Part 14

The road upon which we found ourselves wound gently, under the cover of far-stretching trees, by the side of a beautiful loch. On the other side of the road the ground rose steeply up to the summit of a heather-clad hill. Suddenly through a break in the green trees we had a vision of the loch. Its waters lay blue and sparkling in the sunlight. Far off we could see undulating pastures, and beyond them a belt of trees in early foliage. As we stood feasting our eyes the packman exclaimed:

"Noo there's a pictur' that Virgil micht ha'e done justice to. It's a bit ootside the range o' Horace, but I'm thinkin' Virgil wi' his e'e for a bonnie bit could ha'e written it up weel."

"It's a bonnie place the world," he continued, "fu' o' queer things, but to my thinkin' the queerest o' them a' is man, though maybe woman is queerer. Now there's the widda at Locharbriggs; onybody would think that a woman would be proud to be wife to Hector the packman--a scholar and the discoverer o' a magical salve, wha' some day may ha'e a handle to his name, forby maybe a title frae the King himsel'; but will ye believe me, though I ha'e speired at her four times, I ha'e got nae further forrit wi' her than a promise that she'll think aboot it."

I expressed sympathy and due surprise, and my answer pleased him, for he said: "Man, I'm glad I met ye. Ye're a lad o' sense, and wi' some pairts as weel, for ye ha'e the Latin."

For a time we walked in silence.

Soon we had left the pleasant loch behind us and the road wound in the distance before us. To our left the land was low lying, with here and there a clump of trees. To our right a lower range of hills stretched away to end in a great blue mass that dominated our horizon.

"That's Criffel," he said, pointing to the hill, "and juist at its foot nestles the Abbey o' the Sweet Heart. I ha'e little doot that doon in the village I'll sell a chap-book or twa. Sic trash they are. I maun lay masel' on and get that book o' mine begun."

He was talking on, good-humouredly, when suddenly a shrill cry for help came from a clump of trees on our left. Startled I rushed forward. I reached the edge of the copse and peered in, but could see nothing. The cry came again, with an added note of agony; and, heedless of danger, I rushed into the wood in the direction from which it proceeded. The packman had apparently stayed behind me, for he was no longer by my side. Making what speed I could among the clustering trees, I hurried on. Suddenly I heard footsteps racing behind me. I turned. Close behind me was the fast-running figure of a man. At a first glance I thought it was the packman, but as he rushed past me I saw that this was a beardless man sound in both legs. I could not imagine where he came from, and yet his clothing was strangely like that of my recent companion. I followed the rushing figure and saw that in his hand was a stout stick. Then through between the tree-trunks I saw the cause of the alarm. In an open space in the heart of the wood were four troopers in grey uniform, and I knew that I was about to burst upon some scene of devilry. A few steps more, and I saw a girl tied to a tree. About her stood the troopers. Two of them were holding one of her arms with her hand outstretched: the other two were busy lighting a long match. From the agonising scream I had heard, I knew that the torture had already been once applied. I could see the little spurt of flame as the match flared up, and as I dashed forward my ears were alert to hear her cry of pain. But deliverance was at hand. Into the open space leaped the man who had passed me. His stick swung in the air. Strongly and surely it fell on the temple of the nearest soldier, who dropped like an ox, bringing down a comrade in his fall.

Startled, the others sprang aside, but they were too slow. Twice, with lightning speed, the stick rose and twice it fell, and two more troopers went down. I quickened my pace. The trooper who had been knocked down by the fall of the first soldier sprang to his feet, and flung himself upon the man. Taken from behind he was at a disadvantage and the soldier, lifting him with a mighty effort, hurled him to the ground. Ere he could draw his pistol, I was upon him. My clenched fist caught him full on the chin, and he crashed on his back and lay breathing stertorously.

"A bonnie blow, lad! I couldna ha'e done it better mysel'," cried the stranger.

While I turned to the terrified girl and severed the cords that bound her to the tree, the stranger was kneeling beside the soldiers.

"They're no deid, nane o' them, worse luck! and it will be a wee while before the three o' them that felt the wecht o' my cudgel will come tae, but the fourth would be nane the waur o' a langer sleep," and swinging his stick he struck the recumbent figure a sickening thud upon the side of the head. "That's the proper medicine to keep him quate."

