BASIL ROLLAND.

In May, quhen men yied everichoneWith Robene Hoid and Littil John,To bring in bowis and birken bobynis,Now all sic game is fastlings gone,Bot gif if be amangs clowin Robbynis.—A. Scott.

In May, quhen men yied everichone

With Robene Hoid and Littil John,

To bring in bowis and birken bobynis,

Now all sic game is fastlings gone,

Bot gif if be amangs clowin Robbynis.—A. Scott.

The period at which the circumstances recorded in the following narrative happened was in the troubled year of 1639. At that time the points in dispute betwixt Charles and his subjects were most violently contested, and the partizans of each were in arms all over the country, endeavouring, by partial and solitary operations, to gain the ascendancy for their faction. The first cause of these disturbances was the attempt of the monarch to establish Episcopacy over Scotland—a form of worship which had always been disliked by the Scotch, as they considered it but a single step removed from Popery. The intemperate zeal with which Charles prosecuted his views (occasioned by a misconception of the national character of his subjects), and his averseness to compromise or conciliation, first gave rise to the combination called the Covenanters; weak at first, but in a short time too powerful to be shaken by the exertions of the High Churchmen.

One of the first and most politic steps taken by the Council of the Covenant, denominated “the Tables,” was the framing of the celebrated Bond or Covenant; the subscribers of which bound themselves to resist the introduction of Popery and Prelacy, and to stand by each other in case of innovations on the established worship. Charles seeing, at last, the strength of this association, uttered, in his turn, a covenant renouncing Popery; he also dispensed with the use of the Prayer Book, the Five Articles of Perth, and other things connected with public worship which were obnoxious to the Covenanters.

During this contention, the citizens of Aberdeen remained firmly attached to the royal interest, and appear to have come in with every resolution that was adopted by the government. In 1638, a deputation from “the Tables,” among whom was the celebrated Andrew Cant (from whom the mission was denominated “Cant’s Visitation”), arrived in the town, for the purpose of inducing the inhabitants to subscribe the Covenant; but as their representations entirely failed of success, they were obliged to desist. The Earl of Montrose arrived in Aberdeen in the spring of 1639, and, partly by the terror of his arms, partly by the representations of the clergy that accompanied him, succeeded in imposing the Covenant on the townsmen. After his departure, a body of the royalists, commanded by the Laird of Banff, having routed the forces of Frazer and Forbes, took possession of the town, and wreaked their vengeance on all who had subscribed the Covenant. They only remained five days in the town, and, on their departure, it was occupied by the Earl of Marischal, who in turn harassed the royalists. As soon as Montrose heard of these occurrences, being doubtful of the fidelity of the inhabitants, he marched to Aberdeen again, disarmed the citizens, and imposed a heavy fine upon them. The citizens, who had been impoverished by these unjust exactions, were somewhat relieved, when Montrose, their greatest scourge, after another short visit, marched into Angus and disbanded his army.

It was in the month of June that the citizens began to feel themselves elated by the prospect, if not of peace, of the seat of the war being removed from their dwellings, on the disbanding of Montrose’s forces, and at liberty to say anything about the Covenant that might seem good unto them. Those who had subscribed it under the influence of fear (and they were not a small number) veered round to the king’s party, and sounded the praises of the Viscount of Aboyne, who had landed at Aberdeen on the part of his Majesty. Their former losses and sufferings were all forgotten, and a general disposition for rejoicing was to be seen among them. Provost Leslie and his colleagues were inclined to encourage this, as it might lead those who had a hankering after the Covenant to turn to the loyal side, which allowed them greater latitude in their games and plays. It was therefore announced that, in the ensuing week, the pastime of Robin Hood and Little John (which had not been celebrated in the beginning of May, the usual time, on account of the disturbances) should be practised on the playfield, along with the usual helps to merriment.

Of all the crowds that poured out from the town on that day to see the spectacle, it is our business only to take notice of a young man and maiden that tripped along just as it was commencing. They appeared to be of the first order of the citizens. The maiden was a lively, interesting little girl, with blue eyes and a fine complexion; her limbs moulded into the most exact symmetry, and her whole appearance in the utmost degree fascinating. Her dress was white, with a sort of scarf or plaid wound round her person, and fastened by a loop and silver button on the left shoulder. Her flaxen hair, except a few ringlets which strayed down her neck, was confined by a silken snood, which, even at that period, was the badge of Scottish maidens. Her companion was above the middle size, of rather a slender make and ruddy complexion, with expressive dark eyes, and coal black hair flowing down, according to the fashion of the royalists, in large and glossy curls. He was about twenty years of age, and though his figure was somewhat boyish,—or feminine if you will,—yet the fire of his eye, the intelligence of his countenance, and the activity of his frame, confirmed his claims to manhood. Although the young man intended only to be a spectator of the revels, he was dressed in green, with bow and arrows, which was the dress of the actors of the play.

