"It is certainly to be regretted," said Mr. Denoon in reply; "but at that time strong measures were deemed necessary for the expulsion of the Romish faith from Scotland, and the destruction of all connected therewith was deemed a proceeding requisite for the safety of the people. But, my son," he continued, "it is not the place where one worship, but the heart of the worshipper that God values. Believe me, a heart-felt prayer uttered by a soldier on the bloody field of battle, a few words of earnest supplication breathed on the solitary moor or sequestered glen, are more acceptable in his sight than the prayers of those kneeling in the lofty cathedral aisle, if their souls are not in unison with the scene around them."In company with his reverend friend, Andrew Ayton visited numbers of the poorer class of people inhabiting the shire of Moray, and attended several meetings where Mr. Denoon officiated as clergyman. Before quitting Elgin, the latter, in accordance with a wish expressed to that effect, made known his intention of holding a conventicle in the ruins of Pluscardine. The morning of the day appointed for the meeting having arrived, Mr. Denoon and Andrew Ayton set off for the ruined priory. The day was beautiful, and on their arrival they found the interior of the ruins thronged with an eager multitude in readiness to receive them. Inchdarnie was impressed beyond imagination with the touching solemnity of the scene, as Mr. Denoon, taking his stand on a huge fragment of stone dislodged from the building by the relentless hand of time, proceeded to address the congregation. The rays of the sun at this moment penetrating through the ivy-clad windows, tinged with a golden lustre his venerable locks, and imparted an air of majesty to his countenance, in harmony with the heavenly messages he was entrusted to deliver. He spoke, and as his voice resounded through the vast space with the force of a trumpet, arousing his hearers to a sense of their danger, young Ayton felt the incapacity of the most gorgeous pageantry to add to the grandeur of words like these. While all eyes and ears were fixed on the preacher with an earnestness that precluded all other sights and sounds, Inchdarnie was startled on observing a strange face, almost shrouded beneath a brass helmet, gazing in at one of the windows. Unable to credit his senses, he kept his eyes fastened on the spot with an eagerness that was almost painful. His suspense was not of long duration. Again the same form presented itself, but this time accompanied by several others, who stationed themselves near every possible outlet, so as to shut out all hopes of escape. His worst fears realised, Andrew Ayton sprung from his seat, and shouting, "Betrayed, betrayed!" he drew his sword, and dashing through the midst of the terror-stricken congregation, placed himself by the side of Mr. Denoon as though determined to share his fate. The latter stood calm and resolute, while those by whom he was surrounded evinced their readiness to fight in their own and his defence. At this instant a soldier, who from his proud bearing and superior style of dress appeared to be the leader of the party, entered, and approaching Mr. Denoon, politely uncovered his head, while he expressed his regret that so unpleasant a duty as that of arresting Mr. Denoon should have devolved upon him; but that, however repugnant it might be to his own feelings to do so, yet his orders must be obeyed, and Mr. Denoon must therefore prepare to accompany them, adding that no harm was intended to any of the congregation, who were at liberty to retire if so inclined."Arrest Mr. Denoon!" cried Inchdarnie, "never!" so saying, he raised his sword on high, and was about to rush on the officer, when Mr. Denoon, throwing his arms around him, besought him to forbear; then turning to the commander, he demanded of him whither he had orders to take him?"To Dundee," was the reply, "there to await further instructions.""The Lord's will be done!" piously exclaimed Mr. Denoon, raising his hands and eyes to heaven as he spoke; then turning to the people, who loudly expressed their sympathy, he bade them be of good cheer, as the Lord would soon find them another and more zealous pastor.While parting with Inchdarnie, many tears were shed on both sides, but to all his young friend's entreaties that he would permit him to strike one blow in his defence, he simply replied: "My son, it is the duty of a Christian to suffer, and to suffer meekly; if it please the Lord we shall meet again, and till then farewell;" so saying he expressed his readiness to depart, whereupon the officer, his head still uncovered, courteously led the way to the spot where his men stood armed to receive the prisoner.For some little time after the departure of the soldiers, Andrew Ayton remained motionless, and apparently overwhelmed with grief. He had lost his kind, sympathising friend, and that at the very moment when he stood most in need of his assistance. What was to be done? At this moment the thought darted through his head, could he not be rescued? Regarding the suggestion as a sunbeam sent by the Almighty to comfort him in the midst of his affliction, and heedless of the numbers who stood around watching his every motion, Inchdarnie knelt for one moment in silent prayer, and then starting to his feet, hurried from the ruins. His resolution was taken; he would follow the soldiers until such time as he could meet with some friends who would aid him in the attempted rescue. Having informed the relations with whom he had been staying, of his intentions, Andrew Ayton threw himself on horseback, and galloped off in the direction pursued by the dragoons. He soon came within sight of the party, and observed, to his great satisfaction, that they were few in number, and evidently not over-anxious regarding the safety of their prisoner, whose venerable form young Ayton could plainly descry stationed in midst of the dragoons. As an Indian unceasingly follows in the track of his intended victim, so Andrew Ayton kept in the wake of the soldiers, riding when they rode, halting when they halted, until at length they arrived at Dundee. After having carefully marked the house, to which Mr. Denoon was conducted, Inchdarnie put spurs to his horse's sides and galloped straight to Cupar, where he expected to obtain the necessary assistance. Having speedily collected together a number of young men eager to undertake anything that promised them some amusement, he retraced his steps to Dundee. All remained the same as when he had left. The two soldiers still kept guard before the house in which Mr. Denoon was confined. Leaving his companions in a little wood near the entrance to the town, Andrew Ayton, having disguised himself so as to preclude all possibility of recognition, proceeded to reconnoitre the premises, in order to discover the most feasible plan for effecting Mr. Denoon's escape. He soon satisfied himself that the back part of the house, which looked into a little garden, was totally defenceless. No soldier was stationed there to keep watch, and the windows were easy of access and without protection of any kind. Having made himself acquainted with these particulars, Inchdarnie rejoined his friends in the wood, where they determined to remain until night should further their scheme. When the shades of evening had closed around them, the party issued from the wood, and advanced singly, so as to excite no suspicions of their real purpose in the breasts of those they might chance to encounter towards the back of the house indicated by Inchdarnie, which, standing as it did a little apart from the others, occupied a position highly favourable for their purpose. Having stationed all his companions save one at the foot of the garden, so as to be ready in case of danger, Andrew Ayton advanced towards one of the lower windows, and with the assistance of his friend succeeded in reaching it. After pausing a moment to recover breath, he gently endeavoured to raise the sash. This was an anxious moment with them all, and the beatings of Andrew Ayton's heart were painfully audible, so fearful was he lest their plan should prove a failure. To their inexpressible delight, however, it yielded to his touch. The first step was now gained, but the worst remained behind. He entered and found himself in a small unfurnished room, having a door at the extreme end; this he also perceived to be open, and marvelling much at the carelessness of those in charge, he threaded his way along a narrow passage, on both sides of which were stationed doors. This was rather puzzling to one unacquainted as young Ayton was with the geography of the house, but summoning up all the courage of which he was possessed, he placed his hand on the handle of the one nearest him; it opened, and he saw at one glance that it was also uninhabited. In like manner he tried another equally yielding to his touch; he entered, and seated by a small wooden table, on which burned a solitary candle, he beheld his venerable friend. With difficulty suppressing a cry of joy at sight of one whom he almost feared was lost to him for ever, Andrew Ayton rushed forward, while Mr. Denoon, equally delighted and astonished at the unexpected appearance of one whom he regarded in the light of a son, started from his seat, and clasping him to his bosom, mingled his tears with his."Father!" at length said young Ayton in a whisper, "you must this instant fly with me—all is in readiness; I have faithful friends, who are at this moment waiting my return with anxious impatience. Oh, do not delay, but hasten to gladden their eyes with your presence!"Mr. Denoon sadly shook his head while he replied, "Would it not be a cowardly action, and unlike that of One who gave up his own life as a ransom for many, were a minister to fly from his earthly foes? Would it not seem as if——?""Oh, do not say no, reverend father!" interrupted Inchdarnie: "do not neglect the opportunity God hath given you of making your escape from the hands of your enemies, in order that you may yet preach to those in need of a shepherd. Of what use are you here?" he continued. "What lost souls are there you can reclaim from perdition? and were you once to regain your liberty, what unspeakable comfort might you not be able to render those who require consolation?""My son, in that you say truly; there may be much for me to do, and the word liberty soundeth sweet in the ears of a captive;" so saying, Mr. Denoon expressed his willingness to depart.Rejoicing in the success which had hitherto attended his plan, Inchdarnie conducted Mr. Denoon to the window where his friend was stationed, who received the aged man in his arms and placed him in safety on the ground. Treading as noiselessly as possible, the party, employing the same precautionary measures in their retreat as during their approach, retraced their steps to the wood where horses were ready saddled and bridled to conduct them to Cupar, whither Inchdarnie determined at once to proceed. On their way thither Andrew Ayton apprized Mr. Denoon of all that had taken place since the morning of his capture in the priory, and in his turn was made acquainted with what had befallen his reverend friend since his imprisonment."How fortunate," said Mr. Denoon in continuation, "that you should have fixed on this night for effecting my deliverance. Had you delayed another day, I should have been removed from Dundee, to go I know not whither; and to that circumstance is to be attributed the fact of there being so few precautions taken as regarded my safety; for in general every door and window was carefully fastened ere night had closed in."Inwardly returning thanks to the Almighty for the kindness he had evinced towards them in thus disarming the soldiers of all suspicion of danger, they pursued the rest of their journey in silence. On arriving at Cupar, the two friends deemed it essential for their safety to part. Mr. Denoon determined upon going to St. Andrews, where he had some trusty friends; while Inchdarnie, fearful of remaining longer in Fifeshire, expressed his intention