CHAPTER XXIV.DELIVERED.As it was by no means safe for David Gray to sojourn with his kinsfolk in Edinburgh, he was anxious to get away as soon as possible. Ailie Kilgour, with a true woman's ingenuity, had decided upon a plan whereby he might make the journey by easy stages, and without molestation, to Inverburn. Nevertheless, she was somewhat afraid to lay it before her cousin, lest he might laugh at her for her pains. After Adam Hepburn's departure, her father and cousin were sitting discussing ways and means by the kitchen fire, when she came in, bearing in her hand an old linsey-woolsey gown and a faded tartan plaid, which had belonged to her mother."All these plans you speak of are too dangerous to be undertaken, Cousin David," she said. "What do you say to disguising yourself as a female hawker, and thus pursue your journey, not only with safety, but with profit?"In spite of the gravity of his position, David Gray burst into a hearty laugh, such as had not passed his lips for many a day."Oh, Cousin Ailie, give me a woman for ingenuity!" he exclaimed. "But what would I make of my beard and my white hair?""Follow Adam's example and shave your face smooth and clean," said Ailie. "As for your hair, after it is fastened up under a white cap, it will the better help your disguise.""Are you in earnest, Ailie, woman?" queried her father, in no little amusement."Father, I am in dead earnest," she said, soberly. "I have everything to dress him with, and when I run out for needles and cotton, and buttons and other sundries to plenish his basket with, the disguise will be complete."David Gray had for a moment fancied his cousin merely joking, but seeing she was in earnest, the feasibility and even the wisdom and cleverness of her suggestion appeared to him quite plainly."Cousin Ailie, I believe I will try your plan," he said, suddenly. "I will at least put on the disguise and see what manner of a woman I present."Much pleased, Ailie ran to the adjoining room for the other articles of attire, and brought also her father's shaving things, in order that her cousin might remove his beard. She then retired, and after about half-an-hour they called to her to come and see the disguise. When she looked upon the complete and wonderful transformation it had made, she nearly clapped her hands with delight. The minister was certainly a tall woman, but in every other respect he was the exact picture of what he wished to represent.Ailie took her little tartan neckerchief from her shoulders, tied it above the white cap, and then retired back to admire the effect."Cousin David, that is just the finishing touch!" she exclaimed, in no small glee. "Your appearance would deceive the cleverest person in the world, I am sure. You look exactly like an aged dame who has weathered a good many storms on the road. If you don't reach Inverburn in safety in my mother's old gown, my name isn't Ailie Kilgour.""What say you, Uncle Edward?" asked David Gray, turning to the old man."Truly, lad, the deception is most wonderful," he replied. "Of course it is hardly a fitting thing for a minister of the kirk to tramp the country in an old wife's gown, but desperate ills need desperate remedies. So I would say, take the lassie's advice, and God go with you.""Well, I will," said David Gray, "for in my own person and garb I am convinced I should never reach Inverburn alive, nor, indeed, get beyond the environs of Edinburgh.""You said the pursuers went by the Lanark road," said Ailie. "Your plan will be to go to Stirling, and then across the moors. I daresay you will find the way.""Easily," responded David Gray, cheerfully. "You are a clever, far-seeing woman, cousin; the thought of such a disguise would never have entered my head.""It will be a great joy to me, Cousin David, if I am rewarded by saving your life," she said, with a smile and a tear, and so the matter was settled.All that day David Gray remained in hiding in his uncle's abode, and early on the following morning he bade them both a warm farewell, and set out upon his journey back to his native place. As Ailie watched the gaunt, uncouth-looking figure with the basket and the big cotton umbrella stalking down the street, the very picture of a practised peddling woman, she scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry. So a woman's ingenuity twice outwitted the sharpness of the Government.We have been long absent from the vale of Inverburn, yet truly nothing of note was happening there, only a dreary and despairing waiting for the dawning of a brighter day, occasionally deepened and intensified by some deed of violence or brutal pillage executed by the dragoons, who infested the entire west of Scotland. Since the fateful day of Bothwell severities had been increased, greater licence given to the soldiery, and less mercy extended to the suffering country folk, whether there were anything against them or not. Along the entire course of the Clyde the country presented a most dismal aspect. In place of smiling homesteads and rich and fertile fields, there was nothing to be seen but smouldering ruins and tract upon tract of desolate wastes, which had not been upturned by the plough for many a year. The population, though now sadly thinned, was in a state bordering upon starvation, everything they had formerly possessed having been stolen from them, and every means of subsistence removed. Yet still it seemed as if the words of Scripture must needs be literally fulfilled, since from him that had not was taken even that which he had. Hundreds had no shelter in the wide earth save that afforded by glens and caves and mountain fastnesses, and even there they were not safe.The farm of Hartrigge had not escaped these later desolations, for now all that remained of that once substantial and even imposing homestead was one cot-house, which had escaped the flames on account of it being detached from the main buildings, and having thus been overlooked by the ruffians, who, after pillaging the entire place, had set it on fire.In this humble abode dwelt the widow of Andrew Gray, his sister Jane, and a young lad with his sister, the Sandy and wee Nannie, who had been so dear to their father's heart. Jeanie was now safe with her father and Gavin in that land where eternal peace abides. The bairn's heart seemed to be weighed down by the things happening around her, and she just faded away.Strange as it may seem, the few yet remaining who loved her on earth saw her depart with gladness, for it had come to that pass in poor stricken Scotland that he who lay down to die was accounted much more to be envied than he who was preserved alive.One beautiful evening towards the end of July, Susan Gray and her sister-in-law, Jane, were sitting together on the bench outside their cottage door, with their hands lying idle on their laps, a thing they would have accounted a sin in the days of the happy past. But now there was nothing for hands to do, and life was at times a very weariness. These troublous years had wrought a woeful change upon both those women, and had aged them long before their time. Also upon the face of Susan Gray there appeared at times a vague, wandering kind of expression, which seemed to indicate a weakness of the mind, and verily it was not greatly to be wondered at that the nerves of women-folk should be unable to bear the awful strain upon them.They were not conversing together, for such sorrows as theirs will not bear to be spoken of by the lips; there was a hopeless, purposeless look about them, which was painful in the contrast it presented to their busy, cheerful energy of long ago."See Jane!" said Susan Gray, presently. "Is not that a figure on the road? Is it Sandy or the bairn Nannie? They should be on their way home from the village now.""No; it is a taller figure than either of the bairns," replied Jane. "It is a woman, and she has a basket on her arm.""Is she like a gangerel [tramp], Jane? She need hardly come here seeking now," said Susan, listlessly."Yes, she looks like that. There are not many of her kind on the roads now," said Jane. Then they relapsed into silence, and so sat until the woman with the basket appeared on the path in front of the cottage door. Susan Gray only gave her a careless look, and then went into the cottage, leaving Jane to deal with her."My woman, ye need hardly have come this length with your basket," said Jane Gray, kindly, and looking compassionately at the evidences of fatigue on her face. "The wherewithal is much lacking here now. But sit down on the bench here and rest a while, till I bring you a piece of bread, which, thanks be to God, we can still offer to those in greater need than ourselves."So saying, she pointed to the bench, and retired into the house. The woman set down her basket, and dropping on the seat, covered her face with her hands, and uttered a low but passionate prayer of thankfulness. In this attitude Jane Gray found her when she again stepped out of doors. She laid her hand on the bent shoulders, and said kindly, "You seem quite overcome. Have you travelled many miles this day?"Slowly the stranger's head was raised, and a pair of eyes fixed themselves on the kind, womanly face with a glance which stirred her very soul; and, without knowing why, she began to tremble from head to foot."Sister Jane, do you not know me?" said the voice of one she had mourned as dead. "Then indeed my disguise is as complete as Ailie Kilgour assured me. I am your brother David!"Jane Gray uttered a low cry, which brought Susan hurrying out to the door. The moment, however, that her eyes rested keenly and sharply on the stranger's face, they penetrated the disguise, and she exclaimed--"David Gray, as I am a living woman!""Even so; thus far the Almighty has brought me through many perils to my native parish," said the minister of Broomhill, fervently.Jane, having now recovered her first shock of surprise, embraced her brother with great joy, the tears chasing each other down her cheeks in her emotion. So the name of Gray was not entirely swept off the face of the earth, as they had bitterly imagined, and there was hope for the old house yet. They hastened to take him in, and set refreshment before him, after partaking of which he related to them all that which had befallen him and his brethren since they had last met.Greatly rejoiced were they to learn of Adam Hepburn's escape, but they shed many tears over their hardships in the prison yard at Edinburgh. As David in low and earnest tones delivered his brother's last message to his widow, the tears flowed from her eyes, but in a gentle rain which brought healing with it. It was for these precious words her widowed heart had long and sorely hungered. It was decided that so long as it was considered safe, he should abide under his disguise with them, though a few trusty brethren in hiding in the district would be duly informed of his safety.So a little sunshine penetrated the dark cloud, and shed a measure of brightness on the hearth of the poor little cottage at Hartrigge.CHAPTER XXV.AIRSMOSS.Poor Watty McBean's hole in the Witches' Cleugh had indeed been of great benefit to many fugitives, and it had never been empty since the fleeing after the slaughter at Bothwell. During the next day the minister of Broomhill repaired in his disguise to that safe hiding, in order to see the brethren there, and so commune with them regarding their present state, and the future fate or welfare of them and such as them. As he pursued his way leisurely along the sequestered and lonely paths which led to the cleugh, he mused much on the wonderful way in which the Lord had led him hitherto. He also marvelled within himself that he had been so long spared, and in his heart there was a petition that he might be made willing and glad to continue his suffering and weary way through life, until the Lord should see fit to call him to