As they approached the playfield, now called Gilcomston, the shouts of the delighted populace were heard, mingled with the sounds of the pipe, fiddle, and trumpet, the songs of the minstrels, and the cries of the jugglers. The Abbot and Prior of Bon-Accord (or, as they were called after the Reformation, Robin Hood and Little John) had just arrived; and having been greeted by the populace, were forming a ring for the celebration of the sports, which was guarded by a body of their archers. We have no need to detail the performance; suffice it to say, that the piece was intended for a satire on the Covenanters, they being shown to the lieges under the semblance of evil spirits, and the royalists of angels of light. Towards the close of it, the young man whom we have mentioned felt his sleeve pulled by a person behind him.

“Thou art he whom I seek,” said the person who thus forced himself on his notice; “and thy name is Basil Rolland.”

“It is,” returned he; “declare your business.”

“Not here. Thou seest we are surrounded by the multitude. Remove with me to a little distance, for I would hold some secret converse with thee.”

“That may not be. I came to squire this maiden to the revels, and may not leave her alone.”

“Suffer the damsel to tarry here for a short space, and follow me to a little distance.”

“Go with the stranger, Basil,” said she, “and I will remain in the same spot till you return.”

“Do so then, Mary,” said Basil; “I’ll return anon.”

As they retired to some distance from the crowd, Basil had leisure to note the appearance of the stranger. From his dress little could be learned; it was in the extremity of plainness. He had been a man of uncommon muscular strength, but it seemed much decayed, perhaps from the struggles of an active life. His eyes were sunk, but retained their lustre; and premature furrows were on his brow. When he halted, Basil addressed him:

“Will it please you then, sir, to communicate your tidings?”

“Then I ask thee, Basil Rolland, what dost thou here?”

“Why, grave sir, I’ll answer thy question with another,” said Basil, laughing at this solemn opening of the conference: “what dostthouhere?”

“My gray hairs, young man, are a testimony unto thee that I come not here on any light matter.”

“Why then, my foolish face may be a testimony to thee of the lightness of the cause that brought me hither. Marry! we have at last got rid of Montrose and his prickeared gang, wherefore we may be allowed to enjoy ourselves on the prospect of peace.”

“Enjoy thyself!” said he. “And what enjoyment canst thou gain from these absurd and impious mummeries? They are a sacrifice to the evil one; a bloody engine of Prelacy to betray the unthinking soul. Peace! What have ye to do with peace? Have not thy friends been treacherous as a snare, and unstable as water? Hath not the finger of Heaven written bitter things against them for their guile and deceit? Have not their enemies trampled them under foot, and they in whom they trusted been as a scourge and as a snare unto them? Have they not been lukewarm in the good cause, regarding the favour of men more than the will of God? Are they not even now triumphing at the hurt of Israel, and rejoicing that the pure evangel has been withdrawn from them? Let them lean on those whom they have chosen, and well shall it be for them if they can protect them against the just wrath of the godly.”

“Your words are dark and threatening, old man, but to me they appear as the ravings of a feverish dreamer. You seem to tell me of some danger hanging over us; but our enemy’s forces are disbanded, and in my judgment there is nothing to fear. The town is fortified: Aboyne, with a strong army, possesses it. So away with these fancies; and if you have aught to say that concerns me particularly, say on, for I must return to my sister.”

“Thy sister? Well, Mary Leslie may deserve the name. I am thy friend, wherefore I am so thou shalt quickly know. Ponder well what I have said. Remember that the calm often precedes the storm, and that it is better to take part with the faithful, even in adversity, than to be the friend of covenant-breaking, soul-seducing prelatists. I will see thee to-morrow at the booth of Samuel Fairtext at eventide. Meet me there, and it shall be for thy good. Farewell, mayst thou be partaker of all covenant blessings.”

So saying, he walked off, and in a short time was lost among the crowd, leaving Basil at a loss what to make of his insinuations. When he came up with Mary Leslie, the Skinners, who represented the royalists, had succeeded in driving the Litsters, who represented the Covenanters, into a smoky den or booth, which, in a moment after, took fire, while the whole angelic train joined in a song to the praise of the Viscount of Aboyne.

He remarked, however, that the spectators were now very inattentive to the sports. They were drawn together into small knots, all over the field, in earnest conversation, which, as it became more general, entirely drowned the iron voices of the performing cherubs. The spectators began to leave the field in great numbers. Robin Hood’s body-guard even followed their example, and Little John, by the same inexplicable spirit of discontent, deserted his friend and leader. The whisper (as it was at first) was not long in extending to the spot where Basil and Mary were standing. The cause of the disturbance may be gathered from the following conversation:—

“Now, the like o’ this I never saw,” said Thomas Chalmers, deacon of the fleshers. “That deil’s buckie Montrose is to the road again, an’ comin’ wi’ thousands upon thousands to the town. Fient a hoof mair will I get killed till we be clear o’ him.”

“Weel, weel,” said Jamie Jingle, the bellman, “it’s a gude thing it’s nae waur. Come wha like, they’ll aye need a bellman.”