of at once proceeding to Perth, there to visit Mr. Wellwood, whose acquaintance he was most anxious to make."God bless and prosper you! my dear young friend," said Mr. Denoon, warmly grasping Andrew Ayton by the hand as he bade him adieu; "under the providence of God I this night owe my life to you; and oh, that I may spend it in the service of Him to whom it by right belongs!""Farewell, my noble, kind preceptor," replied Inchdarnie, "and should we never meet again in this valley of time, God grant I may so follow in your steps that we may spend eternity together;" so saying, they parted—and for ever. As Andrew Ayton pursued his solitary way towards Perth, he was attracted by sounds of lamentation which appeared to proceed from a house situated at a short distance from the road along which he was proceeding. Always ready to hearken to the voice of suffering—and judging that in this case some assistance might be necessary—he leapt from his horse and knocked gently at the door. Finding that no notice was being taken of his repeated demands for admission, he fastened the impatient animal to a ring in the wall, and, raising the latch, entered the house, where he beheld a sight that made him tremble. Stretched on the cottage floor lay the apparently lifeless body of a man bathed in a pool of blood, while at his head sat an aged female ghastly with despair. No wail of sorrow burst from her bloodless lips, but her eyes were fixed on the face of the dead man with that stony gaze which bespeaks the bitterest anguish, and near her was seated the wife of the deceased, whose passionate bursts of sorrow had first attracted the notice of Andrew Ayton."Good God!" he exclaimed, on beholding this terrible spectacle; "what means this?"On hearing the voice of a stranger, the younger female lifted her head, but unable to speak, she merely pointed to the deceased, and then burying her face in her hands, gave way to fresh bursts of sorrow."O do not grieve thus," said Inchdarnie, "but tell me, in heaven's name, who has been the author of this bloody outrage; and if it should be in my power to render you any assistance——""Assistance!" screamed the old woman in a shrill voice of agony, and starting to her feet as she spoke, "can you restore us the dead? Can you bring back light to the eyeballs, and life to the stiffening frame? Can you blast with heaven's lightning——?""Oh, hush mother, hush! use not these awful words!" exclaimed the anguished wife; "it is not for us to curse our——"[image]"Stretched on the cottage floor lay the apparently lifeless body of a man, bathed in a pool of blood, while at his head sat an aged female, ghastly with despair.""Interrupt me not!" cried the aged matron. "Can you blast with heaven's lightnings," she continued, "the mitred head of him who ordered the deed to be done—that rendered me childless in my old age? O may the curses of a bereaved mother cling to his soul, and drag him down—down! But I will be avenged," she continued, the frenzied light of madness blazing in her sunken eyes, "I will be avenged, and that right soon; God has promised it; the heavens frown not in wrath when I cry for revenge! And when that day comes, when he, the bloody prelate, kneels in the very dust begging for that mercy he this day denied to me, then—then will he know the bitterness of kneeling at the foot of man, and kneeling in vain." Here, thoroughly exhausted by her own violence, the heart-stricken mother threw herself on the body of her child, screaming aloud, "My son! my son!"Overcome with horror at the wretched scene, and perceiving that assistance could not be of any avail, Andrew Ayton, after he had thrust some money into the passive hand of the more gentle mourner, quickly regained the door, and mounting his horse, which stood pawing the ground with impatience to be gone, galloped hastily onwards to Perth. Now that the excitement which had hitherto sustained him had in some measure subsided, Andrew Ayton began to experience the effects of the fatigue arising from the scenes through which he had passed, and to realise the necessity there was of his obtaining some repose; accordingly he alighted at the first public-house that afforded hopes of entertainment for man and beast. In the course of the following morning he resumed his journey, and entered the "Fair City" as the light of day was departing. Being very desirous of seeing Mr. Wellwood, who was then thought to be dying, he made at once for the house in which he resided. It was a humble apartment into which he was ushered; no signs of luxury, barely of comfort, greeted the stranger's eye. The ceiling was low and dark, and the casement small; yet through that narrow aperture the sun's rays entered wooingly and kissed the pallid brow of a young man—sole tenant of the solitary apartment—who instantly rose from his chair and advanced a few steps, although with apparent difficulty, so much was he wasted by sickness, to welcome Andrew Ayton. As each of the young men had heard frequent and favourable mention made of the other, both paused for one moment as if by mutual consent, and earnestly gazed in each other's face. What a contrast did they at this moment present! There stood young Ayton, his long fair hair hanging in waving masses on his shoulders; youth written on his brow—his blue eyes bright with enthusiasm, and his tall elegant figure erect and bold; while opposite to him was one on whose forehead the cold band of death had set its seal. Although comparatively young in years, he was old with anxiety and suffering; his flushed cheek and lustrous eye, his damp forehead and short dry cough, all attesting the fatal presence of consumption. To gaze on them thus was to imagine a meeting between life and death, or that between two warriors; the one bravely arming for the coming fight, and the other, weary of the strife, about to repose after having borne the burden and heat of the day. At length Mr. Wellwood spoke, and his voice was low and sweet as he expressed the pleasure it gave him to see Mr. Ayton; while the latter grieved beyond measure on beholding Mr. Wellwood so feeble and attenuated, could scarce command his voice sufficiently to make a suitable reply. After the lapse of some little time, during which both sat silent, Mr. Wellwood, who had been gazing in a dreamy manner on the few blighted flowers adorning his window, emblems of his own untimely fate, demanded of Andrew Ayton if Archbishop Sharpe had committed any further outrages on the Presbyterians."Oh! Mr. Wellwood," burst forth Inchdarnie, "words cannot paint the deep hatred that haughty prelate bears towards us; he would, if possible, blot our names from the book of life; the wholesale murders committed by his orders are terrible beyond imagination; and not contented with what has been already done, he daily devises fresh means of torture. Had you seen what I witnessed while coming hither, it would never have been effaced from your memory; the lifeless corpse, the bereaved wife, and the maniac mother—all are before me even now. That such men are permitted to live only to commit crimes revolting to humanity is indeed strange!"As Mr. Wellwood gazed on the countenance of the noble youth, which glowed with a beauty almost unearthly in its brightness, and marked as it was by an expression of melancholy sometimes seen on the faces of those who are not destined to remain long in this world, the mysterious veil which conceals the future from our sight was for one moment drawn aside. His dying eyes beheld what was soon to be accomplished, and he exclaimed, "You will shortly be quit of him; he will get a sudden and sharp off-going, and you will be the first to take the news of his death to heaven."Inchdarnie reverently bowed his head in token of submission to the decrees of the Almighty. So pleased was he with the gentle bearing and pious exhortations of Mr. Well wood, that he remained with him until pretty near his decease, which occurred not long afterwards, when he was obliged to return to Inchdarnie, there to comfort with his presence his beloved mother, then labouring under severe indisposition. In danger of being imprisoned should his presence be discovered in the neighbourhood, Andrew Ayton durst not continue long in his father's house; but during the winter months and the ensuing spring he kept himself concealed in one of the cottar's houses, where he ran little risk of being detected.It was now the fifth of May, 1679, and Andrew Ayton still lurked in the neighbourhood of Inchdarnie. On the morning of the day in question, a letter was placed in his hands; he glanced at the superscription, turned pale as death, and tearing it open, perused its contents with eyes whose wild expression would have terrified the beholder, while the trembling of the paper attested the agitation under which he laboured. The contents were as follows:—MY DEAREST ANDREW,—I have struggled, and struggled in vain, to banish your image from my heart; wherever I have been, in England or in Italy, still you were present, and the words you last uttered on that fearful night have rung in my ears till they almost maddened me. All this weary time, in spite of my better judgment, I indulged in the fond delusion that you would endeavour to find me out, and that all should be made right again—vain hope. Months rolled on without any proof on your part of continued affection, and at last I was constrained to believe you had indeed forgotten me. In spite of all my assumed composure, despair took possession of my heart. Numberless suitors addressed me in all the glowing language of the sunny south, but I turned a deaf ear to their honied vows, and sighed in secret over the remembrance of one still too dear to me. At length, greatly to my delight, we returned to Scotland; and in the expectation of seeing you, I accompanied my aunt to the dear old priory. You were gone, but I heard from Deborah of your grief in the garden, and my heart melted within me at the recital. Again, I encountered one day during my accustomed walk a dear friend of yours, named Mr. Denoon (here Andrew Ayton's face glowed with delight); he seemed to know me—how I cannot tell—for he stopt and spoke to me of you. O! what sweet words of comfort he breathed to my anguished soul! He did not seek to undermine my faith (and for that I love him), but he told me of your love, your sorrow, and unaltered constancy, and prayed me to relent. Dear old man; he said although he grieved for my sake that I was not a Protestant, yet that should not prove an obstacle to our earthly happiness, for (and this rejoiced me more than anything) although the outward forms of our religion were so wholly at variance with each other, yet if our hearts were right in the sight of God, and we were sincere in our love towards him, they should always be acceptable in his sight. O Inchdarnie! whether it was that I really believed him or wished to do so for your dear sake, I know not, but I wept from joy; and he, dear, kind old man, was almost as much affected as myself. He then told me of your having aided his escape, and I listened with pride to the narration. We parted, soon to meet again. With the knowledge of my friends, I flew to your dear, venerable aunt, the Lady Murdocairnie (in whose house I am now residing), and told her of all that had passed between us, upon which she took me in her arms and blessed me, and advised me to write you, stating my unaltered love and anxiety to behold you. Come then, Inchdarnie; gladden me once more with your presence, and tell me with your own lips whether you will forgive, your lovingMARY CUNNINGHAME.With a cry of joy Andrew Ayton started to his feet, rushed to the stable, and too impatient to wait for the tardy groom, he saddled his horse, sprang on its back, and darted off as if on the wings of the wind. Away he sped on his errand of love. The birds sung sweet above his head, he felt as blythe as they; he was going to join his Mary—his darling Mary. On, on, on; mountains, streams, and fields seemed to rush madly past him, so rapid was his course. All grief for him was at an end; Mary had forgiven