CHAPTER XXVIION THE ROAD TO DUMFRIESWe drank our ale, and leaving the Inn turned into the precincts of the Abbey, where for the first time I had an opportunity of gazing upon its ruined splendour. Rarely have I seen such beauty in decay--the mellow light of the evening lending to the red sandstone of the aisles, the choir and the great square tower a rosy hue that made them singularly beautiful. The packman led the way and halted before a richly ornate stone that rested on a pedestal below the great Gothic window. He took his bonnet off reverently and I followed suit, and together we stood in silence. "She lies here," he said, with a break in his voice, and when I looked at him there were tears in his eyes. He sighed as though the stone covered the remains of someone very dear to him. I knew what was in his mind. This brave follower of the open road, this deliverer of maidens in distress, this egotistical packman, and self-styled scholar was an incorrigible sentimentalist. He was thinking, I knew, of Devorgilla's beautiful devotion to her husband, but the widow at Locharbriggs was in his thoughts as well. He turned and laid a hand upon my arm as he donned his bonnet."Whaur are ye sleepin' the nicht?" he asked.The question surprised me, for I had taken it for granted that we should stay at the village inn. "I suppose," I said, "that I can get a bed in the tavern.""Nae doot, nae doot," he said, "if so you like, but I never sleep in a bed when I'm oot on the road. It's safer to sleep in the open, especially when ye wear a wooden leg that ye dinna exactly need. Folks are inquisitive. Come awa back to the inn wi' me. You can sleep there if ye like, but I'll come back here. It'll no' be the first time I ha'e slept by the graveside o' Devorgilla."We returned to the inn where I had no difficulty in procuring a bed. Hector shouldered his pack and took his way back to the Abbey, but he was up betimes and was hammering at my door with his heavy-headed stick before I was awake. We breakfasted and set out for Dumfries.Hector had lit his pipe and trudged along beside me in silence. Left to my own thoughts, I began to study him. Since we had joined company, he had shown several phases of character difficult to reconcile. In the presence of Sir Thomas Dalzell he had seemed to be an avowed enemy of the Covenanters, yet, when Dalzell and his troopers were at a safe distance, he had displayed contempt and bitter hatred for them. Then there was the attack on the soldiers in the little copse by the roadside on our way to New Abbey. What was he? Was the calling of a packman, like his false beard and his unnecessary wooden-leg, merely a mask? I was puzzled, but I determined that ere our journey should come to an end I would do my utmost to unravel his secret.When the packman's pipe was empty he returned it to his pocket and broke into song. The mood of sentiment was upon him, and he sang a quaint old song of unrequited love. I failed to make out the words; but I heard enough to know that he was thinking, as always, of the widow.About an hour after leaving the village we came to the end of a long ascent."It's been a stiff clim'," said the packman, "we'd better sit doon and rest a wee." He threw off his pack and we sat down upon some rising ground by the roadside. For a time I sat and drank in the beauty which spread itself before me, but my reverie was disturbed by Hector, who laid his hand upon my knee and said, "I want to talk to you." All attention, I turned towards him, but he was slow to begin. Patiently I waited, and then, half turning so that he looked me straight in the face with his piercing right eye wide open, his left half shut, he said:"Nae doot ye're puzzled aboot me." I wondered whether he had been able to read the thoughts that had flitted through my mind as we climbed the hill from New Abbey. "I think it is only richt," he continued, "that before we gang ony further, I should mak' masel' clear to you. Maybe when I ha'e opened my heart to you, you'll tell me something aboot yersel' for, if I ha'e kept my counsel, so ha'e you. Rale frien'ship maun be built on mutual confidence; withoot that, frien'ship is naething mair than a hoose o' cairds. Ye ken already that I am no' a'thegither what I seem. I'd better begin at the beginnin'. I'm an Ayrshire man, articled in my youth to the Law and at ae time a student o' Glasgow College; an' lang syne, when my blood was hot and I was fu' o' ideals, I threw in my lot wi' the Covenanters. And I've suffered for it." He pushed down the rig-and-fur stocking on his left leg. "Look at that," he said. I looked, and saw, where the skin ran over the bone, a long, ugly brown scar. "Ye'll no' ken what that means?" I shook my head. "Weel," he said, "that's what the persecutors did for me. I've had 'the boot' on that leg, and until my dying day I'll carry the mark. But I'm no' what they ca' a guid Covenanter. I'm a queer mixture, as maybe you yersel' ha'e already noticed. I canna say that I'm a religious man, and though my heart is wi' the lads that are ready to dee for the Covenant, I fear that I masel' lack grace. Hooever, that's by the way. Lang years sin' I cam' to this country-side whaur naebody knew me, as a packman wi' a tree-leg, and as such I am kent to maist o' my acquaintances. Wi' my pack on my shoulder I wander through the country-side back and forrit frae Dumfries to Portpatrick, and frae Portpatrick back again to the Nith, wi' chap-books, and ribbons, and pots o' salve, but a' the while I keep my e'en and my ears open. I get to ken the movements o' the troopers, and I hear tell in the hooses o' the Covenanters o' comin' hill-meetings and sic-like, and mony a time I ha'e been able to drop a hint in the richt place that has brocht to nought some crafty scheme o' the persecutors and saved the life o' mair than ane hill-man. If ye like to put it that way, I rin wi' the hare and hunt wi' the hounds. I'm hand in glove, to a' ootward seeming, wi' the persecutors themselves. I foregather wi' sodgers in roadside inns, and it's marvellous hoo a pint or twa o' 'tippenny' and a truss o' Virginia weed will loosen their tongues and gaur them talk. I've listened quately, and mony a time I've let fa' a remark that mak's them believe that a' my sympathies are wi' them and that I'm no' in wi' the Covenanters ava. As a matter o' solid fact, I am sae weel thocht o' by men sic as Sir Robert Grier, Dalzell himsel' and Claver'se, that mair than aince I ha'e been sent by them on special commissions to find things oot; and I've come back and I've tellt them what they wanted to ken, and riding hell for leather they've gane off wi' their dragoons to some wee thackit cottage on the moors. But they've never caught the bird they were after. Somebody--maybe it was me, I'm no' sayin'--had drapped a timely warnin'; and though I tellt the persecutors nae lee, I ha'e mair than aince gi'en them cause to remember that truth lies at the bottom o' a very deep well. That's my story. I'm a spy, if ye like--an ugly word, but I ha'e na man's blood upon my haun's or on my conscience. And it's dangerous wark, as you may weel ken. Some day ane or other o' my schemes will gang agley, and the heid and haun's, and maybe the tree-leg as weel, o' Hector the packman will decorate a spike on Devorgilla's brig at Dumfries. I wadna muckle mind; for life is sometimes a weary darg, but I'd like, afore that day comes, tae ha'e feenished mymagnum opus. I maun really lay masel' on and get it begun. It would be a monument by which I micht be remembered."Sometimes as I walk my lane alang the roads I think o' things. Here and there I come across a wee mound on the moorland, or maybe by the roadside, and I ken it covers the body o' some brave man wha has died for his faith. Desolate, lonely, and scattered cairns they are. And then I think, that though this is the day o' the persecutors, and though they be set in great power, a day is comin' when a' their glory will be brocht to naething. By and by Grier o' Lag, Dalzell and Claver'se, and a' the rest o' them will pay the debt to Nature, and nae doot they will be buried wi' muckle pomp and circumstance, and great monuments o' carved stane will be set abune them. But in time to come, I'm thinkin', it will no' be their tombs that will be held in reverence, but the lonely graves scattered aboot the purple moors and the blue hills. It's them that will be treasured for ever as a precious heritage. We're a religious folk in Scotland, or at least we get that name--but religion or no', we love liberty wi' every fibre o' oor being, and in days to come, generations yet unborn, wha may be unable to understaun the faith for which the hill-men died, will honour them because they were ready to lay doon their lives in defiance o' a tyrant king. Noo," he said, letting his eyes fall, "ye ken a' aboot me that there's ony need to ken, and it's for ye to say whether we pairt company here or whether we gang on thegither." He drew out his pipe and proceeded to fill it.For a moment I was at a loss. Was he seeking to entrap me into an open declaration of sympathy with the Covenanters; or was he telling the truth? His confession had been an absolutely open one, so open that if my sympathies were with the persecutors he had placed himself completely in my hands. He had looked me straight in the face with one piercing eye as though to read my soul, while the other was half veiled as though to hide his own. But his voice had rung with fervour as he spoke of the lone graves of the hill-men, and I remembered the fight in the wood. He must have spoken the truth; so I took courage and without further delay told him my story. He listened attentively, and when I had finished he said:"Ay, the auld packman is richt again. I thocht aboot ye last nicht. Man, I can read fowk like a coont on a slate, and I'm richt gled to hear frae your ain lips, what I had already guessed, that you're for the Cause. If I had thocht onything else, I wu'd ha'e held my tongue."CHAPTER XXVIIIFOR THE SWEET SAKE OF MARYWhen with characteristic self-satisfaction the packman had extolled his own intelligence, he lapsed into silence. As for me, the telling of my tale had reawakened so many sad memories that for a time I sat gazing before me, unable through my tears to see the other side of the road. Hector knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and