Chapter 6

CHAPTER XXJOCK HALL'S RETURNWhen Jock and Spence returned along the avenue, not a word was spoken for some time. Jock carried a large bundle, with the general contents of which both were acquainted. After a while Spence remarked, as if to break the silence, "Weel, what do ye think o' his lordship?""He looks a fine bit decent 'sponsible bodie," said Jock, as if speaking of a nobody."I should think sae!" remarked Hugh, evidently chagrined by the cool criticism of his companion."Were ye no' frighted for him?" asked Hugh."Wha?--me?" replied Jock. "Frichted for what? He said naethin' tae fricht me. Certes, I was mair frichted when I stood afore him for threshing the tailors! The man didna molest me, but was unco ceevil, as I was tae him, and he gied me siller and claes as I never got frae mortal man afore, no' tae speak o' a lord. Frichted! I was ower prood to be frichted.""Aweel, aweel," said the keeper, "ye're a queer cratur, Jock! and if ye haena' gowd ye hae brass. I was trimblin' for ye!""Nae wunner," said Jock; "ye had somethin' tae lose, but I had naethin'. What could he dae to me but put me oot o' the hoose? and I was gaun oot mysel'. Jock Ha' is ower far doon for ony mortal man tae pit him doon farther. He may be better, but he canna be waur. Naebody can hurt a dead doug, can they?""Tuts, Jock, my puir fallow," said Hugh, "I didna mean to flyte on ye. I ax yer pardon.""Gae awa, gae awa wi' yer nonsense, Mr. Spence!" replied Jock--"that's what naebody ever did, to ax my pardon, and it's no' for a man like you tae begin. Ye micht as weel ax a rattan's pardon for eatin' a' yer cheese! In troth I'm no gi'en mysel tae that fashion o' axin' pardons, for it wad be a heap o' trouble for folk to grant them. But, man, if I got wark, I would maybe be able to ax pardon o' a dacent man, and tae get it tae for the axin'!""I'll no' forget ye, I do assure ye," said Spence, kindly. "You and me if I'm no mista'en 'ill meet afore lang up the way at the cottage. His lordship is willin' tae gie ye wark, and sae am I and my faither."Jock could not resist the new emotion which prompted him to seize the keeper's hand and give it a hearty squeeze. On the strength of the renewed friendship, he offered him a snuff.The keeper, from commands received from his lordship, found that he could not accompany Jock as far on his road as he had anticipated, but was obliged to part with him where his path to Drumsylie led across the moorland. Here they sat down on a heathery hill, when Spence said, "Afore we part, I wad like tae ken frae yersel', Jock, hooyeare a freen' tae Adam Mercer?""I never said I was a freen' tae Adam Mercer," replied Jock.Hugh, as if for the first time suspecting Hall of deception, said firmly, "But ye did that! I declare ye did, and my faither believed ye!""I never did sic a thing!" said Jock, as firmly, in reply. "For I couldna do't wi'oot a lee, andthatI never telt tae you or yours, although in my day I hae telt ither folk an unco' heap tae ser' my turn. What I said was that Adam Mercer was a freen' tae me."Hugh, not quite perceiving the difference yet, asked, "Hoo was he a freen' tae you?""I'll tell ye," said Jock, looking earnestly at Hugh. "Had a man ta'en ye into his hoose, and fed ye whan stervin', and pit shoon on ye whan barefitted, and spak' to ye, no' as if ye war a brute beast, and whan naebody on yirth ever did this but himsel', I tak' it ye wad understan' what a freen' was! Mind ye, that I'm no sic a gomeril--bad as I am--or sae wantin' in decency as to even tae mysel' to be the Sergeant's freen'; but as I said, and wull say till I dee, he wasmyfreen'!""What way war ye brocht up that ye cam to be sae puir as to need Adam's assistance or ony ither man's? Ye surely had as guid a chance as ony o' yer neebors?"Jock's countenance began to assume that excited expression which the vivid recollection of his past life, especially of his youth, seemed always to produce. But he now tried to check himself, when the symptoms of his hysteria began to manifest themselves in the muscles of his throat, by rising and taking a few paces to and fro on the heather, as if resolved to regain his self-possession, and not to leave his newly-acquired friend the keeper under the impression that he was either desperately wicked or incurably insane. A new motive had come into play--a portion of his heart which had lain, as it were, dormant until stimulated by the Sergeant's kindness, had assumed a power which was rapidly, under benign influences, gaining the ascendancy. In spite of, or rather perhaps because of, his inward struggle, his face for a moment became deadly pale. His hands were clenched. He seemed as if discharging from every muscle a stream of suddenly-generated electricity. Turning at length to Hugh, he said, with knit brow and keenly-piercing eyes, "What made ye ax me sic a question, Mr. Spence?--What for? I'll no' tell ye, for I canna tell you or ony man hoo I was brocht up!"But he did tell him--as if forced to do so in order to get rid of the demon--much of what our readers already know of those sad days of misery. "And noo," he added, "had ye been like a wild fox and the hoonds after ye, or nae mair cared for than a doug wi' a kettle at its tail, hidin' half mad up a close ayont a midden; or a cat nigh staned to death, pechin' its life awa' in a hole; and if ye kent never a man or woman but wha hated ye, and if ye hated them; and, waur than a', if ye heard your ain faither and mither cursin' ye frae the time ye war a bairn till they gaed awa' in their coffins, wi' your curses followin' after them,--ye wad ken what it was to hae ae freend on yirth;--and noo I hae mair than ane!" And poor Jock, for the first time probably in his life, sobbed like a child.Spence said nothing but "Puir fellow!" and whiffed his pipe, which he had just lighted, with more than usual vehemence.Jock soon resumed his usual calm,"As one whose brain demoniac frenzy firesOwes to his fit, in which his soul hath tost,Profounder quiet, when the fit retires,--Even so the dire phantasma which had crostHis sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost,Left his mind still as a deep evening stream".The keeper, hardly knowing what to say, remarked, "It's ae consolation, that your wicked faither and mither will be weel punished noo for a' their sins.Yeneedna curse them! They're beyond ony hairm that ye can do them. They're cursed eneuch, I'se warrant, wi'oot your meddlin' wi' them.""Guid forbid!" exclaimed Jock. "I houp no'! I houp no'! That wad be maist awfu'!""Maybe," said the keeper; "but it's what they deserve frae the han' o' justice. And surely when their ain bairn curses them,hecan say naethin' against it.""Inever cursed them, did I?" asked Jock, as if stupefied."Ye did that, and nae mistak'!" replied the keeper."Losh, it was a bad job if I did!" said Jock. "I'm sure I didna want to hairm them, puir bodies, though they hairmed me. In fac'," he added, after a short pause, during which he kicked the heather vehemently, "I'm willin' tae let byganes be byganes wi' them, and sae maybe their Maker will no' be ower sair on them. Ye dinna think, Mr. Spence, that it's possible my faither and mither are baith in the bad place?""Whaur else wad they be, if no' there?" asked the keeper."It's mair than I can say!" replied Jock, as if in a dream. "I only thocht they were dead in the kirkyard. But--but--ken ye ony road o' gettin' them oot if they're yonner--burnin' ye ken?""Ye had better," said Hugh, "gie ower botherin' yersel' to takethemoot; rather try, man, to keep yersel' oot.""But I canna help botherin' mysel' aboot my ain folk," replied Jock; "an' maybe they warna sae bad as I mak' them. I've seen them baith greetin' and cryin' tae God for mercy even whan they war fou; an' they aince telt me, after an awfu' thrashin they gied me, that I wasna for my life to drink or swear like them. Surely that was guid, Mr. Spence? God forgie them! God forgie them!" murmured Jock, covering his face with his hands; "lost sheep!--lost money!--lost ne'er-do-weels! an' I'm here and them there! Hoo comes that aboot?" he asked, in a dreamy mood."God's mercy!" answered Hugh; "and we should be merciful tae ither folk, as God is mercifu' to oorsel's.""That's what I wish thae puir sowls to get oot o' that awfu' jail for! But I'll never curse faither or mither mair," said Jock. "I'll sweer," he added, rising up, muttering the rhyme as solemnly as if before a magistrate:"If I lee, let deathCut my breath!""Dinna fash yersel' ower muckle," said the keeper, "for them that's awa'. The Bible says, 'Shall not the Judge o' a' the yirth dae richt?' I wad think sae! Let us tak' care o' oorsel's and o' them that's leevin', an' God will do what's richt tae them that's ayont the grave. He has mair wisdom and love than us!"Jock was engaged outwardly in tearing bits of heather, and twisting them mechanically together; but what his inward work was we know not. At last he said, "I haena heard an aith sin' I left Drumsylie, and that's extraordinar' to me, I can assure you, Mr. Spence!"The keeper, who, unconsciously, was calmly enjoying the contemplation of his own righteousness, observed that "the kintra was a hantle decenter than the toon". But in a better and more kindly spirit he said to Jock, "I'll stan' yer friend, Hall, especially sin' his lordship wishes me to help you. Ye hae got guid claes in that bundle, I'se warrant--the verra claes, mark ye, that were on himsel'! Pit them on, and jist thinkwhat'son ye, and be dacent! Drop a' drinkin', swearin', and sic trash; bend yer back tae yer burden, ca' yer han' tae yer wark, pay yer way, and keep a ceevil tongue in yer head, and then 'whistle ower the lave o't!' There's my han' to ye. Fareweel, and ye'll hear frae me some day soon, whan I get a place ready for ye aboot mysel' and the dougs.""God's blessin' be wi' ye!" replied poor Jock.They then rose and parted. Each after a while looked over his shoulder and waved his hand.Jock ran back to the keeper when at some distance from him, as if he had lost something."What's wrang?" asked Spence."A's richt noo!" replied Jock, as again he raised his hand and repeated his parting words, "God's blessin' be wi' ye"; and then ran off as if pursued, until concealed by rising ground from the gaze of the keeper, who watched him while in sight, lost in his own meditations.One of the first things Jock did after thus parting with Hugh was to undo his parcel, and when he did so there was spread before his wondering eyes such a display of clothing of every kind as he had never dreamt of in connexion with his own person. All seemed to his eyes as if fresh from the tailor's hands. Jock looked at his treasures in detail, held them up, turned them over, laid them down, and repeated the process with such a grin on his face and exclamations on his lips as can neither be described nor repeated. After a while his resolution seemed to be taken: for descending to a clear mountain stream, he stripped himself of his usual habiliments, and, though they were old familiar friends, he cast them aside as if in scorn, stuffing them into a hole in the bank. After performing long and careful ablutions, he decked himself in his new rig, and tying up in a bundle his superfluous trappings, emerged on the moorland in appearance and in dignity the very lord of the manor! "Faix," thought Jock, as he paced along, "the Sterlin' wasna far wrang when it telt me that 'a man's a man for a' that!'"Instead of pursuing his way direct to Drumsylie, he diverged to a village half-way between Castle Bennock and his final destination. With his money in his pocket, he put up like a gentleman at a superior lodging-house, where he was received with the respect becoming his appearance. Early in the morning, when few were awake, he entered Drumsylie, with a sheepish feeling and such fear of attracting the attention of itsgaminsas made him run quickly to the house of an old widow, where he hoped to avoid all impertinent inquiries until he could determine upon his future proceedings. These were materially affected by the information which in due time he received, that Adam Mercer had been suddenly seized with illness on the day after he had left Drumsylie, and was now confined to bed.CHAPTER XXITHE QUACKIt was true, as Jock Hall had heard, that Sergeant Mercer was very unwell. The events of the few previous weeks, however trivial in the estimation of the great world, had been to him very real and afflicting. The ecclesiastical trials and the social annoyances, with the secret worry and anxiety which they had occasioned, began to affect his health. He grew dull in spirits, suffered from a sense of oppression, and was "head-achy", "fushionless", and "dowie". He resolved to be cheerful, and do his work; but he neither could be the one nor do the other. His wife prescribed for him out of her traditional pharmacopoeia, but in vain. Then, as a last resort, "keeping a day in bed" was advised, and this was at once acceded to.At the risk of breaking the thread of our narrative, or--to borrow an illustration more worthy of the nineteenth century--of running along a side rail to return shortly to the main line, we may here state, that at the beginning of the Sergeant's illness, a person, dressed in rather decayed black clothes, with a yellowish white neckcloth, looking like a deposed clergyman, gently tapped at his door. The door was opened by Katie. The stranger raised his broad-brimmed hat, and saluted her with a low respectful bow. He entered with head uncovered, muttering many apologies with many smiles. His complexion was dark; his black hair was smoothly combed back from his receding forehead, and again drawn forward in the form of a curl under each large ear, thus directing attention to his pronounced nostrils and lips; while his black eyes were bent down, as if contemplating his shining teeth. His figure was obese; his age between forty and fifty.This distinguished-looking visitor introduced himself as Dr. Mair, and inquired in the kindest, blandest, and most confidential manner as