"Well, as I told you before, it was the night preceding the day on which I heard tell o' the death of my husband, and I could not well account for it; but the whole o' that day I had been rale douie and dispirited, just as one often feels before hearing bad news o' some sort or other; so much so, that I gaed away early to my bed, in hopes that a good sleep would do me good. For a long time, not one wink o' sleep could I get, do what I could, until at length, in a fit of desperation, I sprang out of bed, and took a turn or two up and down the room, to see if that would cool the fever of my blood. It did so, and shortly after I fell into a deep slumber. Well, Mrs. Johnstone, during that sleep I had the following dream, which even yet impresses me more than I should like to tell. Methought the door of my room suddenly opened, and in stepped a figure all clad in white, and o' a fair and beauteous countenance, which, approaching the side o' my bed, said in a sweet mournful voice, which sounded just like the sighing wind, 'Jeanie Hamilton, you must this instant rise and follow me!' Upon which I replied, 'And wherefore am I to follow you?' 'Ask no questions,' said the beautiful vision, 'but come away.' Well, wi' that I raise out o' my bed, almost as it were in spite o' myself, and away I gaed after the figure, which seemed to me to flee swiftly as a soul, when freed from its mortal coil, would cleave the air in its passage to another world. Onwards we went, until we came to a dark dismal plain; and never did I see anything so dreary as the aspect o' that place! Then my guide stopt, and taking me by the hand, said, 'now I must lead you; our way lies through this moor;' and I thought in my sleep that I trembled all over, as hand in hand with the radiant figure I traversed the desolate-looking plain, which to my horror I perceived to be thickly strewn with dead bodies. Oh, how my heart sickened at that fearful sight! there they lay, the old and the young, all huddled together, sleeping the last long sleep of death. 'Stop, stop,' I said to my guide; 'oh, do let me turn back—I cannot go onwards; what means this? why have you brought me here?' The vision smiled sadly, and without a reply, still motioned me onwards. I could not resist. A mysterious indescribable power, as it were, impelled me to follow, until at length it paused, and pointing to the prostrate form of a man, whom to my horror I discovered to be my husband, lying cold and stiff, with a deep wound on his forehead, said, 'It was to take a last look of him you loved so well that I brought you here,' and with that it disappeared. The cry of anguish which I uttered on hearing this awoke me from my slumber: and oh, Mrs. Johnstone, you cannot think what I suffered from the remembrance of that dream, for, from that moment, I felt convinced that my husband had perished on the battle field. Well, in the course of the following day, when a near neighbour, who had been at the Pentlands, came to apprise me of John Hamilton's death, I told him, so convinced was I of the truth of my dream of the previous night, before ever he had spoken a word, that I knew he had come to tell me o' my husband's death. The man stood staring at me in breathless astonishment, apparently at a loss to comprehend my meaning, until I told him o' the strange dream I had had; and what do you think, Mrs. Johnstone," added Mrs. Hamilton, sinking her voice to a whisper, "my husband had been killed on the previous day, and by a sabre wound on his forehead.""Bless me," exclaimed Mrs. Johnstone, at the close of her friend's narration, "that is the most singular thing I ever heard; undoubtedly it was a warning sent to prepare you for the sad news you were about to hear.""That is just my own opinion on the matter," said Mrs. Hamilton, as she proceeded to put a huge piece o' coal on the top of the smouldering embers; after which signal of preparation for departure, the friends retired to rest.Immediately after partaking of breakfast on the following morning, Jeanie Irving expressed her intention of at once proceeding to the Greyfriars' Church-yard, to see if she could by any means obtain admittance to William Telford. Accordingly, accompanied by her aunt, who would on no account permit her to go forth alone—and carrying in her hand a small basket of provisions, which the kindness of Mrs. Hamilton supplied—she set forth on her mission. The nearer they advanced towards their destination, the more did poor Jeanie Irving's heart sink within her; for the first time since leaving home she dwelt cooly and calmly on the arduous undertaking before her, and realized the real difficulty of the task she had determined to achieve. Mrs. Johnstone perceiving how much her niece was engrossed by her own thoughts, abstained from addressing her until they arrived at the Greyfriars' Church-yard, the gate of which was surrounded by a numerous crowd of men and women clamorous to obtain admission to the prisoners.The sentinels apparently took advantage of their situation to annoy and insult the trembling petitioners, many of whom they bade go about their business, after having deprived them of the provisions they carried; others, again, they permitted to enter, but not until they had taken from them the greater portion of the food and clothing they had brought to comfort and assist their friends. With a trembling heart and faltering steps, Jeanie Irving was advancing towards the sentinels, when a sweet feminine voice whispered in her ear, "For God's sake! leave that worthy woman behind, and take me with you; three going in at once would excite suspicion, and there is one in that church-yard I must see to-day, yet I lack courage to venture in alone." Jeanie Irving turned and looked on the speaker, whom, although clad in the meanest attire, and having her face concealed beneath a coarse woollen shawl, she perceived by her graceful bearing to be some person of consequence, and being of a kind sympathising nature, she at once acceded to the wishes of the stranger, and turning to her aunt, explained the necessity there was of her remaining without until she returned. Mrs. Johnstone, who had also arrived at her own conclusions regarding the individual who was addressing her niece, expressed her willingness to comply with her request; accordingly, Jeanie Irving, whose arm was instantly grasped by the trembling hand of her new acquaintance, continued her way towards the gate. Fortunately, the sentinel who stood nearest the shrinking maidens proved to be less strict than the others, and allowed them to enter the church-yard without interruption. With eager eyes did Jeanie Irving and her companion scan each group of men as they passed, in order to discover the faces of those so fondly loved. Apparently the stranger soon discovered him she sought, for suddenly disengaging her arm from that of Jeanie's, she bade God bless her! for her kindness, and darted towards an elegant young man, evidently of high birth, who stood a little way apart from the others. Jeanie Irving paused for a few seconds to witness the rapturous greeting exchanged between the pair, and again continued her wistful search.In the meantime, William Telford was standing in a remote corner of the church-yard engaged in earnest conversation with three others, when the trembling shrinking form of a young girl advancing towards them caught his eye. One glance was sufficient; and Jeanie Irving was that instant clasped in the arms of her lover."Jeanie," gasped forth William Telford, as again and again he kissed the cold lips of her who lay speechless on his shoulder. He could say no more. Both were overcome with an excess of joy almost painful in its intensity, but hearts and eyes were busy during the time that speech was denied them.Those individuals who were standing near them, respecting the feelings of the lovers, withdrew a little aside, in order that they might enjoy uninterrupted intercourse."Willie!" at length Jeanie Irving found voice to say. "is it only a dream, or am I indeed gazing once more on your dear face, which has never for one moment been absent from me? it has haunted my thoughts by day, and my dreams by night; but oh, Willie," she continued, "I must and will get you from hence; my heart will break in twain should you remain much longer in this damp unwholesome place; but how can it be managed?""Think not of such a thing, my dearest girl," replied William Telford; "any efforts on your part would only entail destruction on your own head, and add fresh misery to that I am called upon to endure."Perceiving an expression of intense anguish pass across the face of the disappointed maiden, as he attempted to dissuade her from her purpose, William Telford forbore saying any more on the subject, but turned the conversation into another channel, by demanding of Jeanie Irving how she had been since last he saw her, and whether his mother and brother were well. To these inquires on the part of her lover, Jeanie replied, by giving him a detailed account of all that had happened since his departure; dwelling on the grief she experienced on beholding the sad procession pass along the streets of Linlithgow, and how she longed to spring from the window to embrace him again, and, if need be, share his imprisonment. To all of which proofs of love on the part of her he idolised, William Telford could only reply, by straining her still closer to his bosom, and imprinting a dozen kisses on her forehead and lips."My poor Willie, how thin and pale you are!" said Jeanie Irving, gazing tenderly in her lover's face, while tears ran down her cheeks as she spoke, "but sit your ways down and partake of what I have brought you, for it is easy to see from your appearance that many suns have risen and set since you have eaten a good meal;" so saying, she uncovered her basket, and making William Telford seat himself on a neighbouring mound, supplied him with eatables from her store. "And now," she said after her lover had finished his repast, "you must in your turn inform me how you and your companions have been treated since you came to this horrid place.""Like brute beasts," was the indignant reply, "and not like men possessing immortal souls. Night after night have we been forced to lie in the open air without a covering of any kind to protect us from the rain or the unwholesome dews of evening. And should any of us chance to raise our heads, in order to change our position, or to look about us, we are fired at immediately. Only last night there was a poor fellow shot beside me for merely raising his head, forgetful for a moment of the savages who were near him watching with lynx eyes his slightest movement.""Oh, Jeanie," continued her lover, "many and many a time have I lain down cold and supperless, with nought in the world to comfort me but thoughts of you; when the calm cold stars shone above my head like so many bright spirits watching over and pitying us in our loneliness and misery. Oft have I for hours gazed and gazed, while my companions around me were locked in slumber, wishing myself an inhabitant of the brighter world beyond. But now, dearest Jeanie, the sight of your sweet face has in a great measure restored me to myself, and I would fain live for your sake.""And you shall live," passionately exclaimed the enthusiastic girl; "I will throw myself at the feet of the Duke of Monmouth, nor rise from that posture until he has granted my request.""You would never be allowed to see him," sadly replied her lover; "there are those around the Duke's person who would jealously exclude any of our party from the presence of his Grace. He is a noble fellow," continued William Telford, "and were every one like him, we should not have been pining here like so many cattle in a pen.""Promise me, Willie," suddenly interrupted Jeanie Irving, "that should I contrive means of escape from this horrid place, you will take advantage of them."William Telford paused one moment ere he replied, but at length he said, placing his hand in hers, "For your sake, clearest, and that of my widowed mother, I will; but oh, take care, Jeanie, both for your own sake and mine, what you do; consider how precious you are to me; plunge not yourself into difficulties on my account; it may be that our captors may relent, and and I may yet be free.""Trust them not," replied Jeanie Irving, "they resemble the tiger, which once having tasted blood, thirsteth for more; no, no, my Willie," she continued, "a