I had been so absorbed in his doings that I had turned my back upon the girl, and when I looked for her again she was nowhere to be seen. When my companion saw that she had gone, he shook his head gravely, saying:

"What was I tellin' ye? Arena women the queerest things on God's earth?"

I looked at him in astonishment; it was Hector after all!

"Good heavens, it's you!" I exclaimed.

"Ay," he replied with a smile, half-closing his left eye: "But haud your wheesht. As the Latin has it: '_Non omnes dormiunt qui clausos habent oculos._' A trooper can sleep wi' an e'e open. Tak tent, but lend me a haun'."

From one of his pockets he produced a roll of tarred twine. Quickly cutting lengths from it, he tied the feet of the unconscious men, whom we dragged and laid starwise, on their backs, round one of the tree-trunks. He pulled the arms of each above their heads and brought them round the tree as far as possible, tying a cord firmly round their wrists, and carrying it round the bole. The skill he displayed amazed me. Long after they should regain consciousness they would have to struggle hard before they would be able to free themselves. I felt some satisfaction as I thought of their plight. When he had finished his work he surveyed each severely, laying his hand upon their hearts.

"No, there is no' ane o' them deid. They'll a' come tae by and by. But I'm thinkin' they'll be sair muddled. Come awa', lad."

"Let us look for the girl first," I suggested.

"Na, na," said he. "By this time the lassie, wha nae doot can rin like a hare, is half road to Kirkbean. Now if it had been the widda--but that's a different story."

Together we made our way to the edge of the copse. Just inside it I discovered the discarded pack, and beside it the wooden leg and long grey beard.

As my companion adjusted the wooden stump to his knee, he said: "Ay, sic ploys are terribly sair on a rheumatic knee." Then he proceeded to put on his beard, producing from one of his pockets a little phial of adhesive stuff with which he smeared his face. I watched, with an ill-concealed smile. "Noo," he said, "did ye ever see onything cleaner or bonnier? I'm a man o' peace, but when I'm roused I'm a deevil. Juist ae clout apiece, and they fell like pole-axed stirks--the three o' them. Bonnie clouts, were they no'?"

I assured him that I had never seen foes so formidable vanquished so rapidly and completely.

"Ye're a lad o' sense," he said; "that wasna' a bad clout ye hit the last o' them yersel'; but he needed a wee tap frae my stick to feenish him. I like a clean job. Come on," and swinging his pack on to his shoulder he led the way to the road.

The afternoon was drawing to a close when the village of New Abbey appeared in sight. Criffel now stood before us, a great mountain, heather clad and beautiful, like a sentinel above the little township. By the side of the stream, which divided our path from the village, we stopped, and Hector putting down his pack and taking off his coat proceeded to wash his face and hands. Nothing loth I followed suit.

As he was about to hoist his pack on to his shoulder again, he picked up his stick, and handing it to me said: "Feel the wecht o' that." I took it and found it strangely heavy. "It's loaded, ye see," he said--"three and a half ounces o' guid lead let into the heid o't. Juist three and a half ounces--fower is ower muckle; three would be ower little--and ye saw for yersel' what it can dae. A trusty frien', I can tell ye. Naebody kens it's loaded but me and you and the Almichty, forby a wheen sodgers that ha'e felt the wecht o't. I ca' it 'Trusty.' Come on," and, slipping the weighted head of the stick through the strap, he swung the pack on to his shoulders and we made for the village.

When we came to the inn the packman led the way through a flagged passage into a garden at the back. There, underneath a pear-tree, stood a green-painted bench with a table before it. Laying his pack upon the end of the bench, he sat down and pushed his bonnet back; I seated myself beside him.

"Noo," he said, "we maun ha'e something to eat. What will ye ha'e?"

Not knowing what might be available, I hesitated. Guessing the cause of my hesitation, he said: "Dinna be feared: it's a guid meat-hoose and its 'tippenny' is the best in the country-side. As for me, I'm for a pint o' 'tippenny,' and a fry o' ham and eggs. The King himsel' couldna dae better than that."

As he spoke a young girl had come through the door and now stood before us.

"What ha'e ye got for twa tired travellers?" asked Hector. "We want the best; we're worthy o't, and quite able to pay for it forby."