sighed."It is," he said, "ane o' the saddest stories I ha'e ever heard. Sic an experience is enough to mak' a man bitter for the rest o' his days. But if Mary was only half o' what you ha'e tellt me she was, that's no' what she wu'd like to see. It's the prood woman she wu'd be if she knew ye were minded to throw in your lot wi' the Cause. What are ye gaun to dae?""I am making for England," I answered.Hector shook his head sadly. "I've noticed the same afore," he said, and paused."What have you noticed?" I asked. "I do not understand you."He looked into the distance, and spoke as though to himself."Ay! It's the auld story. Queer but awfu' human. There was Moses and Peter: the ane the meekest o' men, but he lost his temper twice; the ither the bravest and lealest o' the disciples, but he turned coward.""Explain yourself," I said. "I cannot follow you.""I mean nae offence, but I thocht ye wad hae been quicker i' the uptak'. D'ye no see that men fail maist often on their strongest point? Man, when a man prides himsel' on his strong points it's time to get down on his knees. Ye tell me ye lo'ed the lass--and nae doot ye did. But ye're turning yer back on love, and rinnin' awa'. I'm surprised at ye. If sic a fate as has befallen Mary were to befa' the widda at Locharbriggs, dae ye think I should rest until I had dune something to avenge her. Mind ye I'm no' counsellin' violence, for I'm a man that loves peace. Bloodshed is the revenge o' the foolish. There are better ways than that, and if ye'll throw your lot in wi' mine, I'll show ye hoo ye can dae something for the sake o' her ye loved and for the cause o' the Covenant." I listened in silence and shame. His words were biting into my heart.He looked at me with eyes that seemed to peer into the depths of my soul. Then I found speech. "Mary," I said, "was to me the most precious thing in all the world. If you can show me how I can render service to the Cause she loved, I am ready to do your bidding."He thrust out his right hand: "Put your haun' there," he said; "you've spoken like a man. Dae ye mind what Horace says: 'Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postera.' 'Tak' time by the forelock and never trust to the morn.' A wise word that. Fegs, he was a marvel! In fact he's gey near as fu' o' wisdom as the guid Book itsel'. We'll tak' time by the forelock, and between us, if the Lord wills, we'll dae something for the persecuted hill-folk and strike a blow for Scotland and for liberty. But we'll ha'e to be gettin' on; the day'll no' tarry for us. Let us awa'."Refreshed by our rest, we rose and took to the road again.A long descent lay before us and till we had completed it neither of us spoke. But when we reached the foot of the hill Hector suddenly said:"I've been thinkin' aboot your story. It's wonderfu' what bits o' gossip a packman can pick up on his roonds. Noo, you may be surprised to hear that I kent a' aboot the shootin' o' the minister up on the hills. I heard the story frae a trooper in the inn at Gatehouse. To him it was a great joke, for he saw naething in it but the silly action o' a daft auld man wha's ain stupidity brocht aboot his death. I wonder, if he had kent the hale story as you and me ken it, whether he would ha'e seen the beauty o't. I'm thinkin' maybe no', for to size up a thing like that richtly it maun be in a man's heart to dae the like himsel'. Ay, what a welcome the martyr would get on the ither side!" He paused for a moment, then continued: "And it's queer that I heard aboot you yersel' frae the same trooper. He tellt me that they cam' on the minister quite accidental-like; and that they werena' lookin' for him ava. They were oot on the hills huntin' for a deserter, wha I'm thinkin' was yersel'. They didna find you, he said. As a matter o' fact they believe that ye're deid--he said as muckle. So you may haud yer mind easy, for unless an' ill win' blaws and ye're recognised by ane o' yer fellow-troopers, ye're safe."We trudged on steadily towards Dumfries. My heart was with Mary, and I did not speak. The packman was silent too--but while I was living in the past he apparently was looking into the future, for he said suddenly:"It's a dangerous job I'm invitin' ye to tackle--a job that calls for the best wit o' a man, and muckle courage. I'm thinkin' you dinna lack for either, but time will show. Ay: it will that. As for me," he continued, after a pause, "I'm no' a religious man, but hidden in a corner o' my soul I ha'e a wee lamp o' faith. But it doesna aye burn as brichtly as it micht, and mony a time I sit by the roadside and compare the man I wad like to be wi' the man that I ken masel' to be; and it mak's me gey humble. But I aye tak' courage when I think o' Peter. He found the road through life a hard path and he tripped sae often ower the stanes that I sometimes think, like me, he maun ha'e had a tree-leg. But at the end he proved himsel' to be gold richt through, as dootless the Maister kent a' the while." His voice broke, and, looking at him, I saw tears streaming down his cheeks."But noo, a word in your ear. We're very near Dumfries noo. We'd better separate there, it will be safer. It behoves ye to ken where ye will fin' a lodgin'."In Mitchell's Close at the brig' end there lives a widda woman. She kens me weel. Her door is the second on the left frae the mooth o' the close. Her name is Phemie McBride, and when ye tell her ye're a frien' o' Hector the packman's she'll gie ye a welcome and ask nae questions. We should reach the toon before twa o'clock. You can ha'e bite and sup. I'll leave my pack at my lodgings and syne I'll be awa oot to Locharbriggs to pay my respects to the widda. At six o'clock or thereabouts I'll look for ye at the Toon Heid Port and we'll tak' a walk up the banks o' the Nith thegither. But, a word in yer lug. Dumfries is a stronghold o' the Covenanters; forby it is ane o' the heidquarters o' the persecutors. Lag himsel' has a hoose there--so ye maun be carefu'. Tak' a leaf oot my book, and oot o' the book o' even a wiser man than me--Be all things to all men, and mix neither yer politics nor yer drink. Haud your tongue, and if ye ha'e to speak, keep half yer counsel tae yersel'."I thanked him and promised to exercise all caution. "And noo," he said, "for appearance' sake, I maun be Hector the packman, again," and going to a cottage by the wayside he knocked loudly at the door. I walked slowly on and in a moment or two he rejoined me.With a twinkle in his eyes, he said: "Trade's bad the day. The guid-wife wanted neither a dream-book nor a pot o' salve. But that reminds me, it's gey near three months sin' I saw the widda. Noo you yersel' ha'e kent the spell o' love. I dinna want to touch ye on a sair spot, but if ye were in my place, what wad ye tak' tae yer sweetheart?"I had no suggestion to offer, and said so."Weel," he said, "that's nae help. I'll juist ha'e a look at the jeweller's window in the High Street. Maybe I'll see something there: but failin' that there's aye a pot o' my balm.""She will not need any of that," I answered. "Your coming will bring a colour to her cheeks without the aid of your magical salve.""Man," said Hector, "I like ye. Ye're a lad o' promise; I'll mak' a man o' ye yet."We were approaching another cottage on the outskirts of the town, and once again Hector assumed the role of the packman and tapped at the door. When he rejoined me he said: "I ha'e had some luck this time, but no' muckle, because a' I sold was a dream-book. Awfu' trash, as ye weel ken." He groaned as though in anguish of spirit. "And noo," he said, "we'd better pairt company. The brig' end o' Dumfries is on this side o' the water."So we parted, and I walked on ahead, until as I descended a steep hill I saw the end of the bridge before me. I found Mitchell's Close without difficulty and entered it. The houses within it were flinging back the glare of the sun from their whitewashed walls. I knocked at the second door on the left, and after a little it was opened by an old woman. Holding the latch in her hand, she stood between the half-open door and the wall as though to block the passage."Wha may ye be?" she said. "Ye ha'ena' a kent face.""I am," I said, speaking low, "a friend of Hector the packman."She threw the door wide open at once, saying, "Come awa ben." I entered, and immediately she shut and barred the door behind us, and led the way into the kitchen, saying: "Ony frien' o' Hector the packman is welcome here. Can I get ye onything to eat?"As I had not broken my fast since leaving New Abbey, I was ready to do justice to the meal which she made haste to spread before me. Remembering Hector's warning, I held my tongue, and as she waited upon me the old woman kept her counsel to herself. I could see that she was studying me closely; and when the meal was over she said, suddenly:"So ye're a frien' o' Hector's, are ye? Whaur's the man noo?""When I left him," I replied, "he was making his way to his own lodging.""Nae doot, nae doot; and by this time I jalouse he's on the road to Locharbriggs."I smiled."If ye are a frien' o' Hector's," she continued, "ye've nae doot heard aboot the widow at Locharbriggs.""Oh yes," I said. "She bulks largely in his affections."The old woman laughed heartily. "She does that, the silly auld man, but he'd better look somewhere else, for she winna ha'e him. I ken her weel; she's my dochter."CHAPTER XXIXBESIDE THE NITHWhen the afternoon was mellowing into early evening I stood upon Devorgilla's Bridge watching the river. Much had happened to me since last I was there. I had drunk deep of joy and sorrow; and as I looked down upon the slow-moving water, memory smote me with both hands. I laid my arms upon the parapet of the wall and stood at gaze, but though I looked before me, my mind was wandering backwards across the chequered, love-lit, blood-stained months that lay behind me. The mood passed and my eyes followed the stream as it issued from underneath the dark arches and flowed slowly on until, in the distance, glistening like a silver band, it swept round a bend and was lost to view. To my right, on the brow of a hill, stood a windmill, its great arms aswing with hesitant gait in the wind. Beyond the windmill the hills sloped down to the river, studded here and there by a copse of trees, or the white gable of a cottage flinging back a