woman's wit must save you here; so trust to me for speedy deliverance—but in the meantime I must be going, for I left my kind aunt at the gate, who will necessarily feel anxious should I not return soon.""Why came she not in with you?" inquired her lover.Whereupon, Jeanie Irving recounted to him the singular adventure she had met with at the gate, and asked of him who the handsome young man was the stranger had flown to, on entering the church-yard, but William Telford could afford her no information on the subject.After a warm embrace, and an assurance on the part of Jeanie Irving that she should, without fail, return on the morrow, the lovers parted, and hastening past the sentinels, who did not seek to detain her, Jeanie rejoined her aunt, who was awaiting her return with the utmost impatience. On the following morning. Mrs. Johnstone and her niece again set off for the Greyfriars' Church-yard, the latter with a heart lightened of half its former load of grief, and indulging in sweet anticipations respecting the approaching interview. On nearing the gate, they observed groups of people standing conversing together, evidently discussing some important piece of news, many of them with smiles of satisfaction on their faces, while the sentinels walked their rounds with gloomy dissatisfied countenances, as if something had occurred to make them more than usually sullen. Mrs. Johnstone having inquired of a bystander the reason of the prevailing excitement, was informed that, on the previous evening, young Lord C—— had escaped from the church-yard, disguised as a female, and that the sentinels were dreadfully annoyed at the occurrence, as they had received particular directions regarding his safety. The thoughts of Jeanie Irving instantly reverted to the interesting couple of the preceding day; and she fervently thanked the Almighty that she had in some measure been instrumental in the young man's escape, while the idea, instantly occurred to her, that in a similar manner might William Telford be conveyed from thence. This time, on advancing to the gate to seek admittance, the sentinels gathered round them, uncovered the basket, helped themselves pretty largely to a portion of its contents, and examined both women closely in order to as certain that they carried no disguises about with them after which precautions they permitted them to pass. Jeanie Irving immediately made her lover acquainted with the escape of Lord C——, and informed him as to her intentions, of taking him from thence in a similar disguise. Sick and enfeebled from his close confinement in the damp church-yard, William Telford listened eagerly to Jeanie's proposals, and it was finally agreed upon between them that she should watch well her opportunity when the attention of the sentinels was otherwise occupied, to steal in with a bundle of women's clothes, array her lover in the feminine garb, and embrace a favourable moment to lead him forth. In pursuance of this arrangement, each morning beheld Jeanie Irving stationed near the gate watching with eager eyes the least symptom of abated vigilance on the part of the sentinels to venture in. During the space of five days no suitable opportunity presented itself, but on the morning of the sixth the sentinels being attracted from their posts by a street broil, Jeanie darted past them with the rapidity of lightning, and flew towards her beloved William, bearing the precious burthen. Withdrawing a little apart from his companions, young Telford was speedily arrayed in his disguise, and many of those who witnessed the proceeding bade God bless and prosper him in his attempt. All being now in readiness, Jeanie Irving, whose nerves were strung up to the highest degree of tension, took the arm of her lover and advanced toward the outer gate. Oh, what a moment was this! They had passed two of the sentinels in safety, but just as they arrived within reach of the other, whose back was at that moment turned towards them, he wheeled suddenly round, and staring Jeanie full in the face, advanced towards her, exclaiming, "So, ho, my pretty maiden, you would fain retreat without paying toll; come now, don't be in such haste, but just tarry a moment, and let us become better acquainted." So saying, the soldier put his arm around her waist and attempted to snatch a kiss. At sight of this indignity offered to the woman he loved, the blood rushed to William Telford's brow, and darting on the brutal fellow, he dealt him such a blow on the head as felled him to the ground."What, ho, treachery, treachery!" shouted the other sentinels, suddenly apprized of the real state of affairs, and darting upon William Telford, they tore off his disguise, and dragged him back to the church-yard, kicking and swearing at him the while. Pale and speechless, with horror at the failure of her scheme, Jeanie Irving attempted to rejoin her lover, but was rudely pushed back by the infuriated sentinels, who threatened that, if she ever dared to show her face there again, they should tear her limb from limb. In an agony of feeling impossible to describe, Jeanie Irving dragged her fainting steps to her temporary home, and scarcely had she crossed the threshold ere her trembling limbs gave way, and she fell senseless on the floor. With a cry of grief, Mrs. Johnstone flew to her side, and raising her tenderly in her arms, with the assistance of Mrs. Hamilton, conveyed her to her bed, and strove by every means in her power to soothe and comfort her in her distress. But the fearful excitement the poor girl had undergone during the last few weeks proved to have been too much for her delicate nature to sustain; reason forsook her throne, and for weeks her life trembled in the balance. We must now leave Jeanie Irving stretched on her bed of sickness, and return once more to her unfortunate lover, whose situation was rendered even more wretched than before on account of the brutal treatment of his captors, who incensed beyond measure at his attempted escape, strove by every possible means to embitter his already unbearable lot.About this time a bond, by permission of the king, was presented for the prisoners to sign, certifying that they should under no pretext whatever take up arms in future against His Majesty; and those who appended their names to this document were instantly to be set free. Many of the poor men pining for their homes, and weary of their long confinement, signed it readily, in order to obtain their freedom.Yet a numerous body, amongst whom was William Telford, refused to sign the paper, and, indeed, many of them were denied the opportunity of doing so. Then an order arrived from King Charles, to the effect, that thirteen of the ringleaders of the rebellion, and who approved of the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, were to be placed in prison for a time, and then executed. Twelve had been already selected from amongst the prisoners, and either accidentally or designedly, the fatal paper was placed in the hands of young Telford; he took it with an untrembling hand, and with the fear of death before his eyes, wrote, that he could not on his conscience declare that he esteemed himself wrong in taking up arms in the cause of the Covenant, or, that he considered the killing of the perjured prelate, Archbishop Sharpe, a murder; and this done, he was marched off with his companions. The determination of these devoted men to suffer death in support of their opinions created a great sensation among the more moderate portion of their party; and immediately on their arrival at the prison, they were awaited upon by several of their clergymen, who impressed upon them the folly, not to say criminality, of sacrificing their lives, when, by merely signing the required bond, they might long be spared to comfort their weeping friends. Eleven of them, persuaded by their ministers, appended their names to the document, but the remaining two, one of whom was William Telford—whose pride would not allow him to retract his opinions—remained firm in their determination to suffer death rather than yield the required submission.These two prisoners were supported in their inflexible resolution by their companions, who while visiting them in prison, expressed their sorrow and repentance at having signed the bond, stating that since then, they had neither known peace nor happiness as their inhuman adversaries treated them, in consequence of their having done so, with the utmost cruelty and contempt, styling them turn-coats, and doing all in their power to render them wretched at the thoughts of what they had done.Shortly afterwards, the companion of William Telford was publicly executed, while he himself, from some unknown cause, was led back to his old quarters in the Greyfriars' Church-yard.Months rolled on, and as the winter advanced the prisoners began to experience the bad effects of their long exposure in the open air; indeed, so sick and enfeebled did they become, that the public authorities at once saw the necessity of adopting means for their removal. A memorial to that effect was despatched to the King, who gave orders that a ship should immediately be provided to transport the prisoners to Barbadoes, where they were to be sold as slaves; yet so little were His Majesty's orders obeyed in this respect, that it was the fifteenth of November ere the captain declared the ship in readiness to receive them. In order to get the prisoners removed to the ship without the knowledge of their friends, they were conveyed away at an early hour in the morning, and on their arrival on deck they were instantly stowed away under the hatches, which were carefully chained and locked, in order to prevent their escape. Twelve days was the ship detained in Leith Roads, and during that time the poor men were treated with the greatest inhumanity.The narrow space in which they were enclosed was scarcely of size sufficient to contain a hundred men, and yet nearly thrice that number were thrust in by their unfeeling jailors; men, regardless alike of the safety and misery of those entrusted to their care. Several of the poor fellows were so dreadfully ill, that their more robust companions were obliged to stand upright, in order to afford their sick companions room to stretch their tortured limbs. The prayers and entreaties addressed to the captain by the almost stifled prisoners that some of their party might be allowed to go upon deck, were for a long time unheeded, until at length he was obliged, from the continued indisposition of the men, to accede to their request. Accordingly, about fifty of the strongest were removed to upper deck, where they soon recovered from the sad effects of their late confinement. The weather hitherto had been favourable for their voyage, but soon a succession of fearful storms arose, and the ship seemed entirely at the mercy of the waves. On the tenth of December the crew found themselves lying off Orkney, a coast dreaded by sailors, on account of the stormy sea surrounding it. Perceiving for the first time the full extent of their danger, the captain, as the ship was already within reach of the shore, ordered the sailors to cast anchor, which being done, they awaited with impatience the abating of the storm. But towards evening the hurricane increased in intensity, and about ten o'clock at night the sea, lashed into fury by the terrific violence of the wind, forced the ill-fated ship from its anchor, and dashed it in twain on the rocks. Hearing the dreadful crash, the wretched prisoners, fearing shipwreck, implored to be put on shore, wherever the captain pleased, but their request was denied; and the sailors in terror and dismay tore down the mast, and laying it between the vessel and the rocks, prepared to save themselves from impending shipwreck. "My God," exclaimed William Telford, who was one of those placed upon deck, horrified on seeing that the crew made no attempts to open the hatches, which, chained and locked, confined the suffering inmates in a living tomb, "are you going to leave your prisoners thus?" At this instant a huge wave dashed over the ship, and overwhelming several of the men exposed to its fury in its fearful embrace, consigned them to a watery grave. "Men, fiends!" reiterated young Telford, making frantic efforts to break open the hatches as he spoke, "there will be a fearful reckoning to pay for this night's work." With shouts of derisive laughter, the sailors crossed the prostrate