to the health of "the worthy Sergeant", as he condescendingly called him. Katie was puzzled, yet pleased, with the appearance of the unknown doctor, who explained that he was a stranger--his residence being ordinarily in London, except when travelling on professional business, as on the present occasion. He said that he had devoted all his time and talents to the study of the complaint under which the Sergeant, judging from what he had heard, was evidently labouring; and that he esteemed it to be the highest honour--a gift from Heaven, indeed--to be able to remedy it. His father, he stated, had been a great medical man in the West Indies, and had consecrated his life to the cure of disease, having made a wonderful collection of medicines from old Negroes, who, it was well known, had a great knowledge of herbs. These secrets of Nature his father had entrusted to him, and to him alone, on the express condition that he would minister them in love only. He therefore made no charge, except for the medicine itself--a mere trifle to cover the expense of getting it from the West Indies. Might he have the privilege of seeing the Sergeant? One great blessing of his medicines was, that if they did no good--which rarely happened--they did no harm. But all depended--he added, looking up towards heaven--onHisblessing!After a long unctuous discourse of this kind, accompanied by a low whine and many gestures expressive of, or intended to express, all the Christian graces, added to Nature's gifts, the doctor drew breath.Kate was much impressed by this self-sacrificing philanthropist, and expressed a cordial wish that he should see the Sergeant. Adam, after some conversation with his wife, saw it was best, for peace' sake, to permit the entrance of the doctor. After he had repeated some of his former statements and given assurances of his skill, the Sergeant asked him: "Hoo do I ken ye're speaking the truth, and no' cheatin' me?""You have my word of honour, Sergeant!" replied Dr. Mair, "and you don't thinkIwould lie to you? Look at me! I cannot have any possible motive for making you unwell. Horrible thought! I hope I feel my sense of responsibility too much for that!" Whereupon he looked up to heaven, and then down into a black bag, out of which he took several phials and boxes of pills, arranging them on a small table at the window. He proceeded to describe their wonderful qualities in a style which he intended for the language of a scholarly gentleman, interlarding his speech with Latinized terms, to give it a more learned colouring."This medicine," he said, "acts on the spirits. It is called thespiritum cheerabilum. It cures depression; removes all nervous, agitating feelings--what we termdepressiones; soothing the anxious mind because acting on the vital nerves--going to the root of every painful feeling, through the gastric juice, heart, and liver, along the spinal cord, and thence to the head and brain. This view is according to common-sense, you must admit. A few doses of such a medicine would put you on your legs, Sergeant, in a week! I never once knew it fail when taken perseveringly and with faith--with faith!" he added, with a benignant smile; "for faith, I am solemnly persuaded, can even yet remove mountains!""Doctor, or whatever ye are," said the Sergeant, in an impatient tone of voice, "I want nane o' yer pills or drugs; I hae a guid eneuch doctor o' my ain.""Ha!" said Dr. Mair; "a regular practitioner, I presume? Yes, I understand. Hem! College bred, and all that.""Just so," said the Sergeant. "Edicated, as it were, for his wark, and no' a doctor by guess.""But can you believe his word?" blandly asked Dr. Mair."As muckle, surely, as yours," replied the Sergeant; "mair especial' as guid and learned men o' experience agree wi' him, but no' wi' you.""How do you know they are good and learned?" asked Dr. Mair, smiling."Mair onyhoo than I kenye'regood and learned, and no' leein'," said Adam."But God might surely reveal to me the truth," replied Mair, "rather than to ten thousand so-called learned men. Babes and sucklings, you know, may receive what is concealed from the great and self-confident.""My word! ye're neither a babe nor a sucklin', doctor, as ye ca' yersel'; and, depen' on't, neither am I!" said the Sergeant. "Onyhoo, I think it's mair likely the Almighty wad reveal himsel' to a' the sensible and guid doctors rather than to you alane, forbye a' yer niggers!""But I have testimonials of my cures!" continued Dr. Mair."Wha kens aboot yer testimonials?" exclaimed Adam. "Could naebody get testimonials but you? And hae ye testimonials frae them ye've kill't? I'se warrant no'! I tell ye again ye'll never pruve tae me that ye're richt and a' the edicated doctors wrang.""But it's possible?" asked Dr. Mair, with a smile."Possible!" said the Sergeant; "but it's ten thoosand times mair possible that ye're cheatin' yersel' or cheatin' me. Sae ye may gang.""But I charge nothing for my attendance, my dear sir, only for the medicine.""Just so," replied the Sergeant; "sae mony shillings for what maybe didna cost ye a bawbee--pills o' aitmeal or peasebrose. I'm an auld sodger, and canna be made a fule o' that way!""I do not depend on my pills so much as on my prayers for the cure of disease," said the quack solemnly. "Oh, Sergeant! have you no faith in prayer?""I houp I hae," replied the Sergeant; "but I hae nae faith in you--nane whatsomever! sae guid day tae ye!"Dr. Mair packed up his quack medicine in silence, which was meant to be impressive. He sighed, as if in sorrow for human ignorance and unbelief; but seeing no favourable effect produced on the Sergeant he said: "Your blood be on your own unbelieving head! I am free of it.""Amen!" said the Sergeant; "and gang about yer business to auld wives and idewits, that deserve to dee if they trust the like o' you."And so the great Dr. Mair departed in wrath--real or pretended--to pursue his calling as a leech, verily sucking the blood of the credulous, of whom there are not a few among rich and poor, who, loving quackery, are quacked.[#][#] It may be added as an instructive fact, that such leeches suck at least £300,000 a year out of the people of this country.Having disposed of the Quack, we now back into the main line, and resume our journey.CHAPTER XXIICORPORAL DICKCorporal Dick, who lived in the village of Darnic, several hours' journey by the "Highflyer" coach from Drumsylie, came at this time to pay his annual visit to the Sergeant.The Corporal, while serving in the same regiment with Adam, had been impressed, as we have already indicated, by the Christian character of his comrade. Those early impressions had been deepened shortly after his return home from service. We need not here record the circumstances in which this decided change in his sentiments and character had taken place. Many of our Scotch readers, at least, have heard of the movement in the beginning of this century by the devoted Haldanes, who, as gentlemen of fortune, and possessing the sincerest and strongest Christian convictions, broke the formality which was freezing Christian life in many a district of Scotland. They did the same kind of work for the Church in the North which Wesley and Whitfield had done for that in the South, though with less permanent results as far as this world is concerned. Dick joined the "Haldanites". Along with all the zeal and strictness characteristic of a small body, he possessed a large share ofbonhomie, and of the freedom, subdued and regulated, of the old soldier.At these annual visits the old veterans fought their battles over again, recalling old comrades and repeating old stories; neither, however, being old in their affections or their memories. But never had the Corporal visited his friend with a more eager desire to "hear his news" than on the present occasion. He had often asked people from Drumsylie, whom he happened to meet, what all this disputing and talk about Adam Mercer meant? And every new reply he received to his question, whether favourable or unfavourable to the Sergeant, only puzzled him the more. One thing, however, he never could be persuaded of--that his friend Adam Mercer would do anything unbecoming to his "superior officer", as he called the minister; or "break the Sabbath", an institution which, like every good Scotchman, he held in peculiar veneration; or be art or part in any mutiny against the ordinances or principles of true religion. And yet, how could he account for all that been told him by "decent folk" and well-informed persons? The good he heard of the Sergeant was believed in by the Corporal as a matter of course; but what of the evil, which seemed to rest upon equally reliable authority?Dick must himself hear the details of the "affair", or the battle, as it might turn out.It was therefore a glad day for both Adam and the Corporal when they again met;--to both a most pleasant change of thought--a glad remembrance of a grand old time already invested with romance--a meeting of men of character, of truth and honour, who could call each other by the loyal name of Friend.We must allow the reader to fill up the outline which alone we can give of the meeting--the hearty greetings between the two old companions in arms; the minute questions by the one, the full and candid answers by the other; the smiling Katie ever and anon filling up the vacancies left in the narrative of ecclesiastical trials by the Sergeant, from his modesty or want of memory; the joyous satisfaction of Dick, as he found his faith in his comrade vindicated, and saw how firm and impregnable he was in his position, without anything to shake any Christian's confidence in his long-tried integrity, courage, and singleness of heart.The Corporal's only regret was to see his friend wanting in his usual elasticity of spirits. The fire in his eye was gone, and the quiet yet joyous laugh no longer responded to the old jokes,--a smile being all he could muster. But the Corporal was determined to rouse him. "The wars" would do it if anything would. And so, when supper came piping hot, with bubbling half-browned toasted cheese, mutton pie, tea and toast, followed by a little whisky punch, and all without gluttony or drunkenness, but with sobriety and thankfulness felt and expressed--then did the reminiscences begin! And it would be difficult to say how often the phrase, "D'ye mind, Sergeant?" was introduced, as old officers and men, old jokes and old everything--marches, bivouacs, retreats, charges, sieges, battles--were recalled, with their anxieties and hardships passed away, and their glory alone remaining."Heigho!" the Corporal would say, as he paused in his excitement, "it's growing a dream already, Adam! There's no mony I can speak tae aboot these auld times;--no' auld to you and me. Folks' heads are taen up w' naething but getting money oot o' the peace we helped to get for the kintra: and little thanks for a' we did--little thanks, little thanks, atweel!" the Corporal would ejaculate in a die-away murmur.But this was not a time to complain, but to rouse--not to pile arms, but to fire. And so the Corporal said, "Did I tell ye o' the sang made by Sandie Tamson? Ye'll mind Sandie weel--the schulemaster that listed? A maist clever chiel!""I mind him fine," said the Sergeant. "Curious eneuch, it was me that listed him! I hae heard a hantle o' his sangs.""But no' this ane," said Dick, "for he made it--at least he said sae--for our auld Colonel in Perth. It seems Sandie, puir fallow, took to drink--or rather ne'er gied it ower--and sae he cam' beggin' in a kin' o' private genteel way, ye ken, to the Colonel; and when he got siller he wrote this sang for him. He gied me a copy for half-a-crown. I'll let ye hear 't--altho' my pipe is no sae guid as yer Sterlin's."As the Corporal cleared his voice, the Sergeant lifted the nightcap from his ear, and said, "Sing awa'."Dost thou remember, soldier, old and hoary,The days we fought and conquered side by side,On fields of battle famous now in story,Where Britons triumphed, and where Britons died?Dost thou remember all our old campaigning,O'er many a field in Portugal and Spain?Of our old comrades few are now remaining--How many sleep upon the bloody plain!Of our old comrades, &c.Dost thou remember all those marches weary,From gathering foes, to reach Corunna's shore?Who can forget that midnight, sad and dreary,When in his grave we laid the noble Moore!But ere he died our General heard us cheering,And saw us charge with vict'ry's flag unfurled;And then he slept, without his ever fearingFor British soldiers conquering o'er the world.And then he slept, &c.Rememb'rest thou the bloody Albuera!The deadly breach in Badajoz's walls!Vittoria! Salamanca! Talavera!Till Roncesvalles echoed to our balls!Ha! how we drove the Frenchmen all before us,As foam is driven before the stormy breeze!We fought right on, with conquering banners o'er us,From Torres Vedras to the Pyrenees.We fought right on, &c.Dost thou remember to the war returning,--Long will our enemies remember too!