CHAPTER XIV.BETRAYED.The soft and beautiful radiance of a mild September morning lay upon the vale of Inverburn. The sky, though not so cloudlessly blue as in the summer time, was bright and clear, and masses of soft, dove-coloured clouds were piled up on the horizon, foretelling the approach of a gentle rain. The rich hues of autumn were now upon the trees. Beech and hazel-nuts were already falling ripely to the ground, the rowans hung rich and red among their graceful leaves, blackberry and wild raspberry were plentiful and luscious, and in very sheltered early nooks the bramble was black upon the bough. Yes, the fruits which Dame Nature provides with such free and generous hands were not lacking, but what of the more substantial harvest, what of the yellow corn, which in September was wont either to be stacked upon the fields, or standing in rich and golden fulness, awaiting the sickle of the reaper. Ah! what indeed? Had some terrible dearth come upon the land, had a woeful drought withered and parched the fertile Clydesdale acres, and hushed the reapers song into the stillness of despair?I said in a former chapter that the business of life seemed to be at a standstill in Inverburn. So it was still, and not in Inverburn alone, but throughout the length and breadth of Clydesdale, Liddesdale, and Nithsdale. For miles and miles the fields lay bleak and desolate, their only harvest being a wealth of weeds and thistles, which gave to the once fertile lands the appearance of a wilderness. What devastating breath had passed over the smiling land, what evil scourge had wrought this woeful desolation? The reason was not far to seek.The emissaries of the Government, into whose hands full power over Scotland had been given, had swept the southern and western counties with a devastating host, who burned, killed, and plundered as they went, and left nothing but a trail of blood behind. And the tillers of the soil, left destitute in many instances of the barest necessaries of life, could only bow their heads over the desolation which had come upon them, and be thankful if they escaped with their lives.And yet, in those days it came to be a question not easily answered, whether life could be called a boon.It was a Sabbath morning, and that deep, solemn stillness peculiar to the Sabbath seemed to hallow the very air. The birds had hushed their songs of gladness as if in reverence for the holy day, the very voice of the river, rippling on its way, seemed to be subdued into a tender and melancholy cadence, instead of brawling noisily in its rocky bed, and the brown and yellow leaves upon the trees scarcely stirred to the response of the whispering breeze.While it was yet early, long before the long rays of the noontide sun fell aslant the hills, there might have been seen in various by-paths and unfrequented ways, straggling little groups of two or three individuals all moving in the same direction. Following them, we come at length to a sweet and sheltered glade, by the side of the clear, swift-running Douglas Water. This sylvan retreat, which might have been a fairy's dressing-room, so rich was it in fresh green beauty, was warmly and safely protected by high hills, rising abruptly on either side, but was open at either end, a narrow path going westward to Inverburn, and another eastward, until it converged into what was called the Sanquhar road.Upon the sloping banks at the base of the hill, and also seated on the greensward and the boulders nearer the edge of the stream, were gathered a goodly company of men, women, and children, of almost every rank, age, and calling. There were shepherds in their tartan plaids, uncouth figures in the homely garb of the outdoor labourer, well-dressed farmers, and a sprinkling of stalwart soldiers, who had escaped the slaughter at Rullion Green. There were also present Graham of Pitoy, with his wife and daughter, and Baxter of Thornilee, both gentlemen of considerable estate in the neighbourhood. Foremost amongst those seated on the hill might have been observed the red head of Watty McBean, which showed in full contrast against the spotless hue of Betty's white cap.Several horses, which had brought people from a distance, were quietly enjoying a dainty bite at the fresh grass, which grew in luxuriance by the stream, and upon the heights there were some mounted horsemen apparently keeping watch, in order to give timely alarm if any marauders likely to molest the company should appear in sight.There might have been about five hundred people gathered together, when there appeared round one of the windings of the stream the familiar figure of the minister of Inverburn, leaning upon the arm of his son David. They had just emerged from their hiding in the Corbie's Cliff in order to conduct the service in the glen. Many eyes filled with tears at sight of their beloved minister, and they shook their heads mournfully at the visible change wrought in his appearance by the long months of anxiety and solitary confinement. The minister of Broomhill also looked worn and thin, and his hair was now as white as snow.When the ministers reached the centre of the little throng, a few minutes were spent in mutual greetings, and then Mr. Gray the elder stepped to the front of the huge boulder which served as a pulpit, and upon which a white cloth was spread, with the Bible above it. Folding his withered hands, he said, in solemn and trembling tones, "Let us pray." It seemed as if Nature hushed her many sounds in unison with the stillness which fell upon the assembled worshippers as the long-loved voice of their minister, in choice and appropriate language, gave utterance to a fervent and expressive prayer to the God of Heaven. A portion of the seventy-ninth psalm was then read, and sung to the sweet and mournful strain of "Martyrs." The words:"Against us mind not former sins.Thy tender mercies show;Let them prevent us speedily,For we're brought very low."were sung with an intense and passionate fervour which told that it was indeed the cry of every heart present, and that it was not mere lip service which had brought them thither, almost at the very peril of their lives.Turning to the prophetic pages of Isaiah, the minister chose for his text these comforting and appropriate words, "O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted; beloved, I will lay thy stones with fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires.... In righteousness shalt thou be established; thou shalt be far from oppression, for thou shalt not fear; and from terror, for it shall not come near thee."In his own earnest and persuasive manner the venerable servant of God endeavoured to comfort his flock, assuring them that though they were now passing through the bitter waters of affliction, the Lord would not utterly forget his ancient Zion, but would yet restore her to liberty and peace. As he earnestly exhorted them to continue steadfast in the faith, and to bear manfully their light affliction, which was but for a moment, and would work out its own exceeding weight of glory, his eyes glowed and shone, and his face was transfigured by the light of a holy enthusiasm which shed a warm and cheerful influence upon the hearts of his hearers, and restored their fainting courage, until they felt indeed able to do and dare without faltering for the sake of Him who trod before them the weary vale of persecution and shame.It was a moving sight to look upon the eloquent face of the preacher, which bespoke the inmost feelings of his soul, and to see his thin white locks fluttering in the breeze, while his wasted hands were alternately folded or upraised to enforce his earnest words. The multitude, hushed into rapt and breathless stillness, were unconscious of a figure stealing swiftly up the glen, until a slight scream fell from the lips of a woman, and Susan Gray of Hartrigge interrupted the sermon by hastily running to meet what appeared to be a wayfaring man, whose ragged garb and miserable appearance proclaimed that he had been long on the road and had suffered many privations. The minister paused, and turned his eyes towards the wanderer, in whose changed countenance he recognised the features of his first-born son.The unexpected arrival of Hartrigge broke up the conventicle, and his relations, who were all present, flocked round him, while his friends and neighbours pressed closely behind, eager to hear the story of his adventures. But he seemed breathless, and unable to speak for a moment, and then his words were of ominous import."It is surely madness to be holding a meeting here, and the dragoons so near! They have pursued me since daybreak, and I have only escaped through being familiar with every by-path on the way. Scatter yourselves quickly, for they will be upon us in a moment. Father and David, let us make haste together to our usual hiding. I have longed for the Corbie's Cliff all day."Just then a watcher on the western height blew a warning note on the trumpet, and in a few moments the assemblage melted away like mist in the noonday sun.Jane Gray entreated her brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn, to flee with the ministers and Hartrigge to the friendly shelter of the Corbie's Cliff, but he stoutly refused, saying that the soldiers would not be likely to trouble Rowallan again, seeing they had met with so little success on their previous visit. But Jane herself was not at all sanguine, and as they stole homewards by the most unfrequented field paths, her mind was filled with strange misgivings regarding Martha Miller, the maid, who had gone home to spend the Sabbath day with her parents at the North Lodge, on Inverburn. She was walking a little in advance of Adam, and was the first to ascend the little hill, from which a glimpse of Rowallan could be had. She stood still there, for in the distance she saw the gleam of steel, and a party of horsemen riding rapidly up the road to the farm."See yonder, Adam!" she said, in a trembling whisper; "you must flee at once, either to the cave at Hartrigge, or into the Corbie's Hole, if you can reach it unseen.""What! and allow you, a defenceless woman, to go down alone among these brutal fellows?" inquired Adam, incredulously. "You hardly know what you say, Jane.""Yes, yes! I know very well; I am not afraid. They will not harm me. I have still some of the Burgundy which wrought the charm on Turner," she answered, hurriedly. "Oh, Adam! do make haste and flee, in case they catch sight of us."Involuntarily Adam Hepburn grasped his sword, as his eyes turned towards the dragoons. Yet he hesitated; for when there were fifty to one, what would be his chance? Nay, certain death awaited him if he ventured in their midst."Run, run, Adam. I entreat you!" exclaimed Jane, in tones of keen distress. "You know there is a price upon your head; and I would not that I should witness a second deed of violence at Rowallan. Run, my brother; we cannot yet spare you from our midst.""But you, Jane? It is selfish, cowardly, to leave you like this.""No, no! I repeat, I am not afraid. I can easily frame an excuse for my absence from the place, should they question me. You can safely leave Rowallan in my hands. God gives a deep and peculiar courage even to frail women in these times, and I believe I could influence these men, bad as they are. Only go, for every moment you stay is an agony.""Well, I will; and God forgive me if I am in the wrong, and may He protect you, my sister," said Adam, hoarsely. Then, with