him—Mary still loved him—they should yet be happy—alas!Andrew Ayton, while lurking in the peaceful shades of Inchdarnie, was not made aware of the late fearful event, news of which at that instant was resounding through the land, convulsing England with horror, and ringing at the gates of heaven. Andrew Ayton knew not that two days previously Archbishop Sharpe had been slain—murdered on the lonely Magus Moor. Wholly ignorant of the affair, and of the pursuit to which it had given rise, young Ayton dashed onwards full of hope and joy, when an abrupt turning of the road revealed to his gaze a party of dragoons riding furiously towards Cupar. Anxious if possible to avoid encountering so numerous a body, Andrew Ayton quitted the high-road and galloped briskly through some fields, hoping thereby to escape notice; when suddenly a horseman detaches himself from the party and darts across the plain in pursuit of him. A flash, followed by a report, and the horse which bears young Ayton rears in the air; another and another, and he himself is mortally wounded. This done, the soldier without question or challenge of any kind, rejoins his comrades, exulting in the success of his exploit. The poor young man thus stricken down at the very moment in which life seemed most desirable, in spite of his dreadful wounds, managed, although with great difficulty, to preserve his seat on horseback until he arrived at the nearest house, where he alighted and begged that he might have a bed, also that his uncle, Sir John Ayton of Ayton, whose house was in the immediate neighbourhood, might be apprized of his condition. Deeply grieved on beholding the fatal injuries he had received. the mistress of the house supported his fainting form, and conducting him to her bust bedroom, made him as comfortable as circumstances would permit, until his uncle should arrive. On receipt of this sad intelligence. Sir John Ayton lost not a moment in hastening to his nephew's bedside; and so shocked was he at the appearance he presented, that he ordered a man-servant whom he had brought with him to start instantly for Cupar, and fetch a surgeon. The man returned with the intelligence that the dragoons had given positive orders to the effect that no medical man was to leave Cupar on any pretext whatever; upon which Sir John Ayton, frantic at the delay, despatched another messenger to appeal to the dragoons in behalf of the dying man. In answer to this, a party of soldiers was sent with instructions to convey him to Cupar. In vain Sir John Ayton protested against the cruelty, not to say impossibility, of removing a man in his condition to Cupar, which was distant three miles; in vain he offered them bail, or to entertain them until surgeons were brought who could advise them what to do. Deaf to all his entreaties, and utterly regardless of the consequences, they placed the unfortunate young man on horseback and hurried him away to Cupar. Four times during the journey Andrew Ayton fainted through loss of blood, but still no emotions of pity were excited in the breasts of his conductor. On arriving at their destination, the magistrates, in consideration of his enfeebled state of health, permitted him to be conveyed to an inn, instead of a prison. Mr. and Mrs. Ayton, who had also been made aware of what had happened, set off instantly for Cupar. On entering the room where her son lay apparently in the agonies of death, Mrs. Ayton's fortitude gave way, and she threw herself on his breast, sobbing as if her heart would break."Do not grieve, dearest mother," said Andrew Ayton; "my time on earth has indeed been short, but God has willed it so, and we must not repine.""My son! my beloved son!" was all the anguished mother could utter, while his father stood the image of mute despair."And must I then die without seeing Mary Cunninghame?" continued the dying man, "her whom I was flying to rejoin when the cruel ball penetrated as it were to my very heart? ..... Oh, it seems hard, hard to be thus cut off in early youth, when hope shone the brightest, and happiness seemed within my reach. Mother, mother!" he gasped, "I must see her once more; methinks I could close my eyes in peace could I but gaze for one short moment in her sweet face, and tell her we should meet again.""Oh send for her!" cried the distracted mother; "lose not one instant in bringing her hither;" and the messenger, having received the necessary directions, galloped furiously away.It was a solemn scene that chamber of death; and beautiful to witness was the dying youth's resignation to the decree of God, while he strove with all his accustomed gentleness to soothe his mother's sorrow."Oh do not weep thus," he said; "our parting will not be for long. Consider, dear mother, the shortness of time and the duration of eternity. It is, indeed, a solemn thing," he continued, "to be standing thus at the portals of an unknown world, and yet not unknown; God having in his goodness revealed to us hidden glimpses of that lovely shore——"At this instant the chamber door flew open, and to the consternation of all present a young man, in the garb of an officer, rushed into the room.With a scream of terror Mrs. Ayton started to her feet. "Intrude not your presence in the chamber of death," she said, addressing the dragoon; "what more would you have? you have killed his body, would you also destroy his soul?"Heeding her not, the stranger stood for one moment gazing on the sufferer, with horror depicted on his countenance; then dashing his helmet on the ground, he threw himself on his knees by the side of the bed, exclaiming in a voice broken with sobs, "Andrew, Andrew, can you forgive me? can you forgive your guilty cousin? mine was the hand that did the deed."The voice was that of William Auchmutie. Inchdarnie was silent. His thoughts were far away. The venerable city of St. Andrews rose up before him. He marked its glittering spires—the waves which dashed on the rocky shore, and the stately vessels gliding to and fro. Again he is standing there with his thoughtless young cousin, he who is now kneeling as a suppliant by his bed-side. Again the words ring in his ears, "I will kill thee, just for thy having espoused so rascally a cause;" and he remembers the strange unaccountable feeling which then passed through his heart as the words were uttered; and now all was fulfilled. Little more than twelve short months had rolled over their heads since that sad night; he was lying on a bed of death, and the hand that had inflicted the fatal wound was that of his cousin."Then you won't forgive me?" groaned forth William Auchmutie, fearing from his cousin's silence that he could not extend pardon to the man who had inflicted a mortal injury; but he knew not the gentle, loving nature he had to deal with."Forgive thee, William!" said Andrew Ayton, recalled by the question to what was passing around him; "yes, from the bottom of my soul, and may He above blot it out of the book of his remembrance, and lay it not to thy account. But O, William!" he continued, "withdraw thyself, while there is yet time, from the bloody course thou art pursuing; let this thou hast done serve as a warning to thee. It may be that the Almighty has permitted it that the arrow of conviction might pierce thy heart."Here the dying man paused for a moment, apparently overcome with emotion, and then continued, grasping his cousin's hand while he spoke, "My dear cousin, thou art very young, and this scene may soon cease to be remembered by thee; but when old age comes upon thee, when thy strength fails thee, and thou art no longer able to pursue thy accustomed employment, then in the solitude of thy chamber will the evil deeds of thy youth rise up in judgment against thee, and remorse, like an avenging angel, sit scowling on thee from amongst the ruins thou hast made of the talents God committed to thy care."Overcome with exhaustion and loss of blood, Andrew Ayton sunk back on his pillow, and William Auchmutie, overwhelmed with despair, staggered from the chamber. It was now evident that the few remaining hours Andrew Ayton was to spend on earth were rapidly drawing to a close. He lay in a sort of stupor, with his eyes fixed on the clock, as if counting the moments till the arrival of Mary Cunninghame; and the slightest move caused him to turn his eyes to the door in the expectation of seeing her for whose presence he longed. At length the sound of carriage wheels is heard rolling rapidly along the street; they pause before the inn; footsteps are heard on the stair, the door opens, and almost as death-like as himself, and supported by his aunt, enters Mary Cunninghame."Mary, my darling Mary!" gasped Andrew Ayton as he clasped her to his breast, "God is good—he has heard my prayer—we meet again——" His head fell back on the pillow."Help, help!" screamed Mary Cunninghame, "he is fainting—he is dead!" and fell senseless on the couch beside him........No uncommon event in Paris—a novice is about to take the veil. But in this case curiosity is excited to the highest pitch, for the young lady about to be professed is a native of the cold north, and remarkable for her extreme beauty. The day appointed for the ceremony at length arrives, and the Church of St. Genevieve is crowded to the very doors, every inch of standing room is occupied, and hundreds are obliged to depart murmuring and dissatisfied. The organ peals forth its grandest music, but all ears are inattentive; ladies are there attired in the most costly dresses; but on this occasion their beauty and elegance are unheeded; all eyes are turned towards the door; every ear is on the alert to catch the faintest murmur which tells of her approach. Still she enters not, and murmurs of impatience are beginning to be heard, when cries of "she comes, she comes!" arrest all other sounds, and a general movement takes place throughout the stately edifice, as each individual, heedless of obstructing his neighbour's view, stands on tip-toe, or mounts the seat, in order to obtain the first glimpse of the procession. The words, "beautiful, how beautiful!" are uttered by many as onward comes the youthful novice arrayed in the most costly bridal attire. Jewels flash from amongst her braided hair; magnificent the veil which shrouds her slender figure; but conspicuous above all is the deep air of sadness impressed on her lovely countenance.The vows are uttered; the bride, not of man, but of heaven, retires, and many are the sighs which accompany her. When next she enters, she is arrayed in the dismal garb of a professed nun, and is greeted by those who kneel around as a sister. And hath she then left all which breathes of the past behind her? no; she still retains, and oft bedews with her tears, the little gold heart, now suspended from a black ribbon, placed by the boyish hands of Andrew Ayton around the neck of sister Agnes—when Mary Cunninghame.THE LAIRD OF LAG.One fine morning in April, as I was sauntering along the high-road leading to Dumfries, I observed a little way on the right-hand a small burying-ground, jealously protected from intrusion by a high wall and shaded by trees, whose boughs drooped in a half pensive manner, as if in sympathy with the memorials of the dead which were scattered around. Struck with the singularity of the situation, and the fact of there being no church within view, I turned my footsteps in the direction of the solitary burying-ground. Fortunately for the gratification of my curiosity, the old sexton—all sextons are old—was busily employed in digging a grave. While inspecting the various tombstones, some of which seemed very ancient, my attention was attracted towards a mass of ruins—apparently the remains of what had been a family burying-place. Unable to derive any information from the broken fragments that lay strewn around, I advanced towards the sexton, in order to have my curiosity gratified.The old man raised his head at my approach, and in answer to my inquiry as to whose resting-place it was that was lying in ruins, whilst those around seemed in a state of good preservation, replied—pausing in the midst of his work and