ray of sunlight. To my left was the town of Dumfries, with the Sands sloping down from the nearer houses to the river, and the stately spire of St. Michael's Church challenging the sky in the near distance. Beyond, rose a pleasant, tree-crowned hill, on whose slopes I could see the figures of sheep and cattle.There were yet two hours before I had to meet Hector at the Town Head Port, so, crossing the bridge, I made for the Friar's Vennel, which I knew to be the main thoroughfare from the brig-end to the centre of the town. It was a busy artery of traffic, lined upon one side by shops and upon the other by comfortable dwelling-places. Some of the houses had gardens, well-kept and orderly. Here and there, between the houses, was a narrow entry and looking down one of these I discovered that it opened into a little court upon each side of which stood small thatched cottages.I sauntered up the Vennel, and shortly came to the High Street--a broad and roomy thoroughfare. Each side of it was occupied by shops, well-stocked and prosperous-looking, and in the centre of the street were the booths of market-gardeners and fishermen, who were making a brave display of their wares.Leaving the booths behind me, I continued my journey up the High Street. By and by I came to a wider portion of the street which the inhabitants know as the Plain Stanes. Here was the house of Lag, and I gazed at it curiously. A couple of soldiers stood at the door, from which I judged that Sir Robert himself was in residence; so, remembering I was a deserter, I did not tarry long, but went on towards St. Michael's Church.I entered the churchyard and, sitting down under the shadow of one of the gigantic tombstones, I waited until I judged it was time to go and meet Hector.As I was going out I met a man whom I took to be the grave-digger, and asked him to direct me to the Town Head Port."Oh, ye're a stranger in these pairts," he said, as he pointed out the way. I made no answer save to thank him and bid him good evening, and then I hurried in the direction he had indicated.I found the Port without difficulty and stood just outside it, listening to the cawing of the rooks in the tall trees on the green mound that separated me from the river.I had not long to wait ere Hector arrived. He slipped his arm through mine, and said:"Let's awa' doon to the bank o' the water."He was whistling merrily as we scrambled down the bank, so I judged that the widow had been kind, and ventured to say as much. His only reply was:"Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo dulce loquentem." I asked after her health."Oh, she's fine, fine. She was pleased wi' the bonny kaim I took her. Here's a bit o' wisdom for ye, my lad. If ye want to please a woman that ye like, gi'e her some gaud to adorn hersel' wi'. If she's plain and no' weel-faured she'll tak' it as a compliment that ye should wish to mak' her bonnie. If she's bonnie to begin wi', she'll tak' your bit giftie as a proof that ye ha'e noticed wi' your ain een that she's weel-faured and weel-lookin'."Alas, for me all such joys were things of the dead past.When we reached the river's edge we walked upstream.I have not the pen of a poet, nor has the poet yet been born whose pen could paint with fitting words the glory of the shining Nith. Hector says Virgil could have done it; but I wonder. There are beauties beyond the range of words. The eye can drink them in; the soul can interpret them: and as the soul interprets them, so are they revealed to the eye that sees them.We walked for more than a mile till we came to a lofty eminence, set tree-crowned above the stream. When we had climbed to its summit Hector paused beneath a giant beech tree which stood perilously near the declivity that fell sheer to the river brink. "Look," he said, and pointed down the river. Lit by the rays of the setting sun, it stretched like a ruddy band of bronze into the distance, leading the eye directly to the ruins of the old College of Lincluden with its Gothic window and shattered tower. Beyond, the blue hills raised their brows to the sky, from which, as from a golden chalice, a stream of glory poured.For each of Nature's pictures there is one divine moment in the day. It was now.I stood in rapture till Hector touched my arm. "It's bonnie," he said. "I should say ye've naething to match it in England, but we maun awa' hame. Come on," and he led the way across a field to the road. "This," he said, "is the shortest way back to the toon. I ha'e been alang it aince the day already, for it leads tae Locharbriggs, and mair than likely I'll be alang it the morn, for the widda was wonderfu' kind, and though she wouldna exactly gang the length o' namin' the day, she was mair amenable to reason than I've ever kent her afore. So the morn's mornin' I'm makin' my way oot to her again: and maybe I'll be lucky. Ye never can tell, for didna' Virgil himsel' say 'Varium et mutabile semper femina'--'Woman is a fickle jade onyway ye like to tak' her.' Oh, these auld poets, but they had the wise word every time. Noo that we're comin' near the toon we'd better settle what we are gaun to dae the morn. As for me, I ha'e mony things on haun and my time'll be a' ta'en up. But I'll be free at six o'clock. Ye can spend the day as ye like, and I'll meet ye at that oor at the Vennel Port."I promised that I should be at the trysting-place at the time appointed.We were now drawing near the town. By and by we came to the mound known as Christie's Mount, and soon we could see the Plain Stones before us. As we swung round into the lower part of the High Street we heard sounds of revelry coming from Lag's house at the corner of the Turnpike Wynd. We crossed to the other side of the street and looked up. Every window was a blaze of light. From an upper room came the sound of wild voices of men far gone in their cups, and every now and then shouts of laughter. One laugh, a great raucous bellow, dominated all the rest."That's Lag himsel'," whispered Hector. "Eh, it's awfu', awfu'. While thae men o' blood are feastin' and drinkin' there, saints o' the Covenant are sleepin' under the cauld sky awa' on the hills."Suddenly out of the darkness stepped a soldier, who, seeing us gazing up at the house approached, and as he passed scanned us keenly. I nudged the packman with my elbow and at once he led the way up the High Street. He did not speak until we were near the Tolbooth, then he whispered:"Ay, ye'll min' what I tellt ye; it's true ye've to be carefu' what ye say in the toon o' Dumfries. Dinna forget that. A scarlet-coated loon like yon kens nocht aboot Horace, and he, worthy man, as always, has the richt word for the occasion: 'Redeat miseris, abeat fortuna superbis.' Ye can translate that literally for yersel', but I'll drap my renderin' in yer lug." Putting his mouth close to my ear he whispered: "'May God bless the puir hill-men, and damn Lag and a' his stiff-necked tribe.' Noo a guid nicht tae ye; I'll meet ye the morn at six o'clock at the Vennel Port."With some difficulty, for it was dark and the streets were ill paved, I betook me down the Vennel, and crossing the river made my way to my lodgings. My sleep was dreamless, and when I awoke in the morning a sparrow was twittering on the sill. I dressed quickly and went downstairs. In the kitchen, I found the old woman sitting at a well-scrubbed deal table. She had a pair of spectacles on her nose, and on the table beside her lay an open Bible. She did not raise her eyes at my approach, but continued to read in a sibilant whisper, keeping time to the words as she pronounced them by beating the air with her open hand. I waited patiently until her devotions were finished."A good morning to you, sir. Ha'e ye sleepit weel?" she asked."Thank you," I replied, "none better. I am sorry that I interrupted you in your religious duties.""Oh, ye didna interrupt me," she said; "besides, readin' the Book is no' a releegious duty, it's a releegious privilege. Belike ye dinna ken the difference. Nae doot that comes frae bein' a frien' o' Hector's--Hector that is aye haverin' oot o' the auld heathen poets. If he kent as muckle aboot the psalms o' a guid Presbyterian like Dauvit as he lets on he kens aboot Horace, it wad, I'm thinkin', be a lot better for his sowl, the silly auld gommeril. Wantin' tae mairry a lassie a quarter o' a century younger than himsel'! Thank God she's got some o' the sense o' her mither. She winna ha'e him! Noo, lad, yer parritch is ready and I'll juist dish them for ye."When my meal was over I entered into conversation with her again.She had a caustic tongue and a good deal of quiet humour, and she reminded me in some ways of Jean at Daldowie; and with the thought of Daldowie came memories of my lost love. The mellow hand of the years upon them may impart to our sorrows a fragrance that mitigates their pain, but the wound in my heart was still a recent one, ready to bleed at a touch.Almost unable to restrain myself, I picked up my bonnet and going out crossed the bridge and came down upon the Sands. Along their length was stretched a number of booths, and the Sands themselves were thronged with people. Apparently it was a market day. Leisurely, as I had nothing else to do, I joined the crowd--buirdly, well-clad farmers; robust looking farm-servants; sturdy farm wenches with large baskets of butter and eggs upon their arms.On the outskirts of the crowd a sailor, with a bronzed face and great rings depending from his ears, was putting a monkey through a series of antics to the amusement of the young men and women who stood around him in open-mouthed amazement.When I had grown tired of watching him I made my way to the Vennel Port, and then I walked leisurely through the main streets of the old town. When I came to its outskirts, just beside St. Michael's Church, I bought some food and making my way to the river-side I followed its course downwards. By and by I came to some rising ground, and climbing up made my way through a rocky gorge and sat down on the soft turf beneath an overhanging oak tree.After a meal, I stretched myself upon my back, and pulling my bonnet over my eyes composed myself to sleep. When I awoke I remembered that I had promised to meet Hector at six o'clock. By the time I had retraced my steps the appointed hour would be at hand. So I descended to the river bank and made my