Chapter IV: Part 4

"Ah, that I cannot tell. Be of good cheer, Susan, and look well after the house and the bairns. The God of Hosts will preserve me, so long as He sees it to be His good pleasure. So again farewell."

So saying, Hartrigge again bade farewell to his own home, and turned his horse's head towards Rowallan.

Near to the place he saw a figure in the distance, somewhat resembling his brother-in-law, and yet the face seemed greatly changed. When he came nearer, and the figure, recognising him, advanced to meet him, he almost started at the terrible change upon his sister's widowed husband. He had not shaved nor trimmed his beard since his wife's death, and his whole aspect was that of a man whose interest in life was dead. His face was haggard and worn, his eye restless and yearning as if looking ever in vain for some beloved object, his appearance sad and miserable in the extreme.

"You have managed to escape, Andrew," he said, quite quietly, and without evincing either surprise or pleasure.

"Yes, and the Presbyterians are in arms at last; I have travelled with the company from Dumfries, increasing as we came, and there is now an army of nineteen hundred under Captain Wallace's command, lying in the village of Inverburn," responded Hartrigge, slowly. "Our destination is Edinburgh. If you still wish to avenge the murder of your angel wife, now is your time, Adam Hepburn."

Adam Hepburn drew himself up, and the light of a passion terrible to see sprang into his glittering eye. He clenched his right hand, and raised it to heaven.

"Now, O Almighty God, for the fulfilling of my vow," he said, solemnly; then, turning to Hartrigge, briefly announced his willingness and immediate readiness to accompany him. They returned first to inform Jane Gray of their intention; bade her either go to Hartrigge or get young Gavin to abide with her awhile, and not having time to seek the ministers in their shelter, they returned hastily to Inverburn. But Jane Gray immediately proceeded to the hiding-place, and informed her father and brother of the rising of the Covenanters. Then David Gray's eye kindled, and the whole expression of his countenance indicated his desire to go forth with his brethren in defence of the Covenant. Seeing that, the old man blessed him, and bade him go. So David Gray stole by the field paths to the village, and joined the army just as it was setting forth upon its adventurous march.

*CHAPTER XII.*

*RULLION GREEN.*

Late on the Sabbath evening the Covenanters reached Lanark, where they were well received by the sympathising inhabitants, who made haste to give them food, and offer them shelter for the night. Early on the following day the army assembled in the High Street, preparatory to setting out on their march to Edinburgh. At request of the leaders, the minister of Broomhill ascended the stairs of the Tolbooth, and conducted a religious service, in which the army and the townsfolk took part. After sermon, the Covenant was read, and also a declaration to the effect that it was simply in defence of their liberties that the Presbyterians had taken arms. Then, amid much enthusiasm, and many fervent God-speeds, the little army turned their faces towards the Lothians. It was now the dead of winter, and the weather was dreary and bitterly cold, being alternated by heavy rain storms and blasts of snow. The roads were in a wretched condition, and as the army endeavoured to march straight as the crow flies, they were led through many deep morasses, and had to cross many a swollen and turbid stream, as well as over bleak and exposed hills, where they received the full force of the blast.

To their disappointment and sorrow, they found the folk in the east not so enthusiastic and sympathising as their more impulsive neighbours in the west. In some villages they were received very coldly, and candidly told they were silly fanatics, and as they approached Edinburgh it seemed as if the influences of the Privy Council had extended far beyond the city boundaries, for the people looked yet more askance at the draggled and wayworn Covenanters, and even refused in some instances to relieve their wants. It was to be expected that such receptions would considerably damp the ardour of many, and as they marched, their number visibly decreased. Some stole away under cover of the night, to make what haste they could back to the comparative safety of their homes, and others less cowardly openly avowed their discontent and disappointment, and deserted their brethren in the broad light of day. But the dauntless and resolute spirit of such as Wallace, their leader, Gray of Hartrigge, and the minister of Broomhill, seemed to be only further strengthened and deepened by these reverses, and cheering the little company on, they bravely continued their march until they came within a few miles of Edinburgh. A halt was then made, and two horsemen despatched to ascertain the disposition of the citizens towards them.

