Part 20

"Oh, I'll be a' richt," she said, leading the way to the other room. "My man will be back in an 'oor. Tie me in a chair--and gag me: and I'll tell a bonnie story when Peter comes hame."

I did her bidding quickly, pouring out my gratitude with fervent lips.

As I was about to gag her with her kerchief, she forbade me for a moment, and said with tears in her eyes:

"God forgi'e me! My mither was a Covenanter--an'--I mairrit a trooper."

I bent down reverently and kissed her bound hands.

"You have done a greater service to the Covenant than you know," I said, then springing up I dashed from the house into the gathering darkness.

I had lost two precious hours--but by the mercy of God I was still alive, and I should carry my message through.

I raced down the slope to the road, and turned my face to the long ascent. The wind had abated, and I could make better progress. The cold air stung my burnt arm, but as I set my mind to my task the pain ceased to trouble me.

With hope still rising within me I struggled on--breaking into a steady, mechanical trot. As the woman had said, the road was very bad, but, after my strange deliverance from death, nothing could daunt me, and I fought my way on. The stars were looking down upon me now, and I looked up at them with a grateful heart. At last I reached the top of the hill, and the long descent lay before me. I paused for a moment to regain my breath, and saw far below me that tender light which always hangs in the sky, when night comes, above the habitations of men, and I knew that I was looking down on Moffat. As though the light were a beacon which beckoned me, I started to run down-hill.

My stiff limbs warmed to their work and soon I was running with some freedom. On and on ... splashing through the pools of water that lay in the path, with eyes strained ever towards the gleam in the sky; on, and on ... with clenched teeth and parted lips through which my hurrying breath issued with the poignant sound of a sob. On, and on ... the rhythmic sound of my footsteps throbbing through my brain. Faster now, for the light was drawing nearer; on, and on ... till just without the confines of the little town I turned to the right lest the sound of my racing feet should awake suspicion. Skirting the township cautiously, I came out upon the road again beyond it.

On, and on ... fear and desire lending speed to my feet; and behind me the town clock striking ten. God help me!--a score of miles still lay before me; had I strength to accomplish the task? The perspiration broke out upon me, and for very weariness I reeled as I ran. At last I came to the place where I must leave the highway and take to the open country. It was harder going thus, but the way was more direct and every moment was precious. On, and on ... until my mind divorced itself from my body, and in a mood of abstraction contemplated the running figure alongside which it sailed so easily. On, and on ... the mind holding itself aloof and regarding with a kind of pity the struggles of the tired body that was plunging headlong across the fields. Suddenly I was conscious that something other than myself was running along beside me ... keeping step with my step, measuring its paces with my paces, neck and neck with me. What ghostly companion was this? I looked to the right and left but saw nothing, and, as I looked, the sound of the attendant footsteps ceased and I heard nothing but the tick-tack of my own feet. On, and on ... crashing through the hedges, leaping over the low dykes, stumbling in the ruts of the ploughed fields, wading the little streams, ... still I pressed on. I was panting wildly now, so that my breath whistled as the wind whistles through a keyhole in winter. Nothing mattered: come life, come death, I should carry the tidings through. Once more the ghostly feet were audible, keeping time with my own--pit-pat, pit-pat, step for step. I flung my arms to right and left, but they touched vacancy, and the ghostly footsteps ceased. On, and on, ... until a heavy languor stole over me and filled me with the hunger of sleep. My eyelids drooped, so that for an instant I did not see the ground before me, and I stumbled and almost fell. I sprang erect and shook myself. Sleep meant death--not for myself, but for thousands of others who had grown to be dear to me, and on and on I ran. But the things that a man would do are conditioned by the strength which God has given him, and the body, though an obedient slave to the mind, sometimes becomes a tyrant. My limbs were heavy--no longer things of flesh and blood, but compact of lead. On, and on ... knowing nothing now but that my task was a sacred one, deaf to the sound of my own footsteps, blind to the things around me, on and on I reeled till sleep or something akin to it, seized me, and for a time I raced on unconscious of what I did. Stumbling, I fell to spring up again wildly alert. I should win through or die! On and on--and on and on ... till I sank helpless to the ground.