“Nae waur, ye clappertongue!” said another. “I wad like to ken what waur could come? Willna a’ thing we hae be spulzied by thae rascals,—black be their cast!—an’ wunna there be anither speel at the Covenant, whilk we hae a’ ta’en an’ unta’en about half-a-dozen o’ times already?”

“Ye’re vera right, Saunders,” said the chief of the tanners; “but for a’ that, Aboyne may gie him his kail through the reek; and, if the news be true, there will be a great demand for shoon and belts, whilk sud be a source o’ comfort, ye ken.”

“What hae I to do wi’ your belts an’ your brogues, Benjie Barkhide? What hae I to do wi’ them, I say? A murrain on the Covenanters, say I, and a’ that pertains to them.”

“A curse on the Covenanters an’ prelatemongers baith, conjunctly and severally!” said another citizen. “I wish the deil would snite his nose with the hale clanjamphry, though he sud get me to the bet o’ the bargain, for wishing them sae.”

“Wha would hae thought o’ this in the morning?” said Barkhide. “Weel, lads, I think we sud a gae hame, an’ put as mony o’ our bits o’ things out o’ the way as we can.”

They departed, and this sentiment becoming general, in a short time the play field was emptied of the revellers.

As Mary and Basil moved homewards with the rest, the latter evaded the questions put to him concerning the stranger. He saw, however, a coincidence between his darkly expressed hints and the events of the day; and while he resolved for the present to keep this secret, he anxiously wished for the promised interview.

The red cross glares on Frazer’s towers,My love, I dare not stay;The bugle peals through Lovat’s bowers,My love, I must away.—Old Ballad.

The red cross glares on Frazer’s towers,

My love, I dare not stay;

The bugle peals through Lovat’s bowers,

My love, I must away.—Old Ballad.

We shall now conduct the reader to a shop in the Broadgate, over which appeared in ancient characters,—

Patrick Leslie & Samuel Fairtext.

It is not to be supposed that the street had the same appearance which it now exhibits; neither are the unsophisticated to imagine that the shops resembled those of our own times, with lofty roofs, gigantic windows, mahogany counters, splendid chandeliers, and elegant gas burners. The windows were not much larger than the loop-holes of a modern prison; the roof was low and covered with cobwebs, and the goods exposed for sale were all lying at sixes and sevens. The forepart of the shop extended about ten feet forward into the street, and was decorated on the outside with swatches of the various commodities that were to be sold within. In the back shop, which was nearly as dark as midnight, were deposited the whole of the goods, except the specimens just mentioned. In the inmost recess of these penetralia, was Provost Leslie, with three or four stout fellows, removing, under his command, the goods in the back shop or warehouse.

“Saunders,” said the provost, “ye’ll tak awa yon silks an’ velvets, and put them into the vault i’ the dryest—ay, that’s anither flask broken, ye careless gowk! I’ll set ye about your business gin ye wunna tak mair tent. As soon’s you get that barrel awa, ye’ll tak down the Prayer-Books from that shelf, and put up twa or three dozen o’ Confessions o’ Faith. An’, my little man, ye’ll run up to my lasses, and tell them to leave a’ their wark an’ come down to grease the sword blades, for fear that they rust in the cellar, an’ syne tell the same to Sammy Fairtext’s maidens, an’ bring them a’ wi’ you as fast’s ye can.—Ay, Basil, are ye there? Troth, gentle or semple, ye maun help’s the day. You are a canny lad, sae try if ye can collect a’ the trinkets and the siller cups and spoons, and take them up by to my chamber.—Ye ne’er-do-weel! ye haverel, Sandie Hackit, what garred you spill the wine on that web? Ye needna mind it now, ye sorrow; it’s nae worth puttin’ out o’ Montrose’s way.”

When Basil Rolland returned from executing his commission, the stranger whom he had seen on the former day was in the shop, engaged in conversation with Fairtext. The latter bade Basil conduct him to his house, whether he himself would follow when he had dispatched some necessary business. When they were seated, the stranger began—

“Thou hast seen, youth, that the things which I hinted to thee are in part come to pass. The city is in confusion, the men of war are discouraged, so that they will assuredly be a prey, and a spoil, and a derision to their adversaries. What dost thou now intend?”

“What but to join the army of Aboyne, and do battle with my best blood against these murdering rebels.”

“And what would be thy reward, young man? Thy good sense tells thee that it is wrong to deprive free-born men of liberty of conscience. You would fight for your own slavery. Charles is one who regardeth not covenants. He will reward jugglers and lewd ones, rather than those who have shed their blood for his wicked house. But he already totters on his throne, and the day may not be distant when he himself shall cry for mercy from those whose fathers, mothers, and children he hath slain. If you are vanquished in the approaching contest, all with you is lost; if successful, you are nothing the better, except for upholding a Papistical hierarchy, the raw project of a godless debauchee. Thy grandfather did battle on the wrong side, and, after his fall at the battle of Pinkie, the family fell from its former power, which it has never been able to regain.”