It was yet early in the day when these horsemen returned, with grave countenances and downcast air, telling that they had met with but little cheer. Wallace and Hartrigge hastily rode forward to meet them, and were informed that the city was hostile towards them, the gates being closed, and guns mounted on the walls to resist their entrance.

In some doubt as to the next step to be taken, they rode back to the camp, and a grave consultation was held.

"I am for going on, and forcing an entrance into the city," said Hartrigge, dauntlessly. "It is like playing at warfare to retreat before closed gates and a few guns."

But others, whose discretion was not blinded by zeal, shook their heads, and said it were best to return quietly, and with as much speed as possible, to their homes.

Adam Hepburn took no part in the discussion, but it was easy to see that his soul yearned to shed blood. A look of deep disappointment came upon his haggard face when the majority decided in favour of retreat.

Not being in the slightest degree apprehensive of pursuit by the Government troops, they proceeded leisurely round the eastern slopes of the Pentland hills to the southern side, to begin their march homewards. The day was now closing in; the feeble wintry sun had sunk behind a bank of ominous cloud on the western horizon, and the grey bleak shadows of the night were darkening down. The north wind swept mournfully round the desolate mountain sides, sometimes raising its voice to a wail, as some sharp peak or projecting rock impeded its course.

But suddenly another sound much more ominous than the moaning wind broke upon the startled ears of the faithful band, and to their astonishment they saw what appeared to be a great army pressing rapidly on their rear. Hurriedly the Covenanters set themselves in the order of battle. It was what many among them longed for, and yet unless the God of battles held over them the banner of His defence, and aided them to discomfit their foes, what chance had they, weary, wayworn, with strength far spent by exposure and lack of food, against the dragoons, fresh from the drill and comfortable training of the barracks?

The minister of Broomhill led in fervent prayer, craving victory for the Covenant from the King of Heaven. Then they stood erect, calm, and steadfast, waiting the onslaught of the enemy. The face of Andrew Gray of Hartrigge glowed with the deep enthusiasm of religious zeal, but that of his brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn, was dark with the furious passion of revenge. His eye glittered, his hand trembled as it grasped his father's sword, and in that breathless instant his vow was repeated that the blade should not return to its sheath until it had sucked the life-blood of more than one dragoon.

Like the rush of a mighty wind Dalziel's cavalry came sweeping down upon the right wing of the insurgents' army, which was protected by a party of horse. They were manfully received, and after a vigorous struggle, completely repulsed. The general was amazed at the fighting power of the rebels, whom he had contemptuously imagined to be a gathering of raw country folk, who would turn tail at the first attack of practised soldiery. He hastily organised and led a second attack, which was met and repulsed as before, with considerable loss. Had the insurgents possessed a reserve of cavalry, victory had assuredly been theirs, in spite of the odds against them, but these repeated attacks had slain many of their horse, and those on foot were unequal to a lengthened struggle.

Wildly the din of battle roared in the mountain solitudes, and swiftly, as if in pity, the shadows of the night crept over the bleak hill tops, and up the sombre valleys, until it wrapped conquerors and conquered in its kindly folds. The Covenanters were completely routed, and had the night not speedily fallen, they must have been totally cut to pieces. As it was, fifty of their number lay dead upon the field, besides many wounded, whom they had to leave to their fate. There were also more than a hundred taken prisoners, who envied the untroubled sleep of those who had fallen in the fray. Adam Hepburn, although fighting in the very hottest forefront of the battle, marvellously escaped unhurt.

Dalziel had kept an eye upon him, for he was the most desperate fighter, as well as the surest marksman among the insurgents. He never missed his aim. Twice Dalziel ordered a subordinate to engage him in single combat, or shoot him down from a distance; but the man seemed to bear a charmed life. When the fray was over, Dalziel examined the faces of the prisoners minutely, hoping to find Hepburn among them, but was disappointed. Fleeing among the very last of his brethren from the field, Adam Hepburn came up with his brother-in-law, the minister of Broomhill, whom he recognised in the darkness by his ministerial garb.

"Is that you, David, safe and sound?" he asked, breathlessly.

"Yes! how is it with you, Adam Hepburn?" asked the minister, anxiously.

"All well; I have found my first taste of warfare very sweet this day, David Gray."

"You fought valiantly, Adam, so much so that I was amazed. How did you escape, being ever, as you were, in the thickest of the fray?"