way towards the Vennel Port.Six o'clock was striking when I reached it, but Hector was not there. Moment succeeded moment and still he did not come. Impatient I began to walk up and down, crossing the Sands to look at the river where fishermen were busy tempting the fish with their flies. I strolled back again to the Vennel and walked up it for a short distance, descending once again to the Port. There was no sign of Hector, and when the clock struck seven and I realised that an hour had elapsed since I had come to the trysting-place, anxiety assailed me. This was not like the packman. Had some mischance befallen him? He had told me that his was dangerous work, and I knew that he spoke the truth. One false step, and he would be undone. At this very moment he might be in grave danger. Ill at ease, I went up to the top of the Vennel, hoping to meet him. My quest was vain! The clock struck eight: he had not yet appeared. As the time dragged on its leaden way I remembered the long pathetic vigil I had shared with Jean at Daldowie, and though the memory stabbed me to the heart, I hugged it to me. The hour of nine struck on the Tolbooth clock; still there was no sign of Hector. Twilight gathered and deepened; the stars stole out, and still he did not come. When another weary hour had passed I decided that it was useless to wait longer, so, at the last stroke of the hour, I crossed the bridge and made for my lodgings in Mitchell's Close. The good woman of the house had not yet retired to rest, and I was fain to partake of the supper which she had prepared for me.During the meal I said nothing to her of my anxiety. Hector had warned me to be careful in my speech, and, fortunately, she showed no curiosity as to my doings. When supper was over I bade her good night and went to my room. Before undressing and lying down, I looked through the window. It was a quiet summer night. All the world seemed at peace; but some dazed dread was knocking at the door of my heart and I was sore troubled. Something must have happened to Hector--of that there could be little doubt. For a time I lay awake in a maze of anxiety: and it was not till after midnight had boomed from the Tolbooth clock, that languor stole over me and I slept.CHAPTER XXXIN THE TIGER'S DENSuddenly I woke, startled. Some noise had disturbed me. I listened intently. Nothing stirred in the house. I sat up in bed, and peered into the darkness, only relieved by the fitful light of the moon stealing through the window. What had wakened me? I waited anxiously; then I heard three little taps, clear and metallic, upon the window. I sprang up and looked out, and saw in the dim-lit courtyard the tall figure of a man, who moved forward when he saw me, and I recognised the wooden leg of Hector. Eagerly I undid the window, swinging it back gently on noiseless hinges, and craned forward into the night. Hector put a hand to his mouth, and whispered, "Wheesht! wheesht!" then walked softly to the door of the house. Hastily throwing on some clothes I crept on tip-toe downstairs, and opening the door admitted him to the kitchen.With uplifted finger he whispered, "Haste ye, and dinna wake the auld woman. We'll talk on the road." As silently as possible I hastened to my room and finished dressing; then, I rejoined the packman. As I entered the kitchen he was lifting the poker from the fireplace. "She'll understand--that's a sign," he said, as he laid it carefully on the top of the table."But what," I whispered, "about paying her?""Dinna worry on that score," he said; "she kens me. That's eneuch. There's danger afoot. Come on."He led the way to the door, which he opened noiselessly and together we passed out into the courtyard.At the mouth of the close he paused and peered carefully in every direction. Then he turned to me and whispered, "There's naebody aboot." We passed quickly into the street, and, walking close to the houses so that we were in their full shadow, we hurried away.From the direction we took I judged that our path lay parallel to the course of the river on the side opposite the town of Dumfries. We had walked perhaps a mile before Hector again broke the silence. Still whispering, he said:"Man, I've had an awfu' day. Horace has the richt word every time: 'Recenti mens trepidat metu'--'My hert's a' o' a dither wi' fricht.' What's yer name? ye've never tellt me."For the first time it dawned on me that he did not know my name. He had called me Joseph at the road-end when Dalzell had taken us unawares, but since then the matter had never been mentioned between us. "My name is Walter de Brydde," I said."Ay," he said, "but what name was ye kent by when ye were a trooper?""I called myself Bryden," I replied."That's it. It was you richt enough. Oh, I've had a terrible day. But I had better begin at the beginning, and tell ye the hale story."This mornin' I left my lodgings wi' full purpose and intention o' gaun to see the widda. Weel, it's a lang road and a drouthy, so before leavin' the toon I drapped into the Hole i' the Wa', to ha'e a pint o' tippenny. It's a hoose I aye frequent when I'm in Dumfries. Weel, as I was tellin' ye, I was sittin' in the corner, and I'd juist passed the time o' day wi' the landlord, when in daundered twa sodgers. As soon as I saw the sicht o' their coats, my ears were cocked to catch their words. They were talkin' as they cam' in. The ane was sayin' to the ither; 'I could stake my life it was him.' They sat doon and ordered their yill, and went on talkin'. I didna catch a' that they said, but they hadna been talkin' long ere I guessed it was aboot you. I juist got a word noo and again, but I've pit them thegither. They went something like this:"'Aye, at Wigtown, the nicht efter the women were drooned.'"'Then what think ye he's daein' here?'"'Oh, I canna tell that.'"'I thocht ye had lang syne made up your mind that he had deid on the moors like a braxy sheep. What's this they ca'd him?---- Oh, ay,--Bryden. What mak's you think it was him?'"'Weel, I saw him yesterday in the High Street. He had a week's growth on his face, and that in itsel' is a disguise, and he walks wi' a limp, which he didna dae when he was wi' us; but what jogged my memory was a wee jerk he gied his shoothers. I couldna mind off-haun' where I had seen it afore. Hooever, an 'oor afterwards when I was thinkin' o' something else, it flashed across me that Bryden used to move his shoother and his left elbow exactly that wey. So says I to masel', that's the man; and I went back to the place where I'd seen him. Of coorse he was there nae langer.'"'What are ye gaun to dae? Ha'e ye tellt yer Captain yet?""'No' me! I'm no' sae saft. I'm keepin' my een open, an' if he's still in Dumfries I'll be comin' across him ere lang and I'll arrest him on suspicion, and tak' him afore Lag himsel'. Man, there's a price on his heid.'"Weel, I had learned a lot, and I knew it was you they were after, for I ha'e noticed the jerk o' your left elbow tae. So I made up my mind that afore I should gang oot to Locharbriggs I wad slip across to Phemie McBride's and gi'e ye warning. So I finished my yill and paid my score an' set oot."Juist as I was aboot to leave the close-mooth, a dragoon clapped me on the shoother and said: "'You're Hector the packman, are ye no?'"'Ay,' says I. 'What of it?'"'Weel,' says he, 'ye maun come wi' me. Ye're wanted.'"'Wanted?' says I. 'Wha wants me?'"'Sir Robert Grier o' Lag. I've nae doot ye've heard tell o' him.'"'Ay,' I answered, 'I ken Sir Robert weel. What does he want wi' me?'"'Come and fin' oot for yoursel',' said he. 'An' ye'd better mak' haste, for if we keep him waitin' there'll be hell to pey. Haste ye!'"As we hurried doon tae Lag's hoose in the Plain Stanes, I began to wonder if his summons could ha'e onything to dae wi' the little affair you mind in the woods near New Abbey. I'm sayin' nae mair; even the darkness may ha'e ears."Weel, by and by we cam' to the hoose at the end o' the Turnpike Wynd, and I went up the stair wi' the trooper. He led me into a room, and we waited there thegither. As we waited I heard Lag's voice comin' frae the next room. He was swearin' in a wey the very deil himsel' couldna' ha'e bettered. He was yellin' like ane possessed for cauld water, and as I stood in the room a wee bit drummer boy cam' rinnin' up the stairs wi' a pail o' water that he had brocht frae the Nith. As he passed through the room where I was standin', it went jaup, jaup, jauppin' on the floor. He knocked at Lag's door and syne went in, and I heard the water being poured into a basin. Then I heard Lag shoutin', 'It's no cauld ava. It's boilin', ye wee deevil! Get awa doon to the water for anither pailfu',' and wi' fear on his face the wee laddie raced through the room as shairp as a hare and clattered doon into the street."Weel, I waited wi' the trooper in the antechamber while the oaths frae the other side o' the door cam' thick and fast. I may say I listened wi' a kind o' admiration. Wi' some folk swearin' is naething mair than a bad habit, but wi' Lag it seems to be a fine art. But that's by the way. By and by the sodger that had brocht me took courage and knocked at the door. It was opened by another trooper. The first trooper gave him a message for Lag, and he shut the door and delivered it, for the next thing I heard was Lag shoutin': 'Well, the packman maun juist bide my time. I'm far ower bad to see him the noo!' so his body-servant cam' oot again and tellt the trooper that had me in haun'. He took me awa' doon the stairs to the kitchen where there was a lot mair sodgers. Weel, ye ken, at this I was gey perplexed. Here was I, haeing promised to ca' on the widda in the mornin', held a prisoner. And I had you on my mind as weel, for frae what I heard in the Inn, you were in danger. So I said to my guard:"'If Sir Robert canna see me the noo, is there ony need for me to bide here? I'll gi'e ye my promise to come back at four o'clock this afternoon, when I hope Sir Robert will be able to see me.'"'No, no,' said the sodger, 'that winna dae ava. I'm takin' nae risks.'"Weel, there was nothing for it but that I should stop where I was, though it was sair against the grain. Hooever, they produced a bottle o' 'Solway waters,'[#] and I'm bound to say they didna lack for hospitality. Nothing loth, I took a drappie, and then I took anither, and we began to talk merrily.
