Part 18

Hector, I discovered, was a master of all the arts of agriculture. No task seemed too heavy for him, and never have I seen a man so proficient at shearing sheep or with such a subtle way of pacifying a querulous dog. Dogs, indeed, were one of the dangers that beset us, for more than once we spent the night at work on a farm which was in the occupation of the soldiery. If the farm dog had but given the alarm, we might have found ourselves surrounded and shot on the instant, or compelled to flee for our lives. But no dog ever barked at Hector. There was some indefinable understanding between him and the faithful creatures. A startled collie would raise its head and thrust forward its snout as though about to alarm the night, but, at a whisper from Hector, it would steal up to him and rub its head and shoulders in comradeship against his legs. This sympathy between himself and the dogs made for our safety, and there was something else which helped. Most of the troopers were creatures of the grossest superstition, thrilled with an uncanny dread of warlocks, witches, and all the evil spirits of the night. Their bloody deeds by day filled their nights with ghostly terrors, and more than once I have known them desert a farm--upon which they had descended to devour its substance like the locusts--headlong and in fear when they found that the "brownies" had been at work in the fields by night. To them it had become a place uncanny, and they would hastily take their departure, to the no small joy of the farmer's wife and her little children. To the children a visit of the "brownies" was a thing to be hailed with delight and shy amazement.

Once, after a heavy night's work, Hector and I were resting in the early dawn beneath a hedgerow ere we set out upon our long journey to the cave, when I heard the voices of children on the road. I looked through the hedge and saw a little boy leading his sister by the hand. They climbed upon the bars of the gate and surveyed the field before them. Then the quiet of the morning was broken by the shrill voice of the lad, who, pointing to the mown hay, shouted:

"Aggie, Aggie, the brownies ha'e been here," and, leaping down from the gate so quickly as to capsize his sister, who, awed by the mystery, did not burst into tears, he rushed along the road to the house calling at the top of his voice: "Oh, mither, mither, come and see. The brownies ha'e been working in the hay-field and the hay is a' cut. Oh, I wish my faither knew."

We waited till--at the urgent summons of her little son--the woman had walked down the road to the gate and had surveyed our handiwork. We saw her stoop, pick up her children, and kiss them fondly. Then she turned away that they might not see her tears, and, at the sight, our own hearts grew strangely full. We waited until she had taken her little ones home, and then we stole away.

"Puir lassie," said Hector, "puir lassie."

During the day I rarely ventured from the cave, though now and then Hector would fare forth in daylight on mysterious errands of his own. I suspected that he had some tryst to keep with the widow at Locharbriggs, but he did not take me into his confidence. But usually he and I were birds of the night. We were busy folk, and the minister was no less occupied. Messages would come to him mysteriously; how, I was never able to discover; but by some means he was kept informed not only as to the doings and welfare of his own flock, but as to the larger happenings throughout the whole country-side. He knew what men had been compelled to flee from their homes; which others had been haled to Edinburgh and put to torture in the hope that the persecutors might wring from them some confession. He knew the houses which had been touched by the hand of sorrow, and with no thought of self he would steal forth to offer what consolation he could. His quiet bravery impressed me deeply, and I found myself developing a lively admiration for him which rapidly grew into a warm affection.

He was a man of large scholarship; no bigoted fanatic, but a gentle and genial soul borne up perpetually by an invincible faith in the ultimate triumph of the cause for which he had already sacrificed so much, and for which, if need be, he was ready to sacrifice his all.

In little fragments I had from time to time told him my story. I finished it one night as we sat together outside our cave on the narrow ledge above the pool. There may have been some anger in my voice, or some bitterness in my words, for when my tale was ended he was silent for a time. Then he laid one of his hands upon my knee and with the other pointed to the stream as it poured through the gorge into the quietness of the pool.

"See," he said, "the water in turmoil catches no reflection of the sky, whereas the stars are mirrored every one on the quiet face of the pool. So it is with human hearts. Where bitterness and turmoil are there can be no reflection of the heart of God. It's the quiet heart which catches the light."