"I know not; I had no thought of anything but cutting down the enemy and of avenging the blood of my murdered Agnes," said Adam Hepburn, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.

The minister sighed. The blessing of God could not rest upon warfare conducted under such a revengeful spirit, and yet he could scarcely blame the man for the bitterness of his wrath.

"I would much rather that you fought for the Covenant than for revenge, Adam," he said, sadly. "Will it restore to you your beloved? Nay; think for a moment, is the spirit you are cherishing one which her gentle heart would have blessed and approved?"

"You speak as a minister, not as a man, David," said Adam Hepburn, fiercely. "Had your wife been murdered in cold blood, as mine was, think you your soul would not thirst for revenge?"

"Your wife died loving you; you have the comforting assurance that her heart was knit to yours in the bonds of no ordinary affection, and that you will meet in glory," said the minister. "My case is sadder than yours, for my wife, while yet alive, has proved herself dead to me."

Adam Hepburn, though silenced, was not convinced.

"Have you seen Andrew?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"No; I have been anxiously looking out for him, for I saw him wounded in the shoulder. I trust he has not fallen into the hands of the enemy."

"I think not. His horse was spared, and I fancied I saw him ride off the field. Well, our first battle is not such as to encourage our hearts, David," said Adam, with a grim smile.

"No; there will be weeping and desolation in many a home over Rullion Green," the minister answered, sadly. "I saw brave John Neilson of Corsac laid hands upon by the enemy and taken prisoner."

"Ay, and many others, whom God defend and deliver, since no human being can," said Adam. "But hark! what is that?"

The rapid sound of hoofs warned them of the approach either of some flying fugitive or a pursuing enemy, and they hastily crept in among some whin bushes, and held their breath until they should be past. To their great joy, however, it proved to be a couple of their brethren, who had been the last to leave the field of battle. Mutual congratulations were exchanged, and then one of the horsemen, a stout yeoman from the upper part of Nithsdale, urged the minister of Broomhill to take his steed, since his slender frame and not too robust constitution rendered him less fit for a long and toilsome march by foot. David Gray yielded to these entreaties and thankfully mounted the animal, for his strength was already far spent. They then separated, the two horsemen riding forward, as before, and Adam Hepburn and the Nithsdale yeoman, by name Matthew Riddell, following more slowly on foot. It was not safe for more than two to be together, on account of the pursuing and watching dragoons, whom they would be certain to encounter on the way. Thus the broken up and scattered army, who but a few days before had set out from Lanark with high hope beating in their breasts, returned to their homes.

Arrived in the parish of Inverburn, David Gray left his horse at the house of a friendly farmer outside of the village, and lest the dragoons should lay hands upon him, he crept up the valley to Hartrigge, and was the first to carry tidings of Rullion Green to Andrew Gray's wife. He found her about her usual tasks, for though her heart was heavy with foreboding fears, Susan Gray continued mindful of her husband's last words, to look well to her household, and put her trust in God. At sight of the minister, who was wofully weather-beaten and wayworn, she at once guessed that some evil had befallen the little army, of which her husband had been one of the chief supporters.

"Oh, David! I like not the way in which you have come back!" she said, in sad and anxious tones. "But have you not brought Andrew with you?"

The minister shook his head.

"Dalziel with his army fell upon us in the Pentland hills, Susan, and swept away our little band like chaff before the wind. Many lie dead upon the field of Rullion Green; Adam Hepburn and I escaped unhurt. Andrew was slightly wounded, but Adam assured me he saw him ride safely off the field. I doubt not the Lord will bring him in safety to his home. But he will need to travel slowly, and with extreme caution, for the entire route between Edinburgh and Lanark is infested with dragoons."

Susan Gray sank into a chair and burst into tears.

"I warned Andrew that peace was aye better than war, and said that an army like yours could have no chance before the king's soldiers," she said mournfully. "I wonder at you, David, a minister of the Gospel, encouraging them to shed blood."

"I believed that the time had come when resistance was demanded of us by the God of the Covenant, else I had not gone forth with them, Susan," answered the minister. "But now I must away to my hiding, for it is as much as my life is worth to be seen here in the light of day. How is it with my father, and poor Jane, left desolate in the house of Rowallan?"