a fervent grip of the hand, they parted; Adam to steal with caution and speed to some safe hiding, and Jane to make her way down to Rowallan. She was a singularly brave and fearless woman, and yet her heart quailed a little as she made haste to get in by the back premises, hoping to reach the house and throw off her cloak before she was observed by the dragoons. She was greatly favoured in that respect, for the soldiers made a halt for some reason or other on the road, and she had slipped unobserved into the house before they rode into the farmyard. She threw off her cloak, tied an apron about her, and busied herself in the kitchen, just as if continuing her usual morning work. But when she heard them ride into the yard, with a great din and clatter, she took such a violent trembling that she was obliged to sit down in order to recover herself. However, when she heard a foot on the step, and a hand on the latch of the door, she regained calmness, and rose to her feet. She had purposely unbarred the kitchen door; therefore, somewhat to his own astonishment, he having been otherwise informed, the captain of the detachment found nothing to impede his entrance. He was still further amazed, on entering the kitchen, to behold a woman there, who turned her fair, calm face to him, as if in questioning surprise.Captain McNab, though unflinching and uncompromising in the performance of duty, however painful or harsh it might be, was a gentleman, and did not address Jane Gray with that insolent familiarity which had characterised Sir James Turner's questioning."Sorry to disturb you, mistress," he said courteously enough. "I am astonished to find you here; we were credibly informed that all the inmates of the house had gone to a field-preaching about a mile distant, and that we should find the coast clear.""Your informer might be more zealous than trustworthy, sir," Jane Gray made answer quickly, though her heart grew sick with apprehension. Doubtless Martha Miller had been the informant, and how many other secrets had she discovered and divulged?"It was a wench, one of the serving-maids here, I believe," answered the Captain candidly. "We are in search of four desperate Whigs, two ministers and two farmers; but I think we will lay hands upon them here. Come, tell me, my sweet dame, how can so comely a gentlewoman as you countenance such disreputable rebellion?""What you term rebellion, sir, may convey another meaning to my mind," answered Jane Gray. "Pray, would you call it rebellion to desire to exercise liberty in matters pertaining to conscience?""Faith, you put it glibly," retorted the Captain, with a smile. "Many of my fellow officers would give but a rough denial to such rebellious words, but I would scorn to make war on women. Well, have you anything to drink in the house? I intended to force an entrance and ransack the cupboards, but it would have a sweeter relish if poured out by those fair hands.""If you will be good enough to step into the inner room, sir, I will set what I have before you," answered Jane courteously."Thanks. I will step out first and see what speed they are making with their search. We have been well guided to the cunning corner which has sheltered the renegades so long, and the parson himself is with us to assist us in our work," said the Captain carelessly. "Faith, madam, I do not wonder that the folk get sick of his snivelling ministrations. He is a mean, despicable dog, whom it would do me good to thrash."So saying, the Captain sauntered out to the yard again, and Jane Gray, stepping into a little closet, which had a window to the back, saw him enter the barn. Folding her hands, her white lips moved in an agony of prayer, for without a doubt the secret of the chaff hole was a secret no longer, and unless warned by the noise overhead, the fugitives could not possibly escape.Several minutes passed, and at length Jane saw McLean, the curate, emerge from the barn with a very disgusted and chagrined expression on his ill-favoured face. He was followed shortly by Captain McNab, who, with his lieutenant, came slowly towards the house."They have found the nest, but the birds have flown," he said, in tones of annoyance, as he entered the kitchen. "With your permission, mistress, we will now taste your fare, while my men make a further investigation of the secret passage, which is indeed a cunningly devised hiding. Little wonder it has remained undiscovered so long."Jane Gray drew a breath of relief, and a silent thanksgiving for deliverance vouchsafed arose to heaven from her grateful heart. She knew at once that the unusual stir and clamouring about the quiet homestead had penetrated the ears of the fugitives in their hiding, and given them timely warning to flee. Once out of the subterranean passage, they were comparatively safe, for there was many a cave and snug corner by the banks of the Douglas Water, where they could shelter till the kindly darkness fell. In about three-quarters of an hour, those who had followed the subterranean passage to its outlet returned to Rowallan, reporting that there was neither sight nor sound of the fugitives to be seen or heard.Captain McNab, though considerably chagrined, for it would have been greatly to his credit and advantage to have laid hands on so many marked rebels, hid his feelings much better than the curate, who, forgetting his holy office, swore roundly in his disappointment; and vowed increased vengeance on the name and house of Gray. Serene and matchless was the contempt with which Jane Gray regarded him: she never allowed her eyes to rest on his countenance, and never betrayed, by look or gesture, that she heard the rude remarks he addressed to her.Captain McNab bade Miss Gray a polite farewell, and even apologised for so disturbing her on a Sabbath morning, a courtesy which she gratefully acknowledged with an expressive glance from her fine eyes and a low bow.Mounting his horse at the door, Captain McNab gave the word of command, and the troop rapidly rode away.Then Jane Gray, unable to bear the unspeakable relief following upon the great strain upon her nerves, sank down on her knees and burst into tears.CHAPTER XV.BRAVE TO THE LAST.Meanwhile Adam Hepburn had stolen across the fields to the glen with the intention of entering the hole in the Corbie's Cliff. He was making his way down the hill-side, keeping cautiously in shelter of the whins and bracken, for the dragoons were in sight, when, to his no small amazement, he saw the two ministers and Andrew Gray of Hartrigge emerge from the mouth of the subterranean passage with a haste which proclaimed that they were pursued. And now truly the poor fugitives were betwixt two fires, for there were dragoons scattered all over the surrounding hills, and some were so near that it was a marvel they were not at once discovered. They had to thank the luxuriance of the brushwood and tangle for affording them a shelter, and, if they could but remain unobserved till nightfall, they could then seek a safer hiding. Adam Hepburn crawled upon his hands and knees down through the thicket, and came up with the others, as they were creeping slowly along, hoping to reach the steep hill behind Hartrigge, where the cave was still undiscovered."We were betrayed in our hiding, and were only warned in time to flee by the noise overhead," whispered Andrew Gray. "See yonder!"Lifting their heads the fugitives saw three dragoons emerge from the mouth of the Corbie's Cliff and look all round them, as if expecting to see those for whom they sought. In mortal terror the miserable Covenanters laid themselves flat down on their faces and pulled the friendly bracken over them, and waited breathlessly, thinking the dragoons would be certain to scour the entire glen."If they come I think I could silence the three," said Adam Hepburn, grimly; "only they might, by their cries, bring some of their mounted comrades upon us. They are not far distant, I trow, for I can hear the neighing of their horses even here."After a few minutes' suspense, the anxious fugitives saw the dragoons re-enter the mouth of the cave; then they slowly crept yet a little farther along the glen, for every moment spent in this comparatively exposed place was not only precious, but laden with deadly peril. At length they arrived unmolested at the base of the steep hill behind Hartrigge, and, as it was crowned with a thick belt of fir trees, there was no fear of them being seen from above.The minister of Inverburn, whose feeble strength was now utterly spent through excitement and suspense, had to be half carried up the rocky ascent, but at length all landed safely in the cave. It was but a small place, and very damp; a great contrast in every way to the comfortable hiding at Rowallan. After having recovered a little from his fatigue, the minister of Inverburn folded his hands and returned thanks for their deliverance; but Adam Hepburn sat gloomily in a corner, his hands grasping his sword, for it was foreign to his nature to flee before the enemy, and he felt as if he had sullied his manhood by deserting Rowallan, and leaving Jane Gray to encounter the dragoons alone. And yet there are times when even the bravest soldier is forced to admit that discretion is the better part of valour.Meanwhile the body of dragoons, under command of Captain Ingram, who had ridden up to the glen to disperse the conventicle, baulked of their prey, had proceeded to Hartrigge, it being the only house in view. Captain Ingram was a very different man from his brother officer, who had so peaceably performed his duty at Rowallan. He was of a short, burly figure, with a countenance much swollen and disfigured by his drunken excesses, and his fiery eye gave some expression to the fierce and choleric nature of his temper. He was utterly void of one kindly feeling or generous impulse, and his troops were famous for their brutal and disgraceful behaviour, it being said of them that they showed no mercy to man, woman, or child.Mistress Gray, who with her son, Gavin, had been present at the conventicle, had been in the house some little time before the dragoons surrounded Hartrigge.The little ones, who had remained at home under charge of Jeanie, who was growing more sensible and womanly every day, began to cry at sight of the soldiers, remembering the occasion of their former visit, and how their father had been carried off as a prisoner. Gavin, however, exhibited his usual fearless spirit, and ran to the kitchen cupboard for the old fowling-piece; yet, poor lad, what could he do with it, against the powerful arms of a company of dragoons? Captain Ingram did not trouble to alight, but thundered at the door of the house with the butt-end of his musket, a summons which brought Mistress Gray tremblingly to the threshold."Hey, mistress! is this not the house of that vile renegade, Andrew Gray, son of the notorious field-preacher, the minister of Inverburn?" he asked, fiercely."It is the house of Andrew Gray," she made answer, sadly. "And I would that he were within its walls. They have not sheltered him these many weary days.""Are you his wife? and are these his brats?" asked the Captain, pointing to the little ones clinging to her skirts.She bowed her head, but made no verbal reply."Come, tell me, mistress, were you at the field preaching down in the glen yonder, listening to the snivelling of that old renegade, your husband's father?""I was there, sir," Susan Gray made answer, firmly, for she saw that it would be useless to