He said no more, but, ever since, when storms have risen in my soul I have remembered his words and the memory of them has stilled the passion within me.

When the nights were too rough for work in the fields, we would spend them in the cave together. And sometimes Hector, who had a subtle mind, would try to entangle the minister in the meshes of a theological argument, and I would sit amazed at the thrust and parry of wit against wit. These discussions usually ended in the defeat of Hector--though he would never admit it. More than once, at their conclusion, the minister would say:

"We must never forget this; theology is but man's poor endeavour to interpret the will of God towards humanity. It is not for me to belittle theology, but at the end of all things it will not count for much. It's the life of a man that counts; the life, and the faith that has illumined it. Theological points are but sign-posts at the cross-roads, and sometimes not even that. Faith is the lamp that shows the wayfaring man where to set his feet."

As the summer mellowed into early autumn, Hector began to grow restless. I ventured to suggest to him that he was heart-sick for love.

He laughed. "Maybe ye're richt," he said; "but ye dinna imagine that I ha'e managed to live a' these weeks withoot a sicht o' the widda. No, no, my lad."

"And how runs the course of love?" I asked.

"Man," he answered, "I'm gettin' on fine. I verily believe Virgil was wrang when he said 'Woman is a fickle jade.' The widda's no fickle at ony rate. D'ye ken she wears my kaim in her hair ilka day o' the week. It's the prood man I am."

"Then why this restlessness?" I asked.

He laughed as he replied: "Weel, to mak' a lang story short, I am hungerin' for the road. A man that has got the wander fever in his bluid can never be lang content in ae place. I'm bidin' wi' you a week or twa mair, for the time o' the hairst is at hand, but when we ha'e cut a wheen o' the riper fields I'll ha'e to leave ye for a bit. I'll be back inside twa months, and we'll settle doon then for the winter. And when I gang, dinna forget this, I'll keep my ears open for ony news o' what happened at Daldowie, and maybe when I come back I'll be able to tell ye hoo Mary deed."

The mention of Daldowie awoke in my heart a keen desire to accompany him, and I told him so.

"No, no," he said, "no' yet. By and by, if ye like. In the meantime yer duty lies here. You've got to look efter the minister. As ye weel ken, he's a feckless man at lookin' after himsel'. Forby, you'll ha'e work to dae. The hairst winna' be ower when I gang. So you'd best juist bide here."

His arguments were not weighty, but obviously he did not want my company and he had proved himself so good a friend that I shrank from offending him by insisting. So, reluctantly, I agreed to remain behind.

"You will take care," I said. "I fear that Lag has begun to suspect you, and you may run into danger unless you are wary."

He laughed as he replied: "Ah weel, as Horace said, '_Seu me tranquilla senectus expectat, seu mors atris circumvolat alis_' which ye can nae doot translate for yersel', but which means in this connection, that Hector will either see a peacefu' auld age by his ain fireside wi' the widda, or the black-winged corbies will pick his banes. Man, Horace has the richt word every time."

We did not discuss the matter of his departure again, but continued our nightly tasks in the fields. There was something peculiarly beautiful about our work at this time. The nights were short and never wholly dark. We would steal into a ripening field of corn in the twilight, when the purple shadows lay asleep among the golden grain. As the light of day gave place to the half-darkness of the night, the grain, pierced by the silver shafts of the moon, grew lustrous and shone like fairy jewels. I paused in wonder every time I bent to put my sickle between the tall blades. It seemed almost a sacrilege to cut down such things of beauty.

As the nights were short we could work only a few hours before the daylight came again; but always ere it came the slumbering earth was wakened by a burst of melody. When, in the east, one saw a little lightening of the grey shadows, as though a candle had been lit on the other side of some far off hill, one's ear would catch the sound of a bird's pipe, solitary at first and strangely alone. That first adventurous challenge would soon be answered from a myriad hidden throats. Far off, a cock would crow, and then on every side, from the heart of hidden lark and pipit, linnet and finch, a stream of melody would begin to flow over the field. The music increased in volume as bird after bird awoke from its sleep in hedge, and bush and tree, and the choir invisible poured its cataract of song into that empty hour that lies in the hand of time between the darkness and the dawn.