mast, and reached the shore in safety. Some of the poor fellows who imitated their example were thrown back by them into the sea, but about forty, in spite of all efforts made to destroy them, wore successful in their attempt.Perceiving the imminent danger in remaining where he was, William Telford, having abandoned all hopes of freeing the prisoners, prepared to follow his companions along the mast. On his reaching the beach, one of the sailors strove to prevent his landing, but greatly his superior in strength and agility, young Telford seized the ruffian by the throat, and dashed him senseless on the ground. And now was accomplished one of the most fearful tragedies ever recorded in history. The storm at this moment seemed to have reached the climax of its fury; the thunder rolled, and the blue lightning danced around the sinking vessel, while foam crested waves rose mountains high, and then dashed with terrific violence over her yielding spars. But louder than the crash of the pealing thunder—far above the roaring of the mighty billows was heard the death-wail of the wretched prisoners, as they sunk beneath the heaving tallows; there to remain until that dread day when the murdered and their murderers shall stand before the great white throne—when the sea, at the command of its Creator, shall yield up the dead which have slept for ages in its mighty depths.Months have elapsed since the fearful event we have just narrated took place, and Jeanie Irving is once more seated by her father's fireside, still pale and exhausted from the effects of her late severe illness. She has heard of the fatal shipwreck—she knows that her lover is no more, and has learned to say with resignation, "Not my will, but thine be done!" It is Sunday evening, and the grey-haired father is seated at the table with the Bible before him, from which he reads aloud words of joy and consolation. It is the fourteenth chapter of John, and Jeanie, her eyes filled with tears, is listening with breathless attention to the beautiful words of inspiration, when a low tap at the door arrests their attention. No answer is vouchsafed in return to the invitation to enter, but a quick step is heard in the passage, it approaches nearer, the door opens, and Jeanie Irving falls fainting into the arms of William Telford.Now, added Mr. Anderson, at the conclusion of his story, you must not imagine, although I have dwelt at a considerable length on the sufferings causelessly inflicted on the Covenanters, that I altogether take their part, far from it; as I think in some instances they were much to blame. For instance, when they assembled together for the purpose of having divine worship, instead of going quietly and respectably with only their Bibles in their hands as beseemeth Christians, there they were armed with swords and guns, only too ready to use them should occasion require, that was entirely going against the doctrine of St. Paul, who says, "For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh. (For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds.") Why, if we were to assemble in that way now-a-days, singing psalms of defiance in the glens, with fire-arms beside us, wouldn't the present government be down upon us in no time? and quite right too, say I; for I am quite of opinion they were as much to blame as the royalists, and if they could, would have been quite as cruel. Look, for instance, at the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, although there can be no doubt he was a cruel, relentless foe to their cause, yet they should have respected his grey hairs, and spared him at the request of his daughter. And, again, I do not believe all the stories told in the Scotch Worthies, such as that one of Peden and some of his friends being saved while on the moors, just at the moment the dragoons were coming down upon them, by his praying that a mist might surround them to the discomfiture of their enemies, and that instantly, on his ceasing to pray, they were enveloped in a fog. I do not mean to say that a mist did not conceal them from their enemies, but that it was chance, and not a miracle, as they pretended. For many a time, when on the heights myself, have I been overtaken by these fogs, which come down so suddenly that there is no escaping from them, and very disagreeable things they are when one is far removed from a house of any kind, and there is not light sufficient to guide one on one's way."Ay, ay," said Mrs. Anderson, addressing her husband, "but for all that ye say, Mr. Peden was a great prophet;" then turning towards me, she continued. "when I was a little girl I resided for some time wi' a farmer who lived on the celebrated farm of Wellwood, near Airdsmoss, and used to hear a great deal about Mr. Peden. You must know that he is buried at Cumnock. He was first interred in the Laird of Affleck's aisle (Auchenleck), a mile distant, but was lifted, as he predicted, by soldiers, and conveyed to the foot of Cumnock gallows, which stands near the village. That spot soon came to be used as the public burying-grouud, and, in my younger days, was a very pretty rustic graveyard. But it is said that before his death, Peden stated that after his second burial athorn bushshould grow at his head, and anash treeat his feet; and when the branches of each met, there should be a bloody battle in Shankson wood (about a mile distant), where the blood would be up to the horse's bridles. The thorn did grow, and is there yet, I believe, and many slips have been taken from it by strangers, but the ash is said to have been pulled up ere it was large enough to touch the thorn, so the battle never took place. And I mind weel o' a strange epitaph that was on an ancient tomb-stone beside Peden's grave, which, if I remember rightly, was something like this:—'Here lies David Dun and Simon Paterson, whowasshot in this place for their adherence to the word of God and the covenanting work of reformation, 1685,' (the black year.) There was also another stone, just in front of Peden's grave, but I forget the precise words; they ran, however, nearly as follows:—'Halt, passengers, and I will tell to theeFor what and how I here did dee,For always in my station.Adhering to the work of reformation,I was in on time of prayerBy Douglas (Colonel) shot;O, cruelty, ne'er to be forgot.'Now ye see," she continued, "there are no less than three poor men, there may be more for all that I mind o', lying in Cumnock burying-ground who were shot by the royalists, and I think, Willie," she said, again addressing her husband, "seeing that your own forefathers all fought in the good cause, you need'na say just sae much in favour o' their adversaries.""Dear me," said Mr. Anderson, in reply to this rebuke, "I am not denying that there were many cruel actions done in these sad times, but I am just saying that I don't believe all the stories told in the Scots' Worthies: do you imagine for one moment that I can credit that one about open, open to the Duke o' Drumlanrig? No, nor any other sensible person.""What one was that?" I inquired."Oh, just some idle tale not worth repeating——""Here it is; let the lady read it," interrupted Mrs. Anderson, taking as she spoke a book from the shelf, which, after cleansing off a vast accumulation of dust she handed to me, saying as she did so, "maybe it is true, and maybe it is no, but the like o' us canna pretend to ken onything about it."After a little research, in which I was aided by Mrs. Anderson's directions, I at length came to the following:—"Concerning the death of the Duke of DrumlanrigaliasQueensbury, we have this curious relation—that a young man, perfectly well acquainted with the Duke, (probably one of those he had formerly banished,) being now a sailor, and in foreign countries, while the ship was upon the coast of Naples or Sicily, near one of the burning mountains, one day espied a coach and six all in black going towards the mount with great velocity; when it passed them they were so near that they could perceive the dimensions and features of one that sat in it."The young man said to the others, 'If I could believe my own eyes, or if ever I saw one like another, I would say, that is the Duke.' In an instant they heard an audible voice echo from the mount, 'Open to the Duke of Drumlanrig!' upon which the coach, now near the mount, evanished."The young man took pen and paper, and marked down the month, day, and hour of the apparition; and upon his return, found it exactly answer the day and hour the Duke died."THE LAIRD OF CULZEAN."I think," said Mrs. Anderson, as she carefully restored the Scots' Worthies to its late position on the book-shelf, "that whoever got the disposal of the souls and bodies of these persecutors after their death seems to have treated them wi' a' the respect becoming their high station in this world, for it was always coaches and six, and coaches and four that came for them. You see, it was a coach and six that came for the Duke o' Drumlanrig, and there was the Laird of Culzean, a wickeder old fellow never lived, and just the same kind o' thing occurred at the time o' his death.""Tush, nonsense, wife," interrupted Mr. Anderson."But it's no nonsense," rejoined the dame, "for my forefathers lived a long time near Culzean Castle, and many and many a time have they told me when a child of what was seen the night the Laird died; and as the lady seems to wish to hear all she can about these things, I'll just give her the account given me by my grandfather, who was as decent an old man as ever lived, though I say it that shouldna' say it."Having expressed the pleasure I should feel in listening to her story, Mrs. Anderson put away her sewing, and, resting her arms comfortably on her knees, related the following wild tale, which, illustrating as it does the strange superstitions of the times in which these men lived, I here render as nearly as possible in the words of the narrator:—The old Castle of Culzean, standing as it does on a rock rising two or three hundred feet above the level of the sea, is probably one of the finest marine seats in the kingdom. At the foot of the rock on which the castle stands, there are some romantic caves, more familiarly known as the "Fairy coves of Culzean." Many and many a night have I played about there, when the setting sun caused the dancing waves to glitter like gold, as they rippled over the pebbled beach towards the entrance to the caves. It was said that King Robert Bruce and his followers took refuge there, after landing from Arran, until all was in readiness for their enterprise. They are also particularly mentioned by Burns in his well-known "Hallowe'en." But still, for all that they were so beautiful, there were few o' the country people that cared to venture near them after it was dark, on account of the many strange things that were said to have been done there during the time of the wicked Laird of Culzean. Ay, but it was he that was the cruel man! It would make the very hairs on your head stand on end could ye but hear tell of all the cruelties he practised towards the Covenanters, while permitted to remain on earth. Oh, dearie me, how people in these days could dare to ask the Almighty's blessing on their dark deeds beats my comprehension altogether; but now to begin wi' my tale:—In the parish of Kirkmichael there lived an aged widow, called Mrs. M'Adam, who had an only son named Gilbert; and a nice quiet young man he was, and greatly beloved of his mother, for she was a lone woman, and had no one in the world to look to but him; and well did he repay her affection, poor lad, for there was nothing he thought too good for his mother. When these dreadful religious disturbances broke out, like many other young men who were at all given to think seriously about their spiritual welfare, Gilbert M'Adam was a Covenanter; but he did not join the body, as numbers did, merely for diversion, or from a hatred to the higher authorities, but simply from a sincere belief in the soundness of their doctrine and sympathy for their wrongs. His mother was also o' that way o' thinking, and, being a godly living person, she was greatly respected in the neighbourhood where she resided. Well, one wild stormy night, as Mrs. M'Adam and her son were seated by the side of the kitchen fire, the door opened and in entered their minister, a most worthy man, who had been forced, like many others, to leave his church, and wander up and down the country, teaching