deny it."Good! we have come upon one Whig dame at last who can speak the truth," said the Captain, in tones of satisfaction. "Come, oblige me still further, mistress, and give me the names of those who were present besides yourself.""I went to listen to the preaching of the Word, sir, and not to count those who were present," answered Susan Gray, with fearless firmness."Well, if you will not tell me that, let me know the secret hiding of those who conducted the service. Come, now, mistress, you are completely in my power, and if you do not speak of your own free will, I may take measures to make you," said the Captain, significantly."I cannot tell whither they have fled, sir. I was too much taken up making my own escape, to look to them," she answered quietly."Just so. With your permission, mistress, we will have a look through the house, and if any of the renegades be found within, by the powers, I will punish them for your obstinacy," said the Captain, with an oath, and dismounting, he flung his reins to a dragoon, ordered some of them to follow him into the house, and others to make a complete search of the out-houses. Entering the kitchen, the Captain beheld young Gavin standing with the old fowling-piece in his hand, which sight caused him to burst into a loud laugh."So, my young friend, you are going to show fight. You are Andrew Gray's son, I take it. Here, Dawson, bind the young chip; we may have to screw the truth out of him by-and-by."Gavin presented his gun, and drew the trigger, but it was dashed out of his hand, and he was bound hand and foot, and laid on the floor. Then the ruffians continued their search through the house, lifting many valuables as they went, but found no traces of the fugitives, nor any corner where they could possibly be hid. Those searching outside were equally unsuccessful, and Captain Ingram got into a great rage, and swore some dreadful oaths, which made Susan Gray tremble, and marvel that judgment did not overtake him at once.Stepping out to the door, he again addressed Mistress Gray, and brutally demanded that she should at once divulge all she knew concerning the movements and probable hiding of her husband and his kindred. But Susan Gray resolutely shook her head, and maintained that she knew not whither they had fled."Here, Dawson, bring out that young branch of the rebel tree, and we will try to refresh his memory," said the captain, peremptorily, and young Gavin was presently brought out, and set up against the beech tree in front of the house.At sight of her first-born son, the dearest of all her children to her heart, Susan Gray grew as pale as death, and leaned against the lintel of the door for support.Captain Ingram then stepped forward, and pointing his sword at the young lad, swore at him, and bade him at once reveal his father's hiding, or suffer the consequences."Think you I would betray my father to save myself, sir?" asked the young Gavin, in a clear and steadfast voice, and his fine eye fearlessly looked into the face of his cruel questioner. "Not though I had twenty lives. I would lose them all rather than be guilty of such black treachery and cowardice."In her boundless admiration of the courage of the boy, Susan Gray half forgot the agonising fear which rent her motherly heart."Sure, we have an out-and-out Covenanter here, boys!" said the Captain, looking round upon his dragoons. "Faith, I have shot many a man for less! but on account of his tender years we will give him another chance for his life."At these ominous words Susan Gray gave a loud scream, and rushed forward as if to protect her son, but she was rudely pushed back, and sank down on her knees on the ground, uttering broken prayers to God, and almost beside herself in her agony."Now, my blithe young rebel," said Captain Ingram, fixing his mocking eyes on Gavin's pale yet steadfast face, "I give you twenty seconds to make up your mind. Reveal your father's hiding, or bear the penalty of your contempt for an officer of the King. Dawson, Baird, and Luttrell, have your muskets charged."The lad winced slightly at the last words, but only for a moment; then he drew himself up as well as his bonds would allow."Life would be no boon at the price you ask," he then made answer, in a low yet firm voice. "You can only kill the body, and my blood will be on your head.""You hear, mistress?" said Ingram, turning then to the kneeling figure of the mother. "Ten seconds of the twenty are gone. If you will yield the required information his life will be spared."Susan Gray hesitated a moment. It was an awful moment for her, to be called upon to choose, as it were, betwixt husband and child."Mother, mother, don't be tempted!" cried Gavin. "What is my life compared with that of my father and grandfather, and uncle David? Let them shoot. I am not afraid to die. I remember Mr. Guthrie's fearlessness on the scaffold. I understand it now, for God is with me here, close beside me, and I will go straight to glory."The sublimity of the lad's courage, the pathetic and beautiful faith with which he spoke, moved more than one of these hardened hearts to pity, but it only further enraged their brutal Captain."Get into the house, mistress, and shut the door," he said, curtly; "unless you want to see the young rebel receive his baptism of fire."Susan Gray spoke not, but remained kneeling, with her face hidden in her hands; all feeling seemed to be frozen in her broken heart.There was a moment's dread silence; then the sharp report of three musket shots, simultaneously fired, rang through the quiet Sabbath air. Then the order was given to march, and the dragoons, having finished their deadly work, turned their horses' heads away from Hartrigge. As they did so, a volume of smoke began slowly to arise from behind the house; they had finished their work of destruction by setting fire to the barn and granary ere they left. Little knew the brave men in hiding what was being enacted at so little a distance from them. The cave was too far away to admit of the sound of voices, or even the trampling of the horses to penetrate their ears, but they heard quite distinctly the report of musketry, and involuntarily all started to their feet."That sound comes from the house," said Hartrigge. "I must go and see what is being done there. I cannot sit here while these miscreants murder my wife and children in cold blood."Adam Hepburn, only too ready to accompany his brother-in-law, grasped his sword, and the two stole cautiously up the hill in the friendly shelter of the trees. The two ministers, who were unarmed, followed at a little distance, so that, in case of alarm, they might yet make good their escape. The hearts of all four were filled with foreboding and anxious fears, for too well they knew the meaning of that portentous report. Arrived at the summit of the hill, Hartrigge stole a little in advance of Adam Hepburn, and thence could see the road, at the far end of which he caught a glimpse of the rear of the dragoons ere they emerged out upon the public highway. Satisfied that there was nothing to apprehend from them, he went boldly forward, and, emerging from the shadow of the trees, saw a sight which almost made his heart stand still. There on the greensward lay the prostrate form of his firstborn son, with his mother kneeling motionless by his side; the two little bairns were holding each other close and weeping bitterly; and Jeanie, with white face and dry eyes, was bathing a ghastly wound in her brother's left temple.A moment more and those following more slowly up the hill were startled by the sound of a hoarse and bitter cry. Andrew Gray's iron composure, his absolute self-control were swept away, and, darting forward, he knelt by his murdered boy, calling him by every loving name, in accents of anguish and entreaty. It was in vain: life was gone!Then there arose upon the wings of the soft September wind the echo of that desolate and anguished cry with which David of old bewailed his firstborn: "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would to God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!"CHAPTER XVI.AT THE DAWNING.Shortly after midnight upon the Monday following that sad Sabbath day, Watty McBean rose up out of his bed, so quietly as not to disturb Betty asleep in the ben-end, and, hastily putting on his clothes, stole out of doors. The harvest moon was at its full, and a light almost as clear as day lay upon the silent earth. The moonlight was very favourable for Watty's purpose, and his face wore a well-pleased expression as he entered the stable where his faithful nag was peacefully asleep. She looked round whinnying at her master's step, but he paid no heed to her. Striking a light, he took from an empty stall which he used as a tool-house a pick and shovel. These he hoisted on his shoulder, and, leaving the stable, stole swiftly up the village street. As he passed Mistress Lyall's he shook his doubled fist at the darkened windows, for in that house several of the dragoons were stationed, under command not to leave the place until they had captured the notorious rebels, who were known to be in hiding in the neighbourhood; also certain words fell from his lips which were scarcely in keeping with his profession as a Christian, or with his old occupation of bell-ringer and minister's man in the parish. Once clear of the village, Watty somewhat slackened his pace, and leisurely ascended the manse brae to the churchyard. On this gentle eminence the air was scarcely so still, for a light breeze stirred the yellow leaves on the birks of Inverburn, and sighed with a mournful cadence through the long grasses waving above the last resting-place of the dead. Passing the manse gate Watty again shook his fist and applied a very expressive epithet to its unconscious inmate, which would have roused the ire of the Reverend Duncan McLean had he heard it. But he was enjoying his well-earned repose, for he had been very zealous for several days in assisting to ferret out rebellious insurgents.Watty entered the churchyard and stepped lightly over the turf to the green enclosure where slept so many of those who had first seen the light in the manse of Inverburn. Laying down his implements, Watty paused a moment by the double head-stone and wiped his eyes, as he read the name of Gray, so oft repeated--husband and wife, parent and child, one after the other--until certain newly-chiselled words recorded that here also slept--"AGNES GUTHRIE GRAY,THE DEAR WIFE OF ADAM HEPBURN, OF ROWALLAN,WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE UNTIMEOUSLY,IN THE FLOWER OF HER AGE,BEING SHOT BY DRAGOONS AT HER OWN DOOR,ON THE NINTH DAY OF MARCH,SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE,LEAVING HER SORROWING HUSBAND DESOLATE UPON THEFACE OF THE EARTH."As he slowly spelled out these pathetic words, for Watty was no great scholar, tears chased each other down his rugged face, and the heaving of his broad chest told how deep was his emotion. But suddenly recovering himself, and as if ashamed of his weakness, he dashed the tears aside, and stepping back for his pick, began his work--that of digging a grave. It was a strange and weird occupation for that mysterious hour following upon midnight, and Watty might have been excused had he felt a little nervous over his task. But no such foolish fears disturbed him as he quickly and deftly shovelled out the earth; his mind was filled with sad regretful thoughts of the past, mingled with foreboding and