*CHAPTER XXXIII*

*THE GOING OF HECTOR*

September came with all its golden glory and each day Hector became more and more restless. When the month was half sped he left us. One morning on our way home to the cave after a busy night of harvesting he said:

"I'm gaun the nicht." And though I urged upon him that he could not have chosen a worse time, since we had many fields yet to cut, I failed to dissuade him from his purpose. "No," he said, "I can bide nae langer. The fever is in my bluid, and there's nae cure for it but the road."

When night came I accompanied him down the course of the linn and on to the high road. At the last he laid many injunctions upon me, the chief being to take care of our companion in the cave.

"He's a guid man," he said, "but a thochtless. I blame mysel' yet for the crack I gi'ed him on the heid. It seems tae ha'e left him a bit confused. Ye'll tak' care o' him."

When the moment of parting came he took off his bonnet, and gripping me fervently by the hand said:

"I'll be back ere lang, but if I dinna return, I should like ye noo and then to gie a kindly thocht to the memory o' the packman. Maybe I may find a grave under the open sky on the purple moorland; and if that be my lot and ye should be spared for happier days and can fin' the place where I lie, maybe ye'll see that my cairn is no' left withoot a name. But dinna be carvin' ony extravagant eulogy on the stane. Juist put the words 'Hector the packman.' That'll be enough for me--but it's the prood man I wad be, lying in the mools beneath, if ye wad add a line or twa o' Latin juist to let the unborn generations ken that I was a scholar. There are twa bit legends that come ready to my min'; ane is,

"Sciro potestates herbarum usumque medendi Maluit, et mutas agitare inglorius artes.

'He was skilly in the knowledge o' herbs and o' their healing powers, and wi' nae thocht o' higher glory he liked to practise that quiet art'--that's frae Virgil, as ye will nae doot remember an' of course refers to my salve. But there's anither word frae my auld frien' Horace; it's a fit epitaph for a man like me wha's life has never been what it micht ha'e been:

"... Amphora coepit Institui: currente rota cur urceus exit?

'The potter was minded to make a bonnie vessel; why does naething but a botchery come frae the running wheel?'"

Before I could make a fitting reply he dropped my hand and left me. I stood in the dusk watching him go. He glided into the shadows and soon he had become as incorporeal as one of them. With a sense of desolation upon me, I made for the field where my night's task awaited me, and laboured steadily till the dawn.

As I made my way back to the cave I could not help wondering where Hector might be.

There had been something almost ominous in the manner of his parting. Had he felt the shadow hovering over him?--or was his farewell and his reference to his possible death nothing more than an expression of his curiously sentimental nature?

I could not decide: but I trusted that his natural caution and his mother-wit, of which I knew something, would carry him safely through.

Consoling myself with this thought, I entered the wood and proceeded to make my way up the bed of the stream.

A week or two passed undisturbed by any eventful happening. Night after night I continued my work in the fields. More than once the minister joined me, lending me what aid he could. But his spirit was greater than his strength, and at last I had to ask him for his own sake, and for the sake of those who counted upon his ministrations, to reserve his energies for their own special work. Recognising his physical limitations, he took my advice.

"Maybe," he said, "you're right. Perhaps it was given to me to be a sower only, and not a harvester. The fields you are reaping were sown by other hands than yours, and mayhap the ripe fruit which in the good Providence of God may spring from the seed I have sown will be gathered by other hands than mine. But it matters little. The thing is to sow honestly and to reap faithfully, so that at the end of the day when we go home for our wages we may win the Master Harvester's 'Well done.'"

Even had he been physically capable of doing useful work in the fields, it would have been unfair to expect him to do it at this time. His days were already full. He was making preparations for a great Conventicle to be held among the Closeburn hills early in October. It was to be a very special occasion--a gathering together of all the faithful to unite in that simple love feast which has inspired with fresh courage and inflamed with new devotion men and women throughout the ages. It was a brave, a hazardous thing to venture on.