and ministering to the spiritual wants of his people whenever an opportunity presented itself. Greeting them with the blessing of peace, Mr. Weir—I think that was the minister's name—proceeded to encumber himself of his dripping cloak, while Gilbert flew to place a chair for him near the blazing hearth, and Mrs. M'Adam proceeded to put on the table the best her store afforded, to succour her esteemed guest. After having partaken of the eatables set before him, Mr. Weir informed his kind entertainers that he intended holding a prayer meeting on the following morning, in a retired glen near Kirkmichael, where he expected a numerous attendance, as the inhabitants of the surrounding districts had been apprized of his intention, and expressed great joy at the intelligence, as they had lately been like sheep without a shepherd. In reply to some anxious inquiries on the part of Mrs. M'Adam, regarding the aspect of affairs throughout the country. Mr. Weir informed her that as yet the hand of the smiter was not stayed, but rather on the contrary, as their persecutors seemed more than ever zealous in their bloody work; and that, in the course of his wanderings in Dumfriesshire, many cruel murders had come under his knowledge, two of which, from the melancholy circumstances attending them, had made an indelible impression on his mind. At the request of Mrs. M'Adam, Mr. Weir related the following:—"Late one evening, during the month of last February, while an aged woman of the name of Martin, who resides in the parish of Barr, was sitting by her hearth conversing with her son David, and a young man named Edward Kyan, who had but recently come from Galloway, a party of dragoons, under the command of Lieutenant Douglas, surrounded the house. Kyan, on being made aware of their approach, leaped through a side window, and took refuge behind the wall of the cottage. But his retreat being discovered by the soldiers, they dragged him forth into an adjoining yard. After being asked where he lived, without any further questions, or even being allowed to prepare for eternity, the said lieutenant shot him through the head, and then discharging his other pistol, shot him again as he lay on the ground quivering in the agonies of death. Not contented with this, one of the dragoons, pretending he was still alive, shot him again. After having glutted their vengeance on this unfortunate youth—whose only crime was that of concealing himself—the dragoons rushed into the house, and, bringing forth David Martin, tore off his coat, and placed him beside the mangled body of his friend. One of the soldiers more compassionate than the others, and moved at the sight of the mother's tears, besought his officer to spare him another day, and stepped in between the kneeling man and his executioners, who stood with their pieces levelled, awaiting the signal of destruction. After much entreaty, the lieutenant was prevailed upon to spare his life; but so great was the terror of the poor man, that he lost his reason, and is now a helpless bed-ridden maniac. And now," continued Mr. Weir, "the other sad affair I am about to relate—the particulars of which came under my own observation—will serve, in some measure, to enlighten you as to the manner in which these cruel men perform their bloody work:—"In the course of the same month, I went with a friend, in whose house I was then staying, to attend communion service in a secluded part of the parish of Irongray. The morning was cold and damp, and a dull leaden mist overshadowed the landscape, as if nature had donned her saddest garments on this melancholy occasion—still the meeting was numerously attended. It was indeed an impressive sight to witness these poor people—many of whom seemed overcome with fatigue from the distance they had travelled—assembled on this sequestered heath, to hear the word of God, and partake of his blessed ordinance."The service had just commenced, when the sentinels stationed on the heights gave notice that a party of dragoons were approaching."On receipt of this warning, the meeting instantly dispersed. Some fled towards the banks of the Cairn, and others towards the moor of Lochen-Kit, in the parish of Uir. Here the six poor men who suffered on this occasion were captured by their pursuers. Four of them were shot dead on the spot. The other two, whose names were Alexander M'Cubbin, of the parish of Glencairn, and Edward Gordon, from Galloway, were taken by the captain to the bridge of Orr, where the Laird of Lag was busily employed in carrying on the work of persecution. Immediately on their arrival, Lag wished to pass sentence of death upon them, because they refused to swear; but the captain insisted that, as four of them had been summarily despatched, an assize should be called to judge and condemn them. Lag swore fiercely that he should call no assizes, still the captain got the matter deferred till another day. On the following morning they were conveyed to the parish of Irongray, by Lag and his party, and hanged on an oak tree near the church of Irongray, at the foot of which they lie interred. When about to suffer death, an acquaintance of M'Cubin's inquired of him if he had any message to send to his wife, upon which he answered, that he commended her and his two children to the care of a merciful God; and, having bestowed his forgiveness on the person employed to hang him, he, with his companion, suffered death with much cheerfulness."Immediately on the departure of the soldiers, the bodies of these martyrs received Christian burial, and a simple stone was erected on the solitary heath to mark the spot where they fell."[#][#] Epitaph upon a stone in a moor near Lochon-Kit, on the grave of John Gordon, William Stuart, William Heron, and John Wallace, shot by Captain Bruce:—"Behold here in this Wilderness we lie,Four Witnesses of hellish cruelty.Our eyes and blood could not their ire assuageBut when we're dead they did against us rage,That match the like we think ye scarcely can;Except the Turks, or Duke de Alva's men."Epitaph on the grave-stone lying on Edward Gordon, and Alexander M'Cubin, executed at the Church of Irongray, at the command of the laird of Lag and Captain Bruce:—"As Lag and bloody Bruce command,We were hung up by hellish hand,And thus their furious rage to stay,We died at Kirk of Irongray.Here now in peace sweet rest we take,Once murder'd for religion's sake.""Puir murdered things," sobbed forth Mrs. M'Adam at the close of the minister's narration, raising her handkerchief to her eyes as she spoke. "Oh dear, dear! is'na it sad to think that religion, whilk ought to make men sae peaceful and godly in their lives, should, in many cases, just hae the contrary effect. See now at the present time, a' men are set by the ears, and what is it all about?—a mere trifle—just a difference o' opinion. How true are the words of Him that knew all things, 'I am come not to bring peace on earth, but a sword!'""Yes," was the reply, "but I am afraid religion is often made a cloak to cover bitter feelings engendered by party strife. No one possessing the meek Christian feeling of brotherly love and charity towards all men, could thus wantonly imbrue his hands in the blood of a fellow-creature.""'Deed no, Mr. Weir, you say very true; they are no' the richt sort o' Christians who delight in bloodshed and warfare; a wheen apostates are they; wolves in sheep's clothing, whom we are expressly warned against——"Here Gilbert, who knew from experience that whenever his mother got upon these topics she could continue, without pausing to draw her breath, until pretty near midnight, suggested to her the propriety of Mr. Weir retiring early to rest, as he would need to rise betimes in the following morning. The worthy minister, homeless and ill-provided for as he was, accepted with gratitude the humble accommodation offered to him by the poor but hospitable widow, and shortly afterwards withdrew to his sleeping apartment. By the early hour of six o'clock, Mr. Weir, accompanied by Mrs. M'Adam and her son, was on his way to the place of meeting. The morning was fine, and a numerous concourse of people, many of whom had come from a great distance, were assembled to hear their beloved Clergyman. The incense of praise had been offered up, and Mr. Weir was about to commence his sermon, when a party of soldiers appeared in sight. These proved to be a body of militia, under the command of Sir Archibald Kennedy of Culzean, then scouring the country in search of prey. Mr. Weir on perceiving their approach, closed his Bible, and exhorting his hearers to remain quietly in their seats, went forward to meet the hostile band."Why come ye thus to interrupt us in our devotions?" he inquired, when the rapid advance of the soldiers brought them within hearing."You shall soon see that, you old canting hypocrite," thundered forth Sir Archibald Kennedy in his fiercest tones. "I'll teach you to come here with your psalm-singing, dismal faced companions. Come, be off with you, or I will this instant send a brace of bullets through that thick head-piece of yours!""Not at thy command, thou man of Belial," said Mr. Weir, "shall I abandon my post in the hour of danger! These are the souls the Lord hath committed to my charge, and woe be unto me or any other of my brethren who shall neglect their sacred trust——""Cease your prating, you old dotard: soldiers, do your duty;" so saying, the fiery leader wheeled his horse round, and stood with his back purposely placed towards Mr. Weir, who, seizing him by the arm, exclaimed, "Do unto me even as ye list, but let these go their way. Oh, slay them not!""Men, do your duty!" was the only answer vouchsafed to this request; and Sir Archibald Kennedy, as if to set an example to his followers, drew his sword from its scabbard, and advanced towards the Covenanters, who, in accordance with their minister's wishes, had remained quietly seated, awaiting the issue in breathless suspense."Fly, my children, fly!" cried Mr. Weir, perceiving that offensive measures were about to be taken by the soldiers. "Oh God! it is too late," he exclaimed, as the blood-thirsty men rushed eagerly on the helpless group; and covering his face with his hands, to shut out the bloody scene about to ensue, he remained for a few moments motionless as a statue, while his lips moved, as though he was engaged in prayer.In the meantime, Gilbert M'Adam, armed with a stout walking-stick, prepared to defend his aged mother, who clung to his arm in an agony of terror; but just as he raised it to ward off a blow from the butt-end of a musket, it was stricken from his grasp, and he was left at the mercy of his foe. Fortunately for his safety, a man stationed near him that instant darted on the soldier, and wrenched the gun out of his hand, which went off in the struggle, wounding a woman standing near the combatants. Perceiving the folly of attempting self-defence, Gilbert M'Adam seized his mother in his arms, and, making his way out of the affray, ran hastily towards a hill, situated a little way off. He had gained the foot of the eminence, when the clatter of a horse's feet behind them causing the young man to turn round, a pistol bullet, discharged by the advancing horseman, entered his brain, and Gilbert M'Adam fell dead at his mother's feet. With a loud laugh of insolent triumph, Sir Archibald Kennedy—for it was he who fired the deadly shot—was about to return to the scene of action, when, with a scream that in its agony resembled nothing earthly, the frenzied mother, with a strength almost supernatural, seized the horse's bridle, and compelled him to remain stationary, while she burst forth thus:—"Hence to your stronghold, you cruel bird of prey! Back to your proud towers, ye accursed of the Lord! but think not, in the pride of your heart, that this day's work will pass unavenged, for a day of retribution awaits you. In the silence of the night, when the meanest hind in the land is locked in slumber, shall a mother's curse ring in your ears till ye madden at the thought. From this day henceforward life shall be a burden to you: then—then, when the hour of death approaches, shall your horrors be redoubled ten-fold. No priest will be able to quench the ceaseless flames which burn in your bosom, and no words of affection soothe your dying pillow; for the torments of a lost soul will be yours, and in your last moments let the thoughts of this day's work add another drop to your cup of misery."