I slept: I dreamed:--

It was a peaceful Sabbath day. In a hollow among the hills above Closeburn a great gathering of men and women and children was assembled to keep the feast. On a low table covered with a fair white cloth stood the sacred elements. Behind the table I saw my friend of the cave at the Linn standing with a look of rapture on his face. The gathered people were singing a psalm, when, suddenly, there was a loud alarm. The posted sentinels came hot-foot with cruel tidings on their lips. But it was too late. From north and south and east and west, on horses at the gallop, poured the dragoons--Claver'se's men, Lag's men, Winram's men, Dalzell's men, all with the blood-lust in their eyes--and in a moment that peaceful hollow was a bloody shambles. Muskets rattled on every side; men, women and children fell. Through and through that defenceless company the wild troopers rode, spurring their horses to their sickening task, trampling the women and children underfoot, shooting the men with their bullets or beating them down with the stocks of their muskets. Screams and wild blasphemy rent the air that but a moment before had been fragrant with the melodies of love and adoration. Lag himself I saw spur his charger over a tangled mass of dead and dying right at the sacred table. The horse leaped, spurning to the ground the Bread and Wine, and the man of blood, swinging his sword high, brought it down upon the head of the sainted minister, who fell cleft to the chin. And I, by whose failure such deeds of blood had been made possible, lay bound, a prisoner, hand and foot.

*CHAPTER XXXVII*

*"OUT OF THE SNARE OF THE FOWLERS"*

A blaze of light as though the sun had sprung full armoured to the height of heaven smote upon my eyes. I opened them, but in that brilliant glare I could see nothing, though I heard voices about me:

"Wha' think ye he can be?"

"He hasna got a kent face," a woman's voice replied. "Some puir gangrel body nae doot. But what can he be daein' off the high road?"

I let the light filter through a chink between my eyelids, and when I could bear its full brightness I opened them and looked around me. A little group of five people bent over me--an old man, holding a lantern, an old woman, and three young men whom I took to be their sons.

As I looked round there came to me out of the depths some memory of the happenings of the night. I wondered dimly if the tragedy of which I had been witness were reality, or dream. Who could these people be? Were they some chance Samaritans who had come upon me bound hand and foot, and delivered me from the hands of the persecutors? As I wondered I heard the old woman say to her husband:

"Think ye he can be a hill-man? sic another as we found in the laigh field after Rullion Green."

Hill-man! hill-man! the words burned themselves into my torpid brain. I gathered all my strength, and raising myself so suddenly that they fell away from me startled, I cried, "For the love of God, tell me, are you hill-folks?"

"What o' that, what o' that?" asked the old man cautiously.

Then I threw discretion to the winds. "Tell me," I cried, my voice breaking, "are you hill-men, for I bring tidings that will brook no delay."

They gathered round me again and looked at me with anxious eyes.

"Got wi' it, lad," cried the old man, almost as excited as myself, and with what speed I could I told them all. Breathlessly they listened. "God in heaven, save us," groaned the old man as I finished, and then, turning to his sons he cried: "Boys, it's yours to carry the message through. Awa' wi' ye! Post men at the cross-roads, scatter the news far and wide, and the Cause may yet be saved."

Like hounds from the leash the lads sprang away into the darkness. With failing sight I saw them go, then I sank back again wearily and knew no more.

Long afterwards I was conscious in a dim kind of way of being lifted from the ground and borne gently over what seemed to be an interminable distance; but I was too drowsy and fatigued to care what was happening to me. When I opened my eyes I found myself lying on a soft bed in a small farm kitchen. A glowing fire was on the hearth and its pleasant warmth pervaded the room. The good man of the house brought me a drink of something hot, which put new life in my veins and I was my own man again.

I would fain have talked to my rescuers, but they forbade me, and I sank once more into a drowse, but ere I slept I heard, as I had heard so often in the old house at Daldowie, the good man opening the Book and saying, "Let us worship God by singing to His praise a part of the 124th Psalm."