anxious previsions of the future. And thus busily occupied, he made great speed with his work. The bell in the tower rang one, and then two, and still Watty did not halt, but ere the solemn hands moved round to three his work was done, for his spade had struck with a dull sound on Agnes Hepburn's coffin lid. Then he jumped out of the new-made grave, put on his coat again, and walked down to the churchyard gate. Just then he heard the first cock-crowing from the curate's hen-roost, and its echo was taken up by chanticleer on a neighbouring farm, announcing to whomsoever might be awake to hear, the dawning of another day. Stepping out of the gate, Watty looked anxiously up the road, and as anxiously down towards the village, fearing lest the marauders under Mistress Lyall's roof-tree should have obtained a scent of this morning's work. For about fifteen minutes Watty endured an agony of impatience and suspense. However, to his unspeakable relief, he beheld something moving at a considerable distance up the road. He at once advanced to meet it, and as he drew nearer he could distinguish four figures walking two abreast, and carrying something between them. They also breathed a sigh of relief at sight of Watty, for in these times, though appointments were made, none could predict what might transpire to prevent their being kept."All ready, Watty?" inquired the voice of Andrew Gray, of Hartrigge, the moment they were within speaking distance."A' ready," Watty whispered back, and walking to the rear of the little party, he relieved the minister of Inverburn at the end of the coffin. Then slowly, and with measured tread, they moved on to the churchyard gate, up the broad walk, and across the turf to the new-made grave. The coffin was then laid gently down on the grass, and Watty, bending forward, read the name on the plate,"GAVIN GRAY, AGED 17."Meanwhile, Adam Hepburn had moved over to the open grave, and was gazing down upon the coffin, which contained the remains of his beloved, with a strange far-off expression on his face. They saw that he had forgotten himself and them, and after waiting a moment, David Gray stepped forward and lightly touched his arm."We wait for you, Adam," he said gently. "Will you take the cord at the feet with me?"Adam Hepburn started violently, and then stepping forward, took the cord held out to him; the minister of Inverburn and Hartrigge himself being at the head. Then very gently they lowered it into the grave, and when it grated upon the other, Adam Hepburn let go his hold, and turned aside with a deep groan. The minister of Inverburn took up a handful of earth, and let it fall loosely on the coffin lid. "Earth to earth, dust to dust, he has changed the corruptible for the incorruptible, and what is our loss is the lad's great gain," he murmured half dreamily. Then he laid his hand on the arm of the bereaved father, over whose rugged face a tremor had passed, like the first wave of a great sea, adding, with gentle force, "My son, come, let us go hence.""Not yet; I will wait and help Watty," said Andrew Gray, in a hoarse whisper; but already Watty, with strong and willing arm, was rapidly filling up the grave."I wonder whose murdered body will next lie here," said Hartrigge, with strange, deep bitterness. "Truly, I think, father, we had need soon to extend our burial space.""Do not speak so bitterly, my son. Let us be thankful that we have been permitted to give the dear lad honourable and Christian burial, with his forbears," said the old man gently. "If the Lord will, may I be the next to be laid here in peace.""We'd better get out o' this unless we be tired o' life," said Watty, grimly, pointing with his forefinger to the first streak of dawn on the eastern horizon. "If we dinna get clear off afore the daw'in', some o' the manse folk will be sure to see us."Mindful of Watty's warning, they prepared to leave the churchyard, and yet they were fain to linger, for many hallowed memories bound them to the place. Ere he turned to go, Andrew Gray took up the spade and gently beat down the turf on the grave, and his last look at his son's loved resting place was blinded by unwonted tears."Watty," said Adam Hepburn, as they walked out to the road, "you had better come with us now, and let us see that boasted hiding of yours on the Douglas Water. If we are to remain in this district it will take a securer shelter than the cave at Hartrigge to hold us.""I'm willint eneuch to let ye see't; but what if I be catched comin' hame?" queried Watty, cautiously."You can gather some grass on the roadside, and say you were seeking a bite for old Kirsty, if they question you," said Adam. "But you can easily be home by half six at the latest, unless indeed the place be all the farther up the water.""Na, na, it's no' that faur. Weel, I'll just hide my pick and shovel in the hedge, and gang," answered Watty; so the little party once more turned their faces to Hartrigge, where the bereaved mother sat in her desolate house, like Rachel, weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted.They spoke but little as they walked, for the burden of his thoughts was sufficient for each. The air was now raw and chill, and the light struggling over hill and dale dispelled the tender radiance of the moon and gave an aspect almost wintry to the face of nature. The minister of Inverburn several times shivered and his hacking cough and attenuated appearance indicated that exposure was beginning to tell upon his aged frame. Looking at him, Watty more than once ominously shook his head, and whispered within himself that the minister was not long for this world. Thinking they might with safety venture into the house of Hartrigge for some warm breakfast, Andrew Gray, with his father and brother, turned up the road to the farm, while Adam Hepburn and Watty took their way by a near cut to the glen, which formed the bed of the Douglas Water. Relieved from the slight restraint of the minister's presence, Watty found his tongue, and launched forth into a very vehement tirade against the oppressors of the land, using terms and expressions which in happier times would not have failed to amuse his companion, but which now he passed unheeded. It was seldom indeed that a smile was seen on the face of Adam Hepburn, and since his wife's death no man or woman had ever heard him laugh. The keen and pleasant sense of humour which had given such a relish to his company and speech in days gone by, had deserted him now, and he was in every respect an altered man. None was more mournfully conscious of this change than Watty, who had been wont to have many a bantering jest with the farmer of Rowallan, for whom he had a great liking and respect.In the glen the sleepy birds were beginning to stir among the boughs, and already the air was full of twitterings, and of the hum of insects early on the wing. A heavy dew had fallen in the night, and hung sparkling like diamonds in the hedgerows and on every blade of grass, making the footing very wet, especially where it grew long and rank, close to the water's edge.As they passed the mouth of the Corbie's Cliff Watty McBean looked mournfully at the now visible entrance, for the dragoons with their swords had shorn away all the branches and the clinging tangles which had so securely hidden it before. So that no man could possibly hide there now and expect to be undisturbed."Eh, that limmer Martha Miller, if I had her I'd pay her out for her treachery!" muttered Watty. "It's just as weel she gaed awa' to her sister in Glesca. She wadna hae been safe muckle longer in the place. It was gettin' ower hot for her.""Ay, she'll never prosper, Watty. She may grow rich for a time on the spoiling of the neighbours she betrayed, but her punishment will come by-and-by," said Adam, quietly."I'm sure I hope sae," returned Watty, fervently. "Weel, here we are. Are ye sure there's naebody in sicht?""Scarcely here, before five in the morning, Watty," said Adam, with a faint smile. "It is a dark and gloomy retreat this."He spoke the truth. They had now reached a very deep and narrow part of the glen, the sides of which rose precipitously from the edges of the stream. These abrupt heights were so densely covered with trees, chiefly those dark and gloomy firs common to the mountainous portions of Scotland, that they looked like a solid and impenetrable mass. The water, though narrow, was very deep, and made a hoarse and hollow roaring as it rushed among its rough boulders, which looked as if they had become detached from the rocky heights above and rolled into the bed of the stream. The light admitted from the narrow space between the heights was very insufficient, and only seemed to add to the gloom. Even in summer the sunshine never penetrated the dark retreat, consequently the common wild flowers did not bloom, although ferns and mosses of rich and varied hues and rare and delicate form grew in beautiful luxuriance."D'ye see ony place whaur a body micht hide?" queried Watty, with a twinkle in his eye."Faith, Watty, I believe anybody might be safe enough where we are standing at this moment. No mounted pursuer, at least, could reach this spot," answered Adam Hepburn."Weel, follow me as best ye can, for there's nae road, no' even a sheep-track, to guide ye," said Watty and, immediately plunging into the thicket on the left, he began to scramble up the face of the steep.It was with some difficulty that his companion followed, but, by swinging himself up by the strong undergrowth, he managed to keep Watty in sight. At length Watty altogether and mysteriously disappeared, and, though he called out to guide his companion to his whereabouts, Adam could not discover him. It was intensely dark, and there was scarcely room to stand upright, so densely did the trees grow together. Presently Watty appeared again, and then Adam saw that he stood in front of an overhanging bank almost concealed by long grass and bracken."Crawl in efter me," cried Watty, and, getting down on his hands and knees, he crept under the bank and disappeared. Adam followed his example, and, as Watty immediately struck a light, he saw, to his astonishment, that he was in a roomy cavern, where he could stand upright with the greatest ease."Well, Watty, this is a splendid place, and will doubtless be invaluable to us," he exclaimed. "It is well-nigh impossible that any one should discover this. But tell me, how many in Inverburn could point it out?""No' a leevin' soul but mysel'. I'll tell ye wha shewed it to me, auld Robbie Harden, mony a year afore he deed, an' I never telt a cratur," Watty assured him, solemnly."Ah, that is good! Well, Watty, I am certainly obliged to you for bringing me here," said Adam. "The thing is, I hope I can make my way to it again by myself.""Oh, that's easy enough. If ye come down noo I'll let ye see the clue," said Watty, and, accordingly, they again scrambled through the thicket to the edge of the stream."Ye see that muckle black rock jist like a table," said Watty, pointing to a huge mass lying in the bed of the water. "It's jist directly opposite that. If ye keep straicht up ye canna' miss it.""All right; I'll remember," said Adam, and the twain then left the ravine and rapidly retraced their steps towards the haunts of men.It was now about half-past five, so Watty, in alarm lest he should be stopped and questioned, left Adam Hepburn just behind Hartrigge, and taking to his heels, fled with the utmost speed back to the village.
CHAPTER XIV.
BETRAYED.
