Clavers ordered them all to be shot. They craved time to pray, but he objected, sullenly alleging, that he had not time to spare. Mr Copland said,—“My lord, you had better grant the poor wretches that small indulgence.” On which Clavers took out his watch, and said he would grant them two minutes, provided they did not howl. When the man with the hurt arm turned round to kneel, Walter could not help crying out to him in a voice half stifled with agony—
“Ah! lak–a–day, man! is it come to this with you, and that so soon? This is a sad sight!”
The man pretended to put on a strange and astonished look towards his benefactor.
“Whoever you are,” said he, “that pities the sufferings of a hapless stranger, I thank you. May God requite you! but think of yourself, and apply for mercy where it is tobe found, for you are in the hands of those whose boast it is to despise it.”
Walter at first thought this was strange, but he soon perceived the policy of it, and wondered at his friend’s readiness at such an awful hour, when any acknowledgment of connection would have been so fatal to himself. They kneeled all down, clasped their hands together, turned their faces to Heaven, and prayed in a scarce audible whisper. Captain Bruce, in the mean time, kneeled behind the files, and prayed in mockery, making a long face, wiping his eyes, and speaking in such a ludicrous whine, that it was impossible for the gravest face to retain its muscles unaltered. He had more to attend to him than the miserable sufferers. When the two minutes were expired, Clavers, who held his watch all the time, made a sign to the dragoons who were drawn up, without giving any intimation to the sufferers, which, perhaps, was merciful, and in a moment all the four were launched into eternity.
The soldiers, for what reason Walter never understood, stretched the bodies all in a straight line on the brae, with their faces upwards, and about a yard distant from one another, and then rode off as fast as they could to get another hunt, as they called it. These four men were afterwards carried by the fugitives, and some country people, and decently interred in Ettrick church–yard. Their graves are all in a row a few paces from the south–west corner of the present church. The goodman of Chapelhope, some years thereafter, erected a head–stone over the grave of the unfortunate sufferer whose arm he had broken, which, with its rude sculpture, is to be seen to this day. His name was Walter Biggar. A small heap of stones is raised on the place where they were shot.
The last look which Walter took of the four corpses, as they lay stretched on the brae, with the blood streaming from them, had nearly turned his brain. His heart sunk within him. For years and days theynever left his mind’s eye, sleeping nor waking. He always thought he saw them lying on the green sloping brae, with their pale visages, blue open lips, clasped hands, and dim stedfast eyes still fixed on the Heavens. He had heard Clavers and his officers called heroes: He wished those who believed so had been there that day to have judged who were the greatest heroes.
“There! let them take that!” said Captain Bruce, as he mounted his horse.
“Poor misled unfortunate beings!” said Copland, and mounted his.
“Huh! Cot t‑‑n!” said Roy Macpherson, in a voice that seemed to struggle for an outlet; and Walter, to his astonishment, saw a tear glistening on his rough weather–beaten cheek, as he turned to ride away!
The pursuit continued unabated for the whole of that day. There was a great deal of firing, but the hills of Polmoody were inaccessible to cavalry. There was no more blood shed. They lodged that night at a place called Kippelgill, where they putevery thing in requisition about the house, and killed some of the cattle. Clavers was in extremely bad humour, and Walter had no doubt that he once intended to have sacrificed him that night, but seemed to change his mind, after having again examined him. He was very stern, and threatened him with the torture, swearing that he knew him to be the supporter of that nest of miscreants that harboured around him, and that though he should keep him prisoner for a dozen years, he would have it proven on him. Walter made oath that there had never one of them been within his door, consistent with his knowledge; that he had never been at a conventicle; and proffered to take the test, and oath of abjuration, if allowed to do so. All this would not satisfy Clavers. Walter said he wondered at his discernment, for, without the least evil or disloyal intent, he found he had rendered himself liable to punishment, but how he could be aware of that he knew not.
That night Walter was confined in a cow–house, under the same guard that had conducted him from Chapelhope. The soldiers put his arms round one of the stakes for the cattle, and then screwed on the thumbikins, so that he was fastened to the stake without being much incommoded. When Macpherson came in at a late hour, (for he was obliged likewise to take up his abode in the cow–house over night), the first word he said was,—
“Cot t‑‑n, she no pe liking to schee an honest shentleman tied up to a stake, as she were peing a poollock.”
He then began to lecture Walter on the magnitude of folly it would be in him to run away, “when he took it into consideration that he had a ponny fhamily, and sheeps, and horses, and bheasts, that would all pe maide acchountable.”
Walter acknowledged the force of his reasoning; said it was sterling common sense, and that nothing would induce him to attempt such a dangerous experiment asattempting to make his escape. Macpherson then loosed him altogether, and conversed with him until he fell asleep. Walter asked him, what he thought of his case with the general? Macpherson shook his head. Walter said there was not the shadow of a proof against him!
“No!” said Macpherson; “py cot’s curse but there is! There is very much deal of proof. Was not there my countrymen and scholdiers murdered on your grhounds? Was not there mhore scoans, and prochin, and muttons in your house, than would have peen eaten in a mhonth by the fhamily that pelongs to yourself. By the pode more of the auld deal, but there is more proof than would hang twenty poor peheoples.”
“That’s but sma’ comfort, man! But what think ye I should do?”
“Cot t‑‑n, if I know!—Who is it that is your Chief?”
“Chief!—What’s that?”
“Tat is te head of te clan—Te pig man of your name and fhamily.”
“In troth, man, an’ there isna ane o’ my name aboon mysel.”
“Fwat? Cot’s everlasting plissing! are you te chief of te clan, M’Leadle? Then, sir, you are a shentleman indeed. Though your clan should pe never so poor, you are a shentleman; and you must pe giving me your hand; and you need not think any shame to pe giving me your hand; for hersel pe a shentleman pred and porn, and furst coosin to Cluny Macpherson’s sister–in–law. Who te deal dha more she pe this clan, M’Leadle? She must be of Macleane. She ance pe prhother to ourselves, but fell into great dishunity by the preaking off of Finlay Gorm More Machalabin Macleane of Ilanterach and Ardnamurchan.”
Walter having thus set Daniel Roy Macpherson on the top of his hobby–horse by chance, there was no end of the matter! He went on with genealogies of uncouthnames, and spoke of some old free–booters as the greatest of all kings. Walter had no means of stopping him, but by pretending to fall asleep, and when Macpherson weened that no one was listening farther to him, he gave up the theme, turned himself over, and uttered some fervent sentences in Gaelic, with heavy moans between.
“What’s that you are saying now,” said Walter, pretending to rouse himself up.
“Pe sad works this,” said he. “Huh! Cot in heaven aye! Hersel would be fighting te Campbells, sword in hand, for every inch of the Moor of Rhanoch; but Cot t‑‑n, if she like to pe pluffing and shooting through te podies of te poor helpless insignificant crheatures. T‑‑n’d foolish ignorant peheople! Cot t‑‑n, if she pe having the good sense and prhudence of a bheast.”
Walter commended his feeling, and again asked his advice with regard to his own conduct.