--We fought again, our hearts for glory burning,At Quatre Bras and awful Waterloo!We thought of home upon that Sabbath morningWhen Cameron's pibroch roused our Highland corps,Then proudly marched, the mighty Emperor scorning,And vowed to die or conquer as of yore!Then proudly marched, &c.Rememb'rest thou the old familiar facesOf warriors nursed in many a stormy fight,Whose lonely graves, which now the stranger traces,Mark every spot they held from morn till night?In vain did Cuirassiers in clouds surround them,With cannon thundering as the tempest raves;They left our squares, oh! just as they had found them,Firm as the rocks amidst the ocean's waves!They left our squares, &c.Those days are past, my soldier, old and hoary,But still the scars are on thy manly brow;We both have shared the danger and the glory,Come, let us share the peace and comfort now.Come to my home, for thou hast not another,And dry those tears, for thou shall beg no more;There, take this hand, and let us march togetherDown to the grave, where life's campaign is o'er!There, take this hand, &c.While the song was being sung the Sergeant turned his head on his pillow away from the Corporal. When it was finished, he said, "Come here, Dick."The Corporal went to the bed, and seized the Sergeant's proffered hand."That sang will do me mair guid than a' their medicine. The guidwife will gie ye half-a-croon for puir Sandie Tamson."Then asking Katie to leave him alone for a few moments with the Corporal, the Sergeant said, retaining his hand--"I'm no dangerously ill, my auld friend; but I'm no' weel--I'm no' weel! There's a weight on my mind, and an oppression aboot my heart that hauds me doun extraordinar'.""Dinna gie in, Adam--dinna gie in, wi' the help o' Him that has brocht ye thro' mony a waur fecht," replied the Corporal as he sat down beside him. "D'ye mind the time when ye followed Cainsh up the ladder at Badajoz? and d'ye mind when that glorious fallow Loyd was kill't at Nivelle! Noo----""Ah, Dick! thae days, man, are a' by! I'm no' what I was," said the Sergeant. "I'm a puir crippled, wounded veteran, no' fit for ony mair service--no' even as an elder," he added, with a bitter smile."Dinna fash yer thoomb, Adam, aboot that business," said Dick. "Ye deserved to hae been drummed oot o' the regiment--I mean the kirk--no' your kirk nor mine, but the kirk o' a' honest and sensible folk, gif ye had swithered aboot that bird. I hae had a crack wi' the cratur, and it's jist extraordinar' sensible like--sae crouse and canty, it wad be like murder tae thraw a neck like that! In fac', a bird is mair than a bird, I consider, when it can speak and sing yon way.""Thank ye, Corporal," said Adam."It's some glamour has come ower the minister," said Dick, "just like what cam' ower oor Colonel, when he made us charge twa thousand at Busaco, and had, in coorse, tae fa' back on his supports in disgrace--no' jist in disgrace, for we never cam' tae that, nor never wull, I hope--but in confusion!""God's wull be done, auld comrade!" replied Adam; "but it's His wull, I think, that I maun fa' on the field, and if so, I'm no' feared--na, na! Like a guid sodger, I wad like tae endure hardness.""Ye're speakin' ower muckle," interrupted Dick, "and wearyin' yersel'.""I maun hae my say oot, Corporal, afore the forlorn hope marches," continued the Sergeant; "and as I was remarkin', and because I dinna want tae be interrupted wi' the affairs o' this life, so as to please Him wha has ca'd me to be a sodger--I maun mak' my last wull and testament noo or never, and I trust you, Dick, mair than a' the lawyers and law papers i' the worl', tae see't carried oot." And he held out a feverish hand to the Corporal, who gave it a responsive squeeze."Ye see, Corporal," said the Sergeant, "I hae nae fortun' to leave; but I hae laid by something for my Katie--and whatshehas been tae me, God alane kens!" He paused. "And then there's wee Mary, that I luve amaist as weel as my Charlie; and then there's the bird. Na, Corporal, dinna blame me for speakin' aboot the bird! The Apostle, when aboot to be offered up, spak' aboot his cloak, and nae dead cloak was ever dearer to him than the leevin' bird is tae me, because it was, as ye ken, dear tae the wee fallow that was my ain flesh and bluid, wha's waiting for me. Duve ye mind Charlie?""Mind Charlie!" exclaimed the Corporal. "Wait awee, Adam!" and he drew out an old pocket-book from his breast-pocket, from which he took a bit of paper, and, unfolding it, held up a lock of silken hair. The Sergeant suddenly seized the relic and kissed it, and then returned it to the Corporal, who, without saying a word, restored it to its old place of safety.But Dick now began to see that the Sergeant seemed to be rather excited, and no longer able to talk in his usual slow and measured manner, and so he said to him--"Wait till the morn, Adam, and we'll put a' richt to yer satisfaction.""Na, na, Corporal!" replied Adam, "I never like pittin' aff--no' a fecht even. What ought to be dune, should be dune when it can--sae listen to me:--Ye'll help Katie tae gaither her siller and gear thegither--it's no muckle atweel!--and see that she and Mary, wi' the bird, are pit in a bit hoose near yersel'. They can fen' on what I'll lea' them, wi' their ain wark tae help. Ye'll stan' their freen'--I ken, I ken ye wull! And oh, man, when ye hear folk abuse me, dinna say a word in my defence! Let gowans grow frae my grave, and birds sing ower't, and God's sun shine on't, but let nae angry word, against even an enemy, ever be heard frae't, or be conneckit wi' my memory."Dick was silent. He felt too much to speak. The Sergeant continued--"Gie a' my boots and shoon tae Jock Hall. Katie wull tell ye aboot him."After a pause, he said--"I ask forgiveness o' the minister, if I hae wranged him in ignorance. But as to Smellie----" and the Sergeant turned his head away. "The heart, Corporal," he added, "is hard! I'm no' fit for that yet. God forgie me! but I canna wi'oot hypocrisy say----""I'll no' let ye speak another word, Adam!" said Dick. "Trust me as to yer will. I'll be faithfu' unto death!" and he drew himself up, and saluted the Sergeant, soldier fashion.There was not a bit of the consciously dramatic in this; but he wished to accept the trust given him in due form, as became a soldier receiving important orders from a dying friend.Adam did not like to confess it; but he was so wearied that he could speak no more without pain, and so thanking the Corporal, he turned round to sleep.CHAPTER XXIIICORPORAL DICK AT THE MANSEAdam had received his pension-paper, which required to be signed by the parish minister, as certifying that the claimant was in life. Dick was glad of this opportunity of calling upon the minister to obtain for his friend the required signature. He was known to Mr. Porteous, who had met him once before in Adam's house, and had attacked him rather sharply on his Haldanite principles, the sect being, as he alleged, an uncalled-for opposition to the regular parish clergy.A short walk brought Dick to the manse. After a few words of greeting he presented the Sergeant's paper. Mr. Porteous inquired, with rather a sceptical expression on his countenance--"Is Mr. Mercer really unwell, and unable to come?""I have told you the truth, sir," was the Corporal's dignified and short reply.Mr. Porteous asked what was wrong with him? The Corporal replied that he did not know, but that he was feverish, he thought, and was certainly confined to bed."Your friend, the Sergeant, as you are probably aware," remarked the minister, signing the paper and returning it to the Corporal, "has greatly surprised and annoyed me. He seems quite a changed man--changed, I fear, for the worse. Oh! yes, Mr. Dick," he continued in reply to a protesting wave of the Corporal's hand, "he is indeed. He has become proud and obstinate--very.""Meek as a lamb, sir, in time of peace, but brave as a lion in time of war, I can assure you, Mr. Porteous," replied the Corporal."I know better!" said the minister."Not better than me, sir," replied Dick; "for tho' ye have kent him as well as me, perhaps, in peace, yet ye didna ken him at all in war, and a truer, better, nobler sodger than Adam Mercer never raised his arms to fight or to pray, for he did baith--that I'll say before the worl', and defy contradiction!""Remember, Corporal, you and I belong to different Churches, and we judge men differently. We must have discipline. All Churches are not equally pure.""There's nane o' them pure, wi' your leave, neither yours nor mine!" exclaimed the Corporal. "I'm no' pure mysel', and accordingly when I joined my kirk it was pure nae langer; and, wi' a' respec' to you, sir, I'm no' sure if your ain kirk wasna fashed wi' the same diffeeculty whenyejoined it.""Discipline, I say, must be maintained--mustbe," said Mr. Porteous; "and Adam has come under it most deservedly.Firstpure,thenpeaceable, you know.""If ever a man kept discipline in a regiment, he did! My certes!" said Dick, "I wad like to see him that wad raggle the regiment when Adam was in't!""I am talking ofChurchdiscipline, sir!" said the minister, rather irate. "Churchdiscipline, you observe; which--as I hold yours to be not a properly constituted Church, but a mere self-constituted sect--you cannot have.""We're a kin' o' volunteers, I suppose?" interrupted Dick with a laugh; "the Haldanite volunteers, as ye wad ca' us; but maybe after a' we'll fecht agin the enemy, an' its three corps o' the deevil, the worl', and the flesh, as weel as yours.""You are not the regular army, anyhow," said the minister, "and I do not recognise your Church.""The mair's the pity," replied the Corporal, "for I consider it a great blin'ness and misfortin' when ae regiment dislikes anither. An army, minister, is no' ae regiment, but mony. There's cavalry and artillery, light troops and heavy troops, field guns and siege guns in an army, and ilka pairt does its ain wark sae lang as it obeys the commander-in-chief, and fechts for the kingdom. What's the use, then, o' fechtin' agin each ither? In my opinion it's real daft like!"The minister looked impatiently at his watch, but Dick went on to say--"In Spain, I can tell ye, we were a hantle the better o' thae wild chiels the guerillas. Altho' they didna enlist into the gand or ony regular drilled regiment, Scotch or English, the Duke himsel' was thankfu' for them. Noo, Mr. Porteous, altho' ye think us a sort o' guerillas, let us alane,--let us alane!--dinna forbid us tho' we dinna followyourflag, but fecht the enemy under oor ain.""Well, well, Dick, we need not argue about it. My principles are too firm, too long made up, to be shaken at this time of day by the Haldanites," said Mr. Porteous, rising and looking out of the window."Weel, weel!" said Dick. "I'm no' wantin' to shake your principles, but to keep my ain."At this stage of the conversation Miss Thomasina entered the room, with "I beg pardon", as if searching for something in the press, but yet for no other purpose, in her eager curiosity, than to ascertain what the Corporal was saying, as she knew him to be a friend of the Sergeant's. Her best attention, with her ear placed close to the door, had made out nothing more than that the rather prolonged conversation had something to do with the great ecclesiastical question of the passing hour in Drumsylie.Almost breathless with indignation that anyone, especially a Haldanite,--for she was quite as "High Church" as her brother,--should presume to take the part of the notorious heretic in the august presence of his great antagonist, she broke in, with what was intended to be a good-humoured smile, but was, to ordinary observers, a bad-natured grin, saying, "Eh! Mr. Dick,youto stand up for that man--suspended by the Session, and deservedly so--yes, most deservedly so! Him and his starling, forsooth! It's infidelity at the root.""It's what?" asked the Corporal, with amazement. "Infidelity did you say, my lady?"The "my lady" rather softened Miss Thomasina, who returned to the charge more softly, saying, "Well, it's pride and stubbornness, and that's as bad. But I hope his illness will be sanctified to the changing of his heart!" she added, with a sigh, intended to express a very deep concern for his spiritual welfare."I hope not, wi' your leave!" replied the Corporal."Not wish his heart changed?" exclaimed Miss Thomasina."No!" said Dick, emphatically, "not changed, for it's a good Christian heart, and, if changed at all, it wad be changed for the worse.""A Christian heart, indeed! a heart that would not kill a starling for the sake of the peace of the Session and the Kirk! Wonders will never cease!""I hope never," said Dick, "if that's a wonder. Our Lord never killed in judgment man nor beast; and I suppose they were both much about as bad then as now; and His servants should imitate His example, I take it. He was love.""But," said Mr. Porteous, chiming in, "love is all very well, no doubt, andoughtto be, where possible; but justicemustbe, love or no love. The one is a principle, the other a feeling.""I tak' it, with all respect to you, sir, and to madam," said Dick, "that love will aye do what's right, and will, therefore, aye do what's just and generous. We may miss fire pointing the gun wi' the eye o' justice, but never wi' the eye o' love. The sight is then always clearer; anyhow to me. Excuse me, Mr. Porteous, if I presume to preach to you. The Haldanites do a little in that line, tho' they're no' a' ministers! I'm a plain man that speaks my mind, and sin' ye hae gi'en me liberty to speak, let me ax if ye wad hae killed yon fine bird, that was wee Charlie's, wi' yer ain han', minister?""Ay, and all the birds under heaven!" replied Mr. Porteous, "if the law of the Church required it.""I should think so! and so would I," added Miss Thomasina, walking out of the room."It wad be a dreich warl' wi'oot a bird in the wuds or in the lifts!" said the Corporal. "Maybe it's because I'm a Haldanite, but, wi' a' respect, I think I wad miss the birds mair oot o' the warl' than I wad a' the kirk coorts in the kintra!""Drop the subject, drop the subject, Mr. Dick!" said the minister, impatiently; "you are getting personal."The Corporal could not see how that was, but he could see that his presence was not desired. So he rose to depart, saying--"I'm feared I hae been impudent, an' that my gun has got raither het firing, but, in candid truth, I wasna meanin't. But jist let me say ae word mair; ye'll alloo this, that a fool may gie an advice tae a wise man, and this is my advice tae you, sir--the advice o' an auld sodger and a Haldanite; no' muckle worth, ye may think:--Dinna hairm Adam Mercer, or ye'll hairm yer best freen', yer best elder, and yer best parishioner. I beg pardon for my freedom, sir," he added, with a deferential bow.The minister returned it stiffly, remarking only that Mr. Dick was ignorant of all the facts and history of the case, or he would have judged otherwise.Something, however, of what the Corporal had said fell on the heart of the minister, like dew in a cloudy night upon dry ground.