The soft and beautiful radiance of a mild September morning lay upon the vale of Inverburn. The sky, though not so cloudlessly blue as in the summer time, was bright and clear, and masses of soft, dove-coloured clouds were piled up on the horizon, foretelling the approach of a gentle rain. The rich hues of autumn were now upon the trees. Beech and hazel-nuts were already falling ripely to the ground, the rowans hung rich and red among their graceful leaves, blackberry and wild raspberry were plentiful and luscious, and in very sheltered early nooks the bramble was black upon the bough. Yes, the fruits which Dame Nature provides with such free and generous hands were not lacking, but what of the more substantial harvest, what of the yellow corn, which in September was wont either to be stacked upon the fields, or standing in rich and golden fulness, awaiting the sickle of the reaper. Ah! what indeed? Had some terrible dearth come upon the land, had a woeful drought withered and parched the fertile Clydesdale acres, and hushed the reapers song into the stillness of despair?
I said in a former chapter that the business of life seemed to be at a standstill in Inverburn. So it was still, and not in Inverburn alone, but throughout the length and breadth of Clydesdale, Liddesdale, and Nithsdale. For miles and miles the fields lay bleak and desolate, their only harvest being a wealth of weeds and thistles, which gave to the once fertile lands the appearance of a wilderness. What devastating breath had passed over the smiling land, what evil scourge had wrought this woeful desolation? The reason was not far to seek.
The emissaries of the Government, into whose hands full power over Scotland had been given, had swept the southern and western counties with a devastating host, who burned, killed, and plundered as they went, and left nothing but a trail of blood behind. And the tillers of the soil, left destitute in many instances of the barest necessaries of life, could only bow their heads over the desolation which had come upon them, and be thankful if they escaped with their lives.
And yet, in those days it came to be a question not easily answered, whether life could be called a boon.
It was a Sabbath morning, and that deep, solemn stillness peculiar to the Sabbath seemed to hallow the very air. The birds had hushed their songs of gladness as if in reverence for the holy day, the very voice of the river, rippling on its way, seemed to be subdued into a tender and melancholy cadence, instead of brawling noisily in its rocky bed, and the brown and yellow leaves upon the trees scarcely stirred to the response of the whispering breeze.
While it was yet early, long before the long rays of the noontide sun fell aslant the hills, there might have been seen in various by-paths and unfrequented ways, straggling little groups of two or three individuals all moving in the same direction. Following them, we come at length to a sweet and sheltered glade, by the side of the clear, swift-running Douglas Water. This sylvan retreat, which might have been a fairy's dressing-room, so rich was it in fresh green beauty, was warmly and safely protected by high hills, rising abruptly on either side, but was open at either end, a narrow path going westward to Inverburn, and another eastward, until it converged into what was called the Sanquhar road.
Upon the sloping banks at the base of the hill, and also seated on the greensward and the boulders nearer the edge of the stream, were gathered a goodly company of men, women, and children, of almost every rank, age, and calling. There were shepherds in their tartan plaids, uncouth figures in the homely garb of the outdoor labourer, well-dressed farmers, and a sprinkling of stalwart soldiers, who had escaped the slaughter at Rullion Green. There were also present Graham of Pitoy, with his wife and daughter, and Baxter of Thornilee, both gentlemen of considerable estate in the neighbourhood. Foremost amongst those seated on the hill might have been observed the red head of Watty McBean, which showed in full contrast against the spotless hue of Betty's white cap.
Several horses, which had brought people from a distance, were quietly enjoying a dainty bite at the fresh grass, which grew in luxuriance by the stream, and upon the heights there were some mounted horsemen apparently keeping watch, in order to give timely alarm if any marauders likely to molest the company should appear in sight.
There might have been about five hundred people gathered together, when there appeared round one of the windings of the stream the familiar figure of the minister of Inverburn, leaning upon the arm of his son David. They had just emerged from their hiding in the Corbie's Cliff in order to conduct the service in the glen. Many eyes filled with tears at sight of their beloved minister, and they shook their heads mournfully at the visible change wrought in his appearance by the long months of anxiety and solitary confinement. The minister of Broomhill also looked worn and thin, and his hair was now as white as snow.
When the ministers reached the centre of the little throng, a few minutes were spent in mutual greetings, and then Mr. Gray the elder stepped to the front of the huge boulder which served as a pulpit, and upon which a white cloth was spread, with the Bible above it. Folding his withered hands, he said, in solemn and trembling tones, "Let us pray." It seemed as if Nature hushed her many sounds in unison with the stillness which fell upon the assembled worshippers as the long-loved voice of their minister, in choice and appropriate language, gave utterance to a fervent and expressive prayer to the God of Heaven. A portion of the seventy-ninth psalm was then read, and sung to the sweet and mournful strain of "Martyrs." The words:
"Against us mind not former sins.Thy tender mercies show;Let them prevent us speedily,For we're brought very low."
"Against us mind not former sins.Thy tender mercies show;Let them prevent us speedily,For we're brought very low."
"Against us mind not former sins.
Thy tender mercies show;
Thy tender mercies show;
Let them prevent us speedily,
For we're brought very low."
For we're brought very low."
were sung with an intense and passionate fervour which told that it was indeed the cry of every heart present, and that it was not mere lip service which had brought them thither, almost at the very peril of their lives.
Turning to the prophetic pages of Isaiah, the minister chose for his text these comforting and appropriate words, "O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted; beloved, I will lay thy stones with fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires.... In righteousness shalt thou be established; thou shalt be far from oppression, for thou shalt not fear; and from terror, for it shall not come near thee."
In his own earnest and persuasive manner the venerable servant of God endeavoured to comfort his flock, assuring them that though they were now passing through the bitter waters of affliction, the Lord would not utterly forget his ancient Zion, but would yet restore her to liberty and peace. As he earnestly exhorted them to continue steadfast in the faith, and to bear manfully their light affliction, which was but for a moment, and would work out its own exceeding weight of glory, his eyes glowed and shone, and his face was transfigured by the light of a holy enthusiasm which shed a warm and cheerful influence upon the hearts of his hearers, and restored their fainting courage, until they felt indeed able to do and dare without faltering for the sake of Him who trod before them the weary vale of persecution and shame.
It was a moving sight to look upon the eloquent face of the preacher, which bespoke the inmost feelings of his soul, and to see his thin white locks fluttering in the breeze, while his wasted hands were alternately folded or upraised to enforce his earnest words. The multitude, hushed into rapt and breathless stillness, were unconscious of a figure stealing swiftly up the glen, until a slight scream fell from the lips of a woman, and Susan Gray of Hartrigge interrupted the sermon by hastily running to meet what appeared to be a wayfaring man, whose ragged garb and miserable appearance proclaimed that he had been long on the road and had suffered many privations. The minister paused, and turned his eyes towards the wanderer, in whose changed countenance he recognised the features of his first-born son.
The unexpected arrival of Hartrigge broke up the conventicle, and his relations, who were all present, flocked round him, while his friends and neighbours pressed closely behind, eager to hear the story of his adventures. But he seemed breathless, and unable to speak for a moment, and then his words were of ominous import.
"It is surely madness to be holding a meeting here, and the dragoons so near! They have pursued me since daybreak, and I have only escaped through being familiar with every by-path on the way. Scatter yourselves quickly, for they will be upon us in a moment. Father and David, let us make haste together to our usual hiding. I have longed for the Corbie's Cliff all day."
Just then a watcher on the western height blew a warning note on the trumpet, and in a few moments the assemblage melted away like mist in the noonday sun.
Jane Gray entreated her brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn, to flee with the ministers and Hartrigge to the friendly shelter of the Corbie's Cliff, but he stoutly refused, saying that the soldiers would not be likely to trouble Rowallan again, seeing they had met with so little success on their previous visit. But Jane herself was not at all sanguine, and as they stole homewards by the most unfrequented field paths, her mind was filled with strange misgivings regarding Martha Miller, the maid, who had gone home to spend the Sabbath day with her parents at the North Lodge, on Inverburn. She was walking a little in advance of Adam, and was the first to ascend the little hill, from which a glimpse of Rowallan could be had. She stood still there, for in the distance she saw the gleam of steel, and a party of horsemen riding rapidly up the road to the farm.
"See yonder, Adam!" she said, in a trembling whisper; "you must flee at once, either to the cave at Hartrigge, or into the Corbie's Hole, if you can reach it unseen."
"What! and allow you, a defenceless woman, to go down alone among these brutal fellows?" inquired Adam, incredulously. "You hardly know what you say, Jane."
"Yes, yes! I know very well; I am not afraid. They will not harm me. I have still some of the Burgundy which wrought the charm on Turner," she answered, hurriedly. "Oh, Adam! do make haste and flee, in case they catch sight of us."
Involuntarily Adam Hepburn grasped his sword, as his eyes turned towards the dragoons. Yet he hesitated; for when there were fifty to one, what would be his chance? Nay, certain death awaited him if he ventured in their midst.
"Run, run, Adam. I entreat you!" exclaimed Jane, in tones of keen distress. "You know there is a price upon your head; and I would not that I should witness a second deed of violence at Rowallan. Run, my brother; we cannot yet spare you from our midst."
"But you, Jane? It is selfish, cowardly, to leave you like this."
"No, no! I repeat, I am not afraid. I can easily frame an excuse for my absence from the place, should they question me. You can safely leave Rowallan in my hands. God gives a deep and peculiar courage even to frail women in these times, and I believe I could influence these men, bad as they are. Only go, for every moment you stay is an agony."