“Let me ask what comfort or reward could I expect by deserting my friends? The Covenanters have renounced their oath of allegiance, and have imbrued their hands in their countrymen’s blood. Good can never follow an enterprise begun by perjury, and continued with carnage.”

“And did not Charles first deliberately break his oath and the covenant made with the people? The paction was therefore nullified by him, and could not bind the other party. If they have shed blood, their blood has been shed; and it was not till every attempt at pacification failed that they took up the carnal weapon. And, for comfort, I have long supported this cause, and I can look back with greater pleasure to my conduct in this respect than thou canst on the picture of thy lady love which even now is peeping from thy bosom.”

“It is my mother’s picture,” said Basil, blushing to the eyes.

“Thy mother’s!” said the stranger, while, with an emotion which he had not yet exhibited, he caught at the picture with such violence as to break the silken riband with which it was suspended, and, unconscious of Basil’s presence, riveted his eyes upon it, scanning the features with the greatest eagerness.

“The same, the same,” said he to himself; “the arched brow and the feeling eye, the smiling lips and the rosy cheek. But where is the principle that gave these their value? Where is the life, the soul?” continued he, kissing the senseless painting. “How inferior was this once to thy beauty, and how superior now to thy mouldering ashes! Didst thou appear as the ideal charmer of a flitting dream, or wert thou indeed the pride of my youth, the light of my eyes, and the mistress of my heart? Thou wert! thou wert! my sorrows tell it.—Preserve this picture, young man. Thou never, alas! knewest a mother’s love—or a father’s affection: the former flame was rudely quenched, the latter burned unknown to thee.”

“Then you knew my mother?”

“Ay, Basil, I knew her. We ran together in infancy, we danced together on the braes of Don, and wove each other garlands of the wild-flowers that grew on its banks. Then we thought this world was as heaven, while we were as innocent as angels. As we grew up, the sun, the wood, the rock, was our temple, where we admired the beauteous novelty of this earth. All was love, and peace, and joy; but sorrow came, and those sweet dreams have vanished.”

During these unexpected communications, Basil felt himself strangely agitated. The old man seemed to know his history, and with a mixture of doubt and anxiety he inquired if he knew his father.

“Iam thy father,” said the stranger, weeping, and throwing himself into his arms; “I am thy parent, thy joyous, sorrowing parent. How often have I wished for this day! It is now come, and thou art all that I could wish—except in one thing, and that is not thy fault. I have claimed thee at a time when the boy must act the man, and take part boldly in the great struggle. We must depart from this place to-night. The citizens, thou knowest, are summoned to join the royalists under pain of death, so that we may be delayed if we tarry longer.”

“But whither, my father, shall we go?” said Basil.

“Where but to the persecuted remnant that are even now struggling for freedom. We will fight under the banner of the Covenant.”

“I have now found a father,” said Basil, “and his commands I must and will obey; but you will not bid me lift the sword when every stroke must fall upon an acquaintance or a schoolmate?”

Isaac Rolland then began to mention to his son the reasons which induced him to join this party. He had no more of enthusiasm than it becomes one to have who knows he is embarked in a good cause. He mentioned his own early history, which we shall blend with that of his son. He had been one of the mission, headed by Sir Thomas Menzies, that visited King James in 1620 on civil business. About eighteen months before, he had lost a loving and beloved wife, with whom he had been acquainted from early infancy. She died on the birth of Basil. After this affliction, Isaac Rolland could find no pleasure in the place of his nativity, where everything reminded him of some dear departed joy; wherefore, having interest to obtain a situation at court, he left his only son Basil under the guardianship of his friend Fairtext, and contented himself by hearing often about him, without ever visiting him till the time at which this story commences. Rolland was acquainted partially with the circumstances of his birth. He knew that his mother died when she gave him life; he knew also that his father existed, but nothing farther. Isaac laid before his son, in a clear and methodic manner, the reasons for which the Covenanters took up arms, the reasonableness of their demands, and the tyranny of their enemies. He neither palliated nor denied the excesses of either party, but contended that these should teach all to use their superiority mercifully. The forcible point of view in which he set his arguments wrought instant conviction in Basil’s mind, which his father observing,—

“Come, then,” said he, “and let us prepare for this struggle. If we be successful (and shall we not be so in such a cause?), we shall have the consolation of having given peace and freedom to the land. I have a sufficiency of world’s goods, and thou and thy Mary—nay, start not, I know all—thou and thy Mary will be the support and comfort of my old age, and the subject of my last prayer, as ye have been of many, many in the days bygone. Bid your friends farewell, and an hour hence we meet to part no more. Be cautious, however, my son, for these men of Belial have set a guard on the city, and death is the lot of all who seem about to leave it. Farewell! God bless thee, my dear son;” and he again folded him in his arms.

