CHAPTER XXIVBAFFLEDMy meal over I went to the loch-side, and dropping on my hands and knees took a long draught of the cool water. Then, raising myself, I uttered the whaup call, but I did not expect any answer and I received none. I looked across the loch to the little cairn that stood sentinel above the sainted dead, and then I turned and made for home and Mary.I climbed up the slope to my left and scanned the moor. For miles and miles it spread before me, but far as the eye could reach there was no one to be seen. Then the spell of the solitude fell upon me, and I began to understand how, in the dawn of the world, the dim-seeing soul of man had stretched out aching hands in the lone places of the earth if haply it might find God.The mood passed, and I prepared to haste me on my journey. Taking my bearings carefully, I decided to make straight for Daldowie. The ache in my injured limb had abated and I found that I could make fair speed. My heart was light; I was going back to Mary, and I should find Andrew safe. The larks above me were storming the heavens with their song; my heart was singing too; and soon my lips were singing as well. I sang a love-song--one of Mary's songs--and as I sang I smiled to think that I was practising the art of what Andrew had called "speaking like a ceevilised body."Midday came, as the sun above me proclaimed, and I judged that already I was half-way home, when suddenly, in the distance, I saw some moving figures. The wariness of a hill-man flung me at once upon my face, and peering through a tuft of sheltering heather, I looked anxiously towards them.They were mounted men, and I saw that they were troopers. I counted them anxiously. They were searching the moor in open order and I was able to make out a dozen of them. They were between me and Daldowie. Had they seen me? Were they coming in my direction? Breathless I watched. I knew that if they had seen me, they would put spurs to their horses and come galloping towards me. They made no sign--I had not been noticed. I was lying in the open with nothing to hide me but the tuft of heather through which I peered. There was not enough cover there to hide a moor fowl, but close at hand was a bush of broom, and worming myself towards it, I crawled under it and lay hidden.To the unskilled eye, the distance across the rolling face of a moor is hard to measure, but I judged the dragoons were at least a mile from me.As I watched I saw them gather together in a cluster. Had they found Andrew, or might it be the poor demented lad whom Andrew had risked his life to hide, or was it some other hunted hill-man? My ears were taut with expectation as I waited for the rattle of muskets; but I was wrong. I saw the troopers fling themselves from the saddles and in a moment a little column of smoke began to steal into the air, and I knew that they had off-saddled to make their mid-day meal. That gave me a respite, and I thought hurriedly what I had best do. Should I endeavour to worm my way further afield until I might with safety rise to my feet and race back to my old hiding-place beside the loch?Almost I felt persuaded to do so, then I remembered that this would place a greater distance between myself and Mary, and she herself might be in danger. A chilling fear seized me. What was it I had heard of Lag? Was it not that he and his dragoons had gone further west, and were quartered again at Wigtown? If that were so, then possibly the dragoons before me were Winram's men, and the promise of protection given by Lag to the good folk of Daldowie would no longer hold. The horror of it! What could I do? My fears had taken such hold on me that my strength ebbed, and I was as water poured out upon the ground. It was not fear for myself that unmanned me, but a torturing anxiety for Mary's safety. The hour of their midday meal seemed endless. So long as they rested I was safe, and yet, with a strange perversity, I longed for the moment when once again they should mount their horses and continue their quest. Anxiously I looked up at the sun. Already he was past the meridian and I breathed a sigh of relief. In his haste lay my safety, for the close of day would bring the search to an end, for a time at least, and then I could return to my loved one.At last I saw the troopers climb into their saddles. Was it fancy, or did my eyes deceive me? They seemed to have altered the direction of their search. Spreading out across the moor, trampling every bit of heather under foot, they searched eagerly, but their backs were towards me. I breathed again, for if they did not change their course once more, I should remain undiscovered.The moments went by on leaden feet, but the sun marched steadily on through the sky. Still the troopers quartered and requartered the same tract of moor, and still, to all seeming, their quest was fruitless. I found myself wondering what they were looking for. Was it a quest at a venture, or were they searching for the boy who, two days ago, had found shelter at Daldowie? Two days ago! Was that all? It seemed far longer. What was Mary doing now? It was drawing near the time of the milking. Perhaps at this very moment she was out on the hill-side bringing in the cows. Dear little Mary: I could hear her call them home: see her tripping winsomely along the hill-side. My heart cried out to her.The sound of a whistle cut the air and the dragoons turned their horses. It was the signal for their home-going, and a strange voice which I did not know for mine, though it issued from my lips, said "Thank God."I watched till the last scarlet coat had disappeared before I ventured to bestir myself and it was not until nearly an hour had elapsed that I ventured to resume my journey. With all wariness, I hurried through the gathering dusk. Ere long I came to the place where the black remnants of the dragoons' fire still lay like an ugly splash upon the moor. I passed it by and hurried on. Only a few short miles now separated me from Daldowie. Before me lay a little hill. Bravely I breasted it, full of hope that once over it I should be within eye-range of home, but when I reached its summit I saw a sight that once again made me fling myself flat on my face. Some two miles away a fire was burning, and clearcut against its light I could see the dark shadows of men and horses. Danger still confronted me. For some reason the troopers were bivouacking upon the moor, right upon the path which I must follow if I would reach Daldowie, There was nothing for it but to steal down the hill-side and seek a resting-place. As I stole away, I bethought myself that in all likelihood they were camping there in order to continue their search on the morrow. With this in mind, it seemed to me that my chief hope of safety lay in hiding myself somewhere on that portion of the waste which they had examined with such care already. So I made for the place where their fire had been, and, using it as a landmark, I struck off at a right angle. A mile away, where the trampled heather proclaimed that it had been well searched, I found a resting-place and lay down to sleep.Soon after dawn I was awake again. I turned over and peered out cautiously. Nowhere could I see any trace of the troopers, but the morning was yet young, and I judged that it was too early for them to be far afield. I had little doubt that ere long they would come again and I dared not stir from my place lest I should be seen. The morning hours dragged wearily by. The moor was still, save for a trailing wind, and all was silent but for the song of the lark, the cry of the peewit and the melancholy wail of the whaup.At last the sun reached the meridian, and I ventured forth from my hiding-place. Stealthily I crept along until I reached the crest of the hill, from which I had descried the bivouac of the dragoons. I stretched myself flat upon its summit, and looked anxiously down. The bivouac fire was quenched; there was no sign of horse or trooper. I looked to every point of the compass, but all was vacant moor. Whither the troopers had gone I could not tell, nor did I care so long as they had gone from the path that led me to my Mary.So, with heart uplifted, I proceeded on my way, slowly at first and cautiously, but gradually gaining speed. By and by I came to the place where they had bivouacked and found close at hand a rush-grown deep pool of water. On hands and knees I lapped the cool liquid, and then I laved my face and hands and felt refreshed and clean. In less than an hour now, Mary would be in my arms. The thought lent new strength to my limbs. Almost I ventured to burst into song again, but I knew that would be madness. So, though my heart was singing a madrigal, my lips kept silence.At last I came within sight of the hill where the sheep were pastured. I looked at it lovingly. It was the first thing to welcome me home; but as I looked I saw no sheep upon it. But what of that? Probably during the three days of my absence, Andrew had taken them to some other hill-side. I hastened on. Before me lay the green slope from which many a time I had helped Mary to gather in the cows. I scanned it eagerly, half expecting to see her, sweet as a flower, but she was not there. Mayhap at this moment she was busy at the milking. In fancy I heard her singing at her task. Only a few more steps and I should see the kindly thatched roof of that little moorland farm that sheltered her I loved. O Mary mine!CHAPTER XXVTHE SHATTERING OF DREAMSLove smote me and I ran. In a moment I was within sight of the house. Then horror struck me; the house was gone, and there was but a pointed gable wall, blackened by smoke, and beside it a great dark mass which still smouldered in the afternoon sunlight.I stood for a moment turned to stone, then dashed forward. The air was acrid with the smell of burning straw. What devil's work had been afoot while I was on the moors? Had Lag been false to his promise, or had Winram done this thing? What had happened to Mary, to her mother, to Andrew? Where could they be? Were they alive or dead? As these questions flamed in my tortured mind I walked rapidly round the still smouldering ruins of the house. If murder had been done, surely there would be some sign. Eagerly I looked on every side; then I peered into the heart of the ruins. Horror of horrors! God in heaven!