"Your father is keeping well, and is safe in his hiding yet. Gavin is with his aunt, they were both here yester'een," answered Mistress Gray. "The maids have all run away in terror from Rowallan, and Jane came to tell me she had hired one who came seeking a place two days ago. She has been in the service of the laird, but was dismissed for some offence. Gavin says he likes not her appearance, but Jane seems pleased with her, for she is a good worker, and a prudent person, who is never heard about the place."

"Ah, well, the master himself, I hope and trust, will be home to his own house in a day or two, and yet, he will need to keep himself in hiding, for very sure am I, Susan, that after the valiant front he showed at Rullion Green, and the many dragoons he caused to lick the dust, Adam Hepburn will be a marked man henceforth."

Susan Gray very mournfully shook her head.

"Had ye all bidden peaceably at home, there had been none of this," she said, regretfully. "But men folk maun aye have their way."

The minister smiled; then bidding her and the little ones farewell, he stole away down the glen, and along the bank of the stream, to the hole in the Corbie's Cliff.

Looking carefully round to see that none was in sight, he scrambled up the rocky steep, brushed aside the overhanging branches, and plunged into the darkness of the subterraneous passage. Being now very familiar with the way, he had no difficulty in following the many peculiar windings of the passage, and at length he caught sight of the dim reflection of a lighted lamp in the distance, which warned him that he was nearing his father's shelter.

Lest his sudden appearance in the cave should alarm the old man, he called out "Father!" several times, as he quickly approached, and at the sound of the familiar voice, the old man sprang hastily to his feet, and ran to the mouth of the passage.

"My son, David! praise the Lord!" he exclaimed, while tears of joy coursed down his withered cheeks.

After the first glad greetings were over, David Gray sat down, and briefly rehearsed all that had befallen him since he set out with the Covenanting army for Edinburgh. As was natural, the recital greatly saddened the heart of his aged father, for he had solaced himself in his solitary captivity with glowing visions of the success which would attend his brethren in arms, and of the happy results which might accrue from their vigorous upstanding for the truth.

"It is the Lord's will. Unless of His good pleasure, such things could not be," he said. "The Church requires yet further refining in the fire ere she can be purged from all her iniquities, and can stand with clean hands before her God. But now, my son, you are weary, and stand in much need of rest and refreshment. Both are here."

The cave was indeed now a very comfortable place of abode. By degrees Jane Gray had conveyed many little comforts to her father, among the greatest of which was the lamp, and a store of books. Provisions in plenty were also at hand, and the minister of Broomhill partook of his repast with a keen relish, for he had not broken his fast for many hours. Immediately thereafter he stretched himself on the bed, and soon all his troubles were forgotten in the heavy, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

*THE NEW MAID.*

"What are you doing in the barn at this hour of the day, Martha Miller? Putting off your time loitering about, and all the milk pans standing in the dairy wanting to be scalded. Get about your work without more ado!"

It was Jane Gray who spoke, and her voice and manner were both unusually sharp. Ordinarily, even when reproving, she spoke in a tone of habitual gentleness, holding it unbecoming for a gentlewoman to exhibit any violence of temper. It was not that she was particularly annoyed at the woman putting off her time, for indeed there was nothing pushing in the house of Rowallan now, but this was the second time she had caught her in the barn, when she had no call to be there, and her suspicions were roused lest she should be trying to discover, or had already discovered, the secret of the chaff hole.

Martha Miller was the new maid, and in appearance a comely, pleasant-looking person, about whom there was nothing suggestive of treachery or double-dealing. She looked straight into the face of her mistress, and dropped an apologetic curtsey.

"I beg pardon, Miss Gray; I was seeking a bite for the hens. I canna get peace about the doors for them," she answered, glibly, and at the same time pointing to the feathered flock, gathered expectantly round the barn door.

"That is just nonsense, Martha Miller. If you run for a bite to them every time they gather at your heels, you'll have your work," retorted Miss Gray, still sharply. "And, you know, I feed them myself every morning; and that they need, and get no more till bedtime."

"I didna' ken, bein' a hoose-servant, ma'am," answered Martha, with apparent humility. "I'll no' dae it again."