"Well, as I told you before, it was the night preceding the day on which I heard tell o' the death of my husband, and I could not well account for it; but the whole o' that day I had been rale douie and dispirited, just as one often feels before hearing bad news o' some sort or other; so much so, that I gaed away early to my bed, in hopes that a good sleep would do me good. For a long time, not one wink o' sleep could I get, do what I could, until at length, in a fit of desperation, I sprang out of bed, and took a turn or two up and down the room, to see if that would cool the fever of my blood. It did so, and shortly after I fell into a deep slumber. Well, Mrs. Johnstone, during that sleep I had the following dream, which even yet impresses me more than I should like to tell. Methought the door of my room suddenly opened, and in stepped a figure all clad in white, and o' a fair and beauteous countenance, which, approaching the side o' my bed, said in a sweet mournful voice, which sounded just like the sighing wind, 'Jeanie Hamilton, you must this instant rise and follow me!' Upon which I replied, 'And wherefore am I to follow you?' 'Ask no questions,' said the beautiful vision, 'but come away.' Well, wi' that I raise out o' my bed, almost as it were in spite o' myself, and away I gaed after the figure, which seemed to me to flee swiftly as a soul, when freed from its mortal coil, would cleave the air in its passage to another world. Onwards we went, until we came to a dark dismal plain; and never did I see anything so dreary as the aspect o' that place! Then my guide stopt, and taking me by the hand, said, 'now I must lead you; our way lies through this moor;' and I thought in my sleep that I trembled all over, as hand in hand with the radiant figure I traversed the desolate-looking plain, which to my horror I perceived to be thickly strewn with dead bodies. Oh, how my heart sickened at that fearful sight! there they lay, the old and the young, all huddled together, sleeping the last long sleep of death. 'Stop, stop,' I said to my guide; 'oh, do let me turn back—I cannot go onwards; what means this? why have you brought me here?' The vision smiled sadly, and without a reply, still motioned me onwards. I could not resist. A mysterious indescribable power, as it were, impelled me to follow, until at length it paused, and pointing to the prostrate form of a man, whom to my horror I discovered to be my husband, lying cold and stiff, with a deep wound on his forehead, said, 'It was to take a last look of him you loved so well that I brought you here,' and with that it disappeared. The cry of anguish which I uttered on hearing this awoke me from my slumber: and oh, Mrs. Johnstone, you cannot think what I suffered from the remembrance of that dream, for, from that moment, I felt convinced that my husband had perished on the battle field. Well, in the course of the following day, when a near neighbour, who had been at the Pentlands, came to apprise me of John Hamilton's death, I told him, so convinced was I of the truth of my dream of the previous night, before ever he had spoken a word, that I knew he had come to tell me o' my husband's death. The man stood staring at me in breathless astonishment, apparently at a loss to comprehend my meaning, until I told him o' the strange dream I had had; and what do you think, Mrs. Johnstone," added Mrs. Hamilton, sinking her voice to a whisper, "my husband had been killed on the previous day, and by a sabre wound on his forehead."
"Bless me," exclaimed Mrs. Johnstone, at the close of her friend's narration, "that is the most singular thing I ever heard; undoubtedly it was a warning sent to prepare you for the sad news you were about to hear."
"That is just my own opinion on the matter," said Mrs. Hamilton, as she proceeded to put a huge piece o' coal on the top of the smouldering embers; after which signal of preparation for departure, the friends retired to rest.
Immediately after partaking of breakfast on the following morning, Jeanie Irving expressed her intention of at once proceeding to the Greyfriars' Church-yard, to see if she could by any means obtain admittance to William Telford. Accordingly, accompanied by her aunt, who would on no account permit her to go forth alone—and carrying in her hand a small basket of provisions, which the kindness of Mrs. Hamilton supplied—she set forth on her mission. The nearer they advanced towards their destination, the more did poor Jeanie Irving's heart sink within her; for the first time since leaving home she dwelt cooly and calmly on the arduous undertaking before her, and realized the real difficulty of the task she had determined to achieve. Mrs. Johnstone perceiving how much her niece was engrossed by her own thoughts, abstained from addressing her until they arrived at the Greyfriars' Church-yard, the gate of which was surrounded by a numerous crowd of men and women clamorous to obtain admission to the prisoners.
The sentinels apparently took advantage of their situation to annoy and insult the trembling petitioners, many of whom they bade go about their business, after having deprived them of the provisions they carried; others, again, they permitted to enter, but not until they had taken from them the greater portion of the food and clothing they had brought to comfort and assist their friends. With a trembling heart and faltering steps, Jeanie Irving was advancing towards the sentinels, when a sweet feminine voice whispered in her ear, "For God's sake! leave that worthy woman behind, and take me with you; three going in at once would excite suspicion, and there is one in that church-yard I must see to-day, yet I lack courage to venture in alone." Jeanie Irving turned and looked on the speaker, whom, although clad in the meanest attire, and having her face concealed beneath a coarse woollen shawl, she perceived by her graceful bearing to be some person of consequence, and being of a kind sympathising nature, she at once acceded to the wishes of the stranger, and turning to her aunt, explained the necessity there was of her remaining without until she returned. Mrs. Johnstone, who had also arrived at her own conclusions regarding the individual who was addressing her niece, expressed her willingness to comply with her request; accordingly, Jeanie Irving, whose arm was instantly grasped by the trembling hand of her new acquaintance, continued her way towards the gate. Fortunately, the sentinel who stood nearest the shrinking maidens proved to be less strict than the others, and allowed them to enter the church-yard without interruption. With eager eyes did Jeanie Irving and her companion scan each group of men as they passed, in order to discover the faces of those so fondly loved. Apparently the stranger soon discovered him she sought, for suddenly disengaging her arm from that of Jeanie's, she bade God bless her! for her kindness, and darted towards an elegant young man, evidently of high birth, who stood a little way apart from the others. Jeanie Irving paused for a few seconds to witness the rapturous greeting exchanged between the pair, and again continued her wistful search.
In the meantime, William Telford was standing in a remote corner of the church-yard engaged in earnest conversation with three others, when the trembling shrinking form of a young girl advancing towards them caught his eye. One glance was sufficient; and Jeanie Irving was that instant clasped in the arms of her lover.
"Jeanie," gasped forth William Telford, as again and again he kissed the cold lips of her who lay speechless on his shoulder. He could say no more. Both were overcome with an excess of joy almost painful in its intensity, but hearts and eyes were busy during the time that speech was denied them.
Those individuals who were standing near them, respecting the feelings of the lovers, withdrew a little aside, in order that they might enjoy uninterrupted intercourse.
"Willie!" at length Jeanie Irving found voice to say. "is it only a dream, or am I indeed gazing once more on your dear face, which has never for one moment been absent from me? it has haunted my thoughts by day, and my dreams by night; but oh, Willie," she continued, "I must and will get you from hence; my heart will break in twain should you remain much longer in this damp unwholesome place; but how can it be managed?"
"Think not of such a thing, my dearest girl," replied William Telford; "any efforts on your part would only entail destruction on your own head, and add fresh misery to that I am called upon to endure."
Perceiving an expression of intense anguish pass across the face of the disappointed maiden, as he attempted to dissuade her from her purpose, William Telford forbore saying any more on the subject, but turned the conversation into another channel, by demanding of Jeanie Irving how she had been since last he saw her, and whether his mother and brother were well. To these inquires on the part of her lover, Jeanie replied, by giving him a detailed account of all that had happened since his departure; dwelling on the grief she experienced on beholding the sad procession pass along the streets of Linlithgow, and how she longed to spring from the window to embrace him again, and, if need be, share his imprisonment. To all of which proofs of love on the part of her he idolised, William Telford could only reply, by straining her still closer to his bosom, and imprinting a dozen kisses on her forehead and lips.
"My poor Willie, how thin and pale you are!" said Jeanie Irving, gazing tenderly in her lover's face, while tears ran down her cheeks as she spoke, "but sit your ways down and partake of what I have brought you, for it is easy to see from your appearance that many suns have risen and set since you have eaten a good meal;" so saying, she uncovered her basket, and making William Telford seat himself on a neighbouring mound, supplied him with eatables from her store. "And now," she said after her lover had finished his repast, "you must in your turn inform me how you and your companions have been treated since you came to this horrid place."
"Like brute beasts," was the indignant reply, "and not like men possessing immortal souls. Night after night have we been forced to lie in the open air without a covering of any kind to protect us from the rain or the unwholesome dews of evening. And should any of us chance to raise our heads, in order to change our position, or to look about us, we are fired at immediately. Only last night there was a poor fellow shot beside me for merely raising his head, forgetful for a moment of the savages who were near him watching with lynx eyes his slightest movement."
"Oh, Jeanie," continued her lover, "many and many a time have I lain down cold and supperless, with nought in the world to comfort me but thoughts of you; when the calm cold stars shone above my head like so many bright spirits watching over and pitying us in our loneliness and misery. Oft have I for hours gazed and gazed, while my companions around me were locked in slumber, wishing myself an inhabitant of the brighter world beyond. But now, dearest Jeanie, the sight of your sweet face has in a great measure restored me to myself, and I would fain live for your sake."
"And you shall live," passionately exclaimed the enthusiastic girl; "I will throw myself at the feet of the Duke of Monmouth, nor rise from that posture until he has granted my request."
"You would never be allowed to see him," sadly replied her lover; "there are those around the Duke's person who would jealously exclude any of our party from the presence of his Grace. He is a noble fellow," continued William Telford, "and were every one like him, we should not have been pining here like so many cattle in a pen."
"Promise me, Willie," suddenly interrupted Jeanie Irving, "that should I contrive means of escape from this horrid place, you will take advantage of them."
William Telford paused one moment ere he replied, but at length he said, placing his hand in hers, "For your sake, clearest, and that of my widowed mother, I will; but oh, take care, Jeanie, both for your own sake and mine, what you do; consider how precious you are to me; plunge not yourself into difficulties on my account; it may be that our captors may relent, and and I may yet be free."
"Trust them not," replied Jeanie Irving, "they resemble the tiger, which once having tasted blood, thirsteth for more; no, no, my Willie," she continued, "a woman's wit must save you here; so trust to me for speedy deliverance—but in the meantime I must be going, for I left my kind aunt at the gate, who will necessarily feel anxious should I not return soon."
"Why came she not in with you?" inquired her lover.
Whereupon, Jeanie Irving recounted to him the singular adventure she had met with at the gate, and asked of him who the handsome young man was the stranger had flown to, on entering the church-yard, but William Telford could afford her no information on the subject.