I slept deeply, and when I awoke it was late in the Sabbath afternoon. When they heard me stir the kindly folk showed themselves assiduous in those little courtesies which mean so much to a weary man. When I essayed to rise the old man was at my bedside to lend me aid, and when I had risen he brought me water wherewith to wash myself. The cool liquid took the stains of travel from my face and hands, and at the same time purged me of weariness. On my left arm, where the torture had been applied, was an ugly red sore all blisters at its edges. I looked at it with a kind of pride. It was the brand of the Covenant upon me. The old man bound it with a buttered cloth, to my great comfort.

The blind was drawn down over the window so that the light within was restful. I took my seat upon the settle and the farmer's wife spread a meal before me, and as I ate they questioned me. From them I gathered that when they came upon me lying in a stupor in the fields, they were themselves upon their way to the hill-meeting. They had some ten miles to travel, and as they had to measure their speed by the speed of the good-wife, they had set out soon after midnight. I asked anxiously whether they had news of what had taken place, and whether their sons had succeeded in spreading the alarm sufficiently widely to prevent the Covenanters assembling. To this the old man replied:

"I dinna ken for certain, but ye may tak' it frae me that the troopers found naething but an empty nest. We'll be hearin' later on, for the lads will be back ere long." He stirred the peats with a stick, and continued: "Man, it's wonderfu', wonderfu'; a' foreordained. If I were a meenister what a graun' sermon I could mak' o't!"

By and by night fell. The good-wife lighted the candles, and when another hour had elapsed the three lads returned. There was joy on their faces; and there was joy in every heart in that little house when they told us how their mission had sped. With the help of many others they had spread a warning so far afield that no Covenanter came within a mile of the assembly place. Then they told us how, when their task was fulfilled, they had watched unseen the cavalcades of the dragoons invading from every point of the compass the quiet sanctuary among the hills. And they told too, with some glee, of the wrath of the soldiery when after riding like hell-hounds full tilt from every side they plunged into the hollow only to find that their prey had escaped them.

Early next morning I arose, and would have taken my departure, but the good man forbade me.

"If ye maun go, ye maun," he said, "but it will be kittle work travellin' by day. The dragoons are like to be sair upset after the botchery o' yesterday and nae doot they'll be scourin' the country lusting for bluid. So, ye'd better bide here till nicht comes and the hawks are a' sleepin', and ye'll win through to yer journey's end in safety."

His words were wise, and, though I knew that my continued absence might cause Mr. Corsane anxiety, I decided to take his advice. When the night fell and the moment of farewell came, the old man took me by the hand:

"God keep ye," he said. "Ye ha'e done a great thing for the Covenant. Years hence, when these troublous days are a' by, the story will be told roond mony a fireside o' the great race ye ran and the deliverance ye brocht to the persecuted."

With the sound of kindly blessings following me through the darkness, I set out and, long ere the dawn, was safely concealed once more in the cave above the Linn.

Mr. Corsane gave me a hearty welcome. I assured him that I had delivered his message in good time, and then told him of all the events which had followed. My story filled him with astonishment. He himself had been warned by Covenanting sentries who challenged him as he was stealing in the early dawn towards the trysting-place, and he had returned to the cave and waited in a tumult of anxiety. But little had he imagined that I had brought the news.

"I never doubted your loyalty," he said, "but this deed of yours has thirled you to the Covenant for ever," and he laid his hands upon my shoulders and let them rest there for a little space.

*CHAPTER XXXVIII*

*THE PASSING OF ANDREW AND JEAN*

The land was in the iron grip of winter. No longer was there any work for me in the fields, so that I was driven to spend nights and days in idleness. For a man to rest from his labours may be a pleasant thing for one weary, whose heart is at ease; but my inactivity of body served but to fan the embers of my hopes, and I was tortured by lively flames of hope which would flare up within me only to expire vacuously choked by the cold ashes of reality. Mary was dead; my life was desolate!

