that decisive step, unless encouraged by the troops
declaring themselves! Meantime the zeal of the soldiers will die away. I must
bring them to a decision while their hearts are glowing with the victory their
old leader has obtained, and burning to avenge his untimely death.«
    »'And will you, on the faith of such men as you know these soldiers to be,«
said Edith, »take a part of such dreadful moment?«
    »I will,« said Lord Evandale - »I must; my honour and loyalty are both
pledged for it.«
    »And all for the sake,« continued Miss Bellenden, »of a prince, whose
measures, while he was on the throne, no one could condemn more than Lord
Evandale?«
    »Most true,« replied Lord Evandale; »and as I resented, even during the
plenitude of his power, his innovations on church and state, like a freeborn
subject, I am determined I will assert his real rights when he is in adversity,
like a loyal one. Let courtiers and sycophants flatter power and desert
misfortune; I will neither do the one nor the other.«
    »And if you are determined to act what my feeble judgment must still term
rashly, why give yourself the pain of this untimely meeting?«
    »Were it not enough to answer,« said Lord Evandale, »that ere rushing on
battle, I wished to bid adieu to my betrothed bride? - Surely it is judging
coldly of my feelings, and showing too plainly the indifference of your own, to
question my motive for a request so natural.«
    »But why in this place, my lord?« said Edith, - »and why with such peculiar
circumstances of mystery?«
    »Because,« he replied, putting a letter into her hand, »I have yet another
request, which I dare hardly proffer, even when prefaced by these credentials.«
    In haste and terror Edith glanced over the letter, which was from her
grandmother.
    »My dearest childe,« such was its tenor in style and spelling, »I never more
deeply regretted the reumatizm, which disqualified me from riding on horseback,
than at this present writing, when I would most have wished to be where this
paper will soon be, that is at Fairy-Knowe, with my poor dear Willie's only
child. But it is the will of God I should not be with her, which I conclude to
be the case, as much for the pain I now suffer, as because it hath now not given
way either to cammomile poultices or to decoxion of wild mustard, wherewith I
have often relieved others. Therefore, I must tell you, by writing instead of
word of mouth, that, as my young Lord Evandale is called to the present
campaign, both by his honour and his duty, he hath earnestly solicited me that
the bonds of holy matrimony be knitted before his departure to the wars between
you and him, in implement of the indenture formerly entered into for that
effeck, whereuntill, as I see no raisonable objexion, so I trust that you, who
have been always a good and obedient childe, will not devize any which has less
than raison. It is trew that the contrax of our house have heretofore been
celebrated in a manner more befitting our Rank, and not in private, and with few
witnesses, as a thing done in a corner. But it has been Heaven's own free will,
as well as those of the kingdom where we live, to take away from us our estate,
and from the King his throne. Yet I trust He will yet restore the rightful heir
to the throne, and turn his heart to the true Protestant Episcopal faith, which
I have the better right to expect to see even with my old eyes, as I have beheld
the royal family when they were struggling as sorely with masterful usurpers and
rebels as they are now; that is to say, when his most sacred Majesty, Charles
the Second of happy memory, honoured our poor House of Tillietudlem, by taking
his disjune therein,« etc. etc. etc.
    We will not abuse the reader's patience by quoting more of Lady Margaret's
prolix epistle. Suffice it to say, that it closed by laying her commands on her
grandchild to consent to the solemnisation of her marriage without loss of time.
    »I never thought till this instant,« said Edith, dropping the letter from
her hand, »that Lord Evandale would have acted ungenerously.«
    »Ungenerously, Edith!« replied her lover. »And how can you apply such a term
to my desire to call you mine, ere I part from you perhaps for ever?«
    »Lord Evandale ought to have remembered,« said Edith, »that when his
perseverance, and, I must add, a due sense of his merit and of the obligations
we owed him, wrung from me a slow consent that I would one day comply with his
wishes, I made it my condition, that I should not be pressed to a hasty
accomplishment of my promise; and now he avails himself of his interest with my
only remaining relative, to hurry me with precipitate and even indelicate
importunity. There is more selfishness than generosity, my lord, in such eager
and urgent solicitation.«
    Lord Evandale, evidently much hurt, took two or three turns through the
apartment ere he replied to this accusation; at length he spoke - »I should have
escaped this painful charge, durst I at once have mentioned to Miss Bellenden my
principal reason for urging this request. It is one which she will probably
despise on her own account, but which ought to weigh with her for the sake of
Lady Margaret. My death in battle must give my whole estate to my heirs of
entail; my forfeiture as a traitor, by the usurping Government, may vest it in
the Prince of Orange, or some Dutch favourite. In either case, my venerable
friend and betrothed bride must remain unprotected and in poverty. - Vested with
the rights and provisions of Lady Evandale, Edith will find, in the power of
supporting her aged parent, some consolation for having condescended to share
the titles and fortunes of one who does not pretend to be worthy of her.«
    Edith was struck dumb by an argument which she had not expected, and was
compelled to acknowledge that Lord Evandale's suit was urged with delicacy as
well as with consideration.
    »And yet,« she said, »such is the waywardness with which my heart reverts to
former times, that I cannot« (she burst into tears) »suppress a degree of
ominous reluctance at fulfilling my engagement upon such a brief summons.«
    »We have already fully considered this painful subject,« said Lord Evandale;
»and I hoped, my dear Edith, your own inquiries, as well as mine, had fully
convinced you that these regrets were fruitless.«
    »Fruitless indeed!« said Edith, with a deep sigh, which, as if by an
unexpected echo, was repeated from the adjoining apartment. Miss Bellenden
started at the sound, and scarcely composed herself upon Lord Evandale's
assurances that she had heard but the echo of her own respiration.
    »It sounded strangely distinct,« she said, »and almost ominous; but my
feelings are so harassed that the slightest trifle agitates them.«
    Lord Evandale eagerly attempted to soothe her alarm, and reconcile her to a
measure, which, however hasty, appeared to him the only means by which be could
secure her independence. He urged his claim in virtue of the contract, her
grandmother's wish and command, the propriety of insuring her comfort and
independence, and touched lightly on his own long attachment, which he had
evinced by so many and such various services. These Edith felt the more, the
less they were insisted upon; and at length, as she had nothing to oppose to his
ardour, excepting a causeless reluctance, which she herself was ashamed to
oppose against so much generosity, she was compelled to rest upon the
impossibility of having the ceremony performed upon such hasty notice, at such a
time and place. But for all this Lord Evandale was prepared, and he explained,
with joyful alacrity, that the former chaplain of his regiment was in attendance
at the Lodge with a faithful domestic, once a noncommissioned officer in the
same corps; that his sister was also possessed of the secret; and that Headrigg
and his wife might be added to the list of witnesses, if agreeable to Miss
Bellenden. As to the place, he had chosen it on very purpose. The marriage was
to remain a secret, since Lord Evandale was to depart in disguise very soon
after it was solemnised - a circumstance which, had their union been public,
must have drawn upon him the attention of the Government, as being altogether
unaccountable, unless from his being engaged in some dangerous design. Having
hastily urged these motives and explained his arrangements, he ran, without
waiting for an answer, to summon his sister to attend his bride, while he went
in search of the other persons whose presence was necessary.
    When Lady Emily arrived, she found her friend in an agony of tears, of which
she was at some loss to comprehend the reason, being one of those damsels who
think there is nothing either wonderful or terrible in matrimony, and joining
with most who knew him in thinking, that it could not be rendered peculiarly
alarming by Lord Evandale being the bridegroom. Influenced by these feelings,
she exhausted in succession all the usual arguments for courage, and all the
expressions of sympathy and condolence ordinarily employed on such occasions.
But when Lady Emily beheld her future sister-in-law deaf to all those ordinary
topics of consolation - when she beheld tears follow fast and without
intermission down cheeks as pale as marble - when she felt that the hand which
she pressed in order to enforce her arguments turned cold within her grasp, and
lay, like that of a corpse, insensible and unresponsive to her caresses, her
feelings of sympathy gave way to those of hurt pride and pettish displeasure.
    »I must own,« she said, »that I am something at a loss to understand all
this, Miss Bellenden. Months have passed since you agreed to marry my brother,
and you have postponed the fulfilment of your engagement from one period to
another, as if you had to avoid some dishonourable or highly disagreeable
connection. I think I can answer for Lord Evandale, that he will seek no woman's
hand against her inclination; and, though his sister, I may boldly say that he
does not need to urge any lady further than her inclinations carry her. You will
forgive me, Miss Bellenden; but your present distress augurs ill for my
brother's future happiness, and I must needs say that he does not merit all
these expressions of dislike and dolour, and that they seem an odd return for an
attachment which he has manifested so long, and in so many ways.«
    »You are right, Lady Emily,« said Edith, drying her eyes, and endeavouring
to resume her natural manner, though still betrayed by her faltering voice and
the paleness of her cheeks - »you are quite right - Lord Evandale merits such
usage from no one, least of all from her whom he has honoured with his regard.
But if I have given way, for the last time, to a sudden and irresistible burst
of feeling, it is my consolation, Lady Emily, that your brother knows the cause;
that I have hid nothing from him, and that he at least is not apprehensive of
finding in Edith Bellenden a wife undeserving of his affection. But still you
are right, and I merit your censure for indulging for a moment fruitless regret
and painful remembrances. It shall be so no longer: my lot is cast with
Evandale, and with him I am resolved to bear it. Nothing shall in future occur
to excite his complaints, or the resentment of his relations; no idle
recollections of other days shall intervene to prevent the zealous and
affectionate discharge of my duty; no vain illusions recall the memory of other
days« --
    As she spoke these words, she slowly raised her eyes, which had before been
hidden by her hand, to the latticed window of her apartment, which was partly
open, uttered a dismal shriek, and fainted. Lady Emily turned her eyes in the
same direction, but saw only the shadow of a man, which seemed to disappear from
the window, and, terrified more by the state of Edith than by the apparition she
had herself witnessed, she uttered shriek upon shriek for assistance. Her
brother soon arrived with the chaplain and Jenny Dennison, but strong and
vigorous remedies were necessary ere they could recall Miss Bellenden to sense
and motion. Even then her language was wild and incoherent.
    »Press me no farther,« she said to Lord Evandale; »it cannot be - Heaven and
earth - the living and the dead, have leagued themselves against this ill-omened
union. Take all I can give - my sisterly regard - my devoted friendship. I will
love you as a sister, and serve you as a bondswoman, but never speak to me more
of marriage.«
    The astonishment of Lord Evandale may easily be conceived.
    »Emily,« he said to his sister, »this is your doing - I was accursed when I
thought of bringing you here - some of your confounded folly has driven her
mad!«
    »On my word, brother,« answered Lady Emily, »you're sufficient to drive all
the women in Scotland mad. Because your mistress seems much disposed to jilt
you, you quarrel with your sister, who has been arguing in your cause, and had
brought her to a quiet hearing, when, all of a sudden, a man looked in at a
window, whom her crazed sensibility mistook either for you or some one else, and
has treated us gratis with an excellent tragic scene.«
    »What man? What window?« said Lord Evandale, in impatient displeasure. »Miss
Bellenden is incapable of trifling with me; - and yet what else could have« --
    »Hush! hush!« said Jenny, whose interest lay particularly in shifting
further inquiry; »for Heaven's sake, my lord, speak low, for my lady begins to
recover.«
    Edith was no sooner somewhat restored to herself than she begged, in a
feeble voice, to be left alone with Lord Evandale. All retreated, - Jenny with
her usual air of officious simplicity - Lady Emily and the chaplain with that of
awakened curiosity. No sooner had they left the apartment, than Edith beckoned
Lord Evandale to sit beside her on the couch; her next motion was to take his
hand, in spite of his surprised resistance, to her lips; her last was to sink
from her seat and to clasp his knees.
    »Forgive me, my Lord!« she exclaimed - »Forgive me! - I must deal most
untruly by you, and break a solemn engagement. You have my friendship, my
highest regard, my most sincere gratitude - You have more; you have my word and
my faith - But O, forgive me, for the fault is not mine - you have not my love,
and I cannot marry you without a sin!«
    »You dream, my dearest Edith!« said Evandale, perplexed in the utmost
degree, - »you let your imagination beguile you. This is but some delusion of an
over-sensitive mind; - the person whom you preferred to me has been long in a
better world, where your unavailing regret cannot follow him, or if it could,
would only diminish his happiness.«
    »You are mistaken, Lord Evandale,« said Edith, solemnly. »I am not a
sleep-walker, or a mad-woman. No - I could not have believed from any one what I
have seen. But having seen him, I must believe mine own eyes.«
    »Seen him! - seen whom?« asked Lord Evandale, in great anxiety.
    »Henry Morton,« replied Edith, uttering these two words as if they were her
last, and very nearly fainting when she had done so.
    »Miss Bellenden,« said Lord Evandale, »you treat me like a fool or a child.
If you repent your engagement to me,« he continued indignantly, »I am not a man
to enforce it against your inclination; but deal with me as a man, and forbear
this trifling.«
    He was about to go on, when he perceived, from her quivering eye and pallid
cheek, that nothing was less intended than imposture, and that, by whatever
means her imagination had been so impressed, it was really disturbed by
unaffected awe and terror. He changed his tone, and exerted all his eloquence in
endeavouring to soothe and extract from her the secret cause of such terror.
    »I saw him!« she repeated - »I saw Henry Morton stand at that window, and
look into the apartment at the moment I was on the point of abjuring him for
ever. His face was darker, thinner, and paler than it was wont to be; his dress
was a horseman's cloak, and hat looped down over his face; his expression was
like that he wore on that dreadful morning when he was examined by Claverhouse
at Tillietudlem. Ask your sister, ask Lady Emily, if she did not see him as well
as I. - I know what has called him up - he came to upbraid me that, while my
heart was with him in the deep and dead sea, I was about to give my hand to
another. My lord, it is ended between you and me - be the consequences what they
will, she cannot marry whose union disturbs the repose of the dead.«47
    »Good heaven!« said Evandale, as he paced the room, half mad himself with
surprise and vexation - »her fine understanding must be totally overthrown, and
that by the effort which she has made to comply with my ill-timed, though
well-meant request. Without rest and attention her health is ruined for ever.«
    At this moment the door opened, and Halliday, who had been Lord Evandale's
principal personal attendant since they both left the Guards on the Revolution,
stumbled into the room with a countenance as pale and ghastly as terror could
paint it.
    »What is the matter next, Halliday?« cried his master, starting up. »Any
discovery of the« --
    He had just recollection sufficient to stop short in the midst of the
dangerous sentence.
    »No, sir,« said Halliday, »it is not that, nor anything like that; but I
have seen a ghost!« »A ghost! you eternal idiot!« said Lord Evandale, forced
altogether out of his patience. »Has all mankind sworn to go mad in order to
drive me so? - What ghost, you simpleton?«
    »The ghost of Henry Morton, the whig captain at Bothwell Bridge,« replied
Halliday. »He passed by me like a fire-flaught when I was in the garden!«
    »This is mid-summer madness,« said Lord Evandale, »or there is some strange
villainy afloat. - Jenny, attend your lady to her chamber, while I endeavour to
find a clue to all this.«
    But Lord Evandale'e inquiries were in vain. Jenny, who might have given (had
she chosen) a very satisfactory explanation, had an interest to leave the matter
in darkness; and interest was a matter which now weighed principally with Jenny,
since the possession of an active and affectionate husband in her own proper
right had altogether allayed her spirit of coquetry. She had made the best use
of the first moments of confusion hastily to remove all traces of any one having
slept in the apartment adjoining to the parlour, and even to erase the mark of
footsteps beneath the window through which she conjectured Morton's face had
been seen while attempting, ere he left the garden, to gain one look at her whom
he had so long loved, and was now on the point of losing for ever. That he had
passed Halliday in the garden was equally clear; and she learned from her elder
boy, whom she had employed to have the stranger's horse saddled and ready for
his departure, that he had rushed into the stable, thrown the child a broad gold
piece, and, mounting his horse, had ridden with fearful rapidity down towards
the Clyde. The secret was, therefore, in their own family, and Jenny was
resolved it should remain so.
    »For to be sure,« she said, »although her lady and Halliday ken'd Mr. Morton
by broad daylight, that was nae reason I should own to kenning him in the gloaming
and by candlelight, and him keeping his face frae Cuddie and me a' the time.«
    So she stood resolutely upon the negative when examined by Lord Evandale. As
for Halliday, he could only say, that as he entered the garden-door, the
supposed apparition met him walking swiftly, and with a visage on which anger
and grief appeared to be contending.
    »He knew him well,« he said, »having been repeatedly guard upon him, and
obliged to write down his marks of stature and visage in case of escape. And
there were few faces like Mr. Morton's.« But what should make him haunt the
country where he was neither hanged nor shot, he, the said Halliday, did not
pretend to conceive.
    Lady Emily confessed she had seen the face of a man at the window, but her
evidence went no farther. John Gudyill deponed nil novit in causa. Ha had left
his gardening to get his morning dram just at the time when the apparition had
taken place. Lady Emily's servant was waiting orders in the kitchen, and there
was not another being within a quarter of a mile of the house.
    Lord Evandale returned, perplexed and dissatisfied in the highest degree, at
beholding a plan which he thought necessary not less for the protection of Edith
in contingent circumstances, than for the assurance of his own happiness, and
which be had brought so very near perfection, thus broken off without any
apparent or rational cause. His knowledge of Edith's character set her beyond
the suspicion of covering any capricious change of determination by a pretended
vision. But he would have set the apparition down to the influence of an
overstrained imagination, agitated by the circumstances in which she had so
suddenly been placed, had it not been for the coinciding testimony of Halliday,
who had no reason for thinking of Morton more than any other person, and knew
nothing of Miss Bellenden's vision when he promulgated his own. On the other
hand, it seemed in the highest degree improbable that Morton, so long and so
vainly sought after, and who was, with such good reason, supposed to be lost
when the Vryheid of Rotterdam went down with crew and passengers, should be
alive and lurking in this country, where there was no longer any reason why he
should not openly show himself, since the present Government favoured his party
in politics. When Lord Evandale reluctantly brought himself to communicate these
doubts to the chaplain, in order to obtain his opinion, he could only obtain a
long lecture on demonology, in which, after quoting Delrio, and Burthoog, and De
l'Ancre, on the subject of apparitions, together with sundry civilians and
common lawyers on the nature of testimony, the learned gentleman expressed his
definite and determined opinion to be, either that there had been an actual
apparition of the deceased Henry Morton's spirit, the possibility of which he
was, as a divine and a philosopher, neither fully prepared to admit or to deny;
or else, that the said Henry Morton, being still in rerum natura, had appeared
in his proper person that morning; or, finally, that some strong deceptio visus,
or striking similitude of person, had deceived the eyes of Miss Bellenden and of
Thomas Halliday. Which of these was the most probable hypothesis, the Doctor
declined to pronounce, but expressed himself ready to die in the opinion that
one or other of them had occasioned that morning's disturbance.
    Lord Evandale soon had additional cause for distressful anxiety. Miss
Bellenden was declared to be dangerously ill.
    »I will not leave this place,« he exclaimed, »till she is pronounced to be
in safety. I neither can nor ought to do so; for whatever may have been the
immediate occasion of her illness, I gave the first cause for it by my unhappy
solicitation.«
    He established himself, therefore, as a guest in the family, which the
presence of his sister, as well as of Lady Margaret Bellenden (who, in despite
of her rheumatism, caused herself to be transported thither when she heard of
her grand-daughter's illness), rendered a step equally natural and delicate. And
thus he anxiously awaited, until, without injury to her health, Edith could
sustain a final explanation ere his departure on his expedition.
    »She shall never,« said the generous young man, »look on her engagement with
me as the means of fettering her to a union, the idea of which seems almost to
unhinge her understanding.«
 

                             Chapter Thirty-Eighth

 Ah, happy hills! - ah, pleasing shades!
 Ah, fields beloved in vain!
 Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
 A stranger yet to pain.
                                                       Ode on a Distant Prospect
                                                                of Eton College.
 