Himself. These profitable and godly communings were interrupted somewhat summarily by the abrupt appearance of two dragoons, who came rapidly riding up from the direction of the cleugh, and who immediately drew rein at the sight of the woman, as they imagined the wayfarer to be."Hulloa, mistress! do you know anything of that confounded lair where so many Whigs sleep in safety?" queried one, fixing his piercing eye on the face of David Gray."Truly the Whigs have had many hiding places in this district," he answered, mildly. "To what one do you specially refer?""Faith, I hardly know; it is somewhere about these hills or in the valley between," said the dragoon, pointing backward to the cleugh. "We are creditably informed that several very noted rebels were concealed there, and me and my mate swore an oath that we should find the place, which has baffled the king's soldiers so long. We have made a thorough search, but can find no clue.""I never heard of any place of concealment among those hills," said David Gray. "Those who are so eager to inform sometimes overreach themselves, and----""Leave the hag in peace, Munro!" interrupted the younger man, impatiently. "I believe she is right enough, and we were told lies to beguile us. I for one will get away out of this confounded district with what speed I can. My horse is dead lame, see, stumbling through that accursed ravine."Marvelling much at the very easy manner in which he had escaped questioning, David Gray watched the two ride away, but did not then pursue his way to the cleugh, lest he should unwittingly betray his brethren. But his soul, long separated from such as had suffered like persecutions with him, was yearning for the sweet fellowship of brotherly counsel, both for the strengthening of his own hands and heart, and also to learn, if possible, whether any of the more noted saints were still alive. He felt himself deeply and peculiarly blessed in the communion he was privileged to obtain with that poor remnant of his kinsfolk still dwelling in the parish of Inverburn, and during the evening of that day the women and the young folk at Hartrigge were much edified with his conversation and with his exposition of the Word. It was long, indeed, since such a joy had been vouchsafed to them. Owing to the somewhat limited accommodation of the humble dwelling which now sheltered the Grays, the lad, Sandy, went down to Inverburn to sleep in the house of an old woman, who gladly gave him shelter for his father's sake. Nannie, with her aunts, abode in the kitchen, and the best end was given up to the minister. They retired early to rest, and in spite of the troubles and anxieties which encompassed them, very soon all beneath the roof-tree of the cottage were asleep. The atmosphere had been dull and heavy all day, and the night was dark and starless; the low-hanging, sullen presaging rain, of which the parched earth stood in sore need. About midnight Susan Gray, who slept lightly, was awakened by a sound she had heard so often during these past weary years, that she could not mistake it now. It was the tramp of hoofs, and in a moment a wild fear that even already the minister was betrayed took possession of her soul. Hastily awaking Jane, both strang up, threw on their outer garments, and stealing over to the casement, which was a little ajar to admit the fresh air, they peered fearfully out. The night was utterly, intensely dark, and they could see nothing, but they could hear now both the trampling and the snorting of horses, and also at a little distance the low, eager voices of men. Through the still, soundless air their strained ears caught these words:--"He shall not escape us this time, I swear! Egad! it was a clever disguise!--a wench's idea, without doubt. To think that old hag we met peddling her wares in Walston was that veritable heretic David Gray, and we knew it not! It is enough to make a man ashamed of himself!"Swiftly and silently Jane Gray stole across the narrow passage to the inner room, and awakened her brother, who was enjoying a very sound and refreshing repose. By the time she had made him aware of the danger at hand, the troop had quite surrounded the house, and a great noise broke the stillness of the summer night.David Gray sprang from his bed to the floor, thinking his hour was come. And yet, was it but to be slain in cold blood like this that the Lord had let him get clear away both from the slaughter at Bothwell and the wearisome captivity of the Greyfriars?In that moment of agonising suspense and apprehension, when he was striving to prepare for death, even with a soul yearning for life, his eye, as if guided by some unseen power, fell upon the wide, old-fashioned chimney, and in a moment his resolution was taken. Even when the foot of the enemy was on the very threshold of the outer door, the fugitive wrapped a plaid about his white night-clothes, and, committing himself to the God who had so often delivered him, he hastily scrambled up the chimney and out on to the roof. Jane Gray did not see him perform this extraordinary action, she having gone to accost, and, if possible, conciliate and delay, the officer at the outer door.Without hesitating a moment, knowing he would speedily be observed on the roof, David Gray lay himself flat down, and, sliding down to the eaves, dropped to the ground in front of a mounted dragoon. The apparition in waving white garments terrified the horse, and caused him to rear and plunge wildly, so that his rider was almost unseated. In the momentary confusion that ensued the fugitive took to his heels, and in a brief space was out of sight and beyond pursuit. Meanwhile, quite unconscious of this miraculous escape, Jane Gray was endeavouring to parley with the officer at the door."Sorry to disturb your repose, sweet mistress," he said. "If you will but deliver up that renegade, David Gray, who is sheltering here, we will go away and leave you in peace.""David Gray!" ejaculated Jane Gray, faintly; "what men-folk have we under this roof-tree, sir? The only stranger here is a relative, who has travelled a great distance on foot to sojourn awhile with us, if that be a fault in your eyes.""Does the stranger wear a linsey-woolsey gown, a tartan plaid, and a white cap, and peddle ribbons and laces to the country lasses, eh?" queried the captain, with grim humour. "To show you that we do not doubt your word, bring out the old lady, so that we may pay our respects to her. Methinks we have met before."At her wits' end, Jane Gray turned about and went into the room, which, to her astonishment, seemed to be empty. The captain followed her, and, not finding the fugitive there, strode into the kitchen. Susan Gray and Nannie were there, and it needed but one glance at their faces to tell him that neither was the person he sought."Your kinswoman has hidden herself, I perceive," he said, grimly. "You had better bid her come forth, or I will give orders to set the place on fire. I have no time to dally here; it is time all honest folk were in bed.""We are guiltless of hiding him you seek, sir," said Jane Gray, no longer attempting to deny that her brother had been sheltering with them. "And, truly, where in this small abode could he hide? It is a mystery to me where he has gone, unless, indeed, the Lord hath miraculously aided his escape."At that moment one of the dragoons came hurrying in to say that the prisoner had without doubt made his escape from the roof, and was already beyond pursuit. Then the captain fell into a great rage, and cursed and swore in a manner which made the women-folk tremble. And truly it was a sore disappointment to the man to have had so valuable and notable a Covenanter within his very reach, and yet to be baulked so simply. In his fury he was like to have taken the lives of the fugitive's kinswomen, but was persuaded by a more merciful subordinate to let them be in peace. Nevertheless, he caused lighted brands to be held to the thatched roof of the cottage, and, being dry as tinder, it immediately took fire.In a short space of time the darkness of the night was illumined by the flames of the burning cottage, and the three defenceless women, now rendered indeed utterly homeless, hastily gathered such small but valuable things as they could carry, and, withdrawing themselves a little, watched the rapid destruction of the only shelter they could call their own on the face of the earth. Yet they could not feel utterly cast down, since God had so marvellously delivered the dear fugitive out of the hands of the pursuer once more. The captain and his troop immediately rode away down to the village, to inflict themselves on such of the inhabitants as could yet give them bite and sup and shelter for the night. Meanwhile David Gray fled, under the grateful cover of the darkness, by the familiar field-paths to poor Watty's famous hiding, where he knew he should find both shelter and comforting welcome from his brethren. His long residence in the cleugh had made him so familiar with it, that even in the darkness he had no difficulty whatever in finding the thicket which hid the cave. And yet he had to creep slowly and with caution, for the nettles and brambles and brushwood proved very formidable to his uncovered limbs, and his feet were already bleeding from coming into contact with the stones as he made his rapid flight from the cottage. As he came up nearly to the mouth of the cave, he gave a long, low whistle, which Jane had told him was a signal understood by those in hiding. In a few minutes it was answered by a similar sound, and the brushwood was carefully swept aside from the mouth of the cave, and he saw the figure of a man."Who comes?" a voice said, in an anxious whisper."A brother in sore straits, whom the Lord, of His good pleasure, hath this night marvellously delivered," answered David Gray, and at that the man standing at the mouth of the cave stretched out his hand and drew the new-comer into the dimly-lighted recess beyond. In this place there were no fewer than seven persons, both old, young, and middle-aged, whose faces were thin and worn, as if they had suffered much privation. They looked with no little astonishment upon the strangely-attired figure which appeared so suddenly in their midst, and one, an elderly man, of very grave and reverent aspect, after looking intently on his face, jumped up and grasped him by the hand."David Gray, an I mistake not, whom I last saw in grips with the enemy at Bothwell Brig!" he exclaimed."And whom the Lord hath marvellously preserved from that woeful day to this," supplemented David Gray. "Little did I think last time we met, Mr. Donald Cargill, that we should look upon each other's faces again, and in this place of all places.""Verily, strange are the vicissitudes of the scattered remnant of the Lord's Zion," said Mr. Cargill. "I have been obliged to keep in hiding these few days, being sore pursued by a troop of dragoons for preaching at Lanark and at various other places in Clydesdale; but come, tell us what hath befallen thee of late, and by what means thou art come hither in this strange attire."Nothing loth, David Gray entered upon the recital of his exciting experiences during the last two months, and when he had finished, Mr. Cargill had his story to tell, and in this pathetic and mournfully interesting talk the night speedily wore away. Although Mr. Cargill had been obliged to flee for his life to the shelter of the cleugh, it was impossible for one of his ardent and restless spirit to remain long inactive. As soon as they heard from a trusty reporter, who carried them both provisions and news from Inverburn, that the hot pursuit was slackened in the neighbourhood, he announced his intention of going forth once more to the preaching of the Word.Fired by the eloquence and zeal of the old man, and feeling himself much persuaded to testify in public once