Afraid lest, in her turn, she should arouse the suspicions of the maid, Jane Gray did not then enter the barn, but returned to her household duties. In the afternoon, however, when she went for the customary feed of com for the poultry, she hastily looked into the chaff-hole to see if there were any signs of it having been disturbed. But no; the chaff was scattered over the floor, there was no mark of either hand or foot, and the trap-door had evidently not been disturbed.

Considerably relieved, and somewhat blaming herself for her suspicions of the maid, Jane Gray went back to the house; and yet a vague, inexplicable distrust of Martha Miller continued to oppress her soul She knew her perfectly well. She was the daughter of one of the foresters on the estate of Inverburn, and, before the persecutions, had regularly attended the church with her parents. Jane had not attached any weight to the fact that she had served for two years in the family of the laird, not imagining that Sir Thomas was so bigoted an Episcopalian as to seek to influence his dependents.

She was sitting by her lonely hearth pondering these things in her mind, when there came a low tap at the window. Hastily rising, she peered out, and, with great joy, beheld the face of her brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn.

"Is all safe? Can I come in?"

"All is safe. Inverburn has been quiet for days, and there is not a soldier in the district," she whispered back. "Better go round and enter boldly by the kitchen door, as a master should; it will better impress Martha Miller, the new maid, whom I would not should think we had anything to hide."

Adam Hepburn nodded, walked round about to the barn-yard, where he was joyfully greeted by his faithful collie, and, opening the kitchen door, stalked in. Martha Miller was knitting a stocking by the kitchen hearth, and looked round in no little amazement at sight of the master of Rowallan, whom she knew very well by sight.

"Well, Martha, so you have come to serve at Rowallan," he said, pleasantly. "I heard of it in my absence. I hope we will get on as master and servant. Is your father well?"

"Yes, sir, thank ye," answered Martha, considerably confused by Adam Hepburn's easy manner, and his evident familiarity with all that had transpired during his absence.

"Get on the pot and make me a basin of milk porridge, Martha. I have had a long journey, and am very hungry," he said, quietly, and then joined his sister-in-law in the adjoining room, the door of which he carefully closed.

As Jane Gray was already fully acquainted with the details of Rullion Green, it was not necessary for Adam Hepburn to say anything concerning it, but he had to tell her the story of his own journey home, which had been marked by many perilous vicissitudes and marvellous escapes out of the hands of the enemy. Matthew Riddell, the yeoman, with whom he had travelled, had been laid hands on near Biggar, his own incautiousness and haste to get home having induced him to continue his journey by day, instead of hiding till the friendly darkness fell.

"Is Hartrigge home yet?" Adam asked, suddenly breaking in upon his own narrative.

"No; we were in hopes that you would come together. Susan, poor soul, is in a very anxious frame of mind," answered Jane.

Adam Hepburn looked grave indeed.

"Then I fear he has either been captured or succumbed to his wound. In no other way can I account for his protracted absence. It may be, however, that he is sheltering, for his health's sake, in some friendly household. We will hope so. But tell me, Jane, have you been sojourning in this lonely house alone since my departure?"

"No; Gavin is with me at night. He went home to-day to see his mother, and, knowing I have no fear, may possibly remain till morning. Adam, do you think it will be safe for you to remain quite publicly at your own house? David seemed to think you would be marked."

"Marked or not, I shall not go into hiding, Jane," he said, quietly. "I have but to slay a few more of these miscreants, and then what is life worth to me?"

"Hush! Adam; the Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away. Save of His will, Agnes could not have died," she said, gently. "The thought that she is safe in our Father's house should be a great comfort to you, as it is to me, for, amid the terrors and anxieties of these days, she suffered a perpetual martyrdom."

Adam Hepburn rose and restlessly paced to and fro the room, his face betraying the many conflicting emotions which surged in his soul. His cruel and ruthless bereavement had shaken his faith to the very foundations, and he could well-nigh have exclaimed with the fool, "There is no God." "Other men have fathers, and mothers, and children, Jane," he said, in quick rebellious tones. "I had only her, and the Almighty knew how dear, how necessary she was to my existence. Wherein had I so grievously sinned that I required such a terrible punishment? Willingly would I have given up houses and lands, cattle and oxen, all, _all_ I have in the world, if only _she_ had been spared."