It is not by corporal wants and infirmities only that men of the most
distinguished talents are levelled, during their lifetime, with the common mass
of mankind. There are periods of mental agitation when the firmest of mortals
must be ranked with the weakest of his brethren; and when, in paying the general
tax of humanity, his distresses are even aggravated by feeling that he
transgresses, in the indulgence of his grief, the rules of religion and
philosophy, by which he endeavours in general to regulate his passions and his
actions. It was during such a paroxysm that the unfortunate Morton left
Fairy-Knowe. To know that his long-loved and still beloved Edith, whose image
had filled his mind for so many years, was on the point of marriage to his early
rival, who had laid claim to her heart by so many services, as hardly left her a
title to refuse his addresses, bitter as the intelligence was, yet came not as
an unexpected blow.
    During his residence abroad he had once written to Edith. It was to bid her
farewell for ever, and to conjure her to forget him. He had requested her not to
answer his letter, yet he half hoped, for many a day, that she might transgress
his injunction. The letter never reached her to whom it was addressed, and
Morton, ignorant of its miscarriage, could only conclude himself laid aside and
forgotten, according to his own self-denying request. All that he had heard of
their mutual relations since his return to Scotland, prepared him to expect that
he could only look upon Miss Bellenden as the betrothed bride of Lord Evandale;
and, even if freed from the burden of obligation to the latter, it would still
have been inconsistent with Morton's generosity of disposition to disturb their
arrangements, by attempting the assertion of a claim, proscribed by absence,
never sanctioned by the consent of friends, and barred by a thousand
circumstances of difficulty. Why, then, did he seek the cottage which their
broken fortunes had now rendered the retreat of Lady Margaret Bellenden and her
grand-daughter? He yielded, we are under the necessity of acknowledging, to the
impulse of an inconsistent with which many might have felt in his situation.
    Accident apprised him, while travelling towards his native district, that
the ladies, near whose mansion he must necessarily pass, were absent; and
learning that Cuddie and his wife acted as their principal domestics, he could
not resist pausing at their cottage, to learn, if possible, the real progress
which Lord Evandale had made in the affections of Miss Bellenden - alas! no
longer his Edith. This rash experiment ended as we have related, and he parted
from the house of Fairy-Knowe, conscious that he was still beloved by Edith, yet
compelled, by faith and honour, to relinquish her for ever. With what feelings
he must have listened to the dialogue between Lord Evandale and Edith, the
greater part of which he involuntarily overheard, the reader must conceive, for
we dare not attempt to describe them. An hundred times he was tempted to burst
upon their interview, or to exclaim aloud, »Edith, I yet live!« - and as often
the recollection of her plighted troth, and of the debt of gratitude which he
owed Lord Evandale (to whose influence with Claverhouse he justly ascribed his
escape from torture and from death), withheld him from a rashness which might
indeed have involved all in further distress, but gave little prospect of
forwarding his own happiness. He repressed forcibly these selfish emotions,
though with an agony which thrilled his every nerve.
    »No, Edith!« was his internal oath, »never will I add a thorn to thy pillow
- That which Heaven has ordained, let it be; and let me not add, by my selfish
sorrows, one atom's weight to the burden thou hast to bear. I was dead to thee
when thy resolution was adopted; and never - never shalt thou know that Henry
Morton still lives!«
    As he formed this resolution, diffident of his own power to keep it, and
seeking that firmness in flight which was every moment shaken by his continuing
within hearing of Edith's voice, he hastily rushed from his apartment by the
little closet and the sashed door which led to the garden.
    But firmly as he thought his resolution was fixed, he could not leave the
spot where the last tones of a voice so beloved still vibrated on his ear,
without endeavouring to avail himself of the opportunity which the parlour
window afforded, to steal one last glance at the lovely speaker. It was in this
attempt, made while Edith seemed to have her eyes unalterably bent upon the
ground, that Morton's presence was detected by her raising them suddenly. So
soon as her wild scream made this known to the unfortunate object of a passion
so constant, and which seemed so ill-fated, he hurried from the place as if
pursued by the furies. He passed Halliday in the garden without recognising, or
even being sensible that he had seen him, threw himself on his horse, and, by a
sort of instinct rather than recollection, took the first by-road in preference
to the public route to Hamilton.
    In all probability this prevented Lord Evandale from learning that he was
actually in existence; for the news that the Highlanders had obtained a decisive
victory at Killiecrankie, had occasioned an accurate look-out to be kept, by
order of the Government, on all the passes, for fear of some commotion among the
Lowland Jacobites. They did not omit to post sentinels on Bothwell Bridge, and
as these men had not seen any traveller pass westward in that direction, and as,
besides, their comrades stationed in the village of Bothwell were equally
positive that none had gone eastward, the apparition, in the existence of which
Edith and Halliday were equally positive, became yet more mysterious in the
judgment of Lord Evandale, who was finally inclined to settle in the belief,
that the heated and disturbed imagination of Edith had summoned up the phantom
she stated herself to have seen, and that Halliday had, in some unaccountable
manner, been infected by the same superstition.
    Meanwhile, the by-path which Morton pursued, with all the speed which his
vigorous horse could exert, brought him in a very few seconds to the brink of
the Clyde, at a spot marked with the feet of horses, who were conducted to it as
a watering-place. The steed, urged as he was to the gallop, did not pause a
single instant, but, throwing himself into the river, was soon beyond his depth.
The plunge which the animal made as his feet quitted the ground, with the
feeling that the cold water rose above his sword-belt, were the first incidents
which recalled Morton, whose movements had been hitherto mechanical, to the
necessity of taking measures for preserving himself and the noble animal which
he bestrode. A perfect master of all manly exercises, the management of a horse
in water was as familiar to him as when upon a meadow. He directed the animal's
course somewhat down the stream towards a low plain, or holm, which seemed to
promise an easy egress from the river. In the first and second attempt to get on
shore, the horse was frustrated by the nature of the ground, and nearly fell
backwards on his rider. The instinct of self-preservation seldom fails, even in
the most desperate circumstances, to recall the human mind to some degree of
equipoise, unless when altogether distracted by terror, and Morton was obliged
to the danger in which he was placed for complete recovery of his
self-possession. A third attempt, at a spot more carefully and judiciously
selected, succeeded better than the former, and placed the horse and his rider
in safety upon the farther and left-hand bank of the Clyde.
    »But whither,« said Morton, in the bitterness of his heart, »am I now to
direct my course? or rather, what does it signify to which point of the compass
a wretch so forlorn betakes himself? I would to God, could the wish be without a
sin, that these dark waters had flowed over me, and drowned my recollection of
that which was, and that which is!«
    The sense of impatience, which the disturbed state of his feelings had
occasioned, scarcely had vented itself in these violent expressions, ere he was
struck with shame at having given way to such a paroxysm. He remembered how
signally the life which he now held so lightly in the bitterness of his
disappointment, had been preserved through the almost incessant perils which had
beset him since he entered upon his public career.
    »I am a fool!« he said, »and worse than a fool, to set light by that
existence which Heaven has so often preserved in the most marvellous manner!
Something there yet remains for me in this world, were it only to bear my
sorrows like a man, and to aid those who need my assistance. What have I seen -
what have I heard, but the very conclusion of that which I knew was to happen?
They« - (he durst not utter their names even in soliloquy) - »they are
embarrassed and in difficulties. She is stripped of her inheritance, and he
seems rushing on some dangerous career, with which, but for the low voice in
which he spoke, I might have become acquainted. Are there no means to aid or to
warn them?«
    As he pondered upon this topic, forcibly withdrawing his mind from his own
disappointment, and compelling his attention to the affairs of Edith and her
betrothed husband, the letter of Burley, long forgotten, suddenly rushed on his
memory, like a ray of light darting through a mist.
    »Their ruin must have been his work,« was his internal conclusion. »If it
can be repaired, it must be through his means, or by information obtained from
him. I will search him out. Stern, crafty, and enthusiastic as he is, my plain
and downright rectitude of purpose has more than once prevailed with him. I will
seek him out, at least; and who knows what influence the information I may
acquire from him may have on the fortunes of those whom I shall never see more,
and who will probably never learn that I am now suppressing my own grief, to
add, if possible, to their happiness.«
    Animated by these hopes, though the foundation was but slight, he sought the
nearest way to the high-road; and as all the tracks through the valley were
known to him since he hunted through them in youth, he had no other difficulty
than that of surmounting one or two enclosures, ere he found himself on the road
to the small burgh where the feast of the popinjay had been celebrated. He
journeyed in a state of mind sad indeed and dejected, yet relieved from its
earlier and more intolerable state of anguish; for virtuous resolution and manly
disinterestedness seldom fail to restore tranquillity even where they cannot
create happiness. He turned his thoughts with strong effort upon the means of
discovering Burley, and the chance there was of extracting from him any
knowledge which he might possess favourable to her in whose cause he interested
himself, and at length formed the resolution of guiding himself by the
circumstances in which he might discover the object of his quest, trusting that,
from Cuddie's account of a schism betwixt Burley and his brethren of the
Presbyterian persuasion, he might find him less rancorously disposed against
Miss Bellenden, and inclined to exert the power which he asserted himself to
possess over her fortunes, more favourably than heretofore.
    Noontide had passed away, when our traveller found himself in the
neighbourhood of his deceased uncle's habitation of Milnwood. It rose among
glades and groves that were chequered with a thousand early recollections of joy
and sorrow, and made upon Morton that mournful impression, soft and affecting,
yet withal soothing, which the sensitive mind usually receives from a return to
the haunts of childhood and early youth, after having experienced the
vicissitudes and tempests of public life. A strong desire came upon him to visit
the house itself.
    »Old Alison,« he thought, »will not know me, more than the honest couple
whom I saw yesterday. I may indulge my curiosity, and proceed on my journey,
without her having any knowledge of my existence. I think they said my uncle had
bequeathed to her my family mansion. Well - be it so. I have enough to sorrow
for, to enable me to dispense with lamenting such a disappointment as that; and
yet methinks he has chosen an odd successor in my grumbling old dame, to a line
of respectable if not distinguished ancestry. Let it be as it may, I will visit
the old mansion at least once more.«
    The house of Milnwood, even in its best days, had nothing cheerful about it,
but its gloom appeared to be doubled under the auspices of the old housekeeper.
Everything, indeed, was in repair; there were no slates deficient upon the steep
grey roof, and no panes broken in the narrow windows. But the grass in the
courtyard looked as if the foot of man had not been there for years; the doors
were carefully locked, and that which admitted to the hall seemed to have been
shut for a length of time, since the spiders had fairly drawn their webs over
the doorway and the staples. Living sight or sound there was none, until, after
much knocking, Morton heard the little window, through which it was usual to
reconnoitre visitors, open with much caution. The face of Alison, puckered with
some score of wrinkles, in addition to those with which it was furrowed when
Morton left Scotland, now presented itself, enveloped in a toy, from under the
protection of which some of her grey tresses had escaped in a manner more
picturesque than beautiful, while her shrill tremulous voice demanded the cause
of the knocking.
    »I wish to speak an instant with one Alison Wilson, who resides here,« said
Henry.
    »She's no at hame the day,« answered Mrs. Wilson, in propria persona, the
state of whose head-dress, perhaps, inspired her with this direct mode of
denying herself; »and ye are but a mislear'd person to speer for her in sic a
manner. Ye might hae had an M under your belt for Mistress Wilson of Milnwood.«
    »I beg pardon,« said Morton, internally smiling at finding in old Ailie the
same jealousy of disrespect which she used to exhibit upon former occasions - »I
beg pardon; - I am but a stranger in this country, and have been so long abroad
that I have almost forgotten my own language.«
    »Did ye come frae foreign parts?« said Ailie; »then maybe ye may hae heard
of a young gentleman of this country, that they ca' Henry Morton?«
    »I have heard,« said Morton, »of such a name in Germany.«
    »Then bide a wee bit where ye are, friend - or stay - gang round by the back
o' the house, and ye'll find a laigh door; it's on the latch, for it's never
barred till sunset. Ye'll open't - and take care ye dinna fa' ower the tub, for
the entry's dark - and then ye'll turn to the right, and then ye'll haud
straught forward, and then ye'll turn to the right again, and ye'll take heed o'
the cellar stairs, and then ye'll he at the door o' the little kitchen - it's a'
the kitchen that's at Milnwood now - and I'll come down t'ye, and whate'er ye
wad say to Mrs. Wilson ye may very safely tell it to me.«
    A stranger might have had some difficulty, notwithstanding the minuteness of
the directions supplied by Ailie, to pilot himself in safety through the dark
labyrinth of passages that led from the back-door to the little kitchen; but
Henry was too well acquainted with the navigation of these straits to experience
danger, either from the Scylla which lurked on one side in shape of a bucking
tub, or the Charybdis which yawned on the other in the profundity of a winding
cellar-stair. His only impediment arose from the snarling and vehement barking
of a small cocking spaniel, once his own property, but which, unlike to the
faithful Argus, saw his master return from his wanderings without any symptom of
recognition.
    »The little dogs and all!« said Morton to himself, on being disowned by his
former favourite. - »I am so changed, that no breathing creature that I have
known and loved will now acknowledge me!«
    At this moment he had reached the kitchen, and soon after the tread of
Alison's high heels, and the pat of the crutch-handled cane, which served at
once to prop and to guide her footsteps, were heard upon the stairs, an
annunciation which continued for some time ere she fairly reached the kitchen.
    Morton had, therefore, time to survey the slender preparations for
housekeeping which were now sufficient in the house of his ancestors. The fire,
though coals are plenty in that neighbourhood, was husbanded with the closest
attention to economy of fuel, and the small pipkin, in which was preparing the
dinner of the old woman and her maid-of-all-work, a girl of twelve years old,
intimated, by its thin and watery vapour, that Ailie had not mended her cheer
with her improved fortune.
    When she entered, the head which nodded with self-importance - the features
in which an irritable peevishness, acquired by habit and indulgence, strove with
a temper naturally affectionate and good-natured - the coif - the apron - the
blue checked gown, were all those of old Ailie; but laced pinners, hastily put
on to meet the stranger, with some other trifling articles of decoration, marked
the difference between Mrs. Wilson, liferentrix of Milnwood, and the housekeeper
of the late proprietor.
    »What were ye pleased to want wi' Mrs. Wilson, sir? - I am Mrs. Wilson,« was
her first address; for the five minutes' time which she had gained for the
business of the toilette, entitled her, she conceived, to assume the full merit
of her illustrious name, and shine forth on her guest in unchastened splendour.
Morton's sensations, confounded between the past and present, fairly confused
him so much, that he would have had difficulty in answering her, even if he had
known well what to say. But as he had not determined what character he was to
adopt while concealing that which was properly his own, he had an additional
reason for remaining silent. Mrs. Wilson, in perplexity, and with some
apprehension, repeated her question.
    »What were ye pleased to want wi' me, sir? - Ye said ye ken'd Mr. Harry
Morton?«
    »Pardon me, madam,« answered Henry; »it was of one Silas Morton I spoke.«
    The old woman's countenance fell.
    »It was his father, then, ye kent o', the brother o' the late Milnwood? Ye
canna mind him abroad, I wad think; - he was come hame afore ye were born. I
thought ye had brought me news of poor Maister Harry.«
    »It was from my father I learned to know Colonel Morton,« said Henry; - »of
the son I know little or nothing; rumour says he died abroad on his passage to
Holland.«
    »That's ower like to be true,« said the old woman, with a sigh, »and mony a
tear it's cost my auld een. His uncle, poor gentleman, just sough'd away wi' it
in his mouth. He had been gieing me preceese directions anent the bread, and the
wine, and the brandy, at his burial, and how often it was to be handed round the
company (for, dead or alive, he was a prudent, frugal, painstaking man), and
then he said, said he, 'Ailie' (he aye ca'd me Ailie - we were auld
acquaintance), Ailie, take ye care and haud the gear well thegither; for the
name of Morton of Milnwood's gone out like the last sough of an auld sang. And
sae he fell out o' ae dwam into another, and ne'er spak a word mair, unless it
were something we cou'dna make out, about a dipped candle being good enough to
see to dee wi'; - he cou'd ne'er bide to see a moulded ane, and there was ane,
by ill luck, on the table.«
    While Mrs. Wilson was thus detailing the last moments of the old miser,
Morton was pressingly engaged in diverting the assiduous curiosity of the dog,
which, recovered from his first surprise, and combining former recollections,
had, after much snuffing and examination, begun a course of capering and jumping
upon the stranger which threatened every instant to betray him. At length, in
the urgency of his impatience, Morton could not forbear exclaiming, in a tone of
hasty impatience, »Down, Elphin! down, sir!«
    »Ye ken our dog's name,« said the old lady, struck with great and sudden
surprise - »Ye ken our dog's name, and it's no a common ane. And the creature
kens you, too,« she continued, in a more agitated and shriller tone - »God guide
us! it's my ain bairn!«
    So saying, the poor old woman threw herself around Morton's neck, clung to
him, kissed him as if he had been actually her child, and wept for joy. There
was no parrying the discovery, if he could have had the heart to attempt any
further disguise. He returned the embrace with the most grateful warmth, and
answered -
    »I do indeed live, dear Ailie, to thank you for all your kindness, past and
present, and to rejoice that there is at least one friend to welcome me to my
native country.«
    »Friends!« exclaimed Ailie - »ye'll hae mony friends - ye'll hae mony
friends; for ye will hae gear, hinny - ye will hae gear. Heaven make ye a good
guide o't! - But, eh, sirs!« she continued, pushing him back from her with her
trembling hand and shrivelled arm, and gazing in his face, as if to read, at
more convenient distance, the ravages which sorrow rather than time had made on
his face - »Eh, sirs! ye're sair altered, hinny; your face is turned pale, and
your een are sunken, and your bonny red-and-white cheeks are turned a' dark and
sunburnt. O, weary on the wars! mony's the comely face they destroy. And when
cam ye here, hinny? - and where hae ye been? - and what hae ye been doing? - and
what for did ye na write to us? - and how cam ye to pass yoursell for dead? -
and what for did ye come creepin' to your ain house as if ye had been an unco
body, to give poor auld Ailie sic a start?« she concluded, smiling through her
tears.
    It was some time ere Morton could overcome his own emotion, so as to give
the kind old woman the information which we shall communicate to our readers in
the next chapter.
 

                              Chapter Thirty-Ninth

 --- Aumerle that was,
 But that is gone for being Richard's friend;
 And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.
                                                                     Richard II.
 