On a morning in mid December I crawled out upon the sandstone ledge above the pool. The air was crisp and dry, so that my breath issued from my mouth like a cloud of smoke; and, as I breathed, the chill of the atmosphere bit into my blood. The sky above me was blue, like a piece of polished and highly tempered steel; and only a few irresolute beams of sunlight filtered through the gaunt branches of the trees on the heights above me. The stream, where it poured into the pool, was festooned with dependent sword-points of ice; and the pool itself, except in the centre where the slow-moving waters still refused the fetters of winter, was shackled in ice. A robin was perched on a tree above me--his buckler the one spark of warmth, his song the one note of cheer.

I had paced up and down the narrow ledge several times when I heard the sound of footsteps. In the clear air they rang like iron upon iron. Alert, I listened to discover their direction. They came from down the stream. Someone was making his way along the course of the rivulet towards the pool. Could it be a dragoon on a quest at a venture, or was our retreat discovered? Quickly I hurried round the edge of the pool. There was no time to slip into the cave without discovery--the footsteps were too close at hand. A spear of ice, and a stout heart could hold the defile below the pool through which the intruder must pass before he could reach the cave. If I held the gorge, the minister would have time to make good his escape. His life was of greater worth than mine.

A glow pervaded me: the lust of combat was upon me. Life was sweet: but to die fighting was to die a death worth while, and the poignard of ice which I held in my hand was a man's weapon. I peeped into the defile: the further end was blocked by the body of a man who, with face bent downward, was choosing his footsteps with care. It was no soldier in the trappings of war--but a countryman. The man raised his face and I could have shouted for joy: it was Hector! He saw me at once, and waved a hand to me, and, hot with expectation, I awaited his coming. Soon he had squeezed his way through, and stood beside me. I offered my hand in welcome, and as I did so remembered that it still held my murderous weapon. I dropped it on the instant and it fell into the pool, its sharp end cutting a star-like hole in the sheet of ice. The packman laughed as he took my hand.

"So, so," he said, "ye thocht I was a trooper. A puir weapon yon! Gi'e me 'Trusty,'" and he struck the rocks with the head of his stick so that they rang. "And hoo is a' wi' ye?" he continued--"and the meenister?"

I had no need to reply, for at that moment he emerged from the cave.

Our first greetings over, we hustled the packman into the cave. We spread food before him, and as he ate we plied him with questions. One question was burning in my heart: but I knew the answer, and had not the courage to put it; and as the minister was hungering for news, I gave place to him and held my peace.

How fared the Cause in the west country, and were the hill-men standing firm? That was the essence of his questioning. And Hector, with eyes glowing so that they shone like little lamps in the darkness of his face, told him all. The cruelties of the persecutors had reached their zenith: but neither shootings, nor still more hideous tortures threatened, could break the proud spirit of the Covenanters. As he talked, Hector's voice thrilled until his last triumphant words rang through the cave like a challenge and a prophecy.

"Ay," he cried, "though the King's minions heap horror upon horror till every hill in the South o' Scotland is a heather-clad Golgotha, the men will stand firm: and generations yet unborn will reap the harvest o' their sacrifice."

He ceased, and so deep a silence fell upon us that through the rock wall I could hear the splash of an icicle as it fell into the pool. The minister's bowed head was in his hands. Awe and reverence fettered my tongue. Then Hector spoke again. He had taken his pipe from his pocket, and was filling it with care.

"And noo," he said, turning to me, "I ha'e news for you." A question sprang to my lips, but before I could shape a word Hector held up his hand. "You maun ask nae questions till my tale is done. You can talk yer fill by and by: but hear me in silence first." I nodded my head, and he began.