more, David Gray petitioned that he might be allowed to go forth in company with him. So the twain quitted their hiding, and travelled eastwards towards Edinburgh, preaching as they went, and meeting with many perils, out of which they had many marvellous deliverances, which would occupy too long a space to recount. In the spring of 1680, new life was infused into the scattered and sometimes fainting remnant, by the return to Scotland of that eloquent preacher and godly man, Richard Cameron, who had been persuaded to retire to Holland for a time previous to the Battle of Bothwell.In his exile his heart had never ceased to yearn over his suffering native land, and the desire to cast in his lot with his persecuted brethren became so strong at length, that it could not be set aside. It was with great joy that the few earnest souls still left welcomed him back to their midst, and Donald Cargill and David Gray immediately joined themselves to him, and the three went about continually preaching and exhorting the people to hold fast to their faith, for the cause for which they suffered was just and righteous, and must in the end prevail.It was not long ere these faithful and undaunted men became specially observed of those in high places, and they were vigorously and relentlessly pursued from place to place, but managed to elude the vigilance of those following so continuously in their track. Among Cameron's most close and faithful adherents was brave Hackstoun of Rathillet, who, since Bothwell, had been a wanderer on the face of the earth, having given up all for Christ's sake.One summer's day a small party of horsemen rode into the little town of Sanquhar, and startled the good folk both by their wayworn and haggard appearance and by their proceedings.They drew rein at the market cross, and Richard Cameron, their leader, dismounted and slowly read a declaration denying the right of Charles to the throne of Scotland, stigmatising him as a tyrant and perjurer, and solemnly declaring war against him for all time coming.That done, they rode away as rapidly and mysteriously as they had come, and did not halt till they reached a lonely spot among the hills, where they ventured to rest awhile."After what we have done this day," said Mr. Cameron, wiping the midsummer heat from his brow, "I fear it will no longer be safe for us to continue together; and besides, I cannot but think that were we to separate away in different directions we could the better break the bread of life to our starving brethren. What say you, Mr. Cargill? Were it not better that each man of us should go his own way, preaching and exhorting wherever the Lord giveth time and opportunity?""Truly, brother, your suggestion savours of wisdom and prudence," said Mr. Cargill, with approval. "But ere we separate we had better agree as to a time when we can again meet together to compare our experiences and strengthen each other's hands for renewed conflict.""I fear me, brethren, that the end is nigh at hand for more than one of us," said the sweet voice of David Hackstoun. "I, at least, have been visited of late with very precious presentiments of a speedy release from these troubles. Therefore I would say it matters little whether we be together or separate, seeing that, save it be the Lord's time, no evil can befall us.""Strange that Mr. Hackstoun's presentiments should have visited me likewise," said Richard Cameron. "I am convinced that my race is nearly run; therefore, during what little space is still vouchsafed to me on this earth, I would continue my Lord's work with renewed vigilance, lest when He cometh He should find his unworthy servant asleep.""As regards Mr. Cargill's proposal that we should make an agreement to meet, I fear that would be useless," said David Gray. "I think we should but wish each other God speed, and leave our future meeting in God's hands. Doubtless, if it be His good pleasure, He will bring us together again in due season, if not here, in His own kingdom, whither we are all hastening with more or less speed."This latter suggestion was approved, and, after holding a solemn farewell service together, they parted, not knowing whether they should look upon each other's faces again. Mr. Cameron travelled westward to New Monkland, preaching boldly as he went, to the no little comfort of the few to whom the pure Word was yet precious. Hackstoun and David Gray, with a few others, kept together in the south; but hearing, not many days after, that a heavy price was set on Cameron's head, and that he was being vigilantly pursued, they conferred together and decided to retire to the west and band themselves about him, so that, in the event of the enemy falling upon him, there might be some to defend him and render him deliverance out of their hands. Accordingly, a guard under Rathillet travelled across the familiar, and now sacred, ground in the south-western district, and came up with Cameron in Avondale, near the memorable field of Drumclog. To their joy, they found Mr. Cargill with him, and on the Sabbath day a solemn service was held, in which all the ministers took part. Mr. Cameron preached the sermon from the words, "Be still, and know that I am God," and as the eloquent and stirring words fell from his lips, it was noted that his countenance seemed lighted with a radiance not of earth. After the service Mr. Cargill went his way farther west, after agreeing that he should meet Cameron and the rest at Dermeid Muir on the following Sabbath day. During the next few days Cameron's conversation was that of a man who was not long for this world, and he never ceased to exhort those with him to continue steadfast yet a while, for Scotland's deliverance was at hand. He prophesied that the reign of bloodshed and terror would speedily be over, and that the Lord's Zion would ere long be rebuilt upon the ruins of her past and present desolation. On the Wednesday of that week he was sojourning in the house of a godly man at Meadowhead, on the Water of Ayr, and to him and the folk with him in the house he expressed his conviction that the Lord would, in a few hours' time, require him to seal his testimony with his blood. Hearing some report of a troop under Bruce of Earlshall making vigilant search for him and his party, Cameron and his friends agreed to retire to the wild moorland which stretched for many miles between Cumnock and Muirkirk. It was a vast and dreary wilderness, covered with heather and bracken, unrelieved by a green tree or a nodding floweret even in the midsummer time, when all Nature was rejoicing in her wealth and beauty. Towards the east end of this moor Cameron and his friends, being sore fatigued with a long march in the burning heat of the day, lay themselves down awhile to rest. In this solitude they were surprised by the enemy--a large number of soldiers under Earlshall--who came sweeping across the moor with a fury and speed which made it quite impossible for the faithful little band to escape. There was nothing for it but to fight, which the brave remnant immediately decided to do, and quietly but resolutely looked to their arms, and set themselves in order for the fray. It was a pitiable sight upon which the summer sun beat that July afternoon--that handful of God's people dauntlessly facing a goodly regiment of dragoons, all fresh and eager for the fight. Ere the enemy was quite upon them, Cameron led the devotions of his brethren, and in his prayer said, with great fervour, "Lord, spare the green and take the ripe."Then they exchanged a hand clasp and a solemn farewell, pledging each other to meet in glory.It was a desperate fight.The Covenanters fought with conspicuous gallantry, and, even after brave Cameron fell, they continued the conflict over his dead body.Seeing that there was no hope of victory, and that Rathillet and some others were already taken captive, David Gray, in a last extremity, leaped upon the back of a horse whose rider had been slain, and, rapidly galloping off the field, made his escape. Only one or two others were equally fortunate, and so once again the Covenanters were swept away before the oppressors like chaff on a windy day.Richard Cameron's remains were carried to Edinburgh, and his head was fixed on the Netherbow port, where it was left to moulder and blacken in the sun. Rathillet, after the usual mockery of a trial, was subjected to terrible and searching tortures, which he bore with a firmness which astonished those who had seen evidence of his sweet yielding nature. His troubles were finally ended on the scaffold, and he went to receive his exceeding great reward. Thus it seemed as if this most precious blood of the Covenant, yea, every drop of it, must be spilled upon the ground, ere the hour of Scotland's deliverance had come.By slow degrees, and through many strange perils, David Gray wandered wearily back to his native parish. There were times when the weight of his many sorrows was like to overwhelm him, and when he could have cried out for the inheritance in heaven, to which so many of his brethren had already been admitted.Lurking in the wild solitudes of the mountains, depending for his sustenance upon a few ears of corn, or some of the wild fruits of the earth, it was little wonder if at times his soul fainted within him, and he felt impelled to question the wherefore of these tribulations. In his weakness he was also frequently tempted fiercely by Satan to abjure the cause for which he suffered, and to purchase life and immunity from persecution at the Government price. But by God's grace he was enabled to pass unscathed through these fiery trials, and when at last he crept, a worn and wasted shadow, up his native vale, and sought the shelter of the witches' cleugh, his heart was once more at rest, and abiding steadfastly on the Lord Christ. There were yet some fugitives in Watty's hiding-place, and out of her undying love for the cause, Jane Gray still, when opportunity offered, and when she possessed the wherewithal, stole thither with some relief. Great was her astonishment and joy to behold there her brother David, whom they had of late quite given up as dead. The sight of a familiar and loved face restored anew David Gray's courage and confidence, and he prayed earnestly to be forgiven his temptations to backsliding, with which he had been so sore beset in his desolation.In spite of the increased vigilance of the oppressors, meetings were still held on the hill-sides and in sheltered nooks, for there yet remained some who would do and dare anything to hear the faithful preaching of the Word.Very often David Gray led these services, and at last it got noised abroad that he was at large in the district of Inverburn, which, coming to Claverhouse's ears, made him swear a great oath that he should have his head. But although on several separate occasions he had him almost in his clutches, the Lord interposed, and in many marvellous ways vouchsafed deliverance to His faithful servant. About that time it became almost an impossibility to hold a conventicle, for it was certain to become a massacre, so largely were the country districts infested with dragoons, yet there was indeed very little of the old leaven of the Covenant now left in the flesh, for the new generation which had arisen since the first glorious upstanding for the cause was lukewarm and indifferent, and too much taken up with the things of the world to concern themselves much with religious matters.Within two years after Bothwell a great grief fell upon the few yet remaining faithful to the old cause.When James II. ascended the throne, after the death of Charles, he published an Act of Toleration, on the conditions of which many persecuted wanderers were induced to return to their homes, and even some ministers to their parishes. It was as deep a snare in its way as the indulgence of Charles had been, its ultimate object