When Basil was left to himself, it would have been difficult to say whether he was more sorrowful or joyful. He had found his father, a fond and doting father; but his heart revolted at turning his back on the scenes of his youth and the smiling face of his Mary. The latter was the more distressing. She had listened to his suit, and the good-natured provost, when acquainted with it, had sworn that no other should marry his Mary. His own father seemed to approve his passion; wherefore he resolved to bid her farewell, and moved accordingly to the provost’s house.

She was alone, and received him with her usual smile of joy, but was startled at the unusual expression of sorrow on his countenance. “Mary,” said he; but his lips could articulate nothing farther.

She became alarmed. “Basil, you are ill!” said she.

He seized her hand. “Mary, I am come to bid you farewell—perhaps a long farewell.”

She became pale in her turn, and asked him to explain himself. He resumed,—

“When we were young, Mary, you were my only companion, and I yours. You were unhappy when away from Basil Rolland, and I when absent from Mary Leslie. When, in the folly of play, I had girded myself with your father’s sword, you complained to him, while the tears ran down your cheeks, that brother Basil was leaving you to become a soldier. Such things at the time are trifling; but how often are they the types of blessed love in riper years. I am now to leave you to mingle in scenes of strife: let me carry with me the consciousness of your continued love; confirm to me the troth that you have plighted, and, come life or death, I shall be happy.”

“But why, O Basil, why are you leaving us? Have we not more need of thy presence than ever?”

“I have found my father, and by his command I leave you this very night.”

“This night!” said she, while the tears coursed in torrents down her pale cheek. Basil caught her in his arms, and they wept together who had never known sorrow before.

“Be comforted, Mary,” said Basil at length; “we shall meet again, and the present sorrow will enhance the gladness of the meeting. My happiness depends entirely on you, and my father looks fondly to our union.”

“Oh! when you are gone far from this, you will soon forget the vows that you have made. I have no mother to guide me; oh, do not then deceive me, Basil.”

“I swear that my heart never owned the influence of another, and that its last beat shall be true to you.”

“Then,” said she, throwing herself into his arms, “I am happy!”

Basil hastily explained to her what he knew of his destination, and, with a chaste kiss of mutual transport, they separated.

He acquainted no other person with his intention of departing, but returned to make some preparations for his journey. These were soon completed; he was joined by his father, and leaving the town at sunset, they walked leisurely to Stonehaven, where Montrose’s army was encamped.

See how he clears the points o’ faith.—Burns.

Hamlet.Hold you the watch to-night?Horatio.We do, my lord.—Shakspeare.

Hamlet.Hold you the watch to-night?

Horatio.We do, my lord.—Shakspeare.

Day was dawning as our travellers reached the camp of the Covenanters. They rested for some time to partake of victuals, which their journey rendered necessary. Isaac Rolland then judged it proper to present his son to Montrose, and accordingly conducted him to Dunottar, where the general then was. They were admitted to his presence.

“I expected you sooner, Rolland,” said Montrose. “What intelligence have you gathered?”

“The enemy are preparing to take the field with a numerous and well-appointed force, and I have gathered, from a sure source, that it is their intention to attack our forces as soon as some needful supplies are received from the north.”

“How do the citizens stand affected?”

“Almost to a man they have joined Aboyne. They have fortified the city and the bridge, and are determined to hold out to the last.”

“The ungrateful truce-breaking slaves!” said Montrose. “But vengeance is at hand. Who is this young man whom thou hast brought with thee?”

“My son,” said Isaac, “whom grace hath inclined to take part with us.”

“A youth of gallant bearing! Young man, thy father’s faithfulness is a warrant for thine. Let thy fidelity equal thy reputed spirit, and thou shalt not lack the encouragement due to thy deserts. You may both retire to rest, and I will apprise you of the duties required of you.”

They saluted the general, and retired.

A foraging party returned with a report that Aboyne was already on his march. This was found to be incorrect by some scouts who had been dispatched that evening to gather what information they could about the enemy’s motions. They brought the intelligence, however, that Aboyne’s equipments were completed, and that it was the popular belief that he would march immediately to meet the Covenanters. Preparations were accordingly made for immediate marching. Numerous foraging parties scoured the adjacent country for provisions, and horses for transporting the baggage and ammunition. According to the custom of the Congregation, when about to engage in warfare, the next day was appointed for a general fast throughout the host.