"Well, I will; and God forgive me if I am in the wrong, and may He protect you, my sister," said Adam, hoarsely. Then, with a fervent grip of the hand, they parted; Adam to steal with caution and speed to some safe hiding, and Jane to make her way down to Rowallan. She was a singularly brave and fearless woman, and yet her heart quailed a little as she made haste to get in by the back premises, hoping to reach the house and throw off her cloak before she was observed by the dragoons. She was greatly favoured in that respect, for the soldiers made a halt for some reason or other on the road, and she had slipped unobserved into the house before they rode into the farmyard. She threw off her cloak, tied an apron about her, and busied herself in the kitchen, just as if continuing her usual morning work. But when she heard them ride into the yard, with a great din and clatter, she took such a violent trembling that she was obliged to sit down in order to recover herself. However, when she heard a foot on the step, and a hand on the latch of the door, she regained calmness, and rose to her feet. She had purposely unbarred the kitchen door; therefore, somewhat to his own astonishment, he having been otherwise informed, the captain of the detachment found nothing to impede his entrance. He was still further amazed, on entering the kitchen, to behold a woman there, who turned her fair, calm face to him, as if in questioning surprise.
Captain McNab, though unflinching and uncompromising in the performance of duty, however painful or harsh it might be, was a gentleman, and did not address Jane Gray with that insolent familiarity which had characterised Sir James Turner's questioning.
"Sorry to disturb you, mistress," he said courteously enough. "I am astonished to find you here; we were credibly informed that all the inmates of the house had gone to a field-preaching about a mile distant, and that we should find the coast clear."
"Your informer might be more zealous than trustworthy, sir," Jane Gray made answer quickly, though her heart grew sick with apprehension. Doubtless Martha Miller had been the informant, and how many other secrets had she discovered and divulged?
"It was a wench, one of the serving-maids here, I believe," answered the Captain candidly. "We are in search of four desperate Whigs, two ministers and two farmers; but I think we will lay hands upon them here. Come, tell me, my sweet dame, how can so comely a gentlewoman as you countenance such disreputable rebellion?"
"What you term rebellion, sir, may convey another meaning to my mind," answered Jane Gray. "Pray, would you call it rebellion to desire to exercise liberty in matters pertaining to conscience?"
"Faith, you put it glibly," retorted the Captain, with a smile. "Many of my fellow officers would give but a rough denial to such rebellious words, but I would scorn to make war on women. Well, have you anything to drink in the house? I intended to force an entrance and ransack the cupboards, but it would have a sweeter relish if poured out by those fair hands."
"If you will be good enough to step into the inner room, sir, I will set what I have before you," answered Jane courteously.
"Thanks. I will step out first and see what speed they are making with their search. We have been well guided to the cunning corner which has sheltered the renegades so long, and the parson himself is with us to assist us in our work," said the Captain carelessly. "Faith, madam, I do not wonder that the folk get sick of his snivelling ministrations. He is a mean, despicable dog, whom it would do me good to thrash."
So saying, the Captain sauntered out to the yard again, and Jane Gray, stepping into a little closet, which had a window to the back, saw him enter the barn. Folding her hands, her white lips moved in an agony of prayer, for without a doubt the secret of the chaff hole was a secret no longer, and unless warned by the noise overhead, the fugitives could not possibly escape.
Several minutes passed, and at length Jane saw McLean, the curate, emerge from the barn with a very disgusted and chagrined expression on his ill-favoured face. He was followed shortly by Captain McNab, who, with his lieutenant, came slowly towards the house.
"They have found the nest, but the birds have flown," he said, in tones of annoyance, as he entered the kitchen. "With your permission, mistress, we will now taste your fare, while my men make a further investigation of the secret passage, which is indeed a cunningly devised hiding. Little wonder it has remained undiscovered so long."
Jane Gray drew a breath of relief, and a silent thanksgiving for deliverance vouchsafed arose to heaven from her grateful heart. She knew at once that the unusual stir and clamouring about the quiet homestead had penetrated the ears of the fugitives in their hiding, and given them timely warning to flee. Once out of the subterranean passage, they were comparatively safe, for there was many a cave and snug corner by the banks of the Douglas Water, where they could shelter till the kindly darkness fell. In about three-quarters of an hour, those who had followed the subterranean passage to its outlet returned to Rowallan, reporting that there was neither sight nor sound of the fugitives to be seen or heard.
Captain McNab, though considerably chagrined, for it would have been greatly to his credit and advantage to have laid hands on so many marked rebels, hid his feelings much better than the curate, who, forgetting his holy office, swore roundly in his disappointment; and vowed increased vengeance on the name and house of Gray. Serene and matchless was the contempt with which Jane Gray regarded him: she never allowed her eyes to rest on his countenance, and never betrayed, by look or gesture, that she heard the rude remarks he addressed to her.
Captain McNab bade Miss Gray a polite farewell, and even apologised for so disturbing her on a Sabbath morning, a courtesy which she gratefully acknowledged with an expressive glance from her fine eyes and a low bow.
Mounting his horse at the door, Captain McNab gave the word of command, and the troop rapidly rode away.
Then Jane Gray, unable to bear the unspeakable relief following upon the great strain upon her nerves, sank down on her knees and burst into tears.
CHAPTER XV.
BRAVE TO THE LAST.
Meanwhile Adam Hepburn had stolen across the fields to the glen with the intention of entering the hole in the Corbie's Cliff. He was making his way down the hill-side, keeping cautiously in shelter of the whins and bracken, for the dragoons were in sight, when, to his no small amazement, he saw the two ministers and Andrew Gray of Hartrigge emerge from the mouth of the subterranean passage with a haste which proclaimed that they were pursued. And now truly the poor fugitives were betwixt two fires, for there were dragoons scattered all over the surrounding hills, and some were so near that it was a marvel they were not at once discovered. They had to thank the luxuriance of the brushwood and tangle for affording them a shelter, and, if they could but remain unobserved till nightfall, they could then seek a safer hiding. Adam Hepburn crawled upon his hands and knees down through the thicket, and came up with the others, as they were creeping slowly along, hoping to reach the steep hill behind Hartrigge, where the cave was still undiscovered.
"We were betrayed in our hiding, and were only warned in time to flee by the noise overhead," whispered Andrew Gray. "See yonder!"
Lifting their heads the fugitives saw three dragoons emerge from the mouth of the Corbie's Cliff and look all round them, as if expecting to see those for whom they sought. In mortal terror the miserable Covenanters laid themselves flat down on their faces and pulled the friendly bracken over them, and waited breathlessly, thinking the dragoons would be certain to scour the entire glen.
"If they come I think I could silence the three," said Adam Hepburn, grimly; "only they might, by their cries, bring some of their mounted comrades upon us. They are not far distant, I trow, for I can hear the neighing of their horses even here."
After a few minutes' suspense, the anxious fugitives saw the dragoons re-enter the mouth of the cave; then they slowly crept yet a little farther along the glen, for every moment spent in this comparatively exposed place was not only precious, but laden with deadly peril. At length they arrived unmolested at the base of the steep hill behind Hartrigge, and, as it was crowned with a thick belt of fir trees, there was no fear of them being seen from above.
The minister of Inverburn, whose feeble strength was now utterly spent through excitement and suspense, had to be half carried up the rocky ascent, but at length all landed safely in the cave. It was but a small place, and very damp; a great contrast in every way to the comfortable hiding at Rowallan. After having recovered a little from his fatigue, the minister of Inverburn folded his hands and returned thanks for their deliverance; but Adam Hepburn sat gloomily in a corner, his hands grasping his sword, for it was foreign to his nature to flee before the enemy, and he felt as if he had sullied his manhood by deserting Rowallan, and leaving Jane Gray to encounter the dragoons alone. And yet there are times when even the bravest soldier is forced to admit that discretion is the better part of valour.
Meanwhile the body of dragoons, under command of Captain Ingram, who had ridden up to the glen to disperse the conventicle, baulked of their prey, had proceeded to Hartrigge, it being the only house in view. Captain Ingram was a very different man from his brother officer, who had so peaceably performed his duty at Rowallan. He was of a short, burly figure, with a countenance much swollen and disfigured by his drunken excesses, and his fiery eye gave some expression to the fierce and choleric nature of his temper. He was utterly void of one kindly feeling or generous impulse, and his troops were famous for their brutal and disgraceful behaviour, it being said of them that they showed no mercy to man, woman, or child.
Mistress Gray, who with her son, Gavin, had been present at the conventicle, had been in the house some little time before the dragoons surrounded Hartrigge.
The little ones, who had remained at home under charge of Jeanie, who was growing more sensible and womanly every day, began to cry at sight of the soldiers, remembering the occasion of their former visit, and how their father had been carried off as a prisoner. Gavin, however, exhibited his usual fearless spirit, and ran to the kitchen cupboard for the old fowling-piece; yet, poor lad, what could he do with it, against the powerful arms of a company of dragoons? Captain Ingram did not trouble to alight, but thundered at the door of the house with the butt-end of his musket, a summons which brought Mistress Gray tremblingly to the threshold.
"Hey, mistress! is this not the house of that vile renegade, Andrew Gray, son of the notorious field-preacher, the minister of Inverburn?" he asked, fiercely.
"It is the house of Andrew Gray," she made answer, sadly. "And I would that he were within its walls. They have not sheltered him these many weary days."
"Are you his wife? and are these his brats?" asked the Captain, pointing to the little ones clinging to her skirts.
She bowed her head, but made no verbal reply.
"Come, tell me, mistress, were you at the field preaching down in the glen yonder, listening to the snivelling of that old renegade, your husband's father?"
"I was there, sir," Susan Gray made answer, firmly, for she saw that it would be useless to deny it.
"Good! we have come upon one Whig dame at last who can speak the truth," said the Captain, in tones of satisfaction. "Come, oblige me still further, mistress, and give me the names of those who were present besides yourself."