After a warm embrace, and an assurance on the part of Jeanie Irving that she should, without fail, return on the morrow, the lovers parted, and hastening past the sentinels, who did not seek to detain her, Jeanie rejoined her aunt, who was awaiting her return with the utmost impatience. On the following morning. Mrs. Johnstone and her niece again set off for the Greyfriars' Church-yard, the latter with a heart lightened of half its former load of grief, and indulging in sweet anticipations respecting the approaching interview. On nearing the gate, they observed groups of people standing conversing together, evidently discussing some important piece of news, many of them with smiles of satisfaction on their faces, while the sentinels walked their rounds with gloomy dissatisfied countenances, as if something had occurred to make them more than usually sullen. Mrs. Johnstone having inquired of a bystander the reason of the prevailing excitement, was informed that, on the previous evening, young Lord C—— had escaped from the church-yard, disguised as a female, and that the sentinels were dreadfully annoyed at the occurrence, as they had received particular directions regarding his safety. The thoughts of Jeanie Irving instantly reverted to the interesting couple of the preceding day; and she fervently thanked the Almighty that she had in some measure been instrumental in the young man's escape, while the idea, instantly occurred to her, that in a similar manner might William Telford be conveyed from thence. This time, on advancing to the gate to seek admittance, the sentinels gathered round them, uncovered the basket, helped themselves pretty largely to a portion of its contents, and examined both women closely in order to as certain that they carried no disguises about with them after which precautions they permitted them to pass. Jeanie Irving immediately made her lover acquainted with the escape of Lord C——, and informed him as to her intentions, of taking him from thence in a similar disguise. Sick and enfeebled from his close confinement in the damp church-yard, William Telford listened eagerly to Jeanie's proposals, and it was finally agreed upon between them that she should watch well her opportunity when the attention of the sentinels was otherwise occupied, to steal in with a bundle of women's clothes, array her lover in the feminine garb, and embrace a favourable moment to lead him forth. In pursuance of this arrangement, each morning beheld Jeanie Irving stationed near the gate watching with eager eyes the least symptom of abated vigilance on the part of the sentinels to venture in. During the space of five days no suitable opportunity presented itself, but on the morning of the sixth the sentinels being attracted from their posts by a street broil, Jeanie darted past them with the rapidity of lightning, and flew towards her beloved William, bearing the precious burthen. Withdrawing a little apart from his companions, young Telford was speedily arrayed in his disguise, and many of those who witnessed the proceeding bade God bless and prosper him in his attempt. All being now in readiness, Jeanie Irving, whose nerves were strung up to the highest degree of tension, took the arm of her lover and advanced toward the outer gate. Oh, what a moment was this! They had passed two of the sentinels in safety, but just as they arrived within reach of the other, whose back was at that moment turned towards them, he wheeled suddenly round, and staring Jeanie full in the face, advanced towards her, exclaiming, "So, ho, my pretty maiden, you would fain retreat without paying toll; come now, don't be in such haste, but just tarry a moment, and let us become better acquainted." So saying, the soldier put his arm around her waist and attempted to snatch a kiss. At sight of this indignity offered to the woman he loved, the blood rushed to William Telford's brow, and darting on the brutal fellow, he dealt him such a blow on the head as felled him to the ground.
"What, ho, treachery, treachery!" shouted the other sentinels, suddenly apprized of the real state of affairs, and darting upon William Telford, they tore off his disguise, and dragged him back to the church-yard, kicking and swearing at him the while. Pale and speechless, with horror at the failure of her scheme, Jeanie Irving attempted to rejoin her lover, but was rudely pushed back by the infuriated sentinels, who threatened that, if she ever dared to show her face there again, they should tear her limb from limb. In an agony of feeling impossible to describe, Jeanie Irving dragged her fainting steps to her temporary home, and scarcely had she crossed the threshold ere her trembling limbs gave way, and she fell senseless on the floor. With a cry of grief, Mrs. Johnstone flew to her side, and raising her tenderly in her arms, with the assistance of Mrs. Hamilton, conveyed her to her bed, and strove by every means in her power to soothe and comfort her in her distress. But the fearful excitement the poor girl had undergone during the last few weeks proved to have been too much for her delicate nature to sustain; reason forsook her throne, and for weeks her life trembled in the balance. We must now leave Jeanie Irving stretched on her bed of sickness, and return once more to her unfortunate lover, whose situation was rendered even more wretched than before on account of the brutal treatment of his captors, who incensed beyond measure at his attempted escape, strove by every possible means to embitter his already unbearable lot.
About this time a bond, by permission of the king, was presented for the prisoners to sign, certifying that they should under no pretext whatever take up arms in future against His Majesty; and those who appended their names to this document were instantly to be set free. Many of the poor men pining for their homes, and weary of their long confinement, signed it readily, in order to obtain their freedom.
Yet a numerous body, amongst whom was William Telford, refused to sign the paper, and, indeed, many of them were denied the opportunity of doing so. Then an order arrived from King Charles, to the effect, that thirteen of the ringleaders of the rebellion, and who approved of the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, were to be placed in prison for a time, and then executed. Twelve had been already selected from amongst the prisoners, and either accidentally or designedly, the fatal paper was placed in the hands of young Telford; he took it with an untrembling hand, and with the fear of death before his eyes, wrote, that he could not on his conscience declare that he esteemed himself wrong in taking up arms in the cause of the Covenant, or, that he considered the killing of the perjured prelate, Archbishop Sharpe, a murder; and this done, he was marched off with his companions. The determination of these devoted men to suffer death in support of their opinions created a great sensation among the more moderate portion of their party; and immediately on their arrival at the prison, they were awaited upon by several of their clergymen, who impressed upon them the folly, not to say criminality, of sacrificing their lives, when, by merely signing the required bond, they might long be spared to comfort their weeping friends. Eleven of them, persuaded by their ministers, appended their names to the document, but the remaining two, one of whom was William Telford—whose pride would not allow him to retract his opinions—remained firm in their determination to suffer death rather than yield the required submission.
These two prisoners were supported in their inflexible resolution by their companions, who while visiting them in prison, expressed their sorrow and repentance at having signed the bond, stating that since then, they had neither known peace nor happiness as their inhuman adversaries treated them, in consequence of their having done so, with the utmost cruelty and contempt, styling them turn-coats, and doing all in their power to render them wretched at the thoughts of what they had done.
Shortly afterwards, the companion of William Telford was publicly executed, while he himself, from some unknown cause, was led back to his old quarters in the Greyfriars' Church-yard.
Months rolled on, and as the winter advanced the prisoners began to experience the bad effects of their long exposure in the open air; indeed, so sick and enfeebled did they become, that the public authorities at once saw the necessity of adopting means for their removal. A memorial to that effect was despatched to the King, who gave orders that a ship should immediately be provided to transport the prisoners to Barbadoes, where they were to be sold as slaves; yet so little were His Majesty's orders obeyed in this respect, that it was the fifteenth of November ere the captain declared the ship in readiness to receive them. In order to get the prisoners removed to the ship without the knowledge of their friends, they were conveyed away at an early hour in the morning, and on their arrival on deck they were instantly stowed away under the hatches, which were carefully chained and locked, in order to prevent their escape. Twelve days was the ship detained in Leith Roads, and during that time the poor men were treated with the greatest inhumanity.
The narrow space in which they were enclosed was scarcely of size sufficient to contain a hundred men, and yet nearly thrice that number were thrust in by their unfeeling jailors; men, regardless alike of the safety and misery of those entrusted to their care. Several of the poor fellows were so dreadfully ill, that their more robust companions were obliged to stand upright, in order to afford their sick companions room to stretch their tortured limbs. The prayers and entreaties addressed to the captain by the almost stifled prisoners that some of their party might be allowed to go upon deck, were for a long time unheeded, until at length he was obliged, from the continued indisposition of the men, to accede to their request. Accordingly, about fifty of the strongest were removed to upper deck, where they soon recovered from the sad effects of their late confinement. The weather hitherto had been favourable for their voyage, but soon a succession of fearful storms arose, and the ship seemed entirely at the mercy of the waves. On the tenth of December the crew found themselves lying off Orkney, a coast dreaded by sailors, on account of the stormy sea surrounding it. Perceiving for the first time the full extent of their danger, the captain, as the ship was already within reach of the shore, ordered the sailors to cast anchor, which being done, they awaited with impatience the abating of the storm. But towards evening the hurricane increased in intensity, and about ten o'clock at night the sea, lashed into fury by the terrific violence of the wind, forced the ill-fated ship from its anchor, and dashed it in twain on the rocks. Hearing the dreadful crash, the wretched prisoners, fearing shipwreck, implored to be put on shore, wherever the captain pleased, but their request was denied; and the sailors in terror and dismay tore down the mast, and laying it between the vessel and the rocks, prepared to save themselves from impending shipwreck. "My God," exclaimed William Telford, who was one of those placed upon deck, horrified on seeing that the crew made no attempts to open the hatches, which, chained and locked, confined the suffering inmates in a living tomb, "are you going to leave your prisoners thus?" At this instant a huge wave dashed over the ship, and overwhelming several of the men exposed to its fury in its fearful embrace, consigned them to a watery grave. "Men, fiends!" reiterated young Telford, making frantic efforts to break open the hatches as he spoke, "there will be a fearful reckoning to pay for this night's work." With shouts of derisive laughter, the sailors crossed the prostrate mast, and reached the shore in safety. Some of the poor fellows who imitated their example were thrown back by them into the sea, but about forty, in spite of all efforts made to destroy them, wore successful in their attempt.
Perceiving the imminent danger in remaining where he was, William Telford, having abandoned all hopes of freeing the prisoners, prepared to follow his companions along the mast. On his reaching the beach, one of the sailors strove to prevent his landing, but greatly his superior in strength and agility, young Telford seized the ruffian by the throat, and dashed him senseless on the ground. And now was accomplished one of the most fearful tragedies ever recorded in history. The storm at this moment seemed to have reached the climax of its fury; the thunder rolled, and the blue lightning danced around the sinking vessel, while foam crested waves rose mountains high, and then dashed with terrific violence over her yielding spars. But louder than the crash of the pealing thunder—far above the roaring of the mighty billows was heard the death-wail of the wretched prisoners, as they sunk beneath the heaving tallows; there to remain until that dread day when the murdered and their murderers shall stand before the great white throne—when the sea, at the command of its Creator, shall yield up the dead which have slept for ages in its mighty depths.