There perhaps never was assembled any body for the purposes of religious worship that exhibited such an appearance of romantic sublimity as the Covenanters did on such occasions. At the present time they were assembled under the blue canopy of heaven, in a hollow valley betwixt two mountains, the summits of which were planted with sentinels, to give notice to the main body of any interruption. Upon the declivity of one of the mountains was erected a wooden pulpit, before which was assembled the army, to the number of about 2000 men. A dead stillness prevailed among them, while the preacher, a man richly endowed with that nervous and fiery eloquence which was the most effectual with men in their situation, explained to them a passage from the fifteenth chapter of Second Samuel:—“Thus saith the Lord of hosts, I remember that which Amalek did to Israel, how he laid wait for him in the way, when he came up from Egypt. Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.” This passage he applied to the condition of the Covenanters. He described the sufferings and grievances of the persecuted kirk, and showed that the Almighty did not disregard these, but, in His own time, would avenge the blood of His saints. He told them that God was now calling on all who were on His side to fight for the good of the land, and that His soul could have no pleasure in those who drew back from the approaching contest. “And now,” said he, while the fire flashed from his eyes, as with prophetic ardour, which was answered by a corresponding enthusiasm in his hearers; “and now the men of Babylon have set up an image of gold, even a molten image, and they say, ‘Fall down and worship the image that we have set up;’ and they have fenced themselves with trenched cities, and they have encompassed themselves with spears, and a multitude of horsemen and slingers, and archers, and they say unto this help from Egypt, ‘This shall be for a deliverance unto us.’ But fear not ye the multitude of their strong ones, neither be dismayed at the neighing of their horses; for the Lord of hosts is on our side, and His right hand shall work valiantly for us. He breaketh the iron weapon, and burneth the chariot in the fire. He laugheth at the bow of steel and the rattling of the quiver. Walled cities are no defence against His hand, nor the place of strength, when His thunder muttereth in the sky. Wherefore, gird up your loins to fight the battles of the Lord. Smite the Amalekites from Dan even unto Beersheba. Destroy the lines of their tents, and their choice young men, that the reproach may be removed from the camp of Israel. Turn not aside from the sacrifice like the faint-hearted Saul, but smite them till they be utterly consumed, and their name become a hissing, and an abomination, and a by-word upon the earth. Think on your children, and your children’s children, from age to age, who shall hold your name in everlasting remembrance, and look to the reward of Him who sitteth between the cherubim, who hath said, that whosoever layeth down his life for My sake shall find it.

“The days are now come when the father shall deliver up the son to death, and the son the father; when the brother shall be divided against the sister, and the sister against the mother. But the days of Zion’s peace shall also come, when all the princes of the earth shall bow down before her, and call her the fairest among women. (Canticles, sixth and first.) The house of the Lord shall be established on the tops of the mountains. The New Jerusalem shall appear as a bride adorned for her husband. (Revelations, twenty-first and second.) The tabernacle of God shall be with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor sighing, neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things shall have passed away. Go forth, then, to the battle. Quit yourselves like men. Be strong. Look to those ancient worthies who, through faith, subdued kingdoms, stopped the mouths of lions, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the armies of the alien. Fear not their multitude nor their fury, for he that is with you is greater than your enemies. Think on the persecuted state of Zion, and may the God of battles be for a buckler and a defence unto you!”

A hum of approbation ran along the lines of the Covenanters at the conclusion of this discourse, while the preacher called upon them to join with him in praising the Almighty. The part chosen was that eloquent passage of the eightieth psalm, where the Israelites are spoken of under the similitude of a vine.

As the last note of this hymn ascended in solemn strains to the lofty heaven, several of the scouts made their appearance, with jaded horses, bringing the news that Aboyne was already on his march, and approaching rapidly to Stonehaven. Orders were immediately given to the army of the Covenanters to set out on their journey. These were promptly obeyed, and, in a few hours, the armies met at Megray Hill. This was announced to the Covenanters by their advanced guard being driven back by the royalists. It was not, however, Aboyne’s intention to hazard a general engagement, as his soldiers were wearied by the march. But Montrose, dispatching a strong band of infantry, supported by a detachment of cavalry, broke upon them suddenly both in flank and rear, involved them in the greatest confusion, and forced them to seek Aberdeen by a rapid flight, after leaving a considerable number dead on the field. Montrose pursued them, with the greatest possible dispatch, to Aberdeen, where they made a stand. The Bridge of Dee was fortified in a very strong manner, and protected by four field-pieces and a strong guard of the citizens. Montrose made several attempts at forcing it, but was vigorously repulsed by the defenders, who poured in a shower of missiles with effect on the assailants, while they themselves were so sheltered by their breastworks that they received little injury. Montrose was obliged, therefore, to draw off his forces, and, as it was evening, gave up the thought of any farther attack. Having found a convenient place, he pitched his camp about a mile from the bridge, and stationed his sentinels on the little eminences in its neighbourhood, while those of Aboyne were planted on both sides of the river for a considerable distance above and below the bridge. Both armies, fatigued with the exertions of the day, availed themselves of the repose offered by their situation, and in a short time the busy hum of both camps was changed into stillness.