"You mind I tellt ye, before I left, that when I went west I should try to fin' oot what happened at Daldowie. Weel, on the road to Wigtown, I held away up into the hills, and by and by I cam' to the auld place. It stood there--what had been a bien hoose and a happy home--a heap o' ruins, ae gable-end pointin' an angry finger tae the sky. I looked amang the ruins, for I minded what you had seen there; but I saw naething but ashes and charred stanes, save that Nature, a wee mair kindly than man is, had scattered a flooer or twa oot o' her lap in the by-gaun and they were bloomin' bonnily there. By and by I took the road again, and though I go as far West as the rocks below Dunskey, where the untamed waves hammer the cliffs like an angry stallion, I gathered nane o' the news I was seekin'. But on the hame-comin' I dropped into the Ship and Anchor at Kirkcudbright, and as I sat ower a pot o' yill I heard a couple o' troopers haein' high words. What the quarrel was aboot I dinna ken, but it ended by ane o' them springin' up and ganging oot o' the door. As he went, he half turned and said, wi' a laugh: 'Ye deserve what the guid-wife o' Daldowie gied Claver'se.' Whereat the dragoon left behin' let a roar o' laughter oot o' him and took a lang pull at his yill. When he set it doon he laughed again, and I jaloused that his anger had passed. So I drew oot my pipe and tobacco, and I offered him a fill. He took the weed gledly, and then I drew in to his table and asked him to ha'e a drink. I ordered 'Solway waters,' for I ken hoo they can lowse the tongue, and when they cam' I clinked glasses wi' him, and by way o' settin' suspicion to rest, I drank to the King. Soon I had him crackin' away merrily. But I didna learn muckle frae him till I had plied him wi' mair drink, and then his tongue got the better o' his discretion. Suddenly he said wi' a laugh, 'I deserve what the guid-wife o' Daldowie gied to Claver'se, dae I? We'll see aboot that, my lad!' and he laughed again. I had got my opening.

"'That seems to be a guid joke,' I said. 'If it's worth tellin' I should like to hear it.'

"'Oh,' he answered, 'it's a graun' joke; but for guidsake dinna be lettin' on tae Claver'se I tellt ye. It's a sair point wi' him.'

"Little by little I got the story frae him in fragments mair or less disjointed. But since then I've put it thegither, and I'll tell it in my ain way.

"Ae morning last April Claver'se and his troopers were oot on the moors a mile or twa to the west o' Dairy, when they saw twa men comin' towards them. Ane o' the men was chasin' the other up and doon amang the moss-hags, and the troopers put spurs to their horses and sune had them surrounded. When Claver'se looked at them he recognised in ane o' them a young Covenanter wha' had escaped twa nichts afore frae a barn near New Galloway where he had been flung after a dose o' the thumbikins. The other was a much aulder man. The younger o' the twa was clean demented: and they could get nae sense oot o' him--juist a screed o' haivers whenever they questioned him. The auld man was as dour as a rock--and would gie nae account o' himsel', but it was enough that he had been seen chasin' the daft lad on the moors, belike wi' the intention o' concealin' him in some hidie hole. Weel, Claver'se was for shootin' the auld man oot o' hand if he wouldna speak, and said as much; but a' the answer he got was 'I'm ready, sir. Ye can dae nae mair than kill my body,' and he took off his bonnet and looked undaunted up at the sky. Weel, just then ane o' the troopers drew up alangside Claver'se and spoke to him. He had recognised the man as Andrew Paterson o' Daldowie, and tellt Claver'se as much. 'O, ho!' said Claver'se, 'the old fox! So this is the guid-man o' Daldowie. I think we had better tak' him hame to his ain burrow. Maybe we'll find other game there.' So wi' that they tied Andrew and the lad to the stirrup leathers o' twa troopers and made for Daldowie--maybe ten miles awa.

"As they drew near to Daldowie they saw a woman standin' in the doorway lookin' into the distance under the shade o' her hand. She dropped her hand, and made a half turn, and then she saw them comin'. Wi' that she rushed into the hoose and closed the door: but nae doot she was watchin' through a crack, for when they were near enough for her to see that her guid-man was a prisoner, she cam' oot again and stood waitin'. When they drew up she threw oot her airms, and like a mither that rins tae keep her bairn frae danger, she ran towards her man, callin', 'Andra! Andra!' But at a sign frae Claver'se ane o' the dragoons turned his horse across her path and kept her off. Then Claver'se louped frae his horse, and tellin' ane o' the dragoons to lay hold on the woman, and calling half a dozen to follow him, drew his sword and walked in at the open door.