Months have elapsed since the fearful event we have just narrated took place, and Jeanie Irving is once more seated by her father's fireside, still pale and exhausted from the effects of her late severe illness. She has heard of the fatal shipwreck—she knows that her lover is no more, and has learned to say with resignation, "Not my will, but thine be done!" It is Sunday evening, and the grey-haired father is seated at the table with the Bible before him, from which he reads aloud words of joy and consolation. It is the fourteenth chapter of John, and Jeanie, her eyes filled with tears, is listening with breathless attention to the beautiful words of inspiration, when a low tap at the door arrests their attention. No answer is vouchsafed in return to the invitation to enter, but a quick step is heard in the passage, it approaches nearer, the door opens, and Jeanie Irving falls fainting into the arms of William Telford.
Now, added Mr. Anderson, at the conclusion of his story, you must not imagine, although I have dwelt at a considerable length on the sufferings causelessly inflicted on the Covenanters, that I altogether take their part, far from it; as I think in some instances they were much to blame. For instance, when they assembled together for the purpose of having divine worship, instead of going quietly and respectably with only their Bibles in their hands as beseemeth Christians, there they were armed with swords and guns, only too ready to use them should occasion require, that was entirely going against the doctrine of St. Paul, who says, "For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh. (For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds.") Why, if we were to assemble in that way now-a-days, singing psalms of defiance in the glens, with fire-arms beside us, wouldn't the present government be down upon us in no time? and quite right too, say I; for I am quite of opinion they were as much to blame as the royalists, and if they could, would have been quite as cruel. Look, for instance, at the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, although there can be no doubt he was a cruel, relentless foe to their cause, yet they should have respected his grey hairs, and spared him at the request of his daughter. And, again, I do not believe all the stories told in the Scotch Worthies, such as that one of Peden and some of his friends being saved while on the moors, just at the moment the dragoons were coming down upon them, by his praying that a mist might surround them to the discomfiture of their enemies, and that instantly, on his ceasing to pray, they were enveloped in a fog. I do not mean to say that a mist did not conceal them from their enemies, but that it was chance, and not a miracle, as they pretended. For many a time, when on the heights myself, have I been overtaken by these fogs, which come down so suddenly that there is no escaping from them, and very disagreeable things they are when one is far removed from a house of any kind, and there is not light sufficient to guide one on one's way.
"Ay, ay," said Mrs. Anderson, addressing her husband, "but for all that ye say, Mr. Peden was a great prophet;" then turning towards me, she continued. "when I was a little girl I resided for some time wi' a farmer who lived on the celebrated farm of Wellwood, near Airdsmoss, and used to hear a great deal about Mr. Peden. You must know that he is buried at Cumnock. He was first interred in the Laird of Affleck's aisle (Auchenleck), a mile distant, but was lifted, as he predicted, by soldiers, and conveyed to the foot of Cumnock gallows, which stands near the village. That spot soon came to be used as the public burying-grouud, and, in my younger days, was a very pretty rustic graveyard. But it is said that before his death, Peden stated that after his second burial athorn bushshould grow at his head, and anash treeat his feet; and when the branches of each met, there should be a bloody battle in Shankson wood (about a mile distant), where the blood would be up to the horse's bridles. The thorn did grow, and is there yet, I believe, and many slips have been taken from it by strangers, but the ash is said to have been pulled up ere it was large enough to touch the thorn, so the battle never took place. And I mind weel o' a strange epitaph that was on an ancient tomb-stone beside Peden's grave, which, if I remember rightly, was something like this:—'Here lies David Dun and Simon Paterson, whowasshot in this place for their adherence to the word of God and the covenanting work of reformation, 1685,' (the black year.) There was also another stone, just in front of Peden's grave, but I forget the precise words; they ran, however, nearly as follows:—
'Halt, passengers, and I will tell to theeFor what and how I here did dee,For always in my station.Adhering to the work of reformation,I was in on time of prayerBy Douglas (Colonel) shot;O, cruelty, ne'er to be forgot.'
'Halt, passengers, and I will tell to theeFor what and how I here did dee,For always in my station.Adhering to the work of reformation,I was in on time of prayerBy Douglas (Colonel) shot;O, cruelty, ne'er to be forgot.'
'Halt, passengers, and I will tell to thee
For what and how I here did dee,For always in my station.Adhering to the work of reformation,I was in on time of prayerBy Douglas (Colonel) shot;O, cruelty, ne'er to be forgot.'
For what and how I here did dee,
For always in my station.Adhering to the work of reformation,
For always in my station.
Adhering to the work of reformation,
I was in on time of prayer
By Douglas (Colonel) shot;O, cruelty, ne'er to be forgot.'
By Douglas (Colonel) shot;
O, cruelty, ne'er to be forgot.'
Now ye see," she continued, "there are no less than three poor men, there may be more for all that I mind o', lying in Cumnock burying-ground who were shot by the royalists, and I think, Willie," she said, again addressing her husband, "seeing that your own forefathers all fought in the good cause, you need'na say just sae much in favour o' their adversaries."
"Dear me," said Mr. Anderson, in reply to this rebuke, "I am not denying that there were many cruel actions done in these sad times, but I am just saying that I don't believe all the stories told in the Scots' Worthies: do you imagine for one moment that I can credit that one about open, open to the Duke o' Drumlanrig? No, nor any other sensible person."
"What one was that?" I inquired.
"Oh, just some idle tale not worth repeating——"
"Here it is; let the lady read it," interrupted Mrs. Anderson, taking as she spoke a book from the shelf, which, after cleansing off a vast accumulation of dust she handed to me, saying as she did so, "maybe it is true, and maybe it is no, but the like o' us canna pretend to ken onything about it."
After a little research, in which I was aided by Mrs. Anderson's directions, I at length came to the following:—"Concerning the death of the Duke of DrumlanrigaliasQueensbury, we have this curious relation—that a young man, perfectly well acquainted with the Duke, (probably one of those he had formerly banished,) being now a sailor, and in foreign countries, while the ship was upon the coast of Naples or Sicily, near one of the burning mountains, one day espied a coach and six all in black going towards the mount with great velocity; when it passed them they were so near that they could perceive the dimensions and features of one that sat in it.
"The young man said to the others, 'If I could believe my own eyes, or if ever I saw one like another, I would say, that is the Duke.' In an instant they heard an audible voice echo from the mount, 'Open to the Duke of Drumlanrig!' upon which the coach, now near the mount, evanished.
"The young man took pen and paper, and marked down the month, day, and hour of the apparition; and upon his return, found it exactly answer the day and hour the Duke died."
THE LAIRD OF CULZEAN.
"I think," said Mrs. Anderson, as she carefully restored the Scots' Worthies to its late position on the book-shelf, "that whoever got the disposal of the souls and bodies of these persecutors after their death seems to have treated them wi' a' the respect becoming their high station in this world, for it was always coaches and six, and coaches and four that came for them. You see, it was a coach and six that came for the Duke o' Drumlanrig, and there was the Laird of Culzean, a wickeder old fellow never lived, and just the same kind o' thing occurred at the time o' his death."
"Tush, nonsense, wife," interrupted Mr. Anderson.
"But it's no nonsense," rejoined the dame, "for my forefathers lived a long time near Culzean Castle, and many and many a time have they told me when a child of what was seen the night the Laird died; and as the lady seems to wish to hear all she can about these things, I'll just give her the account given me by my grandfather, who was as decent an old man as ever lived, though I say it that shouldna' say it."