wiping his face with a handkerchief—"you must be a stranger in this part of the country, not to know that that is the grave of the Laird of Lag.""The Laird of Lag!" I exclaimed; "what! is he buried here?""O yes ma'm," replied the sexton, "the Laird lies here.""How comes it?" I inquired, smiling at the old man's sagacious look and still more mysterious shake of the head, "that his grave is in such a ruined state, whilst those around, bearing dates anterior to Lag's time, are still in good repair?"The sexton remained mute for a moment or so, then approaching nearer, inquired of me in a confidential whisper, "whether I had observed the violence of the wind in the burying-ground, when elsewhere there reigned a perfect calm?"I replied, "I had indeed remarked the circumstance, but supposed it was owing to the exposed situation in which the burying-ground was placed."The old man shook his head as he answered, "Oh, no! that cannot be the reason; for even up amongst these hills, when not a leaf is stirring in the breeze, the wind there howls and tears along in the most boisterous manner." Then after a pause he added, "no, no; that's not the true explanation!""Well, then," I said, "but what has your theory of the high wind to do with the ruined state of Lag's grave?""Everything," he replied; "and if you will just have a little patience I'll explain it to you; but you must excuse my homely way of speaking, for I'm not good at the story-telling." Then sticking his spade into the ground and seating himself on a neighbouring stone, he supported his arm on the handle of his spade, in the attitude of one about to make some mysterious communication, and began as follows:—It was in the winter time that Lag's grave was destroyed; and the night on which the occurrence took place was wild and stormy enough, but nothing to the like of me, who have seen many a fearful night in my young days, when—but let that pass, as it has nothing to do with my story. Well, as I was saying, it was rather a stormy evening, and the wind had an eerie sound as it moaned in the chimney and caused the window-frame to rattle in an odd sort of way; and my wife observed to me, just as I was on the point of falling asleep, "Oh, John, but this is an awful night for ony puir body to be out in!""Nonsense, wife," I replied; "I trust they may never be out in worse weather; it's a mere capful of wind, as the sailors say.""May the Lord forgive ye, John, for you livity (levity);" so saying she gave me a push with her elbow, as a kind of rebuke for my light way of speaking.Well, mim, I was awoke about the middle of the night by my wife giving me a pull of the arm, whilst she exclaimed in a voice almost inaudible through fear, "Oh! John, hear till that in the auld grave-yard; isn't that awful? what can it mean?"I listened for a moment, and never in the whole course of my life had I heard such strange sounds—they were like nothing earthly. Up I got and ran to the window, which commands a view of this place, and suoh a sight as I then saw! May the Lord forgive me for the thought, but I was convinced all the devils were let loose that night. It was perfectly dark, and the trees were shaking and groaning in the blast, in a manner awful to hear; and every now and then a glimmering light appeared, as if some one was carrying a light in the grave-yard. You must know there's an idle story in the country, that Lag walks about in the night-time with a lighted taper in his hand, but I don't believe the like of that. Well, as I told you before, every now and again that strange light, which I took to be a "will-o'-the-wisp," appeared dancing about, and the flashes of lightning were bright and frequent; whilst strange wild sounds seemed borne on the blast, that shook the cottage to its foundation. Overcome with fright and amazement, I went back to my bed; but not much sleep did I get that night—neither did my wife; and mighty glad were we when the bright rays of the morning sun streamed through the window shutter. The first thing I did was to come here, in case any damage had been done in the course of the night; and sure enough, when I arrived, I found everything as I had left it on the preceding day, except Lag's burial-place, which was thrown to the ground, and the stones lying about just as you see them. Ever since that fearful night, the wind has never ceased blowing in this place; but, even in the calmest summer's day it howls and rushes along, as if rejoicing over the ruin it had made of the wicked persecutor's grave.There was a pause after the sexton had finished his wild tale; the old man apparently was overcome at the remembrance of the horrors of that night, and I more than half-puzzled to account for the strange circumstance, supported by the evidence which the wreck around me attested in favour of the sexton's recital, at length inquired, after expressing the pleasure his narration had afforded me, "Why there was no church attached to the burying-ground, and what was its designation?"To which he replied, "That the old parish church of Dunscore formerly stood here, but the heritors of the parish had found fault with its situation, it being too far removed from the more distant parts of Dunscore parish; consequently, it had been taken down, and a new church erected in a more convenient position."I again demanded if he was acquainted with any old legends told in connection with the Laird of Lag, thinking there must be a good many extant which treated of his wild doings.The sexton shook his head, and replied, No, ma'm, I cannot say that I do know anything of him in particular, not having paid much attention to the idle stories told in the parish; but, as I seemed fond of these kind of tales, he recommended me to visit an old woman, named Mrs. Walker, who was about ninety years of age, and who might be able to afford me some information on that subject.After thanking the old man, and expressing my regret at having interrupted his labours, I turned to depart, when he called me back, for the purpose of attracting my attention to the fact that nothing but nettles and the rank weeds were growing around Lag's grave; and, said he, with emphasis, "Nothing in the shape of flowers ever would grow there, do what I could." After expressing my surprise at this singular occurrence, I bade him good morning, and directed my steps towards the habitation of Mrs. Walker. I found the old woman very comfortably seated in her arm-chair, by the kitchen fire, watching a piece of bread undergoing the process of toasting. This, and the fact of a brown delf tea-pot standing upon the hob, satisfied me that Mrs. Walker was about to regale herself with a comforting cup of tea.Before proceeding further, I shall relate rather an amusing circumstance told in connection with a Mr. G——, who came to this part of the country for the express purpose of making good his claim to be one of the descendants of the Laird of Lag. Being very desirous of collecting all the information he could concerning his progenitor, he called upon all the old people whom he thought likely to assist him in his endeavours. Amongst others, he honoured Mrs. Walker with a visit. After having made a few inquiries concerning the object of his call, he abruptly demanded of her, "Well, Mrs. Walker, and what do you think of Lag?" "Oh, dear sirs!" she replied, "I never saw him!" "I am quite aware of that; but what have you heard of him?" "Nae gude, sir—nae gude!"On entering the kitchen, I accosted Mrs. Walker, and informed her that, as I was desirous of hearing some of the wild tales that were told about the Laird of Lag, and understanding she was acquainted with many of the stories told in connection with that famous persecutor, I had taken the liberty of calling upon her, hoping she might be induced to relate one or two of the many with which her memory was stored. The old dame smiled complacently, at the same time observing, "That she was now an aged woman, entering upon her ninetieth year, consequently her memory was rather failing, and many of the tales she had heard regarding Lag in her youth had faded from her remembrance, like a vanished dream; but," she added, "if you will only wait until I have had my cup of tea, something may come across my mind that may chance to interest you." Cordially agreeing to the old dame's proposition, and refusing a cup of the exhilarating beverage, I amused myself with gazing at the numerous prints adorning the walls, which had evidently been chosen more with an eye to gaudy colouring than artistic merit.Mrs. Walker, after having finished her meal, replaced the tea-pot near the fire, and arranging her dress—as is often the custom with story-tellers—commenced the following account of the Laird of Lag:—"Well, ma'am, you see, Sir Robert Grierson, commonly called the Laird of Lag—more briefly Lag—was a noted persecutor, and dreaded by all who espoused the side of the Kirk and Covenant. A bad cruel man was he, and many were the bloody deeds he did in his day. Some said he wasn't so bad as people said, and others, again maintained he was worse; but let that pass, he did enough to win himself a bad name, and he got it, as was but justice. Well, Sir Robert married a daughter of the second Earl of Queensberry, who rejoiced in the appellation of the 'Deil o' Drumlanrig;' and what good could be expected from Sir Robert after forming a connection like that? If the laird was bad, his father-in-law was counted worse, as along with other bad qualities, he was a mad gamester, and it was not very long ere he made Sir Robert as noted as himself in that respect. Many were the nights they spent over the 'devil's books,' as they are justly called. In the end, the Laird was cleared out of all his property, except Rockhall, which, being strictly entailed, could not be touched."Here Mrs. Walker paused for a moment, drew a deep breath, and then inquired, "If I had ever seen the account given of Lag in the 'People's Edition of the Scots' Worthies?'" Upon my answering in the negative, she immediately rose from her seat, and proceeded towards another apartment, when she presently returned with one or two numbers of this much-relished work, and once more seating herself in her comfortable chair, she donned her spectacles, and read aloud the following:—"Sir Robert Grierson of Lag was another prime hero for the promoting of Satan's kingdom. We think that it was some time after Bothwell that he was made sheriff or sheriff-depute of Dumfries. But to relate all the fining, spoiling, oppression, and murders committed by this worthy of Satan, or champion of his kingdom, were beyond our intention. Besides £1200 of fines exacted in Galloway and Nithsdale shires, he was accessory to the murdering, under colour of their iniquitous laws, of Margaret M'Lachlan, aged sixty-three years, and Margaret Wilson, a young woman, whom they drowned at two stakes within the sea-mark at the water of Baldnook. For his cold-blood murders, he caused hang Gordon and Mr. Cubin on a growing tree near Irongray, and left them hanging there, 1686."The same year he apprehended Mr. Bell of Whiteside, D. Halliday of Mayfield, and three more, and without giving them time to pray, shot them dead on the spot. Mr. Bell, whom Sir Robert Grierson knew, earnestly entreated but a quarter of an hour to prepare for eternity; but this was refused."The reply was, 'What the devil, have you not had time to prepare since Bothwell?' (Here Mrs. Walker shook her head.) He was, therefore, instantly shot with the rest; and so far did this persecuting renegado push his revenge, that he even denied interment to their lifeless dust![#] Shortly after this, Lord Kenmuir happening to meet Lag with Claverhouse in Kirkcudbright, called him to account for his cruelty to Mr. Bell, and more especially for his inhumanity in refusing burial to his remains. Sir Robert answered with an oath, 'Take him, if you will, and salt him in your beef barrel.' The insulted nobleman immediately drew his sword, and must have ran him through the body, had not Claverhouse interposed. And surely such a death had been too honourable for such a villain.