being to establish Papacy in Scotland. Into this net many fell, and it indeed seemed as if the martyrdom of the saints were to have no good harvest in the land. But it being now the darkest hour, the dawning was at hand.Grown somewhat weary of life in their native land, and being sore exercised and perplexed by the condition of religious affairs therein, David Gray, with some others, made it a matter of prayerful consideration whether they should not retire to the Continent for a space, and labour for the Master there. The conventicles, which could only now be held at long intervals, and under strict secrecy, were thinly attended, and not productive of any wide-spreading good, also the end of the struggle seemed at hand, in the utter extermination of the scattered remnant still faithful to the old doctrines and principles, so that it indeed appeared as if there were no more work left for them to do in Scotland.After due deliberation, therefore, David Gray resolved to escape out of the country. Attiring himself in his former disguise, with which his sister Jane provided him, he travelled on foot without molestation to Newcastle-on-Tyne, where, after some little delay, he obtained shipment in a trading vessel to Rotterdam, and there we lose sight of him for a while.CHAPTER XXVIREST.The golden radiance of a summer sunset lay upon the vale of Inverburn. The year was in its prime, and everywhere the wealth of her beauty was scattered with no stinted hand. The harvest was ripe for the sickle in the fertile lowlands, and even on the bleaker uplands there was a lovely yellow tinge on the standing corn, which promised an early reaping. Yes, there were peace and plenty in the smiling land once more, for the long reign of bloodshed and terror was over, the house of Stuart had fallen to rise no more, buried in the ruins of its own iniquity, and a wise, just and upright ruler now wielded the sceptre on the throne of England.There were not altogether lacking evidences of the dark days which had been. Here and there, on some sunny slope or in some sheltered valley, a black and mouldering ruin indicated where the spoiler had waved his destroying brand, and there yet remained many a broad acre left untilled, because those whose inheritance it was had been destroyed, root and branch, old and young, until not a living representative was left.But in the main, Scotland had returned to her old-time peace and prosperity; again the voice of the husbandman was heard in the fields, again the women folk went about their daily tasks without fear or trembling, and last, and best of all, the kirks were open on the Sabbath Day once more, for the free and pure worship of the Most High.The village of Inverburn that summer evening presented much the same appearance as it did when first we made acquaintance with it. The pleasant voices of the children at their play filled the summer air, on the cottage doorsteps or in the trellised porches the women sat at their knitting or spinning, while the broad benches in the doorway of the hostelry had each their complement of sturdy yeomen discussing, over their foaming tankards, the events of the day or the graver memories of the past. About the hour of sundown there was observed, coming slowly along the wide and pleasant road from Lanark, two pedestrians, for whose coming the villagers waited with that keen curiosity so characteristic of country folk. They walked very slowly, as I said, and though one appeared to be of tall and erect figure, the other was much bent, and walked leaning heavily on his companion's arm. Just as they entered upon the village street, and speculation began to run higher regarding them, the attention of the idlers was distracted for a little space by the clatter of hoofs in the opposite direction, and presently a horse and rider came rapidly down the slope and drew rein in front of the inn. The horseman was a young man of goodly stature and fine appearance, with a boyish, open countenance, and a winning, fearless eye."Guid e'en, Sandy Gray!" cried one or two with familiarity which was pardonable, seeing they had known the lad from his infancy, and some of them his godly forbears before him."Guid e'en!" he answered back frankly. "Here, Willie, my man," he added to a curly-headed urchin playing on the step, "run in and tell your mother I want to see her about ale for the reapers.""Ay, man, is the hairst [harvest] ready on Hartrigge?" queried one of the older men. "Mony a day I bound a stent [sheaf] behind your faither on the rigs o' Hartrigge.""Ay, Robin, ye'd better come up and bind a stent after me, then, just for auld lang syne," said the young man and a slight shade crossed his sunny face.At that moment the two pedestrians came directly opposite the inn door and there stopped. Sandy Gray wheeled round his horse, and regarded them with a curiosity almost as great as that exhibited by his neighbours. Their attire was such as these simple villagers had never before seen, being distinctly foreign in its fashion, a thing sufficient in itself to invest the strangers with extraordinary interest. Sandy Gray courteously saluted them, and then one spoke, and it seemed to the young man that the first word awakened some chord in his heart which had long been asleep."Pray, can you tell me, young sir, if there be any of the name of Gray still to the fore in this parish?"The young man gave a violent start, and a wild hope sprang up in his heart."Yes, I am a Gray; I am Alexander Gray of Hartrigge, son of that Andrew Gray who fell at Bothwell, and whose forbears were so long ministers of this parish," he said, with trembling eagerness. "And you! you! I am not mistaken now that I see your faces. I remember you quite well--Uncle David and Uncle Adam, thank God!""Can it be possible that I look upon the face of my brother's son? Now the Lord be praised!" exclaimed the more aged and infirm of the two, and, advancing, he held out two trembling hands to his nephew, which the young man, alighting from his horse, warmly grasped, while the tears rained down his cheeks. Then he turned to Adam Hepburn, whose face betrayed his deep satisfaction, though his joy did not find such ready expression.The villagers, who had watched this scene with consuming interest, now rose with one accord, and with a cheer came flocking about the returned wanderers, for those who had not been personally acquainted with these two sufferers knew their names as household words."And now tell me, lad," said the aged minister, when he could free himself from these friendly welcomes and again speak with his nephew, "you spoke of Hartrigge. Can it be that I have returned to find a Gray in Hartrigge still?""Yes, yes; I live there, Uncle David; and my mother and dear Aunt Jane also are in the place," he answered, and the minister did not notice that he did not say they dwelt in the house. "Nannie is married now, and, Uncle Adam, she is living at Rowallan, of which her husband, Walter Fleming, is the farmer.""And there is an Agnes Gray at Rowallan as well as a Gray in Hartrigge!" said the minister. "You hear that, Adam? the old stock is not dead yet, but has developed once more into a goodly tree, for which, O my God, I thank Thee.""An Agnes Gray at Rowallan yet, did you say?" asked Adam Hepburn, dreamily. "But there was no Rowallan when I left, only the blackened ruins of the homestead. What changes are these?""The old laird is dead, and that dear, blessed saint, Lady Hamilton, has rebuilt Hartrigge and Rowallan and would not let a foot but ours upon their thresholds," said the young man. "But come; we cannot stand here all night. Come away home. Oh, what a night this will be beneath the roof-tree of Hartrigge! Here, Uncle David, get on Jess's back, and Uncle Adam and I will walk beside you, and so we will soon be home."The minister accordingly gladly mounted the animal, and Sandy took the bridle rein over his arm, and the little party moved off up the manse brae, followed by the cheers of the delighted villagers.As they passed the manse and the kirk they involuntarily stood still, and the minister took his hat from his waving white locks and bent his head a moment on his breast, while Adam Hepburn fixed his eyes on one green spot under a spreading yew tree, as if they would fain dwell there for ever. Then they went on again, and the minister told his nephew in a few brief words how they had been blessed to meet in Holland, and had been vouchsafed a measure of prosperity and usefulness there, but how their hearts had ever yearned for their native land, until the time came they could return to it without fear.This talk occupied all the way to the farm, at which young Sandy was not sorry, for he did not desire as yet to be more closely questioned regarding his own household at Hartrigge.The farm at Hartrigge now presented a very fine and striking appearance, the new steading [farm buildings] and commodious dwelling-house, standing so imposingly on the brow of the hill, being thrown into strong relief by the brilliant green of the summer foliage and the bright golden hue of the ripening grain.At the foot of the little hill, sheltering cosily under the fir-wood, there stood a neat cottage with a garden-plot in front, which was gay with summer bloom. Just as the little party came in sight on the private road a woman's figure came to the door, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked long and intently at it, greatly wondering what it meant. She was a sweet and comely-looking person, though long past her prime, and her fair, calm face bore the impress of many sorrows, yet peace dwelt abidingly upon it now.She presently turned about, called to some one within, and another figure, much older and feebler looking, and wearing a widow's garb, joined her on the step. And thus they were standing when the party came up."Susan! Susan! it is the answer to our many prayers!" said Jane Gray, tremblingly. "If these be not David and Adam, our exiled wanderers, my eyes strangely deceive me."Then she sat down on the bench at the door and burst into tears.Why should I linger over that sacred meeting? Could any human pen do it justice? I think not.After a little Sandy touched the arm of his Uncle David, and begged him to come away up with him to the house, and the others would follow. He gave the old man his arm, and they ascended the hill, walked slowly (too slowly for Sandy's impatient feet) through the fir-wood, and round to the front of the house. Then, with trembling hand, Sandy opened the door and led his uncle in. In the pleasant family room in the ruddy evening glow there was a sweet and restful picture. On the hearth there stood a cradle, and in a low chair near to it the figure of a woman--a young woman--too young almost, one might have thought, to be a wife and mother."Is that you, Sandy? Don't make a noise, dearie, for baby has been so troublesome, and is just asleep."It was a voice of winning and exquisite softness, and when presently the speaker rose, the old man saw a sweet and lovely young creature, with a fair, rose-tinted face, and deep, tender blue eyes, which reminded him of those blue eyes which had charmed him long ago."Is this your wife, my lad? You kept this pleasant surprise to the last," said he, with a sweet smile, and advanced with extended hands."Yes, my wife, Uncle David, but something, nay a great deal more," said the young man, hardly knowing what he said. "Oh, uncle, uncle! it is your own daughter Lilian who is my wife, and our little son yonder is named David Gray, out of our love for you. Lily, my dear, my love, this is your father, come home from exile, as we have so long hoped and prayed he would."For a moment father and daughter stood still, and then these words fell from the old man's lips, in accents of trembling joy--"It is enough. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!"
CHAPTER XXIV.
DELIVERED.