The scene of explanation was hastily removed from the little kitchen to Mrs.
Wilson's own matted room; the very same which she had occupied as housekeeper,
and which she continued to retain. »It was,« she said, »better secured against
sifting winds than the hall, which she had found dangerous to her rheumatisms,
and it was more fitting for her use than the late Milnwood's apartment, honest
man, which gave her sad thoughts;« and as for the great oak parlour, it was
never opened but to be aired, washed, and dusted, according to the invariable
practice of the family, unless upon their most solemn festivals. In the matted
room, therefore, they were settled, surrounded by pickle-pots and conserves of
all kinds, which the ci-devant housekeeper continued to compound, out of mere
habit, although neither she herself, nor any one else, ever partook of the
comfits which she so regularly prepared.
    Morton, adapting his narrative to the comprehension of his auditor, informed
her briefly of the wreck of the vessel, and the loss of all hands, excepting two
or three common seamen, who had early secured the skiff, and were just putting
off from the vessel when he leaped from the deck into their boat, and
unexpectedly, as well as contrary to their inclination, made himself partner of
their voyage and of their safety. Landed at Flushing, he was fortunate enough to
meet with an old officer who had been in service with his father. By his advice
he shunned going immediately to the Hague, but forwarded his letters to the
court of the Stadtholder. »Our Prince,« said the veteran, »must as yet keep
terms with his father-in-law, and with your King Charles; and to approach him in
the character of a Scottish malcontent would render it imprudent for him to
distinguish you by his favour. Wait, therefore, his orders, without forcing
yourself on his notice; observe the strictest prudence and retirement; assume
for the present a different name; shun the company of the British exiles; and,
depend upon it, you will not repent your prudence.«
    The old friend of Silas Morton argued justly. After a considerable time had
elapsed, the Prince of Orange, in a progress through the United States, came to
the town where Morton, impatient at his situation and the incognito which he was
obliged to observe, still continued nevertheless to be a resident. He had an
hour of private interview assigned, in which the prince expressed himself highly
pleased with his intelligence, his prudence, and the liberal view which he
seemed to take of the factions of his native country, their motives and their
purposes.
    »I would gladly,« said William, »attach you to my own person, but that
cannot be without giving offence in England. But I will do as much for you, as
well out of respect for the sentiments you have expressed, as for the
recommendations you have brought me. Here is a commission in a Swiss regiment at
present in garrison in a distant province, where you will meet few or none of
your countrymen. Continue to be Captain Melville, and let the name of Morton
sleep till better days.«
    »Thus began my fortune,« continued Morton; - »and my services have, on
various occasions, been distinguished by his Royal Highness, until the moment
that brought him to Britain as our political deliverer. His commands must excuse
my silence to my few friends in Scotland; and I wonder not at the report of my
death, considering the wreck of the vessel, and that I found no occasion to use
the letters of exchange with which I was furnished by the liberality of some of
them - a circumstance which must have confirmed the belief that I had perished.«
    »But, dear hinny,« asked Mrs. Wilson, »did ye find nae Scotch body at the
Prince of Oranger's court that ken'd ye? I wad hae thought Morton o' Milnwood
was ken'd a' through the country.«
    »I was purposely engaged in distant service,« said Morton, »until a period
when few, without as deep and kind a motive of interest as yours, Ailie, would
have known the stripling Morton in Major-General Melville.«
    »Malville was your mother's name,« said Mrs. Wilson; »but Morton sounds far
bonnier in my auld lugs. And when ye take up the lairdship, ye maun take the auld
name and designation again.«
    »I am like to be in no haste to do either the one or the other, Ailie, for I
have some reasons for the present to conceal my being alive from every one but
you; and as for the lairdship of Milnwood, it is in as good hands.«
    »As good hands, hinny!« re-echoed Ailie; »I'm hopefu' you are no meaning
mine? The rents and the lands are but a sair fash to me. And I'm ower failed to
take a helpmate, though Wylie Mactrickit the writer was very pressing, and spak
very civilly; but I'm ower auld a cat to draw that strae before me - he canna
whilliwhaw me as he's dune mony a ane. And then I thought aye ye wad come back,
and I would get my pickle meal and my soup milk, and keep a' things right about
ye as I used to do in your puir uncle's time, and it wad be just pleasure enough
for me to see ye thrive and guide the gear canny - Ye'll hae learned that in
Holland, I'se warrant, for they're thrifty folk there, as I hear tell. - But
ye'll be for keeping rather a mair house than puir auld Milnwood that's gone;
and, indeed, I would approve o' your eating butcher-meat maybe as aften as three
times a-week - it keeps the wind out o' the stamack.«
    »We will talk of all this another time,« said Morton, surprised at the
generosity upon a large scale, which mingled in Ailie's thoughts and actions
with habitual and sordid parsimony, and at the odd contrast between her love of
saving and indifference to self-acquisition. »You must know,« he continued,
»that I am in this country only for a few days on some special business of
importance to the Government, and therefore, Ailie, not a word of having seen
me. At some other time I will acquaint you fully with my motives and
intentions.«
    »E'en be it sae, my jo,« replied Ailie; - »I can keep a secret like my
neighbours; and well auld Milnwood ken'd it, honest man, for he told me where
he keep it his gear, and that's what maist folk like to hae as private as
possibly may be. - But come away wi' me, hinny, till I show ye the oak-parlour
how grandly it's keep it, just as if ye had been expected hame every day - I loot
nobody sort it but my ain hands. It was a kind o' divertisement to me, though
whiles the tear wan into my ee, and I said to mysell, what needs I fash wi'
grates, and carpets, and cushions, and the muckle brass candlesticks, ony mair?
for they'll ne'er come hame that aught it rightfully.«
    With these words she hauled him away to this sanctum sanctorum, the
scrubbing and cleaning whereof was her daily employment, as its high state of
good order constituted the very pride of her heart. Morton, as he followed her
into the room, underwent a rebuke for not »dighting his shune,« which showed
that Ailie had not relinquished her habits of authority. On entering the
oak-parlour, he could not but recollect the feelings of solemn awe with which,
when a boy, he had been affected at his occasional and rare admission to an
apartment, which he then supposed had not its equal save in the halls of
princes. It may be readily supposed, that the worked-worsted chairs, with their
short ebony legs and long upright backs, had lost much of their influence over
his mind; that the large brass and irons seemed diminished in splendour; that
the green worsted tapestry appeared no masterpiece of the Arras loom; and that
the room looked, on the whole, dark, gloomy, and disconsolate. Yet there were
two objects, »The counterfeit presentment of two brothers,« which, dissimilar as
those described by Hamlet, affected his mind with a variety of sensations. One
full-length portrait represented his father, in complete armour, with a
countenance indicating his masculine and determined character; and the other set
forth his uncle, in velvet and brocade, looking as if he were ashamed of his own
finery, though entirely indebted for it to the liberality of the painter.
    »It was an idle fancy,« Ailie said, »to dress the honest auld man in thae
expensive fal-lalls that he ne'er wore in his life, instead o' douce Raploch
grey, and his band wi' the narrow edging.«
    In private, Morton could not help being much of her opinion; for anything
approaching to the dress of a gentleman sate as ill on the ungainly person of
his relative, as an open or generous expression would have done on his mean and
money-making features. He now extricated himself from Ailie to visit some of his
haunts in the neighbouring wood, while her own hands made an addition to the
dinner she was preparing, - an incident no otherwise remarkable than as it cost
the life of a fowl, which, for any event of less importance than the arrival of
Henry Morton, might have cackled on to a good old age, ere Ailie could have been
guilty of the extravagance of killing and dressing it. The meal was seasoned by
talk of old times, and by the plans which Ailie laid out for futurity, in which
she assigned her young master all the prudential habits of her old one, and
planned out the dexterity with which she was to exercise her duty as governante.
Morton let the old woman enjoy her day-dreams and castle-building during moments
of such pleasure, and deferred, till some fitter occasion, the communication of
his purpose again to return and spend his life upon the Continent.
    His next care was to lay aside his military dress, which he considered
likely to render more difficult his researches after Burley. He exchanged it for
a grey doublet and cloak, formerly his usual attire at Milnwood, and which Mrs.
Wilson produced from a chest of walnut-tree, wherein she had laid them aside,
without forgetting carefully to brush and air them from time to time. Morton
retained his sword and firearms, without which few persons travelled in those
unsettled times. When he appeared in his new attire, Mrs. Wilson was first
thankful »that they fitted him sae decently, since, though he was nae fatter,
yet he looked mair manly than when he was taken frae Milnwood.«
    Next she enlarged on the advantage of saving old clothes to be what she
called »beet-masters to the new,« and was far advanced in the history of a
velvet cloak belonging to the late Milnwood, which had first been converted to a
velvet doublet, and then into a pair of breeches, and appeared each time as good
as new, when Morton interrupted her account of its transmigration to bid her
good-bye.
    He gave, indeed, a sufficient shock to her feelings, by expressing the
necessity he was under of proceeding on his journey that evening.
    »And where are ye gaun? - and what wad ye do that for? - and whar wad ye
sleep but in your ain house, after ye hae been sae mony years frae hame?«
    »I feel all the unkindness of it, Ailie, but it must be so; and that was the
reason that I attempted to conceal myself from you, as I suspected you would not
let me part from you so easily.«
    »But whar are ye gaun, then?« said Ailie, once more. »Saw e'er mortal een
the like o' you, just to come ae moment, and flee away like an arrow out of a bow
the neist?«
    »I must go down.« replied Morton, »to Niel Blane, the Piper's Howff; he can
give me a bed, I suppose?«
    »A bed? - I'se warrant can he,« replied Ailie, »and gaur ye pay well for't
into the bargain. Laddie, I daresay ye hae lost your wits in thae foreign parts,
to gang and give siller for a supper and a bed, and might hae baith for nothing,
and thanks t'ye for accepting them.«
    »I assure you, Ailie,« said Morton, desirous to silence her remonstrances,
»that this is a business of great importance, in which I may be a great gainer,
and cannot possibly be a loser.«
    »I dinna see how that can be, if you begin by gieing maybe the feck o' twal
shillings Scots for your supper; but young folks are aye venturesome, and think
to get siller that way. My puir auld master took a surer gate, and never parted
wi' it when he had anes gotten't.«
    Persevering in his desperate resolution, Morton took leave of Ailie, and
mounted his horse to proceed to the little town, after exacting a solemn promise
that she would conceal his return until she again saw or heard from him.
    »I am not very extravagant,« was his natural reflection, as he trotted
slowly towards the town; - »but were Ailie and I to set up house together, as
she proposes, I think my profusion would break the good old creature's heart
before a week were out.«
 

                                Chapter Fortieth

 --- Where's the jolly host
 You told me of? 'T has been my custom ever
 To parley with mine host.
                                                               Lover's Progress.
 
Morton reached the borough town without meeting with any remarkable adventure,
and alighted at the little inn. It had occurred to him more than once, while
upon his journey, that his resumption of the dress which he had worn while a
youth, although favourable to his views in other respects, might render it more
difficult for him to remain incognito. But a few years of campaigns and
wanderings had so changed his appearance that he had great confidence that in
the grown man, whose brows exhibited the traces of resolution and considerate
thought, none would recognise the raw and bashful stripling who won the game of
the popinjay. The only chance was that here and there some whig, whom he had led
to battle, might remember the Captain of the Milnwood Marksmen; but the risk, if
there was any, could not be guarded against.
    The Howff seemed full and frequented as if possessed of all its old
celebrity. The person and demeanour of Niel Blane, more fat and less civil than
of yore, intimated that he had increased as well in purse as in corpulence; for
in Scotland, a landlord's complaisance for his guests decreases in exact
proportion to his rise in the world. His daughter had acquired the air of a
dexterous bar-maid, undisturbed by the circumstances of love and war, so apt to
perplex her in the exercise of her vocation. Both showed Morton the degree of
attention which could have been expected by a stranger travelling without
attendants, at a time when they were particularly the badges of distinction. He
took upon himself exactly the character his appearance presented, - went to the
stable and saw his horse accommodated, - then returned to the house, and seating
himself in the public room (for to request one to himself, would, in those days,
have been thought an overweening degree of conceit), he found himself in the
very apartment in which he had some years before celebrated his victory at the
game of the popinjay, a jocular preferment which led to so many serious
consequences.
    He felt himself, as may well be supposed, a much-changed man since that
festivity; and yet, to look around him, the groups assembled in the Howff seemed
not dissimilar to those which the same scene had formerly presented. Two or
three burghers husbanded their »dribbles o' brandy;« two or three dragoons
lounged over their muddy ale, and cursed the inactive times that allowed them no
better cheer. Their cornet did not, indeed, play at backgammon with the curate
in his cassock, but he drank a little modicum of aqua mirabilis with the
grey-cloaked Presbyterian minister. The scene was another, and yet the same,
differing only in persons, but corresponding in general character.
    »Let the tide of the world wax or wane as it will,« Morton thought, as he
looked around him, »enough will be found to fill the places which chance renders
vacant; and, in the usual occupations and amusements of life, human beings will
succeed each other as leaves upon the same tree, with the same individual
difference and the same general resemblance.«
    After pausing a few minutes, Morton, whose experience had taught him the
readiest mode of securing attention, ordered a pint of claret, and, as the
smiling landlord appeared with the pewter measure foaming fresh from the tap
(for bottling wine was not then in fashion), he asked him to sit down and take a
share of the good cheer. This invitation was peculiarly acceptable to Niel
Blane, who, if he did not positively expect it from every guest not provided
with better company, yet received it from many, and was not a whit abashed or
surprised at the summons. He sat down along with his guest in a secluded nook
near the chimney; and while he received encouragement to drink by far the
greater share of the liquor before them, he entered at length, as a part of his
expected functions, upon the news of the country, - the births, deaths, and
marriages - the change of property - the downfall of old families, and the rise
of new. But politics, now the fertile source of eloquence, mine host did not
care to mingle in his theme; and it was only in answer to a question of Morton,
that he replied with an air of indifference, »Um! ay! we aye hae sodgers amang
us, mair or less. There's a wheen German horse down at Glasgow yonder; they ca'
their commander Wittybody, or some sic name, though he's as grave and grewsome
an auld Dutchman as e'er I saw.«
    »Wittenbold, perhaps?« said Morton; »an old man, with grey hair and short
black moustaches - speaks seldom?«
    »And smokes for ever,« replied Niel Blane. »I see your honour kens the man.
He may be a very good man, too, for aucht I see, that is, considering he is a
sodger and a Dutchman; but if he were ten generals, and as mony Wittybodies, he
has nae skill in the pipes; he gar'd me stop in the middle of Torphichen's Rant,
the best piece o' music that ever bag gave wind to.«
    »But these fellows,« said Morton, glancing his eye towards the soldiers that
were in the apartment, »are not of his corps?«
    »Na, na, these are Scotch dragoons,« said mine host - »our ain auld
caterpillars; these were Claver'se's lads a while syne, and wad be again, maybe,
if he had the lang ten in his hand.«
    »Is there not a report of his death?« inquired Morton.
    »Troth is there,« said the landlord; »your honour is right - there is sic a
fleeing rumour; but, in my puir opinion, it's lang or the deil die. I wad hae
the folks here look to them-sells. If he makes an outbreak, he'll be doun frae
the Hielands or I could drink this glass - and whare are they then? A' thae
hellrakers o' dragoons wad be at his whistle in a moment. Nae doubt they're
Willie's men e'en now, as they were James's a while syne: and reason good - they
fight for their pay; what else hae they to fight for? They hae neither lands nor
houses, I trow. There's ae good thing o' the change, or the Revolution, as they
ca' it, - folks may speak out afore thae birkies now, and nae fear o' being
hauled away to the guard-house, or having the thumikins screwed on your
finger-ends, just as I wad drive the screw through a cork.«
    There was a little pause, when Morton, feeling confident in the progress he
had made in mine host's familiarity, asked, though with the hesitation proper to
one who puts a question on the answer to which rests something of importance, -
»Whether Blane knew a woman in that neighbourhood called Elizabeth Maclure?«
    »Whether I ken Bessie Maclure?« answered the landlord, with a landlord's
laugh - »How can I but ken my ain wife's - (haly be her rest!) - my ain wife's
first gudeman's sister, Bessie Maclure? An honest wife she is, but sair she's
been trysted wi' misfortunes - the loss o' twa decent lads o' sons, in the time
o' the persecution, as they ca' it now-a-days; and doucely and decently she has
borne her burden, blaming nane, and condemning nane. If there's an honest woman
in the world, it's Bessie Maclure. And to lose her twa sons, as I was saying,
and to hae dragoons clinked down on her for a month bypast - for, be whig or
tory uppermost, they aye quarter thae loons on victuallers - to lose, as I was
saying« --
    »This woman keeps an inn, then?« interrupted Morton.
    »A public, in a puir way,« replied Blane, looking round at his own superior
accommodations - »a sour browst o' sma' ale that she sells to folk that are ower
drouthy wi' travel to be nice; but nothing to ca' a stirring trade or a
thriving change-house.«
    »Can yon get me a guide there?« said Morton.
    »Your honour will rest here a' the night? - ye'll hardly get accommodation
at Bessie's,« said Niel, whose regard for his deceased wife's relative by no
means extended to sending company from his own house to hers.
    »There is a friend,« answered Morton, »whom I am to meet with there, and I
only called here to take a stirrup-cup and inquire the way.«
    »Your honour had better,« answered the landlord, with the perseverance of
his calling, »send some ane to warn your friend to come on here.«
    »I tell you, landlord,« answered Morton, impatiently, »that will not serve
my purpose; I must go straight to this woman Maclure's house, and I desire you
to find me a guide.«
    »Aweel, sir, ye'll choose for yoursell, to be sure,« said Niel Blane,
somewhat disconcerted; »but deil a guide ye'll need, if ye gave doun the water
for twa mile or sae, as gin ye were bound for Milnwood House, and then take the
first broken disjasked-looking road that makes for the hills - ye'll ken't by a
broken ash-tree that stands at the side o' a burn just where the road meets; and
then travel out the path - ye canna miss Widow Maclure's public, for deil
another house or hauld is on the road for ten lang Scots miles, and that's worth
twenty English. I am sorry your honour would think o' gaun out o' my house the
night. But my wife's good-sister is a decent woman, and it's no lost that a
friend gets.«
    Morton accordingly paid his reckoning and departed. The sunset of the summer
day placed him at the ash-tree, where the path led up towards the moors.
    »Here,« he said to himself, »my misfortunes commenced; for just here, when
Burley and I were about to separate on the first night we ever met, he was
alarmed by the intelligence, that the passes were secured by soldiers lying in
wait for him. Beneath that very ash sate the old woman who apprised him of his
danger. How strange that my whole fortunes should have become inseparably
interwoven with that man's, without anything more on my part than the discharge
of an ordinary duty of humanity! Would to heaven it were possible I could find
my humble quiet and tranquillity of mind upon the spot where I lost them!«
    Thus arranging his reflections betwixt speech and thought, he turned his
horse's head up the path.
    Evening lowered around him as he advanced up the narrow dell which had once
been a wood, but was now a ravine divested of trees, unless where a few, from
their inaccessible situation on the edge of precipitous banks, or clinging among
rocks and huge stones, defied the invasion of men and of cattle, like the
scattered tribes of a conquered country, driven to take refuge in the barren
strength of its mountains. These, too, wasted and decayed, seemed rather to
exist than to flourish, and only served to indicate what the landscape had once
been. But the stream brawled down among them in all its freshness and vivacity,
giving the life and animation which a mountain rivulet alone can confer on the
barest and most savage scenes, and which the inhabitants of such a country miss
when gazing even upon the tranquil winding of a majestic stream through plains
of fertility, and beside palaces of splendour. The track of the road followed
the course of the brook, which was now visible, and now only to be distinguished
by its brawling heard among the stones, or in the clefts of the rock, that
occasionally interrupted its course.
    »Murmurer that thou art,« said Morton, in the enthusiasm of his reverie, -
»why chafe with the rocks that stop thy course for a moment? There is a sea to
receive thee in its bosom; and there is an eternity for man when his fretful and
hasty course through the vale of time shall be ceased and over. What thy petty
fuming is to the deep and vast billows of a shoreless ocean, are our cares,
hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows, to the objects which must occupy us through the
awful and boundless succession of ages!«
    Thus moralising, our traveller passed on till the dell opened, and the
banks, receding from the brook, left a little green vale, exhibiting a croft, or
small field, on which some corn was growing, and a cottage, whose walls were not
above five feet high, and whose thatched roof, green with moisture, age,
house-leek, and grass, had in some places suffered damage from the encroachment
of two cows, whose appetite this appearance of verdure had diverted from their
more legitimate pasture. An ill-spelt and worse-written inscription intimated to
the traveller that he might here find refreshment for man and horse; - no
unacceptable intimation, rude as the hut appeared to be, considering the wild
path he had trode in approaching it, and the high and waste mountains which rose
in desolate dignity behind this humble asylum.
    »It must indeed have been,« thought Morton, »in some such spot as this, that
Burley was likely to find a congenial confidant.«
    As he approached, he observed the good dame of the house herself, seated by
the door; she had hitherto been concealed from him by a huge alder-bush.
    »Good evening, mother,« said the traveller. - »Your name is Mistress
Maclure?«
    »Elizabeth Maclure, sir, a poor widow,« was the reply.
    »Can you lodge a stranger for a night?«
    »I can, sir, if he will be pleased with the widow's cake and the widow's
cruize.«
    »I have been a soldier, good dame,« answered Morton, »and nothing can come
amiss to me in the way of entertainment.«
    »A sodger, sir?« said the old woman, with a sigh. »God send ye a better
trade!«
    »It is believed to be an honourable profession, my good dame. I hope you do
not think the worse of me for having belonged to it?«
    »I judge no one, sir,« replied the woman, »and your voice sounds like that
of a civil gentleman; but I hae witnessed sae muckle ill wi' sodgering in this
puir land, that I am e'en content that I can see nae mair o't wi' these
sightless organs.«
    As she spoke thus, Morton observed that she was blind.
    »Shall I not be troublesome to you, my good dame?« said he, compassionately;
»your infirmity seems ill calculated for your profession.«
    »Na, sir,« answered the old woman; »I can gang about the house readily
enough; and I hae a bit lassie to help me, and the dragoon lads will look after
your horse when they come hame frae their patrol, for a sma' matter; they are
civiller now than lang syne.«
    Upon these assurances, Morton alighted.
    »Peggy, my bonny bird,« continued the hostess, addressing a little girl of
twelve years old, who had by this time appeared, »take the gentleman's horse to
the stable, and slack his girths, and take aff the bridle, and shake down a lock
o' hay before him, till the dragoons come back. - Come this way, sir,« she
continued; »ye'll find my house clean, though it's a puir ane.«
    Morton followed her into the cottage accordingly.
 

                              Chapter Forty-First

 Then out and spoke the auld mother,
 And fast her tears did fa' -
 »Ye wadna be warned, my son Johnie,
 Frae the hunting to bide away!«
                                                                     Old ballad.
 