"It is certainly to be regretted," said Mr. Denoon in reply; "but at that time strong measures were deemed necessary for the expulsion of the Romish faith from Scotland, and the destruction of all connected therewith was deemed a proceeding requisite for the safety of the people. But, my son," he continued, "it is not the place where one worship, but the heart of the worshipper that God values. Believe me, a heart-felt prayer uttered by a soldier on the bloody field of battle, a few words of earnest supplication breathed on the solitary moor or sequestered glen, are more acceptable in his sight than the prayers of those kneeling in the lofty cathedral aisle, if their souls are not in unison with the scene around them."
In company with his reverend friend, Andrew Ayton visited numbers of the poorer class of people inhabiting the shire of Moray, and attended several meetings where Mr. Denoon officiated as clergyman. Before quitting Elgin, the latter, in accordance with a wish expressed to that effect, made known his intention of holding a conventicle in the ruins of Pluscardine. The morning of the day appointed for the meeting having arrived, Mr. Denoon and Andrew Ayton set off for the ruined priory. The day was beautiful, and on their arrival they found the interior of the ruins thronged with an eager multitude in readiness to receive them. Inchdarnie was impressed beyond imagination with the touching solemnity of the scene, as Mr. Denoon, taking his stand on a huge fragment of stone dislodged from the building by the relentless hand of time, proceeded to address the congregation. The rays of the sun at this moment penetrating through the ivy-clad windows, tinged with a golden lustre his venerable locks, and imparted an air of majesty to his countenance, in harmony with the heavenly messages he was entrusted to deliver. He spoke, and as his voice resounded through the vast space with the force of a trumpet, arousing his hearers to a sense of their danger, young Ayton felt the incapacity of the most gorgeous pageantry to add to the grandeur of words like these. While all eyes and ears were fixed on the preacher with an earnestness that precluded all other sights and sounds, Inchdarnie was startled on observing a strange face, almost shrouded beneath a brass helmet, gazing in at one of the windows. Unable to credit his senses, he kept his eyes fastened on the spot with an eagerness that was almost painful. His suspense was not of long duration. Again the same form presented itself, but this time accompanied by several others, who stationed themselves near every possible outlet, so as to shut out all hopes of escape. His worst fears realised, Andrew Ayton sprung from his seat, and shouting, "Betrayed, betrayed!" he drew his sword, and dashing through the midst of the terror-stricken congregation, placed himself by the side of Mr. Denoon as though determined to share his fate. The latter stood calm and resolute, while those by whom he was surrounded evinced their readiness to fight in their own and his defence. At this instant a soldier, who from his proud bearing and superior style of dress appeared to be the leader of the party, entered, and approaching Mr. Denoon, politely uncovered his head, while he expressed his regret that so unpleasant a duty as that of arresting Mr. Denoon should have devolved upon him; but that, however repugnant it might be to his own feelings to do so, yet his orders must be obeyed, and Mr. Denoon must therefore prepare to accompany them, adding that no harm was intended to any of the congregation, who were at liberty to retire if so inclined.
"Arrest Mr. Denoon!" cried Inchdarnie, "never!" so saying, he raised his sword on high, and was about to rush on the officer, when Mr. Denoon, throwing his arms around him, besought him to forbear; then turning to the commander, he demanded of him whither he had orders to take him?
"To Dundee," was the reply, "there to await further instructions."
"The Lord's will be done!" piously exclaimed Mr. Denoon, raising his hands and eyes to heaven as he spoke; then turning to the people, who loudly expressed their sympathy, he bade them be of good cheer, as the Lord would soon find them another and more zealous pastor.
While parting with Inchdarnie, many tears were shed on both sides, but to all his young friend's entreaties that he would permit him to strike one blow in his defence, he simply replied: "My son, it is the duty of a Christian to suffer, and to suffer meekly; if it please the Lord we shall meet again, and till then farewell;" so saying he expressed his readiness to depart, whereupon the officer, his head still uncovered, courteously led the way to the spot where his men stood armed to receive the prisoner.
For some little time after the departure of the soldiers, Andrew Ayton remained motionless, and apparently overwhelmed with grief. He had lost his kind, sympathising friend, and that at the very moment when he stood most in need of his assistance. What was to be done? At this moment the thought darted through his head, could he not be rescued? Regarding the suggestion as a sunbeam sent by the Almighty to comfort him in the midst of his affliction, and heedless of the numbers who stood around watching his every motion, Inchdarnie knelt for one moment in silent prayer, and then starting to his feet, hurried from the ruins. His resolution was taken; he would follow the soldiers until such time as he could meet with some friends who would aid him in the attempted rescue. Having informed the relations with whom he had been staying, of his intentions, Andrew Ayton threw himself on horseback, and galloped off in the direction pursued by the dragoons. He soon came within sight of the party, and observed, to his great satisfaction, that they were few in number, and evidently not over-anxious regarding the safety of their prisoner, whose venerable form young Ayton could plainly descry stationed in midst of the dragoons. As an Indian unceasingly follows in the track of his intended victim, so Andrew Ayton kept in the wake of the soldiers, riding when they rode, halting when they halted, until at length they arrived at Dundee. After having carefully marked the house, to which Mr. Denoon was conducted, Inchdarnie put spurs to his horse's sides and galloped straight to Cupar, where he expected to obtain the necessary assistance. Having speedily collected together a number of young men eager to undertake anything that promised them some amusement, he retraced his steps to Dundee. All remained the same as when he had left. The two soldiers still kept guard before the house in which Mr. Denoon was confined. Leaving his companions in a little wood near the entrance to the town, Andrew Ayton, having disguised himself so as to preclude all possibility of recognition, proceeded to reconnoitre the premises, in order to discover the most feasible plan for effecting Mr. Denoon's escape. He soon satisfied himself that the back part of the house, which looked into a little garden, was totally defenceless. No soldier was stationed there to keep watch, and the windows were easy of access and without protection of any kind. Having made himself acquainted with these particulars, Inchdarnie rejoined his friends in the wood, where they determined to remain until night should further their scheme. When the shades of evening had closed around them, the party issued from the wood, and advanced singly, so as to excite no suspicions of their real purpose in the breasts of those they might chance to encounter towards the back of the house indicated by Inchdarnie, which, standing as it did a little apart from the others, occupied a position highly favourable for their purpose. Having stationed all his companions save one at the foot of the garden, so as to be ready in case of danger, Andrew Ayton advanced towards one of the lower windows, and with the assistance of his friend succeeded in reaching it. After pausing a moment to recover breath, he gently endeavoured to raise the sash. This was an anxious moment with them all, and the beatings of Andrew Ayton's heart were painfully audible, so fearful was he lest their plan should prove a failure. To their inexpressible delight, however, it yielded to his touch. The first step was now gained, but the worst remained behind. He entered and found himself in a small unfurnished room, having a door at the extreme end; this he also perceived to be open, and marvelling much at the carelessness of those in charge, he threaded his way along a narrow passage, on both sides of which were stationed doors. This was rather puzzling to one unacquainted as young Ayton was with the geography of the house, but summoning up all the courage of which he was possessed, he placed his hand on the handle of the one nearest him; it opened, and he saw at one glance that it was also uninhabited. In like manner he tried another equally yielding to his touch; he entered, and seated by a small wooden table, on which burned a solitary candle, he beheld his venerable friend. With difficulty suppressing a cry of joy at sight of one whom he almost feared was lost to him for ever, Andrew Ayton rushed forward, while Mr. Denoon, equally delighted and astonished at the unexpected appearance of one whom he regarded in the light of a son, started from his seat, and clasping him to his bosom, mingled his tears with his.
"Father!" at length said young Ayton in a whisper, "you must this instant fly with me—all is in readiness; I have faithful friends, who are at this moment waiting my return with anxious impatience. Oh, do not delay, but hasten to gladden their eyes with your presence!"
Mr. Denoon sadly shook his head while he replied, "Would it not be a cowardly action, and unlike that of One who gave up his own life as a ransom for many, were a minister to fly from his earthly foes? Would it not seem as if——?"
"Oh, do not say no, reverend father!" interrupted Inchdarnie: "do not neglect the opportunity God hath given you of making your escape from the hands of your enemies, in order that you may yet preach to those in need of a shepherd. Of what use are you here?" he continued. "What lost souls are there you can reclaim from perdition? and were you once to regain your liberty, what unspeakable comfort might you not be able to render those who require consolation?"
"My son, in that you say truly; there may be much for me to do, and the word liberty soundeth sweet in the ears of a captive;" so saying, Mr. Denoon expressed his willingness to depart.
Rejoicing in the success which had hitherto attended his plan, Inchdarnie conducted Mr. Denoon to the window where his friend was stationed, who received the aged man in his arms and placed him in safety on the ground. Treading as noiselessly as possible, the party, employing the same precautionary measures in their retreat as during their approach, retraced their steps to the wood where horses were ready saddled and bridled to conduct them to Cupar, whither Inchdarnie determined at once to proceed. On their way thither Andrew Ayton apprized Mr. Denoon of all that had taken place since the morning of his capture in the priory, and in his turn was made acquainted with what had befallen his reverend friend since his imprisonment.
"How fortunate," said Mr. Denoon in continuation, "that you should have fixed on this night for effecting my deliverance. Had you delayed another day, I should have been removed from Dundee, to go I know not whither; and to that circumstance is to be attributed the fact of there being so few precautions taken as regarded my safety; for in general every door and window was carefully fastened ere night had closed in."
Inwardly returning thanks to the Almighty for the kindness he had evinced towards them in thus disarming the soldiers of all suspicion of danger, they pursued the rest of their journey in silence. On arriving at Cupar, the two friends deemed it essential for their safety to part. Mr. Denoon determined upon going to St. Andrews, where he had some trusty friends; while Inchdarnie, fearful of remaining longer in Fifeshire, expressed his intention of at once proceeding to Perth, there to visit Mr. Wellwood, whose acquaintance he was most anxious to make.
"God bless and prosper you! my dear young friend," said Mr. Denoon, warmly grasping Andrew Ayton by the hand as he bade him adieu; "under the providence of God I this night owe my life to you; and oh, that I may spend it in the service of Him to whom it by right belongs!"