Having expressed the pleasure I should feel in listening to her story, Mrs. Anderson put away her sewing, and, resting her arms comfortably on her knees, related the following wild tale, which, illustrating as it does the strange superstitions of the times in which these men lived, I here render as nearly as possible in the words of the narrator:—
The old Castle of Culzean, standing as it does on a rock rising two or three hundred feet above the level of the sea, is probably one of the finest marine seats in the kingdom. At the foot of the rock on which the castle stands, there are some romantic caves, more familiarly known as the "Fairy coves of Culzean." Many and many a night have I played about there, when the setting sun caused the dancing waves to glitter like gold, as they rippled over the pebbled beach towards the entrance to the caves. It was said that King Robert Bruce and his followers took refuge there, after landing from Arran, until all was in readiness for their enterprise. They are also particularly mentioned by Burns in his well-known "Hallowe'en." But still, for all that they were so beautiful, there were few o' the country people that cared to venture near them after it was dark, on account of the many strange things that were said to have been done there during the time of the wicked Laird of Culzean. Ay, but it was he that was the cruel man! It would make the very hairs on your head stand on end could ye but hear tell of all the cruelties he practised towards the Covenanters, while permitted to remain on earth. Oh, dearie me, how people in these days could dare to ask the Almighty's blessing on their dark deeds beats my comprehension altogether; but now to begin wi' my tale:—In the parish of Kirkmichael there lived an aged widow, called Mrs. M'Adam, who had an only son named Gilbert; and a nice quiet young man he was, and greatly beloved of his mother, for she was a lone woman, and had no one in the world to look to but him; and well did he repay her affection, poor lad, for there was nothing he thought too good for his mother. When these dreadful religious disturbances broke out, like many other young men who were at all given to think seriously about their spiritual welfare, Gilbert M'Adam was a Covenanter; but he did not join the body, as numbers did, merely for diversion, or from a hatred to the higher authorities, but simply from a sincere belief in the soundness of their doctrine and sympathy for their wrongs. His mother was also o' that way o' thinking, and, being a godly living person, she was greatly respected in the neighbourhood where she resided. Well, one wild stormy night, as Mrs. M'Adam and her son were seated by the side of the kitchen fire, the door opened and in entered their minister, a most worthy man, who had been forced, like many others, to leave his church, and wander up and down the country, teaching and ministering to the spiritual wants of his people whenever an opportunity presented itself. Greeting them with the blessing of peace, Mr. Weir—I think that was the minister's name—proceeded to encumber himself of his dripping cloak, while Gilbert flew to place a chair for him near the blazing hearth, and Mrs. M'Adam proceeded to put on the table the best her store afforded, to succour her esteemed guest. After having partaken of the eatables set before him, Mr. Weir informed his kind entertainers that he intended holding a prayer meeting on the following morning, in a retired glen near Kirkmichael, where he expected a numerous attendance, as the inhabitants of the surrounding districts had been apprized of his intention, and expressed great joy at the intelligence, as they had lately been like sheep without a shepherd. In reply to some anxious inquiries on the part of Mrs. M'Adam, regarding the aspect of affairs throughout the country. Mr. Weir informed her that as yet the hand of the smiter was not stayed, but rather on the contrary, as their persecutors seemed more than ever zealous in their bloody work; and that, in the course of his wanderings in Dumfriesshire, many cruel murders had come under his knowledge, two of which, from the melancholy circumstances attending them, had made an indelible impression on his mind. At the request of Mrs. M'Adam, Mr. Weir related the following:—
"Late one evening, during the month of last February, while an aged woman of the name of Martin, who resides in the parish of Barr, was sitting by her hearth conversing with her son David, and a young man named Edward Kyan, who had but recently come from Galloway, a party of dragoons, under the command of Lieutenant Douglas, surrounded the house. Kyan, on being made aware of their approach, leaped through a side window, and took refuge behind the wall of the cottage. But his retreat being discovered by the soldiers, they dragged him forth into an adjoining yard. After being asked where he lived, without any further questions, or even being allowed to prepare for eternity, the said lieutenant shot him through the head, and then discharging his other pistol, shot him again as he lay on the ground quivering in the agonies of death. Not contented with this, one of the dragoons, pretending he was still alive, shot him again. After having glutted their vengeance on this unfortunate youth—whose only crime was that of concealing himself—the dragoons rushed into the house, and, bringing forth David Martin, tore off his coat, and placed him beside the mangled body of his friend. One of the soldiers more compassionate than the others, and moved at the sight of the mother's tears, besought his officer to spare him another day, and stepped in between the kneeling man and his executioners, who stood with their pieces levelled, awaiting the signal of destruction. After much entreaty, the lieutenant was prevailed upon to spare his life; but so great was the terror of the poor man, that he lost his reason, and is now a helpless bed-ridden maniac. And now," continued Mr. Weir, "the other sad affair I am about to relate—the particulars of which came under my own observation—will serve, in some measure, to enlighten you as to the manner in which these cruel men perform their bloody work:—
"In the course of the same month, I went with a friend, in whose house I was then staying, to attend communion service in a secluded part of the parish of Irongray. The morning was cold and damp, and a dull leaden mist overshadowed the landscape, as if nature had donned her saddest garments on this melancholy occasion—still the meeting was numerously attended. It was indeed an impressive sight to witness these poor people—many of whom seemed overcome with fatigue from the distance they had travelled—assembled on this sequestered heath, to hear the word of God, and partake of his blessed ordinance.
"The service had just commenced, when the sentinels stationed on the heights gave notice that a party of dragoons were approaching.
"On receipt of this warning, the meeting instantly dispersed. Some fled towards the banks of the Cairn, and others towards the moor of Lochen-Kit, in the parish of Uir. Here the six poor men who suffered on this occasion were captured by their pursuers. Four of them were shot dead on the spot. The other two, whose names were Alexander M'Cubbin, of the parish of Glencairn, and Edward Gordon, from Galloway, were taken by the captain to the bridge of Orr, where the Laird of Lag was busily employed in carrying on the work of persecution. Immediately on their arrival, Lag wished to pass sentence of death upon them, because they refused to swear; but the captain insisted that, as four of them had been summarily despatched, an assize should be called to judge and condemn them. Lag swore fiercely that he should call no assizes, still the captain got the matter deferred till another day. On the following morning they were conveyed to the parish of Irongray, by Lag and his party, and hanged on an oak tree near the church of Irongray, at the foot of which they lie interred. When about to suffer death, an acquaintance of M'Cubin's inquired of him if he had any message to send to his wife, upon which he answered, that he commended her and his two children to the care of a merciful God; and, having bestowed his forgiveness on the person employed to hang him, he, with his companion, suffered death with much cheerfulness.
"Immediately on the departure of the soldiers, the bodies of these martyrs received Christian burial, and a simple stone was erected on the solitary heath to mark the spot where they fell."[#]
[#] Epitaph upon a stone in a moor near Lochon-Kit, on the grave of John Gordon, William Stuart, William Heron, and John Wallace, shot by Captain Bruce:—
"Behold here in this Wilderness we lie,Four Witnesses of hellish cruelty.Our eyes and blood could not their ire assuageBut when we're dead they did against us rage,That match the like we think ye scarcely can;Except the Turks, or Duke de Alva's men."
Epitaph on the grave-stone lying on Edward Gordon, and Alexander M'Cubin, executed at the Church of Irongray, at the command of the laird of Lag and Captain Bruce:—
"As Lag and bloody Bruce command,We were hung up by hellish hand,And thus their furious rage to stay,We died at Kirk of Irongray.Here now in peace sweet rest we take,Once murder'd for religion's sake."
"Puir murdered things," sobbed forth Mrs. M'Adam at the close of the minister's narration, raising her handkerchief to her eyes as she spoke. "Oh dear, dear! is'na it sad to think that religion, whilk ought to make men sae peaceful and godly in their lives, should, in many cases, just hae the contrary effect. See now at the present time, a' men are set by the ears, and what is it all about?—a mere trifle—just a difference o' opinion. How true are the words of Him that knew all things, 'I am come not to bring peace on earth, but a sword!'"
"Yes," was the reply, "but I am afraid religion is often made a cloak to cover bitter feelings engendered by party strife. No one possessing the meek Christian feeling of brotherly love and charity towards all men, could thus wantonly imbrue his hands in the blood of a fellow-creature."
"'Deed no, Mr. Weir, you say very true; they are no' the richt sort o' Christians who delight in bloodshed and warfare; a wheen apostates are they; wolves in sheep's clothing, whom we are expressly warned against——"
Here Gilbert, who knew from experience that whenever his mother got upon these topics she could continue, without pausing to draw her breath, until pretty near midnight, suggested to her the propriety of Mr. Weir retiring early to rest, as he would need to rise betimes in the following morning. The worthy minister, homeless and ill-provided for as he was, accepted with gratitude the humble accommodation offered to him by the poor but hospitable widow, and shortly afterwards withdrew to his sleeping apartment. By the early hour of six o'clock, Mr. Weir, accompanied by Mrs. M'Adam and her son, was on his way to the place of meeting. The morning was fine, and a numerous concourse of people, many of whom had come from a great distance, were assembled to hear their beloved Clergyman. The incense of praise had been offered up, and Mr. Weir was about to commence his sermon, when a party of soldiers appeared in sight. These proved to be a body of militia, under the command of Sir Archibald Kennedy of Culzean, then scouring the country in search of prey. Mr. Weir on perceiving their approach, closed his Bible, and exhorting his hearers to remain quietly in their seats, went forward to meet the hostile band.
"Why come ye thus to interrupt us in our devotions?" he inquired, when the rapid advance of the soldiers brought them within hearing.
"You shall soon see that, you old canting hypocrite," thundered forth Sir Archibald Kennedy in his fiercest tones. "I'll teach you to come here with your psalm-singing, dismal faced companions. Come, be off with you, or I will this instant send a brace of bullets through that thick head-piece of yours!"
"Not at thy command, thou man of Belial," said Mr. Weir, "shall I abandon my post in the hour of danger! These are the souls the Lord hath committed to my charge, and woe be unto me or any other of my brethren who shall neglect their sacred trust——"
"Cease your prating, you old dotard: soldiers, do your duty;" so saying, the fiery leader wheeled his horse round, and stood with his back purposely placed towards Mr. Weir, who, seizing him by the arm, exclaimed, "Do unto me even as ye list, but let these go their way. Oh, slay them not!"
"Men, do your duty!" was the only answer vouchsafed to this request; and Sir Archibald Kennedy, as if to set an example to his followers, drew his sword from its scabbard, and advanced towards the Covenanters, who, in accordance with their minister's wishes, had remained quietly seated, awaiting the issue in breathless suspense.
"Fly, my children, fly!" cried Mr. Weir, perceiving that offensive measures were about to be taken by the soldiers. "Oh God! it is too late," he exclaimed, as the blood-thirsty men rushed eagerly on the helpless group; and covering his face with his hands, to shut out the bloody scene about to ensue, he remained for a few moments motionless as a statue, while his lips moved, as though he was engaged in prayer.
In the meantime, Gilbert M'Adam, armed with a stout walking-stick, prepared to defend his aged mother, who clung to his arm in an agony of terror; but just as he raised it to ward off a blow from the butt-end of a musket, it was stricken from his grasp, and he was left at the mercy of his foe. Fortunately for his safety, a man stationed near him that instant darted on the soldier, and wrenched the gun out of his hand, which went off in the struggle, wounding a woman standing near the combatants. Perceiving the folly of attempting self-defence, Gilbert M'Adam seized his mother in his arms, and, making his way out of the affray, ran hastily towards a hill, situated a little way off. He had gained the foot of the eminence, when the clatter of a horse's feet behind them causing the young man to turn round, a pistol bullet, discharged by the advancing horseman, entered his brain, and Gilbert M'Adam fell dead at his mother's feet. With a loud laugh of insolent triumph, Sir Archibald Kennedy—for it was he who fired the deadly shot—was about to return to the scene of action, when, with a scream that in its agony resembled nothing earthly, the frenzied mother, with a strength almost supernatural, seized the horse's bridle, and compelled him to remain stationary, while she burst forth thus:—
"Hence to your stronghold, you cruel bird of prey! Back to your proud towers, ye accursed of the Lord! but think not, in the pride of your heart, that this day's work will pass unavenged, for a day of retribution awaits you. In the silence of the night, when the meanest hind in the land is locked in slumber, shall a mother's curse ring in your ears till ye madden at the thought. From this day henceforward life shall be a burden to you: then—then, when the hour of death approaches, shall your horrors be redoubled ten-fold. No priest will be able to quench the ceaseless flames which burn in your bosom, and no words of affection soothe your dying pillow; for the torments of a lost soul will be yours, and in your last moments let the thoughts of this day's work add another drop to your cup of misery."