When he entered the cottage, Morton perceived that the old hostess had spoken
truth. The inside of the hut belied its outward appearance, and was neat, and
even comfortable, especially the inner apartment, in which the hostess informed
her guest that he was to sup and sleep. Refreshments were placed before him,
such as the little inn afforded; and, though he had small occasion for them, he
accepted the offer, as the means of maintaining some discourse with the
landlady. Notwithstanding her blindness, she was assiduous in her attendance,
and seemed, by a sort of instinct, to find her way to what she wanted.
    »Have you no one but this pretty little girl to assist you in waiting on
your guests?« was the natural question.
    »None, sir,« replied his old hostess; »I dwell alone, like the widow of
Zarephath. Few guests come to this puir place; and I haena custom enough to hire
servants. I had anes twa fine sons that lookit after a' thing - But God gives
and takes away - His name be praised!« she continued, turning her clouded eyes
towards Heaven - »I was anes better off, that is, warldly speaking, even since I
lost them; but that was before this last change.«
    »Indeed!« said Morton; »and yet you are a Presbyterian, my good mother?«
    »I am, sir - praised be the light that showed me the right way!« replied the
landlady.
    »Then, I should have thought,« continued the guest, »the Revolution would
have brought you nothing but good.«
    »If,« said the old woman, »it has brought the land good, and freedom of
worship to tender consciences, it's little matter what it has brought to a puir
blind worm like me.«
    »Still,« replied Morton, »I cannot see how it could possibly injure you.«
    »It's a lang story, sir,« answered his hostess, with a sigh »But ae night,
sax weeks or thereby afore Bothwell Brigg, a young gentleman stopped at this
puir cottage, stiff and bloody with wounds, pale and dune out wi' riding, and
his horse sae weary he couldn't have drag ae foot after the other, and his foes were
close ahint him, and he was ane o' our enemies - What could I do, sir? - You
that's a sodger will think me but a silly auld wife - but I fed him, and
relieved him, and keep it him hidden till the pursuit was ower.«
    »And who,« said Morton, »dares disapprove of your having done so?«
    »I kenna,« answered the blind woman - »I gat ill-will about it amang some o'
our ain folk. They said I should hae been to him what Jael was to Sisera - But
well I wot I had nae divine command to shed blood, and to save it was baith like
a woman and a Christian. And then they said I wanted natural affection, to
relieve ane that belanged to the band that murdered my twa sons.«
    »That murdered your two sons?«
    »Ay, sir; though maybe ye'll give their deaths another name - The tane fell
wi' sword in hand, fighting for a broken national Covenant; the tother, - Oh,
they took him and shot him dead on the green before his mother's face! - My auld
een dazzled when the shots were looten off, and, to my thought, they waxed
weaker and weaker ever since that weary day - and sorrow, and heart-break, and
tears that would not be dried, might help on the disorder. But, alas! betraying
Lord Evandale's young blood to his enemies' sword wad ne'er hae brought my
Niniau and Johnie alive again.«
    »Lord Evandale!« said Morton, in surprise; »was it Lord Evandale whose life
you saved?«
    »In troth, even his,« she replied. »And kind he was to me after, and gave me
a cow and calf, malt, meal, and siller, and nane durst steer me when he was in
power. But we live on an outside bit of Tillietudlem land, and the estate was
sair plea'd between Leddy Margaret Bellenden and the present Laird, Basil
Olifant, and Lord Evandale backed the auld leddy for love o' her daughter Miss
Edith, as the country said, ane o' the best and bonniest lasses in Scotland. But
they behuved to give way, and Basil gat the Castle and land, and on the back o'
that came the Revolution, and what to turn coat faster than the Laird? for he
said he had been a true whig a' the time, and turned papist only for fashion's
sake. And then he got favour, and Lord Evandale's head was under water; for he
was ower proud and manfu' to bend to every blast o' wind, though mony a ane may
ken as well as me, that be his ain principles as they might, he was nae ill
friend to our folk when he could protect us, and far kinder than Basil Olifant,
that aye keep it the cobble head doun the stream. But he was set by and ill
looked on, and his word ne'er asked; and then Basil, what's a revengefu' man, set
himself to vex him in a' shapes, and especially by oppressing and despoiling the
auld blind widow, Bessie Maclure, that saved Lord Evandale's life, and that he
was sae kind to. But he's mistaen, if that's his end; for it will be lang or
Lord Evandale hears a word frae me about the selling my kye for rent or e'er it
was due, or the putting the dragoons on me when the country's quiet, or anything
else that will vex him - I can bear my ain burden patiently, and warld's loss is
the least part o't.«
    Astonished and interested at this picture of patient, grateful, and
high-minded resignation, Morton could not help bestowing an execration upon the
poor-spirited rascal who had taken such a dastardly course of vengeance.
    »Dinna curse him, sir,« said the old woman; »I have heard a good man say,
that a curse was like a stone flung up to the heavens, and maist like to return
on the head that sent it. But if ye ken Lord Evandale, bid him look to himself,
for I hear strange words pass atween the sodgers that are lying here, and his
name is often mentioned; and the tane o' them has been twice up at Tillietudlem.
He's a kind o' favourite wi' the Laird, though he was in former times ane o' the
maist cruel oppressors ever rade through a country (out-taken Sergeant Bothwell)
- they ca' him Inglis.«48
    »I have the deepest interest in Lord Evandale's safety,« said Morton; »and
you may depend on my finding some mode to apprise him of these suspicious
circumstances; - and, in return, my good friend, will you indulge me with
another question? Do you know anything of Quintin Mackell of Irongray?«
    »Do I know whom?« echoed the blind woman, in a tone of great surprise and
alarm.
    »Quintin Mackell of Irongray,« repeated Morton, - »is there anything so
alarming in the sound of that name?« »Na, na,« answered the woman, with
hesitation, »but to hear him asked after by a stranger and a sodger - Gude
protect us! what mischief is to come next?«
    »None by my means, I assure you,« said Morton; »the subject of my inquiry
has nothing to fear from me, if, as I suppose, this Quintin Mackell is the same
with John Bal« -
    »Do not mention his name,« said the widow, pressing his lips with her
fingers. »I see you have his secret and his password, and I'll be free wi' you.
But, for God's sake, speak lound and low. In the name of Heaven, I trust ye seek
him not to his hurt! - Ye said ye were a sodger?«
    »I said truly; but one he has nothing to fear from. I commanded a party at
Bothwell Bridge.«
    »Indeed!« said the woman. »And verily there is something in your voice I can
trust. Ye speak prompt and readily, and like an honest man.«
    »I trust I am so,« said Morton.
    »But nae displeasure to you, sir; in thae waefu' times,« continued Mrs.
Maclure, »the hand of brother is against brother, and he fears as mickle almaist
frae this Government as e'er he did frae the auld persecutors.«
    »Indeed?« said Morton, in a tone of inquiry; »I was not aware of that. But I
am only just now returned from abroad.«
    »I'll tell ye,« said the blind woman, first assuming an attitude of
listening, that showed how effectually her powers of collecting intelligence had
been transferred from the eye to the ear; for instead of casting a glance of
circumspection around, she stooped her face, and turned her head slowly around,
in such a manner as to ensure that there was not the slightest sound stirring in
the neighbourhood, and then continued - »I'll tell ye. Ye ken how he has
laboured to raise up again the Covenant, burned, broken, and buried in the hard
hearts and selfish devices of this stubborn people. Now, when he went to
Holland, far from the countenance and thanks of the great, and the comfortable
fellowship of the godly, both whilk he was in right to expect, the Prince of
Orange wad show him no favour, and the ministers no godly communion. This was
hard to bide for ane that had suffered and done mickle - ower mickle, it may be
- but why should I be a judge? He came back to me and to the auld place o' refuge
that had often received him in his distresses, mair especially before the great
day of victory at Drumclog, for I sall ne'er forget how he was bending hither of
a' nights in the year on that evening after the play when young Milnwood wan the
popinjay; but I warned him off for that time.«
    »What!« exclaimed Morton, »it was you that sat in your red-cloak by the
high-road, and told him there was a lion in the path?«
    »In the name of Heaven! what are ye?« said the old woman, breaking off her
narrative in astonishment. »But be ye vha ye may,« she continued, resuming it
with tranquillity, »ye can ken nothing waur o' me than that I hae been willing
to save the life o' friend and foe.«
    »I know no ill of you, Mrs. Maclure, and I mean no ill by you - I only
wished to show you that I know so much of this person's affairs, that I might be
safely entrusted with the rest. Proceed, if you please, in your narrative.«
    »There is a strange command in your voice,« said the blind woman; »though
its tones are sweet. I have little mair to say. The Stuarts hae been dethroned,
and William and Mary reign in their stead, - but nae mair word of the Covenant
than if it were a dead letter. They hae taken the indulged clergy, and an
Erastian General Assembly of the ance pure and triumphant Kirk of Scotland, even
into their very arms and bosoms. Our faithfu' champions o' the testimony agree
e'en waur wi' this than wi' the open tyranny and apostasy of the persecuting
times; for souls are hardened and deadened, and the mouths of fasting multitudes
are crammed wi' fizzenless bran instead of the sweet word in season; and mony a
hungry, starving creature, when he sits down on a Sunday forenoon to get
something that might warm him to the great work, has a dry clatter o' morality
driven about his lugs, and« -
    »In short,« said Morton, desirous to stop a discussion which the good old
woman, as enthusiastically attached to her religious profession as to the duties
of humanity, might probably have indulged longer - »In short, you are not
disposed to acquiesce in this new government, and Burley is of the same
opinion?«
    »Many of our brethren, sir, are of belief we fought for the Covenant, and
fasted, and prayed, and suffered for that grand national league, and now we are
like neither to see nor hear tell of that which we suffered, and fought, and
fasted, and prayed for. And ance it was thought something might be made by
bringing back the auld family on a new bargain and a new bottom, as after a',
when King James went away, I understand the great quarrel of the English against
him was in behalf of seven unhallowed prelates; and sae, though ae part of our
people were free to join wi' the present model, and levied an armed regiment
under the Yerl of Angus; yet our honest friend, and others that stude up for
purity of doctrine and freedom of conscience, were determined to hear the breath
o' the Jacobites before they took part again them, fearing to fa' to the ground
like a wall built with unslaked mortar, or from sitting between twa stools.«
    »They chose an odd quarter,« said Morton, »from which to expect freedom of
conscience and purity of doctrine.«
    »O, dear, sir!« said the landlady, »the natural day-spring rises in the
east, but the spiritual day-spring may rise in the north, for what we blinded
mortals ken.«
    »And Burley went to the north to seek it?« replied the guest.
    »Truly, aye, sir; and he saw Claver'se himself, that they ca Dundee now.«
    »What!« exclaimed Morton, in amazement; »I would have sworn that meeting
would have been the last of one of their lives.«
    »Na, na, sir; - in troubled times, as I understand,« said Mrs. Maclure,
»there's sudden changes - Montgomery, and Ferguson, and mony ane mair that were
King James's greatest faes, are on his side now. Claver'se spoke our friend
fair, and sent him to consult with Lord Evandale. But then there was a
break-off, for Lord Evandale wadna look at, hear, or speak wi' him; and now he's
ance wud and aye waur, and roars for revenge again Lord Evandale, and will hear
nought of anything but burn and slay - and oh, thae starts o' passion! - they
unsettle his mind, and give the enemy sair advantages.«
    »The enemy!« said Morton - »What enemy?«
    »What enemy? Are ye acquainted familiarly wi' John Balfour o' Burley, and
dinna ken that he has had sair and frequent combats to sustain against the Evil
One? Did ye ever see him alone but the Bible was in his hand, and the drawn
sword on his knee? did ye never sleep in the same room wi' him, and hear him
strive in his dreams with the delusions of Satan? O, ye ken little o' him, if ye
have seen him only in fair daylight, for nae man can put the face upon his
doleful visits and strifes that he can do. I hae seen him, after sic a strife of
agony, tremble, that an infant might hae held him, while the hair on his brow
was drapping as fast as ever my puir thatched roof did in a heavy rain.«
    As she spoke, Morton began to recollect the appearance of Burley during his
sleep in the hay-loft at Milnwood, the report of Cuddie that his senses had
become impaired, and some whispers current among the Cameronians, who boasted
frequently of Burley's soul-exercises, and his strifes with the foul fiend;
which several circumstances led him to conclude that this man himself was a
victim to those delusions, though his mind, naturally acute and forcible, not
only disguised his superstition from those in whose opinion it might have
discredited his judgment, but by exerting such a force as is said to be proper
to those afflicted with epilepsy, could postpone the fits which it occasioned
until he was either freed from superintendence, or surrounded by such as held
him more highly on account of these visitations. It was natural to suppose, and
could easily be inferred from the narrative of Mrs. Maclure, that disappointed
ambition, wrecked hopes, and the downfall of the party which he had served with
such desperate fidelity, were likely to aggravate enthusiasm into temporary
insanity. It was, indeed, no uncommon circumstance in those singular times, that
men like Sir Harry Vane, Harrison, Overton, and others, themselves slaves to the
wildest and most enthusiastic dreams, could, when mingling with the world,
conduct themselves not only with good sense in difficulties, and courage in
dangers, but with the most acute sagacity and determined valour. The subsequent
part of Mrs. Maclure's information confirmed Morton in these impressions.
    »In the grey of the morning,« she said, »my little Peggy sall show ye the
gate to him before the sodgers are up. But ye maun let his hour of danger, as he
ca's it, be ower, afore ye venture on him in his place of refuge. Peggy will
tell ye when to venture in. She kens his ways well, for whiles she carries him
some little helps that he canna do without to sustain life.«
    »And in what retreat, then,« said Morton, »has this unfortunate person found
refuge?«
    »An awsome place,« answered the blind woman, »as ever living creature took
refuge in. They ca' it the Black Linn of Linklater; it's a doleful place, but he
loves it abune a' others, because he has sae often been in safe hiding there;
and it's my belief he prefers it to a tapestried chamber and a down bed. But
ye'll see't. I hae seen it mysell mony a day syne. I was a daft hempie lassie
then, and little thought what was to come o't. Wad ye choose ony thing, sir, ere
ye betake yoursell to your rest, for ye maun stir wi' the first dawn o' the grey
light?«
    »Nothing more, my good mother,« said Morton; and they parted for the
evening.
    Morton recommended himself to Heaven, threw himself on the bed, heard,
between sleeping and waking, the trampling of the dragoon horses at the riders'
return from their patrol, and then slept soundly after such painful agitation.
 

                              Chapter Forty-Second

 The darksome cave they enter, where they found
 The accursed man, low sitting on the ground,
 Musing full sadly in his sullen mind.
                                                                        Spenser.
 