CHAPTER XXVII
ON THE ROAD TO DUMFRIES
We drank our ale, and leaving the Inn turned into the precincts of the Abbey, where for the first time I had an opportunity of gazing upon its ruined splendour. Rarely have I seen such beauty in decay--the mellow light of the evening lending to the red sandstone of the aisles, the choir and the great square tower a rosy hue that made them singularly beautiful. The packman led the way and halted before a richly ornate stone that rested on a pedestal below the great Gothic window. He took his bonnet off reverently and I followed suit, and together we stood in silence. "She lies here," he said, with a break in his voice, and when I looked at him there were tears in his eyes. He sighed as though the stone covered the remains of someone very dear to him. I knew what was in his mind. This brave follower of the open road, this deliverer of maidens in distress, this egotistical packman, and self-styled scholar was an incorrigible sentimentalist. He was thinking, I knew, of Devorgilla's beautiful devotion to her husband, but the widow at Locharbriggs was in his thoughts as well. He turned and laid a hand upon my arm as he donned his bonnet.
"Whaur are ye sleepin' the nicht?" he asked.
The question surprised me, for I had taken it for granted that we should stay at the village inn. "I suppose," I said, "that I can get a bed in the tavern."
"Nae doot, nae doot," he said, "if so you like, but I never sleep in a bed when I'm oot on the road. It's safer to sleep in the open, especially when ye wear a wooden leg that ye dinna exactly need. Folks are inquisitive. Come awa back to the inn wi' me. You can sleep there if ye like, but I'll come back here. It'll no' be the first time I ha'e slept by the graveside o' Devorgilla."
We returned to the inn where I had no difficulty in procuring a bed. Hector shouldered his pack and took his way back to the Abbey, but he was up betimes and was hammering at my door with his heavy-headed stick before I was awake. We breakfasted and set out for Dumfries.
Hector had lit his pipe and trudged along beside me in silence. Left to my own thoughts, I began to study him. Since we had joined company, he had shown several phases of character difficult to reconcile. In the presence of Sir Thomas Dalzell he had seemed to be an avowed enemy of the Covenanters, yet, when Dalzell and his troopers were at a safe distance, he had displayed contempt and bitter hatred for them. Then there was the attack on the soldiers in the little copse by the roadside on our way to New Abbey. What was he? Was the calling of a packman, like his false beard and his unnecessary wooden-leg, merely a mask? I was puzzled, but I determined that ere our journey should come to an end I would do my utmost to unravel his secret.
When the packman's pipe was empty he returned it to his pocket and broke into song. The mood of sentiment was upon him, and he sang a quaint old song of unrequited love. I failed to make out the words; but I heard enough to know that he was thinking, as always, of the widow.
About an hour after leaving the village we came to the end of a long ascent.
"It's been a stiff clim'," said the packman, "we'd better sit doon and rest a wee." He threw off his pack and we sat down upon some rising ground by the roadside. For a time I sat and drank in the beauty which spread itself before me, but my reverie was disturbed by Hector, who laid his hand upon my knee and said, "I want to talk to you." All attention, I turned towards him, but he was slow to begin. Patiently I waited, and then, half turning so that he looked me straight in the face with his piercing right eye wide open, his left half shut, he said:
"Nae doot ye're puzzled aboot me." I wondered whether he had been able to read the thoughts that had flitted through my mind as we climbed the hill from New Abbey. "I think it is only richt," he continued, "that before we gang ony further, I should mak' masel' clear to you. Maybe when I ha'e opened my heart to you, you'll tell me something aboot yersel' for, if I ha'e kept my counsel, so ha'e you. Rale frien'ship maun be built on mutual confidence; withoot that, frien'ship is naething mair than a hoose o' cairds. Ye ken already that I am no' a'thegither what I seem. I'd better begin at the beginnin'. I'm an Ayrshire man, articled in my youth to the Law and at ae time a student o' Glasgow College; an' lang syne, when my blood was hot and I was fu' o' ideals, I threw in my lot wi' the Covenanters. And I've suffered for it." He pushed down the rig-and-fur stocking on his left leg. "Look at that," he said. I looked, and saw, where the skin ran over the bone, a long, ugly brown scar. "Ye'll no' ken what that means?" I shook my head. "Weel," he said, "that's what the persecutors did for me. I've had 'the boot' on that leg, and until my dying day I'll carry the mark. But I'm no' what they ca' a guid Covenanter. I'm a queer mixture, as maybe you yersel' ha'e already noticed. I canna say that I'm a religious man, and though my heart is wi' the lads that are ready to dee for the Covenant, I fear that I masel' lack grace. Hooever, that's by the way. Lang years sin' I cam' to this country-side whaur naebody knew me, as a packman wi' a tree-leg, and as such I am kent to maist o' my acquaintances. Wi' my pack on my shoulder I wander through the country-side back and forrit frae Dumfries to Portpatrick, and frae Portpatrick back again to the Nith, wi' chap-books, and ribbons, and pots o' salve, but a' the while I keep my e'en and my ears open. I get to ken the movements o' the troopers, and I hear tell in the hooses o' the Covenanters o' comin' hill-meetings and sic-like, and mony a time I ha'e been able to drop a hint in the richt place that has brocht to nought some crafty scheme o' the persecutors and saved the life o' mair than ane hill-man. If ye like to put it that way, I rin wi' the hare and hunt wi' the hounds. I'm hand in glove, to a' ootward seeming, wi' the persecutors themselves. I foregather wi' sodgers in roadside inns, and it's marvellous hoo a pint or twa o' 'tippenny' and a truss o' Virginia weed will loosen their tongues and gaur them talk. I've listened quately, and mony a time I've let fa' a remark that mak's them believe that a' my sympathies are wi' them and that I'm no' in wi' the Covenanters ava. As a matter o' solid fact, I am sae weel thocht o' by men sic as Sir Robert Grier, Dalzell himsel' and Claver'se, that mair than aince I ha'e been sent by them on special commissions to find things oot; and I've come back and I've tellt them what they wanted to ken, and riding hell for leather they've gane off wi' their dragoons to some wee thackit cottage on the moors. But they've never caught the bird they were after. Somebody--maybe it was me, I'm no' sayin'--had drapped a timely warnin'; and though I tellt the persecutors nae lee, I ha'e mair than aince gi'en them cause to remember that truth lies at the bottom o' a very deep well. That's my story. I'm a spy, if ye like--an ugly word, but I ha'e na man's blood upon my haun's or on my conscience. And it's dangerous wark, as you may weel ken. Some day ane or other o' my schemes will gang agley, and the heid and haun's, and maybe the tree-leg as weel, o' Hector the packman will decorate a spike on Devorgilla's brig at Dumfries. I wadna muckle mind; for life is sometimes a weary darg, but I'd like, afore that day comes, tae ha'e feenished mymagnum opus. I maun really lay masel' on and get it begun. It would be a monument by which I micht be remembered.
"Sometimes as I walk my lane alang the roads I think o' things. Here and there I come across a wee mound on the moorland, or maybe by the roadside, and I ken it covers the body o' some brave man wha has died for his faith. Desolate, lonely, and scattered cairns they are. And then I think, that though this is the day o' the persecutors, and though they be set in great power, a day is comin' when a' their glory will be brocht to naething. By and by Grier o' Lag, Dalzell and Claver'se, and a' the rest o' them will pay the debt to Nature, and nae doot they will be buried wi' muckle pomp and circumstance, and great monuments o' carved stane will be set abune them. But in time to come, I'm thinkin', it will no' be their tombs that will be held in reverence, but the lonely graves scattered aboot the purple moors and the blue hills. It's them that will be treasured for ever as a precious heritage. We're a religious folk in Scotland, or at least we get that name--but religion or no', we love liberty wi' every fibre o' oor being, and in days to come, generations yet unborn, wha may be unable to understaun the faith for which the hill-men died, will honour them because they were ready to lay doon their lives in defiance o' a tyrant king. Noo," he said, letting his eyes fall, "ye ken a' aboot me that there's ony need to ken, and it's for ye to say whether we pairt company here or whether we gang on thegither." He drew out his pipe and proceeded to fill it.
For a moment I was at a loss. Was he seeking to entrap me into an open declaration of sympathy with the Covenanters; or was he telling the truth? His confession had been an absolutely open one, so open that if my sympathies were with the persecutors he had placed himself completely in my hands. He had looked me straight in the face with one piercing eye as though to read my soul, while the other was half veiled as though to hide his own. But his voice had rung with fervour as he spoke of the lone graves of the hill-men, and I remembered the fight in the wood. He must have spoken the truth; so I took courage and without further delay told him my story. He listened attentively, and when I had finished he said:
"Ay, the auld packman is richt again. I thocht aboot ye last nicht. Man, I can read fowk like a coont on a slate, and I'm richt gled to hear frae your ain lips, what I had already guessed, that you're for the Cause. If I had thocht onything else, I wu'd ha'e held my tongue."
CHAPTER XXVIII
FOR THE SWEET SAKE OF MARY
When with characteristic self-satisfaction the packman had extolled his own intelligence, he lapsed into silence. As for me, the telling of my tale had reawakened so many sad memories that for a time I sat gazing before me, unable through my tears to see the other side of the road. Hector knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and sighed.
"It is," he said, "ane o' the saddest stories I ha'e ever heard. Sic an experience is enough to mak' a man bitter for the rest o' his days. But if Mary was only half o' what you ha'e tellt me she was, that's no' what she wu'd like to see. It's the prood woman she wu'd be if she knew ye were minded to throw in your lot wi' the Cause. What are ye gaun to dae?"