As it was by no means safe for David Gray to sojourn with his kinsfolk in Edinburgh, he was anxious to get away as soon as possible. Ailie Kilgour, with a true woman's ingenuity, had decided upon a plan whereby he might make the journey by easy stages, and without molestation, to Inverburn. Nevertheless, she was somewhat afraid to lay it before her cousin, lest he might laugh at her for her pains. After Adam Hepburn's departure, her father and cousin were sitting discussing ways and means by the kitchen fire, when she came in, bearing in her hand an old linsey-woolsey gown and a faded tartan plaid, which had belonged to her mother.
"All these plans you speak of are too dangerous to be undertaken, Cousin David," she said. "What do you say to disguising yourself as a female hawker, and thus pursue your journey, not only with safety, but with profit?"
In spite of the gravity of his position, David Gray burst into a hearty laugh, such as had not passed his lips for many a day.
"Oh, Cousin Ailie, give me a woman for ingenuity!" he exclaimed. "But what would I make of my beard and my white hair?"
"Follow Adam's example and shave your face smooth and clean," said Ailie. "As for your hair, after it is fastened up under a white cap, it will the better help your disguise."
"Are you in earnest, Ailie, woman?" queried her father, in no little amusement.
"Father, I am in dead earnest," she said, soberly. "I have everything to dress him with, and when I run out for needles and cotton, and buttons and other sundries to plenish his basket with, the disguise will be complete."
David Gray had for a moment fancied his cousin merely joking, but seeing she was in earnest, the feasibility and even the wisdom and cleverness of her suggestion appeared to him quite plainly.
"Cousin Ailie, I believe I will try your plan," he said, suddenly. "I will at least put on the disguise and see what manner of a woman I present."
Much pleased, Ailie ran to the adjoining room for the other articles of attire, and brought also her father's shaving things, in order that her cousin might remove his beard. She then retired, and after about half-an-hour they called to her to come and see the disguise. When she looked upon the complete and wonderful transformation it had made, she nearly clapped her hands with delight. The minister was certainly a tall woman, but in every other respect he was the exact picture of what he wished to represent.
Ailie took her little tartan neckerchief from her shoulders, tied it above the white cap, and then retired back to admire the effect.
"Cousin David, that is just the finishing touch!" she exclaimed, in no small glee. "Your appearance would deceive the cleverest person in the world, I am sure. You look exactly like an aged dame who has weathered a good many storms on the road. If you don't reach Inverburn in safety in my mother's old gown, my name isn't Ailie Kilgour."
"What say you, Uncle Edward?" asked David Gray, turning to the old man.
"Truly, lad, the deception is most wonderful," he replied. "Of course it is hardly a fitting thing for a minister of the kirk to tramp the country in an old wife's gown, but desperate ills need desperate remedies. So I would say, take the lassie's advice, and God go with you."
"Well, I will," said David Gray, "for in my own person and garb I am convinced I should never reach Inverburn alive, nor, indeed, get beyond the environs of Edinburgh."
"You said the pursuers went by the Lanark road," said Ailie. "Your plan will be to go to Stirling, and then across the moors. I daresay you will find the way."
"Easily," responded David Gray, cheerfully. "You are a clever, far-seeing woman, cousin; the thought of such a disguise would never have entered my head."
"It will be a great joy to me, Cousin David, if I am rewarded by saving your life," she said, with a smile and a tear, and so the matter was settled.
All that day David Gray remained in hiding in his uncle's abode, and early on the following morning he bade them both a warm farewell, and set out upon his journey back to his native place. As Ailie watched the gaunt, uncouth-looking figure with the basket and the big cotton umbrella stalking down the street, the very picture of a practised peddling woman, she scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry. So a woman's ingenuity twice outwitted the sharpness of the Government.
We have been long absent from the vale of Inverburn, yet truly nothing of note was happening there, only a dreary and despairing waiting for the dawning of a brighter day, occasionally deepened and intensified by some deed of violence or brutal pillage executed by the dragoons, who infested the entire west of Scotland. Since the fateful day of Bothwell severities had been increased, greater licence given to the soldiery, and less mercy extended to the suffering country folk, whether there were anything against them or not. Along the entire course of the Clyde the country presented a most dismal aspect. In place of smiling homesteads and rich and fertile fields, there was nothing to be seen but smouldering ruins and tract upon tract of desolate wastes, which had not been upturned by the plough for many a year. The population, though now sadly thinned, was in a state bordering upon starvation, everything they had formerly possessed having been stolen from them, and every means of subsistence removed. Yet still it seemed as if the words of Scripture must needs be literally fulfilled, since from him that had not was taken even that which he had. Hundreds had no shelter in the wide earth save that afforded by glens and caves and mountain fastnesses, and even there they were not safe.
The farm of Hartrigge had not escaped these later desolations, for now all that remained of that once substantial and even imposing homestead was one cot-house, which had escaped the flames on account of it being detached from the main buildings, and having thus been overlooked by the ruffians, who, after pillaging the entire place, had set it on fire.
In this humble abode dwelt the widow of Andrew Gray, his sister Jane, and a young lad with his sister, the Sandy and wee Nannie, who had been so dear to their father's heart. Jeanie was now safe with her father and Gavin in that land where eternal peace abides. The bairn's heart seemed to be weighed down by the things happening around her, and she just faded away.
Strange as it may seem, the few yet remaining who loved her on earth saw her depart with gladness, for it had come to that pass in poor stricken Scotland that he who lay down to die was accounted much more to be envied than he who was preserved alive.
One beautiful evening towards the end of July, Susan Gray and her sister-in-law, Jane, were sitting together on the bench outside their cottage door, with their hands lying idle on their laps, a thing they would have accounted a sin in the days of the happy past. But now there was nothing for hands to do, and life was at times a very weariness. These troublous years had wrought a woeful change upon both those women, and had aged them long before their time. Also upon the face of Susan Gray there appeared at times a vague, wandering kind of expression, which seemed to indicate a weakness of the mind, and verily it was not greatly to be wondered at that the nerves of women-folk should be unable to bear the awful strain upon them.
They were not conversing together, for such sorrows as theirs will not bear to be spoken of by the lips; there was a hopeless, purposeless look about them, which was painful in the contrast it presented to their busy, cheerful energy of long ago.
"See Jane!" said Susan Gray, presently. "Is not that a figure on the road? Is it Sandy or the bairn Nannie? They should be on their way home from the village now."
"No; it is a taller figure than either of the bairns," replied Jane. "It is a woman, and she has a basket on her arm."
"Is she like a gangerel [tramp], Jane? She need hardly come here seeking now," said Susan, listlessly.
"Yes, she looks like that. There are not many of her kind on the roads now," said Jane. Then they relapsed into silence, and so sat until the woman with the basket appeared on the path in front of the cottage door. Susan Gray only gave her a careless look, and then went into the cottage, leaving Jane to deal with her.
"My woman, ye need hardly have come this length with your basket," said Jane Gray, kindly, and looking compassionately at the evidences of fatigue on her face. "The wherewithal is much lacking here now. But sit down on the bench here and rest a while, till I bring you a piece of bread, which, thanks be to God, we can still offer to those in greater need than ourselves."
So saying, she pointed to the bench, and retired into the house. The woman set down her basket, and dropping on the seat, covered her face with her hands, and uttered a low but passionate prayer of thankfulness. In this attitude Jane Gray found her when she again stepped out of doors. She laid her hand on the bent shoulders, and said kindly, "You seem quite overcome. Have you travelled many miles this day?"
Slowly the stranger's head was raised, and a pair of eyes fixed themselves on the kind, womanly face with a glance which stirred her very soul; and, without knowing why, she began to tremble from head to foot.
"Sister Jane, do you not know me?" said the voice of one she had mourned as dead. "Then indeed my disguise is as complete as Ailie Kilgour assured me. I am your brother David!"
Jane Gray uttered a low cry, which brought Susan hurrying out to the door. The moment, however, that her eyes rested keenly and sharply on the stranger's face, they penetrated the disguise, and she exclaimed--
"David Gray, as I am a living woman!"
"Even so; thus far the Almighty has brought me through many perils to my native parish," said the minister of Broomhill, fervently.
Jane, having now recovered her first shock of surprise, embraced her brother with great joy, the tears chasing each other down her cheeks in her emotion. So the name of Gray was not entirely swept off the face of the earth, as they had bitterly imagined, and there was hope for the old house yet. They hastened to take him in, and set refreshment before him, after partaking of which he related to them all that which had befallen him and his brethren since they had last met.
Greatly rejoiced were they to learn of Adam Hepburn's escape, but they shed many tears over their hardships in the prison yard at Edinburgh. As David in low and earnest tones delivered his brother's last message to his widow, the tears flowed from her eyes, but in a gentle rain which brought healing with it. It was for these precious words her widowed heart had long and sorely hungered. It was decided that so long as it was considered safe, he should abide under his disguise with them, though a few trusty brethren in hiding in the district would be duly informed of his safety.
So a little sunshine penetrated the dark cloud, and shed a measure of brightness on the hearth of the poor little cottage at Hartrigge.
CHAPTER XXV.
AIRSMOSS.
Poor Watty McBean's hole in the Witches' Cleugh had indeed been of great benefit to many fugitives, and it had never been empty since the fleeing after the slaughter at Bothwell. During the next day the minister of Broomhill repaired in his disguise to that safe hiding, in order to see the brethren there, and so commune with them regarding their present state, and the future fate or welfare of them and such as them. As he pursued his way leisurely along the sequestered and lonely paths which led to the cleugh, he mused much on the wonderful way in which the Lord had led him hitherto. He also marvelled within himself that he had been so long spared, and in his heart there was a petition that he might be made willing and glad to continue his suffering and weary way through life, until the Lord should see fit to call him to Himself. These profitable and godly communings were interrupted somewhat summarily by the abrupt appearance of two dragoons, who came rapidly riding up from the direction of the cleugh, and who immediately drew rein at the sight of the woman, as they imagined the wayfarer to be.