As the morning began to appear on the mountains, a gentle knock was heard at the
door of the humble apartment in which Morton slept, and a girlish treble voice
asked him from without, »If he wad please gang to the Linn or the folk raise?«
    He rose upon the invitation, and, dressing himself hastily, went forth and
joined his little guide. The mountain maid tript lightly before him, through the
grey haze, over hill and moor. It was a wild and varied walk, unmarked by any
regular or distinguishable track, and keeping, upon the whole, the direction of
the ascent of the brook, though without tracing its windings. The landscape, as
they advanced, became waster and more wild, until nothing but heath and rock
encumbered the side of the valley.
    »Is the place still distant?« said Morton.
    »Nearly a mile off,« answered the girl. »We'll be there belive.«
    »And do you often go this wild journey, my little maid?«
    »When grannie sends me wi' milk and meal to the Linn,« answered the child.
    »And are you not afraid to travel so wild a road alone?«
    »Hout na, sir,« replied the guide; »nae living creature would touch sic a
bit thing as I am, and grannie says we need never fear anything else when we are
doing a good turn.«
    »Strong in innocence as in triple mail!« said Morton to himself, and
followed her steps in silence.
    They soon came to a decayed thicket, where brambles and thorns supplied the
room of the oak and birches of which it had once consisted. Here the guide
turned short off the open heath, and, by a sheep-track, conducted Morton to the
brook. A hoarse and sullen roar had in part prepared him for the scene which
presented itself, yet it was not to be viewed without surprise, and even terror.
When he emerged from the devious path which conducted him through the thicket,
he found himself placed on a ledge of flat rock, projecting over one side of a
chasm not less than a hundred feet deep, where the dark mountain-stream made a
decided and rapid shoot over the precipice, and was swallowed up by a deep,
black, yawning gulf. The eye in vain strove to see the bottom of the fall; it
could catch but one sheet of foaming uproar and sheer descent, until the view
was obstructed by the projecting crags which enclosed the bottom of the
waterfall, and hid from sight the dark pool which received its tortured waters.
Far beneath, at the distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile, the eye caught the
winding of the stream as it emerged into a more open course. But, for that
distance, they were lost to sight as much as if a cavern had been arched over
them; and indeed the steep and projecting ledges of rock through which they
wound their way in darkness, were very nearly closing and over-roofing their
course.
    While Morton gazed at this scene of tumult, which seemed, by the surrounding
thickets and the clefts into which the water descended, to seek to hide itself
from every eye, his little attendant, as she stood beside him on the platform of
rock which commanded the best view of the fall, pulled him by the sleeve, and
said, in a tone which he could not hear without stooping his ear near the
speaker, »Hear till him! Eh! hear till him!«
    Morton listened more attentively, and out of the very abyss into which the
brook fell, and amidst the tumultuary sounds of the cataract, thought he could
distinguish shouts, screams, and even articulate words, as if the tortured demon
of the stream had been mingling his complaints with the roar of his broken
waters.
    »This is the way,« said the little girl: »follow me, gin ye please, sir, but
take tent to your feet;« and, with the daring agility which custom had rendered
easy, she vanished from the platform on which she stood, and, by notches and
slight projections in the rock, scrambled down its face into the chasm which it
overhung. Steady, bold, and active, Morton hesitated not to follow her; but the
necessary attention to secure his hold and footing in a descent where both foot
and hand were needful for security, prevented him from looking around him, till,
having descended nigh twenty feet, and being sixty or seventy above the pool
which received the fall, his guide made a pause, and he again found himself by
her side in a situation that appeared equally romantic and precarious. They were
nearly opposite to the waterfall, and in point of level situated at about
one-quarter's depth from the point of the cliff over which it thundered, and
three-fourths of the height above the dark, deep, and restless pool which
received its fall. Both these tremendous points, - the first shoot, namely, of
the yet unbroken stream, and the deep and sombre abyss into which it was
emptied, - were full before him, as well as the whole continuous stream of
billowy froth, which, dashing from the one, was eddying and boiling in the
other. They were so near this grand phenomenon that they were covered with its
spray, and well-nigh deafened by the incessant roar. But crossing in the very
front of the fall, and at scarce three yards' distance from the cataract, an old
oak-tree, flung across the chasm in a manner that seemed accidental, formed a
bridge of fearfully narrow dimensions and uncertain footing. The upper end of
the tree rested on the platform on which they stood - the lower or uprooted
extremity extended behind a projection on the opposite side, and was secured,
Morton's eye could not discover where. From behind the same projection glimmered
a strong red light, which, glancing in the waves of the fallen water, and
tinging them partially with crimson, had a strange preternatural and sinister
effect when contrasted with the beams of the rising sun, which glanced on the
first broken waves of the fall, though even its meridian splendour could not
gain the third of its full depth. When he had looked around him for a moment,
the girl again pulled his sleeve, and pointing to the oak and the projecting
point beyond it (for hearing speech was now out of the question), indicated that
there lay his farther passage.
    Morton gazed at her with surprise; for although he well knew that the
persecuted Presbyterians had in the preceding reigns sought refuge among dells
and thickets, caves and cataracts - in spots the most extraordinary and secluded
- although he had heard of the champions of the Covenant, who had long abidden
beside Dob's Linn on the wild heights of Polmoodie, and others who had been
concealed in the yet more terrific cavern called Crichope Linn, in the parish of
Closeburn,49 - yet his imagination had never exactly figured out the horrors of
such a residence, and he was surprised how the strange and romantic scene which
he now saw had remained concealed from him, while a curious investigator of such
natural phenomena. But he readily conceived, that, lying in a remote and wild
district, and being destined as a place of concealment to the persecuted
preachers and professors of nonconformity, the secret of its existence was
carefully preserved by the few shepherds to whom it might be known.
    As, breaking from these meditations, he began to consider how he should
traverse the doubtful and terrific bridge, which, skirted by the cascade, and
rendered wet and slippery by its constant drizzle, traversed the chasm above
sixty feet from the bottom of the fall, his guide, as if to give him courage,
tript over and back without the least hesitation. Envying for a moment the
little bare feet which caught a safer hold of the rugged side of the oak than he
could pretend to with his heavy boots, Morton nevertheless resolved to attempt
the passage, and, fixing his eye firm on a stationary object on the other side,
without allowing his head to become giddy, or his attention to be distracted by
the flash, the foam, and the roar of the waters around him, he strode steadily
and safely along the uncertain bridge, and reached the mouth of a small cavern
on the farther side of the torrent. Here he paused; for a light, proceeding from
a fire of red-hot charcoal, permitted him to see the interior of the cave, and
enabled him to contemplate the appearance of its inhabitant, by whom he himself
could not be so readily distinguished, being concealed by the shadow of the
rock. What he observed would by no means have encouraged a less determined man
to proceed with the task which he had undertaken.
    Burley, only altered from what he had been formerly by the addition of a
grisly beard, stood in the midst of the cave, with his clasped Bible in one
hand, and his drawn sword in the other. His figure, dimly ruddied by the light
of the red charcoal, seemed that of a fiend in the lurid atmosphere of
Pandemonium, and his gestures and words, as far as they could be heard, seemed
equally violent and irregular. All alone, and in a place of almost
unapproachable seclusion, his demeanour was that of a man who strives for life
and death with a mortal enemy. »Ha! ha! - there - there!« he exclaimed,
accompanying each word with a thrust, urged with his whole force against the
impassable and empty air - »Did I not tell thee so? - I have resisted, and thou
fleest from me! - Coward as thou art - come in all thy terrors - come with mine
own evil deeds, which render thee most terrible of all - there is enough betwixt
the boards of this book to rescue me! - What mutterest thou of grey hairs! - It
was well done to slay him - the more ripe the corn, the readier for the sickle.
- Art gone? art gone? - I have ever known thee but a coward - ha! ha! ha!«
    With these wild exclamations he sunk the point of his sword, and remained
standing still in the same posture, like a maniac whose fit is over.
    »The dangerous time is by now,« said the little girl, who had followed; »it
seldom lasts beyond the time that the sun's ower the hill; ye may gang in and
speak wi' him now. I'll wait for you at the other side of the linn; he canna
bide to see twa folk at ance.«
    Slowly and cautiously, and keeping constantly upon his guard, Morton
presented himself to the view of his old associate in command.
    »What! comest thou again when thine hour is over?« was his first
exclamation; and flourishing his sword aloft, his countenance assumed an
expression in which ghastly terror seemed mingled with the rage of a demoniac.
    »I am come, Mr. Balfour,« said Morton, in a steady and composed tone, »to
renew an acquaintance which has been broken off since the fight of Bothwell
Bridge.«
    As soon as Burley became aware that Morton was before him in person - an
idea which he caught with marvellous celerity - he at once exerted that
mastership over his heated and enthusiastic imagination, the power of enforcing
which was a most striking part of his extraordinary character. He sunk his
sword-point at once, and as he stole it composedly into the scabbard, he
muttered something of the damp and cold which sent an old soldier to his fencing
exercise, to prevent his blood from chilling. This done, he proceeded in the
cold determined manner which was peculiar to his ordinary discourse.
    »Thou hast tarried long, Henry Morton, and hast not come to the vintage
before the twelfth hour has struck. Art thou yet willing to take the right hand
of fellowship, and be one with those who look not to thrones or dynasties, but
to the rule of Scripture, for their directions?«
    »I am surprised,« said Morton, evading the direct answer to his question,
»that you should have known me after so many years.«
    »The features of those who ought to act with me are engraved on my heart,«
answered Burley; »and few but Silas Morton's son durst have followed me into
this my castle of retreat. Seest thou that drawbridge of nature's own
construction?« he added, pointing to the prostrate oak-tree - »one spurn of my
foot, and it is overwhelmed in the abyss below, bidding foeman on the farther
side stand at defiance, and leaving enemies on this, at the mercy of one who
never yet met his equal in single fight.«
    »Of such defences,« said Morton, »I should have thought you would now have
had little need.«
    »Little need?« said Burley impatiently - »What little need, when incarnate
fiends are combined against me on earth, and Sathan himself - But it matters
not,« added he, checking himself - »enough that I like my place of refuge - my
cave of Adullam, and would not change its rude ribs of limestone rock for the
fair chambers of the castle of the Earls of Torwood, with their broad bounds and
barony. Thou, unless the foolish fever-fit be over, mayst think differently.«
    »It was of those very possessions I came to speak,« said Morton; »and I
doubt not to find Mr. Balfour the same rational and reflecting person which I
knew him to be in times when zeal disunited brethren.«
    »Ay?« said Burley - »indeed? - Is such truly your hope? - wilt thou express
it more plainly?«
    »In a word, then,« said Morton, »you have exercised, by means at which I can
guess, a secret but most prejudicial influence over the fortunes of Lady
Margaret Bellenden and her grand-daughter, and in favour of that base,
oppressive apostate, Basil Olifant, whom the law, deceived by thy operations,
has placed in possession of their lawful property.«
    »Sayest thou?« said Balfour.
    »I do say so,« replied Morton; »and face to face you will not deny what you
have vouched by your handwriting.«
    »And suppose I deny it not?« said Balfour, - »and suppose that thy eloquence
were found equal to persuade me to retrace the steps I have taken on matured
resolve, what will be thy meed? Dost thou still hope to possess the fair-haired
girl, with her wide and rich inheritance?«
    »I have no such hope,« answered Morton calmly.
    »And for whom, then, hast thou ventured to do this great thing, to seek to
rend the prey from the valiant, to bring forth food from the den of the lion,
and to extract sweetness from the maw of the devourer? - For whose sake hast
thou undertaken to read this riddle, more hard than Samson's?«
    »For Lord Evandale's and that of his bride,« replied Morton, firmly. »Think
better of mankind, Mr. Balfour, and believe there are some who are willing to
sacrifice their happiness to that of others.«
    »Then, as my soul liveth,« replied Balfour, »thou art, to wear beard, and
back a horse, and draw a sword, the tamest and most gall-less puppet that ever
sustained injury unavenged. What! thou wouldst help that accursed Evandale to
the arms of the woman that thou lovest? - thou wouldst endow them with wealth
and with heritages, and thou thinkst that there lives another man, offended even
more deeply than thou, yet equally cold-livered and mean-spirited, crawling upon
the face of the earth, and hast dared to suppose that one other to be John
Balfour?«
    »For my own feelings,« said Morton, composedly, »I am answerable to none but
Heaven - To you, Mr. Balfour, I should suppose it of little consequence whether
Basil Olifant or Lord Evandale possess these estates.«
    »Thou art deceived,« said Burley. »Both are indeed in outer darkness, and
strangers to the light, as he whose eyes have never been opened to the day; -
but this Basil Olifant ia a Nabal - a Demas - a base churl, whose wealth and
power are at the disposal of him who can threaten to deprive him of them. He
became a professor because he was deprived of these lands of Tillietudlem - he
turned a papist to obtain possession of them - he called himself an Erastian,
that he might not again lose them, and he will become what I list while I have
in my power the document that may deprive him of them. These lands are a bit
between his jaws and a hook in his nostrils, and the rein and the line are in my
hands to guide them as I think meet; and his they shall therefore be, unless I
had assurance of bestowing them on a sure and sincere friend. But Lord Evandale
is a malignant, of heart like flint, and brow like adamant; the goods of the
world fall on him like leaves on the frost-bound earth, and unmoved he will see
them whirled off by the first wind. The heathen virtues of such as he are more
dangerous to us than the sordid cupidity of those who, governed by their
interest, must follow where it leads, and who, therefore, themselves the slaves
of avarice, may be compelled to work in the vineyard, were it but to earn the
wages of sin.«
    »This might have been all well some years since,« replied Morton; »and I
could understand your argument, although I could never acquiesce in its justice.
But at this crisis it seems useless to you to persevere in keeping up an
influence which can no longer be directed to an useful purpose. The land has
peace, liberty, and freedom of conscience - and what would you more?«
    »More!« exclaimed Burley, again unsheathing his sword, with a vivacity which
nearly made Morton start. »Look at the notches upon that weapon; they are three
in number, are they not?«
    »It seems so,« answered Morton; »but what of that?«
    »The fragment of steel that parted from this first gap, rested on the skull
of the perjured traitor who first introduced Episcopacy into Scotland; - this
second notch was made in the rib-bone of an impious villain, the boldest and
best soldier that upheld the prelatic cause at Drumclog; - this third was broken
on the steel head-piece of the captain who defended the Chapel of Holy-rood when
the people rose at the Revolution - I cleft him to the teeth through steel and
bone. It has done great deeds this little weapon, and each of these blows was a
deliverance to the church. This sword,« he said, again sheathing it, »has yet
more to do - to weed out this base and pestilential heresy of Erastianism - to
vindicate the true liberty of the Kirk in her purity - to restore the Covenant
in its glory, - then let it moulder and rust beside the bones of its master.«50
    »You have neither men nor means, Mr. Balfour, to disturb the Government as
now settled,« argued Morton; »the people are in general satisfied, excepting
only the gentlemen of the Jacobite interest; and surely you would not join with
those who would only use you for their own purposes?«
    »It is they,« answered Burley, »that should serve ours. I went to the camp
of the malignant Claver'se, as the future King of Israel sought the land of the
Philistines; I arranged with him a rising, and, but for the villain Evandale,
the Erastians ere now had been driven from the west - I could slay him,« he
added with a vindictive scowl, »were he grasping the horns of the altar!« He
then proceeded in a calmer tone: »If thou, son of mine ancient comrade, wert
suitor for thyself to this Edith Bellenden, and wert willing to put thy hand to
the great work with zeal equal to thy courage, think not I would prefer the
friendship of Basil Olifant to thine; thou shouldest then have the means that
this document« (he produced a parchment) »affords, to place her in possession of
the lands of her fathers. This have I longed to say to thee ever since I saw
thee fight the good fight so strongly at the fatal bridge. The maiden loved
thee, and thou her.«
    Morton replied firmly - »I will not dissemble with you, Mr. Balfour, even to
gain a good end. I came in hopes to persuade you to do a deed of justice to
others, not to gain any selfish end of my own. I have failed - I grieve for your
sake, more than for the loss which others will sustain by your injustice.«
    »You refuse my proffer, then?« said Burley, with kindling eyes.
    »I do,« said Morton. »Would you be really, as you are desirous to be
thought, a man of honour and conscience, you would, regardless of all other
considerations, restore that parchment to Lord Evandale, to be used for the
advantage of the lawful heir.« »Sooner shall it perish!« said Balfour; and
casting the deed into the heap of red charcoal beside him, pressed it down with
the heel of his boot.
    While it smoked, shrivelled, and crackled in the flames, Morton sprung
forward to snatch it, and Burley catching hold of him, a struggle ensued. Both
were strong men, but although Morton was much the more active and younger of the
two, yet Balfour was the most powerful, and effectually prevented him from
rescuing the deed until it was fairly reduced to a cinder. They then quitted
hold of each other, and the enthusiast, rendered fiercer by the contest, glared
on Morton with an eye expressive of frantic revenge.
    »Thou hast my secret,« he exclaimed; »thou must be mine, or die!«
    »I contemn your threats,« said Morton; »I pity you, and leave you.«
    But, as he turned to retire, Burley stepped before him, pushed the oak-trunk
from its resting-place, and as it fell thundering and crashing into the abyss
beneath, drew his sword, and cried out, with a voice that rivalled the roar of
the cataract and the thunder of the falling oak, - »Now thou art at bay! - fight
- yield, or die!« and standing in the mouth of the cavern, he flourished his
naked sword.
    »I will not fight with the man that preserved my father's life,« said
Morton; - »I have not yet learned to say the words, I yield; and my life I will
rescue as I best can.«
    So speaking, and ere Balfour was aware of his purpose, he sprung past him,
and exerting that youthful agility of which he possessed an uncommon share,
leaped clear across the fearful chasm which divided the mouth of the cave from
the projecting rock on the opposite side, and stood there safe and free from his
incensed enemy. He immediately ascended the ravine, and, as he turned, saw
Burley stand for an instant aghast with astonishment, and then, with the frenzy
of disappointed rage, rush into the interior of his cavern.
    It was not difficult for him to perceive that this unhappy man's mind had
been so long agitated by desperate schemes and sudden disappointments, that it
had lost its equipoise, and that there was now in his conduct a shade of lunacy,
not the less striking, from the vigour and craft with which he pursued his wild
designs. Morton soon joined his guide, who had been terrified by the fall of the
oak. This he represented as accidental; and she assured him in return, that the
inhabitant of the cave would experience no inconvenience from it, being always
provided with materials to construct another bridge.
    The adventures of the morning were not yet ended. As they approached the
hut, the little girl made an exclamation of surprise at seeing her grandmother
groping her way towards them, at a greater distance from her home than she could
have been supposed capable of travelling.
    »O, sir, sir!« said the old woman, when she heard them approach, »gin e'er
ye loved Lord Evandale, help now, or never! - God be praised that left my
hearing when he took my poor eye-sight! - Come this way - this way; and O! tread
lightly. - Peggy, hinny, gang saddle the gentleman's horse, and lead him cannily
ahint the thorny shaw, and bide him there.«
    She conducted him to a small window, through which, himself unobserved, he
could see two dragoons seated at their morning draught of ale, and conversing
earnestly together.
    »The more I think of it,« said the one, »the less I like it, Inglis.
Evandale was a good officer, and the soldier's friend; and though we were
punished for the mutiny at Tillietudlem, yet, by -, Frank, you must own we
deserved it.«
    »D-n seize me, if I forgive him for it, though!« replied the other; »and I
think I can sit in his skirts now.«
    »Why, man, you should forget and forgive - Better take the start with him
along with the rest, and join the ranting Highlanders. We have all eat King
James's bread.«
    »Thou art an ass. The start, as you call it, will never happen; the day's
put off. Halliday's seen a ghost, or Miss Bellenden's fallen sick of the pip, or
some blasted nonsense or another; the thing will never keep two days longer, and
the first bird that sings out will get the reward.«
    »That's true, too,« answered his comrade; »and will this fellow - this Basil
Olifant, pay handsomely?«
    »Like a prince, man,« said Inglis. »Evandale is the man on earth whom he
hates worst; and he fears him, besides, about some law business, and were he
once rubbed out of the way, all, he thinks, will be his own.«
    »But shall we have warrants and force enough?« said the other fellow. »Few
people here will stir against my lord, and we may find him with some of our own
fellows at his back.«
    »Thou'rt a cowardly fool, Dick,« returned Inglis; »he is living quietly down
at Fairy-Knowe to avoid suspicion. Olifant is a magistrate, and will have some
of his own people that he can trust along with him. There are us two, and the
Laird says he can get a desperate fighting whig fellow called Quintin Mackell,
that has an old grudge at Evandale.«
    »Well, well, you are my officer, you know,« said the private, with true
military conscience, »and if anything is wrong« --
    »I'll take the blame,« said Inglis. »Come, another pot of ale, and let us to
Tillietudlem. - Here, blind Bess! why, where the devil has the old hag crept
to?«
    »Delay them as long as you can,« whispered Morton, as he thrust his purse
into the hostess's hand; »all depends on gaining time.«
    Then, walking swiftly to the place where the girl held his horse ready, »To
Fairy-Knowe? - no; alone I could not protect them. - I must instantly to
Glasgow. Wittenbold, the commandant there, will readily give me the support of a
troop, and procure me the countenance of the civil power. I must drop a caution
as I pass. - Come, Moorkopf,« he said, addressing his horse as he mounted him -
»this day must try your breath and speed.«
 

                              Chapter Forty-Third

 Yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw,
 Though less and less of Emily he saw;
 So, speechless for a little space he lay,
 Then grasped the hand he held, and sighed his soul away.
                                                             Palamon and Arcite.
 
The indisposition of Edith confined her to bed during the eventful day on which
she had received such an unexpected shock from the sudden apparition of Morton.
Next morning, however, she was reported to be so much better, that Lord Evandale
resumed his purpose of leaving Fairy-Knowe. At a late hour in the forenoon, Lady
Emily entered the apartment of Edith with a peculiar gravity of manner. Having
received and paid the compliments of the day, she observed it would be a sad one
for her, though it would relieve Miss Bellenden of an encumbrance - »My brother
leaves us to-day, Miss Bellenden.«
    »Leaves us!« exclaimed Edith in surprise; »for his own house, I trust?«
    »I have reason to think he meditates a more distant journey,« answered Lady
Emily; »he has little to detain him in this country.«
    »Good Heaven!« exclaimed Edith, »why was I born to become the wreck of all
that is manly and noble? What can be done to stop him from running headlong on
ruin? I will come down instantly - Say that I implore he will not depart until I
speak with him.«
    »It will be in vain, Miss Bellenden; but I will execute your commission;«
and she left the room as formally as she had entered it, and informed her
brother, Miss Bellenden was so much recovered as to propose coming down stairs
ere he went away. »I suppose,« she added, pettishly, »the prospect of being
speedily released from our company has wrought a cure on her shattered nerves.«
    »Sister,« said Lord Evandale, »you are unjust, if not envious.«
    »Unjust I may be, Evandale, but I should not have dreamt,« glancing her eye
at a mirror, »of being thought envious without better cause. - But let us go to
the old lady; she is making a feast in the other room, which might have dined
all your troop when you had one.«
    Lord Evandale accompanied her in silence to the parlour, for he knew it was
in vain to contend with her prepossessions and offended pride. They found the
table covered with refreshments, arranged under the careful inspection of Lady
Margaret.
    »Ye could hardly well be said to breakfast this morning, my Lord Evandale,
and ye maun e'en partake of a small collation before ye ride, such as this poor
house, whose inmates are so much indebted to you, can provide in their present
circumstances. For my ain part, I like to see young folk take some refection
before they ride out upon their sports or their affairs, and I said as much to
his most sacred Majesty when he breakfasted at Tillietudlem in the year of grace
sixteen hundred and fifty-one; and his most sacred Majesty was pleased to reply,
drinking to my health at the same time in a flagon of Rhenish wine, Lady
Margaret, ye speak like a Highland oracle. These were his Majesty's very words;
so that your lordship may judge whether I have not good authority to press young
folk to partake of their vivers.«
    It may be well supposed that much of the good lady's speech failed Lord
Evandale's ears, which were then employed in listening for the light step of
Edith. His absence of mind on this occasion, however natural, cost him very
dear. While Lady Margaret was playing the kind hostess, a part she delighted and
excelled in, she was interrupted by John Gudyill, who, in the natural phrase for
announcing an inferior to the mistress of a family, said, »There was ane wanting
to speak te her leddyship.«
    »Ane! what ane? Has he nae name? Ye speak as if I kept a shop, and was to
come at everybody's whistle.«
    »Yes, he has a name,« answered John, »but your leddyship likes ill to hear
it.«
    »What is it, you fool?«
    »It's Calf-Gibbie, my leddy,« said John, in a tone rather above the pitch of
decorous respect, on which he occasionally trespassed, confiding in his merit as
an ancient servant of the family, and a faithful follower of their humble
fortunes - »It's Calf-Gibbie, an your leddyship will hae't, that keeps Edie
Henshaw's kye down yonder at the Brigg-end - that's him that was Guse-Gibbie at
Tillietudlem, and gaed to the wappinschaw, and that« --
    »Hold your peace, John,« said the old lady, rising in dignity; »you are very
insolent to think I wad speak wi' a person lake that. Let him tell his business
to you or Mrs. Headrigg.«
    »He'll no hear o' that, my leddy; he says, them that sent him bade him give
the thing to your leddyship's ain hand direct, or to Lord Evandale's, he wots na
whilk. But, to say the truth, he's far frae fresh, and he's but an idiot an he
were.«
    »Then turn him out,« said Lady Margaret, »and tell him to come back
to-morrow when he is sober. I suppose he comes to crave some benevolence, as an
ancient follower o' the house.«
    »Like enough, my leddy, for he's a' in rags, poor creature.«
    Gudyill made another attempt to get at Gibbie's commission, which was indeed
of the last importance, being a few lines from Morton to Lord Evandale,
acquainting him with the danger in which he stood from the practices of Olifant,
and exhorting him either to instant flight, or else to come to Glasgow and
surrender himself, where he could assure him of protection. This billet, hastily
written, he entrusted to Gibbie, whom he saw feeding his herd beside the bridge,
and backed with a couple of dollars his desire that it might instantly be
delivered into the hand to which it was addressed.
    But it was decreed that Goose-Gibbie's intermediation, whether as an
emissary or as a man-at-arms, should be unfortunate to the family of
Tillietudlem. He unluckily tarried so long at the ale-house, to prove if his
employer's coin was good, that, when he appeared at Fairy-Knowe, the little
sense which nature had given him was effectually drowned in ale and brandy, and
instead of asking for Lord Evandale, he demanded to speak with Lady Margaret,
whose name was more familiar to his ear. Being refused admittance to her
presence, he staggered away with the letter undelivered, perversely faithful to
Morton's instructions in the only point in which it would have been well had he
departed from them.
    A few minutes after he was gone, Edith entered the apartment. Lord Evandale
and she met with mutual embarrassment, which Lady Margaret, who only knew in
general that their union had been postponed by her grand-daughter's
indisposition, set down to the bashfulness of a bride and bridegroom, and, to
place them at ease, began to talk to Lady Emily on indifferent topics. At this
moment, Edith, with a countenance as pale as death, muttered, rather than
whispered, to Lord Evandale, a request to speak with him. He offered his arm,
and supported her into the small anteroom, which, as we have noticed before,
opened from the parlour. He placed her in a chair, and, taking one himself,
awaited the opening of the conversation.
    »I am distressed, my lord,« were the first words she was able to articulate,
and those with difficulty; »I scarce know what I would say, nor how to speak
it.«
    »If I have any share in occasioning your uneasiness,« said Lord Evandale,
mildly, »you will soon, Edith, be released from it.«
    »You are determined, then, my lord,« she replied, »to run this desperate
course with desperate men, in spite of your own better reason - in spite of your
friends' entreaties - in spite of the almost inevitable ruin which yawns before
you?«
    »Forgive me, Miss Bellenden; even your solicitude on my account must not
detain me when my honour calls. My horses stand ready saddled, my servants are
prepared, the signal for rising will be given so soon as I reach Kilsyth - If it
is my fate that calls me, I will not shun meeting it. It will be something,« he
said, taking her hand, »to die deserving your compassion, since I cannot gain
your love.«
    »Oh, my lord, remain!« said Edith, in a tone which went to his heart; »time
may explain the strange circumstance which has shocked me so much; my agitated
nerves may recover their tranquillity. Oh, do not rush on death and ruin! remain
to be our prop and stay, and hope everything from time!«
    »It is too late, Edith,« answered Lord Evandale; »and I were most ungenerous
could I practise on the warmth and kindliness of your feelings towards me. I
know you cannot love me; nervous distress, so strong as to conjure up the
appearance of the dead or absent, indicates a predilection too powerful to give
way to friendship and gratitude alone. But were it otherwise, the die is now
cast.«
    As he spoke thus, Cuddie burst into the room, terror and haste in his
countenance. »O, my lord, hide yoursell! - they hae beset the outlets o' the
house,« was his first exclamation.
    »They? Who?« said Lord Evandale.
    »A party of horse, headed by Basil Olifant,« answered Cuddie.
    »O hide yourself, my lord!« echoed Edith, in an agony of terror.
    »I will not, by Heaven!« answered Lord Evandale. »What right has the villain
to assail me, or stop my passage? I will make my way, were he backed by a
regiment! Tell Halliday and Hunter to get out the horses - And now, farewell,
Edith!« He clasped her in his arms, and kissed her tenderly; then bursting from
his sister, who, with Lady Margaret, endeavoured to detain him, rushed out and
mounted his horse.
    All was in confusion - the women shrieked and hurried in consternation to
the front windows of the house, from which they could see a small party of
horsemen, of whom two only seemed soldiers. They were on the open ground before
Cuddie's cottage, at the bottom of the descent from the house, and showed
caution in approaching it, as if uncertain of the strength within.
    »He may escape! he may escape!« said Edith; »O, would he but take the
by-road!«
    But Lord Evandale, determined to face a danger which his high spirit
undervalued, commanded his servants to follow him, and rode composedly down the
avenue. Old Gudyill ran to arm himself, and Cuddie snatched down a gun which was
kept for the protection of the house, and, although on foot, followed Lord
Evandale. It was in vain his wife, who had hurried up on the alarm, hung by his
skirts, threatening him with death by the sword or halter for meddling with
other folk's matters.
    »Haud your peace, ye b --!« said Cuddie, »and that's braid Scotch, or I
wotna what is; is it ither folk's matters to see Lord Evandale murdered before
my face?« and down the avenue he marched. But considering on the way that he
composed the whole infantry, as John Gudyill had not appeared, he took his
vantage ground behind the hedge, hammered his flint, cocked his piece, and
taking a long aim at Laird Basil, as he was called, stood prompt for action.
    As soon as Lord Evandale appeared, Olifant's party spread themselves a
little, as if preparing to enclose him. Their leader stood fast, supported by
three men, two of whom were dragoons, the third in dress and appearance a
countryman, all were armed. But the strong figure, stern features, and resolved
manner of the third attendant, made him seem the most formidable of the party;
and whoever had before seen him, could have no difficulty in recognising Balfour
of Burley.
    »Follow me,« said Lord Evandale to his servants, »and if we are forcibly
opposed, do as I do.« He advanced at a hand gallop towards Olifant, and was in
the act of demanding why he had thus beset the road, when Olifant called out,
»Shoot the traitor!« and the whole four fired their carabines upon the
unfortunate nobleman. He reeled in the saddle, advanced his hand to the holster,
and drew a pistol, but, unable to discharge it, fell from his horse mortally
wounded. His servants had presented their carabines. Hunter fired at random; but
Halliday, who was an intrepid fellow, took aim at Inglis, and shot him dead on
the spot. At the same instant, a shot, from behind the hedge, still more
effectually avenged Lord Evandale, for the ball took place in the very midst of
Basil Olifant's forehead, and stretched him lifeless on the ground. His
followers, astonished at the execution done in so short a time, seemed rather
disposed to stand inactive, when Burley, whose blood was up with the contest,
exclaimed, »Down with the Midianites!« and attacked Halliday sword in hand. At
this instant the clatter of horses' hoofs was heard, and a party of horse,
rapidly advancing on the road from Glasgow, appeared on the fatal field. They
were foreign dragoons, led by the Dutch commandant Wittenbold, accompanied by
Morton and a civil magistrate.
    A hasty call to surrender, in the name of God and King William, was obeyed
by all except Burley, who turned his horse and attempted to escape. Several
soldiers pursued him by command of their officer, but, being well mounted, only
the two headmost seemed likely to gain on him. He turned deliberately twice, and
discharging first one of his pistols, and then the other, rid himself of the one
pursuer by mortally wounding him, and of the other by shooting his horse, and
then continued his flight to Bothwell Bridge, where, for his misfortune, he
found the gates shut and guarded. Turning from hence, he made for a place where
the river seemed passable, and plunged into the stream, - the bullets from the
pistols and carabines of his pursuers whizzing around him. Two balls took effect
when he was past the middle of the stream, and he felt himself dangerously
wounded. He reined his horse round in the midst of the river, and returned
towards the bank he had left, waving his hand, as if with the purpose of
intimating that he surrendered. The troopers ceased firing at him accordingly,
and awaited his return, two of them riding a little way into the river to seize
and disarm him. But it presently appeared that his purpose was revenge, not
safety. As he approached the two soldiers, he collected his remaining strength,
and discharged a blow on the head of one, which tumbled him from his horse. The
other dragoon, a strong muscular man, had in the meanwhile laid hands on him.
Burley, in requital, grasped his throat as a dying tiger seizes his prey, and
both, losing the saddle in the struggle, came headlong into the river, and were
swept down the stream. Their course might be traced by the blood which bubbled
up to the surface. They were twice seen to rise, the Dutchman striving to swim,
and Burley clinging to him in a manner that showed his desire that both should
perish. Their corpses were taken out about a quarter of a mile down the river.
As Balfour's grasp could not have been unclenched without cutting off his hands,
both were thrown into a hasty grave, still marked by a rude stone, and a ruder
epitaph.51
    While the soul of this stern enthusiast flitted to its account, that of the
brave and generous Lord Evandale was also released. Morton had flung himself
from his horse upon perceiving his situation, to render his dying friend all the
aid in his power. He knew him, for he pressed his hand, and, being unable to
speak, intimated by signs his wish to be conveyed to the house. This was done
with all the care possible, and he was soon surrounded by his lamenting friends.
But the clamorous grief of Lady Emily was far exceeded in intensity by the
silent agony of Edith. Unconscious even of the presence of Morton, she hung over
the dying man; nor was she aware that Fate, who was removing one faithful lover,
had restored another as if from the grave, until Lord Evandale, taking their
hands in his, pressed them both affectionately, united them together, raised his
face, as if to pray for a blessing on them, and sunk back and expired in the
next moment.
 