“Who is te great man tat is te laird to yourself?” asked he.
“Mr Hay of Drumelzier,” was answered.
“Then lose not a mhoment in getting his very good report or security. All goes by that. It will do more ghood than any stock of innocence; and you had need to look very sharp, else he may soon cut you short. It’s a very good and a very kind man, but she pe caring no more for the lives of peoples, tan I would do for as many ptarmigans.”
Walter pondered on this hint throughout the night; and the more he did so the more he was convinced, that, as the affairs of the country were then conducted, Macpherson’s advice was of the first utility. He sent for one of the shepherds of Kippelgill next morning, charged him with an express to his family, and unable to do any thing further for himself, submitted patiently to his fate.
Clavers having been informed that night that some great conventicles had been held to the southward, he arose early, crossed the mountains by the Pennera Corse, andentered that district of the south called Eskdale. He had run short of ammunition by the way, and knowing of no other supply, dispatched Bruce with 20 men by the way of Ettrick, to plunder the aisle where the ancient and noble family of the Scotts of Thirlstane were enshrined in massy leaden chests. From these he cut the lids, and otherwise damaged them, scattering the bones about in the aisle; but the Scotts of Daventon shortly after gathered up the relics of their ancestors, which they again deposited in the chests,—closed them up with wooden lids, and buried them deep under the aisle floor, that they might no more be discomposed by the hand of wanton depravity.
At a place called the Steps of Glenderg, Clavers met with Sir James Johnston of Westeraw, with fifty armed men, who gave him an exaggerated account of the district of Eskdale, telling him of such and such field–meetings, and what inflammatory discourses had there been delivered, insinuatingall the while that the whole dale ought to be made an example of. Clavers rejoiced in his heart at this, for the works of devastation and destruction were beginning to wear short. The Covenanters were now so sorely reduced, that scarcely durst one show his face, unless it were to the moon and stars of Heaven. A striking instance of this I may here relate by the way, as it happened on the very day to which my tale has conducted me.
A poor wanderer, named, I think, Matthew Douglas, had skulked about these mountains, chiefly in a wild glen, called the Caldron, ever since the battle of Bothwell–bridge. He had made several narrow, and, as he thought, most providential escapes, but was at length quite overcome by famine, cold, and watching; and finding his end approaching, he crept by night into a poor widow’s house at Kennelburn, whose name, if my informer is not mistaken, was Ann Hyslop. Ann was not a Cameronian, but being of a gentle and humane disposition,she received the dying man kindly—watched, and even wept over him, administering to all his wants. But the vital springs of life were exhausted and dried up: He died on the second day after his arrival, and was buried with great privacy, by night, in the church–yard at Westerkirk.
Sir James Johnston had been a zealous Covenanter, and at first refused the test with great indignation; but seeing the dangerous ground on which he stood and that his hand was on the lion’s mane, he renounced these principles; and, to render his apostacy effective, became for a time a most violent distresser of his former friends. He knew at this time that Clavers was coming round; and in order to ingratiate himself with him, he had for several days been raging up and down the country like a roaring lion, as they termed it. It came to his ears what Ann Hyslop had done; whereon, pretending great rage, he went with his party to the burial ground, digged the body out of the grave, and threw it over thechurch–yard wall for beasts of prey to devour. Forthwith he proceeded to Kennelburn—plundered the house of Ann Hyslop, and then burnt it to ashes; but herself he could not find, for she had previously absconded. Proceeding to the boundary of the county, he met and welcomed Clavers to his assistance, breathing nothing but revenge against all non–conformists, and those of his own district in particular.
Clavers knew mankind well. He perceived the moving cause of all this, and did not appear so forward and hearty in the business as Sir James expected. He resolved to ravage Eskdale, but to manage matters so that the whole blame might fall on Johnston. This he effected so completely, that he made that knight to be detested there as long as he lived, and his memory to be abhorred after his decease. He found him forward in the cause; and still the more so that he appeared to be, the more shy and backward was Clavers, appearing to consent to every thing with reluctance.They condemned the stocks of sheep on Fingland and the Casways on very shallow grounds. Clavers proposed to spare them; but Sir James swore that they should not be spared, that their owners might learn the value of conventicles.
“Well, well,” said Clavers, “since you will have it so, let them be driven off.”
In this manner they proceeded down that unhappy dale, and at Craikhaugh, by sheer accident, lighted on Andrew Hyslop, son to the widow of Kennelburn above–mentioned. Johnston apprehended him, cursed, threatened, and gnashed his teeth on him with perfect rage. He was a beautiful youth, only nineteen years of age. On his examination, it appeared that he had not been at home, nor had any hand in sheltering the deceased; but he knew, he said, that his mother had done so, and in doing it, had done well; and he was satisfied that act of her’s would be approven of in the eye of the Almighty.
Clavers asked, “Have you ever attended the field conventicles?”
“No.”
“Have you ever preached yourself?”
“No.”
“Do you think that you could preach?”
“I am sure I could not.”
“I’ll be d‑‑d but you can pray then,” said he.
He then proffered him his liberty if he would confess that his mother had done wrong, but this he would in no wise do; for, he said, it would be a sinful and shameful lie, he being convinced that his mother had done what was her duty, and the duty of every Christian to do towards his fellow–creatures.
Johnston swore he should be shot. Clavers hesitated, and made some objections; but the other persisting, as Clavers knew he would, the latter consented, as formerly, saying, “Well, well, since you will have it so, let it be done—his blood be on yourhead, I am free of it.—Daniel Roy Macpherson, draw up your file, and put the sentence in execution.”
Hyslop kneeled down. They bade him put on his bonnet, and draw it over his eyes; but this he calmly refused, saying, “He had done nothing of which he was ashamed, and could look on his murderers and to Heaven without dismay.”
When Macpherson heard this, and looked at him as he kneeled on the ground with his hands pinioned, his beautiful young face turned toward the sky, and his long fair ringlets hanging waving backward, his heart melted within him, and the great tears had for sometime been hopping down his cheeks. When Clavers gave the word of command to shoot the youth, Macpherson drew up his men in a moment—wheeled them off at the side—presented arms—and then answered the order of the general as follows, in a voice that was quite choaked one while, and came forth in great volliesat another—“Now, Cot t‑‑n—sh—sh—she’ll rather pe fighting Clavers and all her draghoons, pe—pe—pefore she’ll pe killing tat dear good lhad.”
Captain Bruce burst out into a horse–laugh, leaping and clapping his hands on hearing such a singular reply; even Clavers had much ado to suppress a smile, which, however, he effected by uttering a horrible curse.
“I had forgot, Sir James,” said he; “Macpherson is as brave a man as ever strode on a field of battle; but in domestic concerns, he has the heart of a chicken.”
He then ordered four of his own guards to shoot him, which they executed in a moment. Some of his acquaintances being present, they requested permission of Clavers to bury him, which he readily granted, and he was interred on the very spot where he fell. A grave stone was afterwards erected over him, which is still to be seen at Craikhaugh, near the side of the road, a little to the north of the Church of Eskdale–muir.