I was more than a little uplifted when he honoured me by asking me if I would care to be a sentinel.

His request touched me deeply, and I felt that Mary was smiling upon me with radiant eyes out of the unknown.

A few more days elapsed. Another Sunday came and went, the last before the great occasion. I had spent the day in the coolness of the cave, and the minister had been out about his spiritual duties. I stole out and sitting on the ledge above the pool sat dreaming in the twilight. Far off in the fields beyond the wood I heard a corncrake rasping out his raucous notes. There was a twitter of birds in the trees above me as they settled down to sleep.

As I sat there I was joined by Mr. Corsane, who came through the narrow defile below the pool. He looked weary and somewhat distraught; but though I surmised that some anxiety oppressed him, he did not offer to share it with me, so I held my peace. Soon he retired to rest and when midnight came I set off to my labours. I did not see him on my return to the cave in the morning, nor had he come back by evening when I left again. But when on the morning of Tuesday I came in sight of the pool, I discovered him waiting for me on the ledge outside the cave. He hailed me at once:

"I have been watching anxiously for your return. I am in sore perplexity."

"Can I help you, sir?" I asked.

"If I were younger," he replied, "and could perform the task myself, I would gladly do it; but it is past my power. It is an urgent matter--for it concerns the safety of one dear to me and very precious to the Cause."

"Command me," I exclaimed. "I am ready to do anything I can; only tell me how I may help."

"I have a friend in Edinburgh," he said, "Peter Burgess by name. His life is in danger. I must get a message to him ere Friday. Will you take it?"

"Gladly," I cried. "Trust me--and all the persecutors in Scotland shall not prevent me."

A smile flickered upon his face. "That is a reckless boast," he said. "But I trust you, and thank you."

"I am ready to start at once," I said.

"What?" he exclaimed. "Weary as you are!"

"Certainly," I answered, "one must needs haste. I'll have a plunge in the pool while you write your letter, and after a mouthful of food, I'll be off."

By the time I had bathed and eaten, his message was ready, and with a few last words of instruction I was about to set off. But he called me back.

"Have a care to your goings, my son. Be wary! be brave! I trust you will succeed in reaching my friend ere it is too late; but you cannot be back in time for the great Assembly on Sabbath. I shall miss you."

He raised his hand in blessing, and, secreting the letter about me, I turned, and was gone.

*CHAPTER XXXIV*

*THE FLIGHT OF PETER BURGESS*

When night fell I was far away among the hills. I had made good progress and was well content. I should accomplish the journey in good time--of that I was confident--so I crawled into a bed of heather and slept soundly.

In the early morning I was awakened by the call of the moor birds. Before starting on my journey again, I thought it wise to secrete the letter with greater care, so I took off one of my shoes, and, making a hollow in the heel, folded the letter tightly and placed it there. Then I took to the road again.

I had hoped to reach Edinburgh by noon on Thursday, but when I came in sight of the city it was past five o'clock. The journey had proved more arduous than I expected; but I was still in time. The last long mile accomplished, I reached the city. The moon had risen, and as I swung round beneath the grey shadow of Holyrood I caught a glimpse of the noble brow of Arthur's Seat towering high behind it. I passed the guard of soldiers at the Canongate without challenge, for, apparently, they saw in me nothing more than a travel-stained and dusty wanderer--some gangrel body.