                                   Conclusion

I had determined to waive the task of a concluding chapter, leaving to the
reader's imagination the arrangements which must necessarily take place after
Lord Evandale's death. But as I was aware that precedents are wanting for a
practice, which might be found convenient both to readers and compilers, I
confess myself to have been in a considerable dilemma, when fortunately I was
honoured with an invitation to drink tea with Miss Martha Buskbody, a young lady
who has carried on the profession of mantua-making at Gandercleugh and in the
neighbourhood, with great success for about forty years. Knowing her taste for
narratives of this description, I requested her to look over the loose sheets
the morning before I waited on her, and enlighten me by the experience which she
must have acquired in reading through the whole stock of three circulating
libraries, in Gandercleugh and the two next market-towns. When, with a
palpitating heart, I appeared before her in the evening, I found her much
disposed to be complimentary.
    »I have not been more affected,« said she, wiping the glasses of her
spectacles, »by any novel excepting the Tale of Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, which
is indeed pathos itself; but your plan of omitting a formal conclusion will
never do. You may be as harrowing to our nerves as you will in the course of
your story, but unless you had the genius of the author of Julia de Roubigné,
never let the end be altogether overclouded. Let us see a glimpse of sunshine in
the last chapter; it is quite essential.«
    »Nothing would be more easy for me, madam, than to comply with your
injunctions; for, in truth, the parties in whom you have had the goodness to be
interested, did live long and happily, and begat sons and daughters.«
    »It is unnecessary, sir,« she said, with a slight nod of reprimand, »to be
particular concerning their matrimonial comforts. But what is your objection to
let us have, in a general way, a glimpse of their future felicity?«
    »Really, madam,« said I, »you must be aware that every volume of a narrative
turns less and less interesting as the author draws to a conclusion; just like
your tea, which, though excellent hyson, is necessarily weaker and more insipid
in the last cup. Now, as I think the one is by no means improved by the luscious
lump of half-dissolved sugar usually found at the bottom of it, so I am of
opinion that a history, growing already vapid, is but dully crutched up by a
detail of circumstances which every reader must have anticipated, even though
the author exhaust on them every flowery epithet in the language.«
    »This will not do, Mr. Pattieson,« continued the lady. »You have, as I may
say, basted up your first story very hastily and clumsily at the conclusion;
and, in my trade, I would have cuffed the youngest apprentice who had put such a
horrid and bungled spot of work out of her hand. And if you do not redeem this
gross error by telling us all about the marriage of Morton and Edith, and what
became of the other personages of the story, from Lady Margaret down to
Goose-Gibbie, I apprise you, that you will not be held to have accomplished your
task handsomely.«
    »Well, madam,« I replied, »my materials are so ample, that I think I can
satisfy your curiosity, unless it descend to very minute circumstances indeed.«
    »First then,« said she, »for that is most essential, - Did Lady Margaret get
back her fortune and her castle?«
    »She did, madam, and in the easiest way imaginable, - as heir, namely, to
her worthy cousin, Basil Olifant, who died without a will; and thus by his
death, not only restored, but even augmented, the fortune of her, whom, during
his life, he had pursued with the most inveterate malice. John Gudyill,
reinstated in his dignity, was more important than ever; and Cuddie, with
rapturous delight, entered upon the cultivation of the Mains of Tillietudlem,
and the occupation of his original cottage. But with the shrewd caution of his
character, he was never heard to boast of having fired the lucky shot which
repossessed his lady and himself in their original habitations. After a', he
said to Jenny, who was his only confidant, auld Basil Olifant was my leddy's
cousin, and a grand gentleman; and though he was acting again the law, as I
understand, for he ne'er showed ony warrant, or required Lord Evandale to
surrender, and though I mind killing him nae mair than I wad do a muircock, yet
it's just as well to keep a calm sough about it. He not only did so, but
ingeniously enough countenanced a report that old Gudyill had done the deed,
which was worth many a gill of brandy to him from the old butler, who, far
different in disposition from Cuddie, was much more inclined to exaggerate than
suppress his exploits of manhood. - The blind widow was provided for in the most
comfortable manner, as well as the little guide to the Linn; and« --
    »But what is all this to the marriage - the marriage of the principal
personages?« interrupted Miss Buskbody, impatiently tapping her snuff-box.
    »The marriage of Morton and Miss Bellenden was delayed for several months,
as both went into deep mourning on account of Lord Evandale's death. They were
then wedded.«
    »I hope not without Lady Margaret's consent, sir?« said my fair critic. »I
love books which teach a proper deference in young persons to their parents. In
a novel, the young people may fall in love without their countenance, because it
is essential to the necessary intricacy of the story; but they must always have
the benefit of their consent at last. Even old Delville received Cecilia, though
the daughter of a man of low birth.«
    »And even so, madam,« replied I, »Lady Margaret was pro vailed on to
countenance Morton, although the old Covenanter, his father, stuck sorely with
her for some time. Edith was her only hope, and she wished to see her happy.
Morton, or Melville Morton, as he was more generally called, stood so high in
the reputation of the world, and was in every other respect such an eligible
match, that she put her prejudice aside, and consoled herself with the
recollection, that marriage went by destiny, as was observed to her, she said,
by his most sacred Majesty, Charles the Second of happy memory, when she showed
him the portrait of her grandfather Fergus, third Earl of Torwood, the
handsomest man of his time, and that of Countess Jane, his second Lady, who had
a humpback and only one eye. This was his Majesty's observation, she said, on
one remarkable morning when he deigned to take his disjune« --
    »Nay,« said Miss Buskbody, again interrupting me, »if she brought such
authority to countenance her acquiescing in a misalliance, there was no more to
be said. - And what became of old Mrs. What's-her-name, the housekeeper?«
    »Mrs. Wilson, madam?« answered I. »She was perhaps the happiest of the
party; for once a-year, and not oftener, Mr. and Mrs. Melville Morton dined in
the great wainscoted chamber in solemn state, - the hangings being all
displayed, the carpet laid down, and the huge brass candlestick set on the
table, stuck round with leaves of laurel. The preparing the room for this yearly
festival employed her mind for six months before it came about, and the putting
matters to rights occupied old Alison the other six; so that a single day of
rejoicing found her business for all the year round.«
    »And Neil Blane?« said Miss Buskbody.
    »Lived to a good old age, drank ale and brandy with guests of all
persuasions, played whig or jacobite tunes as best pleased his customers, and
died worth as much money as married Jenny to a cock laird. I hope, ma'am, you
have no other inquiries to make, for really« --
    »Goose-Gibbie, sir?« said my persevering friend - »Goose-Gibbie, whose
ministry was fraught with such consequences to the personages of the narrative?«
    »Consider, my dear Miss Buskbody - (I beg pardon for the familiarity) - but
pray consider, even the memory of the renowned Scheherazade, that Empress of
Tale-tellers, could not preserve every circumstance. I am not quite positive as
to the fate of Goose-Gibbie, but I am inclined to think him the same with one
Gilbert Dudden, alias Calf-Gibbie, who was whipped through Hamilton for stealing
poultry.«
    Miss Buskbody now placed her left foot on the fender, crossed her right leg
over her knee, lay back on the chair, and looked towards the ceiling. When I
observed her assume this contemplative mood, I concluded she was studying some
farther cross-examination, and therefore took my hat and wished her a hasty
good-night, ere the Demon of Criticism had supplied her with any more queries.
In like manner, gentle Reader, returning you my thanks for the patience which
has conducted you thus far, I take the liberty to withdraw myself from you for
the present.
 

                                   Peroration

It was mine earnest wish, most courteous Reader, that the »Tales of my Landlord«
should have reached thine hands in one entire succession of tomes, or volumes.
But as I sent some few more manuscript quires, containing the continuation of
these most pleasing narratives, I was apprised, somewhat unceremoniously, by my
publisher, that he did not approve of novels (as he injuriously called these
real histories) extending beyond four volumes, and, if I did not agree to the
first four being published separately, he threatened to decline the article. (O,
ignorance! as if the vernacular article of our mother English were capable of
declension!) Whereupon, somewhat moved by his remonstrances, and more by heavy
charges for print and paper, which he stated to have been already incurred, I
have resolved that these four volumes shall be the heralds or avant-couriers of
the Tales which are yet in my possession, nothing doubting that they will be
eagerly devoured, and the remainder anxiously demanded, by the unanimous voice
of a discerning public. I rest, esteemed Reader, thine as thou shalt construe
me,
                                                          JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM.
 

                                     Notes

1 The house was stormed by a Captain Orchard or Urquhart, who was shot in the
attack.
 
2 A well-known humorist (now dead) popularly called by the name of Old
Keelybags, who dealt in the keel or chalk with which farmers mark their flocks.
 
3 Note, by Mr. Jedediah Cleishbotham. - That I kept my plight in this melancholy
matter with my deceased and lamented friend, appeareth from a handsome
headstone, erected at my proper charges in this spot, bearing the name and
calling of Peter Pattieson, with the date of his nativity and sepulchre;
together also with a testimony of his merits, attested by myself as his superior
and patron. - J.C.
 
4 James, Seventh King of Scotland of that name, and Second according to the
enumeration of the Kings of England. - J.C.
 
5 I deem it fitting that the reader should be apprised that this limitary
boundary between the conterminous heritable property of his honour the Laird of
Gandercleugh, and his honour the Laird of Gusedub, was to have been in fashion
an agger, or rather murus of uncemented granite, called by the vulgar a dry-
dyke, surmounted, or coped, cespite viridi, i.e. with a sod turf. Truly their
honours fell into discord concerning two roods of marshy ground, near the cove
called the Bedral's Beild; and the controversy, having some years bygone been
removed from before the judges of the land (with whom it abode long), even unto
the great city of London and the Assembly of the Nobles therein, is, as I may
say, adhuc in pendente. - J.C.
 
6 He might have added, and for the rich also; since I laud my stars, the great
of the earth have also taken harbourage in my poor domicile. And, during the
service of my handmaiden Dorothy, who was buxom and comely of aspect, his Honour
the Laird of Smackawa, in his peregrinations to and from the metropolis, was
wont to prefer my Prophet's Chamber even to the sanded chamber of dais in the
Wallace Inn, and to bestow a mutchkin, as he would jocosely say, to obtain the
freedom of the house, but, in reality, to assure himself of my company during
the evening. - J.C.
 
7 The Festival of the Popinjay is still, I believe, practised at Maybole, in
Ayrshire. The following passage in the history of the Somerville family
suggested the scenes in the text. The author of that curious manuscript thus
celebrates his father's demeanour at such an assembly: -
»Having now passed his infancie, in the tenth year of his age, he was by his
grandfather putt to the grammar school, there being then att the toune of Delserf
a very able master that taught the grammar, and fitted boyes for the colledge.
Dureing his educating in this place, they had then a custome every year to
solemnize the first Sunday of May with danceing about a May-pole, fyreing of
pieces, and all manner of ravelling then in use. Ther being at that tyme feu or
noe merchants in this pettie village, to furnish necessaries for the schollars
sports, this youth resolves to provide himself elsewhere, so that he may appear
with the bravest. In order to this, by break of day he ryses and goes to
Hamiltoune, and there bestowes all the money that for a long tyme before he had
gotten from his freinds, or had otherwayes purchased, upon ribbones of diverse
coloures, a new hatt and gloves. But in nothing he bestowed his money more
liberrallie than upon gunpowder, a great quantitie whereof he buyes for his owne
use, and to supplie the wantes of his comerades; thus furnished with these
commodities, but ane empty purse, he returnes to Delserf by seven a clock
(haveing travelled that Sabbath morning above eight myles), puttes on his
cloathes and new hatt, flying with ribbones of all culloures; and in this
equipage, with his little phizie (fusee) upon his shoulder, he marches to the
church yaird, where the May-pole was sett up, and the solemnitie of that day was
to be kept. There first at the foot-ball he equalled any one that played; but in
handleing his piece, in chargeing and dischargeing, he was so ready, and shott
so near the marke, that he farre surpassed all his fellow schollars, and became
a teacher of that art to them before the thretteenth year of his oune age. And
really, I have often admired his dexterity in this, both at the exercizeing of
his soulders, and when for recreatione. I have gone to the gunning with him when
I was but a stripeling myself; and albeit that passetyme was the exercize I
delighted most in, yet could I never attaine to any perfectione comparable to
him. This dayes sport being over, he had the applause of all the spectators, the
kyndnesse of his fellow-condisciples, and the favour of the whole inhabitants of
that little village.«
 
8 The history of the restless and ambitious Francis Stewart, Earl of Both well,
makes a considerable figure in the reign of James VI. of Scotland, and First of
England. After being repeatedly pardoned for acts of treason, he was at length
obliged to retire abroad, where he died in great misery. Great part of his
forfeited estate was bestowed on Walter Scott, First Lord of Buccleuch, and on
the first Earl of Roxburghe.
Francis Stewart, son of the forfeited Earl, obtained from the favour of Charles
I. a decreet-arbitral, appointing the two noblemen, grantees of his father's
estate, to restore the same, or make some compensation for retaining it. The
barony of Crichton, with its beautiful castle, was surrendered by the curators
of Francis, Earl of Buccleuch, but he retained the far more extensive property
in Liddesdale. James Stewart also, as appears from writings in the author's
possession, made an advantageous composition with the Earl of Roxburghe. »But,«
says the satirical Scotstarvet, »male parta pejus dilabuntur; for he never
brooked them (enjoyed them) nor was anything the richer, since they accrued to
his creditors, and are now in the possession of Dr. Seaton. His eldest son
Francis became a trooper in the late war; as for the other brother, John, who
was Abbot of Coldingham, he also disponed all that estate, and now has nothing,
but lives on the charity of his friends.« (The Staggering State of the Scots
Statesmen for one hundred years, by Sir John Scot of Scotstarvet. Edinburgh,
1754. P 154.)
Francis Stewart, who had been a trooper during the great Civil War seems to have
received no preferment, after the Restoration, suited to his high birth, though,
in fact, third cousin to Charles II. Captain Crichton, the friend of Dean Swift,
who published his Memoirs, found him a private gentleman in the King's
Life-Guards. At the same time this was no degrading condition; for Fountainhall
records a duel fought between a Life-Guardsman and an officer in the militia,
because the latter had taken upon him to assume superior rank as an officer, to
a gentleman private in the Life-Guards. The Life-Guardsman was killed in the
reconnoitre, and his antagonist was executed for murder.
The character of Bothwell, except in relation to the name, is entirely ideal.
 
9 The general account of this act of assassination is to be found in all
histories of the period. A more particular narrative may be found in the works
of one of the actors, James Russel, in the Appendix to Kirkton's History of the
Church of Scotland, published by Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, Esquire. 4to,
Edinburgh, 1817.
 
10 One Carmichael, sheriff-depute in Fife, who had been active in enforcing the
penal measures against nonconformists. He was on the moors hunting, but
receiving accidental information that a party was out in quest of him, he
returned home, and escaped the fate designed for him, which befell his patron
the Archbishop.
 
11 The leader of this party was David Hackston of Rathillet, a gentleman of
ancient birth and good estate. He had been profligate in his younger days, but
having been led from curiosity to attend the conventicles of the nonconforming
clergy, he adopted their principles in the fullest extent. It appears that
Hackston had some personal quarrel with Archbishop Sharp, which induced him to
decline the command of the party when the slaughter was determined upon, fearing
his acceptance might be ascribed to motives of personal enmity. He felt himself
free in conscience, however, to be present; and when the archbishop, dragged
from his carriage, crawled towards him on his knees for protection, he replied
coldly, »Sir, I will never lay a finger on you.« It is remarkable that Hackston,
as well as a shepherd who was also present, but passive, on the occasion, were
the only two of the party of assassins who suffered death by the hands of the
executioner.
On Hackston's refusing the command, it was by universal suffrage conferred on
John Balfour of Kinloch, called Barley, who was Hackston's brother-in-law. He is
described »as a little man, squint-eyed, and of a very fierce aspect.« - »He
was,« adds the same author, »by some reckoned none of the most religious; yet he
was always reckoned zealous and honest-hearted, courageous in every enterprise,
and a brave soldier, seldom any escaping that came into his hands. He was the
principal actor in killing that arch-traitor to the Lord and his church, James
Sharp.«
 
12 A masculine retainer of this kind, having offended his master extremely, was
commanded to leave his service instantly. »In troth and that will I not,«
answered the domestic; »if your honour disna ken when ye hae a good servant, I
ken when I hae a good master, and go away I will not.« On another occasion of
the same nature, the master said, »John, you and I shall never sleep under the
same roof again;« to which John replied, with much naïveté, »Whare the deil can
your honour be ganging?«
 
13 Regimental music is never played at night. But who can assure us that such
was not the custom in Charles the Second's time? Till I am well informed on this
point, the kettle-drums shall clash on, as adding something to the picturesque
effect of the night march.
 