CHAPTER XX

JOCK HALL'S RETURN

When Jock and Spence returned along the avenue, not a word was spoken for some time. Jock carried a large bundle, with the general contents of which both were acquainted. After a while Spence remarked, as if to break the silence, "Weel, what do ye think o' his lordship?"

"He looks a fine bit decent 'sponsible bodie," said Jock, as if speaking of a nobody.

"I should think sae!" remarked Hugh, evidently chagrined by the cool criticism of his companion.

"Were ye no' frighted for him?" asked Hugh.

"Wha?--me?" replied Jock. "Frichted for what? He said naethin' tae fricht me. Certes, I was mair frichted when I stood afore him for threshing the tailors! The man didna molest me, but was unco ceevil, as I was tae him, and he gied me siller and claes as I never got frae mortal man afore, no' tae speak o' a lord. Frichted! I was ower prood to be frichted."

"Aweel, aweel," said the keeper, "ye're a queer cratur, Jock! and if ye haena' gowd ye hae brass. I was trimblin' for ye!"

"Nae wunner," said Jock; "ye had somethin' tae lose, but I had naethin'. What could he dae to me but put me oot o' the hoose? and I was gaun oot mysel'. Jock Ha' is ower far doon for ony mortal man tae pit him doon farther. He may be better, but he canna be waur. Naebody can hurt a dead doug, can they?"

"Tuts, Jock, my puir fallow," said Hugh, "I didna mean to flyte on ye. I ax yer pardon."