As the packman had foretold, ham and eggs were forthcoming; and having given our order Hector produced his pipe and proceeded to fill it.

When it was drawing satisfactorily he proceeded to point out the beauties of the scene. To the right were visible great grey walls, moss-grown in places, with here and there a bush springing among their ruins.

"That," he said, "is part o' the wall o' the old Abbey. There," pointing to the right, "is a' that remains o' the Abbey itsel'. By and by we'll gang and tak' a look at it."

Soon the girl returned with our food. When we had finished our meal Hector said:

"And noo I maun go and see my frien' the miller. Meantime, I'll leave you in chairge o' the pack, and if onybody should want to buy, you can mak' the sale. I hope ye'll prove yersel' a guid packman,"--with which he stumped off.

In a moment or two the girl came to clear the table. When she had done so, she returned, and looking at me half shyly, said: "Are ye a packman tae?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Oh," she said, "then I wonder if ye ha'e sic a thing as a dream-book in your pack?" I opened the pack, and spread its contents before her. "No, I dinna want onything else but a dream-book," she said. I found one, and, lifting a corner of her apron, she produced a penny which she laid upon the table, and with a finger already between the pages of the book disappeared into the inn.

Left to myself, I drifted into a reverie. Love--the love of a man for a woman, and the love of a woman for a man--seemed the greatest thing on the earth. The packman with his loved one at Locharbriggs; this tavern maid with her sweetheart--for did not her desire for a dream-book tell me that she had a lover--were all under its spell. I, too, had my memories of love,--memories of infinite tenderness--bitter--sweet--torn by tragedy. I tried to banish such thoughts from nay mind, for they brought naught but pain, but, try how I might, I found they would return. Nor was it to be wondered at, for at that moment I was within a stone's throw of Devorgilla's monument to her own enduring affection. I was within sight of the place where her haunting love-story had seen its fulfilment. Within the hoary walls of that great fane Devorgilla was sleeping her eternal sleep with the heart of her husband upon her breast. Yes, of a truth was it well said: "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it." Hector would go to the widow, the tavern maid would dream of her lover, while for me, love was nothing but a memory. But what a memory! I was conscious of Mary's presence--her spirit seemed to enfold me in the warm breath of the evening. I almost felt her kiss upon my cheek. Never before, since that day when we had parted upon the moors, had she seemed so near. I slipped my hand into my pocket and caressed the fragment of her ring. I drew it out and pressed it to my lips, and as I did so I heard the stumping footsteps of the packman. Quickly I slipped the ring out of sight and looked towards the door.

Hector came through, carrying a tankard of ale in each hand.

"Drouthy work, carryin' the pack," he said. "Ha'e ye sold onything while I ha'e been away?"

"Only a dream-book to the little maid," I answered.

"Sic trash," he groaned, "sic trash, but they will ha'e them. But wait a bit; I'm gaun to lay masel' on in the back end o' the year. Did ye no' try to sell a pot o' salve?" I confessed that I had not. "Man," he said, "ye'll no' mak' a guid packman. I could aye sell a pot o' the balm to a lassie that buys a dream-book. But come on: the licht's juist richt for seein' the Abbey at its best."

*CHAPTER XXVII*

*ON THE ROAD TO DUMFRIES*

We drank our ale, and leaving the Inn turned into the precincts of the Abbey, where for the first time I had an opportunity of gazing upon its ruined splendour. Rarely have I seen such beauty in decay--the mellow light of the evening lending to the red sandstone of the aisles, the choir and the great square tower a rosy hue that made them singularly beautiful. The packman led the way and halted before a richly ornate stone that rested on a pedestal below the great Gothic window. He took his bonnet off reverently and I followed suit, and together we stood in silence. "She lies here," he said, with a break in his voice, and when I looked at him there were tears in his eyes. He sighed as though the stone covered the remains of someone very dear to him. I knew what was in his mind. This brave follower of the open road, this deliverer of maidens in distress, this egotistical packman, and self-styled scholar was an incorrigible sentimentalist. He was thinking, I knew, of Devorgilla's beautiful devotion to her husband, but the widow at Locharbriggs was in his thoughts as well. He turned and laid a hand upon my arm as he donned his bonnet.