"Hulloa, mistress! do you know anything of that confounded lair where so many Whigs sleep in safety?" queried one, fixing his piercing eye on the face of David Gray.
"Truly the Whigs have had many hiding places in this district," he answered, mildly. "To what one do you specially refer?"
"Faith, I hardly know; it is somewhere about these hills or in the valley between," said the dragoon, pointing backward to the cleugh. "We are creditably informed that several very noted rebels were concealed there, and me and my mate swore an oath that we should find the place, which has baffled the king's soldiers so long. We have made a thorough search, but can find no clue."
"I never heard of any place of concealment among those hills," said David Gray. "Those who are so eager to inform sometimes overreach themselves, and----"
"Leave the hag in peace, Munro!" interrupted the younger man, impatiently. "I believe she is right enough, and we were told lies to beguile us. I for one will get away out of this confounded district with what speed I can. My horse is dead lame, see, stumbling through that accursed ravine."
Marvelling much at the very easy manner in which he had escaped questioning, David Gray watched the two ride away, but did not then pursue his way to the cleugh, lest he should unwittingly betray his brethren. But his soul, long separated from such as had suffered like persecutions with him, was yearning for the sweet fellowship of brotherly counsel, both for the strengthening of his own hands and heart, and also to learn, if possible, whether any of the more noted saints were still alive. He felt himself deeply and peculiarly blessed in the communion he was privileged to obtain with that poor remnant of his kinsfolk still dwelling in the parish of Inverburn, and during the evening of that day the women and the young folk at Hartrigge were much edified with his conversation and with his exposition of the Word. It was long, indeed, since such a joy had been vouchsafed to them. Owing to the somewhat limited accommodation of the humble dwelling which now sheltered the Grays, the lad, Sandy, went down to Inverburn to sleep in the house of an old woman, who gladly gave him shelter for his father's sake. Nannie, with her aunts, abode in the kitchen, and the best end was given up to the minister. They retired early to rest, and in spite of the troubles and anxieties which encompassed them, very soon all beneath the roof-tree of the cottage were asleep. The atmosphere had been dull and heavy all day, and the night was dark and starless; the low-hanging, sullen presaging rain, of which the parched earth stood in sore need. About midnight Susan Gray, who slept lightly, was awakened by a sound she had heard so often during these past weary years, that she could not mistake it now. It was the tramp of hoofs, and in a moment a wild fear that even already the minister was betrayed took possession of her soul. Hastily awaking Jane, both strang up, threw on their outer garments, and stealing over to the casement, which was a little ajar to admit the fresh air, they peered fearfully out. The night was utterly, intensely dark, and they could see nothing, but they could hear now both the trampling and the snorting of horses, and also at a little distance the low, eager voices of men. Through the still, soundless air their strained ears caught these words:--
"He shall not escape us this time, I swear! Egad! it was a clever disguise!--a wench's idea, without doubt. To think that old hag we met peddling her wares in Walston was that veritable heretic David Gray, and we knew it not! It is enough to make a man ashamed of himself!"
Swiftly and silently Jane Gray stole across the narrow passage to the inner room, and awakened her brother, who was enjoying a very sound and refreshing repose. By the time she had made him aware of the danger at hand, the troop had quite surrounded the house, and a great noise broke the stillness of the summer night.
David Gray sprang from his bed to the floor, thinking his hour was come. And yet, was it but to be slain in cold blood like this that the Lord had let him get clear away both from the slaughter at Bothwell and the wearisome captivity of the Greyfriars?
In that moment of agonising suspense and apprehension, when he was striving to prepare for death, even with a soul yearning for life, his eye, as if guided by some unseen power, fell upon the wide, old-fashioned chimney, and in a moment his resolution was taken. Even when the foot of the enemy was on the very threshold of the outer door, the fugitive wrapped a plaid about his white night-clothes, and, committing himself to the God who had so often delivered him, he hastily scrambled up the chimney and out on to the roof. Jane Gray did not see him perform this extraordinary action, she having gone to accost, and, if possible, conciliate and delay, the officer at the outer door.
Without hesitating a moment, knowing he would speedily be observed on the roof, David Gray lay himself flat down, and, sliding down to the eaves, dropped to the ground in front of a mounted dragoon. The apparition in waving white garments terrified the horse, and caused him to rear and plunge wildly, so that his rider was almost unseated. In the momentary confusion that ensued the fugitive took to his heels, and in a brief space was out of sight and beyond pursuit. Meanwhile, quite unconscious of this miraculous escape, Jane Gray was endeavouring to parley with the officer at the door.
"Sorry to disturb your repose, sweet mistress," he said. "If you will but deliver up that renegade, David Gray, who is sheltering here, we will go away and leave you in peace."
"David Gray!" ejaculated Jane Gray, faintly; "what men-folk have we under this roof-tree, sir? The only stranger here is a relative, who has travelled a great distance on foot to sojourn awhile with us, if that be a fault in your eyes."
"Does the stranger wear a linsey-woolsey gown, a tartan plaid, and a white cap, and peddle ribbons and laces to the country lasses, eh?" queried the captain, with grim humour. "To show you that we do not doubt your word, bring out the old lady, so that we may pay our respects to her. Methinks we have met before."
At her wits' end, Jane Gray turned about and went into the room, which, to her astonishment, seemed to be empty. The captain followed her, and, not finding the fugitive there, strode into the kitchen. Susan Gray and Nannie were there, and it needed but one glance at their faces to tell him that neither was the person he sought.
"Your kinswoman has hidden herself, I perceive," he said, grimly. "You had better bid her come forth, or I will give orders to set the place on fire. I have no time to dally here; it is time all honest folk were in bed."
"We are guiltless of hiding him you seek, sir," said Jane Gray, no longer attempting to deny that her brother had been sheltering with them. "And, truly, where in this small abode could he hide? It is a mystery to me where he has gone, unless, indeed, the Lord hath miraculously aided his escape."
At that moment one of the dragoons came hurrying in to say that the prisoner had without doubt made his escape from the roof, and was already beyond pursuit. Then the captain fell into a great rage, and cursed and swore in a manner which made the women-folk tremble. And truly it was a sore disappointment to the man to have had so valuable and notable a Covenanter within his very reach, and yet to be baulked so simply. In his fury he was like to have taken the lives of the fugitive's kinswomen, but was persuaded by a more merciful subordinate to let them be in peace. Nevertheless, he caused lighted brands to be held to the thatched roof of the cottage, and, being dry as tinder, it immediately took fire.
In a short space of time the darkness of the night was illumined by the flames of the burning cottage, and the three defenceless women, now rendered indeed utterly homeless, hastily gathered such small but valuable things as they could carry, and, withdrawing themselves a little, watched the rapid destruction of the only shelter they could call their own on the face of the earth. Yet they could not feel utterly cast down, since God had so marvellously delivered the dear fugitive out of the hands of the pursuer once more. The captain and his troop immediately rode away down to the village, to inflict themselves on such of the inhabitants as could yet give them bite and sup and shelter for the night. Meanwhile David Gray fled, under the grateful cover of the darkness, by the familiar field-paths to poor Watty's famous hiding, where he knew he should find both shelter and comforting welcome from his brethren. His long residence in the cleugh had made him so familiar with it, that even in the darkness he had no difficulty whatever in finding the thicket which hid the cave. And yet he had to creep slowly and with caution, for the nettles and brambles and brushwood proved very formidable to his uncovered limbs, and his feet were already bleeding from coming into contact with the stones as he made his rapid flight from the cottage. As he came up nearly to the mouth of the cave, he gave a long, low whistle, which Jane had told him was a signal understood by those in hiding. In a few minutes it was answered by a similar sound, and the brushwood was carefully swept aside from the mouth of the cave, and he saw the figure of a man.
"Who comes?" a voice said, in an anxious whisper.
"A brother in sore straits, whom the Lord, of His good pleasure, hath this night marvellously delivered," answered David Gray, and at that the man standing at the mouth of the cave stretched out his hand and drew the new-comer into the dimly-lighted recess beyond. In this place there were no fewer than seven persons, both old, young, and middle-aged, whose faces were thin and worn, as if they had suffered much privation. They looked with no little astonishment upon the strangely-attired figure which appeared so suddenly in their midst, and one, an elderly man, of very grave and reverent aspect, after looking intently on his face, jumped up and grasped him by the hand.
"David Gray, an I mistake not, whom I last saw in grips with the enemy at Bothwell Brig!" he exclaimed.
"And whom the Lord hath marvellously preserved from that woeful day to this," supplemented David Gray. "Little did I think last time we met, Mr. Donald Cargill, that we should look upon each other's faces again, and in this place of all places."
"Verily, strange are the vicissitudes of the scattered remnant of the Lord's Zion," said Mr. Cargill. "I have been obliged to keep in hiding these few days, being sore pursued by a troop of dragoons for preaching at Lanark and at various other places in Clydesdale; but come, tell us what hath befallen thee of late, and by what means thou art come hither in this strange attire."
Nothing loth, David Gray entered upon the recital of his exciting experiences during the last two months, and when he had finished, Mr. Cargill had his story to tell, and in this pathetic and mournfully interesting talk the night speedily wore away. Although Mr. Cargill had been obliged to flee for his life to the shelter of the cleugh, it was impossible for one of his ardent and restless spirit to remain long inactive. As soon as they heard from a trusty reporter, who carried them both provisions and news from Inverburn, that the hot pursuit was slackened in the neighbourhood, he announced his intention of going forth once more to the preaching of the Word.