Our hero had accompanied the army during the march, with that wonder and admiration which youthful minds feel in such spirit-stirring scenes. The strictness of the military duty, the contempt of danger, the degree of subordination and regularity that prevailed (for the abilities of Montrose prevented that ruinous confusion which the camp of the Covenanters too often exhibited), and the promptness and patience with which the necessary commands were executed made an impression on the mind of Basil strongly in favour of his military life. The general, at the commencement of the march, ordered him to be near his person, and by means, as the Covenanters would have said, of a “soul-searching” conversation, contrived to get a clear view of his character and worth. The opinion that he made up was in favour of Basil, and he scrupled not to give him more direct assurances of his favour than he had hitherto done. The honours that had been paid him by this distinguished statesman and general gave rise to a new train of ideas in his mind; and, as the army was preparing for the night’s repose, he was charging the enemy at the head of his own troops, succouring the distressed damsel, and hurling unheard-of destruction on his foes. But the mightiest conquerors have often found themselves conquered when they least expected it; and, as the valiant Don Quixote felt his very soul withering when thinking on the absence of his Dulcinea, so our hero regarded the short time that he had been separated from his Mary to be an age. An ugly river and a hostile army lay between him and his love. If Leander swam across the Hellespont, surely he might cross the Dee, and trust the rest to his prudence and good fortune.

His father was engaged with the general; so out he wandered, and, by his correct local knowledge, succeeded in passing the various sentinels, and getting to the banks of the river, a little below the rocks called the Craig-lug, where he had the fortune to find a small fishing-boat (for, so far back as the year 1290, Aberdeen is celebrated in history for its salmon-fishings). He easily rowed himself across the river, and, fastening the boat on the northern bank, stole along the water’s edge, and entered that part of the town which, as fronting the harbour, was not walled. He directed his course to the Broadgate, and, as there were still several stragglers in the street, ensconced himself behind a projecting shop till all should be quiet.

When he left the camp, the night was calm and serene. The breeze that floated by was unable to curl the surface of the river, and the moonbeams were dancing in silvery circles on the placid waters as they gurgled by. But this was not of long continuance. The atmosphere became quickly loaded with clouds, the moon was obscured, the rain fell in torrents, and the sullen howling of the east wind, with the hollow muttering of the thunder, indicated one of those storms which not unfrequently disturb the beauty of summer. Basil wrapped his cloak the closer around him, and hastened to the provost’s house. All in it was dark and still. He knocked; but no one returned an answer. Astonished at this, he endeavoured to open the door, but it resisted his efforts. Being acquainted with all the intricacies of the provost’s domicile, he gained admission by a window, but found the house deserted of its inhabitants and stripped of its furniture. Mary Leslie’s apartment was then the object of his search. It was also desolate. Her lute, her books, and her landscapes were all removed. In groping through the room, his hand fell on a small picture, which the next flash of lightning discovered to be her miniature. He pressed it to his lips and hid it in his bosom, regarding it, as the holy man did the prophetic mantle, as the last unexpected memorial of a lost friend. It would be vain to attempt to describe his amazement at these appearances. He trembled for his friends, when he knew the deeds of violence that were daily practised in these perilous times. He determined to arouse the neighbourhood—to search for, pursue, and destroy in one breath, all who had been any way concerned in this outrage. Reason, however, came to his aid, and he saw the utter uselessness ofhisattempting such a thing, except by the assistance that he could obtain from the Covenanters. He therefore turned sorrowfully to retrace his steps, which, from the darkness of the night and the violence of the storm, was not an easy matter. Having rowed himself across the river by the little boat, he was making a circuit to reach the camp, when he saw a light at a small distance from the landing-place. It proceeded from a hut that was built at the foot of the rock for the accommodation of the fishermen. Curious to know who were in it at this untimely hour, he pressed forward, and listened to the following dialogue:—

“Ay! an’ will ye tell me that the possession of Joash, the Abiezrite, wasna in Ophrah? But it’s just like a’ your fouk; ye ken naething about the Scriptures, but daze yourselves wi’ that ill-mumbled mass, the prayer-beuk. But your yill’s very gude, and far better than what we have.”

“I doubtna, my lad,” said another voice; “your fouk are sae stocked, I daresay Montrose is gaun to mak you a’ Nazarenes, for he gies you neither wine nor strong drink.”

“Dinna speak lightly o’ the Scriptures, Sawnie Hackit; ye’re just a blaspheming Shemei, or a time-serving Balaam.”

“Hout,” said Hackit, “gie’s nane o’ your foul-mou’d misca’ings. I wunner what the deil garred you turn a Covenanter, Tammas Granehard, for ye usedna to be that fond o’ covenants, unless it was ane for a fou pint stoup at Jamie Jinks’ hostelry.”

“I wasna aye i’ the right way, Sandie, muckle to my shame; but better late mend than never do weel; an’ I’m thinking it would be better for you if ye would come wi’ us, for your fouk can never stand ours, and, instead o’ getting share o’ the spuilzie, ye’ll maybe get but a weel-clawed crown.”

“I doubtna but ye’re very right, Tammas; but what would come o’ my ten achisons ilka day, forby the jibble o’ drink, an’ my place at Provost Leslie’s?”

“I’m doubtin’ your place there’ll no’ be worth muckle, if we tak the town. The provost isna a man to be passed over, wha can sae weel afford to pay for’s idolatry.”