14 Probably something similar to the barn fanners now used for winnowing corn,
which were not, however, used in their present shape until about 1730. They were
objected to by the more rigid sectaries, on their first introduction, upon such
reasoning as that of honest Mause in the text.
 
15 Bent-grass and sand-larks.
16 This was a point of high etiquette. - The custom of keeping the door of a
house or chateau locked during the time of dinner, probably arose from the
family being anciently assembled in the hall at that meal, and liable to
surprise. But it was in many instances continued as a point of high etiquette,
of which the following is an example: -
A considerable landed proprietor in Dumfriesshire, being a bachelor, without
near relations, and determined to make his will, resolved previously to visit
his two nearest kinsmen, and decide which should be his heir, according to the
degree of kindness with which he should be received. Like a good clansman, he
first visited his own chief, a baronet in rank, descendant and representative of
one of the oldest families in Scotland. Unhappily the dinner-bell had rung, and
the door of the castle had been locked before his arrival. The visitor in vain
announced his name and requested admittance; but his chief adhered to the
ancient etiquette, and would on no account suffer the doors to be unbarred.
Irritated at this cold reception, the old Laird rode on to Sanquhar Castle, then
the residence of the Duke of Queensberry, who no sooner heard his name, than,
knowing well he had a will to make, the drawbridge dropped, and the gates flew
open - the table was covered anew - his grace's bachelor and intestate kinsman
was received with the utmost attention and respect; and it is scarcely necessary
to add, that upon his death some years after, the visitor's considerable landed
property went to augment the domains of the ducal house of Queensberry. This
happened about the end of the seventeenth century.
 
17 The Scots retain the use of the word town in its comprehensive Saxon meaning,
as a place of habitation. A mansion or a farm-house, though solitary, is called
the town. A landward town is a dwelling situated in the country.
 
18 A Highland laird, whose peculiarities live still in the recollection of his
countrymen, used to regulate his residence at Edinburgh in the following manner:
Every day he visited the Water-Gate, as it is called, of the Canongate, over
which is extended a wooden arch. Specie being then the general currency, he
threw his purse over the gate, and as long as it was heavy enough to be thrown
over, he continued his round of pleasure in the metropolis; when it was too
light, he thought it time to return to the Highlands. Query. - How often would
he have repeated this experiment at Temple Bar?
 
19 The punishment of riding the wooden mare was, in the days of Charles and long
after, one of the various and cruel modes of enforcing military discipline. In
front of the old guard-house in the High Street of Edinburgh, a large horse of
this kind was placed, on which now and then, in the more ancient times, a
veteran might be seen mounted, with a firelock tied to each foot, atoning for
some small offence.
There is a singular work, entitled Memoirs of Prince William Henry, Duke of
Gloucester (son of Queen Anne), from his birth to his ninth year in which Jenkin
Lewis, an honest Welshman in attendance on the royal infant's person, is pleased
to record that his Royal Highness laughed, cried, crow'd, and said Gig and Dy,
very like a babe of plebeian descent. He had also a premature taste for the
discipline as well as the show of war, and had a corps of twenty-two boys,
arrayed with paper caps and wooden swords. For the maintenance of discipline in
this juvenile corps, a wooden horse was established in the Presence-chamber, and
was sometimes employed in the punishment of offences not strictly military.
Hughes, the Duke's tailor, having made him a suit of clothes which were too
tight, was appointed, in an order of the day issued by the young prince, to be
placed on this penal steed. The man of remnants, by dint of supplication and
mediation, escaped from the penance, which was likely to equal the
inconveniences of his brother artist's equestrian trip to Brentford. But an
attendant named Weatherly, who had presumed to bring the young prince a toy
(after he had discarded the use of them), was actually mounted on the wooden
horse without a saddle, with his face to the tail, while he was plied by four
servants of the household with syringes and squirts, till he had a thorough
wetting. »He was a waggish fellow,« says Lewis, »and would not lose anything for
the joke's sake when he was putting his tricks upon others, so he was obliged to
submit cheerfully to what was inflicted upon him, being at our mercy to play him
off well, which we did accordingly.« Amid much such nonsense, Lewis's book shows
that this poor child, the heir of the British monarchy, who died when he was
eleven years old, was in truth of promising parts, and of a good disposition.
The volume, which rarely occurs, is an 8vo, published in 1789, the editor being
Dr. Philip Hayes of Oxford.
 
20 Concealment of an individual, while in public or promiscuous society, was
then very common. In England, where no plaids were worn, the ladies used vizard
masks for the same purpose, and the gallants drew the skirts of their cloaks
over the right shoulder, so as to cover part of the face. This is repeatedly
alluded to in Pepys' Diary.
 
21 As few, in the present age, are acquainted with the ponderous folios to which
the age of Louis XIV. gave rise, we need only say, that they combine the dullness
of the metaphysical courtship with all the improbabilities of the ancient
Romance of Chivalry. Their character will be most easily learned from Boileau's
Dramatic Satire, or Mrs. Lennox's Female Quixote.
 
22 Sir James Turner was a soldier of fortune, bred in the civil wars. He was
entrusted with a commission to levy the fines imposed by the Privy Council for
nonconformity, in the district of Dumfries and Galloway. In this capacity he
vexed the country so much by his exactions, that the people rose and made him
prisoner, and then proceeded in arms towards Mid-Lothian, where they were
defeated at Pentland Hills in 1666. Besides his treatise on the Military Art,
Sir James Turner wrote several other works; the most curious of which is his
Memoirs of his own Life and Times, which has just been printed (1829), under the
charge of the Bannatyne Club.
 
23 The Castle of Tillietudlem is imaginary; but the ruins of Craignethan Castle,
situated on the Nethan, about three miles from its junction with the Clyde, have
something of the character of the description in the text.
 
24 This remarkable person united the seemingly inconsistent qualities of courage
and cruelty, a disinterested and devoted loyalty to his prince, with a disregard
of the rights of his fellow-subjects. He was the unscrupulous agent of the
Scottish Privy Council in executing the merciless severities of the Government
in Scotland during the reigns of Charles II. and James II.: but he redeemed his
character by the zeal with which he asserted the cause of the latter monarch
after the Revolution, the military skill with which he supported it at the
battle of Killiecrankie, and by his own death in the arms of victory.
It is said by tradition, that he was very desirous to see, and be introduced to,
a certain Lady Elphinstoun, who had reached the advanced age of one hundred
years and upwards. The noble matron, being a staunch whig, was rather unwilling
to receive Claver'se (as he was called from his title), but at length consented.
After the usual compliments, the officer observed to the lady, that having lived
so much beyond the usual term of humanity, she must in her time have seen many
strange changes. »Hout na, sir,« said Lady Elphinstoun, »the world is just to
end with me as it began. When I was entering life, there was ane Knox deaving us
a' wi' his clavers, and now I am ganging out, there is ane Claver'se deaving us
a' wi' his knocks.«
Clavers signifying, in common parlance, idle chat, the double pun does credit to
the ingenuity of a lady of a hundred years old.
 
25 Resetted, i.e. received or harboured.
 
26 There was actually a young cornet of the Life-Guards named Grahame, and
probably some relation of Claverhouse, slain in the skirmish of Drumclog. In the
old ballad on the battle of Bothwell Bridge, Claverhouse is said to have
continued the slaughter of the fugitives in revenge of this gentleman's death.
 
»Haud up your hand,« then Monmouth said;
»Gie quarters to these men for me;«
But bloody Claver'se swore an oath,
His kinsman's death avenged should be.
 
The body of this young man was found shockingly mangled after the battle, his
eyes pulled out, and his features so much defaced, that it was impossible to
recognise him. The tory writers say that this was done by the whigs; because,
finding the name Grahame wrought in the young gentleman's neckcloth, they took
the corpse for that of Claver'se himself. The whig authorities give a different
account, from tradition, of the cause of Cornet Grahame's body being thus
mangled. He had, say they, refused his own dog any food on the morning of the
battle, affirming, with an oath, that he should have no breakfast but upon the
flesh of the whigs. The ravenous animal, it is said, flew at his master as soon
as he fell, and lacerated his face and throat.
These two stories are presented to the reader, leaving it to him to judge
whether it is most likely that a party of persecuted and insurgent fanatics
should mangle a body supposed to be that of their chief enemy, in the same
manner as several persons present at Drumclog had shortly before treated the
person of Archbishop Sharp; or that a domestic dog should, for want of a single
breakfast, become so ferocious as to feed on his own master, selecting his body
from scores that were lying around equally accessible to his ravenous appetite.
 
27 There was actually a young cornet of the Life-Guards named Grahame, and
probably some relation of Claverhouse, slain in the skirmish of Drumclog. In the
old ballad on the battle of Bothwell Bridge, Claverhouse is said to have
continued the slaughter of the fugitives in revenge of this gentleman's death.
 
»Haud up your hand,« then Monmouth said;
»Gie quarters to these men for me;«
But bloody Claver'se swore an oath,
His kinsman's death avenged should be.
 
The body of this young man was found shockingly mangled after the battle, his
eyes pulled out, and his features so much defaced, that it was impossible to
recognise him. The tory writers say that this was done by the whigs; because,
finding the name Grahame wrought in the young gentleman's neckcloth, they took
the corpse for that of Claver'se himself. The whig authorities give a different
account, from tradition, of the cause of Cornet Grahame's body being thus
mangled. He had, say they, refused his own dog any food on the morning of the
battle, affirming, with an oath, that he should have no breakfast but upon the
flesh of the whigs. The ravenous animal, it is said, flew at his master as soon
as he fell, and lacerated his face and throat.
These two stories are presented to the reader, leaving it to him to judge
whether it is most likely that a party of persecuted and insurgent fanatics
should mangle a body supposed to be that of their chief enemy, in the same
manner as several persons present at Drumclog had shortly before treated the
person of Archbishop Sharp; or that a domestic dog should, for want of a single
breakfast, become so ferocious as to feed on his own master, selecting his body
from scores that were lying around equally accessible to his ravenous appetite.
 
28 The belief of the Covenanters that their principal enemies, and Claverhouse
in particular, had obtained from the devil a charm which rendered them proof
against leaden bullets, led them to pervert even the circumstances of his death.
Howie of Lochgoin, after giving some account of the battle of Killiecrankie,
adds: -
»The battle was very bloody, and by Mackay's third fire, Claverhouse fell, of
whom historians give little account; but it has been said for certain, that his
own waiting-servant, taking a resolution to rid the world of this truculent
bloody monster, and knowing he had proof of lead, shot him with a silver button
he had before taken off his own coat for that purpose. However, he fell, and
with him Popery, and King James's interest in Scotland.« - God's judgement on
Persecutors, p. xxxix.
Original Note. - »Perhaps some may think this anent proof of a shot a paradox,
and be ready to object here, as formerly, concerning Bishop Sharp and Dalzell -
How can the devil have or give a power to save life? etc. Without entering upon
the thing in its reality, I shall only observe, - 1st, That it is neither in his
power, or of his nature, to be a saviour of men's lives, as he is called
Apollyon the destroyer. 2d, That even in this case he is said only to give
enchantment against one kind of metal, and this does not save life: for the lead
would not take Sharp or Claverhouse's lives, yet steel and silver would do it:
and for Dalzell, though he died not on the field, he did not escape the arrows
of the Almighty.« - Ibidem.
 
29 It appears, from the letter of Claverhouse afterwards quoted, that the horse
on which he rode at Drumclog was not black, but sorrel. The Author has been
misled as to the colour by the many extraordinary traditions current in Scotland
concerning Claverhouse's famous black charger, which was generally believed to
have been a gift to its rider from the Author of Evil, who is said to have
performed the Cæsarean operation upon its dam. This horse was so fleet, and its
rider so expert, that they are said to have outstripped and coted, or turned, a
hare upon the Bran-Law, near the head of Moffat Water, where the descent is so
precipitous, that no merely earthly horse could keep its feet, or merely mortal
rider could keep the saddle.
There is a curious passage in the testimony of John Dick, one of the suffering
Presbyterians, in which the author, by describing each of the persecutors by
their predominant qualities or passions, shows how little their best-beloved
attributes would avail them in the great day of judgment. When he introduces
Claverhouse, it is to reproach him with his passion for horses in general, and
for that steed in particular, which was killed at Drumclog in the manner
described in the text: -
»And for that bloodthirsty wretch, Claverhouse, how thinks he to shelter himself
that day? Is it possible the pitiful thing can be so mad as to think to secure
himself by the fleetness of his horse (a creature he has so much respect for,
that he regarded more the loss of his horse at Drumclog, than all the men that
fell there, and sure there fell prettier men on either party than himself)? No,
sure - though he could fall upon a chymist that could extract the spirits out of
all the horse in the world, and infuse them in his one, though he were on that
horseback never so well mounted, he need not dream of escaping.« (P. 26.) A
Testimony to the Doctrine, Worship, Discipline, and Government of the Church of
Scotland, etc., as it was left in write by that truly pious and eminently
faithfull, and now glorified Martyr, Mr. John Dick. To which is added, his last
Speech and Behaviour on the Scaffold, on 5th March 1684, which day he sealed
this testimony, etc., 57 pp. 4to. No year or place of publication.
The reader may perhaps receive some farther information on the subject of Cornet
Grahame's death and the flight of Claverhouse, from the following Latin lines, a
part of a poem entitled Bellum Bothuellianum, by Andrew Guild, which exists in
manuscript in the Advocates' Library: -
 
»Mons est occiduus, surgit qui celsus in oris,
(Nomine Loudunum) fossis puteisque profundis
Quot scatet hic tellus, et aprico gramine tectus:
Huc collecta (ait), numeroso milite cincta,
Turba ferox, matres, pueri, innuptæque puellæ,
Quam parat egregia Græmus dispersere turma.
Venit et primo campo discedere cogit;
Post hos et alios, coeno provolvit inerti;
At numerosa cohors, campum dispersa per omnem,
Circumfusa, ruit; turmasque, indagine captas,
Aggreditur; virtus non hic, nec profuit ensis;
Corripuere fugam, viridi sed gramine tectis,
Precipitata perit, fossis, pars ultima, quorum
Cornipedes hæsere luto, sessore rejecto:
Tum rabiosa cohors, misereri nescia, stratos
Invadit laceratque viros: hic signifer, eheu!
Trajectus globulo, Græmus, quo fortior alter,
Inter Scotigenas fuerat, nec justior ullus:
Hunc manibus rapuere feris, faciemque virilem
Foedarunt, lingua, auriculis, manibusque resectis,
Aspera diffuso spargentes saxa cerebro:
Vix dux ipse fuga salvo, namque exta trahebat
Vulnere tardatus sonipes generosus hiante:
Insequitur clamore cohors fanatica, namque
Crudelis semper timidus, ai vicerit unquam.«
                                                       MS. Bellum Bothuellianum.
 
30 This affair, the only one in which Claverhouse was defeated, or the insurgent
Cameronians successful, was fought pretty much in the manner mentioned in the
text. The Royalists lost about thirty or forty men. The commander of the
Presbyterian, or rather covenanting party, was Mr. Robert Hamilton, of the
honourable House of Preston, brother of Sir William Hamilton, to whose title and
estate he afterwards succeeded; but according to his biographer, Howie of
Lochgoin, he never took possession of either, as he could not do so without
acknowledging the right of King William (an uncovenanted monarch) to the crown.
Hamilton had been bred by Bishop Burnet, while the latter lived at Glasgow; his
brother, Sir Thomas, having married a sister of that historian. »He was then,«
says the Bishop, »a lively, hopeful, young man; but getting into that company,
and into their notions, he became a crack-brained enthusiast.«
Several well-meaning persons have been much scandalised at the manner in which
the victors are said to have conducted themselves towards the prisoners at
Drumclog. But the principle of these poor fanatics (I mean the high-flying, or
Cameronian party) was to obtain not merely toleration for their church, but the
same supremacy which Presbytery had acquired in Scotland after the treaty of
Rippon, betwixt Charles I. and his Scottish subjects, in 1640.
The fact is, that they conceived themselves a chosen people, sent forth to
extirpate the heathen, like the Jews of old, and under a similar charge to show
no quarter.
The historian of the Insurrection of Bothwell makes the following explicit
avowal of the principles on which their General acted: -
»Mr. Hamilton discovered a great deal of bravery and valour, both in the
conflict with, and pursuit of, the enemy; but when he and some other were
pursuing the enemy, others flew too greedily upon the spoil, small as it was,
instead of pursuing the victory; and some, without Mr. Hamilton's knowledge, and
directly contrary to his express command, gave five of those bloody enemies
quarter, then let them go. This greatly grieved Mr. Hamilton when he saw some of
Babel's brats spared after that the Lord had delivered them into their hands,
that they might dash them against the stones. - Psalm cxxxvii. 9. In his own
account of this, he reckons the sparing of these enemies, and letting them go,
to be among their first steppings aside, for which he feared that the Lord would
not honour them to do much more for him; and says, that he was neither for
taking favours from, nor giving favours to, the Lord's enemies.« See A true and
impartial Account of the persecuted Presbyterians in Scotland, their being in
arms, and defeat at Bothwell Brigg, in 1679, by William Wilson, late
Schoolmaster in the parish of Douglas. The reader who would authenticate the
quotation, must not consult any other edition than that of 1697; for somehow or
other the publisher of the last edition has omitted this remarkable part of the
narrative.
Sir Robert Hamilton himself felt neither remorse nor shame for having put to
death one of the prisoners after the battle with his own hand, which appears to
have been a charge against him, by some whose fanaticism was less exalted than
his own.
»As for that accusation they bring against me of killing that poor man (as they
call him) at Drumclog, I may easily guess that my accusers can be no other but
some of the house of Saul or Shimei, or some such risen again to espouse that
poor gentleman (Saul) his quarrel against honest Samuel, for his offering to
kill that poor man Agag, after the king's giving him quarter. But I, being to
command that day, gave out the word that no quarter should be given; and
returning from pursuing Claverhouse, one or two of these fellows were standing
in the midst of a company of our friends, and some were debating for quarter,
others against it. None could blame me to decide the controversy, and I bless
the Lord for it to this day. There were five more that without my knowledge got
quarter, who were brought to me after we were a mile from the place as having
got quarter, which I reckoned among the first steppings aside; and seeing that
spirit amongst us at that time, I then told it to some that were with me (to my
best remembrance, it was honest old John Nisbet), that I feared the Lord would
not honour us to do much more for him. I shall only say this, - I desire to
bless his holy name, that since ever he helped me to set my face to his work, I
never had, nor would take, a favour from enemies, either on right or left hand,
and desired to give as few.«
The preceding passage is extracted from a long vindication of his own conduct,
sent by Sir Robert Hamilton, 7th December 1685, addressed to the anti-Popish,
anti-Prelatic, anti-Erastian, anti-Sectarian true Presbyterian remnant of the
Church of Scotland; and the substance is to be found in the work or collection
called, Faithful Contendings Displayed, collected and transcribed by John Howie.
As the skirmish of Drumclog has been of late the subject of some inquiry, the
reader may be curious to see Claverhouse's own account of the affair, in a
letter to the Earl of Linlithgow, written immediately after the action. This
gazette, as it may be called, occurs in the volume called Dundee's Letters,
printed (1826) by Mr. George Smythe (of Methven) as a contribution to the
Bannatyne Club. The original is in the library of the Duke of Buckingham.
Claverhouse, it may be observed, spells like a chambermaid.
 
                         »For the Earle of Linlithgow.
                   [Commander-in chief of King Charles II.'s
                              Forces in Scotland.]
                                                      Glaskow, Jun. the 1, 1679.
My Lord, - Upon Saturday's night, when my Lord Rosse came into this place, I
marched out, and because of the insolency that had been done tue nights before
at Ruglen, I went thither and inquyred for the names. So soon as I got them, I
sent out partys to sease on them, and found not only three of those rogues, but
also ane intercomend minister called King. We had them at Strevan about six in
the morning yesterday, and resolving to convey them to this, I thought that we
might make a little tour to see if we could fall upon a conventicle; which we
did, little to our advantage; for when we came in sight of them, we found them
drawn up in battell, upon a most advantageous ground, to which there was no
coming but through mosses and lakes. They wer not preaching, and had got away
all there women and shildring. They consisted of four battaillons of foot, and
all well armed with fusils and pitchforks, and three squadrons of horse. We sent
both partys to skirmish, they of foot and we of dragoons; they run for it, and
sent down a battaillon of foot against them; we sent three-score of dragoons,
who made them run again shamfully; but in end they percaiving that we had the
better of them in skirmish, they resolved a generall engadgment, and imediatly
advanced with there foot, the horse folowing; they came throght the lotche; the
greatest body of all made up against my troupe; we keeped our fyre till they wer
within ten pace of us: they recaived our fyr, and advanced to shok; the first
they gave us broght down the Coronet Mr. Crafford and Captain Bleith, besides
that with a pitchfork they made such an openeing in my sorr horse's belly, that
his guts hung out half an elle, and yet he caryed me af an myl; which so
discoraged our men, that they sustained not the shok, but fell into disorder.
There horse took the occasion of this, and pursued us so hotly that we got no
tym to rayly. I saved the standards, but lost on the place about aight or ten
men, besides wounded; but the dragoons lost many mor. They are not com esily af
on the other side, for I sawe severall of them fall befor we cam to the shok. I
mad the best retraite the confusion of our people would suffer, and I am now
laying with my Lord Rosse. The toun of Streven drew up as we was making our
retrait, and thoght of a pass to cut us off, but we took courage and fell to
them, made them run, leaving a dousain on the place. What these rogues will dou
yet I know not, but the contry was flocking to them from all hands. This may be
counted the beginning of the rebellion, in my opinion.
        I am, my lord,
            Your lordship's most humble servant,
                                                                     J. Grahame.
My lord, I am so wearied, and so sleapy, that I have writen this very
confusedly.«
 
31 These feuds, which tore to pieces the little army of insurgents, turned
merely on the point whether the king's interest or royal authority was to be
owned or not, and whether the party in arms were to be contented with a free
exercise of their own religion, or insist upon the re-establishment of
Presbytery in its supreme authority, and with full power to predominate over all
other forms of worship. The few country gentlemen who joined the insurrection,
with the most sensible part of the clergy, thought it best to limit their
demands to what it might be possible to attain. But the party who urged these
moderate views were termed by the more zealous bigots, the Erastian party, -
men, namely, who were willing to place the church under the influence of the
civil government, and therefore they accounted them, »A snare upon Mizpah, and a
net spread upon Tabor.« - See the life of Sir Robert Hamilton in the Scottish
Worthies, and his account of the battle of Bothwell Bridge, passim.
 