--what did I see? Half buried among the grey-black ashes was a charred and grinning skull. The lower jaw had dropped away and the socket where the eyes had been gaped hideously. I sprang upon the smouldering mass. My feet sank into the thick ashes, which burned me, but I cared not. There was mystery here, and horror! I stirred the ashes with my stick, and beneath them found a charred skeleton, so burned that no vestige of clothing or of flesh was left upon it. As I stood aghast, the wind descended from the hills and lifted a great cloud of black dust into the air. It swirled about me and blew into my eyes so that, for a moment, I was blinded. Then the wind passed, and with smarting eyes I saw two other skeletons.Mary!--the heart of my heart, the light of my life, my loved one--Mary was dead! Tears blinded me. I tried to call her name--my voice was broken with sobbing: my whole body trembled. I stooped and reverently separated the ashes with my hands. What though they burned me, I cared not. Was not Mary dead? Nothing else mattered.The fire had done its work thoroughly. There was no vestige of clothing or flesh left upon the bones; but on one of the skulls, which was surely that of Mary's mother, there was a hole drilled clean, and I knew then that the cruelty of the persecutors had been tempered with mercy. I knew what had happened: Andrew and Jean and Mary--sweet Mary--had been shot in cold blood, and then their bodies had been cast into the blazing furnace of their old home. So this was the King's Justice! Oh, the cruelty insensate, vile and devilish. I continued blindly to rake among the ashes. Then as they dropped through my fingers something remained in my hand. I looked. It was a ring, half melted by the flames; the ring I had given to Mary. I pressed it to my trembling lips. My sobs choked me: my heart was breaking.Half mad with grief I stepped from among the ashes on to the scorched grass. A fit of hopeless desolation seized me. All the dreams which, but a week ago, I had so fondly cherished had vanished into nothingness. Had I anything to live for now? Would it not be better to go out into the hills and seek some company of fiendish dragoons and declare myself to be a Covenanter--and die as my friends had done? If there were anything in the faith of Alexander Main and of Andrew and Jean and Mary, that would mean reunion with her whom I loved. But what was the good? There was no heaven. It was all an empty lie. There was no God!--nothing but devils--and the earth was Hell.The mood of anger passed, and there came a storm of grief such as I have never known. Physical pain I knew of old, but this torture of the spirit was infinitely more cruel than any bodily suffering I had ever experienced. I threw myself down on the ground and for a long space lay with my face buried in my hands. I tried to think that as I lay there Mary's spirit was beside me. I spoke to her in little whispers of love and stretched out aching arms to enfold her; but no answering whisper came out of the void, and my arms closed about the empty air. I lay long in my agony.Then I bethought myself of my state. Here I had found life and hope and love; and now hope and love had been rudely stolen from me, and only the ashes of life remained. Let me up and away and forget! But could I ever forget? Would I ever wish to forget the spell of Mary's voice, the roguish witchery of her eyes, the sweet tenderness of her lips? So long as life should last, I should remember.I lifted my face to the sky. A myriad stars sparkled there, like the dust of diamonds, and one star shone brighter than all the rest. I called it Mary's star. It was a childish fancy; but it gave me comfort, and of comfort I had sore need. Then I began to consider what I had best do. I should remain no longer in this tortured and persecuted country. It would avail me nothing to remain. Mary was dead: Scotland was nothing to me now.I rose to my feet. I was chilled to the bone and grief had sapped my strength. My ears caught the sound of trickling water. I was parched with thirst. I made my way to the water-pipe where many a time I had helped Mary to fill her pail, and bending down I let the cool jet splash into my mouth, and washed my hands and face.I had grown calmer now and was able to think more clearly and to fix my mind upon my purposes. At daybreak I should set out. In a few days I should be over the Border. And if, on my way, I met a company of dragoons, the worst they could do would be the best for me and I should be content to die.Slowly I made my way to the stack-yard. Here I scooped out a resting-place in one of the stacks, and covering myself up with the warm hay I tried to sleep. But with my spirit on the rack of agony sleep was denied me so, after a time, I climbed out of my hiding-place and kept vigil beside the ashes of my beloved. As I sat with the tears stealing down my cheeks memory after memory came back to me. I recalled the sweet sound of Mary's voice--her dainty winsomeness. I thought of Jean--the warm-hearted, shrewd, and ever kindly: and of Andrew--dour, upright, generous. These were my friends--no man ever had better: and Mary was my beloved. And now I was bereft and desolate. Just there--I could see the place in the dark--she had stood, a dainty shadow poised on tip-toe, and had blown me a kiss with either hand. And now I was alone, with none but the silent stars to see my anguish. What was it Mary had said?--"I wouldna lose the love for the sorrow that may lie in its heart." I had tasted the chalice of love--now I was drinking the bitter cup of sorrow to the dregs.When morning broke I made ready for my journey. I turned to go, then torn by love stood in tears beside the dear dust of her whom I had lost. Then, as though an iron gate had fallen between my past and me, I strode down the loaning.CHAPTER XXVIHECTOR THE PACKMANWhen the rude hand of calamity has blotted the light from a man's life all things change. The sun shone over me--but I resented his brightness. The birds, sang cheerfully--but there was dirge in my heart. Now and then a wayfarer passed me--but he seemed to belong to another world than mine. I had nothing in common with him. My soul was among the blackened ruins of Daldowie, where Mary, the light of my eyes, and Jean and Andrew my loyal friends slept, united in death as they had been in life. I envied their peace.Sometimes as I walked I stumbled--tears blinding me. My life was a barren waste--my heart a desolation. Nothing mattered--Mary was dead. So, in a maze of torturing thoughts I journeyed till, some four days after leaving Daldowie--I have no memory of the precise time--I gathered from a passer-by that I was only seven miles from Dumfries. Before me, huddled together on the left side of the road, was a cluster of cottages. From their roofs steel-blue clouds of smoke were rising. The atmosphere was one of quiet peace, and with my eyes set upon the brown road before me I plodded wearily on. The highway was bordered on each side by a low hedge, when suddenly that on my right hand came to an end and gave place to a green tongue of grassy lawn, which divided the road upon which I was walking from another that swept away to the right. When I came abreast of this grassy promontory, I saw that it was occupied by a man. He sat under the shade of a beech tree; a pipe was between his lips and in his left hand he held a little leather-covered book. An open pack lay beside him. The sound of my footsteps caught his ear and he turned towards me and looked at me with a pair of cold grey eyes."A very good day to you," he said, and I halted to return his salutation. "I wonder if you can help me," he continued. "Ha'e you the Latin?" The unexpected nature of the question startled me, awaking me from my torpor, and I asked him to repeat himself. "It's this wey," he said: "this wee bookie is the work o' a Latin poet ca'd Horace, a quaint chiel, but ane o' my familiars. Now I was juist passin' a pleasant half-'oor wi' him, and I ha'e come across a line or twa that I canna get the hang o' ava. But if ye ha'ena the Latin, ye'll no' be able to help me.""Maybe I can help," I answered, and walking towards him I seated myself by his side."It's this bit," he said, laying his forefinger on the place. I took the little volume, and, after pausing for a moment to pick up some knowledge of the context, I suggested a rendering."Dod, man," he said, "ye've got it. That mak's sense, and is nae doot what Horace had in his heid. Let's hear a bit mair o't." I proceeded to translate a little more when he stopped me saying, "No, no, let's ha'e the Latin first; and then I'll be better able to follow ye."With memories of Balliol swelling within me, I proceeded to do as he bade me. I read to the end of the ode and was about to translate it when he broke in:"I see," he said, "you're an Oxford man; sic' pronunciation never fell frae the lips o' ane o' Geordie Buchanan's school."I felt my disguise drop from me before the piercing intuition of this strange wayfarer and for a moment I was at a loss how to protect myself. "Possibly," I said, "my pronunciation may be of the Oxford school, but, be that as it may, you surprise me. One hardly expects to come across a packman who reads the classics.""No," he said, "there is only ae Hector the packman, and that's me. Ever since I took to the road I have aye carried a volume o' Horace in my pack. Mony a time I ha'e found comfort in his philosophy. I am only a packman, but I ha'e ambitions. Can ye guess the greatest o' them?""To own a shop in Dumfries," I said.A look of distress crossed his face."Na, na," he said. "Something far better." He bent towards his open pack and rummaged among its contents, and as he did so I observed--what hitherto had escaped my notice--that he had a wooden leg. His right knee was bent at an angle and his foot was doubled up behind his thigh, as though his knee-joint had been fixed in that position by disease or injury; and the bend of his knee was fixed in the bucket of a wooden stump. "Here they are," he said, and he held up a bundle of small paper-covered books tied together with a tape. "Here they are. Now can ye no' see the degradation it is for a man like me to hawk sic trash aboot the country."I took the bundle and, looking at the title-page of the uppermost book, readThe Lovers' Dream-Book, being a True and Reliable Interpretation of Dreams by Joseph the Seer. I looked at the second. It wasThe Farmer's Almanac, and the third wasThe Wife of Wigtown."They're what we ca' chap-books," he said. "I sell them at a penny the piece, but they're awfu' rubbish. Now my ambition is to improve the taste in letters o' the country folk. For mony a year it has been my hope and intention to lay mysel' on and produce amagnum opus. Now hoo dae ye think this would look on a title page?