"I am making for England," I answered.
Hector shook his head sadly. "I've noticed the same afore," he said, and paused.
"What have you noticed?" I asked. "I do not understand you."
He looked into the distance, and spoke as though to himself.
"Ay! It's the auld story. Queer but awfu' human. There was Moses and Peter: the ane the meekest o' men, but he lost his temper twice; the ither the bravest and lealest o' the disciples, but he turned coward."
"Explain yourself," I said. "I cannot follow you."
"I mean nae offence, but I thocht ye wad hae been quicker i' the uptak'. D'ye no see that men fail maist often on their strongest point? Man, when a man prides himsel' on his strong points it's time to get down on his knees. Ye tell me ye lo'ed the lass--and nae doot ye did. But ye're turning yer back on love, and rinnin' awa'. I'm surprised at ye. If sic a fate as has befallen Mary were to befa' the widda at Locharbriggs, dae ye think I should rest until I had dune something to avenge her. Mind ye I'm no' counsellin' violence, for I'm a man that loves peace. Bloodshed is the revenge o' the foolish. There are better ways than that, and if ye'll throw your lot in wi' mine, I'll show ye hoo ye can dae something for the sake o' her ye loved and for the cause o' the Covenant." I listened in silence and shame. His words were biting into my heart.
He looked at me with eyes that seemed to peer into the depths of my soul. Then I found speech. "Mary," I said, "was to me the most precious thing in all the world. If you can show me how I can render service to the Cause she loved, I am ready to do your bidding."
He thrust out his right hand: "Put your haun' there," he said; "you've spoken like a man. Dae ye mind what Horace says: 'Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postera.' 'Tak' time by the forelock and never trust to the morn.' A wise word that. Fegs, he was a marvel! In fact he's gey near as fu' o' wisdom as the guid Book itsel'. We'll tak' time by the forelock, and between us, if the Lord wills, we'll dae something for the persecuted hill-folk and strike a blow for Scotland and for liberty. But we'll ha'e to be gettin' on; the day'll no' tarry for us. Let us awa'."
Refreshed by our rest, we rose and took to the road again.
A long descent lay before us and till we had completed it neither of us spoke. But when we reached the foot of the hill Hector suddenly said:
"I've been thinkin' aboot your story. It's wonderfu' what bits o' gossip a packman can pick up on his roonds. Noo, you may be surprised to hear that I kent a' aboot the shootin' o' the minister up on the hills. I heard the story frae a trooper in the inn at Gatehouse. To him it was a great joke, for he saw naething in it but the silly action o' a daft auld man wha's ain stupidity brocht aboot his death. I wonder, if he had kent the hale story as you and me ken it, whether he would ha'e seen the beauty o't. I'm thinkin' maybe no', for to size up a thing like that richtly it maun be in a man's heart to dae the like himsel'. Ay, what a welcome the martyr would get on the ither side!" He paused for a moment, then continued: "And it's queer that I heard aboot you yersel' frae the same trooper. He tellt me that they cam' on the minister quite accidental-like; and that they werena' lookin' for him ava. They were oot on the hills huntin' for a deserter, wha I'm thinkin' was yersel'. They didna find you, he said. As a matter o' fact they believe that ye're deid--he said as muckle. So you may haud yer mind easy, for unless an' ill win' blaws and ye're recognised by ane o' yer fellow-troopers, ye're safe."
We trudged on steadily towards Dumfries. My heart was with Mary, and I did not speak. The packman was silent too--but while I was living in the past he apparently was looking into the future, for he said suddenly:
"It's a dangerous job I'm invitin' ye to tackle--a job that calls for the best wit o' a man, and muckle courage. I'm thinkin' you dinna lack for either, but time will show. Ay: it will that. As for me," he continued, after a pause, "I'm no' a religious man, but hidden in a corner o' my soul I ha'e a wee lamp o' faith. But it doesna aye burn as brichtly as it micht, and mony a time I sit by the roadside and compare the man I wad like to be wi' the man that I ken masel' to be; and it mak's me gey humble. But I aye tak' courage when I think o' Peter. He found the road through life a hard path and he tripped sae often ower the stanes that I sometimes think, like me, he maun ha'e had a tree-leg. But at the end he proved himsel' to be gold richt through, as dootless the Maister kent a' the while." His voice broke, and, looking at him, I saw tears streaming down his cheeks.
"But noo, a word in your ear. We're very near Dumfries noo. We'd better separate there, it will be safer. It behoves ye to ken where ye will fin' a lodgin'.
"In Mitchell's Close at the brig' end there lives a widda woman. She kens me weel. Her door is the second on the left frae the mooth o' the close. Her name is Phemie McBride, and when ye tell her ye're a frien' o' Hector the packman's she'll gie ye a welcome and ask nae questions. We should reach the toon before twa o'clock. You can ha'e bite and sup. I'll leave my pack at my lodgings and syne I'll be awa oot to Locharbriggs to pay my respects to the widda. At six o'clock or thereabouts I'll look for ye at the Toon Heid Port and we'll tak' a walk up the banks o' the Nith thegither. But, a word in yer lug. Dumfries is a stronghold o' the Covenanters; forby it is ane o' the heidquarters o' the persecutors. Lag himsel' has a hoose there--so ye maun be carefu'. Tak' a leaf oot my book, and oot o' the book o' even a wiser man than me--Be all things to all men, and mix neither yer politics nor yer drink. Haud your tongue, and if ye ha'e to speak, keep half yer counsel tae yersel'."
I thanked him and promised to exercise all caution. "And noo," he said, "for appearance' sake, I maun be Hector the packman, again," and going to a cottage by the wayside he knocked loudly at the door. I walked slowly on and in a moment or two he rejoined me.
With a twinkle in his eyes, he said: "Trade's bad the day. The guid-wife wanted neither a dream-book nor a pot o' salve. But that reminds me, it's gey near three months sin' I saw the widda. Noo you yersel' ha'e kent the spell o' love. I dinna want to touch ye on a sair spot, but if ye were in my place, what wad ye tak' tae yer sweetheart?"
I had no suggestion to offer, and said so.
"Weel," he said, "that's nae help. I'll juist ha'e a look at the jeweller's window in the High Street. Maybe I'll see something there: but failin' that there's aye a pot o' my balm."
"She will not need any of that," I answered. "Your coming will bring a colour to her cheeks without the aid of your magical salve."
"Man," said Hector, "I like ye. Ye're a lad o' promise; I'll mak' a man o' ye yet."
We were approaching another cottage on the outskirts of the town, and once again Hector assumed the role of the packman and tapped at the door. When he rejoined me he said: "I ha'e had some luck this time, but no' muckle, because a' I sold was a dream-book. Awfu' trash, as ye weel ken." He groaned as though in anguish of spirit. "And noo," he said, "we'd better pairt company. The brig' end o' Dumfries is on this side o' the water."
So we parted, and I walked on ahead, until as I descended a steep hill I saw the end of the bridge before me. I found Mitchell's Close without difficulty and entered it. The houses within it were flinging back the glare of the sun from their whitewashed walls. I knocked at the second door on the left, and after a little it was opened by an old woman. Holding the latch in her hand, she stood between the half-open door and the wall as though to block the passage.
"Wha may ye be?" she said. "Ye ha'ena' a kent face."
"I am," I said, speaking low, "a friend of Hector the packman."
She threw the door wide open at once, saying, "Come awa ben." I entered, and immediately she shut and barred the door behind us, and led the way into the kitchen, saying: "Ony frien' o' Hector the packman is welcome here. Can I get ye onything to eat?"
As I had not broken my fast since leaving New Abbey, I was ready to do justice to the meal which she made haste to spread before me. Remembering Hector's warning, I held my tongue, and as she waited upon me the old woman kept her counsel to herself. I could see that she was studying me closely; and when the meal was over she said, suddenly:
"So ye're a frien' o' Hector's, are ye? Whaur's the man noo?"
"When I left him," I replied, "he was making his way to his own lodging."
"Nae doot, nae doot; and by this time I jalouse he's on the road to Locharbriggs."
I smiled.
"If ye are a frien' o' Hector's," she continued, "ye've nae doot heard aboot the widow at Locharbriggs."
"Oh yes," I said. "She bulks largely in his affections."
The old woman laughed heartily. "She does that, the silly auld man, but he'd better look somewhere else, for she winna ha'e him. I ken her weel; she's my dochter."
CHAPTER XXIX
BESIDE THE NITH
When the afternoon was mellowing into early evening I stood upon Devorgilla's Bridge watching the river. Much had happened to me since last I was there. I had drunk deep of joy and sorrow; and as I looked down upon the slow-moving water, memory smote me with both hands. I laid my arms upon the parapet of the wall and stood at gaze, but though I looked before me, my mind was wandering backwards across the chequered, love-lit, blood-stained months that lay behind me. The mood passed and my eyes followed the stream as it issued from underneath the dark arches and flowed slowly on until, in the distance, glistening like a silver band, it swept round a bend and was lost to view. To my right, on the brow of a hill, stood a windmill, its great arms aswing with hesitant gait in the wind. Beyond the windmill the hills sloped down to the river, studded here and there by a copse of trees, or the white gable of a cottage flinging back a ray of sunlight. To my left was the town of Dumfries, with the Sands sloping down from the nearer houses to the river, and the stately spire of St. Michael's Church challenging the sky in the near distance. Beyond, rose a pleasant, tree-crowned hill, on whose slopes I could see the figures of sheep and cattle.