Clavers and his prisoner lodged at Westeraw that night. Johnston wanted to have him shot; but to this Clavers objected, though rather in a jocular manner.
Walter said, he was sure if Sir James had repeated his request another time, that Clavers’ answer would have been, “Well, well, since you will have it so,” &c.; but, fortunately for Walter, he desisted just in time.
These two redoubted champions continued their progress all next day; and on the third, at evening, Clavers crossed Dryfe, with nine thousand sheep, three hundred goats, and about as many cattle and horses, in his train, taken from the people of Eskdale alone. He took care to herry Sir James’s tenants, in particular, of every thing they possessed, and apparently all by their laird’s desire, so that very little of the blame attached to the general. He was heard to say to Sir Thomas Livingston that night, “I trow, we hae left the silly turn–coat a pirn to wind.”—But wemust now leave them to continue their route of rapine and devastation, and return to the distressed family of Chapelhope, in order that we may watch the doings of the Brownie of Bodsbeck.
For all Maron Linton’s grievous distresses, the arrival of Clerk, the curate, proved an antidote of no small avail. It was a great comfort to her, in the midst of her afflictions; and after she had been assured by him of Walter’s perfect safety, she became apparently more happy, and certainly more loquacious, than she had been for a great while byegone. She disclosed to him the dreadful secret, that her child was possessed of an evil spirit, and implored his influence with Heaven, and his power with hell, for its removal. This he readily undertook, on condition of being locked up with the maiden for a night, ortwo at most. She was to be left solely to his management; without the interference of any other human being; and with the help only of the Bible, the lamp, and the hour–glass, he declared that he would drive the unclean spirit from his tabernacle of clay.
To these conditions Maron Linton gladly assented; and, with grateful and fond acknowledgments, called him their benefactor and spiritual guide, their deliverer and shield; but he checked her, and said, there was still one condition more on which she behoved to condescend. It was likely that he might be under the hard necessity of using some violent measures in exorcising her, for it would be hard to drive the malignant spirit from so sweet a habitation; but whatever noises might be heard, no one was to interfere, or even listen, upon pain of being delivered up to the foul spirit, soul and body; and it was ten to one that any who was so imprudent as to intrude on theseawful and mysterious rites, might be torn in pieces.
Maron blest herself from all interference, and gave Nanny directions to the same purport; as for the two boys, they slept out of hearing. She likewise gave him the key, that he might lock both the doors of the Old Room in the inside, and thus prevent all intrusions, should any be offered. He said prayers in the family, to which Katharine was admitted; and then taking the lamp and the hour–glass in his hand, and the Bible below his arm, he departed into the Old Room, where, in about half an hour afterwards, the maiden was summoned to attend him. He took her respectfully by the hand, and seated her on a chair at the side of the bed, saying, that he was commissioned by her worthy mother to hold a little private conversation with her. Then locking the door, and putting the key in his pocket, he added, “You are my prisoner for this night, but be not alarmed; I have undertaken to drive an evilspirit away from you, but both my exorcisms and orisons shall be adapted to the feelings of a young maiden, and as agreeable to one whom I so much admire, as it is in my power to make them.”
Katharine grew as pale as death as he uttered these words, and placed himself cordially by her side.
It is unmeet to relate the conversation that ensued; but the worthy curate soon showed off in his true colours, and with unblushing front ventured a proposal that shocked the innocent and modest Katharine so much, that she could only reply to it by holding up her hands, and uttering a loud exclamation of astonishment. His further precedure soon convinced her, that she was in the hands of a man who was determined to take every advantage of the opportunity thus unwarrantably afforded him, and to stick at no atrocity for the accomplishment of his purposes.
She neither descended to tears nor entreaties, but resisted all his approaches witha firmness and dignity that he never conceived to have formed any part of her character; and, when continuing to press her hand, she said to him, “You had better keep your distance, Mass John Clerk, and consider what befits your character, and the confidence reposed in you by my unsuspecting parent; but I tell you, if you again presume to touch me, though it were but with one of your fingers, I will, in a moment, bring those out of the chink of the wall, or from under that hearth, that shall lay you motionless at my feet in the twinkling of an eye, or bear you off to any part of the creation that I shall name.”
He smiled as she said this, and was about to turn it into a jest; but on looking at her face, he perceived that there was not one trait of jocularity in it. It beamed with a mystical serenity which sent a chillness through his whole frame; and, for the first time, he deemed her deranged, or possessed in some manner, he wist not how. Staunch, however, to his honourable purpose,he became so unequivocal, that she was obliged to devise some means of attaining a temporary cessation; and feigning to hesitate on his proposal, she requested a minute or two to speak.
“I am but young, Mass John,” said she, “and have no experience in the ways of the world; and it seems, from what you have advanced, that I attach more importance to some matters than they deserve. But I beg of you to give me a little time to reflect on the proposal you have made. See that hour–glass is half run out already: I only ask of you not to disturb or importune me until it run out a second time.”
“And do you then promise to do as I request?” said he.
“I do,” returned she, “provided you still continue of the same mind as you are now.”
“My mind is made up,” said he, “and my resolution taken in all that relates to you; nevertheless, it would be hard to refuse a maid so gentle and modest a request—Igrant it—and should you attempt to break off your engagement at the expiry of the time, it shall be the worse for you.”
“Be it so,” replied she; “in the meantime let me be undisturbed till then.” And so saying, she arose and went aside to the little table where the Bible and the lamp were placed, and began with great seriousness to search out, and peruse parts of the sacred volume.
Clerk liked not this contemplative mood, and tried every wile in his power to draw her attention from the Scriptures. He sought out parts which he desired her to read, if she would read; but from these she turned away without deigning to regard them, and gently reminded him that he had broken one of his conditions. “Maids only impose such conditions on men,” said he, “as they desire should be broken.” At this she regarded him with a look of ineffable contempt, and continued to read on in her Bible.
The hour of midnight was now passed,—thesand had nearly run out for the second time since the delay had been acceded to, and Clerk had been for a while tapping the glass on the side, and shaking it, to make it empty its contents the sooner. Katharine likewise began to eye it with looks that manifested some degree of perturbation; she clasped the Bible, and sate still in one position, as if listening attentively for some sound or signal. The worthy curate at length held the hour–glass up between her eye and the burning lamp,—the last lingering pile of sand fell reluctantly out as he shook it in that position,—anxiety and suspense settled more deeply on the lovely and serene face of Katharine; but instead of a flexible timidity, it assumed an air of sternness. At that instant the cock crew,—she started,—heaved a deep sigh, like one that feels a sudden relief from pain, and a beam of joy shed its radiance over her countenance. Clerk was astonished,—he could not divine the source or cause of her emotions, but judging from his own corruptheart, he judged amiss. True however to his point, he reminded her of her promise, and claimed its fulfilment. She deigned no reply to his threats or promises, but kept her eye steadfastly fixed on another part of the room. He bade her remember that he was not to be mocked, and in spite of her exertions, he lifted her up in his arms, and carried her across the room towards the bed. She uttered a loud scream, and in a moment the outer–door that entered from the bank was opened, and a being of such unearthly dimensions entered, as you may never wholly define. It was the Brownie of Bodsbeck, sometimes mentioned before, small of stature, and its whole form utterly mis–shaped. Its beard was long and grey, while its look, and every lineament of its face, were indicative of agony—its locks were thin, dishevelled, and white, and its back hunched up behind its head. There seemed to be more of the same species of hagard beings lingering behind at the door, but this alone advanced with a slowmajestic pace. Mass John uttered two involuntary cries, somewhat resembling the shrill bellowings of an angry bull, mixed with inarticulate rumblings,—sunk powerless on the floor, and, with a deep shivering groan, fainted away. Katharine, stretching forth her hands, flew to meet her unearthly guardian;—“Welcome, my watchful and redoubted Brownie,” said she; “thou art well worthy to be familiar with an empress, rather than an insignificant country maiden.”