--'Selections from Odes of Horace done into braid Scots by Hector the Packman,' or 'The Wisdom of Virgil on Bees and Bee-keeping by the same author.' Man, I'm thinkin', for a work like that, I micht get a doctorate frae ane o' the Universities. Ay, I maun lay masel' on when next winter comes." He rummaged once more among the contents of his pack, and picked out a pot, the mouth of which was covered with a piece of parchment. "You'll ha'e heard tell o' my magical salve; an infallible cure for boils or blains in man or beast--it cures as it draws: a soothing balm for burnt fingers: and a cream that confers upon a lassie's cheek the tender saftness o' the rose." He removed the parchment and exhibited the ointment. With his forefinger he transferred a piece of the unguent to the back of his left hand and rubbed it in. In a moment he held his hand up to me--"Did ye ever see onything like that? Every particle o' it is gone. Think o' the benefit that sic' a salve maun confer upon the human epiderm. I sent the King a pot last year up to London, but I'm thinkin' it has miscarried, for I ha'e never heard frae him yet. Man, there's a widda woman in Locharbriggs: she's maybe thirty-five, but to look at her you would say she was a lassie o' eighteen. What has done it? Hector's magical salve! Her complexion is by-ordinar. Nae doot she was bonnie afore, but my salve has painted the lily."How long he might have rambled on I know not. Our conversation was suddenly interrupted by the clatter of horses approaching at a trot. To our right I could see dimly the waters of a loch behind a fringe of trees. The sound came from the road which bordered the water. In a moment there swept round the corner of the loch and bore down upon us a little company of grey-coated troopers mounted on grey horses.So this is the end, I thought, and braced myself for the ordeal well content. At the head of the cavalcade rode a man with a long beard that reached below his belt. I noticed that he wore no boots, but that his feet, thrust through his stirrups, were covered with coarse grey stockings. As he drew abreast of us, the packman, with wonderful alacrity, sprang up and, bonnet in hand, advanced to the edge of the road."A very good day to you, Sir Thomas, a very good day," he said.The horseman drew rein. "Well, Hector," he said, "turning up again like a bad penny! What news have you?""Nane but the best, sir, nane but the best. I'm juist makin' for hame frae the Rhinns o' Gallowa', and a' through the country-side there is but ae opinion--that the iron hand o' Lag is crushing the heart oot o' the Whigs.""That is good news, Hector, but juist what I expected. Rebels understand only one argument, and that is the strong hand. It is the only thing I put faith in, as mony a Whig kens to his cost.""Ye're richt, ye're richt, they ken ye weel. May I mak' sae bold as to offer you a truss o' Virginia weed, Sir Thomas," and returning to his pack he picked up a little bundle of tobacco and offered it to the horseman, who took it and slipped it into his pocket."A welcome gift, Hector, and I thank you for it. I hope it has paid duty?""Sir," said the packman deprecatingly, "and me a King's man!"The rider smiled, and turning his fierce eyes upon me, said, "Who is your companion, Hector?"The fateful moment had come, and at that instant my life hung on the thread of a spider's web. But my heart was glad within me. I should find my Mary on the other side. The packman turned towards me: "Oh, Joseph," he said, "he's a gangrel body like masel'. I ha'e been takin' him roond the country wi' me to teach him the packman's job, so that when I retire to devote masel' to the writin' o' books I can hand ower the pack to him."The quick lie took my breath away."Umph!" grunted the horseman, "and what's he readin' there?" Suddenly I remembered that I still held the packman's Horace in my hand. "I hope he's a King's man and that he is no' sittin' there wi' some Covenantin' book in his kneive? Let me have a look at that book, young fellow."I rose and, approaching him, held out the little leather-bound volume. As I did so I noticed his sharp-cut, flinty features, and a pair of thick and surly lips half-hidden by the masses of hair on his face. He turned the book over and found its title page."Oh, I see, somebody's opera! Weel, he canna' be a Covenanter if he reads operas.""Na," said Hector, "he's a King's man, and nae Whig. But I maunna delay ye, Sir Thomas, I hope ye'll enjoy the Virginia weed. Guid day to ye, sir.""Good day, Hector." The horseman urged his horse with his knees, and the company, breaking into a trot, swept past and turned on to the main road which led towards the village.As the last of the troopers swung round the corner, the packman donned his bonnet, and sitting down spat after the departing cavalcade. "Bloody Dalzell," he said, "the Russian Bear--a human deevil. Damn him!"The sudden change in the packman's demeanour astonished me. I looked at him searchingly, but he had begun to arrange the contents of his bundle before binding it up."Why did you tell Sir Thomas such a string of lies about me?" I said.He chuckled softly and looked at me, his left eyelid drooping, his right eye alertly wide. "I had ta'en a fancy to ye," he said, "and I was loth to run the risk o' partin' wi' a scholar when a lee micht keep him. Hoo dae I ken that ye're no a Covenanter? I was takin' nae chances. I nearly laughed in his face when Sir Thomas, the ignorant sumph, thocht ye were readin' a book o' operas. That's a guid ane! Mony a laugh I'll ha'e in the lang winter nichts when I remember it. I'm no' askin' ye wha or what ye are. You ha'e the Latin and I jalouse ye're an Englishman: but till it pleases ye to tell me something aboot yersel', I ken nae mair."As he talked he was pulling his coarse linen covering over his pack. He buckled the broad strap which held it together, and continued: "I suppose ye're makin' for Dumfries. So am I, but I'm no' travellin' the direct road. I'm haudin' awa' roon' by the loch to New Abbey. I aye like to visit the Abbey. They ca' it the Abbey o' Dulce Cor--a bonnie name and it commemorates a bonnie romance."My interest was awakened, and I asked him to tell me more."Ay," he said, "it's a bonnie tale, and guid to remember. I wonder if the widda at Locharbriggs would dae as much for me as Devorgilla did for her man. Nae doot ye ha'e heard o' her. I am credibly informed that she built a college at Oxford, and dootless ye ken she built the brig at Dumfries. But she did better than that, for when her man deid she carried his heart aboot wi' her in a' her travels in a silver casket. She built the Abbey o' Dulce Cor to his memory and she lies there hersel', wi' the heart o' her husband in her bonnie white arms. As the poet has it:"In Dulce Cop Abbey she taketh her rest,With the heart of her husband embalmed on her breast."A memory of Mary flamed like a rose in my heart. I choked down my tears and said:"I have often heard of Devorgilla. If I may, I would gladly accompany you and visit her tomb.""I'll be gled o' your company," he said. "It's no' every day I ha'e the chance o' a crack wi' a scholar. Come on,"--and slinging a stick through the strap round his pack, he swung it on to his shoulder and we set out.As I walked beside him I studied him. He was tall and thin, and walked with a stoop, his head thrust forward, his neck a column of ruddy bronze."Ye're walking lame," he said, "but you are no' sae handicapped as me. This tree-leg o' mine is a terrible affliction. How cam' ye by your lame leg?""I was a soldier once," I said. The answer seemed to satisfy him, though I was conscious that, as I spoke, the colour mounted to my cheeks.The road upon which we found ourselves wound gently, under the cover of far-stretching trees, by the side of a beautiful loch. On the other side of the road the ground rose steeply up to the summit of a heather-clad hill. Suddenly through a break in the green trees we had a vision of the loch. Its waters lay blue and sparkling in the sunlight. Far off we could see undulating pastures, and beyond them a belt of trees in early foliage. As we stood feasting our eyes the packman exclaimed:"Noo there's a pictur' that Virgil micht ha'e done justice to. It's a bit ootside the range o' Horace, but I'm thinkin' Virgil wi' his e'e for a bonnie bit could ha'e written it up weel.""It's a bonnie place the world," he continued, "fu' o' queer things, but to my thinkin' the queerest o' them a' is man, though maybe woman is queerer. Now there's the widda at Locharbriggs; onybody would think that a woman would be proud to be wife to Hector the packman--a scholar and the discoverer o' a magical salve, wha' some day may ha'e a handle to his name, forby maybe a title frae the King himsel'; but will ye believe me, though I ha'e speired at her four times, I ha'e got nae further forrit wi' her than a promise that she'll think aboot it."I expressed sympathy and due surprise, and my answer pleased him, for he said: "Man, I'm glad I met ye. Ye're a lad o' sense, and wi' some pairts as weel, for ye ha'e the Latin."For a time we walked in silence.Soon we had left the pleasant loch behind us and the road wound in the distance before us. To our left the land was low lying, with here and there a clump of trees. To our right a lower range of hills stretched away to end in a great blue mass that dominated our horizon."That's Criffel," he said, pointing to the hill, "and juist at its foot nestles the Abbey o' the Sweet Heart. I ha'e little doot that doon in the village I'll sell a chap-book or twa. Sic trash they are. I maun lay masel' on and get that book o' mine begun."He was talking on, good-humouredly, when suddenly a shrill cry for help came from a clump of trees on our left. Startled I rushed forward. I reached the edge of the copse and peered in, but could see nothing. The cry came again, with an added note of agony; and, heedless of danger, I rushed into the wood in the direction from which it proceeded. The packman had apparently stayed behind me, for he was no longer by my side. Making what speed I could among the clustering trees, I hurried on. Suddenly I heard footsteps racing behind me. I turned. Close behind me was the fast-running figure of a man. At a first glance I thought it was the packman, but as he rushed past me I saw that this was a beardless man sound in both legs. I could not imagine where he came from, and yet his clothing was strangely like that of my recent companion. I followed the rushing