There were yet two hours before I had to meet Hector at the Town Head Port, so, crossing the bridge, I made for the Friar's Vennel, which I knew to be the main thoroughfare from the brig-end to the centre of the town. It was a busy artery of traffic, lined upon one side by shops and upon the other by comfortable dwelling-places. Some of the houses had gardens, well-kept and orderly. Here and there, between the houses, was a narrow entry and looking down one of these I discovered that it opened into a little court upon each side of which stood small thatched cottages.
I sauntered up the Vennel, and shortly came to the High Street--a broad and roomy thoroughfare. Each side of it was occupied by shops, well-stocked and prosperous-looking, and in the centre of the street were the booths of market-gardeners and fishermen, who were making a brave display of their wares.
Leaving the booths behind me, I continued my journey up the High Street. By and by I came to a wider portion of the street which the inhabitants know as the Plain Stanes. Here was the house of Lag, and I gazed at it curiously. A couple of soldiers stood at the door, from which I judged that Sir Robert himself was in residence; so, remembering I was a deserter, I did not tarry long, but went on towards St. Michael's Church.
I entered the churchyard and, sitting down under the shadow of one of the gigantic tombstones, I waited until I judged it was time to go and meet Hector.
As I was going out I met a man whom I took to be the grave-digger, and asked him to direct me to the Town Head Port.
"Oh, ye're a stranger in these pairts," he said, as he pointed out the way. I made no answer save to thank him and bid him good evening, and then I hurried in the direction he had indicated.
I found the Port without difficulty and stood just outside it, listening to the cawing of the rooks in the tall trees on the green mound that separated me from the river.
I had not long to wait ere Hector arrived. He slipped his arm through mine, and said:
"Let's awa' doon to the bank o' the water."
He was whistling merrily as we scrambled down the bank, so I judged that the widow had been kind, and ventured to say as much. His only reply was:
"Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo dulce loquentem." I asked after her health.
"Oh, she's fine, fine. She was pleased wi' the bonny kaim I took her. Here's a bit o' wisdom for ye, my lad. If ye want to please a woman that ye like, gi'e her some gaud to adorn hersel' wi'. If she's plain and no' weel-faured she'll tak' it as a compliment that ye should wish to mak' her bonnie. If she's bonnie to begin wi', she'll tak' your bit giftie as a proof that ye ha'e noticed wi' your ain een that she's weel-faured and weel-lookin'."
Alas, for me all such joys were things of the dead past.
When we reached the river's edge we walked upstream.
I have not the pen of a poet, nor has the poet yet been born whose pen could paint with fitting words the glory of the shining Nith. Hector says Virgil could have done it; but I wonder. There are beauties beyond the range of words. The eye can drink them in; the soul can interpret them: and as the soul interprets them, so are they revealed to the eye that sees them.
We walked for more than a mile till we came to a lofty eminence, set tree-crowned above the stream. When we had climbed to its summit Hector paused beneath a giant beech tree which stood perilously near the declivity that fell sheer to the river brink. "Look," he said, and pointed down the river. Lit by the rays of the setting sun, it stretched like a ruddy band of bronze into the distance, leading the eye directly to the ruins of the old College of Lincluden with its Gothic window and shattered tower. Beyond, the blue hills raised their brows to the sky, from which, as from a golden chalice, a stream of glory poured.
For each of Nature's pictures there is one divine moment in the day. It was now.
I stood in rapture till Hector touched my arm. "It's bonnie," he said. "I should say ye've naething to match it in England, but we maun awa' hame. Come on," and he led the way across a field to the road. "This," he said, "is the shortest way back to the toon. I ha'e been alang it aince the day already, for it leads tae Locharbriggs, and mair than likely I'll be alang it the morn, for the widda was wonderfu' kind, and though she wouldna exactly gang the length o' namin' the day, she was mair amenable to reason than I've ever kent her afore. So the morn's mornin' I'm makin' my way oot to her again: and maybe I'll be lucky. Ye never can tell, for didna' Virgil himsel' say 'Varium et mutabile semper femina'--'Woman is a fickle jade onyway ye like to tak' her.' Oh, these auld poets, but they had the wise word every time. Noo that we're comin' near the toon we'd better settle what we are gaun to dae the morn. As for me, I ha'e mony things on haun and my time'll be a' ta'en up. But I'll be free at six o'clock. Ye can spend the day as ye like, and I'll meet ye at that oor at the Vennel Port."
I promised that I should be at the trysting-place at the time appointed.
We were now drawing near the town. By and by we came to the mound known as Christie's Mount, and soon we could see the Plain Stones before us. As we swung round into the lower part of the High Street we heard sounds of revelry coming from Lag's house at the corner of the Turnpike Wynd. We crossed to the other side of the street and looked up. Every window was a blaze of light. From an upper room came the sound of wild voices of men far gone in their cups, and every now and then shouts of laughter. One laugh, a great raucous bellow, dominated all the rest.
"That's Lag himsel'," whispered Hector. "Eh, it's awfu', awfu'. While thae men o' blood are feastin' and drinkin' there, saints o' the Covenant are sleepin' under the cauld sky awa' on the hills."
Suddenly out of the darkness stepped a soldier, who, seeing us gazing up at the house approached, and as he passed scanned us keenly. I nudged the packman with my elbow and at once he led the way up the High Street. He did not speak until we were near the Tolbooth, then he whispered:
"Ay, ye'll min' what I tellt ye; it's true ye've to be carefu' what ye say in the toon o' Dumfries. Dinna forget that. A scarlet-coated loon like yon kens nocht aboot Horace, and he, worthy man, as always, has the richt word for the occasion: 'Redeat miseris, abeat fortuna superbis.' Ye can translate that literally for yersel', but I'll drap my renderin' in yer lug." Putting his mouth close to my ear he whispered: "'May God bless the puir hill-men, and damn Lag and a' his stiff-necked tribe.' Noo a guid nicht tae ye; I'll meet ye the morn at six o'clock at the Vennel Port."
With some difficulty, for it was dark and the streets were ill paved, I betook me down the Vennel, and crossing the river made my way to my lodgings. My sleep was dreamless, and when I awoke in the morning a sparrow was twittering on the sill. I dressed quickly and went downstairs. In the kitchen, I found the old woman sitting at a well-scrubbed deal table. She had a pair of spectacles on her nose, and on the table beside her lay an open Bible. She did not raise her eyes at my approach, but continued to read in a sibilant whisper, keeping time to the words as she pronounced them by beating the air with her open hand. I waited patiently until her devotions were finished.
"A good morning to you, sir. Ha'e ye sleepit weel?" she asked.
"Thank you," I replied, "none better. I am sorry that I interrupted you in your religious duties."
"Oh, ye didna interrupt me," she said; "besides, readin' the Book is no' a releegious duty, it's a releegious privilege. Belike ye dinna ken the difference. Nae doot that comes frae bein' a frien' o' Hector's--Hector that is aye haverin' oot o' the auld heathen poets. If he kent as muckle aboot the psalms o' a guid Presbyterian like Dauvit as he lets on he kens aboot Horace, it wad, I'm thinkin', be a lot better for his sowl, the silly auld gommeril. Wantin' tae mairry a lassie a quarter o' a century younger than himsel'! Thank God she's got some o' the sense o' her mither. She winna ha'e him! Noo, lad, yer parritch is ready and I'll juist dish them for ye."
When my meal was over I entered into conversation with her again.
She had a caustic tongue and a good deal of quiet humour, and she reminded me in some ways of Jean at Daldowie; and with the thought of Daldowie came memories of my lost love. The mellow hand of the years upon them may impart to our sorrows a fragrance that mitigates their pain, but the wound in my heart was still a recent one, ready to bleed at a touch.
Almost unable to restrain myself, I picked up my bonnet and going out crossed the bridge and came down upon the Sands. Along their length was stretched a number of booths, and the Sands themselves were thronged with people. Apparently it was a market day. Leisurely, as I had nothing else to do, I joined the crowd--buirdly, well-clad farmers; robust looking farm-servants; sturdy farm wenches with large baskets of butter and eggs upon their arms.
On the outskirts of the crowd a sailor, with a bronzed face and great rings depending from his ears, was putting a monkey through a series of antics to the amusement of the young men and women who stood around him in open-mouthed amazement.
When I had grown tired of watching him I made my way to the Vennel Port, and then I walked leisurely through the main streets of the old town. When I came to its outskirts, just beside St. Michael's Church, I bought some food and making my way to the river-side I followed its course downwards. By and by I came to some rising ground, and climbing up made my way through a rocky gorge and sat down on the soft turf beneath an overhanging oak tree.
After a meal, I stretched myself upon my back, and pulling my bonnet over my eyes composed myself to sleep. When I awoke I remembered that I had promised to meet Hector at six o'clock. By the time I had retraced my steps the appointed hour would be at hand. So I descended to the river bank and made my way towards the Vennel Port.