"Farewell, my noble, kind preceptor," replied Inchdarnie, "and should we never meet again in this valley of time, God grant I may so follow in your steps that we may spend eternity together;" so saying, they parted—and for ever. As Andrew Ayton pursued his solitary way towards Perth, he was attracted by sounds of lamentation which appeared to proceed from a house situated at a short distance from the road along which he was proceeding. Always ready to hearken to the voice of suffering—and judging that in this case some assistance might be necessary—he leapt from his horse and knocked gently at the door. Finding that no notice was being taken of his repeated demands for admission, he fastened the impatient animal to a ring in the wall, and, raising the latch, entered the house, where he beheld a sight that made him tremble. Stretched on the cottage floor lay the apparently lifeless body of a man bathed in a pool of blood, while at his head sat an aged female ghastly with despair. No wail of sorrow burst from her bloodless lips, but her eyes were fixed on the face of the dead man with that stony gaze which bespeaks the bitterest anguish, and near her was seated the wife of the deceased, whose passionate bursts of sorrow had first attracted the notice of Andrew Ayton.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, on beholding this terrible spectacle; "what means this?"
On hearing the voice of a stranger, the younger female lifted her head, but unable to speak, she merely pointed to the deceased, and then burying her face in her hands, gave way to fresh bursts of sorrow.
"O do not grieve thus," said Inchdarnie, "but tell me, in heaven's name, who has been the author of this bloody outrage; and if it should be in my power to render you any assistance——"
"Assistance!" screamed the old woman in a shrill voice of agony, and starting to her feet as she spoke, "can you restore us the dead? Can you bring back light to the eyeballs, and life to the stiffening frame? Can you blast with heaven's lightning——?"
"Oh, hush mother, hush! use not these awful words!" exclaimed the anguished wife; "it is not for us to curse our——"
[image]"Stretched on the cottage floor lay the apparently lifeless body of a man, bathed in a pool of blood, while at his head sat an aged female, ghastly with despair."
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"Stretched on the cottage floor lay the apparently lifeless body of a man, bathed in a pool of blood, while at his head sat an aged female, ghastly with despair."
"Interrupt me not!" cried the aged matron. "Can you blast with heaven's lightnings," she continued, "the mitred head of him who ordered the deed to be done—that rendered me childless in my old age? O may the curses of a bereaved mother cling to his soul, and drag him down—down! But I will be avenged," she continued, the frenzied light of madness blazing in her sunken eyes, "I will be avenged, and that right soon; God has promised it; the heavens frown not in wrath when I cry for revenge! And when that day comes, when he, the bloody prelate, kneels in the very dust begging for that mercy he this day denied to me, then—then will he know the bitterness of kneeling at the foot of man, and kneeling in vain." Here, thoroughly exhausted by her own violence, the heart-stricken mother threw herself on the body of her child, screaming aloud, "My son! my son!"
Overcome with horror at the wretched scene, and perceiving that assistance could not be of any avail, Andrew Ayton, after he had thrust some money into the passive hand of the more gentle mourner, quickly regained the door, and mounting his horse, which stood pawing the ground with impatience to be gone, galloped hastily onwards to Perth. Now that the excitement which had hitherto sustained him had in some measure subsided, Andrew Ayton began to experience the effects of the fatigue arising from the scenes through which he had passed, and to realise the necessity there was of his obtaining some repose; accordingly he alighted at the first public-house that afforded hopes of entertainment for man and beast. In the course of the following morning he resumed his journey, and entered the "Fair City" as the light of day was departing. Being very desirous of seeing Mr. Wellwood, who was then thought to be dying, he made at once for the house in which he resided. It was a humble apartment into which he was ushered; no signs of luxury, barely of comfort, greeted the stranger's eye. The ceiling was low and dark, and the casement small; yet through that narrow aperture the sun's rays entered wooingly and kissed the pallid brow of a young man—sole tenant of the solitary apartment—who instantly rose from his chair and advanced a few steps, although with apparent difficulty, so much was he wasted by sickness, to welcome Andrew Ayton. As each of the young men had heard frequent and favourable mention made of the other, both paused for one moment as if by mutual consent, and earnestly gazed in each other's face. What a contrast did they at this moment present! There stood young Ayton, his long fair hair hanging in waving masses on his shoulders; youth written on his brow—his blue eyes bright with enthusiasm, and his tall elegant figure erect and bold; while opposite to him was one on whose forehead the cold band of death had set its seal. Although comparatively young in years, he was old with anxiety and suffering; his flushed cheek and lustrous eye, his damp forehead and short dry cough, all attesting the fatal presence of consumption. To gaze on them thus was to imagine a meeting between life and death, or that between two warriors; the one bravely arming for the coming fight, and the other, weary of the strife, about to repose after having borne the burden and heat of the day. At length Mr. Wellwood spoke, and his voice was low and sweet as he expressed the pleasure it gave him to see Mr. Ayton; while the latter grieved beyond measure on beholding Mr. Wellwood so feeble and attenuated, could scarce command his voice sufficiently to make a suitable reply. After the lapse of some little time, during which both sat silent, Mr. Wellwood, who had been gazing in a dreamy manner on the few blighted flowers adorning his window, emblems of his own untimely fate, demanded of Andrew Ayton if Archbishop Sharpe had committed any further outrages on the Presbyterians.
"Oh! Mr. Wellwood," burst forth Inchdarnie, "words cannot paint the deep hatred that haughty prelate bears towards us; he would, if possible, blot our names from the book of life; the wholesale murders committed by his orders are terrible beyond imagination; and not contented with what has been already done, he daily devises fresh means of torture. Had you seen what I witnessed while coming hither, it would never have been effaced from your memory; the lifeless corpse, the bereaved wife, and the maniac mother—all are before me even now. That such men are permitted to live only to commit crimes revolting to humanity is indeed strange!"
As Mr. Wellwood gazed on the countenance of the noble youth, which glowed with a beauty almost unearthly in its brightness, and marked as it was by an expression of melancholy sometimes seen on the faces of those who are not destined to remain long in this world, the mysterious veil which conceals the future from our sight was for one moment drawn aside. His dying eyes beheld what was soon to be accomplished, and he exclaimed, "You will shortly be quit of him; he will get a sudden and sharp off-going, and you will be the first to take the news of his death to heaven."
Inchdarnie reverently bowed his head in token of submission to the decrees of the Almighty. So pleased was he with the gentle bearing and pious exhortations of Mr. Well wood, that he remained with him until pretty near his decease, which occurred not long afterwards, when he was obliged to return to Inchdarnie, there to comfort with his presence his beloved mother, then labouring under severe indisposition. In danger of being imprisoned should his presence be discovered in the neighbourhood, Andrew Ayton durst not continue long in his father's house; but during the winter months and the ensuing spring he kept himself concealed in one of the cottar's houses, where he ran little risk of being detected.
It was now the fifth of May, 1679, and Andrew Ayton still lurked in the neighbourhood of Inchdarnie. On the morning of the day in question, a letter was placed in his hands; he glanced at the superscription, turned pale as death, and tearing it open, perused its contents with eyes whose wild expression would have terrified the beholder, while the trembling of the paper attested the agitation under which he laboured. The contents were as follows:—
MY DEAREST ANDREW,—I have struggled, and struggled in vain, to banish your image from my heart; wherever I have been, in England or in Italy, still you were present, and the words you last uttered on that fearful night have rung in my ears till they almost maddened me. All this weary time, in spite of my better judgment, I indulged in the fond delusion that you would endeavour to find me out, and that all should be made right again—vain hope. Months rolled on without any proof on your part of continued affection, and at last I was constrained to believe you had indeed forgotten me. In spite of all my assumed composure, despair took possession of my heart. Numberless suitors addressed me in all the glowing language of the sunny south, but I turned a deaf ear to their honied vows, and sighed in secret over the remembrance of one still too dear to me. At length, greatly to my delight, we returned to Scotland; and in the expectation of seeing you, I accompanied my aunt to the dear old priory. You were gone, but I heard from Deborah of your grief in the garden, and my heart melted within me at the recital. Again, I encountered one day during my accustomed walk a dear friend of yours, named Mr. Denoon (here Andrew Ayton's face glowed with delight); he seemed to know me—how I cannot tell—for he stopt and spoke to me of you. O! what sweet words of comfort he breathed to my anguished soul! He did not seek to undermine my faith (and for that I love him), but he told me of your love, your sorrow, and unaltered constancy, and prayed me to relent. Dear old man; he said although he grieved for my sake that I was not a Protestant, yet that should not prove an obstacle to our earthly happiness, for (and this rejoiced me more than anything) although the outward forms of our religion were so wholly at variance with each other, yet if our hearts were right in the sight of God, and we were sincere in our love towards him, they should always be acceptable in his sight. O Inchdarnie! whether it was that I really believed him or wished to do so for your dear sake, I know not, but I wept from joy; and he, dear, kind old man, was almost as much affected as myself. He then told me of your having aided his escape, and I listened with pride to the narration. We parted, soon to meet again. With the knowledge of my friends, I flew to your dear, venerable aunt, the Lady Murdocairnie (in whose house I am now residing), and told her of all that had passed between us, upon which she took me in her arms and blessed me, and advised me to write you, stating my unaltered love and anxiety to behold you. Come then, Inchdarnie; gladden me once more with your presence, and tell me with your own lips whether you will forgive, your loving
MARY CUNNINGHAME.
With a cry of joy Andrew Ayton started to his feet, rushed to the stable, and too impatient to wait for the tardy groom, he saddled his horse, sprang on its back, and darted off as if on the wings of the wind. Away he sped on his errand of love. The birds sung sweet above his head, he felt as blythe as they; he was going to join his Mary—his darling Mary. On, on, on; mountains, streams, and fields seemed to rush madly past him, so rapid was his course. All grief for him was at an end; Mary had forgiven him—Mary still loved him—they should yet be happy—alas!