“Brownie’s here, Brownie’s thereBrownie’s with thee every where,”
“Brownie’s here, Brownie’s thereBrownie’s with thee every where,”
said the dwarfish spirit, and led her off in triumph.
Having bethought herself after she went out, she returned lightly, took the keys from the pocket of the forlorn priest, extinguished the lamp, and again disappeared, locking the door on the outside.
Mass John’s trance threw him into a heavy and perturbed slumber, which overpoweredhim for a long space; and even after he awaked, it was long before he could fathom the circumstances of his case, for he imagined he had only been in a frightful and oppressive dream; till, beginning to grope about, he discovered that he was lying on the damp floor with his clothes on; and at length, without opening his eyes, he recovered by degrees his reasoning faculties, and was able to retrace the circumstances that led to his present situation. He arose in great dismay—the day–light had begun to shine into the room, and finding that both doors were locked, he deemed it unadvisable to make any noise, and threw himself upon the bed. The retrospect of his adventure was fraught with shame and astonishment. He had acted a considerable part in it, but he had dreamed of a great deal more, and with all his ingenuity he could not separate in his mind the real incidents from those that were imaginary. He arose with the sun, and rapped gently at the inner–door, which, to his still fartherastonishment, was opened by Katharine, in her usual neat and cleanly morning dress. He stared in her face, to mark if he could read any meaning in it—he could distinguish none that spoke a language to him either good or bad—it was a face of calm decent serenity, and wore no shade of either shame or anger—somewhat paler than it was the evening before, but still as lovely as ever. The curate seemed gasping for breath, but not having courage to address her, he walked forth to the open air.
It was a beautiful morning in September; the ground was covered with a slight hoar frost, and a cloud of light haze (or as the country people call it,the blue ouder,) slept upon the long valley of water, and reached nearly midway up the hills. The morning sun shone full upon it, making it appear like an ocean of silvery down. It vanished by imperceptible degrees into the clear blue firmament, and was succeeded by a warm sun and a southerly breeze. It was such a morning ascould not fail to cheer and re–animate every heart and frame, not wholly overcome by guilt and disease—Clark’s were neither—he was depraved of heart, but insensible to the evil of such a disposition; he had, moreover, been a hanger–on from his youth upward, and had an effrontery not to be outfaced. Of course, by the time he had finished a three–hour’s walk, he felt himself so much refreshed and invigorated in mind, that he resolved not to expose himself to the goodwife, who was his principal stay and support among his straggled and dissatisfied flock, by a confession of the dreadful fright he had gotten, but to weather out the storm with as lofty and saintly a deportment as he could.
He had not well gone out when the lad of Kepplegill arrived, and delivered to Katharine her father’s letter. She saw the propriety of the injunction which it bore, and that an immediate application to their laird, Drumelzier, who was then high intrust and favour with the party in power, was the likeliest of all ways to procure her father’s relief, neither durst she trust the mission to any but herself. But ah! there was a concealed weight that pressed upon her spirit—a secret circumstance that compelled her to stay at home, and which could not be revealed to mortal ear. Her father’s fate was at present uncertain and ticklish, but that secret once revealed, tortures, death, and ruin were inevitable—the doom of the whole family was sealed. She knew not what to do, for she had none to advise with. There was but one on earth to whom this secret could be imparted; indeed there was but one in whose power it was to execute the trust which the circumstances of the case required, and that was old Nanny, who was crazed, fearless, and altogether inscrutable. Another trial, however, of her religious principles, and adherence to the established rules of church government in the country, was absolutely necessary; and tothat trial our young and mysterious heroine went with all possible haste, as well as precaution.
Whosoever readeth this must paint to themselves old Nanny, and they must paint her aright, with her thin fantastic form and antiquated dress, bustling up and down the house. Her fine stock of bannocks had been all exhausted—the troopers and their horses had left nothing in her master’s house that could either be eaten or conveniently carried away. She had been early astir, as well as her sedate and thoughtful young dame, had been busy all the morning, and the whole time her tongue never at rest. She had been singing one while, speaking to herself another, and every now and then intermixing bitter reflections on Clavers and his troops.
“Wae be to them for a pack o’ greedy gallayniels—they haena the mence of a miller’s yaud; for though she’ll stap her nose into every body’s pock, yet when she’s fou she’ll carry naething wi’ her. Heichow!wae’s me, that I sude hae lived to see the day! That ever I sude hae lived to see the colehood take the laverock’s place; and the stanchel and the merlin chatterin’ frae the cushat’s nest! Ah! wae’s me! will the sweet voice o’ the turtle–doo be nae mair heard in our land! There was a time when I sat on the bonny green brae an’ listened to it till the tears dreepit frae my een, an’ a’ the hairs o’ my head stood on end!—The hairs o’ my head?—Ay, that’s nae lie! They’re grey now, an’ will soon be snaw–white if heart’s care can alter them; but they will never be sae white as they anes war. I saw the siller–grey lock o’ age, an’ the manly curls o’ youth wavin’ at my side that day!—But where are they now? A’ mouled! a’ mouled!—But the druckit blood winna let them rot! I’ll see them rise fresh an’ bonny! I’ll look round to my right hand and ane will sae, ‘Mother! my dear mother, are you here with us?’ I’ll turn to my left hand, another will say, ‘Nanny! my dear and faithful wife, are you too herewith us?’—I’ll say, ‘Ay, John, I’m here; I was yours in life; I have been yours in death; an’ I’ll be yours in life again.’—Dear bairn, dear bairn, are you there,” continued she, observing Katharine standing close behind her; “what was I saying, or where was I at? I little wat outher what I was saying or doing.—Hout ay; I was gaun ower some auld things, but they’re a’ like a dream, an’ when I get amang them I’m hardly mysel. Dear bairn, ye maunna mind an auld crazy body’s reveries.”
There was some need for this apology, if Nanny’s frame, air, and attitude, are taken into account. She was standing with her back to the light, mixing meal with water, whereof to make bread—her mutch, ornight–hussing, as she called it, was tied close down over her cheeks and brow as usual; her grey locks hanging dishevelled from under it; and as she uttered the last sentence, immediately before noticing her young mistress, her thin mealy hands werestretched upwards, her head and body bent back, and her voice like one in a paroxysm. Katharine quaked, although well accustomed to scenes of no ordinary nature.