"Whaur are ye sleepin' the nicht?" he asked.

The question surprised me, for I had taken it for granted that we should stay at the village inn. "I suppose," I said, "that I can get a bed in the tavern."

"Nae doot, nae doot," he said, "if so you like, but I never sleep in a bed when I'm oot on the road. It's safer to sleep in the open, especially when ye wear a wooden leg that ye dinna exactly need. Folks are inquisitive. Come awa back to the inn wi' me. You can sleep there if ye like, but I'll come back here. It'll no' be the first time I ha'e slept by the graveside o' Devorgilla."

We returned to the inn where I had no difficulty in procuring a bed. Hector shouldered his pack and took his way back to the Abbey, but he was up betimes and was hammering at my door with his heavy-headed stick before I was awake. We breakfasted and set out for Dumfries.

Hector had lit his pipe and trudged along beside me in silence. Left to my own thoughts, I began to study him. Since we had joined company, he had shown several phases of character difficult to reconcile. In the presence of Sir Thomas Dalzell he had seemed to be an avowed enemy of the Covenanters, yet, when Dalzell and his troopers were at a safe distance, he had displayed contempt and bitter hatred for them. Then there was the attack on the soldiers in the little copse by the roadside on our way to New Abbey. What was he? Was the calling of a packman, like his false beard and his unnecessary wooden-leg, merely a mask? I was puzzled, but I determined that ere our journey should come to an end I would do my utmost to unravel his secret.

When the packman's pipe was empty he returned it to his pocket and broke into song. The mood of sentiment was upon him, and he sang a quaint old song of unrequited love. I failed to make out the words; but I heard enough to know that he was thinking, as always, of the widow.

About an hour after leaving the village we came to the end of a long ascent.

"It's been a stiff clim'," said the packman, "we'd better sit doon and rest a wee." He threw off his pack and we sat down upon some rising ground by the roadside. For a time I sat and drank in the beauty which spread itself before me, but my reverie was disturbed by Hector, who laid his hand upon my knee and said, "I want to talk to you." All attention, I turned towards him, but he was slow to begin. Patiently I waited, and then, half turning so that he looked me straight in the face with his piercing right eye wide open, his left half shut, he said:

"Nae doot ye're puzzled aboot me." I wondered whether he had been able to read the thoughts that had flitted through my mind as we climbed the hill from New Abbey. "I think it is only richt," he continued, "that before we gang ony further, I should mak' masel' clear to you. Maybe when I ha'e opened my heart to you, you'll tell me something aboot yersel' for, if I ha'e kept my counsel, so ha'e you. Rale frien'ship maun be built on mutual confidence; withoot that, frien'ship is naething mair than a hoose o' cairds. Ye ken already that I am no' a'thegither what I seem. I'd better begin at the beginnin'. I'm an Ayrshire man, articled in my youth to the Law and at ae time a student o' Glasgow College; an' lang syne, when my blood was hot and I was fu' o' ideals, I threw in my lot wi' the Covenanters. And I've suffered for it." He pushed down the rig-and-fur stocking on his left leg. "Look at that," he said. I looked, and saw, where the skin ran over the bone, a long, ugly brown scar. "Ye'll no' ken what that means?" I shook my head. "Weel," he said, "that's what the persecutors did for me. I've had 'the boot' on that leg, and until my dying day I'll carry the mark. But I'm no' what they ca' a guid Covenanter. I'm a queer mixture, as maybe you yersel' ha'e already noticed. I canna say that I'm a religious man, and though my heart is wi' the lads that are ready to dee for the Covenant, I fear that I masel' lack grace. Hooever, that's by the way. Lang years sin' I cam' to this country-side whaur naebody knew me, as a packman wi' a tree-leg, and as such I am kent to maist o' my acquaintances. Wi' my pack on my shoulder I wander through the country-side back and forrit frae Dumfries to Portpatrick, and frae Portpatrick back again to the Nith, wi' chap-books, and ribbons, and pots o' salve, but a' the while I keep my e'en and my ears open. I get to ken the movements o' the troopers, and I hear tell in the hooses o' the Covenanters o' comin' hill-meetings and sic-like, and mony a time I ha'e been able to drop a hint in the richt place that has brocht to nought some crafty scheme o' the persecutors and saved the life o' mair than ane hill-man. If ye like to put it that way, I rin wi' the hare and hunt wi' the hounds. I'm hand in glove, to a' ootward seeming, wi' the persecutors themselves. I foregather wi' sodgers in roadside inns, and it's marvellous hoo a pint or twa o' 'tippenny' and a truss o' Virginia weed will loosen their tongues and gaur them talk. I've listened quately, and mony a time I've let fa' a remark that mak's them believe that a' my sympathies are wi' them and that I'm no' in wi' the Covenanters ava. As a matter o' solid fact, I am sae weel thocht o' by men sic as Sir Robert Grier, Dalzell himsel' and Claver'se, that mair than aince I ha'e been sent by them on special commissions to find things oot; and I've come back and I've tellt them what they wanted to ken, and riding hell for leather they've gane off wi' their dragoons to some wee thackit cottage on the moors. But they've never caught the bird they were after. Somebody--maybe it was me, I'm no' sayin'--had drapped a timely warnin'; and though I tellt the persecutors nae lee, I ha'e mair than aince gi'en them cause to remember that truth lies at the bottom o' a very deep well. That's my story. I'm a spy, if ye like--an ugly word, but I ha'e na man's blood upon my haun's or on my conscience. And it's dangerous wark, as you may weel ken. Some day ane or other o' my schemes will gang agley, and the heid and haun's, and maybe the tree-leg as weel, o' Hector the packman will decorate a spike on Devorgilla's brig at Dumfries. I wadna muckle mind; for life is sometimes a weary darg, but I'd like, afore that day comes, tae ha'e feenished my _magnum opus_. I maun really lay masel' on and get it begun. It would be a monument by which I micht be remembered.