Andrew Ayton, while lurking in the peaceful shades of Inchdarnie, was not made aware of the late fearful event, news of which at that instant was resounding through the land, convulsing England with horror, and ringing at the gates of heaven. Andrew Ayton knew not that two days previously Archbishop Sharpe had been slain—murdered on the lonely Magus Moor. Wholly ignorant of the affair, and of the pursuit to which it had given rise, young Ayton dashed onwards full of hope and joy, when an abrupt turning of the road revealed to his gaze a party of dragoons riding furiously towards Cupar. Anxious if possible to avoid encountering so numerous a body, Andrew Ayton quitted the high-road and galloped briskly through some fields, hoping thereby to escape notice; when suddenly a horseman detaches himself from the party and darts across the plain in pursuit of him. A flash, followed by a report, and the horse which bears young Ayton rears in the air; another and another, and he himself is mortally wounded. This done, the soldier without question or challenge of any kind, rejoins his comrades, exulting in the success of his exploit. The poor young man thus stricken down at the very moment in which life seemed most desirable, in spite of his dreadful wounds, managed, although with great difficulty, to preserve his seat on horseback until he arrived at the nearest house, where he alighted and begged that he might have a bed, also that his uncle, Sir John Ayton of Ayton, whose house was in the immediate neighbourhood, might be apprized of his condition. Deeply grieved on beholding the fatal injuries he had received. the mistress of the house supported his fainting form, and conducting him to her bust bedroom, made him as comfortable as circumstances would permit, until his uncle should arrive. On receipt of this sad intelligence. Sir John Ayton lost not a moment in hastening to his nephew's bedside; and so shocked was he at the appearance he presented, that he ordered a man-servant whom he had brought with him to start instantly for Cupar, and fetch a surgeon. The man returned with the intelligence that the dragoons had given positive orders to the effect that no medical man was to leave Cupar on any pretext whatever; upon which Sir John Ayton, frantic at the delay, despatched another messenger to appeal to the dragoons in behalf of the dying man. In answer to this, a party of soldiers was sent with instructions to convey him to Cupar. In vain Sir John Ayton protested against the cruelty, not to say impossibility, of removing a man in his condition to Cupar, which was distant three miles; in vain he offered them bail, or to entertain them until surgeons were brought who could advise them what to do. Deaf to all his entreaties, and utterly regardless of the consequences, they placed the unfortunate young man on horseback and hurried him away to Cupar. Four times during the journey Andrew Ayton fainted through loss of blood, but still no emotions of pity were excited in the breasts of his conductor. On arriving at their destination, the magistrates, in consideration of his enfeebled state of health, permitted him to be conveyed to an inn, instead of a prison. Mr. and Mrs. Ayton, who had also been made aware of what had happened, set off instantly for Cupar. On entering the room where her son lay apparently in the agonies of death, Mrs. Ayton's fortitude gave way, and she threw herself on his breast, sobbing as if her heart would break.
"Do not grieve, dearest mother," said Andrew Ayton; "my time on earth has indeed been short, but God has willed it so, and we must not repine."
"My son! my beloved son!" was all the anguished mother could utter, while his father stood the image of mute despair.
"And must I then die without seeing Mary Cunninghame?" continued the dying man, "her whom I was flying to rejoin when the cruel ball penetrated as it were to my very heart? ..... Oh, it seems hard, hard to be thus cut off in early youth, when hope shone the brightest, and happiness seemed within my reach. Mother, mother!" he gasped, "I must see her once more; methinks I could close my eyes in peace could I but gaze for one short moment in her sweet face, and tell her we should meet again."
"Oh send for her!" cried the distracted mother; "lose not one instant in bringing her hither;" and the messenger, having received the necessary directions, galloped furiously away.
It was a solemn scene that chamber of death; and beautiful to witness was the dying youth's resignation to the decree of God, while he strove with all his accustomed gentleness to soothe his mother's sorrow.
"Oh do not weep thus," he said; "our parting will not be for long. Consider, dear mother, the shortness of time and the duration of eternity. It is, indeed, a solemn thing," he continued, "to be standing thus at the portals of an unknown world, and yet not unknown; God having in his goodness revealed to us hidden glimpses of that lovely shore——"
At this instant the chamber door flew open, and to the consternation of all present a young man, in the garb of an officer, rushed into the room.
With a scream of terror Mrs. Ayton started to her feet. "Intrude not your presence in the chamber of death," she said, addressing the dragoon; "what more would you have? you have killed his body, would you also destroy his soul?"
Heeding her not, the stranger stood for one moment gazing on the sufferer, with horror depicted on his countenance; then dashing his helmet on the ground, he threw himself on his knees by the side of the bed, exclaiming in a voice broken with sobs, "Andrew, Andrew, can you forgive me? can you forgive your guilty cousin? mine was the hand that did the deed."
The voice was that of William Auchmutie. Inchdarnie was silent. His thoughts were far away. The venerable city of St. Andrews rose up before him. He marked its glittering spires—the waves which dashed on the rocky shore, and the stately vessels gliding to and fro. Again he is standing there with his thoughtless young cousin, he who is now kneeling as a suppliant by his bed-side. Again the words ring in his ears, "I will kill thee, just for thy having espoused so rascally a cause;" and he remembers the strange unaccountable feeling which then passed through his heart as the words were uttered; and now all was fulfilled. Little more than twelve short months had rolled over their heads since that sad night; he was lying on a bed of death, and the hand that had inflicted the fatal wound was that of his cousin.
"Then you won't forgive me?" groaned forth William Auchmutie, fearing from his cousin's silence that he could not extend pardon to the man who had inflicted a mortal injury; but he knew not the gentle, loving nature he had to deal with.
"Forgive thee, William!" said Andrew Ayton, recalled by the question to what was passing around him; "yes, from the bottom of my soul, and may He above blot it out of the book of his remembrance, and lay it not to thy account. But O, William!" he continued, "withdraw thyself, while there is yet time, from the bloody course thou art pursuing; let this thou hast done serve as a warning to thee. It may be that the Almighty has permitted it that the arrow of conviction might pierce thy heart."
Here the dying man paused for a moment, apparently overcome with emotion, and then continued, grasping his cousin's hand while he spoke, "My dear cousin, thou art very young, and this scene may soon cease to be remembered by thee; but when old age comes upon thee, when thy strength fails thee, and thou art no longer able to pursue thy accustomed employment, then in the solitude of thy chamber will the evil deeds of thy youth rise up in judgment against thee, and remorse, like an avenging angel, sit scowling on thee from amongst the ruins thou hast made of the talents God committed to thy care."
Overcome with exhaustion and loss of blood, Andrew Ayton sunk back on his pillow, and William Auchmutie, overwhelmed with despair, staggered from the chamber. It was now evident that the few remaining hours Andrew Ayton was to spend on earth were rapidly drawing to a close. He lay in a sort of stupor, with his eyes fixed on the clock, as if counting the moments till the arrival of Mary Cunninghame; and the slightest move caused him to turn his eyes to the door in the expectation of seeing her for whose presence he longed. At length the sound of carriage wheels is heard rolling rapidly along the street; they pause before the inn; footsteps are heard on the stair, the door opens, and almost as death-like as himself, and supported by his aunt, enters Mary Cunninghame.
"Mary, my darling Mary!" gasped Andrew Ayton as he clasped her to his breast, "God is good—he has heard my prayer—we meet again——" His head fell back on the pillow.
"Help, help!" screamed Mary Cunninghame, "he is fainting—he is dead!" and fell senseless on the couch beside him........
No uncommon event in Paris—a novice is about to take the veil. But in this case curiosity is excited to the highest pitch, for the young lady about to be professed is a native of the cold north, and remarkable for her extreme beauty. The day appointed for the ceremony at length arrives, and the Church of St. Genevieve is crowded to the very doors, every inch of standing room is occupied, and hundreds are obliged to depart murmuring and dissatisfied. The organ peals forth its grandest music, but all ears are inattentive; ladies are there attired in the most costly dresses; but on this occasion their beauty and elegance are unheeded; all eyes are turned towards the door; every ear is on the alert to catch the faintest murmur which tells of her approach. Still she enters not, and murmurs of impatience are beginning to be heard, when cries of "she comes, she comes!" arrest all other sounds, and a general movement takes place throughout the stately edifice, as each individual, heedless of obstructing his neighbour's view, stands on tip-toe, or mounts the seat, in order to obtain the first glimpse of the procession. The words, "beautiful, how beautiful!" are uttered by many as onward comes the youthful novice arrayed in the most costly bridal attire. Jewels flash from amongst her braided hair; magnificent the veil which shrouds her slender figure; but conspicuous above all is the deep air of sadness impressed on her lovely countenance.
The vows are uttered; the bride, not of man, but of heaven, retires, and many are the sighs which accompany her. When next she enters, she is arrayed in the dismal garb of a professed nun, and is greeted by those who kneel around as a sister. And hath she then left all which breathes of the past behind her? no; she still retains, and oft bedews with her tears, the little gold heart, now suspended from a black ribbon, placed by the boyish hands of Andrew Ayton around the neck of sister Agnes—when Mary Cunninghame.
THE LAIRD OF LAG.
One fine morning in April, as I was sauntering along the high-road leading to Dumfries, I observed a little way on the right-hand a small burying-ground, jealously protected from intrusion by a high wall and shaded by trees, whose boughs drooped in a half pensive manner, as if in sympathy with the memorials of the dead which were scattered around. Struck with the singularity of the situation, and the fact of there being no church within view, I turned my footsteps in the direction of the solitary burying-ground. Fortunately for the gratification of my curiosity, the old sexton—all sextons are old—was busily employed in digging a grave. While inspecting the various tombstones, some of which seemed very ancient, my attention was attracted towards a mass of ruins—apparently the remains of what had been a family burying-place. Unable to derive any information from the broken fragments that lay strewn around, I advanced towards the sexton, in order to have my curiosity gratified.
The old man raised his head at my approach, and in answer to my inquiry as to whose resting-place it was that was lying in ruins, whilst those around seemed in a state of good preservation, replied—pausing in the midst of his work and wiping his face with a handkerchief—"you must be a stranger in this part of the country, not to know that that is the grave of the Laird of Lag."