Fired by the eloquence and zeal of the old man, and feeling himself much persuaded to testify in public once more, David Gray petitioned that he might be allowed to go forth in company with him. So the twain quitted their hiding, and travelled eastwards towards Edinburgh, preaching as they went, and meeting with many perils, out of which they had many marvellous deliverances, which would occupy too long a space to recount. In the spring of 1680, new life was infused into the scattered and sometimes fainting remnant, by the return to Scotland of that eloquent preacher and godly man, Richard Cameron, who had been persuaded to retire to Holland for a time previous to the Battle of Bothwell.
In his exile his heart had never ceased to yearn over his suffering native land, and the desire to cast in his lot with his persecuted brethren became so strong at length, that it could not be set aside. It was with great joy that the few earnest souls still left welcomed him back to their midst, and Donald Cargill and David Gray immediately joined themselves to him, and the three went about continually preaching and exhorting the people to hold fast to their faith, for the cause for which they suffered was just and righteous, and must in the end prevail.
It was not long ere these faithful and undaunted men became specially observed of those in high places, and they were vigorously and relentlessly pursued from place to place, but managed to elude the vigilance of those following so continuously in their track. Among Cameron's most close and faithful adherents was brave Hackstoun of Rathillet, who, since Bothwell, had been a wanderer on the face of the earth, having given up all for Christ's sake.
One summer's day a small party of horsemen rode into the little town of Sanquhar, and startled the good folk both by their wayworn and haggard appearance and by their proceedings.
They drew rein at the market cross, and Richard Cameron, their leader, dismounted and slowly read a declaration denying the right of Charles to the throne of Scotland, stigmatising him as a tyrant and perjurer, and solemnly declaring war against him for all time coming.
That done, they rode away as rapidly and mysteriously as they had come, and did not halt till they reached a lonely spot among the hills, where they ventured to rest awhile.
"After what we have done this day," said Mr. Cameron, wiping the midsummer heat from his brow, "I fear it will no longer be safe for us to continue together; and besides, I cannot but think that were we to separate away in different directions we could the better break the bread of life to our starving brethren. What say you, Mr. Cargill? Were it not better that each man of us should go his own way, preaching and exhorting wherever the Lord giveth time and opportunity?"
"Truly, brother, your suggestion savours of wisdom and prudence," said Mr. Cargill, with approval. "But ere we separate we had better agree as to a time when we can again meet together to compare our experiences and strengthen each other's hands for renewed conflict."
"I fear me, brethren, that the end is nigh at hand for more than one of us," said the sweet voice of David Hackstoun. "I, at least, have been visited of late with very precious presentiments of a speedy release from these troubles. Therefore I would say it matters little whether we be together or separate, seeing that, save it be the Lord's time, no evil can befall us."
"Strange that Mr. Hackstoun's presentiments should have visited me likewise," said Richard Cameron. "I am convinced that my race is nearly run; therefore, during what little space is still vouchsafed to me on this earth, I would continue my Lord's work with renewed vigilance, lest when He cometh He should find his unworthy servant asleep."
"As regards Mr. Cargill's proposal that we should make an agreement to meet, I fear that would be useless," said David Gray. "I think we should but wish each other God speed, and leave our future meeting in God's hands. Doubtless, if it be His good pleasure, He will bring us together again in due season, if not here, in His own kingdom, whither we are all hastening with more or less speed."
This latter suggestion was approved, and, after holding a solemn farewell service together, they parted, not knowing whether they should look upon each other's faces again. Mr. Cameron travelled westward to New Monkland, preaching boldly as he went, to the no little comfort of the few to whom the pure Word was yet precious. Hackstoun and David Gray, with a few others, kept together in the south; but hearing, not many days after, that a heavy price was set on Cameron's head, and that he was being vigilantly pursued, they conferred together and decided to retire to the west and band themselves about him, so that, in the event of the enemy falling upon him, there might be some to defend him and render him deliverance out of their hands. Accordingly, a guard under Rathillet travelled across the familiar, and now sacred, ground in the south-western district, and came up with Cameron in Avondale, near the memorable field of Drumclog. To their joy, they found Mr. Cargill with him, and on the Sabbath day a solemn service was held, in which all the ministers took part. Mr. Cameron preached the sermon from the words, "Be still, and know that I am God," and as the eloquent and stirring words fell from his lips, it was noted that his countenance seemed lighted with a radiance not of earth. After the service Mr. Cargill went his way farther west, after agreeing that he should meet Cameron and the rest at Dermeid Muir on the following Sabbath day. During the next few days Cameron's conversation was that of a man who was not long for this world, and he never ceased to exhort those with him to continue steadfast yet a while, for Scotland's deliverance was at hand. He prophesied that the reign of bloodshed and terror would speedily be over, and that the Lord's Zion would ere long be rebuilt upon the ruins of her past and present desolation. On the Wednesday of that week he was sojourning in the house of a godly man at Meadowhead, on the Water of Ayr, and to him and the folk with him in the house he expressed his conviction that the Lord would, in a few hours' time, require him to seal his testimony with his blood. Hearing some report of a troop under Bruce of Earlshall making vigilant search for him and his party, Cameron and his friends agreed to retire to the wild moorland which stretched for many miles between Cumnock and Muirkirk. It was a vast and dreary wilderness, covered with heather and bracken, unrelieved by a green tree or a nodding floweret even in the midsummer time, when all Nature was rejoicing in her wealth and beauty. Towards the east end of this moor Cameron and his friends, being sore fatigued with a long march in the burning heat of the day, lay themselves down awhile to rest. In this solitude they were surprised by the enemy--a large number of soldiers under Earlshall--who came sweeping across the moor with a fury and speed which made it quite impossible for the faithful little band to escape. There was nothing for it but to fight, which the brave remnant immediately decided to do, and quietly but resolutely looked to their arms, and set themselves in order for the fray. It was a pitiable sight upon which the summer sun beat that July afternoon--that handful of God's people dauntlessly facing a goodly regiment of dragoons, all fresh and eager for the fight. Ere the enemy was quite upon them, Cameron led the devotions of his brethren, and in his prayer said, with great fervour, "Lord, spare the green and take the ripe."
Then they exchanged a hand clasp and a solemn farewell, pledging each other to meet in glory.
It was a desperate fight.
The Covenanters fought with conspicuous gallantry, and, even after brave Cameron fell, they continued the conflict over his dead body.
Seeing that there was no hope of victory, and that Rathillet and some others were already taken captive, David Gray, in a last extremity, leaped upon the back of a horse whose rider had been slain, and, rapidly galloping off the field, made his escape. Only one or two others were equally fortunate, and so once again the Covenanters were swept away before the oppressors like chaff on a windy day.
Richard Cameron's remains were carried to Edinburgh, and his head was fixed on the Netherbow port, where it was left to moulder and blacken in the sun. Rathillet, after the usual mockery of a trial, was subjected to terrible and searching tortures, which he bore with a firmness which astonished those who had seen evidence of his sweet yielding nature. His troubles were finally ended on the scaffold, and he went to receive his exceeding great reward. Thus it seemed as if this most precious blood of the Covenant, yea, every drop of it, must be spilled upon the ground, ere the hour of Scotland's deliverance had come.
By slow degrees, and through many strange perils, David Gray wandered wearily back to his native parish. There were times when the weight of his many sorrows was like to overwhelm him, and when he could have cried out for the inheritance in heaven, to which so many of his brethren had already been admitted.
Lurking in the wild solitudes of the mountains, depending for his sustenance upon a few ears of corn, or some of the wild fruits of the earth, it was little wonder if at times his soul fainted within him, and he felt impelled to question the wherefore of these tribulations. In his weakness he was also frequently tempted fiercely by Satan to abjure the cause for which he suffered, and to purchase life and immunity from persecution at the Government price. But by God's grace he was enabled to pass unscathed through these fiery trials, and when at last he crept, a worn and wasted shadow, up his native vale, and sought the shelter of the witches' cleugh, his heart was once more at rest, and abiding steadfastly on the Lord Christ. There were yet some fugitives in Watty's hiding-place, and out of her undying love for the cause, Jane Gray still, when opportunity offered, and when she possessed the wherewithal, stole thither with some relief. Great was her astonishment and joy to behold there her brother David, whom they had of late quite given up as dead. The sight of a familiar and loved face restored anew David Gray's courage and confidence, and he prayed earnestly to be forgiven his temptations to backsliding, with which he had been so sore beset in his desolation.
In spite of the increased vigilance of the oppressors, meetings were still held on the hill-sides and in sheltered nooks, for there yet remained some who would do and dare anything to hear the faithful preaching of the Word.
Very often David Gray led these services, and at last it got noised abroad that he was at large in the district of Inverburn, which, coming to Claverhouse's ears, made him swear a great oath that he should have his head. But although on several separate occasions he had him almost in his clutches, the Lord interposed, and in many marvellous ways vouchsafed deliverance to His faithful servant. About that time it became almost an impossibility to hold a conventicle, for it was certain to become a massacre, so largely were the country districts infested with dragoons, yet there was indeed very little of the old leaven of the Covenant now left in the flesh, for the new generation which had arisen since the first glorious upstanding for the cause was lukewarm and indifferent, and too much taken up with the things of the world to concern themselves much with religious matters.
Within two years after Bothwell a great grief fell upon the few yet remaining faithful to the old cause.
When James II. ascended the throne, after the death of Charles, he published an Act of Toleration, on the conditions of which many persecuted wanderers were induced to return to their homes, and even some ministers to their parishes. It was as deep a snare in its way as the indulgence of Charles had been, its ultimate object being to establish Papacy in Scotland. Into this net many fell, and it indeed seemed as if the martyrdom of the saints were to have no good harvest in the land. But it being now the darkest hour, the dawning was at hand.