“Nanny,” said she, “there is something that preys upon your mind—some great calamity that recurs to your memory, and goes near to unhinge your tranquillity of mind, if not your reason. Will you inform me of it, good Nanny, that I may talk and sympathize with you over it?”
“Dear bairn, nae loss ava—A’ profit! a’ profit i’the main! I haena biggit a bield o’ the windlestrae, nor lippened my weight to a broken reed! Na, na, dear bairn; nae loss ava.”
“But, Nanny, I have overheard you in your most secret hours, in your prayers and self–examinations.”
At the mention of this Nanny turned about, and after a wild searching stare in her young mistress’s face, while every nerve of her frame seemed to shrink from the recollectionof the disclosures she feared she had made, she answered as follows, in a deep and tremulous tone:—
“That was atween God and me—There was neither language nor sound there for the ear o’ flesh!—It was unfair!—It was unfair!—Ye are mistress here, and ye keep the keys o’ the aumbry, the kitchen, the ha’, an’ the hale house; but wi’ the secret keys o’ the heart and conscience ye hae naething to do!—the keys o’ the sma’est portal that leads to heaven or hell are nane o’ yours; therefore, what ye hae done was unfair. If I chose, sinful and miserable as I am, to converse with my God about the dead as if they war living, an’ of the living as if they war dead, what’s that to you? Or if I likit to take counsel of that which exists only in my own mind, is the rackle hand o’ steelrife power to make a handle o’ that to grind the very hearts of the just and the good, or turn the poor wasted frame o’ eild and resignation on the wheel?—Lack–a–day, my dear bairn, I’m lost again! Yecanna an’ ye maunna forgie me now. Walth’s dear, an’ life’s dearer—but sin’ it maun be sae, twal o’clock sanna find me aneath your roof—there shall naebody suffer for harbouring poor auld Nanny—she has seen better days, an’ she hopes to see better anes again; but it’s lang sin’ the warld’s weel an’ the warld’s wae came baith to her alike. I maun e’en bid ye fareweel, my bonny bairn, but I maun tell ye ere I gae that ye’re i’thebraid way. Ye hae some good things about ye, and O, it is a pity that a dear sweet soul should be lost for want o’ light to direct! How can a dear bairn find the right way wi’ its een tied up? But I maun haud my tongue an’ leave ye—I wad fain greet, but I hae lost the gate o’t, for the fountain–head has been lang run dry—Weel, weel—it’s a’ ower!—nae mair about it—How’s this the auld sang gaes?
When the well runs dry then the rain is nigh,The heavens o’ earth maun borrow,An’ the streams that stray thro’ the wastes the day,May sail aboon the morrow.Then dinna mourn, my bonny bird,I downa bide to hear ye;The storm may blaw, and the rain may fa’,But nouther sal come near ye.O dinna weep for the day that’s gane,Nor on the present ponder,For thou shalt sing on the laverock’s wing,An’ far away beyond her.”
When the well runs dry then the rain is nigh,The heavens o’ earth maun borrow,An’ the streams that stray thro’ the wastes the day,May sail aboon the morrow.
Then dinna mourn, my bonny bird,I downa bide to hear ye;The storm may blaw, and the rain may fa’,But nouther sal come near ye.
O dinna weep for the day that’s gane,Nor on the present ponder,For thou shalt sing on the laverock’s wing,An’ far away beyond her.”
This Nanny sung to an air so soothing, and at the same time so melancholy, it was impossible to listen to her unaffected, especially as she herself was peculiarly so—a beam of wild delight glanced in her eye, but it was like the joy of grief, (if one may be allowed the expression,) if not actually the joy of madness. Nothing could be more interesting than her character was now to the bewildered Katharine—it arose to her eyes, and grew on her mind like a vision. She had been led previously to regard her as having been crazed from her birth, and her songs and chaunts to be mere ravings of fancy, strung in rhymes to suit favourite airs, or old scraps of balladsvoid of meaning, that she had learned in her youth. But there was a wild elegance at times in her manner of thinking and expression—a dash of sublimity that was inconsistent with such an idea. “Is it possible,” (thus reasoned the maiden with herself,) “that this demeanour can be the effect of great worldly trouble and loss?—Perhaps she is bereft of all those who were near and dear to her in life—is left alone as it were in this world, and has lost a relish for all its concerns, while her whole hope, heart, and mind, is fixed on a home above, to which all her thoughts, dreams, and even her ravings insensibly turn, and to which the very songs and chaunts of her youthful days are modelled anew. If such is really her case, how I could sympathize with her in all her feelings!”
“Nanny,” said she, “how wofully you misapprehend me; I came to exchange burdens of heart and conscience with you—to confide in you, and love you: Why will not you do the same with me, and tellme what loss it is that you seem to bewail night and day, and what affecting theme it is that thus puts you beside yourself?—If I judge not far amiss, the knowledge of this is of greater import to my peace than aught in the world beside, and will lead to a secret from me that deeply concerns us both.”
Nanny’s suspicions were aroused, not laid, by this speech; she eyed her young mistress steadfastly for a while, smiled, and shook her head.
“Sae young, sae bonny, and yet sae cunning!” said she. “Judas coudna hae sic a face, but he had nouther a fairer tongue nor a fauser heart!—A secret frae you, dear bairn! what secret can come frae you, but some bit waefu’ love story, enough to mak the pinks an’ the ewe gowans blush to the very lip? My heart’s wae for ye, ae way an’ a’ ways; but its a part of your curse—woman sinned an’ woman maun suffer—her hale life is but a succession o’ shame, degradation, and suffering, frae her cradle till her grave.”
Katharine was dumb for a space, for reasoning with Nanny was out of the question.
“You may one day rue this misprision of my motives, Nanny,” rejoined she; “in the mean time, I am obliged to leave home, on an express that concerns my father’s life and fortune; be careful of my mother until my return, and of every thing about the house, for the charge of all must devolve for a space on you.”
“That I will, dear bairn—the thing that Nanny has ta’en in hand sanna be neglected, if her twa hands can do it, and her auld crazed head comprehend it.”
“But, first, tell me, and tell me seriously, Nanny, are you subject to any apprehension or terror on account of spirits?”
“Nae mair feared for them than I am for you, an’ no half sae muckle, wi’ your leave.—Spirits, quoth I!
Little misters it to meWhar they gang, or whar they ride;Round the hillock, on the lea,Round the auld borral tree,Or bourock by the burn side;Deep within the bogle–howe,Wi’ his haffats in a lowe,Wons the waefu’ wirricowe.
Little misters it to meWhar they gang, or whar they ride;Round the hillock, on the lea,Round the auld borral tree,Or bourock by the burn side;Deep within the bogle–howe,Wi’ his haffats in a lowe,Wons the waefu’ wirricowe.