"Dear Adam, we may not question the ways of the Lord," said Jane Gray in a low voice. "I think sometimes it is the things we most set our hearts upon in this evil world that are not good for us to have. There is such a thing as making an idol of a human being, my brother, and you know the command is, 'Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.'"

Adam Hepburn remained silent, but was not convinced.

Jane Gray looked sorrowfully into his face, deploring the change this blow had wrought, not only upon the outward man, but upon the inner spirit, sweeping away all the sunny-heartedness, the blithe and kindly charity which had ever characterised him, making him so lovable in every way. She could but pray that God, to whom all things are possible, would temper the wind, and show to the stricken and rebellious heart the sweet bow of promise behind the bitter cloud.

"And how is the curate performing his pastoral duties now?" enquired Adam presently, in a somewhat mocking tone. "Has his eloquence, combined with the more rugged persuasions of the dragoons, induced many more to attend upon his ministrations?"

"Watty McBean was here the other night, and he told me there was a goodly attendance in the kirk last Sabbath Day, chiefly of those timid and not very steadfast folks, whom fear has moved against their wills," Jane made answer. "I wonder now that Watty did not join with the army; he is a very staunch upholder of the Covenant."

"Ay, but he never was a fechter [fighter], as he says," replied Adam, with a slight smile. "Watty is a sly dog. He'll keep himself out of mischief, yet follow the dictates of his own conscience."

At that moment Martha Miller knocked at the door, and entered bearing a small server, on which stood her master's evening meal, a steaming basin of milk porridge, and a bowl of new milk beside it.

At her entrance Adam Hepburn looked keenly into the woman's face, and when she was gone, he turned to his sister-in-law, and said briefly, "I mistrust the countenance of that woman, Jane. Under what circumstances was she dismissed from the services of the laird?"

"I did not pursue the subject with her, Adam. She said she could not agree with her neighbours in the kitchen, and that her ladyship had blamed her for the disturbances there," replied Jane Gray. "Knowing her to be a capable worker, I engaged her gladly; for though she might be of a quarrelsome temper, she could not well fall out with herself, and I am not one to bandy words with a serving woman."

"Keep an eye on her, Jane, and be careful of your words in her hearing. I misdoubt me very much if she be not a spy sent hither by Sir Thomas Hamilton, who in the zeal of his loyalty to the king will not be slow to forget his honour as a gentleman," said Adam slowly. "I lost faith in the laird from that day he threatened me with danger to your father, if I did not turn out to McLean's preaching."

Jane Gray sighed. If foes were to be found in the very household, among those who broke and ate bread at the table, on whom could trust be stayed? Her brother-in-law's words were simply a re-echo of her own doubts and fears, which, however, she kept as yet to herself.

After some further conversation they separated for the night, but Adam Hepburn did not close an eye, for, under his own roof-tree, his heart was torn anew by the violence of his sorrow, and ached with intolerable yearning for the "touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that was still!"

On the morrow he went about his duties as usual, superintending the work on the farm, it having been almost at a standstill for many weeks. It was more to keep himself in occupation than out of any interest in the thing, for even the ordinary business of getting and spending had ceased to occupy the minds of men.

That afternoon, when Jane Gray went out as usual to feed her poultry, she had occasion to step round to the corn-yard in search of some young chickens which had deserted their usual roost, and which she feared might become the prey of the foxes that frequently paid a visit to Rowallan, and which that very spring had made off with some of the lambs. Her soft shoes made no noise on the turf, therefore she did not alarm two people sheltering behind a stack of straw, and busily engrossed in conversation. She came upon them quite suddenly, and to her astonishment, who should it be but Martha Miller, the maid, and the curate of Inverburn! Both looked considerably confused, and Martha threw her apron over her head, and turned to go.

"I shall have a word to say to you for this wasting of my time, Martha," her mistress said, pointing towards the house; then turning to the curate, she added, with quiet, yet courteous dignity, "Sir, is it consistent with the gospel you are supposed to preach, to wile a servant-maid away from her household duties almost in the middle of the day, to confer with you in secret like this?"

The curate's sallow face flushed under the scathing rebuke which fell so quietly from those calm, proud lips.

"When I am not permitted to visit members of my flock at their masters' houses, I must perforce see them outside," he answered, with rude boldness, and yet his eyes instinctively sought the ground.