I did not wish to draw suspicion upon myself by asking anyone to direct me to Halkerstone Wynd where Peter Burgess dwelt. But, meeting a boy, I stopped him to ask where I could find the Tron Kirk, which Mr. Corsane had given me as a landmark. His reply was explicit enough, if somewhat rude. "Follow yer nose," he said, "and ye'll be there in five meenutes," which I took to mean that I was to continue my journey up the hill. Very shortly a large church came into view, and as it took shape in the moonlight a clock in its tower struck ten. I counted the strokes, and, turning, retraced my steps and found at no great distance from the Church, as the minister had told me, the Wynd which I sought. The minister had given me careful instructions, so that when I entered the Wynd I had no difficulty in finding the house in which his friend lived. The outer door stood open, and I entered, passing at once into the confusion of darkness; but I had learned from Hector the wisdom of carrying a candle in one's pocket, and lighting it, I looked around me. I knew that I should find Peter Burgess on the top floor of the house, so, shading the candle with one hand, I began the ascent. Up, and up and up, in never ceasing spirals wound the stair. To me, weary with my journey, it seemed interminable. Between two of its flights I paused, and leaning over the balustrade looked downwards. A chasm, black as pitch and unfathomable to my straining eyes, gaped below me. After a moment's rest I continued my ascent, and by and by, breathless, I came to the top. An oaken door barred my further progress. An iron knocker, shaped like a lady's hand, hung gracefully upon its middle beam. I remember that as I seized it to knock, I held it for a second while I looked at the delicate metal filigree of lace that adorned the wrist. Then I knocked three times--first gently, then more firmly and, as no answer came, more loudly still. At last I heard movements on the other side, and in the flickering candle-light I saw a little peep-hole open, and a voice said "Who is it?" I bent my head to the tiny aperture and said in a whisper "Naphthali," the password I had been told to use. Instantly the peep-hole was closed, and the door was thrown open. "Enter and welcome," said the voice, and I needed no second invitation. I found myself in a narrow passage at the end of which was a room through whose open door a light shone. The man who had admitted me closed and barred the door and then led the way to the room. Then turning to me he said:

"To what do I owe this late visit?"

"I bring," I replied, "a message from a friend, but before I give it to you I must know who you are."

He went to a bookcase that stood against one of the walls and from it withdrew a little calf-bound volume. Opening it he pointed to the book-plate within.

On the scroll I read the legend "Ex libris Petri Burgess," and I saw that the book was a copy of Rutherford's _Lex Rex_. I sat down at once on a high-backed oak chair, and, taking off my shoe, found the letter and handed it to him. He took it with a grave bow, and, breaking its seal, sat down at the black-oak table in the centre of the room.

As he did so, I looked about me. The room was furnished with considerable taste and was lit by two candles which stood in silver candlesticks on the table. Between the candlesticks lay a sheet of paper. Beside them stood an ink-horn and a little bowl of sand in which was a small bone spoon. The light was somewhat uncertain, and to read with greater ease he drew one of the candlesticks nearer to him.

When he had read the letter through, he sat in a fit of meditation, beating a gentle tattoo with the fingers of his left hand upon the top of the table. He read it again, and went towards the fireplace where he tore the missive into tiny pieces and dropped them into the fire. Then he came back to the table.

"Forgive," he said, "my seeming lack of hospitality; you must be worn out and famished. Let me offer you some refreshment."

I thanked him heartily, and in a few minutes he had set food and wine before me.

He joined me in the repast, and as we sat at the table I had an opportunity of studying him with some care. I judged him to be a man over sixty. His face was refined and the delicate line of his mouth which his beard did not conceal bespoke a sensitive nature. He treated me with a courtly grace, asked interestedly as to my journey, and inquired earnestly as to the progress of the Cause in the South. I told him all I knew, and when he heard from my lips how Mr. Corsane, though evicted from his Church, still regarded himself as the shepherd of his people and was constant in his devotion and instant in his service to them, he said:

"Good! good! But how he must have suffered! As for me," he continued, "I have no cave in which to take refuge, so I must steal away like a thief in the night. Please God, ere morning I may find a boat in which to escape to the Low Countries. But you must have bed and lodging; and ere I leave the city I shall see you safely housed with a friend in the Lawn Market."

When our meal was over my host pushed back his chair and said:

"Now I must go." He went to the bookcase, and taking from it two or three volumes put them in the pockets of his coat. Turning to me with a smile, he said: "A fugitive had best go unencumbered; but I should be lost without a book."