“Ah! noble Cleland! it is like his wayward freaks an’ whimsies! Did ye never hear it, you that speaks about spirits as they war your door neighbours? It’s a clever thing; his sister sung it; I think, it rins this gate—hum! but then the dilogue comes in, and it is sae kamshachle I canna word it, though I canna say it’s misleared either.”
“Dear Nanny, that is far from my question. You say you are nothing afraid of spirits?”
“An’ why should I? If they be good spirits, they will do me nae ill; and if they be evil spirits, they hae nae power here. Thinkna ye that He that takes care o’ me throughout the day, is as able to do it by night? Na, na, dear bairn, I hae contendit wi’ the warst o’ a’ spirits face to face, handto hand, and breast to breast; ay, an’ for a’ his power, an’ a’ his might, I dang him; and packed him off baffled and shamed!—Little reason hae I to be feared for ony o’ his black emissaries.”
“Should one appear to you bodily, would you be nothing distracted or frightened?”
“In my own strength I could not stand it, but yet I would stand it.”
“That gives me joy—Then, Nanny, list to me: You will assuredly see one in my absence; and you must take good heed to my directions, and act precisely as I bid you.”
Nanny gave up her work, and listened in suspense. “Then it is a’ true that the fock says!” said she, with a long–drawn sigh. “His presence be about us!”
“How sensibly you spoke just now! Where is your faith fled already? I tell you there will one appear to you every night in my absence, precisely on the first crowing of the cock, about an hour after midnight, and you must give him everything that he asks, else it may fare the worse with you, and all about the house.”
Nanny’s limbs were unable to support her weight—they trembled under her. She sat down on a form, leaned her brow upon both hands, and recited the 63d Psalm from beginning to end in a fervent tone.
“I wasna prepared for this,” said she. “I fear, though my faith may stand it, my wits will not. Dear, dear bairn, is there nae way to get aff frae sic a trial?”
“There is only one, which is fraught with danger of another sort; but were I sure that I could trust you with it, all might be well, and you would rest free from any intercourse with that unearthly visitant, of whom it seems you are so much in terror.”
“For my own sake ye may trust me there: Ony thing but a bogle face to face at midnight, an’ me a’ my lane. It is right wonderfu’, though I ken I’ll soon be in a warld o’ spirits, an’ that I maun mingle an’ mool wi’ them for ages, how the naturewithin me revolts at a’ communion wi’ them here. Dear bairn, gie me your other plan, an’ trust me for my own sake.”
“It is this—but if you adopt it, for your life an’ soul let no one in this place know of it but yourself:—It is to admit one or two of the fugitive whigs,—these people that skulk and pray about the mountains, privily into the house every night, until my return. If you will give me any test of your secrecy and truth, I will find ways and means of bringing them to you, which will effectually bar all intrusion of bogle or Brownie on your quiet; or should any such dare to appear, they will deal with it themselves.”
“An’canthe presence o’ ane o’themdo this?” said Nanny, starting up and speaking in a loud eldrich voice. “Then Heaven and hell acknowledges it, an’ the earth maun soon do the same! I knew it!—I knew it!—I knew it!—ha, ha, ha, I knew it!—Ah! John, thou art safe!—Ay! an’ mae than thee; an’ there will be mae yet!It is but a day! an’ dark an’ dismal though it be, the change will be the sweeter! Blessed, blessed be the day! None can say of thee that thou died like a fool, for thy hands were not bound, nor thy feet put into fetters.” Then turning close round to Katharine, with an expression of countenance quite indescribable, she added in a quick maddened manner,—“Eh? Thou seekest a test of me, dost thou? Can blood do it?—Can martyrdom do it?—Can bonds, wounds, tortures, and mockery do it?—Can death itself do it? All these have I suffered for that causein this same body; mark that; for there is but one half of my bone and my flesh here. But words are nothing to the misbelieving—mere air mouthed into a sound. Look at this for a test ofmysincerity and truth.” So saying, she gave her hand a wild brandish in the air, darted it at her throat, and snapping the tie of her cap that she had always worn over her face, she snatched it off, and turning her cheek round to her young mistress,added, “Look there for your test, and if that is not enough, I will give you more!”
Katharine was struck dumb with astonishment and horror. She saw that her ears were cut out close to the skull, and a C. R. indented on her cheek with a hot iron, as deep as the jaw–bone. She burst out a crying—clasped the old enthusiast in her arms—kissed the wound and steeped it with her tears, and without one further remark, led her away to the Old Room, that they might converse without interruption.
The sequel of this disclosure turned not out as desired; but this we must leave by the way, until we overtake it in the regular course of the narrative.
As soon as her father’s letter was put into her hands, Katharine sent off one of her brothers to Muchrah, to warn old John and his son to come instantly to Chapelhope. They both arrived while she and Nanny were consulting in the Old Room. She told them of her father’s letter, of the jeopardy he was in, and of her intended application to Drummelzier without loss of time. “One of you,” said she, “must accompany me; and I sent for you both, to learn which could, with least inconvenience, be wanted from your flocks.”
“As for me,” said John, “it’s out o’ the question tothinkabout me winning away. The ewes wad gang wi’ the bit hog–fenceo’ the Quave Brae, stoup and roup. What wi’ ghaists, brownies, dead men, an’ ae mischief an’ other, it is maistly gane already; an’ what’s to come o’ the poor bits o’ plottin baggits a’ winter, is mair nor I can tell. They may pike the woo aff ane another for aught that I see.”
Katharine was grieved to hear this remonstrance, for she was desirous of having old John as a guide and protector, who well knew the way, and was besides singular for strength and courage, if kept among beings of this world. She represented to him that the hog–fence of the Quave–Brae, could not possibly be of equal importance with his master’s life, nor yet with the loss of his whole stock, both of sheep and cattle, which might be confiscated, if prompt measures were not adopted. Nothing, however, could persuade John, that ought could be of equal importance to him with that which he had the charge of, and on which his heart and attention were so much set both by day and night. He said he had lost his lugs,and been brunt wi’ the king’s birn, for the hog–fence of the Quave–Brae; and when he coudna get away to the prison at Edinburgh for fear o’t, but suffered sae muckle in place o’ that, how could he win away a’ the gate to Dunse Castle?
Jasper liked not the journey more than he; for being convinced of Katharine’s power over spirits, he was very jealous of her taking undue advantages of him, but he was obliged to submit. He refused a horse, saying “it would only taigle him, but if she suffered him to gang on his feet, if he was hindmost at Dunse, he should gie her leave to cut the lugs out o’ his head too, and then he wad hae the thief’s mark on him like his father.”
Away they went; she riding on a stout shaggy poney, and Jasper running before her barefoot, but with hishose and shoonbound over his shoulder. He took the straight line for Dunse, over hill and dale, as a shepherd always does, who hates thewimples, as he calls them, of a turnpike.He took such a line as an eagle would take, or a flock of wild geese journeying from the one side of the country to the other, never once reflecting on the inconvenience of riding on such a road. Of course, it was impossible his young mistress could keep up with him—indeed she had often enough to do in keeping sight of him. They met with some curious adventures by the way, particularly one near Thirlestane castle on Leader, with some stragglers of a troop of soldiers. But these things we must hurry over as extraneous matter, having nothing more to do with them than as connected with the thread of our tale. They slept that night at a farm–house in Lammermoor, which belonged to Drummelzier, and next day by noon arrived at Dunse Castle.