"Gae awa, gae awa wi' yer nonsense, Mr. Spence!" replied Jock--"that's what naebody ever did, to ax my pardon, and it's no' for a man like you tae begin. Ye micht as weel ax a rattan's pardon for eatin' a' yer cheese! In troth I'm no gi'en mysel tae that fashion o' axin' pardons, for it wad be a heap o' trouble for folk to grant them. But, man, if I got wark, I would maybe be able to ax pardon o' a dacent man, and tae get it tae for the axin'!"

"I'll no' forget ye, I do assure ye," said Spence, kindly. "You and me if I'm no mista'en 'ill meet afore lang up the way at the cottage. His lordship is willin' tae gie ye wark, and sae am I and my faither."

Jock could not resist the new emotion which prompted him to seize the keeper's hand and give it a hearty squeeze. On the strength of the renewed friendship, he offered him a snuff.

The keeper, from commands received from his lordship, found that he could not accompany Jock as far on his road as he had anticipated, but was obliged to part with him where his path to Drumsylie led across the moorland. Here they sat down on a heathery hill, when Spence said, "Afore we part, I wad like tae ken frae yersel', Jock, hooyeare a freen' tae Adam Mercer?"

"I never said I was a freen' tae Adam Mercer," replied Jock.

Hugh, as if for the first time suspecting Hall of deception, said firmly, "But ye did that! I declare ye did, and my faither believed ye!"

"I never did sic a thing!" said Jock, as firmly, in reply. "For I couldna do't wi'oot a lee, andthatI never telt tae you or yours, although in my day I hae telt ither folk an unco' heap tae ser' my turn. What I said was that Adam Mercer was a freen' tae me."

Hugh, not quite perceiving the difference yet, asked, "Hoo was he a freen' tae you?"

"I'll tell ye," said Jock, looking earnestly at Hugh. "Had a man ta'en ye into his hoose, and fed ye whan stervin', and pit shoon on ye whan barefitted, and spak' to ye, no' as if ye war a brute beast, and whan naebody on yirth ever did this but himsel', I tak' it ye wad understan' what a freen' was! Mind ye, that I'm no sic a gomeril--bad as I am--or sae wantin' in decency as to even tae mysel' to be the Sergeant's freen'; but as I said, and wull say till I dee, he wasmyfreen'!"

"What way war ye brocht up that ye cam to be sae puir as to need Adam's assistance or ony ither man's? Ye surely had as guid a chance as ony o' yer neebors?"

Jock's countenance began to assume that excited expression which the vivid recollection of his past life, especially of his youth, seemed always to produce. But he now tried to check himself, when the symptoms of his hysteria began to manifest themselves in the muscles of his throat, by rising and taking a few paces to and fro on the heather, as if resolved to regain his self-possession, and not to leave his newly-acquired friend the keeper under the impression that he was either desperately wicked or incurably insane. A new motive had come into play--a portion of his heart which had lain, as it were, dormant until stimulated by the Sergeant's kindness, had assumed a power which was rapidly, under benign influences, gaining the ascendancy. In spite of, or rather perhaps because of, his inward struggle, his face for a moment became deadly pale. His hands were clenched. He seemed as if discharging from every muscle a stream of suddenly-generated electricity. Turning at length to Hugh, he said, with knit brow and keenly-piercing eyes, "What made ye ax me sic a question, Mr. Spence?--What for? I'll no' tell ye, for I canna tell you or ony man hoo I was brocht up!"

But he did tell him--as if forced to do so in order to get rid of the demon--much of what our readers already know of those sad days of misery. "And noo," he added, "had ye been like a wild fox and the hoonds after ye, or nae mair cared for than a doug wi' a kettle at its tail, hidin' half mad up a close ayont a midden; or a cat nigh staned to death, pechin' its life awa' in a hole; and if ye kent never a man or woman but wha hated ye, and if ye hated them; and, waur than a', if ye heard your ain faither and mither cursin' ye frae the time ye war a bairn till they gaed awa' in their coffins, wi' your curses followin' after them,--ye wad ken what it was to hae ae freend on yirth;--and noo I hae mair than ane!" And poor Jock, for the first time probably in his life, sobbed like a child.

Spence said nothing but "Puir fellow!" and whiffed his pipe, which he had just lighted, with more than usual vehemence.

Jock soon resumed his usual calm,

"As one whose brain demoniac frenzy firesOwes to his fit, in which his soul hath tost,Profounder quiet, when the fit retires,--Even so the dire phantasma which had crostHis sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost,Left his mind still as a deep evening stream".

"As one whose brain demoniac frenzy fires

Owes to his fit, in which his soul hath tost,

Profounder quiet, when the fit retires,--

Even so the dire phantasma which had crost

His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost,

Left his mind still as a deep evening stream".

The keeper, hardly knowing what to say, remarked, "It's ae consolation, that your wicked faither and mither will be weel punished noo for a' their sins.Yeneedna curse them! They're beyond ony hairm that ye can do them. They're cursed eneuch, I'se warrant, wi'oot your meddlin' wi' them."

"Guid forbid!" exclaimed Jock. "I houp no'! I houp no'! That wad be maist awfu'!"

"Maybe," said the keeper; "but it's what they deserve frae the han' o' justice. And surely when their ain bairn curses them,hecan say naethin' against it."

"Inever cursed them, did I?" asked Jock, as if stupefied.

"Ye did that, and nae mistak'!" replied the keeper.

"Losh, it was a bad job if I did!" said Jock. "I'm sure I didna want to hairm them, puir bodies, though they hairmed me. In fac'," he added, after a short pause, during which he kicked the heather vehemently, "I'm willin' tae let byganes be byganes wi' them, and sae maybe their Maker will no' be ower sair on them. Ye dinna think, Mr. Spence, that it's possible my faither and mither are baith in the bad place?"

"Whaur else wad they be, if no' there?" asked the keeper.

"It's mair than I can say!" replied Jock, as if in a dream. "I only thocht they were dead in the kirkyard. But--but--ken ye ony road o' gettin' them oot if they're yonner--burnin' ye ken?"

"Ye had better," said Hugh, "gie ower botherin' yersel' to takethemoot; rather try, man, to keep yersel' oot."

"But I canna help botherin' mysel' aboot my ain folk," replied Jock; "an' maybe they warna sae bad as I mak' them. I've seen them baith greetin' and cryin' tae God for mercy even whan they war fou; an' they aince telt me, after an awfu' thrashin they gied me, that I wasna for my life to drink or swear like them. Surely that was guid, Mr. Spence? God forgie them! God forgie them!" murmured Jock, covering his face with his hands; "lost sheep!--lost money!--lost ne'er-do-weels! an' I'm here and them there! Hoo comes that aboot?" he asked, in a dreamy mood.

"God's mercy!" answered Hugh; "and we should be merciful tae ither folk, as God is mercifu' to oorsel's."

"That's what I wish thae puir sowls to get oot o' that awfu' jail for! But I'll never curse faither or mither mair," said Jock. "I'll sweer," he added, rising up, muttering the rhyme as solemnly as if before a magistrate:

"If I lee, let deathCut my breath!"

"If I lee, let death

Cut my breath!"

"Dinna fash yersel' ower muckle," said the keeper, "for them that's awa'. The Bible says, 'Shall not the Judge o' a' the yirth dae richt?' I wad think sae! Let us tak' care o' oorsel's and o' them that's leevin', an' God will do what's richt tae them that's ayont the grave. He has mair wisdom and love than us!"

Jock was engaged outwardly in tearing bits of heather, and twisting them mechanically together; but what his inward work was we know not. At last he said, "I haena heard an aith sin' I left Drumsylie, and that's extraordinar' to me, I can assure you, Mr. Spence!"

The keeper, who, unconsciously, was calmly enjoying the contemplation of his own righteousness, observed that "the kintra was a hantle decenter than the toon". But in a better and more kindly spirit he said to Jock, "I'll stan' yer friend, Hall, especially sin' his lordship wishes me to help you. Ye hae got guid claes in that bundle, I'se warrant--the verra claes, mark ye, that were on himsel'! Pit them on, and jist thinkwhat'son ye, and be dacent! Drop a' drinkin', swearin', and sic trash; bend yer back tae yer burden, ca' yer han' tae yer wark, pay yer way, and keep a ceevil tongue in yer head, and then 'whistle ower the lave o't!' There's my han' to ye. Fareweel, and ye'll hear frae me some day soon, whan I get a place ready for ye aboot mysel' and the dougs."

"God's blessin' be wi' ye!" replied poor Jock.

They then rose and parted. Each after a while looked over his shoulder and waved his hand.

Jock ran back to the keeper when at some distance from him, as if he had lost something.

"What's wrang?" asked Spence.

"A's richt noo!" replied Jock, as again he raised his hand and repeated his parting words, "God's blessin' be wi' ye"; and then ran off as if pursued, until concealed by rising ground from the gaze of the keeper, who watched him while in sight, lost in his own meditations.

One of the first things Jock did after thus parting with Hugh was to undo his parcel, and when he did so there was spread before his wondering eyes such a display of clothing of every kind as he had never dreamt of in connexion with his own person. All seemed to his eyes as if fresh from the tailor's hands. Jock looked at his treasures in detail, held them up, turned them over, laid them down, and repeated the process with such a grin on his face and exclamations on his lips as can neither be described nor repeated. After a while his resolution seemed to be taken: for descending to a clear mountain stream, he stripped himself of his usual habiliments, and, though they were old familiar friends, he cast them aside as if in scorn, stuffing them into a hole in the bank. After performing long and careful ablutions, he decked himself in his new rig, and tying up in a bundle his superfluous trappings, emerged on the moorland in appearance and in dignity the very lord of the manor! "Faix," thought Jock, as he paced along, "the Sterlin' wasna far wrang when it telt me that 'a man's a man for a' that!'"

Instead of pursuing his way direct to Drumsylie, he diverged to a village half-way between Castle Bennock and his final destination. With his money in his pocket, he put up like a gentleman at a superior lodging-house, where he was received with the respect becoming his appearance. Early in the morning, when few were awake, he entered Drumsylie, with a sheepish feeling and such fear of attracting the attention of itsgaminsas made him run quickly to the house of an old widow, where he hoped to avoid all impertinent inquiries until he could determine upon his future proceedings. These were materially affected by the information which in due time he received, that Adam Mercer had been suddenly seized with illness on the day after he had left Drumsylie, and was now confined to bed.