"The Laird of Lag!" I exclaimed; "what! is he buried here?"
"O yes ma'm," replied the sexton, "the Laird lies here."
"How comes it?" I inquired, smiling at the old man's sagacious look and still more mysterious shake of the head, "that his grave is in such a ruined state, whilst those around, bearing dates anterior to Lag's time, are still in good repair?"
The sexton remained mute for a moment or so, then approaching nearer, inquired of me in a confidential whisper, "whether I had observed the violence of the wind in the burying-ground, when elsewhere there reigned a perfect calm?"
I replied, "I had indeed remarked the circumstance, but supposed it was owing to the exposed situation in which the burying-ground was placed."
The old man shook his head as he answered, "Oh, no! that cannot be the reason; for even up amongst these hills, when not a leaf is stirring in the breeze, the wind there howls and tears along in the most boisterous manner." Then after a pause he added, "no, no; that's not the true explanation!"
"Well, then," I said, "but what has your theory of the high wind to do with the ruined state of Lag's grave?"
"Everything," he replied; "and if you will just have a little patience I'll explain it to you; but you must excuse my homely way of speaking, for I'm not good at the story-telling." Then sticking his spade into the ground and seating himself on a neighbouring stone, he supported his arm on the handle of his spade, in the attitude of one about to make some mysterious communication, and began as follows:—
It was in the winter time that Lag's grave was destroyed; and the night on which the occurrence took place was wild and stormy enough, but nothing to the like of me, who have seen many a fearful night in my young days, when—but let that pass, as it has nothing to do with my story. Well, as I was saying, it was rather a stormy evening, and the wind had an eerie sound as it moaned in the chimney and caused the window-frame to rattle in an odd sort of way; and my wife observed to me, just as I was on the point of falling asleep, "Oh, John, but this is an awful night for ony puir body to be out in!"
"Nonsense, wife," I replied; "I trust they may never be out in worse weather; it's a mere capful of wind, as the sailors say."
"May the Lord forgive ye, John, for you livity (levity);" so saying she gave me a push with her elbow, as a kind of rebuke for my light way of speaking.
Well, mim, I was awoke about the middle of the night by my wife giving me a pull of the arm, whilst she exclaimed in a voice almost inaudible through fear, "Oh! John, hear till that in the auld grave-yard; isn't that awful? what can it mean?"
I listened for a moment, and never in the whole course of my life had I heard such strange sounds—they were like nothing earthly. Up I got and ran to the window, which commands a view of this place, and suoh a sight as I then saw! May the Lord forgive me for the thought, but I was convinced all the devils were let loose that night. It was perfectly dark, and the trees were shaking and groaning in the blast, in a manner awful to hear; and every now and then a glimmering light appeared, as if some one was carrying a light in the grave-yard. You must know there's an idle story in the country, that Lag walks about in the night-time with a lighted taper in his hand, but I don't believe the like of that. Well, as I told you before, every now and again that strange light, which I took to be a "will-o'-the-wisp," appeared dancing about, and the flashes of lightning were bright and frequent; whilst strange wild sounds seemed borne on the blast, that shook the cottage to its foundation. Overcome with fright and amazement, I went back to my bed; but not much sleep did I get that night—neither did my wife; and mighty glad were we when the bright rays of the morning sun streamed through the window shutter. The first thing I did was to come here, in case any damage had been done in the course of the night; and sure enough, when I arrived, I found everything as I had left it on the preceding day, except Lag's burial-place, which was thrown to the ground, and the stones lying about just as you see them. Ever since that fearful night, the wind has never ceased blowing in this place; but, even in the calmest summer's day it howls and rushes along, as if rejoicing over the ruin it had made of the wicked persecutor's grave.
There was a pause after the sexton had finished his wild tale; the old man apparently was overcome at the remembrance of the horrors of that night, and I more than half-puzzled to account for the strange circumstance, supported by the evidence which the wreck around me attested in favour of the sexton's recital, at length inquired, after expressing the pleasure his narration had afforded me, "Why there was no church attached to the burying-ground, and what was its designation?"
To which he replied, "That the old parish church of Dunscore formerly stood here, but the heritors of the parish had found fault with its situation, it being too far removed from the more distant parts of Dunscore parish; consequently, it had been taken down, and a new church erected in a more convenient position."
I again demanded if he was acquainted with any old legends told in connection with the Laird of Lag, thinking there must be a good many extant which treated of his wild doings.
The sexton shook his head, and replied, No, ma'm, I cannot say that I do know anything of him in particular, not having paid much attention to the idle stories told in the parish; but, as I seemed fond of these kind of tales, he recommended me to visit an old woman, named Mrs. Walker, who was about ninety years of age, and who might be able to afford me some information on that subject.
After thanking the old man, and expressing my regret at having interrupted his labours, I turned to depart, when he called me back, for the purpose of attracting my attention to the fact that nothing but nettles and the rank weeds were growing around Lag's grave; and, said he, with emphasis, "Nothing in the shape of flowers ever would grow there, do what I could." After expressing my surprise at this singular occurrence, I bade him good morning, and directed my steps towards the habitation of Mrs. Walker. I found the old woman very comfortably seated in her arm-chair, by the kitchen fire, watching a piece of bread undergoing the process of toasting. This, and the fact of a brown delf tea-pot standing upon the hob, satisfied me that Mrs. Walker was about to regale herself with a comforting cup of tea.
Before proceeding further, I shall relate rather an amusing circumstance told in connection with a Mr. G——, who came to this part of the country for the express purpose of making good his claim to be one of the descendants of the Laird of Lag. Being very desirous of collecting all the information he could concerning his progenitor, he called upon all the old people whom he thought likely to assist him in his endeavours. Amongst others, he honoured Mrs. Walker with a visit. After having made a few inquiries concerning the object of his call, he abruptly demanded of her, "Well, Mrs. Walker, and what do you think of Lag?" "Oh, dear sirs!" she replied, "I never saw him!" "I am quite aware of that; but what have you heard of him?" "Nae gude, sir—nae gude!"
On entering the kitchen, I accosted Mrs. Walker, and informed her that, as I was desirous of hearing some of the wild tales that were told about the Laird of Lag, and understanding she was acquainted with many of the stories told in connection with that famous persecutor, I had taken the liberty of calling upon her, hoping she might be induced to relate one or two of the many with which her memory was stored. The old dame smiled complacently, at the same time observing, "That she was now an aged woman, entering upon her ninetieth year, consequently her memory was rather failing, and many of the tales she had heard regarding Lag in her youth had faded from her remembrance, like a vanished dream; but," she added, "if you will only wait until I have had my cup of tea, something may come across my mind that may chance to interest you." Cordially agreeing to the old dame's proposition, and refusing a cup of the exhilarating beverage, I amused myself with gazing at the numerous prints adorning the walls, which had evidently been chosen more with an eye to gaudy colouring than artistic merit.
Mrs. Walker, after having finished her meal, replaced the tea-pot near the fire, and arranging her dress—as is often the custom with story-tellers—commenced the following account of the Laird of Lag:—
"Well, ma'am, you see, Sir Robert Grierson, commonly called the Laird of Lag—more briefly Lag—was a noted persecutor, and dreaded by all who espoused the side of the Kirk and Covenant. A bad cruel man was he, and many were the bloody deeds he did in his day. Some said he wasn't so bad as people said, and others, again maintained he was worse; but let that pass, he did enough to win himself a bad name, and he got it, as was but justice. Well, Sir Robert married a daughter of the second Earl of Queensberry, who rejoiced in the appellation of the 'Deil o' Drumlanrig;' and what good could be expected from Sir Robert after forming a connection like that? If the laird was bad, his father-in-law was counted worse, as along with other bad qualities, he was a mad gamester, and it was not very long ere he made Sir Robert as noted as himself in that respect. Many were the nights they spent over the 'devil's books,' as they are justly called. In the end, the Laird was cleared out of all his property, except Rockhall, which, being strictly entailed, could not be touched."
Here Mrs. Walker paused for a moment, drew a deep breath, and then inquired, "If I had ever seen the account given of Lag in the 'People's Edition of the Scots' Worthies?'" Upon my answering in the negative, she immediately rose from her seat, and proceeded towards another apartment, when she presently returned with one or two numbers of this much-relished work, and once more seating herself in her comfortable chair, she donned her spectacles, and read aloud the following:—
"Sir Robert Grierson of Lag was another prime hero for the promoting of Satan's kingdom. We think that it was some time after Bothwell that he was made sheriff or sheriff-depute of Dumfries. But to relate all the fining, spoiling, oppression, and murders committed by this worthy of Satan, or champion of his kingdom, were beyond our intention. Besides £1200 of fines exacted in Galloway and Nithsdale shires, he was accessory to the murdering, under colour of their iniquitous laws, of Margaret M'Lachlan, aged sixty-three years, and Margaret Wilson, a young woman, whom they drowned at two stakes within the sea-mark at the water of Baldnook. For his cold-blood murders, he caused hang Gordon and Mr. Cubin on a growing tree near Irongray, and left them hanging there, 1686.
"The same year he apprehended Mr. Bell of Whiteside, D. Halliday of Mayfield, and three more, and without giving them time to pray, shot them dead on the spot. Mr. Bell, whom Sir Robert Grierson knew, earnestly entreated but a quarter of an hour to prepare for eternity; but this was refused.
"The reply was, 'What the devil, have you not had time to prepare since Bothwell?' (Here Mrs. Walker shook her head.) He was, therefore, instantly shot with the rest; and so far did this persecuting renegado push his revenge, that he even denied interment to their lifeless dust![#] Shortly after this, Lord Kenmuir happening to meet Lag with Claverhouse in Kirkcudbright, called him to account for his cruelty to Mr. Bell, and more especially for his inhumanity in refusing burial to his remains. Sir Robert answered with an oath, 'Take him, if you will, and salt him in your beef barrel.' The insulted nobleman immediately drew his sword, and must have ran him through the body, had not Claverhouse interposed. And surely such a death had been too honourable for such a villain.