figure and saw that in his hand was a stout stick. Then through between the tree-trunks I saw the cause of the alarm. In an open space in the heart of the wood were four troopers in grey uniform, and I knew that I was about to burst upon some scene of devilry. A few steps more, and I saw a girl tied to a tree. About her stood the troopers. Two of them were holding one of her arms with her hand outstretched: the other two were busy lighting a long match. From the agonising scream I had heard, I knew that the torture had already been once applied. I could see the little spurt of flame as the match flared up, and as I dashed forward my ears were alert to hear her cry of pain. But deliverance was at hand. Into the open space leaped the man who had passed me. His stick swung in the air. Strongly and surely it fell on the temple of the nearest soldier, who dropped like an ox, bringing down a comrade in his fall.Startled, the others sprang aside, but they were too slow. Twice, with lightning speed, the stick rose and twice it fell, and two more troopers went down. I quickened my pace. The trooper who had been knocked down by the fall of the first soldier sprang to his feet, and flung himself upon the man. Taken from behind he was at a disadvantage and the soldier, lifting him with a mighty effort, hurled him to the ground. Ere he could draw his pistol, I was upon him. My clenched fist caught him full on the chin, and he crashed on his back and lay breathing stertorously."A bonnie blow, lad! I couldna ha'e done it better mysel'," cried the stranger.While I turned to the terrified girl and severed the cords that bound her to the tree, the stranger was kneeling beside the soldiers."They're no deid, nane o' them, worse luck! and it will be a wee while before the three o' them that felt the wecht o' my cudgel will come tae, but the fourth would be nane the waur o' a langer sleep," and swinging his stick he struck the recumbent figure a sickening thud upon the side of the head. "That's the proper medicine to keep him quate."I had been so absorbed in his doings that I had turned my back upon the girl, and when I looked for her again she was nowhere to be seen. When my companion saw that she had gone, he shook his head gravely, saying:"What was I tellin' ye? Arena women the queerest things on God's earth?"I looked at him in astonishment; it was Hector after all!"Good heavens, it's you!" I exclaimed."Ay," he replied with a smile, half-closing his left eye: "But haud your wheesht. As the Latin has it: 'Non omnes dormiunt qui clausos habent oculos.' A trooper can sleep wi' an e'e open. Tak tent, but lend me a haun'."From one of his pockets he produced a roll of tarred twine. Quickly cutting lengths from it, he tied the feet of the unconscious men, whom we dragged and laid starwise, on their backs, round one of the tree-trunks. He pulled the arms of each above their heads and brought them round the tree as far as possible, tying a cord firmly round their wrists, and carrying it round the bole. The skill he displayed amazed me. Long after they should regain consciousness they would have to struggle hard before they would be able to free themselves. I felt some satisfaction as I thought of their plight. When he had finished his work he surveyed each severely, laying his hand upon their hearts."No, there is no' ane o' them deid. They'll a' come tae by and by. But I'm thinkin' they'll be sair muddled. Come awa', lad.""Let us look for the girl first," I suggested."Na, na," said he. "By this time the lassie, wha nae doot can rin like a hare, is half road to Kirkbean. Now if it had been the widda--but that's a different story."Together we made our way to the edge of the copse. Just inside it I discovered the discarded pack, and beside it the wooden leg and long grey beard.As my companion adjusted the wooden stump to his knee, he said: "Ay, sic ploys are terribly sair on a rheumatic knee." Then he proceeded to put on his beard, producing from one of his pockets a little phial of adhesive stuff with which he smeared his face. I watched, with an ill-concealed smile. "Noo," he said, "did ye ever see onything cleaner or bonnier? I'm a man o' peace, but when I'm roused I'm a deevil. Juist ae clout apiece, and they fell like pole-axed stirks--the three o' them. Bonnie clouts, were they no'?"I assured him that I had never seen foes so formidable vanquished so rapidly and completely."Ye're a lad o' sense," he said; "that wasna' a bad clout ye hit the last o' them yersel'; but he needed a wee tap frae my stick to feenish him. I like a clean job. Come on," and swinging his pack on to his shoulder he led the way to the road.The afternoon was drawing to a close when the village of New Abbey appeared in sight. Criffel now stood before us, a great mountain, heather clad and beautiful, like a sentinel above the little township. By the side of the stream, which divided our path from the village, we stopped, and Hector putting down his pack and taking off his coat proceeded to wash his face and hands. Nothing loth I followed suit.As he was about to hoist his pack on to his shoulder again, he picked up his stick, and handing it to me said: "Feel the wecht o' that." I took it and found it strangely heavy. "It's loaded, ye see," he said--"three and a half ounces o' guid lead let into the heid o't. Juist three and a half ounces--fower is ower muckle; three would be ower little--and ye saw for yersel' what it can dae. A trusty frien', I can tell ye. Naebody kens it's loaded but me and you and the Almichty, forby a wheen sodgers that ha'e felt the wecht o't. I ca' it 'Trusty.' Come on," and, slipping the weighted head of the stick through the strap, he swung the pack on to his shoulders and we made for the village.When we came to the inn the packman led the way through a flagged passage into a garden at the back. There, underneath a pear-tree, stood a green-painted bench with a table before it. Laying his pack upon the end of the bench, he sat down and pushed his bonnet back; I seated myself beside him."Noo," he said, "we maun ha'e something to eat. What will ye ha'e?"Not knowing what might be available, I hesitated. Guessing the cause of my hesitation, he said: "Dinna be feared: it's a guid meat-hoose and its 'tippenny' is the best in the country-side. As for me, I'm for a pint o' 'tippenny,' and a fry o' ham and eggs. The King himsel' couldna dae better than that."As he spoke a young girl had come through the door and now stood before us."What ha'e ye got for twa tired travellers?" asked Hector. "We want the best; we're worthy o't, and quite able to pay for it forby."As the packman had foretold, ham and eggs were forthcoming; and having given our order Hector produced his pipe and proceeded to fill it.When it was drawing satisfactorily he proceeded to point out the beauties of the scene. To the right were visible great grey walls, moss-grown in places, with here and there a bush springing among their ruins."That," he said, "is part o' the wall o' the old Abbey. There," pointing to the right, "is a' that remains o' the Abbey itsel'. By and by we'll gang and tak' a look at it."Soon the girl returned with our food. When we had finished our meal Hector said:"And noo I maun go and see my frien' the miller. Meantime, I'll leave you in chairge o' the pack, and if onybody should want to buy, you can mak' the sale. I hope ye'll prove yersel' a guid packman,"--with which he stumped off.In a moment or two the girl came to clear the table. When she had done so, she returned, and looking at me half shyly, said: "Are ye a packman tae?""Yes," I answered."Oh," she said, "then I wonder if ye ha'e sic a thing as a dream-book in your pack?" I opened the pack, and spread its contents before her. "No, I dinna want onything else but a dream-book," she said. I found one, and, lifting a corner of her apron, she produced a penny which she laid upon the table, and with a finger already between the pages of the book disappeared into the inn.Left to myself, I drifted into a reverie. Love--the love of a man for a woman, and the love of a woman for a man--seemed the greatest thing on the earth. The packman with his loved one at Locharbriggs; this tavern maid with her sweetheart--for did not her desire for a dream-book tell me that she had a lover--were all under its spell. I, too, had my memories of love,--memories of infinite tenderness--bitter--sweet--torn by tragedy. I tried to banish such thoughts from nay mind, for they brought naught but pain, but, try how I might, I found they would return. Nor was it to be wondered at, for at that moment I was within a stone's throw of Devorgilla's monument to her own enduring affection. I was within sight of the place where her haunting love-story had seen its fulfilment. Within the hoary walls of that great fane Devorgilla was sleeping her eternal sleep with the heart of her husband upon her breast. Yes, of a truth was it well said: "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it." Hector would go to the widow, the tavern maid would dream of her lover, while for me, love was nothing but a memory. But what a memory! I was conscious of Mary's presence--her spirit seemed to enfold me in the warm breath of the evening. I almost felt her kiss upon my cheek. Never before, since that day when we had parted upon the moors, had she seemed so near. I slipped my hand into my pocket and caressed the fragment of her ring. I drew it out and pressed it to my lips, and as I did so I heard the stumping footsteps of the packman. Quickly I slipped the ring out of sight and looked towards the door.Hector came through, carrying a tankard of ale in each hand."Drouthy work, carryin' the pack," he said. "Ha'e ye sold onything while I ha'e been away?""Only a dream-book to the little maid," I answered."Sic trash," he groaned, "sic trash, but they will ha'e them. But wait a bit; I'm gaun to lay masel' on in the back end o' the year. Did ye no' try to sell a pot o' salve?" I confessed that I had not. "Man," he said, "ye'll no' mak' a guid packman. I could aye sell a pot o' the balm to a lassie that buys a dream-book. But come on: the licht's juist richt for seein' the Abbey at its best."
CHAPTER XXIV
BAFFLED
My meal over I went to the loch-side, and dropping on my hands and knees took a long draught of the cool water. Then, raising myself, I uttered the whaup call, but I did not expect any answer and I received none. I looked across the loch to the little cairn that stood sentinel above the sainted dead, and then I turned and made for home and Mary.