Grown somewhat weary of life in their native land, and being sore exercised and perplexed by the condition of religious affairs therein, David Gray, with some others, made it a matter of prayerful consideration whether they should not retire to the Continent for a space, and labour for the Master there. The conventicles, which could only now be held at long intervals, and under strict secrecy, were thinly attended, and not productive of any wide-spreading good, also the end of the struggle seemed at hand, in the utter extermination of the scattered remnant still faithful to the old doctrines and principles, so that it indeed appeared as if there were no more work left for them to do in Scotland.
After due deliberation, therefore, David Gray resolved to escape out of the country. Attiring himself in his former disguise, with which his sister Jane provided him, he travelled on foot without molestation to Newcastle-on-Tyne, where, after some little delay, he obtained shipment in a trading vessel to Rotterdam, and there we lose sight of him for a while.
CHAPTER XXVI
REST.
The golden radiance of a summer sunset lay upon the vale of Inverburn. The year was in its prime, and everywhere the wealth of her beauty was scattered with no stinted hand. The harvest was ripe for the sickle in the fertile lowlands, and even on the bleaker uplands there was a lovely yellow tinge on the standing corn, which promised an early reaping. Yes, there were peace and plenty in the smiling land once more, for the long reign of bloodshed and terror was over, the house of Stuart had fallen to rise no more, buried in the ruins of its own iniquity, and a wise, just and upright ruler now wielded the sceptre on the throne of England.
There were not altogether lacking evidences of the dark days which had been. Here and there, on some sunny slope or in some sheltered valley, a black and mouldering ruin indicated where the spoiler had waved his destroying brand, and there yet remained many a broad acre left untilled, because those whose inheritance it was had been destroyed, root and branch, old and young, until not a living representative was left.
But in the main, Scotland had returned to her old-time peace and prosperity; again the voice of the husbandman was heard in the fields, again the women folk went about their daily tasks without fear or trembling, and last, and best of all, the kirks were open on the Sabbath Day once more, for the free and pure worship of the Most High.
The village of Inverburn that summer evening presented much the same appearance as it did when first we made acquaintance with it. The pleasant voices of the children at their play filled the summer air, on the cottage doorsteps or in the trellised porches the women sat at their knitting or spinning, while the broad benches in the doorway of the hostelry had each their complement of sturdy yeomen discussing, over their foaming tankards, the events of the day or the graver memories of the past. About the hour of sundown there was observed, coming slowly along the wide and pleasant road from Lanark, two pedestrians, for whose coming the villagers waited with that keen curiosity so characteristic of country folk. They walked very slowly, as I said, and though one appeared to be of tall and erect figure, the other was much bent, and walked leaning heavily on his companion's arm. Just as they entered upon the village street, and speculation began to run higher regarding them, the attention of the idlers was distracted for a little space by the clatter of hoofs in the opposite direction, and presently a horse and rider came rapidly down the slope and drew rein in front of the inn. The horseman was a young man of goodly stature and fine appearance, with a boyish, open countenance, and a winning, fearless eye.
"Guid e'en, Sandy Gray!" cried one or two with familiarity which was pardonable, seeing they had known the lad from his infancy, and some of them his godly forbears before him.
"Guid e'en!" he answered back frankly. "Here, Willie, my man," he added to a curly-headed urchin playing on the step, "run in and tell your mother I want to see her about ale for the reapers."
"Ay, man, is the hairst [harvest] ready on Hartrigge?" queried one of the older men. "Mony a day I bound a stent [sheaf] behind your faither on the rigs o' Hartrigge."
"Ay, Robin, ye'd better come up and bind a stent after me, then, just for auld lang syne," said the young man and a slight shade crossed his sunny face.
At that moment the two pedestrians came directly opposite the inn door and there stopped. Sandy Gray wheeled round his horse, and regarded them with a curiosity almost as great as that exhibited by his neighbours. Their attire was such as these simple villagers had never before seen, being distinctly foreign in its fashion, a thing sufficient in itself to invest the strangers with extraordinary interest. Sandy Gray courteously saluted them, and then one spoke, and it seemed to the young man that the first word awakened some chord in his heart which had long been asleep.
"Pray, can you tell me, young sir, if there be any of the name of Gray still to the fore in this parish?"
The young man gave a violent start, and a wild hope sprang up in his heart.
"Yes, I am a Gray; I am Alexander Gray of Hartrigge, son of that Andrew Gray who fell at Bothwell, and whose forbears were so long ministers of this parish," he said, with trembling eagerness. "And you! you! I am not mistaken now that I see your faces. I remember you quite well--Uncle David and Uncle Adam, thank God!"
"Can it be possible that I look upon the face of my brother's son? Now the Lord be praised!" exclaimed the more aged and infirm of the two, and, advancing, he held out two trembling hands to his nephew, which the young man, alighting from his horse, warmly grasped, while the tears rained down his cheeks. Then he turned to Adam Hepburn, whose face betrayed his deep satisfaction, though his joy did not find such ready expression.
The villagers, who had watched this scene with consuming interest, now rose with one accord, and with a cheer came flocking about the returned wanderers, for those who had not been personally acquainted with these two sufferers knew their names as household words.
"And now tell me, lad," said the aged minister, when he could free himself from these friendly welcomes and again speak with his nephew, "you spoke of Hartrigge. Can it be that I have returned to find a Gray in Hartrigge still?"
"Yes, yes; I live there, Uncle David; and my mother and dear Aunt Jane also are in the place," he answered, and the minister did not notice that he did not say they dwelt in the house. "Nannie is married now, and, Uncle Adam, she is living at Rowallan, of which her husband, Walter Fleming, is the farmer."
"And there is an Agnes Gray at Rowallan as well as a Gray in Hartrigge!" said the minister. "You hear that, Adam? the old stock is not dead yet, but has developed once more into a goodly tree, for which, O my God, I thank Thee."
"An Agnes Gray at Rowallan yet, did you say?" asked Adam Hepburn, dreamily. "But there was no Rowallan when I left, only the blackened ruins of the homestead. What changes are these?"
"The old laird is dead, and that dear, blessed saint, Lady Hamilton, has rebuilt Hartrigge and Rowallan and would not let a foot but ours upon their thresholds," said the young man. "But come; we cannot stand here all night. Come away home. Oh, what a night this will be beneath the roof-tree of Hartrigge! Here, Uncle David, get on Jess's back, and Uncle Adam and I will walk beside you, and so we will soon be home."
The minister accordingly gladly mounted the animal, and Sandy took the bridle rein over his arm, and the little party moved off up the manse brae, followed by the cheers of the delighted villagers.
As they passed the manse and the kirk they involuntarily stood still, and the minister took his hat from his waving white locks and bent his head a moment on his breast, while Adam Hepburn fixed his eyes on one green spot under a spreading yew tree, as if they would fain dwell there for ever. Then they went on again, and the minister told his nephew in a few brief words how they had been blessed to meet in Holland, and had been vouchsafed a measure of prosperity and usefulness there, but how their hearts had ever yearned for their native land, until the time came they could return to it without fear.
This talk occupied all the way to the farm, at which young Sandy was not sorry, for he did not desire as yet to be more closely questioned regarding his own household at Hartrigge.
The farm at Hartrigge now presented a very fine and striking appearance, the new steading [farm buildings] and commodious dwelling-house, standing so imposingly on the brow of the hill, being thrown into strong relief by the brilliant green of the summer foliage and the bright golden hue of the ripening grain.
At the foot of the little hill, sheltering cosily under the fir-wood, there stood a neat cottage with a garden-plot in front, which was gay with summer bloom. Just as the little party came in sight on the private road a woman's figure came to the door, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked long and intently at it, greatly wondering what it meant. She was a sweet and comely-looking person, though long past her prime, and her fair, calm face bore the impress of many sorrows, yet peace dwelt abidingly upon it now.
She presently turned about, called to some one within, and another figure, much older and feebler looking, and wearing a widow's garb, joined her on the step. And thus they were standing when the party came up.
"Susan! Susan! it is the answer to our many prayers!" said Jane Gray, tremblingly. "If these be not David and Adam, our exiled wanderers, my eyes strangely deceive me."
Then she sat down on the bench at the door and burst into tears.
Why should I linger over that sacred meeting? Could any human pen do it justice? I think not.
After a little Sandy touched the arm of his Uncle David, and begged him to come away up with him to the house, and the others would follow. He gave the old man his arm, and they ascended the hill, walked slowly (too slowly for Sandy's impatient feet) through the fir-wood, and round to the front of the house. Then, with trembling hand, Sandy opened the door and led his uncle in. In the pleasant family room in the ruddy evening glow there was a sweet and restful picture. On the hearth there stood a cradle, and in a low chair near to it the figure of a woman--a young woman--too young almost, one might have thought, to be a wife and mother.
"Is that you, Sandy? Don't make a noise, dearie, for baby has been so troublesome, and is just asleep."
It was a voice of winning and exquisite softness, and when presently the speaker rose, the old man saw a sweet and lovely young creature, with a fair, rose-tinted face, and deep, tender blue eyes, which reminded him of those blue eyes which had charmed him long ago.
"Is this your wife, my lad? You kept this pleasant surprise to the last," said he, with a sweet smile, and advanced with extended hands.
"Yes, my wife, Uncle David, but something, nay a great deal more," said the young man, hardly knowing what he said. "Oh, uncle, uncle! it is your own daughter Lilian who is my wife, and our little son yonder is named David Gray, out of our love for you. Lily, my dear, my love, this is your father, come home from exile, as we have so long hoped and prayed he would."
For a moment father and daughter stood still, and then these words fell from the old man's lips, in accents of trembling joy--
"It is enough. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!"