"I went to listen to the preaching of the Word, sir, and not to count those who were present," answered Susan Gray, with fearless firmness.
"Well, if you will not tell me that, let me know the secret hiding of those who conducted the service. Come, now, mistress, you are completely in my power, and if you do not speak of your own free will, I may take measures to make you," said the Captain, significantly.
"I cannot tell whither they have fled, sir. I was too much taken up making my own escape, to look to them," she answered quietly.
"Just so. With your permission, mistress, we will have a look through the house, and if any of the renegades be found within, by the powers, I will punish them for your obstinacy," said the Captain, with an oath, and dismounting, he flung his reins to a dragoon, ordered some of them to follow him into the house, and others to make a complete search of the out-houses. Entering the kitchen, the Captain beheld young Gavin standing with the old fowling-piece in his hand, which sight caused him to burst into a loud laugh.
"So, my young friend, you are going to show fight. You are Andrew Gray's son, I take it. Here, Dawson, bind the young chip; we may have to screw the truth out of him by-and-by."
Gavin presented his gun, and drew the trigger, but it was dashed out of his hand, and he was bound hand and foot, and laid on the floor. Then the ruffians continued their search through the house, lifting many valuables as they went, but found no traces of the fugitives, nor any corner where they could possibly be hid. Those searching outside were equally unsuccessful, and Captain Ingram got into a great rage, and swore some dreadful oaths, which made Susan Gray tremble, and marvel that judgment did not overtake him at once.
Stepping out to the door, he again addressed Mistress Gray, and brutally demanded that she should at once divulge all she knew concerning the movements and probable hiding of her husband and his kindred. But Susan Gray resolutely shook her head, and maintained that she knew not whither they had fled.
"Here, Dawson, bring out that young branch of the rebel tree, and we will try to refresh his memory," said the captain, peremptorily, and young Gavin was presently brought out, and set up against the beech tree in front of the house.
At sight of her first-born son, the dearest of all her children to her heart, Susan Gray grew as pale as death, and leaned against the lintel of the door for support.
Captain Ingram then stepped forward, and pointing his sword at the young lad, swore at him, and bade him at once reveal his father's hiding, or suffer the consequences.
"Think you I would betray my father to save myself, sir?" asked the young Gavin, in a clear and steadfast voice, and his fine eye fearlessly looked into the face of his cruel questioner. "Not though I had twenty lives. I would lose them all rather than be guilty of such black treachery and cowardice."
In her boundless admiration of the courage of the boy, Susan Gray half forgot the agonising fear which rent her motherly heart.
"Sure, we have an out-and-out Covenanter here, boys!" said the Captain, looking round upon his dragoons. "Faith, I have shot many a man for less! but on account of his tender years we will give him another chance for his life."
At these ominous words Susan Gray gave a loud scream, and rushed forward as if to protect her son, but she was rudely pushed back, and sank down on her knees on the ground, uttering broken prayers to God, and almost beside herself in her agony.
"Now, my blithe young rebel," said Captain Ingram, fixing his mocking eyes on Gavin's pale yet steadfast face, "I give you twenty seconds to make up your mind. Reveal your father's hiding, or bear the penalty of your contempt for an officer of the King. Dawson, Baird, and Luttrell, have your muskets charged."
The lad winced slightly at the last words, but only for a moment; then he drew himself up as well as his bonds would allow.
"Life would be no boon at the price you ask," he then made answer, in a low yet firm voice. "You can only kill the body, and my blood will be on your head."
"You hear, mistress?" said Ingram, turning then to the kneeling figure of the mother. "Ten seconds of the twenty are gone. If you will yield the required information his life will be spared."
Susan Gray hesitated a moment. It was an awful moment for her, to be called upon to choose, as it were, betwixt husband and child.
"Mother, mother, don't be tempted!" cried Gavin. "What is my life compared with that of my father and grandfather, and uncle David? Let them shoot. I am not afraid to die. I remember Mr. Guthrie's fearlessness on the scaffold. I understand it now, for God is with me here, close beside me, and I will go straight to glory."
The sublimity of the lad's courage, the pathetic and beautiful faith with which he spoke, moved more than one of these hardened hearts to pity, but it only further enraged their brutal Captain.
"Get into the house, mistress, and shut the door," he said, curtly; "unless you want to see the young rebel receive his baptism of fire."
Susan Gray spoke not, but remained kneeling, with her face hidden in her hands; all feeling seemed to be frozen in her broken heart.
There was a moment's dread silence; then the sharp report of three musket shots, simultaneously fired, rang through the quiet Sabbath air. Then the order was given to march, and the dragoons, having finished their deadly work, turned their horses' heads away from Hartrigge. As they did so, a volume of smoke began slowly to arise from behind the house; they had finished their work of destruction by setting fire to the barn and granary ere they left. Little knew the brave men in hiding what was being enacted at so little a distance from them. The cave was too far away to admit of the sound of voices, or even the trampling of the horses to penetrate their ears, but they heard quite distinctly the report of musketry, and involuntarily all started to their feet.
"That sound comes from the house," said Hartrigge. "I must go and see what is being done there. I cannot sit here while these miscreants murder my wife and children in cold blood."
Adam Hepburn, only too ready to accompany his brother-in-law, grasped his sword, and the two stole cautiously up the hill in the friendly shelter of the trees. The two ministers, who were unarmed, followed at a little distance, so that, in case of alarm, they might yet make good their escape. The hearts of all four were filled with foreboding and anxious fears, for too well they knew the meaning of that portentous report. Arrived at the summit of the hill, Hartrigge stole a little in advance of Adam Hepburn, and thence could see the road, at the far end of which he caught a glimpse of the rear of the dragoons ere they emerged out upon the public highway. Satisfied that there was nothing to apprehend from them, he went boldly forward, and, emerging from the shadow of the trees, saw a sight which almost made his heart stand still. There on the greensward lay the prostrate form of his firstborn son, with his mother kneeling motionless by his side; the two little bairns were holding each other close and weeping bitterly; and Jeanie, with white face and dry eyes, was bathing a ghastly wound in her brother's left temple.
A moment more and those following more slowly up the hill were startled by the sound of a hoarse and bitter cry. Andrew Gray's iron composure, his absolute self-control were swept away, and, darting forward, he knelt by his murdered boy, calling him by every loving name, in accents of anguish and entreaty. It was in vain: life was gone!
Then there arose upon the wings of the soft September wind the echo of that desolate and anguished cry with which David of old bewailed his firstborn: "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would to God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!"
CHAPTER XVI.
AT THE DAWNING.
Shortly after midnight upon the Monday following that sad Sabbath day, Watty McBean rose up out of his bed, so quietly as not to disturb Betty asleep in the ben-end, and, hastily putting on his clothes, stole out of doors. The harvest moon was at its full, and a light almost as clear as day lay upon the silent earth. The moonlight was very favourable for Watty's purpose, and his face wore a well-pleased expression as he entered the stable where his faithful nag was peacefully asleep. She looked round whinnying at her master's step, but he paid no heed to her. Striking a light, he took from an empty stall which he used as a tool-house a pick and shovel. These he hoisted on his shoulder, and, leaving the stable, stole swiftly up the village street. As he passed Mistress Lyall's he shook his doubled fist at the darkened windows, for in that house several of the dragoons were stationed, under command not to leave the place until they had captured the notorious rebels, who were known to be in hiding in the neighbourhood; also certain words fell from his lips which were scarcely in keeping with his profession as a Christian, or with his old occupation of bell-ringer and minister's man in the parish. Once clear of the village, Watty somewhat slackened his pace, and leisurely ascended the manse brae to the churchyard. On this gentle eminence the air was scarcely so still, for a light breeze stirred the yellow leaves on the birks of Inverburn, and sighed with a mournful cadence through the long grasses waving above the last resting-place of the dead. Passing the manse gate Watty again shook his fist and applied a very expressive epithet to its unconscious inmate, which would have roused the ire of the Reverend Duncan McLean had he heard it. But he was enjoying his well-earned repose, for he had been very zealous for several days in assisting to ferret out rebellious insurgents.
Watty entered the churchyard and stepped lightly over the turf to the green enclosure where slept so many of those who had first seen the light in the manse of Inverburn. Laying down his implements, Watty paused a moment by the double head-stone and wiped his eyes, as he read the name of Gray, so oft repeated--husband and wife, parent and child, one after the other--until certain newly-chiselled words recorded that here also slept--
"AGNES GUTHRIE GRAY,
THE DEAR WIFE OF ADAM HEPBURN, OF ROWALLAN,WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE UNTIMEOUSLY,IN THE FLOWER OF HER AGE,BEING SHOT BY DRAGOONS AT HER OWN DOOR,ON THE NINTH DAY OF MARCH,SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE,LEAVING HER SORROWING HUSBAND DESOLATE UPON THEFACE OF THE EARTH."