"Sir, I am not aware that the master of Rowallan has ever forbidden you his house," said Jane Gray, still calmly. "The members of the flock surely are ashamed of their shepherd, for Martha Miller has never ceased to disclaim all connection with your ministrations, and I am made aware to-day, for the first time, that she is on speaking terms with you."

"Madam, know you to whom you speak so disrespectfully?" quoth Mr. McLean in wrathful tones. "Know you that it is chiefly owing to my long forbearance with you and yours that the name and the house of Gray have not been totally extinguished?"

A slight smile curved for a moment Jane Gray's resolute lips, and the mild scorn it implied made the spirit of the curate chafe within him.

"Truly grateful are we for your forbearance towards us, Mr. McLean," she answered courteously. "I bid you good afternoon."

So saying, Jane Gray turned about and returned to the house. Upon second thoughts, she took no further notice of the occurrence to Martha Miller, deeming it more prudent to let her imagine it of no importance in the eyes of her mistress. Nevertheless, she redoubled her watchfulness, and took care that there was nothing in her actions to arouse the maid's suspicions. Hitherto, when conveying provisions to the dear ones in hiding, Jane Gray had simply been content to lock the barn door from the inside, and shut herself into the chaff-hole, so that none could possibly be witness to her descent into the cave. But now, after conference with her brother-in-law, they agreed that the safest plan would be for him to rise in the middle of the night and take down the food himself.

These precautions, however, were taken too late; for already the cunning eyes of Martha Miller had penetrated the secret of the chaff-hole.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*BETRAYED.*

The soft and beautiful radiance of a mild September morning lay upon the vale of Inverburn. The sky, though not so cloudlessly blue as in the summer time, was bright and clear, and masses of soft, dove-coloured clouds were piled up on the horizon, foretelling the approach of a gentle rain. The rich hues of autumn were now upon the trees. Beech and hazel-nuts were already falling ripely to the ground, the rowans hung rich and red among their graceful leaves, blackberry and wild raspberry were plentiful and luscious, and in very sheltered early nooks the bramble was black upon the bough. Yes, the fruits which Dame Nature provides with such free and generous hands were not lacking, but what of the more substantial harvest, what of the yellow corn, which in September was wont either to be stacked upon the fields, or standing in rich and golden fulness, awaiting the sickle of the reaper. Ah! what indeed? Had some terrible dearth come upon the land, had a woeful drought withered and parched the fertile Clydesdale acres, and hushed the reapers song into the stillness of despair?

I said in a former chapter that the business of life seemed to be at a standstill in Inverburn. So it was still, and not in Inverburn alone, but throughout the length and breadth of Clydesdale, Liddesdale, and Nithsdale. For miles and miles the fields lay bleak and desolate, their only harvest being a wealth of weeds and thistles, which gave to the once fertile lands the appearance of a wilderness. What devastating breath had passed over the smiling land, what evil scourge had wrought this woeful desolation? The reason was not far to seek.

The emissaries of the Government, into whose hands full power over Scotland had been given, had swept the southern and western counties with a devastating host, who burned, killed, and plundered as they went, and left nothing but a trail of blood behind. And the tillers of the soil, left destitute in many instances of the barest necessaries of life, could only bow their heads over the desolation which had come upon them, and be thankful if they escaped with their lives.

And yet, in those days it came to be a question not easily answered, whether life could be called a boon.

It was a Sabbath morning, and that deep, solemn stillness peculiar to the Sabbath seemed to hallow the very air. The birds had hushed their songs of gladness as if in reverence for the holy day, the very voice of the river, rippling on its way, seemed to be subdued into a tender and melancholy cadence, instead of brawling noisily in its rocky bed, and the brown and yellow leaves upon the trees scarcely stirred to the response of the whispering breeze.

While it was yet early, long before the long rays of the noontide sun fell aslant the hills, there might have been seen in various by-paths and unfrequented ways, straggling little groups of two or three individuals all moving in the same direction. Following them, we come at length to a sweet and sheltered glade, by the side of the clear, swift-running Douglas Water. This sylvan retreat, which might have been a fairy's dressing-room, so rich was it in fresh green beauty, was warmly and safely protected by high hills, rising abruptly on either side, but was open at either end, a narrow path going westward to Inverburn, and another eastward, until it converged into what was called the Sanquhar road.