Drummelzier, being one of the Committee of Public Safety, was absent from home, to which he did not return for several days, to the great perplexity of Katharine, who was in the utmost distress about her father, as well as her affairs at home. She wasobliged, however, to wait with patience, as no one knew in what part of the country he was. The housekeeper, who was an Englishwoman, was kind to her, and bade her not be afraid, for that their master had much more power with the government than Claverhouse, the one being a moving spring, and the other only a tool.
Drummelzier was a bold and determined royalist—was, indeed, in high trust with the Privy–council, and had it in his power to have harassed the country as much, and more, than the greater part of those who did so; but, fortunately for that south–east division of Scotland, he was a gentleman of high honour, benevolence, and suavity of manners, and detested any act of injustice or oppression. He by these means contributed materially to the keeping of a large division of Scotland (though as whiggishly inclined as any part of it, Ayrshire perhaps excepted,) in perfect peace. The very first dash that Clavers made among the Covenanters, while he was as yet onlya captain of a company, was into this division of the country over which Drummelzier was appointed to keep an eye, and it was in consequence of his intrepid and decided behaviour there, that the Duke of York interested himself in his behalf, and procured him the command of a troop of horse. At a place called Bewly, on the confines of Roxburghshire, he surprised a large conventicle about eleven o’clock on a Sabbath morning. Having but a small band, as soon as he appeared a crowd of the hearers gathered round the preacher to defend him, or to further his escape. Clavers burst in upon them like a torrent; killed and wounded upwards of an hundred; took the preacher prisoner, and all such of the hearers as were the most respectable in appearance. He would have detained many more had his force been sufficient for his designs, for that very day, about five o’clock in the afternoon, he surprised another numerous conventicle, at a place called Helmburn–Linn, in Selkirkshire, where he acted overthe same scene that he had done in the morning. The people, it is true, did not get time to rally round their pastor as at the former place, for the first intelligence they had of his approach was from a volley of musketry among them from the top of the linn, which took too sure effect.
The congregation scattered in a moment; and as there were strong fastnesses near at hand, none were taken prisoners, save some old men, and a number of ladies; unfortunately all these were ladies of distinction: the preacher likewise was taken, who suffered afterwards. The soldiers related of this man, that when they came upon the crowd, and fired among them, he was in the middle of his afternoon prayer, and all the people standing uncovered around him; and that for all the shots, and the people flying and falling dead about him, he never so much as paused, nor took down his hands, nor even opened his eyes, but concluded a sentence in the same fervent tone, after they had dragged him from the tent.
At one or other of these unfortunate conventicles, a part of all the chief families of the Pringles, such as Torwoodlee, Whitebank, Fairnilie, and others, were taken prisoners; as well as some of the Scotts of Harden, and the Douglasses of Cavers and Boonjeddart; rich prizes for Clavers, who bore them all in triumph prisoners to Edinburgh.
Drummelzier put his whole interest to the stretch to get these leading and respectable families freed from such a disagreeable dilemma, and succeeded in getting the greater part of them set at liberty, on giving securities. From that time forth, there existed a secret jealousy between him and Clavers; but as their jurisdiction lay on different sides of the country, they had no further interference with one another.
When Katharine informed him, that his farmer, whom he so much esteemed, was taken away a prisoner, and by whom, he bit his lip, shook his head, and seemed highly incensed. He then questioned herabout all the charges against him, and the evidence; requesting her, at the same time, to tell him the truth, in all its bearings, to the most minute scruple; and when he had heard all, he said, that his lordship had other motives for this capture besides these. He lost no time in setting about the most coercive measures he could think of, to procure his liberty. He sent an express to the Privy–council, and wrote to sundry other gentlemen, whom Katharine knew nothing of; but the destination of Walter being utterly unknown to either of them, the laird was at a loss how to proceed.
He gave her, moreover, a bond of security, signed with his name, and without a direction, to a great amount, for her father’s appearance at any court, to answer such charges as were brought against him; and with this she was to haste to the place where her father was a prisoner, and present it to the sheriff of the county, or chief magistrate of the burgh of such place, unlessit was at Edinburgh, and in that case she was to take no farther care or concern about him.
She hasted home with her wild guide, where she arrived the fourth or fifth day after her departure; and found, to her astonishment, the Chapelhope deserted by man, woman, and boy! Not a living creature remained about the steading, but her father’s dog and some poultry! The doors were locked, and the key away; and, hungry and fatigued as she was, she could find no means of admittance. At length, on looking about, she perceived that the cows were not about the house, nor any where in the corn, and concluding that some one must be herding them, she went up the side of the lake to their wonted walk, and found her two brothers attending the cattle.
They told her that thetown(so they always denominate a farm–steading in that district,) had been so grievously haunted in her absence, both by Brownie and a ghost, that they were all obliged to leaveit; that their mother was gone all the way to Gilmanscleuch to her brother, to remain there until she saw what became of her husband; Mass John was taken away by the fairies; and old Nanny was at Riskinhope, where they were also residing and sleeping at night; that the keys of the house were to be had there, but nothing would induce Nanny to come back again to Chapelhope, or at least to remain another night under its roof.
One mischief came thus upon poor Katharine after another; and she was utterly unable to account for this piece of intelligence, having been satisfied when she went away, that she had put every thing in train to secure peace and order about the house, until her return. She rode to Riskinhope for the key, but not one would accompany her home, poor Nanny being lying moaning upon a bed. Jasper sat on the side of the hill, at a convenient distance from the house, until her return; but then took her horse from her, and put it away to the rest, refusingto enter the door. Thus was she left in her father’s house all alone. Nanny came over, and assisted her in milking the kine evening and morning; and she remained the rest of the day, and every night, by herself, neither did she press any one much to bear her company. She had no one to send in search of her father, and deliver Drummelzier’s bond, at least none that any one knew of, yet it was sent, and that speedily, although to little purpose; for though Walter was sent to Dumfries Jail, he remained there but two nights; a party of prisoners, of ten men and two women, being ordered for Edinburgh, under a guard of soldiers, he was mixed indiscriminately with the rest, and sent there along with them.