I climbed up the slope to my left and scanned the moor. For miles and miles it spread before me, but far as the eye could reach there was no one to be seen. Then the spell of the solitude fell upon me, and I began to understand how, in the dawn of the world, the dim-seeing soul of man had stretched out aching hands in the lone places of the earth if haply it might find God.
The mood passed, and I prepared to haste me on my journey. Taking my bearings carefully, I decided to make straight for Daldowie. The ache in my injured limb had abated and I found that I could make fair speed. My heart was light; I was going back to Mary, and I should find Andrew safe. The larks above me were storming the heavens with their song; my heart was singing too; and soon my lips were singing as well. I sang a love-song--one of Mary's songs--and as I sang I smiled to think that I was practising the art of what Andrew had called "speaking like a ceevilised body."
Midday came, as the sun above me proclaimed, and I judged that already I was half-way home, when suddenly, in the distance, I saw some moving figures. The wariness of a hill-man flung me at once upon my face, and peering through a tuft of sheltering heather, I looked anxiously towards them.
They were mounted men, and I saw that they were troopers. I counted them anxiously. They were searching the moor in open order and I was able to make out a dozen of them. They were between me and Daldowie. Had they seen me? Were they coming in my direction? Breathless I watched. I knew that if they had seen me, they would put spurs to their horses and come galloping towards me. They made no sign--I had not been noticed. I was lying in the open with nothing to hide me but the tuft of heather through which I peered. There was not enough cover there to hide a moor fowl, but close at hand was a bush of broom, and worming myself towards it, I crawled under it and lay hidden.
To the unskilled eye, the distance across the rolling face of a moor is hard to measure, but I judged the dragoons were at least a mile from me.
As I watched I saw them gather together in a cluster. Had they found Andrew, or might it be the poor demented lad whom Andrew had risked his life to hide, or was it some other hunted hill-man? My ears were taut with expectation as I waited for the rattle of muskets; but I was wrong. I saw the troopers fling themselves from the saddles and in a moment a little column of smoke began to steal into the air, and I knew that they had off-saddled to make their mid-day meal. That gave me a respite, and I thought hurriedly what I had best do. Should I endeavour to worm my way further afield until I might with safety rise to my feet and race back to my old hiding-place beside the loch?
Almost I felt persuaded to do so, then I remembered that this would place a greater distance between myself and Mary, and she herself might be in danger. A chilling fear seized me. What was it I had heard of Lag? Was it not that he and his dragoons had gone further west, and were quartered again at Wigtown? If that were so, then possibly the dragoons before me were Winram's men, and the promise of protection given by Lag to the good folk of Daldowie would no longer hold. The horror of it! What could I do? My fears had taken such hold on me that my strength ebbed, and I was as water poured out upon the ground. It was not fear for myself that unmanned me, but a torturing anxiety for Mary's safety. The hour of their midday meal seemed endless. So long as they rested I was safe, and yet, with a strange perversity, I longed for the moment when once again they should mount their horses and continue their quest. Anxiously I looked up at the sun. Already he was past the meridian and I breathed a sigh of relief. In his haste lay my safety, for the close of day would bring the search to an end, for a time at least, and then I could return to my loved one.
At last I saw the troopers climb into their saddles. Was it fancy, or did my eyes deceive me? They seemed to have altered the direction of their search. Spreading out across the moor, trampling every bit of heather under foot, they searched eagerly, but their backs were towards me. I breathed again, for if they did not change their course once more, I should remain undiscovered.
The moments went by on leaden feet, but the sun marched steadily on through the sky. Still the troopers quartered and requartered the same tract of moor, and still, to all seeming, their quest was fruitless. I found myself wondering what they were looking for. Was it a quest at a venture, or were they searching for the boy who, two days ago, had found shelter at Daldowie? Two days ago! Was that all? It seemed far longer. What was Mary doing now? It was drawing near the time of the milking. Perhaps at this very moment she was out on the hill-side bringing in the cows. Dear little Mary: I could hear her call them home: see her tripping winsomely along the hill-side. My heart cried out to her.
The sound of a whistle cut the air and the dragoons turned their horses. It was the signal for their home-going, and a strange voice which I did not know for mine, though it issued from my lips, said "Thank God."
I watched till the last scarlet coat had disappeared before I ventured to bestir myself and it was not until nearly an hour had elapsed that I ventured to resume my journey. With all wariness, I hurried through the gathering dusk. Ere long I came to the place where the black remnants of the dragoons' fire still lay like an ugly splash upon the moor. I passed it by and hurried on. Only a few short miles now separated me from Daldowie. Before me lay a little hill. Bravely I breasted it, full of hope that once over it I should be within eye-range of home, but when I reached its summit I saw a sight that once again made me fling myself flat on my face. Some two miles away a fire was burning, and clearcut against its light I could see the dark shadows of men and horses. Danger still confronted me. For some reason the troopers were bivouacking upon the moor, right upon the path which I must follow if I would reach Daldowie, There was nothing for it but to steal down the hill-side and seek a resting-place. As I stole away, I bethought myself that in all likelihood they were camping there in order to continue their search on the morrow. With this in mind, it seemed to me that my chief hope of safety lay in hiding myself somewhere on that portion of the waste which they had examined with such care already. So I made for the place where their fire had been, and, using it as a landmark, I struck off at a right angle. A mile away, where the trampled heather proclaimed that it had been well searched, I found a resting-place and lay down to sleep.
Soon after dawn I was awake again. I turned over and peered out cautiously. Nowhere could I see any trace of the troopers, but the morning was yet young, and I judged that it was too early for them to be far afield. I had little doubt that ere long they would come again and I dared not stir from my place lest I should be seen. The morning hours dragged wearily by. The moor was still, save for a trailing wind, and all was silent but for the song of the lark, the cry of the peewit and the melancholy wail of the whaup.
At last the sun reached the meridian, and I ventured forth from my hiding-place. Stealthily I crept along until I reached the crest of the hill, from which I had descried the bivouac of the dragoons. I stretched myself flat upon its summit, and looked anxiously down. The bivouac fire was quenched; there was no sign of horse or trooper. I looked to every point of the compass, but all was vacant moor. Whither the troopers had gone I could not tell, nor did I care so long as they had gone from the path that led me to my Mary.
So, with heart uplifted, I proceeded on my way, slowly at first and cautiously, but gradually gaining speed. By and by I came to the place where they had bivouacked and found close at hand a rush-grown deep pool of water. On hands and knees I lapped the cool liquid, and then I laved my face and hands and felt refreshed and clean. In less than an hour now, Mary would be in my arms. The thought lent new strength to my limbs. Almost I ventured to burst into song again, but I knew that would be madness. So, though my heart was singing a madrigal, my lips kept silence.
At last I came within sight of the hill where the sheep were pastured. I looked at it lovingly. It was the first thing to welcome me home; but as I looked I saw no sheep upon it. But what of that? Probably during the three days of my absence, Andrew had taken them to some other hill-side. I hastened on. Before me lay the green slope from which many a time I had helped Mary to gather in the cows. I scanned it eagerly, half expecting to see her, sweet as a flower, but she was not there. Mayhap at this moment she was busy at the milking. In fancy I heard her singing at her task. Only a few more steps and I should see the kindly thatched roof of that little moorland farm that sheltered her I loved. O Mary mine!
CHAPTER XXV
THE SHATTERING OF DREAMS
Love smote me and I ran. In a moment I was within sight of the house. Then horror struck me; the house was gone, and there was but a pointed gable wall, blackened by smoke, and beside it a great dark mass which still smouldered in the afternoon sunlight.
I stood for a moment turned to stone, then dashed forward. The air was acrid with the smell of burning straw. What devil's work had been afoot while I was on the moors? Had Lag been false to his promise, or had Winram done this thing? What had happened to Mary, to her mother, to Andrew? Where could they be? Were they alive or dead? As these questions flamed in my tortured mind I walked rapidly round the still smouldering ruins of the house. If murder had been done, surely there would be some sign. Eagerly I looked on every side; then I peered into the heart of the ruins. Horror of horrors! God in heaven!--what did I see? Half buried among the grey-black ashes was a charred and grinning skull. The lower jaw had dropped away and the socket where the eyes had been gaped hideously. I sprang upon the smouldering mass. My feet sank into the thick ashes, which burned me, but I cared not. There was mystery here, and horror! I stirred the ashes with my stick, and beneath them found a charred skeleton, so burned that no vestige of clothing or of flesh was left upon it. As I stood aghast, the wind descended from the hills and lifted a great cloud of black dust into the air. It swirled about me and blew into my eyes so that, for a moment, I was blinded. Then the wind passed, and with smarting eyes I saw two other skeletons.
Mary!--the heart of my heart, the light of my life, my loved one--Mary was dead! Tears blinded me. I tried to call her name--my voice was broken with sobbing: my whole body trembled. I stooped and reverently separated the ashes with my hands. What though they burned me, I cared not. Was not Mary dead? Nothing else mattered.