Six o'clock was striking when I reached it, but Hector was not there. Moment succeeded moment and still he did not come. Impatient I began to walk up and down, crossing the Sands to look at the river where fishermen were busy tempting the fish with their flies. I strolled back again to the Vennel and walked up it for a short distance, descending once again to the Port. There was no sign of Hector, and when the clock struck seven and I realised that an hour had elapsed since I had come to the trysting-place, anxiety assailed me. This was not like the packman. Had some mischance befallen him? He had told me that his was dangerous work, and I knew that he spoke the truth. One false step, and he would be undone. At this very moment he might be in grave danger. Ill at ease, I went up to the top of the Vennel, hoping to meet him. My quest was vain! The clock struck eight: he had not yet appeared. As the time dragged on its leaden way I remembered the long pathetic vigil I had shared with Jean at Daldowie, and though the memory stabbed me to the heart, I hugged it to me. The hour of nine struck on the Tolbooth clock; still there was no sign of Hector. Twilight gathered and deepened; the stars stole out, and still he did not come. When another weary hour had passed I decided that it was useless to wait longer, so, at the last stroke of the hour, I crossed the bridge and made for my lodgings in Mitchell's Close. The good woman of the house had not yet retired to rest, and I was fain to partake of the supper which she had prepared for me.
During the meal I said nothing to her of my anxiety. Hector had warned me to be careful in my speech, and, fortunately, she showed no curiosity as to my doings. When supper was over I bade her good night and went to my room. Before undressing and lying down, I looked through the window. It was a quiet summer night. All the world seemed at peace; but some dazed dread was knocking at the door of my heart and I was sore troubled. Something must have happened to Hector--of that there could be little doubt. For a time I lay awake in a maze of anxiety: and it was not till after midnight had boomed from the Tolbooth clock, that languor stole over me and I slept.
CHAPTER XXX
IN THE TIGER'S DEN
Suddenly I woke, startled. Some noise had disturbed me. I listened intently. Nothing stirred in the house. I sat up in bed, and peered into the darkness, only relieved by the fitful light of the moon stealing through the window. What had wakened me? I waited anxiously; then I heard three little taps, clear and metallic, upon the window. I sprang up and looked out, and saw in the dim-lit courtyard the tall figure of a man, who moved forward when he saw me, and I recognised the wooden leg of Hector. Eagerly I undid the window, swinging it back gently on noiseless hinges, and craned forward into the night. Hector put a hand to his mouth, and whispered, "Wheesht! wheesht!" then walked softly to the door of the house. Hastily throwing on some clothes I crept on tip-toe downstairs, and opening the door admitted him to the kitchen.
With uplifted finger he whispered, "Haste ye, and dinna wake the auld woman. We'll talk on the road." As silently as possible I hastened to my room and finished dressing; then, I rejoined the packman. As I entered the kitchen he was lifting the poker from the fireplace. "She'll understand--that's a sign," he said, as he laid it carefully on the top of the table.
"But what," I whispered, "about paying her?"
"Dinna worry on that score," he said; "she kens me. That's eneuch. There's danger afoot. Come on."
He led the way to the door, which he opened noiselessly and together we passed out into the courtyard.
At the mouth of the close he paused and peered carefully in every direction. Then he turned to me and whispered, "There's naebody aboot." We passed quickly into the street, and, walking close to the houses so that we were in their full shadow, we hurried away.
From the direction we took I judged that our path lay parallel to the course of the river on the side opposite the town of Dumfries. We had walked perhaps a mile before Hector again broke the silence. Still whispering, he said:
"Man, I've had an awfu' day. Horace has the richt word every time: 'Recenti mens trepidat metu'--'My hert's a' o' a dither wi' fricht.' What's yer name? ye've never tellt me."
For the first time it dawned on me that he did not know my name. He had called me Joseph at the road-end when Dalzell had taken us unawares, but since then the matter had never been mentioned between us. "My name is Walter de Brydde," I said.
"Ay," he said, "but what name was ye kent by when ye were a trooper?"
"I called myself Bryden," I replied.
"That's it. It was you richt enough. Oh, I've had a terrible day. But I had better begin at the beginning, and tell ye the hale story.
"This mornin' I left my lodgings wi' full purpose and intention o' gaun to see the widda. Weel, it's a lang road and a drouthy, so before leavin' the toon I drapped into the Hole i' the Wa', to ha'e a pint o' tippenny. It's a hoose I aye frequent when I'm in Dumfries. Weel, as I was tellin' ye, I was sittin' in the corner, and I'd juist passed the time o' day wi' the landlord, when in daundered twa sodgers. As soon as I saw the sicht o' their coats, my ears were cocked to catch their words. They were talkin' as they cam' in. The ane was sayin' to the ither; 'I could stake my life it was him.' They sat doon and ordered their yill, and went on talkin'. I didna catch a' that they said, but they hadna been talkin' long ere I guessed it was aboot you. I juist got a word noo and again, but I've pit them thegither. They went something like this:
"'Aye, at Wigtown, the nicht efter the women were drooned.'
"'Then what think ye he's daein' here?'
"'Oh, I canna tell that.'
"'I thocht ye had lang syne made up your mind that he had deid on the moors like a braxy sheep. What's this they ca'd him?---- Oh, ay,--Bryden. What mak's you think it was him?'
"'Weel, I saw him yesterday in the High Street. He had a week's growth on his face, and that in itsel' is a disguise, and he walks wi' a limp, which he didna dae when he was wi' us; but what jogged my memory was a wee jerk he gied his shoothers. I couldna mind off-haun' where I had seen it afore. Hooever, an 'oor afterwards when I was thinkin' o' something else, it flashed across me that Bryden used to move his shoother and his left elbow exactly that wey. So says I to masel', that's the man; and I went back to the place where I'd seen him. Of coorse he was there nae langer.'
"'What are ye gaun to dae? Ha'e ye tellt yer Captain yet?"
"'No' me! I'm no' sae saft. I'm keepin' my een open, an' if he's still in Dumfries I'll be comin' across him ere lang and I'll arrest him on suspicion, and tak' him afore Lag himsel'. Man, there's a price on his heid.'
"Weel, I had learned a lot, and I knew it was you they were after, for I ha'e noticed the jerk o' your left elbow tae. So I made up my mind that afore I should gang oot to Locharbriggs I wad slip across to Phemie McBride's and gi'e ye warning. So I finished my yill and paid my score an' set oot.
"Juist as I was aboot to leave the close-mooth, a dragoon clapped me on the shoother and said: "'You're Hector the packman, are ye no?'
"'Ay,' says I. 'What of it?'
"'Weel,' says he, 'ye maun come wi' me. Ye're wanted.'
"'Wanted?' says I. 'Wha wants me?'
"'Sir Robert Grier o' Lag. I've nae doot ye've heard tell o' him.'
"'Ay,' I answered, 'I ken Sir Robert weel. What does he want wi' me?'
"'Come and fin' oot for yoursel',' said he. 'An' ye'd better mak' haste, for if we keep him waitin' there'll be hell to pey. Haste ye!'
"As we hurried doon tae Lag's hoose in the Plain Stanes, I began to wonder if his summons could ha'e onything to dae wi' the little affair you mind in the woods near New Abbey. I'm sayin' nae mair; even the darkness may ha'e ears.
"Weel, by and by we cam' to the hoose at the end o' the Turnpike Wynd, and I went up the stair wi' the trooper. He led me into a room, and we waited there thegither. As we waited I heard Lag's voice comin' frae the next room. He was swearin' in a wey the very deil himsel' couldna' ha'e bettered. He was yellin' like ane possessed for cauld water, and as I stood in the room a wee bit drummer boy cam' rinnin' up the stairs wi' a pail o' water that he had brocht frae the Nith. As he passed through the room where I was standin', it went jaup, jaup, jauppin' on the floor. He knocked at Lag's door and syne went in, and I heard the water being poured into a basin. Then I heard Lag shoutin', 'It's no cauld ava. It's boilin', ye wee deevil! Get awa doon to the water for anither pailfu',' and wi' fear on his face the wee laddie raced through the room as shairp as a hare and clattered doon into the street.
"Weel, I waited wi' the trooper in the antechamber while the oaths frae the other side o' the door cam' thick and fast. I may say I listened wi' a kind o' admiration. Wi' some folk swearin' is naething mair than a bad habit, but wi' Lag it seems to be a fine art. But that's by the way. By and by the sodger that had brocht me took courage and knocked at the door. It was opened by another trooper. The first trooper gave him a message for Lag, and he shut the door and delivered it, for the next thing I heard was Lag shoutin': 'Well, the packman maun juist bide my time. I'm far ower bad to see him the noo!' so his body-servant cam' oot again and tellt the trooper that had me in haun'. He took me awa' doon the stairs to the kitchen where there was a lot mair sodgers. Weel, ye ken, at this I was gey perplexed. Here was I, haeing promised to ca' on the widda in the mornin', held a prisoner. And I had you on my mind as weel, for frae what I heard in the Inn, you were in danger. So I said to my guard:
"'If Sir Robert canna see me the noo, is there ony need for me to bide here? I'll gi'e ye my promise to come back at four o'clock this afternoon, when I hope Sir Robert will be able to see me.'
"'No, no,' said the sodger, 'that winna dae ava. I'm takin' nae risks.'
"Weel, there was nothing for it but that I should stop where I was, though it was sair against the grain. Hooever, they produced a bottle o' 'Solway waters,'[#] and I'm bound to say they didna lack for hospitality. Nothing loth, I took a drappie, and then I took anither, and we began to talk merrily.