CHAPTER XXI

THE QUACK

It was true, as Jock Hall had heard, that Sergeant Mercer was very unwell. The events of the few previous weeks, however trivial in the estimation of the great world, had been to him very real and afflicting. The ecclesiastical trials and the social annoyances, with the secret worry and anxiety which they had occasioned, began to affect his health. He grew dull in spirits, suffered from a sense of oppression, and was "head-achy", "fushionless", and "dowie". He resolved to be cheerful, and do his work; but he neither could be the one nor do the other. His wife prescribed for him out of her traditional pharmacopoeia, but in vain. Then, as a last resort, "keeping a day in bed" was advised, and this was at once acceded to.

At the risk of breaking the thread of our narrative, or--to borrow an illustration more worthy of the nineteenth century--of running along a side rail to return shortly to the main line, we may here state, that at the beginning of the Sergeant's illness, a person, dressed in rather decayed black clothes, with a yellowish white neckcloth, looking like a deposed clergyman, gently tapped at his door. The door was opened by Katie. The stranger raised his broad-brimmed hat, and saluted her with a low respectful bow. He entered with head uncovered, muttering many apologies with many smiles. His complexion was dark; his black hair was smoothly combed back from his receding forehead, and again drawn forward in the form of a curl under each large ear, thus directing attention to his pronounced nostrils and lips; while his black eyes were bent down, as if contemplating his shining teeth. His figure was obese; his age between forty and fifty.

This distinguished-looking visitor introduced himself as Dr. Mair, and inquired in the kindest, blandest, and most confidential manner as to the health of "the worthy Sergeant", as he condescendingly called him. Katie was puzzled, yet pleased, with the appearance of the unknown doctor, who explained that he was a stranger--his residence being ordinarily in London, except when travelling on professional business, as on the present occasion. He said that he had devoted all his time and talents to the study of the complaint under which the Sergeant, judging from what he had heard, was evidently labouring; and that he esteemed it to be the highest honour--a gift from Heaven, indeed--to be able to remedy it. His father, he stated, had been a great medical man in the West Indies, and had consecrated his life to the cure of disease, having made a wonderful collection of medicines from old Negroes, who, it was well known, had a great knowledge of herbs. These secrets of Nature his father had entrusted to him, and to him alone, on the express condition that he would minister them in love only. He therefore made no charge, except for the medicine itself--a mere trifle to cover the expense of getting it from the West Indies. Might he have the privilege of seeing the Sergeant? One great blessing of his medicines was, that if they did no good--which rarely happened--they did no harm. But all depended--he added, looking up towards heaven--onHisblessing!

After a long unctuous discourse of this kind, accompanied by a low whine and many gestures expressive of, or intended to express, all the Christian graces, added to Nature's gifts, the doctor drew breath.

Kate was much impressed by this self-sacrificing philanthropist, and expressed a cordial wish that he should see the Sergeant. Adam, after some conversation with his wife, saw it was best, for peace' sake, to permit the entrance of the doctor. After he had repeated some of his former statements and given assurances of his skill, the Sergeant asked him: "Hoo do I ken ye're speaking the truth, and no' cheatin' me?"

"You have my word of honour, Sergeant!" replied Dr. Mair, "and you don't thinkIwould lie to you? Look at me! I cannot have any possible motive for making you unwell. Horrible thought! I hope I feel my sense of responsibility too much for that!" Whereupon he looked up to heaven, and then down into a black bag, out of which he took several phials and boxes of pills, arranging them on a small table at the window. He proceeded to describe their wonderful qualities in a style which he intended for the language of a scholarly gentleman, interlarding his speech with Latinized terms, to give it a more learned colouring.

"This medicine," he said, "acts on the spirits. It is called thespiritum cheerabilum. It cures depression; removes all nervous, agitating feelings--what we termdepressiones; soothing the anxious mind because acting on the vital nerves--going to the root of every painful feeling, through the gastric juice, heart, and liver, along the spinal cord, and thence to the head and brain. This view is according to common-sense, you must admit. A few doses of such a medicine would put you on your legs, Sergeant, in a week! I never once knew it fail when taken perseveringly and with faith--with faith!" he added, with a benignant smile; "for faith, I am solemnly persuaded, can even yet remove mountains!"

"Doctor, or whatever ye are," said the Sergeant, in an impatient tone of voice, "I want nane o' yer pills or drugs; I hae a guid eneuch doctor o' my ain."

"Ha!" said Dr. Mair; "a regular practitioner, I presume? Yes, I understand. Hem! College bred, and all that."

"Just so," said the Sergeant. "Edicated, as it were, for his wark, and no' a doctor by guess."

"But can you believe his word?" blandly asked Dr. Mair.

"As muckle, surely, as yours," replied the Sergeant; "mair especial' as guid and learned men o' experience agree wi' him, but no' wi' you."

"How do you know they are good and learned?" asked Dr. Mair, smiling.

"Mair onyhoo than I kenye'regood and learned, and no' leein'," said Adam.

"But God might surely reveal to me the truth," replied Mair, "rather than to ten thousand so-called learned men. Babes and sucklings, you know, may receive what is concealed from the great and self-confident."

"My word! ye're neither a babe nor a sucklin', doctor, as ye ca' yersel'; and, depen' on't, neither am I!" said the Sergeant. "Onyhoo, I think it's mair likely the Almighty wad reveal himsel' to a' the sensible and guid doctors rather than to you alane, forbye a' yer niggers!"

"But I have testimonials of my cures!" continued Dr. Mair.

"Wha kens aboot yer testimonials?" exclaimed Adam. "Could naebody get testimonials but you? And hae ye testimonials frae them ye've kill't? I'se warrant no'! I tell ye again ye'll never pruve tae me that ye're richt and a' the edicated doctors wrang."

"But it's possible?" asked Dr. Mair, with a smile.

"Possible!" said the Sergeant; "but it's ten thoosand times mair possible that ye're cheatin' yersel' or cheatin' me. Sae ye may gang."

"But I charge nothing for my attendance, my dear sir, only for the medicine."

"Just so," replied the Sergeant; "sae mony shillings for what maybe didna cost ye a bawbee--pills o' aitmeal or peasebrose. I'm an auld sodger, and canna be made a fule o' that way!"

"I do not depend on my pills so much as on my prayers for the cure of disease," said the quack solemnly. "Oh, Sergeant! have you no faith in prayer?"

"I houp I hae," replied the Sergeant; "but I hae nae faith in you--nane whatsomever! sae guid day tae ye!"

Dr. Mair packed up his quack medicine in silence, which was meant to be impressive. He sighed, as if in sorrow for human ignorance and unbelief; but seeing no favourable effect produced on the Sergeant he said: "Your blood be on your own unbelieving head! I am free of it."

"Amen!" said the Sergeant; "and gang about yer business to auld wives and idewits, that deserve to dee if they trust the like o' you."

And so the great Dr. Mair departed in wrath--real or pretended--to pursue his calling as a leech, verily sucking the blood of the credulous, of whom there are not a few among rich and poor, who, loving quackery, are quacked.[#]

[#] It may be added as an instructive fact, that such leeches suck at least £300,000 a year out of the people of this country.

Having disposed of the Quack, we now back into the main line, and resume our journey.

CHAPTER XXII

CORPORAL DICK

Corporal Dick, who lived in the village of Darnic, several hours' journey by the "Highflyer" coach from Drumsylie, came at this time to pay his annual visit to the Sergeant.

The Corporal, while serving in the same regiment with Adam, had been impressed, as we have already indicated, by the Christian character of his comrade. Those early impressions had been deepened shortly after his return home from service. We need not here record the circumstances in which this decided change in his sentiments and character had taken place. Many of our Scotch readers, at least, have heard of the movement in the beginning of this century by the devoted Haldanes, who, as gentlemen of fortune, and possessing the sincerest and strongest Christian convictions, broke the formality which was freezing Christian life in many a district of Scotland. They did the same kind of work for the Church in the North which Wesley and Whitfield had done for that in the South, though with less permanent results as far as this world is concerned. Dick joined the "Haldanites". Along with all the zeal and strictness characteristic of a small body, he possessed a large share ofbonhomie, and of the freedom, subdued and regulated, of the old soldier.

At these annual visits the old veterans fought their battles over again, recalling old comrades and repeating old stories; neither, however, being old in their affections or their memories. But never had the Corporal visited his friend with a more eager desire to "hear his news" than on the present occasion. He had often asked people from Drumsylie, whom he happened to meet, what all this disputing and talk about Adam Mercer meant? And every new reply he received to his question, whether favourable or unfavourable to the Sergeant, only puzzled him the more. One thing, however, he never could be persuaded of--that his friend Adam Mercer would do anything unbecoming to his "superior officer", as he called the minister; or "break the Sabbath", an institution which, like every good Scotchman, he held in peculiar veneration; or be art or part in any mutiny against the ordinances or principles of true religion. And yet, how could he account for all that been told him by "decent folk" and well-informed persons? The good he heard of the Sergeant was believed in by the Corporal as a matter of course; but what of the evil, which seemed to rest upon equally reliable authority?

Dick must himself hear the details of the "affair", or the battle, as it might turn out.

It was therefore a glad day for both Adam and the Corporal when they again met;--to both a most pleasant change of thought--a glad remembrance of a grand old time already invested with romance--a meeting of men of character, of truth and honour, who could call each other by the loyal name of Friend.

We must allow the reader to fill up the outline which alone we can give of the meeting--the hearty greetings between the two old companions in arms; the minute questions by the one, the full and candid answers by the other; the smiling Katie ever and anon filling up the vacancies left in the narrative of ecclesiastical trials by the Sergeant, from his modesty or want of memory; the joyous satisfaction of Dick, as he found his faith in his comrade vindicated, and saw how firm and impregnable he was in his position, without anything to shake any Christian's confidence in his long-tried integrity, courage, and singleness of heart.