The fire had done its work thoroughly. There was no vestige of clothing or flesh left upon the bones; but on one of the skulls, which was surely that of Mary's mother, there was a hole drilled clean, and I knew then that the cruelty of the persecutors had been tempered with mercy. I knew what had happened: Andrew and Jean and Mary--sweet Mary--had been shot in cold blood, and then their bodies had been cast into the blazing furnace of their old home. So this was the King's Justice! Oh, the cruelty insensate, vile and devilish. I continued blindly to rake among the ashes. Then as they dropped through my fingers something remained in my hand. I looked. It was a ring, half melted by the flames; the ring I had given to Mary. I pressed it to my trembling lips. My sobs choked me: my heart was breaking.
Half mad with grief I stepped from among the ashes on to the scorched grass. A fit of hopeless desolation seized me. All the dreams which, but a week ago, I had so fondly cherished had vanished into nothingness. Had I anything to live for now? Would it not be better to go out into the hills and seek some company of fiendish dragoons and declare myself to be a Covenanter--and die as my friends had done? If there were anything in the faith of Alexander Main and of Andrew and Jean and Mary, that would mean reunion with her whom I loved. But what was the good? There was no heaven. It was all an empty lie. There was no God!--nothing but devils--and the earth was Hell.
The mood of anger passed, and there came a storm of grief such as I have never known. Physical pain I knew of old, but this torture of the spirit was infinitely more cruel than any bodily suffering I had ever experienced. I threw myself down on the ground and for a long space lay with my face buried in my hands. I tried to think that as I lay there Mary's spirit was beside me. I spoke to her in little whispers of love and stretched out aching arms to enfold her; but no answering whisper came out of the void, and my arms closed about the empty air. I lay long in my agony.
Then I bethought myself of my state. Here I had found life and hope and love; and now hope and love had been rudely stolen from me, and only the ashes of life remained. Let me up and away and forget! But could I ever forget? Would I ever wish to forget the spell of Mary's voice, the roguish witchery of her eyes, the sweet tenderness of her lips? So long as life should last, I should remember.
I lifted my face to the sky. A myriad stars sparkled there, like the dust of diamonds, and one star shone brighter than all the rest. I called it Mary's star. It was a childish fancy; but it gave me comfort, and of comfort I had sore need. Then I began to consider what I had best do. I should remain no longer in this tortured and persecuted country. It would avail me nothing to remain. Mary was dead: Scotland was nothing to me now.
I rose to my feet. I was chilled to the bone and grief had sapped my strength. My ears caught the sound of trickling water. I was parched with thirst. I made my way to the water-pipe where many a time I had helped Mary to fill her pail, and bending down I let the cool jet splash into my mouth, and washed my hands and face.
I had grown calmer now and was able to think more clearly and to fix my mind upon my purposes. At daybreak I should set out. In a few days I should be over the Border. And if, on my way, I met a company of dragoons, the worst they could do would be the best for me and I should be content to die.
Slowly I made my way to the stack-yard. Here I scooped out a resting-place in one of the stacks, and covering myself up with the warm hay I tried to sleep. But with my spirit on the rack of agony sleep was denied me so, after a time, I climbed out of my hiding-place and kept vigil beside the ashes of my beloved. As I sat with the tears stealing down my cheeks memory after memory came back to me. I recalled the sweet sound of Mary's voice--her dainty winsomeness. I thought of Jean--the warm-hearted, shrewd, and ever kindly: and of Andrew--dour, upright, generous. These were my friends--no man ever had better: and Mary was my beloved. And now I was bereft and desolate. Just there--I could see the place in the dark--she had stood, a dainty shadow poised on tip-toe, and had blown me a kiss with either hand. And now I was alone, with none but the silent stars to see my anguish. What was it Mary had said?--"I wouldna lose the love for the sorrow that may lie in its heart." I had tasted the chalice of love--now I was drinking the bitter cup of sorrow to the dregs.
When morning broke I made ready for my journey. I turned to go, then torn by love stood in tears beside the dear dust of her whom I had lost. Then, as though an iron gate had fallen between my past and me, I strode down the loaning.
CHAPTER XXVI
HECTOR THE PACKMAN
When the rude hand of calamity has blotted the light from a man's life all things change. The sun shone over me--but I resented his brightness. The birds, sang cheerfully--but there was dirge in my heart. Now and then a wayfarer passed me--but he seemed to belong to another world than mine. I had nothing in common with him. My soul was among the blackened ruins of Daldowie, where Mary, the light of my eyes, and Jean and Andrew my loyal friends slept, united in death as they had been in life. I envied their peace.
Sometimes as I walked I stumbled--tears blinding me. My life was a barren waste--my heart a desolation. Nothing mattered--Mary was dead. So, in a maze of torturing thoughts I journeyed till, some four days after leaving Daldowie--I have no memory of the precise time--I gathered from a passer-by that I was only seven miles from Dumfries. Before me, huddled together on the left side of the road, was a cluster of cottages. From their roofs steel-blue clouds of smoke were rising. The atmosphere was one of quiet peace, and with my eyes set upon the brown road before me I plodded wearily on. The highway was bordered on each side by a low hedge, when suddenly that on my right hand came to an end and gave place to a green tongue of grassy lawn, which divided the road upon which I was walking from another that swept away to the right. When I came abreast of this grassy promontory, I saw that it was occupied by a man. He sat under the shade of a beech tree; a pipe was between his lips and in his left hand he held a little leather-covered book. An open pack lay beside him. The sound of my footsteps caught his ear and he turned towards me and looked at me with a pair of cold grey eyes.
"A very good day to you," he said, and I halted to return his salutation. "I wonder if you can help me," he continued. "Ha'e you the Latin?" The unexpected nature of the question startled me, awaking me from my torpor, and I asked him to repeat himself. "It's this wey," he said: "this wee bookie is the work o' a Latin poet ca'd Horace, a quaint chiel, but ane o' my familiars. Now I was juist passin' a pleasant half-'oor wi' him, and I ha'e come across a line or twa that I canna get the hang o' ava. But if ye ha'ena the Latin, ye'll no' be able to help me."
"Maybe I can help," I answered, and walking towards him I seated myself by his side.
"It's this bit," he said, laying his forefinger on the place. I took the little volume, and, after pausing for a moment to pick up some knowledge of the context, I suggested a rendering.
"Dod, man," he said, "ye've got it. That mak's sense, and is nae doot what Horace had in his heid. Let's hear a bit mair o't." I proceeded to translate a little more when he stopped me saying, "No, no, let's ha'e the Latin first; and then I'll be better able to follow ye."
With memories of Balliol swelling within me, I proceeded to do as he bade me. I read to the end of the ode and was about to translate it when he broke in:
"I see," he said, "you're an Oxford man; sic' pronunciation never fell frae the lips o' ane o' Geordie Buchanan's school."
I felt my disguise drop from me before the piercing intuition of this strange wayfarer and for a moment I was at a loss how to protect myself. "Possibly," I said, "my pronunciation may be of the Oxford school, but, be that as it may, you surprise me. One hardly expects to come across a packman who reads the classics."
"No," he said, "there is only ae Hector the packman, and that's me. Ever since I took to the road I have aye carried a volume o' Horace in my pack. Mony a time I ha'e found comfort in his philosophy. I am only a packman, but I ha'e ambitions. Can ye guess the greatest o' them?"
"To own a shop in Dumfries," I said.
A look of distress crossed his face.
"Na, na," he said. "Something far better." He bent towards his open pack and rummaged among its contents, and as he did so I observed--what hitherto had escaped my notice--that he had a wooden leg. His right knee was bent at an angle and his foot was doubled up behind his thigh, as though his knee-joint had been fixed in that position by disease or injury; and the bend of his knee was fixed in the bucket of a wooden stump. "Here they are," he said, and he held up a bundle of small paper-covered books tied together with a tape. "Here they are. Now can ye no' see the degradation it is for a man like me to hawk sic trash aboot the country."
I took the bundle and, looking at the title-page of the uppermost book, readThe Lovers' Dream-Book, being a True and Reliable Interpretation of Dreams by Joseph the Seer. I looked at the second. It wasThe Farmer's Almanac, and the third wasThe Wife of Wigtown.
"They're what we ca' chap-books," he said. "I sell them at a penny the piece, but they're awfu' rubbish. Now my ambition is to improve the taste in letters o' the country folk. For mony a year it has been my hope and intention to lay mysel' on and produce amagnum opus. Now hoo dae ye think this would look on a title page?--'Selections from Odes of Horace done into braid Scots by Hector the Packman,' or 'The Wisdom of Virgil on Bees and Bee-keeping by the same author.' Man, I'm thinkin', for a work like that, I micht get a doctorate frae ane o' the Universities. Ay, I maun lay masel' on when next winter comes." He rummaged once more among the contents of his pack, and picked out a pot, the mouth of which was covered with a piece of parchment. "You'll ha'e heard tell o' my magical salve; an infallible cure for boils or blains in man or beast--it cures as it draws: a soothing balm for burnt fingers: and a cream that confers upon a lassie's cheek the tender saftness o' the rose." He removed the parchment and exhibited the ointment. With his forefinger he transferred a piece of the unguent to the back of his left hand and rubbed it in. In a moment he held his hand up to me--"Did ye ever see onything like that? Every particle o' it is gone. Think o' the benefit that sic' a salve maun confer upon the human epiderm. I sent the King a pot last year up to London, but I'm thinkin' it has miscarried, for I ha'e never heard frae him yet. Man, there's a widda woman in Locharbriggs: she's maybe thirty-five, but to look at her you would say she was a lassie o' eighteen. What has done it? Hector's magical salve! Her complexion is by-ordinar. Nae doot she was bonnie afore, but my salve has painted the lily."