“Did ye ever hear,” said Hackit, “o him ever losing ony thing when the whigs had the town one day and the royalists the next?”

“Weel, Sandie,” said the other, “I canna just charge my memory wi’ ony thing o’ the kind; and gif it wasna, it was that God-fearing man, Samuel Fairtext, that saved him.”

“Ay,” said Hackit; “and, when the royalists were here, it was the jolly old cavalier that saved Fairtext. Troth, it’s the only wiselike partnership that I ken o’ at present; for, if they had been baith whigs or baith royalists, they would have been ruined out o’ house and ha’ ere this time. But, ye see, when the royalists were in the town, Fairtext kept himself quiet, and they wadna meddle wi’ him on Provost Leslie’s account. And now a’ the gudes are removed, an’ put under Fairtext’s care; sae that the Covenanters wudna tak the value of a shoe-tie frae him, for he can pray and grane as weel as ony o’ them. The provost and his dochter have left their ain house, and are to dwell wi’ Fairtext till the danger be ower.”

By the latter part of this conversation, Basil felt as if the imaginary weight of sorrow were removed from his bosom; but, instead of it, his arms were pinioned on a sudden, by a strong physical force, so firmly, that he was unable to move himself round to discover the occasion of this unceremonious embrace.

“Come here, ye dotterels!” said a strong voice; “ye sit there, gabbin’ an’ drinkin’ awa, nae caring wha may be hearing you. An’ you, my birkie, will better be as quiet ’s you can, or, deil tak me,—an’ I’m no used to swear,—but I’ll scour my durk atween the ribs o’ ye.”

A couple of men now came out of the hut and assisted in dragging Basil into it. As soon as they had forced him in, the person who had first seized him quitted his hold, exclaiming, “Eh, sirs! is that you?” Hackit also let him go, and Basil was able to look around him. There was neither chair nor table in the booth, but turf seats around the walls, plentifully littered with straw. A candle, fixed in the neck of an empty bottle, illuminated the place, and revealed a goodly quantity of bottles, with two or three horn drinking-cups on the floor, by which it appeared that the party had been engaged in a debauch.

Thomas Granehard still kept his hold, and, in a stern voice, demanded what he was?

“What the deil’s your business wi’ that?” said Hackit. “I ken him, an’ that’s eneuch.”

“But I am strong in spirit,” muttered the Covenanter.

“The toom bottles testify that, to a certainty, Tammas,” said the other. “But, never mind; get anither stoup, Geordie, an’ sit down, Master Basil.”

“Blithely,” said Geordie; “and troth, Master Rolland, I didna ken it was you, or I wudna hae handled you sae roughly. But sit down, for it’s a coarse night.”

“I may not,” said Basil. “I must to the camp. But why do I find you here?”

“Ou,” said Hackit, “ye see Geordie and me belangs to Aboyne, for the provost sent a’ his servants to him. We’re upon the watch the night, ye maun ken. But wha, i’ the name of the seventy disciples, could stand thereout in a night like this? Sae we made up to the Covenanters’ warders, and met in wi’ Tammas there, an auld acquaintance; and we thought it best to come here and keep ourselves warm wi’ sic liquor as we could get, and let the camps watch themselves.”

“Do you know that you all expose yourselves to death for this frolic?”

“There gang twa words to that bargain. We’ve done a’ that could be reasonably expected,—we watched till the storm came.”

“Well, you are not accountable to me; I must depart.”

“Weel, a gude evening to you. But stop!—now that I mind—ye maun gie me the pass-word.”

“The pass-word!” said Basil, in a tone of surprise.

“Ay, the pass-word! Ye see, Sergeant Clinker says to me, ‘Now, Saunders, if ony ane comes to you that canna sayBalgownie, ye’re to keep him and bring him to me.’ Sae, for as weel’s I like you, Master Basil, ye canna pass without it.”

“Balgownie, then,” said Basil laughing.

Hackit turned on his heel, saying it was “vera satisfactory,” when Granehard remembered that he had got a similar injunction; wherefore, making shift to steady himself a little by leaning on his arquebuss, he delivered himself thus:—

“Beloved brethren,—I mean young man,—I, even I, have also received a commandment from ancient Snuffgrace, saying, ‘Thou shalt abstain from wine and strong drink; and whosoever cometh unto thee that cannot give the pass,Tiglathpeleser, thou shalt by no means allow him to escape, otherwise thou shalt be hanged on a tree, as was the bloody Haman, the son of Hammedatha, the Agagite.’ Wherefore, now, repeat unto me the word—the light of the moon is darkened—another cup, Sandie—woe to the Man of Sin—a fearsome barking—dumb dogs—Malachi——” And he sank down in a state of complete and helpless intoxication.

Basil earnestly advised Hackit and his companions to return immediately to their posts, and retraced his steps to the camp, as the reader may judge, not excessively gratified with the issue of the night’s adventure.

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