The Corporal's only regret was to see his friend wanting in his usual elasticity of spirits. The fire in his eye was gone, and the quiet yet joyous laugh no longer responded to the old jokes,--a smile being all he could muster. But the Corporal was determined to rouse him. "The wars" would do it if anything would. And so, when supper came piping hot, with bubbling half-browned toasted cheese, mutton pie, tea and toast, followed by a little whisky punch, and all without gluttony or drunkenness, but with sobriety and thankfulness felt and expressed--then did the reminiscences begin! And it would be difficult to say how often the phrase, "D'ye mind, Sergeant?" was introduced, as old officers and men, old jokes and old everything--marches, bivouacs, retreats, charges, sieges, battles--were recalled, with their anxieties and hardships passed away, and their glory alone remaining.

"Heigho!" the Corporal would say, as he paused in his excitement, "it's growing a dream already, Adam! There's no mony I can speak tae aboot these auld times;--no' auld to you and me. Folks' heads are taen up w' naething but getting money oot o' the peace we helped to get for the kintra: and little thanks for a' we did--little thanks, little thanks, atweel!" the Corporal would ejaculate in a die-away murmur.

But this was not a time to complain, but to rouse--not to pile arms, but to fire. And so the Corporal said, "Did I tell ye o' the sang made by Sandie Tamson? Ye'll mind Sandie weel--the schulemaster that listed? A maist clever chiel!"

"I mind him fine," said the Sergeant. "Curious eneuch, it was me that listed him! I hae heard a hantle o' his sangs."

"But no' this ane," said Dick, "for he made it--at least he said sae--for our auld Colonel in Perth. It seems Sandie, puir fallow, took to drink--or rather ne'er gied it ower--and sae he cam' beggin' in a kin' o' private genteel way, ye ken, to the Colonel; and when he got siller he wrote this sang for him. He gied me a copy for half-a-crown. I'll let ye hear 't--altho' my pipe is no sae guid as yer Sterlin's."

As the Corporal cleared his voice, the Sergeant lifted the nightcap from his ear, and said, "Sing awa'."

Dost thou remember, soldier, old and hoary,The days we fought and conquered side by side,On fields of battle famous now in story,Where Britons triumphed, and where Britons died?Dost thou remember all our old campaigning,O'er many a field in Portugal and Spain?Of our old comrades few are now remaining--How many sleep upon the bloody plain!Of our old comrades, &c.Dost thou remember all those marches weary,From gathering foes, to reach Corunna's shore?Who can forget that midnight, sad and dreary,When in his grave we laid the noble Moore!But ere he died our General heard us cheering,And saw us charge with vict'ry's flag unfurled;And then he slept, without his ever fearingFor British soldiers conquering o'er the world.And then he slept, &c.Rememb'rest thou the bloody Albuera!The deadly breach in Badajoz's walls!Vittoria! Salamanca! Talavera!Till Roncesvalles echoed to our balls!Ha! how we drove the Frenchmen all before us,As foam is driven before the stormy breeze!We fought right on, with conquering banners o'er us,From Torres Vedras to the Pyrenees.We fought right on, &c.Dost thou remember to the war returning,--Long will our enemies remember too!--We fought again, our hearts for glory burning,At Quatre Bras and awful Waterloo!We thought of home upon that Sabbath morningWhen Cameron's pibroch roused our Highland corps,Then proudly marched, the mighty Emperor scorning,And vowed to die or conquer as of yore!Then proudly marched, &c.Rememb'rest thou the old familiar facesOf warriors nursed in many a stormy fight,Whose lonely graves, which now the stranger traces,Mark every spot they held from morn till night?In vain did Cuirassiers in clouds surround them,With cannon thundering as the tempest raves;They left our squares, oh! just as they had found them,Firm as the rocks amidst the ocean's waves!They left our squares, &c.Those days are past, my soldier, old and hoary,But still the scars are on thy manly brow;We both have shared the danger and the glory,Come, let us share the peace and comfort now.Come to my home, for thou hast not another,And dry those tears, for thou shall beg no more;There, take this hand, and let us march togetherDown to the grave, where life's campaign is o'er!There, take this hand, &c.

Dost thou remember, soldier, old and hoary,

The days we fought and conquered side by side,

On fields of battle famous now in story,

Where Britons triumphed, and where Britons died?

Dost thou remember all our old campaigning,

O'er many a field in Portugal and Spain?

Of our old comrades few are now remaining--

How many sleep upon the bloody plain!Of our old comrades, &c.

How many sleep upon the bloody plain!

Of our old comrades, &c.

Dost thou remember all those marches weary,

From gathering foes, to reach Corunna's shore?

Who can forget that midnight, sad and dreary,

When in his grave we laid the noble Moore!

But ere he died our General heard us cheering,

And saw us charge with vict'ry's flag unfurled;

And then he slept, without his ever fearing

For British soldiers conquering o'er the world.And then he slept, &c.

For British soldiers conquering o'er the world.

And then he slept, &c.

Rememb'rest thou the bloody Albuera!

The deadly breach in Badajoz's walls!

Vittoria! Salamanca! Talavera!

Till Roncesvalles echoed to our balls!

Ha! how we drove the Frenchmen all before us,

As foam is driven before the stormy breeze!

We fought right on, with conquering banners o'er us,

From Torres Vedras to the Pyrenees.We fought right on, &c.

From Torres Vedras to the Pyrenees.

We fought right on, &c.

Dost thou remember to the war returning,

--Long will our enemies remember too!--

We fought again, our hearts for glory burning,

At Quatre Bras and awful Waterloo!

We thought of home upon that Sabbath morning

When Cameron's pibroch roused our Highland corps,

Then proudly marched, the mighty Emperor scorning,

And vowed to die or conquer as of yore!Then proudly marched, &c.

And vowed to die or conquer as of yore!

Then proudly marched, &c.

Rememb'rest thou the old familiar faces

Of warriors nursed in many a stormy fight,

Whose lonely graves, which now the stranger traces,

Mark every spot they held from morn till night?

In vain did Cuirassiers in clouds surround them,

With cannon thundering as the tempest raves;

They left our squares, oh! just as they had found them,

Firm as the rocks amidst the ocean's waves!They left our squares, &c.

Firm as the rocks amidst the ocean's waves!

They left our squares, &c.

Those days are past, my soldier, old and hoary,

But still the scars are on thy manly brow;

We both have shared the danger and the glory,

Come, let us share the peace and comfort now.

Come to my home, for thou hast not another,

And dry those tears, for thou shall beg no more;

There, take this hand, and let us march together

Down to the grave, where life's campaign is o'er!There, take this hand, &c.

Down to the grave, where life's campaign is o'er!

There, take this hand, &c.

While the song was being sung the Sergeant turned his head on his pillow away from the Corporal. When it was finished, he said, "Come here, Dick."

The Corporal went to the bed, and seized the Sergeant's proffered hand.

"That sang will do me mair guid than a' their medicine. The guidwife will gie ye half-a-croon for puir Sandie Tamson."

Then asking Katie to leave him alone for a few moments with the Corporal, the Sergeant said, retaining his hand--

"I'm no dangerously ill, my auld friend; but I'm no' weel--I'm no' weel! There's a weight on my mind, and an oppression aboot my heart that hauds me doun extraordinar'."

"Dinna gie in, Adam--dinna gie in, wi' the help o' Him that has brocht ye thro' mony a waur fecht," replied the Corporal as he sat down beside him. "D'ye mind the time when ye followed Cainsh up the ladder at Badajoz? and d'ye mind when that glorious fallow Loyd was kill't at Nivelle! Noo----"

"Ah, Dick! thae days, man, are a' by! I'm no' what I was," said the Sergeant. "I'm a puir crippled, wounded veteran, no' fit for ony mair service--no' even as an elder," he added, with a bitter smile.

"Dinna fash yer thoomb, Adam, aboot that business," said Dick. "Ye deserved to hae been drummed oot o' the regiment--I mean the kirk--no' your kirk nor mine, but the kirk o' a' honest and sensible folk, gif ye had swithered aboot that bird. I hae had a crack wi' the cratur, and it's jist extraordinar' sensible like--sae crouse and canty, it wad be like murder tae thraw a neck like that! In fac', a bird is mair than a bird, I consider, when it can speak and sing yon way."

"Thank ye, Corporal," said Adam.

"It's some glamour has come ower the minister," said Dick, "just like what cam' ower oor Colonel, when he made us charge twa thousand at Busaco, and had, in coorse, tae fa' back on his supports in disgrace--no' jist in disgrace, for we never cam' tae that, nor never wull, I hope--but in confusion!"

"God's wull be done, auld comrade!" replied Adam; "but it's His wull, I think, that I maun fa' on the field, and if so, I'm no' feared--na, na! Like a guid sodger, I wad like tae endure hardness."

"Ye're speakin' ower muckle," interrupted Dick, "and wearyin' yersel'."

"I maun hae my say oot, Corporal, afore the forlorn hope marches," continued the Sergeant; "and as I was remarkin', and because I dinna want tae be interrupted wi' the affairs o' this life, so as to please Him wha has ca'd me to be a sodger--I maun mak' my last wull and testament noo or never, and I trust you, Dick, mair than a' the lawyers and law papers i' the worl', tae see't carried oot." And he held out a feverish hand to the Corporal, who gave it a responsive squeeze.

"Ye see, Corporal," said the Sergeant, "I hae nae fortun' to leave; but I hae laid by something for my Katie--and whatshehas been tae me, God alane kens!" He paused. "And then there's wee Mary, that I luve amaist as weel as my Charlie; and then there's the bird. Na, Corporal, dinna blame me for speakin' aboot the bird! The Apostle, when aboot to be offered up, spak' aboot his cloak, and nae dead cloak was ever dearer to him than the leevin' bird is tae me, because it was, as ye ken, dear tae the wee fallow that was my ain flesh and bluid, wha's waiting for me. Duve ye mind Charlie?"