32 The Cameronians had suffered persecution, but it was without learning mercy.
We are informed by Captain Crichton, that they had set up in their camp a huge
gibbet or gallows, having many hooks upon it, with a coil of new ropes lying
beside it, for the execution of such royalists as they might make prisoners.
Guild, in his Bellum Bothuellianum, describes this machine particularly.
 
33 A Cameronian muse was awakened from slumber on this doleful occasion, and
gave the following account of the muster of the royal forces, in poetry nearly
as melancholy as the subject:-
 
They marched east through Lithgow-town
For to enlarge their forces;
And sent for all the north country
To come, both foot and horses.
 
Montrose did come, and Athole both,
And with them many more;
And all the Highland Amorites
That had been there before.
 
The Lowdien Mallisha they
Came with their coats of blew;
Five hundred men from London came,
Claid in a reddish hue.
 
When they were assembled one and all,
A full brigade were they;
Like to a pack of hellish hounds,
Roreing after their prey.
 
When they were all provided well,
In armour and amonition,
Then thither wester did they come
Most cruel of intention.
 
The royalists celebrated their victory in stanzas of equal merit. Specimens of
both may be found in the curious collection of Fugitive Scottish Poetry,
principally of the Seventeenth Century, printed for the Messrs. Laing,
Edinburgh.
 
34 The Author does not, by any means, desire that Poundtext should be regarded
as a just representation of the moderate Presbyterians, among whom were many
ministers whose courage was equal to their good sense and sound views of
religion. Were he to write the tale anew, he would probably endeavour to give
the character a higher turn. It is certain, however, that the Cameronians
imputed to their opponents in opinion concerning the Indulgence, or others of
their strained and fanatical notions, a disposition not only to seek their own
safety, but to enjoy themselves. Hamilton speaks of three clergymen of this
description as follows: -
»They pretended great zeal against the Indulgence; but alas! that was all; their
practice otherwise being but very gross, which I shall but hint at in short.
When great Cameron and those with him were taking many a cold blast and storm in
the fields and among the cot-houses in Scotland, these three had for the most
part their residence in Glasgow, where they found good quarter and a full table,
which I doubt not but some bestowed upon them from real affection to the Lord's
cause; and when these three were together, their greatest work was who should
make the finest and sharpest roundel, and breathe the quickest jests upon one
another, and to tell what valiant acts they were to do, and who could laugh
loudest and most heartily among them; and when at any time they came out to the
country, whatever other things they had, they were careful each of them to have
a great flask of brandy with them, which was very heavy to some, particularly to
Mr. Cameron, Mr. Cargill, and Henry Hall - I shall name no more.« - Faithful
Contendings, p. 198.
 
35 In Crichton's Memoirs, edited by Swift, where a particular account of this
remarkable person's dress and habit is given, he is said never to have worn
boots. The following account of his rencounter with John Paton of Meadowhead,
showed, that in action at least he wore pretty stout ones, unless the reader he
inclined to believe in the truth of his having a charm, which made him proof
against lead.
»Dalzell,« says Paton's biographer, »advanced the whole left wing of his army on
Colonel Wallace's right. Here Captain Paton behaved with great courage and
gallantry. Dalzell, knowing him in the former wars, advanced upon him himself,
thinking to take him prisoner. Upon his approach, each presented his pistol. On
their first discharge, Captain Paton perceiving his pistol-ball to hop upon
Dalzell's boots, and knowing what was the cause, (he having proof), put bis hand
in his pocket for some small pieces of silver he had there for the purpose, and
put one of them into his other pistol. But Dalzell, having his eye upon him in
the meanwhile, retired behind his own man, who by that means was slain.«
 
                            Dalzell's Proclamation.
 
I Generall Thomas Dalyell Lieutenant General of his Majesties Forces Doe
sincerely affirm and declare that I judge it unlawfull for subjects upon
pretence for Reformation or other pretences quatsoever to enter Leagues and
Covenants or to rise up in armes against the King or those commissionat by him;
and that all these gatherings, Convocations, Petitions, Protestations, erecting
and keeping of Councill tables that were used in the beginning and for carrying
on the late troubles were unlawfull and seditious and particularly these oathes
quherof the one is commonly called the Nationall Covenant (as it was sworne and
explained in the year 1638 and thereafter) and the other entituled a Solemn
League and Covenant, etc. etc.
At Edinburgh 1st May 1685.
                                                                        Dalyell.
 
36 This was the slogan or war-cry of the MacFarlanen, taken from a lake near the
head of Loch Lomond, in the centre of their ancient possessions on the western
banks of that beautiful inland sea.
 
37 This incident, and Burley's exclamation, are taken from the records.
 
38 The principal incident of the foregoing Chapter was suggested by an
occurrence of a similar kind, told me by a gentleman, now deceased, who held an
important situation in the Excise, to which he had been raised by active and
resolute exertions in an inferior department. When employed as a supervisor on
the coast of Galloway, at a time when the immunities of the Isle of Man rendered
smuggling almost universal in that district, this gentleman had the fortune to
offend highly several of the leaders in the contraband trade, by his zeal in
serving the revenue.
This rendered his situation a dangerous one, and, on more than one occasion,
placed his life in jeopardy. At one time in particular, as he was riding after
sunset on a summer evening, he came suddenly upon a gang of the most desperate
smugglers in that part of the country. They surrounded him, without violence,
but in such a manner as to show that it would be resorted to if he offered
resistance, and gave him to understand he must spend the evening with them,
since they had met so happily. The officer did not attempt opposition, but only
asked leave to send a country lad to tell his wife and family that he should be
detained later than he expected. As he had to charge the boy with this message
in the presence of the smugglers, he could found no hope of deliverance from it,
save what might arise from the sharpness of the lad's observation, and the
natural anxiety and affection of his wife. But if his errand should be delivered
and received literally, as he was conscious the smugglers expected, it was
likely that it might, by suspending alarm about his absence from home, postpone
all search after him till it might be useless. Making a merit of necessity,
therefore, he instructed and despatched his messenger, and went with the
contraband traders, with seeming willingness, to one of their ordinary haunts.
He sat down at table with them, and they began to drink and indulge themselves
in gross jokes, while, like Mirabel in the »Inconstant,« their prisoner had the
heavy task of receiving their insolence as wit, answering their insults with
good-humour, and withholding from them the opportunity which they sought of
engaging him in a quarrel, that they might have a pretence for misusing him. He
succeeded for some time, but soon became satisfied it was their purpose to
murder him outright, or else to beat him in such a manner as scarce to leave him
with life. A regard for the sanctity of the Sabbath evening, which still oddly
subsisted among these ferocious men, amidst their habitual violation of divine
and social law, prevented their commencing their intended cruelty until the
Sabbath should be terminated. They were sitting around their anxious prisoner,
muttering to each other words of terrible import, and watching the index of a
clock, which was shortly to strike the hour at which, in their apprehension,
murder would become lawful, when their intended victim heard a distant rustling
like the wind among withered leaves. It came nearer, and resembled the sound of
a brook in flood chafing within its banks; it came nearer yet, and was plainly
distinguished as the galloping of a party of horse. The absence of her husband,
and the account given by the boy of the suspicious appearance of those with whom
he had remained, had induced Mrs. -- to apply to the neighbouring town for a
party of dragoons, who thus providentially arrived in time to save him from
extreme violence, if not from actual destruction.
 
39 The author is uncertain whether this was ever said of Claverhouse. But it was
currently reported of Sir Robert Grierson of Lagg, another of the persecutors,
that a cup of wine placed in his hand turned to clotted blood.
 
40 David Hackston of Rathillet, who was wounded and made prisoner in the
skirmish of Air's-Moss, in which the celebrated Cameron fell, was, on entering
Edinburgh, »by order of the Council, received by the Magistrates at the
Watergate, and set on a horse's bare back with his face to the tail, and the
other three laid on a goad of iron, and carried up the street, Mr. Cameron's
head being on a halberd before them.«
 
41 Then the place of public execution.
 
42 The General is said to have struck one of the captive whigs, when under
examination, with the hilt of his sabre, so that the blood gushed out. The
provocation for this unmanly violence was, that the prisoner had called the
fierce veteran »a Muscovy beast, who used to roast men.« Dalzell had been long
in the Russian service which in those days was no school of humanity.
 
43 This was the reply actually made by James Mitchell (in 1676) when subjected
to the torture of the boot, for an attempt to assassinate Archbishop Sharp.
 
44 The pleasure of the Council respecting the relics of their victims was often
as savage as the rest of their conduct. The heads of the preachers were
frequently exposed on pikes between their two hands, the palms displayed as in
the attitude of prayer. When the celebrated Richard Cameron's head was exposed
in this manner, a spectator bore testimony to it as that of one who lived
praying and preaching, and died praying and fighting.
 
45 See a note on the subject of this office in the Heart of Mid-Lothian.
 
46 August 1674. Claverhouse greatly distinguished himself in this action, and
was made Captain.
 
47 This incident is taken from a story in the History and Reality of Apparitions
(London, 1728) written by Daniel Defoe, under the assumed name of Moreton. To
abridge the narrative, we are under the necessity of omitting many of those
particular circumstances which give the fictions of this most ingenious author
such a lively air of truth.
A gentleman married a lady of family and fortune, and had one son by her, after
which the lady died. The widower afterwards united himself in a second marriage;
and his wife proved such a very stepmother to the heir of the first marriage,
that, discontented with his situation, he left his father's house, and set out
on distant travels. His father heard from him occasionally, and the young man
for some time drew regularly for certain allowances which were settled upon him.
At length, owing to the instigation of his mother-in-law, one of his draughts
was refused, and the bill returned dishonoured.
After receiving this affront, the youth drew no bills, and wrote no more
letters, nor did his father know in what part of the world he was. The
stepmother seized the opportunity to represent the young man as deceased, and to
urge her husband to settle his estate anew upon her children, of whom she had
several. The father for a length of time positively refused to disinherit his
son, convinced as he was, in his own mind, that he was still alive.
At length, worn out by his wife's importunities, he agreed to execute the new
deeds, if his son did not return within a year.
During the interval, there were many violent disputes between the husband and
wife, upon the subject of the family settlements. In the midst of one of these
altercations, the lady was startled by seeing a hand at a casement of the
window; but as the iron hasps, according to the ancient fashion, fastened in the
inside, the hand seemed to essay the fastenings, and being unable to undo them,
was immediately withdrawn. The lady, forgetting the quarrel with her husband,
exclaimed that there was some one in the garden. The husband rushed out, but
could find no trace of an intruder, while the walls of the garden seemed to
render it impossible for any such to have made his escape. He therefore taxed
his wife with having fancied that which she supposed she saw. She maintained the
accuracy of her sight; on which her husband observed, that it must have been the
devil, who was apt to haunt those who had evil consciences. This tart remark
brought back the matrimonial dialogue to its original current. »It was no
devil,« said the lady, »but the ghost of your son come to tell you he is dead,
and that you may give your estate to your bastards, since you will not settle it
on the lawful heirs.« - »It was my son,« said he, »come to tell me that he is
alive, and ask you how you can be such a devil as to urge me to disinherit him;«
with that he started up and exclaimed, »Alexander, Alexander! if you are alive,
show yourself, and do not let me be insulted every day with being told you are
dead.«
At these words, the casement which the hand had been seen at, opened of itself,
and his son Alexander looked in with a full face, and, staring directly on the
mother, with an angry countenance, cried, »Here!« and then vanished in a moment.
The lady, though much frightened at the apparition, had wit enough to make it
serve her own purpose; for, as the spectre appeared at her husband's summons,
she made affidavit that he had a familiar spirit who appeared when he called it.
To escape from this discreditable charge, the poor husband agreed to make the
new settlement of the estate in the terms demanded by the unreasonable lady.
A meeting of friends was held for that purpose, the new deed was executed, and
the wife was about to cancel the former settlement by tearing the seal, when on
a sudden they heard a rushing noise in the parlour in which they sat, as if
something had come in at the door of the room which opened from the hall, and
then had gone through the room towards the garden-door, which was shut; they
were all surprised at it, for the sound was very distinct, but they saw nothing.
This rather interrupted the business of the meeting, but the persevering lady
brought them back to it. »I am not frightened,« said she, »not I. - Come,« said
she to her husband, haughtily, »I'll cancel the old writings if forty devils
were in the room;« with that she took up one of the deeds, and was about to tear
off the seal. But the double-ganger, or Eidolon, of Alexander, was as
pertinacious in guarding the rights of his principal, as his stepmother in
invading them.
The same moment she raised the paper to destroy it, the casement flew open,
though it was fast in the inside just as it was before, and the shadow of a body
was seen as standing in the garden without, the face looking into the room, and
staring directly at the woman with a stern and angry countenance. - »HOLD!« said
the spectre, as if speaking to the lady, and immediately closed the window and
vanished. After this second interruption, the new settlement was cancelled by
the consent of all concerned, and Alexander, in about four or five months after,
arrived from the East Indies, to which he had gone four years before from London
in a Portuguese ship. He could give no explanation of what had happened,
excepting that he dreamed his father had written him an angry letter,
threatening to disinherit him. - The History and Reality of Apparitions, chap.
viii.
 
48 The deeds of a man, or rather a monster, of this name, are recorded upon the
tombstone of one of those martyrs which it was Old Mortality's delight to
repair. I do not remember the name of the murdered person, but the circumstances
of the crime were so terrible to my childish imagination, that I am confident
the following copy of the epitaph will be found nearly correct, although I have
not seen the original for forty years at least: -
 
»This martyre was by Peter Inglis shot,
By birth a tiger rather than a Scot;
Who, that his hellish offspring might be seen,
Cut off his head, then kicked it o'er the green;
Thus was the head which was to wear the croun,
A foot-ball made by a profane dragoon.«
 
In Dundee's Letters, Captain Inglish, or Inglis, is repeatedly mentioned as
commanding a troop of horse.
 
49 The severity of persecution often drove the sufferers to hide themselves in
dens and caves of the earth, where they had not only to struggle with the real
dangers of damp, darkness, and famine, but were called upon, in their disordered
imaginations, to oppose the infernal powers by whom such caverns were believed
to be haunted. A very romantic scene of rocks, thickets, and cascades, called
Crichope Linn, on the estate of Closeburn (Dumfriesshire), is said to have been
the retreat of some of these enthusiasts, who judged it safer to face the
apparitions by which the place was thought to be haunted, than to expose
themselves to the rage of their mortal enemies.
Another remarkable encounter betwixt the Foul Fiend and the champions of the
Covenant, is preserved in certain rude rhymes, not yet forgotten in Ettrick
Forest. Two men, it is said, by name Halbert Dobson and David Dun, constructed
for themselves a place of refuge in a hidden ravine, of a very savage character,
by the side of a considerable waterfall, near the head of Moffat Water. Here,
concealed from human foes, they were assailed by Satan himself, who came upon
them grinning and making mouths, as if trying to frighten them, and disturb
their devotions. The wanderers, more incensed than astonished at this
supernatural visitation, assailed their ghostly visitor, buffeted him soundly
with their Bibles, and compelled him at length to change himself into the
resemblance of a pack of dried hides, in which shape he rolled down the cascade.
The shape which he assumed was probably designed to excite the cupidity of the
assailants, who, as Souters of Selkirk, might have been disposed to attempt
something to save a package of good leather. Thus,
 
»Hab Dab and David Din,
Dang the Deil ower Dabson's Linn.«
 
The popular verses recording this feat, to which Burns seems to have been
indebted for some hints in his »Address to the Deil,« may be found in the
Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. ii.
It cannot be matter of wonder to any one at all acquainted with human nature,
that superstition should have aggravated, by its horrors, the apprehensions to
which men of enthusiastic character were disposed by the gloomy haunts to which
they had fled for refuge.
 
50 The sword of Captain John Paton of Meadowhead, a Cameronian famous for his
personal prowess, bore testimony to his exertions in the cause of the Covenant,
and was typical of the oppression of the times. »This sword or short shabble« (
sciabla, Italian) »yet remains,« says Mr. Howie of Lochgoin. »It was then by his
progenitors« (meaning descendants, a rather unusual use of the word) »counted to
have twenty-eight gaps in its edge; which made them afterwards observe, that
there were just as many years in the time of the persecution as there were steps
or broken pieces in the edge thereof.« - Scottish Worthies, edit. 1797, p. 419.
The persecuted party, as their circumstances led to their placing a due and
sincere reliance on heaven, when earth was scarce permitted to bear them, fell
naturally into enthusiastic credulity, and, as they imagined, direct contention
with the powers of darkness, so they conceived some amongst them to be possessed
of a power of prediction, which, though they did not exactly call it inspired
prophecy, seems to have approached, in their opinion, very nearly to it. The
subject of these predictions was generally of a melancholy nature; for it is
during such times of blood and confusion that
 
»Pale-eyed prophets whisper fearful change.«
 
The celebrated Alexander Peden was haunted by the terrors of a French invasion,
and was often heard to exclaim, »Oh, the Monzies, the French Monzies« (for
Monsieurs, doubtless), »how they run! How long will they run! O Lord, cut their
houghs, and stay their running!« He afterwards declared, that French blood would
run thicker in the waters of Ayr and Clyde than ever did that of the
Highlandmen. Upon another occasion, he said he had been made to see the French
marching with their armies through the length and breadth of the land in the
blood of all ranks, up to the bridle-reins, and that for a burned, broken, and
buried covenant.
Gabriel Semple also prophesied. In passing by the house of Kenmure, to which
workmen were making some additions, he said, »Lads, you are very busy making and
repairing that house, but it will be burned like a crow's nest in a misty May
morning;« which accordingly came to pass, the house being burned by the English
forces in a cloudy May morning. Other instances might be added, but these are
enough to show the character of the people and times.
 
51 Gentle reader, I did request of mine honest friend Peter Proudfoot,
travelling merchant, known to many of this land for his faithful and just
dealings, as well in muslin and cambrics as in small wares, to procure me, on
his next peregrinations to that vicinage, a copy of the Epitaphion alluded to.
And, according to his report, which I see no ground to discredit, it runneth
thus: -
 
Here lyes ane saint to prelates surly,
Being John Balfour, sometime of Burley,
Who stirred up to vengeance take,
Tor Solemn League and Cov'nant's sake,
Upon the Magus-Moor in Fife,
Did take James Sharp the apostate's life;
By Dutchman's hands was hacked and shot,
Then drowned in Clyde near this saam spot.
 
The return of John Balfour of Kinloch, called Burley, to Scotland, as well as
his violent death in the manner described, is entirely fictitious. He was
wounded at Bothwell Bridge, when he uttered the execration transferred to the
text, not much in unison with his religious pretensions. He afterwards escaped
to Holland, where he found refuge, with other fugitives of that disturbed
period. His biographer seems simple enough to believe that he rose high in the
Prince of Orange's favour, and observes, »That having still a desire to be
avenged upon those who persecuted the Lord's cause and people in Scotland, it is
said he obtained liberty from the Prince for that purpose, but died at sea
before his arrival in Scotland; whereby that design was never accomplished, and
so the land was never cleansed by the blood of them who had shed innocent blood,
according to the law of the Lord, Gen. ix. 6, Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man
shall his blood be shed.« - Scottish Worthies, p. 522.
It was reserved for this historian to discover, that the moderation of King
William, and his prudent anxiety to prevent that perpetuating of factious
quarrels, which is called in modern times Reaction, were only adopted in
consequence of the death of John Balfour, called Burley.
The late Mr. Wemyss, of Wemyss Hall, in Fifeshire, succeeded to Balfour's
property in late times, and had several accounts, papers, articles of dress,
etc., which belonged to the old homicide.
His name seems still to exist in Holland or Flanders; for in the Brussels papers
of 28th July 1828, Lieutenant Colonel Balfour de Burleigh is named Commandant of
the troops of the King of the Netherlands in the West Indies.
