Part 20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was."

"You confess it?"

"I do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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