"Mind Charlie!" exclaimed the Corporal. "Wait awee, Adam!" and he drew out an old pocket-book from his breast-pocket, from which he took a bit of paper, and, unfolding it, held up a lock of silken hair. The Sergeant suddenly seized the relic and kissed it, and then returned it to the Corporal, who, without saying a word, restored it to its old place of safety.

But Dick now began to see that the Sergeant seemed to be rather excited, and no longer able to talk in his usual slow and measured manner, and so he said to him--

"Wait till the morn, Adam, and we'll put a' richt to yer satisfaction."

"Na, na, Corporal!" replied Adam, "I never like pittin' aff--no' a fecht even. What ought to be dune, should be dune when it can--sae listen to me:--Ye'll help Katie tae gaither her siller and gear thegither--it's no muckle atweel!--and see that she and Mary, wi' the bird, are pit in a bit hoose near yersel'. They can fen' on what I'll lea' them, wi' their ain wark tae help. Ye'll stan' their freen'--I ken, I ken ye wull! And oh, man, when ye hear folk abuse me, dinna say a word in my defence! Let gowans grow frae my grave, and birds sing ower't, and God's sun shine on't, but let nae angry word, against even an enemy, ever be heard frae't, or be conneckit wi' my memory."

Dick was silent. He felt too much to speak. The Sergeant continued--"Gie a' my boots and shoon tae Jock Hall. Katie wull tell ye aboot him."

After a pause, he said--"I ask forgiveness o' the minister, if I hae wranged him in ignorance. But as to Smellie----" and the Sergeant turned his head away. "The heart, Corporal," he added, "is hard! I'm no' fit for that yet. God forgie me! but I canna wi'oot hypocrisy say----"

"I'll no' let ye speak another word, Adam!" said Dick. "Trust me as to yer will. I'll be faithfu' unto death!" and he drew himself up, and saluted the Sergeant, soldier fashion.

There was not a bit of the consciously dramatic in this; but he wished to accept the trust given him in due form, as became a soldier receiving important orders from a dying friend.

Adam did not like to confess it; but he was so wearied that he could speak no more without pain, and so thanking the Corporal, he turned round to sleep.

CHAPTER XXIII

CORPORAL DICK AT THE MANSE

Adam had received his pension-paper, which required to be signed by the parish minister, as certifying that the claimant was in life. Dick was glad of this opportunity of calling upon the minister to obtain for his friend the required signature. He was known to Mr. Porteous, who had met him once before in Adam's house, and had attacked him rather sharply on his Haldanite principles, the sect being, as he alleged, an uncalled-for opposition to the regular parish clergy.

A short walk brought Dick to the manse. After a few words of greeting he presented the Sergeant's paper. Mr. Porteous inquired, with rather a sceptical expression on his countenance--

"Is Mr. Mercer really unwell, and unable to come?"

"I have told you the truth, sir," was the Corporal's dignified and short reply.

Mr. Porteous asked what was wrong with him? The Corporal replied that he did not know, but that he was feverish, he thought, and was certainly confined to bed.

"Your friend, the Sergeant, as you are probably aware," remarked the minister, signing the paper and returning it to the Corporal, "has greatly surprised and annoyed me. He seems quite a changed man--changed, I fear, for the worse. Oh! yes, Mr. Dick," he continued in reply to a protesting wave of the Corporal's hand, "he is indeed. He has become proud and obstinate--very."

"Meek as a lamb, sir, in time of peace, but brave as a lion in time of war, I can assure you, Mr. Porteous," replied the Corporal.

"I know better!" said the minister.

"Not better than me, sir," replied Dick; "for tho' ye have kent him as well as me, perhaps, in peace, yet ye didna ken him at all in war, and a truer, better, nobler sodger than Adam Mercer never raised his arms to fight or to pray, for he did baith--that I'll say before the worl', and defy contradiction!"

"Remember, Corporal, you and I belong to different Churches, and we judge men differently. We must have discipline. All Churches are not equally pure."

"There's nane o' them pure, wi' your leave, neither yours nor mine!" exclaimed the Corporal. "I'm no' pure mysel', and accordingly when I joined my kirk it was pure nae langer; and, wi' a' respec' to you, sir, I'm no' sure if your ain kirk wasna fashed wi' the same diffeeculty whenyejoined it."

"Discipline, I say, must be maintained--mustbe," said Mr. Porteous; "and Adam has come under it most deservedly.Firstpure,thenpeaceable, you know."

"If ever a man kept discipline in a regiment, he did! My certes!" said Dick, "I wad like to see him that wad raggle the regiment when Adam was in't!"

"I am talking ofChurchdiscipline, sir!" said the minister, rather irate. "Churchdiscipline, you observe; which--as I hold yours to be not a properly constituted Church, but a mere self-constituted sect--you cannot have."

"We're a kin' o' volunteers, I suppose?" interrupted Dick with a laugh; "the Haldanite volunteers, as ye wad ca' us; but maybe after a' we'll fecht agin the enemy, an' its three corps o' the deevil, the worl', and the flesh, as weel as yours."

"You are not the regular army, anyhow," said the minister, "and I do not recognise your Church."

"The mair's the pity," replied the Corporal, "for I consider it a great blin'ness and misfortin' when ae regiment dislikes anither. An army, minister, is no' ae regiment, but mony. There's cavalry and artillery, light troops and heavy troops, field guns and siege guns in an army, and ilka pairt does its ain wark sae lang as it obeys the commander-in-chief, and fechts for the kingdom. What's the use, then, o' fechtin' agin each ither? In my opinion it's real daft like!"

The minister looked impatiently at his watch, but Dick went on to say--

"In Spain, I can tell ye, we were a hantle the better o' thae wild chiels the guerillas. Altho' they didna enlist into the gand or ony regular drilled regiment, Scotch or English, the Duke himsel' was thankfu' for them. Noo, Mr. Porteous, altho' ye think us a sort o' guerillas, let us alane,--let us alane!--dinna forbid us tho' we dinna followyourflag, but fecht the enemy under oor ain."

"Well, well, Dick, we need not argue about it. My principles are too firm, too long made up, to be shaken at this time of day by the Haldanites," said Mr. Porteous, rising and looking out of the window.

"Weel, weel!" said Dick. "I'm no' wantin' to shake your principles, but to keep my ain."

At this stage of the conversation Miss Thomasina entered the room, with "I beg pardon", as if searching for something in the press, but yet for no other purpose, in her eager curiosity, than to ascertain what the Corporal was saying, as she knew him to be a friend of the Sergeant's. Her best attention, with her ear placed close to the door, had made out nothing more than that the rather prolonged conversation had something to do with the great ecclesiastical question of the passing hour in Drumsylie.

Almost breathless with indignation that anyone, especially a Haldanite,--for she was quite as "High Church" as her brother,--should presume to take the part of the notorious heretic in the august presence of his great antagonist, she broke in, with what was intended to be a good-humoured smile, but was, to ordinary observers, a bad-natured grin, saying, "Eh! Mr. Dick,youto stand up for that man--suspended by the Session, and deservedly so--yes, most deservedly so! Him and his starling, forsooth! It's infidelity at the root."

"It's what?" asked the Corporal, with amazement. "Infidelity did you say, my lady?"

The "my lady" rather softened Miss Thomasina, who returned to the charge more softly, saying, "Well, it's pride and stubbornness, and that's as bad. But I hope his illness will be sanctified to the changing of his heart!" she added, with a sigh, intended to express a very deep concern for his spiritual welfare.

"I hope not, wi' your leave!" replied the Corporal.

"Not wish his heart changed?" exclaimed Miss Thomasina.

"No!" said Dick, emphatically, "not changed, for it's a good Christian heart, and, if changed at all, it wad be changed for the worse."

"A Christian heart, indeed! a heart that would not kill a starling for the sake of the peace of the Session and the Kirk! Wonders will never cease!"

"I hope never," said Dick, "if that's a wonder. Our Lord never killed in judgment man nor beast; and I suppose they were both much about as bad then as now; and His servants should imitate His example, I take it. He was love."

"But," said Mr. Porteous, chiming in, "love is all very well, no doubt, andoughtto be, where possible; but justicemustbe, love or no love. The one is a principle, the other a feeling."

"I tak' it, with all respect to you, sir, and to madam," said Dick, "that love will aye do what's right, and will, therefore, aye do what's just and generous. We may miss fire pointing the gun wi' the eye o' justice, but never wi' the eye o' love. The sight is then always clearer; anyhow to me. Excuse me, Mr. Porteous, if I presume to preach to you. The Haldanites do a little in that line, tho' they're no' a' ministers! I'm a plain man that speaks my mind, and sin' ye hae gi'en me liberty to speak, let me ax if ye wad hae killed yon fine bird, that was wee Charlie's, wi' yer ain han', minister?"

"Ay, and all the birds under heaven!" replied Mr. Porteous, "if the law of the Church required it."

"I should think so! and so would I," added Miss Thomasina, walking out of the room.

"It wad be a dreich warl' wi'oot a bird in the wuds or in the lifts!" said the Corporal. "Maybe it's because I'm a Haldanite, but, wi' a' respect, I think I wad miss the birds mair oot o' the warl' than I wad a' the kirk coorts in the kintra!"

"Drop the subject, drop the subject, Mr. Dick!" said the minister, impatiently; "you are getting personal."

The Corporal could not see how that was, but he could see that his presence was not desired. So he rose to depart, saying--"I'm feared I hae been impudent, an' that my gun has got raither het firing, but, in candid truth, I wasna meanin't. But jist let me say ae word mair; ye'll alloo this, that a fool may gie an advice tae a wise man, and this is my advice tae you, sir--the advice o' an auld sodger and a Haldanite; no' muckle worth, ye may think:--Dinna hairm Adam Mercer, or ye'll hairm yer best freen', yer best elder, and yer best parishioner. I beg pardon for my freedom, sir," he added, with a deferential bow.

The minister returned it stiffly, remarking only that Mr. Dick was ignorant of all the facts and history of the case, or he would have judged otherwise.

Something, however, of what the Corporal had said fell on the heart of the minister, like dew in a cloudy night upon dry ground.

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