As he slowly spelled out these pathetic words, for Watty was no great scholar, tears chased each other down his rugged face, and the heaving of his broad chest told how deep was his emotion. But suddenly recovering himself, and as if ashamed of his weakness, he dashed the tears aside, and stepping back for his pick, began his work--that of digging a grave. It was a strange and weird occupation for that mysterious hour following upon midnight, and Watty might have been excused had he felt a little nervous over his task. But no such foolish fears disturbed him as he quickly and deftly shovelled out the earth; his mind was filled with sad regretful thoughts of the past, mingled with foreboding and anxious previsions of the future. And thus busily occupied, he made great speed with his work. The bell in the tower rang one, and then two, and still Watty did not halt, but ere the solemn hands moved round to three his work was done, for his spade had struck with a dull sound on Agnes Hepburn's coffin lid. Then he jumped out of the new-made grave, put on his coat again, and walked down to the churchyard gate. Just then he heard the first cock-crowing from the curate's hen-roost, and its echo was taken up by chanticleer on a neighbouring farm, announcing to whomsoever might be awake to hear, the dawning of another day. Stepping out of the gate, Watty looked anxiously up the road, and as anxiously down towards the village, fearing lest the marauders under Mistress Lyall's roof-tree should have obtained a scent of this morning's work. For about fifteen minutes Watty endured an agony of impatience and suspense. However, to his unspeakable relief, he beheld something moving at a considerable distance up the road. He at once advanced to meet it, and as he drew nearer he could distinguish four figures walking two abreast, and carrying something between them. They also breathed a sigh of relief at sight of Watty, for in these times, though appointments were made, none could predict what might transpire to prevent their being kept.
"All ready, Watty?" inquired the voice of Andrew Gray, of Hartrigge, the moment they were within speaking distance.
"A' ready," Watty whispered back, and walking to the rear of the little party, he relieved the minister of Inverburn at the end of the coffin. Then slowly, and with measured tread, they moved on to the churchyard gate, up the broad walk, and across the turf to the new-made grave. The coffin was then laid gently down on the grass, and Watty, bending forward, read the name on the plate,
"GAVIN GRAY, AGED 17."
Meanwhile, Adam Hepburn had moved over to the open grave, and was gazing down upon the coffin, which contained the remains of his beloved, with a strange far-off expression on his face. They saw that he had forgotten himself and them, and after waiting a moment, David Gray stepped forward and lightly touched his arm.
"We wait for you, Adam," he said gently. "Will you take the cord at the feet with me?"
Adam Hepburn started violently, and then stepping forward, took the cord held out to him; the minister of Inverburn and Hartrigge himself being at the head. Then very gently they lowered it into the grave, and when it grated upon the other, Adam Hepburn let go his hold, and turned aside with a deep groan. The minister of Inverburn took up a handful of earth, and let it fall loosely on the coffin lid. "Earth to earth, dust to dust, he has changed the corruptible for the incorruptible, and what is our loss is the lad's great gain," he murmured half dreamily. Then he laid his hand on the arm of the bereaved father, over whose rugged face a tremor had passed, like the first wave of a great sea, adding, with gentle force, "My son, come, let us go hence."
"Not yet; I will wait and help Watty," said Andrew Gray, in a hoarse whisper; but already Watty, with strong and willing arm, was rapidly filling up the grave.
"I wonder whose murdered body will next lie here," said Hartrigge, with strange, deep bitterness. "Truly, I think, father, we had need soon to extend our burial space."
"Do not speak so bitterly, my son. Let us be thankful that we have been permitted to give the dear lad honourable and Christian burial, with his forbears," said the old man gently. "If the Lord will, may I be the next to be laid here in peace."
"We'd better get out o' this unless we be tired o' life," said Watty, grimly, pointing with his forefinger to the first streak of dawn on the eastern horizon. "If we dinna get clear off afore the daw'in', some o' the manse folk will be sure to see us."
Mindful of Watty's warning, they prepared to leave the churchyard, and yet they were fain to linger, for many hallowed memories bound them to the place. Ere he turned to go, Andrew Gray took up the spade and gently beat down the turf on the grave, and his last look at his son's loved resting place was blinded by unwonted tears.
"Watty," said Adam Hepburn, as they walked out to the road, "you had better come with us now, and let us see that boasted hiding of yours on the Douglas Water. If we are to remain in this district it will take a securer shelter than the cave at Hartrigge to hold us."
"I'm willint eneuch to let ye see't; but what if I be catched comin' hame?" queried Watty, cautiously.
"You can gather some grass on the roadside, and say you were seeking a bite for old Kirsty, if they question you," said Adam. "But you can easily be home by half six at the latest, unless indeed the place be all the farther up the water."
"Na, na, it's no' that faur. Weel, I'll just hide my pick and shovel in the hedge, and gang," answered Watty; so the little party once more turned their faces to Hartrigge, where the bereaved mother sat in her desolate house, like Rachel, weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted.
They spoke but little as they walked, for the burden of his thoughts was sufficient for each. The air was now raw and chill, and the light struggling over hill and dale dispelled the tender radiance of the moon and gave an aspect almost wintry to the face of nature. The minister of Inverburn several times shivered and his hacking cough and attenuated appearance indicated that exposure was beginning to tell upon his aged frame. Looking at him, Watty more than once ominously shook his head, and whispered within himself that the minister was not long for this world. Thinking they might with safety venture into the house of Hartrigge for some warm breakfast, Andrew Gray, with his father and brother, turned up the road to the farm, while Adam Hepburn and Watty took their way by a near cut to the glen, which formed the bed of the Douglas Water. Relieved from the slight restraint of the minister's presence, Watty found his tongue, and launched forth into a very vehement tirade against the oppressors of the land, using terms and expressions which in happier times would not have failed to amuse his companion, but which now he passed unheeded. It was seldom indeed that a smile was seen on the face of Adam Hepburn, and since his wife's death no man or woman had ever heard him laugh. The keen and pleasant sense of humour which had given such a relish to his company and speech in days gone by, had deserted him now, and he was in every respect an altered man. None was more mournfully conscious of this change than Watty, who had been wont to have many a bantering jest with the farmer of Rowallan, for whom he had a great liking and respect.
In the glen the sleepy birds were beginning to stir among the boughs, and already the air was full of twitterings, and of the hum of insects early on the wing. A heavy dew had fallen in the night, and hung sparkling like diamonds in the hedgerows and on every blade of grass, making the footing very wet, especially where it grew long and rank, close to the water's edge.
As they passed the mouth of the Corbie's Cliff Watty McBean looked mournfully at the now visible entrance, for the dragoons with their swords had shorn away all the branches and the clinging tangles which had so securely hidden it before. So that no man could possibly hide there now and expect to be undisturbed.
"Eh, that limmer Martha Miller, if I had her I'd pay her out for her treachery!" muttered Watty. "It's just as weel she gaed awa' to her sister in Glesca. She wadna hae been safe muckle longer in the place. It was gettin' ower hot for her."
"Ay, she'll never prosper, Watty. She may grow rich for a time on the spoiling of the neighbours she betrayed, but her punishment will come by-and-by," said Adam, quietly.
"I'm sure I hope sae," returned Watty, fervently. "Weel, here we are. Are ye sure there's naebody in sicht?"
"Scarcely here, before five in the morning, Watty," said Adam, with a faint smile. "It is a dark and gloomy retreat this."
He spoke the truth. They had now reached a very deep and narrow part of the glen, the sides of which rose precipitously from the edges of the stream. These abrupt heights were so densely covered with trees, chiefly those dark and gloomy firs common to the mountainous portions of Scotland, that they looked like a solid and impenetrable mass. The water, though narrow, was very deep, and made a hoarse and hollow roaring as it rushed among its rough boulders, which looked as if they had become detached from the rocky heights above and rolled into the bed of the stream. The light admitted from the narrow space between the heights was very insufficient, and only seemed to add to the gloom. Even in summer the sunshine never penetrated the dark retreat, consequently the common wild flowers did not bloom, although ferns and mosses of rich and varied hues and rare and delicate form grew in beautiful luxuriance.
"D'ye see ony place whaur a body micht hide?" queried Watty, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Faith, Watty, I believe anybody might be safe enough where we are standing at this moment. No mounted pursuer, at least, could reach this spot," answered Adam Hepburn.
"Weel, follow me as best ye can, for there's nae road, no' even a sheep-track, to guide ye," said Watty and, immediately plunging into the thicket on the left, he began to scramble up the face of the steep.
It was with some difficulty that his companion followed, but, by swinging himself up by the strong undergrowth, he managed to keep Watty in sight. At length Watty altogether and mysteriously disappeared, and, though he called out to guide his companion to his whereabouts, Adam could not discover him. It was intensely dark, and there was scarcely room to stand upright, so densely did the trees grow together. Presently Watty appeared again, and then Adam saw that he stood in front of an overhanging bank almost concealed by long grass and bracken.
"Crawl in efter me," cried Watty, and, getting down on his hands and knees, he crept under the bank and disappeared. Adam followed his example, and, as Watty immediately struck a light, he saw, to his astonishment, that he was in a roomy cavern, where he could stand upright with the greatest ease.
"Well, Watty, this is a splendid place, and will doubtless be invaluable to us," he exclaimed. "It is well-nigh impossible that any one should discover this. But tell me, how many in Inverburn could point it out?"
"No' a leevin' soul but mysel'. I'll tell ye wha shewed it to me, auld Robbie Harden, mony a year afore he deed, an' I never telt a cratur," Watty assured him, solemnly.
"Ah, that is good! Well, Watty, I am certainly obliged to you for bringing me here," said Adam. "The thing is, I hope I can make my way to it again by myself."
"Oh, that's easy enough. If ye come down noo I'll let ye see the clue," said Watty, and, accordingly, they again scrambled through the thicket to the edge of the stream.
"Ye see that muckle black rock jist like a table," said Watty, pointing to a huge mass lying in the bed of the water. "It's jist directly opposite that. If ye keep straicht up ye canna' miss it."
"All right; I'll remember," said Adam, and the twain then left the ravine and rapidly retraced their steps towards the haunts of men.
It was now about half-past five, so Watty, in alarm lest he should be stopped and questioned, left Adam Hepburn just behind Hartrigge, and taking to his heels, fled with the utmost speed back to the village.