How long he might have rambled on I know not. Our conversation was suddenly interrupted by the clatter of horses approaching at a trot. To our right I could see dimly the waters of a loch behind a fringe of trees. The sound came from the road which bordered the water. In a moment there swept round the corner of the loch and bore down upon us a little company of grey-coated troopers mounted on grey horses.
So this is the end, I thought, and braced myself for the ordeal well content. At the head of the cavalcade rode a man with a long beard that reached below his belt. I noticed that he wore no boots, but that his feet, thrust through his stirrups, were covered with coarse grey stockings. As he drew abreast of us, the packman, with wonderful alacrity, sprang up and, bonnet in hand, advanced to the edge of the road.
"A very good day to you, Sir Thomas, a very good day," he said.
The horseman drew rein. "Well, Hector," he said, "turning up again like a bad penny! What news have you?"
"Nane but the best, sir, nane but the best. I'm juist makin' for hame frae the Rhinns o' Gallowa', and a' through the country-side there is but ae opinion--that the iron hand o' Lag is crushing the heart oot o' the Whigs."
"That is good news, Hector, but juist what I expected. Rebels understand only one argument, and that is the strong hand. It is the only thing I put faith in, as mony a Whig kens to his cost."
"Ye're richt, ye're richt, they ken ye weel. May I mak' sae bold as to offer you a truss o' Virginia weed, Sir Thomas," and returning to his pack he picked up a little bundle of tobacco and offered it to the horseman, who took it and slipped it into his pocket.
"A welcome gift, Hector, and I thank you for it. I hope it has paid duty?"
"Sir," said the packman deprecatingly, "and me a King's man!"
The rider smiled, and turning his fierce eyes upon me, said, "Who is your companion, Hector?"
The fateful moment had come, and at that instant my life hung on the thread of a spider's web. But my heart was glad within me. I should find my Mary on the other side. The packman turned towards me: "Oh, Joseph," he said, "he's a gangrel body like masel'. I ha'e been takin' him roond the country wi' me to teach him the packman's job, so that when I retire to devote masel' to the writin' o' books I can hand ower the pack to him."
The quick lie took my breath away.
"Umph!" grunted the horseman, "and what's he readin' there?" Suddenly I remembered that I still held the packman's Horace in my hand. "I hope he's a King's man and that he is no' sittin' there wi' some Covenantin' book in his kneive? Let me have a look at that book, young fellow."
I rose and, approaching him, held out the little leather-bound volume. As I did so I noticed his sharp-cut, flinty features, and a pair of thick and surly lips half-hidden by the masses of hair on his face. He turned the book over and found its title page.
"Oh, I see, somebody's opera! Weel, he canna' be a Covenanter if he reads operas."
"Na," said Hector, "he's a King's man, and nae Whig. But I maunna delay ye, Sir Thomas, I hope ye'll enjoy the Virginia weed. Guid day to ye, sir."
"Good day, Hector." The horseman urged his horse with his knees, and the company, breaking into a trot, swept past and turned on to the main road which led towards the village.
As the last of the troopers swung round the corner, the packman donned his bonnet, and sitting down spat after the departing cavalcade. "Bloody Dalzell," he said, "the Russian Bear--a human deevil. Damn him!"
The sudden change in the packman's demeanour astonished me. I looked at him searchingly, but he had begun to arrange the contents of his bundle before binding it up.
"Why did you tell Sir Thomas such a string of lies about me?" I said.
He chuckled softly and looked at me, his left eyelid drooping, his right eye alertly wide. "I had ta'en a fancy to ye," he said, "and I was loth to run the risk o' partin' wi' a scholar when a lee micht keep him. Hoo dae I ken that ye're no a Covenanter? I was takin' nae chances. I nearly laughed in his face when Sir Thomas, the ignorant sumph, thocht ye were readin' a book o' operas. That's a guid ane! Mony a laugh I'll ha'e in the lang winter nichts when I remember it. I'm no' askin' ye wha or what ye are. You ha'e the Latin and I jalouse ye're an Englishman: but till it pleases ye to tell me something aboot yersel', I ken nae mair."
As he talked he was pulling his coarse linen covering over his pack. He buckled the broad strap which held it together, and continued: "I suppose ye're makin' for Dumfries. So am I, but I'm no' travellin' the direct road. I'm haudin' awa' roon' by the loch to New Abbey. I aye like to visit the Abbey. They ca' it the Abbey o' Dulce Cor--a bonnie name and it commemorates a bonnie romance."
My interest was awakened, and I asked him to tell me more.
"Ay," he said, "it's a bonnie tale, and guid to remember. I wonder if the widda at Locharbriggs would dae as much for me as Devorgilla did for her man. Nae doot ye ha'e heard o' her. I am credibly informed that she built a college at Oxford, and dootless ye ken she built the brig at Dumfries. But she did better than that, for when her man deid she carried his heart aboot wi' her in a' her travels in a silver casket. She built the Abbey o' Dulce Cor to his memory and she lies there hersel', wi' the heart o' her husband in her bonnie white arms. As the poet has it:
"In Dulce Cop Abbey she taketh her rest,With the heart of her husband embalmed on her breast."
"In Dulce Cop Abbey she taketh her rest,With the heart of her husband embalmed on her breast."
"In Dulce Cop Abbey she taketh her rest,
With the heart of her husband embalmed on her breast."
A memory of Mary flamed like a rose in my heart. I choked down my tears and said:
"I have often heard of Devorgilla. If I may, I would gladly accompany you and visit her tomb."
"I'll be gled o' your company," he said. "It's no' every day I ha'e the chance o' a crack wi' a scholar. Come on,"--and slinging a stick through the strap round his pack, he swung it on to his shoulder and we set out.
As I walked beside him I studied him. He was tall and thin, and walked with a stoop, his head thrust forward, his neck a column of ruddy bronze.
"Ye're walking lame," he said, "but you are no' sae handicapped as me. This tree-leg o' mine is a terrible affliction. How cam' ye by your lame leg?"
"I was a soldier once," I said. The answer seemed to satisfy him, though I was conscious that, as I spoke, the colour mounted to my cheeks.
The road upon which we found ourselves wound gently, under the cover of far-stretching trees, by the side of a beautiful loch. On the other side of the road the ground rose steeply up to the summit of a heather-clad hill. Suddenly through a break in the green trees we had a vision of the loch. Its waters lay blue and sparkling in the sunlight. Far off we could see undulating pastures, and beyond them a belt of trees in early foliage. As we stood feasting our eyes the packman exclaimed:
"Noo there's a pictur' that Virgil micht ha'e done justice to. It's a bit ootside the range o' Horace, but I'm thinkin' Virgil wi' his e'e for a bonnie bit could ha'e written it up weel."
"It's a bonnie place the world," he continued, "fu' o' queer things, but to my thinkin' the queerest o' them a' is man, though maybe woman is queerer. Now there's the widda at Locharbriggs; onybody would think that a woman would be proud to be wife to Hector the packman--a scholar and the discoverer o' a magical salve, wha' some day may ha'e a handle to his name, forby maybe a title frae the King himsel'; but will ye believe me, though I ha'e speired at her four times, I ha'e got nae further forrit wi' her than a promise that she'll think aboot it."
I expressed sympathy and due surprise, and my answer pleased him, for he said: "Man, I'm glad I met ye. Ye're a lad o' sense, and wi' some pairts as weel, for ye ha'e the Latin."
For a time we walked in silence.
Soon we had left the pleasant loch behind us and the road wound in the distance before us. To our left the land was low lying, with here and there a clump of trees. To our right a lower range of hills stretched away to end in a great blue mass that dominated our horizon.
"That's Criffel," he said, pointing to the hill, "and juist at its foot nestles the Abbey o' the Sweet Heart. I ha'e little doot that doon in the village I'll sell a chap-book or twa. Sic trash they are. I maun lay masel' on and get that book o' mine begun."