He always said, that though he was disposed to think well of Clavers before he saw him, yet he never was so blithe in his life as when he got from under his jurisdiction; for there was an appearance of ferocity and wantonness of cruelty in all hisproceedings, during the time that he rode in his train a prisoner, that made the heart of any man, not brutified by inurement to such scenes, revolt at the principles that induced, as well as the government that warranted them. He saw him and his troopers gather the whole vale of Annandale, as a shepherd gathers his sheep in droves, pricking the inhabitants with their swords to urge their speed. When he got thus all the people of a parish, or division of a parish, driven together, he surrounded them with his soldiers, made them kneel by dozens, and take the oath of abjuration, as well as one acknowledging James Duke of York their rightful lord and sovereign; and lastly, made them renounce their right and part in Heaven, if ever they repented them of that oath. The first man of such a group, who refused or objected to compliance with this dreadful measure, he took him forthwith behind the ranks and shot him, which summary way of proceeding generally induced all thepeople to comply. Moreover, the way in which he threatened and maltreated children, and mocked and insulted women, not to mention more brutal usage of them, proved him at once to be destitute of the behaviour and feelings becoming a man, far less those of a gentleman. He seemed to regard all the commonalty in the south and west of Scotland as things to be mocked and insulted at pleasure, as beings created only for the sport of him and his soldiers, while their mental and bodily agonies were his delight. The narrator of this tale confesses that he has taken this account of his raid through the vales of Esk and Annan solely from tradition, as well as the attack made on the two conventicles, where the Pringles, &c. were taken prisoners; but these traditions are descended from such a source, and by such a line, as amounts with him to veracity.
Far different were Walter’s feelings on parting with the commander of his guard, Serjeant Daniel Roy Macpherson, a nobleblock from the genuine quarry of nature—rude as it was taken thence, without the mark of hammer or chisel. When he heard that his prisoner was to be taken from under his charge, he made up to him when out of the eye of his commander, and treated him with a parting speech; which, on account of its singularity, is here preserved, though, doubtless, woefully garbled by being handed from one southland generation to another.
“Now he’ll pe tahaking you away from mhe pefore as it were yesterdhay; and he’ll pe putting you into some vhile dark hole with all te low tamn pwigs that come from te hills of Gallochee and Drummochloonrich, which is a shame and a disgrhace to shut up a shentleman who is chief of a clan among such poor crhazy maniachs, who will pe filling your ears full of their rejoicings in spirit; and of Haiven! and Haiven! just as if they were all going to Haiven! Cot t‑‑n, do they suppose that Haiven is to pe filled full of such poor insignaificantcrheatures as they? or that Cot is not a shentleman, that he would pe falling into such cohmpany? But I’ll pe giving you advice as a friend and prhother; when you come pefore the couhnsel, or any of their commissioners, do not you pe talking of Haiven, and Haiven, and of conscience and covenants. And do not you pe pragging and poasting of one to pe your chief, or to pe of a clan that has not a friend at court; but tell them your own clan, and your claims to be its chief; and if you do not know her true descent, you had better claim Macpherson; she pe as ould and as honourable a clan as any of them all, and more.”
Walter said, he trusted still to the proofs of his own loyalty, and the want of evidence to the contrary.
“Pooh! pooh! Cot tamn!” said Macpherson; “I tell you the evidence you want is this, if any great man say you ought to live, you will live; if not, you will die.Did not I was telling you that the soholdiers that were found dead in the correi, on the lands that belong to yourself, was evidence enough and more; I would not pe givinga curseforyourevidence after that, for the one is much petter than te other. And py Cot, it is very well thought!” continued he, smiling grimly, “if you will pe preaking out into a rage, and pe cursing and tamning them all, you will get free in one moment.”
Walter said, that would be an easy ransom, and though it was an error he was too apt to fall into when angry, he could see no effect it could have in this case, but to irritate his prosecutors more and more against him.
“You see no effect! Cot t‑‑n, if you ever can see any effect peyond the top that is on your nose! and you will not pe advised by a man of experience, who would do more for you than he would pe commending of; and if you trust to what you can see, you will pe dancing a beautiful Highlandshig in the air to a saulm tune, and that will have a very good effect. I tell you, when you come again to be questioned, I know my Lord Dundee is to be there to pe adducing his proof; take you great and proud offence at some of their questions and their proofs; and you may pe making offer to fight them all one by one, or two by two, in the king’s name, and send them all to hell in one pody; you cannot pe tamning them too much sore. By the soul of Rory More Macpherson! I would almost give up this claymore to be by and see that effect. Now you are not to pe minding because I am laughing like a fool, for I’m perfectly serious; if matters should pe standing hard with you, think of the advice of an ould friend, who respects you as the chief of the clan MacLeadle, supposing it to pe as low, and as much fallen down as it may.—Farewell! she pe giving you her hearty Cot’s blessing.”
Thus parted he with Daniel Roy Macpherson, and, as he judged, an unfortunatechange it was for him. The wretch who now took the command of their guard had all the ignorance and rudeness of the former, without any counterbalance of high feeling and honour like him. His name was Patie Ingles, a temporary officer, the same who cut off the head of the amiable Mr White with an axe, at Kilmarnock, carried it to New–mills, and gave it to his party to play a game with at foot–ball, which they did. Ingles was drunk during the greater part of the journey, and his whole delight was in hurting, mortifying, and mimicking his prisoners. They were all bound together in pairs, and driven on in that manner like coupled dogs. This was effected by a very simple process. Their hands were fastened behind, the right and left arm of each pair being linked within one another. Walter was tied to a little spare Galloway weaver, a man wholly prone to controversy—he wanted to argue every point—on which account he was committed. Yet, when among the Cameronians, he took their principles as severely to task as he didthose of the other party when examined by them. He lived but to contradict. Often did he try Walter with different points of opinion regarding the Christian Church. Walter knew so little about them that the weaver was astonished. He tried him with the apologetical declaration. Walter had never heard of it. He could make nothing of his gigantic associate, and at length began a sly enquiry on what account he was committed; but even on that he received no satisfactory information.
Ingles came staggering up with them. “Weel, Master Skinflint, what say you to it the day? This is a pleasant journey, is it not? Eh?—I say, Master, what do they call you! Peal–an’–eat, answer me in this—you see—I say—Is it not delightful? Eh?”
“Certainly, sir,” said the weaver, who wished to be quit of him; “very delightful to those who feel it so.”
“Feelit so!—D‑‑n you, sirrah, what do you mean by that? Do you know who you are speaking to? Eh?—Answer me in this—What do you mean byFeel it so? Eh?”
“I meant nothing,” returned the weaver, somewhat snappishly, “but that kind of respect which I always pay to gentry like you.”
“Gentry like me!—D‑‑n you, sir, if you speak such a—Eh?—Gentry like me!—I’ll spit you like a cock pheasant—Eh? Have you any of them in Galloway? Answer me in this, will you? Eh?”
“I’ll answer any reasonable thing, sir,” said the poor weaver.
“Hout! never head the creature, man,” said Walter; “it’s a poor drunken senseless beast of a thing.”
Ingles fixed his reeling unsteady eyes upon him, filled with drunken rage—walked on, spitting and looking across the way for a considerable space—“What the devil of a whig camel is this?” said he, crossing over to Walter’s side. “Drunken senseless beast of a thing! Holm, did you hear that?—Macwhinny, did you?—Eh? I’ll scorn to shoot the cusser, though I could do it—Eh? But I’ll kick him like a dog—Eh?—Takethat, and that, will you? Eh?” And so saying, he kicked our proud–hearted and independant Goodman of Chapelhope with his plebeian foot, staggering backward each time he struck.