"Sometimes as I walk my lane alang the roads I think o' things. Here and there I come across a wee mound on the moorland, or maybe by the roadside, and I ken it covers the body o' some brave man wha has died for his faith. Desolate, lonely, and scattered cairns they are. And then I think, that though this is the day o' the persecutors, and though they be set in great power, a day is comin' when a' their glory will be brocht to naething. By and by Grier o' Lag, Dalzell and Claver'se, and a' the rest o' them will pay the debt to Nature, and nae doot they will be buried wi' muckle pomp and circumstance, and great monuments o' carved stane will be set abune them. But in time to come, I'm thinkin', it will no' be their tombs that will be held in reverence, but the lonely graves scattered aboot the purple moors and the blue hills. It's them that will be treasured for ever as a precious heritage. We're a religious folk in Scotland, or at least we get that name--but religion or no', we love liberty wi' every fibre o' oor being, and in days to come, generations yet unborn, wha may be unable to understaun the faith for which the hill-men died, will honour them because they were ready to lay doon their lives in defiance o' a tyrant king. Noo," he said, letting his eyes fall, "ye ken a' aboot me that there's ony need to ken, and it's for ye to say whether we pairt company here or whether we gang on thegither." He drew out his pipe and proceeded to fill it.

For a moment I was at a loss. Was he seeking to entrap me into an open declaration of sympathy with the Covenanters; or was he telling the truth? His confession had been an absolutely open one, so open that if my sympathies were with the persecutors he had placed himself completely in my hands. He had looked me straight in the face with one piercing eye as though to read my soul, while the other was half veiled as though to hide his own. But his voice had rung with fervour as he spoke of the lone graves of the hill-men, and I remembered the fight in the wood. He must have spoken the truth; so I took courage and without further delay told him my story. He listened attentively, and when I had finished he said:

"Ay, the auld packman is richt again. I thocht aboot ye last nicht. Man, I can read fowk like a coont on a slate, and I'm richt gled to hear frae your ain lips, what I had already guessed, that you're for the Cause. If I had thocht onything else, I wu'd ha'e held my tongue."

*CHAPTER XXVIII*

*FOR THE SWEET SAKE OF MARY*

When with characteristic self-satisfaction the packman had extolled his own intelligence, he lapsed into silence. As for me, the telling of my tale had reawakened so many sad memories that for a time I sat gazing before me, unable through my tears to see the other side of the road. Hector knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and sighed.