He was talking on, good-humouredly, when suddenly a shrill cry for help came from a clump of trees on our left. Startled I rushed forward. I reached the edge of the copse and peered in, but could see nothing. The cry came again, with an added note of agony; and, heedless of danger, I rushed into the wood in the direction from which it proceeded. The packman had apparently stayed behind me, for he was no longer by my side. Making what speed I could among the clustering trees, I hurried on. Suddenly I heard footsteps racing behind me. I turned. Close behind me was the fast-running figure of a man. At a first glance I thought it was the packman, but as he rushed past me I saw that this was a beardless man sound in both legs. I could not imagine where he came from, and yet his clothing was strangely like that of my recent companion. I followed the rushing figure and saw that in his hand was a stout stick. Then through between the tree-trunks I saw the cause of the alarm. In an open space in the heart of the wood were four troopers in grey uniform, and I knew that I was about to burst upon some scene of devilry. A few steps more, and I saw a girl tied to a tree. About her stood the troopers. Two of them were holding one of her arms with her hand outstretched: the other two were busy lighting a long match. From the agonising scream I had heard, I knew that the torture had already been once applied. I could see the little spurt of flame as the match flared up, and as I dashed forward my ears were alert to hear her cry of pain. But deliverance was at hand. Into the open space leaped the man who had passed me. His stick swung in the air. Strongly and surely it fell on the temple of the nearest soldier, who dropped like an ox, bringing down a comrade in his fall.
Startled, the others sprang aside, but they were too slow. Twice, with lightning speed, the stick rose and twice it fell, and two more troopers went down. I quickened my pace. The trooper who had been knocked down by the fall of the first soldier sprang to his feet, and flung himself upon the man. Taken from behind he was at a disadvantage and the soldier, lifting him with a mighty effort, hurled him to the ground. Ere he could draw his pistol, I was upon him. My clenched fist caught him full on the chin, and he crashed on his back and lay breathing stertorously.
"A bonnie blow, lad! I couldna ha'e done it better mysel'," cried the stranger.
While I turned to the terrified girl and severed the cords that bound her to the tree, the stranger was kneeling beside the soldiers.
"They're no deid, nane o' them, worse luck! and it will be a wee while before the three o' them that felt the wecht o' my cudgel will come tae, but the fourth would be nane the waur o' a langer sleep," and swinging his stick he struck the recumbent figure a sickening thud upon the side of the head. "That's the proper medicine to keep him quate."
I had been so absorbed in his doings that I had turned my back upon the girl, and when I looked for her again she was nowhere to be seen. When my companion saw that she had gone, he shook his head gravely, saying:
"What was I tellin' ye? Arena women the queerest things on God's earth?"
I looked at him in astonishment; it was Hector after all!
"Good heavens, it's you!" I exclaimed.
"Ay," he replied with a smile, half-closing his left eye: "But haud your wheesht. As the Latin has it: 'Non omnes dormiunt qui clausos habent oculos.' A trooper can sleep wi' an e'e open. Tak tent, but lend me a haun'."
From one of his pockets he produced a roll of tarred twine. Quickly cutting lengths from it, he tied the feet of the unconscious men, whom we dragged and laid starwise, on their backs, round one of the tree-trunks. He pulled the arms of each above their heads and brought them round the tree as far as possible, tying a cord firmly round their wrists, and carrying it round the bole. The skill he displayed amazed me. Long after they should regain consciousness they would have to struggle hard before they would be able to free themselves. I felt some satisfaction as I thought of their plight. When he had finished his work he surveyed each severely, laying his hand upon their hearts.
"No, there is no' ane o' them deid. They'll a' come tae by and by. But I'm thinkin' they'll be sair muddled. Come awa', lad."
"Let us look for the girl first," I suggested.
"Na, na," said he. "By this time the lassie, wha nae doot can rin like a hare, is half road to Kirkbean. Now if it had been the widda--but that's a different story."
Together we made our way to the edge of the copse. Just inside it I discovered the discarded pack, and beside it the wooden leg and long grey beard.
As my companion adjusted the wooden stump to his knee, he said: "Ay, sic ploys are terribly sair on a rheumatic knee." Then he proceeded to put on his beard, producing from one of his pockets a little phial of adhesive stuff with which he smeared his face. I watched, with an ill-concealed smile. "Noo," he said, "did ye ever see onything cleaner or bonnier? I'm a man o' peace, but when I'm roused I'm a deevil. Juist ae clout apiece, and they fell like pole-axed stirks--the three o' them. Bonnie clouts, were they no'?"
I assured him that I had never seen foes so formidable vanquished so rapidly and completely.
"Ye're a lad o' sense," he said; "that wasna' a bad clout ye hit the last o' them yersel'; but he needed a wee tap frae my stick to feenish him. I like a clean job. Come on," and swinging his pack on to his shoulder he led the way to the road.
The afternoon was drawing to a close when the village of New Abbey appeared in sight. Criffel now stood before us, a great mountain, heather clad and beautiful, like a sentinel above the little township. By the side of the stream, which divided our path from the village, we stopped, and Hector putting down his pack and taking off his coat proceeded to wash his face and hands. Nothing loth I followed suit.
As he was about to hoist his pack on to his shoulder again, he picked up his stick, and handing it to me said: "Feel the wecht o' that." I took it and found it strangely heavy. "It's loaded, ye see," he said--"three and a half ounces o' guid lead let into the heid o't. Juist three and a half ounces--fower is ower muckle; three would be ower little--and ye saw for yersel' what it can dae. A trusty frien', I can tell ye. Naebody kens it's loaded but me and you and the Almichty, forby a wheen sodgers that ha'e felt the wecht o't. I ca' it 'Trusty.' Come on," and, slipping the weighted head of the stick through the strap, he swung the pack on to his shoulders and we made for the village.
When we came to the inn the packman led the way through a flagged passage into a garden at the back. There, underneath a pear-tree, stood a green-painted bench with a table before it. Laying his pack upon the end of the bench, he sat down and pushed his bonnet back; I seated myself beside him.
"Noo," he said, "we maun ha'e something to eat. What will ye ha'e?"
Not knowing what might be available, I hesitated. Guessing the cause of my hesitation, he said: "Dinna be feared: it's a guid meat-hoose and its 'tippenny' is the best in the country-side. As for me, I'm for a pint o' 'tippenny,' and a fry o' ham and eggs. The King himsel' couldna dae better than that."
As he spoke a young girl had come through the door and now stood before us.
"What ha'e ye got for twa tired travellers?" asked Hector. "We want the best; we're worthy o't, and quite able to pay for it forby."
As the packman had foretold, ham and eggs were forthcoming; and having given our order Hector produced his pipe and proceeded to fill it.
When it was drawing satisfactorily he proceeded to point out the beauties of the scene. To the right were visible great grey walls, moss-grown in places, with here and there a bush springing among their ruins.
"That," he said, "is part o' the wall o' the old Abbey. There," pointing to the right, "is a' that remains o' the Abbey itsel'. By and by we'll gang and tak' a look at it."
Soon the girl returned with our food. When we had finished our meal Hector said:
"And noo I maun go and see my frien' the miller. Meantime, I'll leave you in chairge o' the pack, and if onybody should want to buy, you can mak' the sale. I hope ye'll prove yersel' a guid packman,"--with which he stumped off.
In a moment or two the girl came to clear the table. When she had done so, she returned, and looking at me half shyly, said: "Are ye a packman tae?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Oh," she said, "then I wonder if ye ha'e sic a thing as a dream-book in your pack?" I opened the pack, and spread its contents before her. "No, I dinna want onything else but a dream-book," she said. I found one, and, lifting a corner of her apron, she produced a penny which she laid upon the table, and with a finger already between the pages of the book disappeared into the inn.
Left to myself, I drifted into a reverie. Love--the love of a man for a woman, and the love of a woman for a man--seemed the greatest thing on the earth. The packman with his loved one at Locharbriggs; this tavern maid with her sweetheart--for did not her desire for a dream-book tell me that she had a lover--were all under its spell. I, too, had my memories of love,--memories of infinite tenderness--bitter--sweet--torn by tragedy. I tried to banish such thoughts from nay mind, for they brought naught but pain, but, try how I might, I found they would return. Nor was it to be wondered at, for at that moment I was within a stone's throw of Devorgilla's monument to her own enduring affection. I was within sight of the place where her haunting love-story had seen its fulfilment. Within the hoary walls of that great fane Devorgilla was sleeping her eternal sleep with the heart of her husband upon her breast. Yes, of a truth was it well said: "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it." Hector would go to the widow, the tavern maid would dream of her lover, while for me, love was nothing but a memory. But what a memory! I was conscious of Mary's presence--her spirit seemed to enfold me in the warm breath of the evening. I almost felt her kiss upon my cheek. Never before, since that day when we had parted upon the moors, had she seemed so near. I slipped my hand into my pocket and caressed the fragment of her ring. I drew it out and pressed it to my lips, and as I did so I heard the stumping footsteps of the packman. Quickly I slipped the ring out of sight and looked towards the door.
Hector came through, carrying a tankard of ale in each hand.
"Drouthy work, carryin' the pack," he said. "Ha'e ye sold onything while I ha'e been away?"
"Only a dream-book to the little maid," I answered.
"Sic trash," he groaned, "sic trash, but they will ha'e them. But wait a bit; I'm gaun to lay masel' on in the back end o' the year. Did ye no' try to sell a pot o' salve?" I confessed that I had not. "Man," he said, "ye'll no' mak' a guid packman. I could aye sell a pot o' the balm to a lassie that buys a dream-book. But come on: the licht's juist richt for seein' the Abbey at its best."