Upon the sloping banks at the base of the hill, and also seated on the greensward and the boulders nearer the edge of the stream, were gathered a goodly company of men, women, and children, of almost every rank, age, and calling. There were shepherds in their tartan plaids, uncouth figures in the homely garb of the outdoor labourer, well-dressed farmers, and a sprinkling of stalwart soldiers, who had escaped the slaughter at Rullion Green. There were also present Graham of Pitoy, with his wife and daughter, and Baxter of Thornilee, both gentlemen of considerable estate in the neighbourhood. Foremost amongst those seated on the hill might have been observed the red head of Watty McBean, which showed in full contrast against the spotless hue of Betty's white cap.

Several horses, which had brought people from a distance, were quietly enjoying a dainty bite at the fresh grass, which grew in luxuriance by the stream, and upon the heights there were some mounted horsemen apparently keeping watch, in order to give timely alarm if any marauders likely to molest the company should appear in sight.

There might have been about five hundred people gathered together, when there appeared round one of the windings of the stream the familiar figure of the minister of Inverburn, leaning upon the arm of his son David. They had just emerged from their hiding in the Corbie's Cliff in order to conduct the service in the glen. Many eyes filled with tears at sight of their beloved minister, and they shook their heads mournfully at the visible change wrought in his appearance by the long months of anxiety and solitary confinement. The minister of Broomhill also looked worn and thin, and his hair was now as white as snow.

When the ministers reached the centre of the little throng, a few minutes were spent in mutual greetings, and then Mr. Gray the elder stepped to the front of the huge boulder which served as a pulpit, and upon which a white cloth was spread, with the Bible above it. Folding his withered hands, he said, in solemn and trembling tones, "Let us pray." It seemed as if Nature hushed her many sounds in unison with the stillness which fell upon the assembled worshippers as the long-loved voice of their minister, in choice and appropriate language, gave utterance to a fervent and expressive prayer to the God of Heaven. A portion of the seventy-ninth psalm was then read, and sung to the sweet and mournful strain of "Martyrs." The words:

"Against us mind not former sins.
Thy tender mercies show;
Let them prevent us speedily,
For we're brought very low."

were sung with an intense and passionate fervour which told that it was indeed the cry of every heart present, and that it was not mere lip service which had brought them thither, almost at the very peril of their lives.

Turning to the prophetic pages of Isaiah, the minister chose for his text these comforting and appropriate words, "O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted; beloved, I will lay thy stones with fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires.... In righteousness shalt thou be established; thou shalt be far from oppression, for thou shalt not fear; and from terror, for it shall not come near thee."

In his own earnest and persuasive manner the venerable servant of God endeavoured to comfort his flock, assuring them that though they were now passing through the bitter waters of affliction, the Lord would not utterly forget his ancient Zion, but would yet restore her to liberty and peace. As he earnestly exhorted them to continue steadfast in the faith, and to bear manfully their light affliction, which was but for a moment, and would work out its own exceeding weight of glory, his eyes glowed and shone, and his face was transfigured by the light of a holy enthusiasm which shed a warm and cheerful influence upon the hearts of his hearers, and restored their fainting courage, until they felt indeed able to do and dare without faltering for the sake of Him who trod before them the weary vale of persecution and shame.

It was a moving sight to look upon the eloquent face of the preacher, which bespoke the inmost feelings of his soul, and to see his thin white locks fluttering in the breeze, while his wasted hands were alternately folded or upraised to enforce his earnest words. The multitude, hushed into rapt and breathless stillness, were unconscious of a figure stealing swiftly up the glen, until a slight scream fell from the lips of a woman, and Susan Gray of Hartrigge interrupted the sermon by hastily running to meet what appeared to be a wayfaring man, whose ragged garb and miserable appearance proclaimed that he had been long on the road and had suffered many privations. The minister paused, and turned his eyes towards the wanderer, in whose changed countenance he recognised the features of his first-born son.

The unexpected arrival of Hartrigge broke up the conventicle, and his relations, who were all present, flocked round him, while his friends and neighbours pressed closely behind, eager to hear the story of his adventures. But he seemed breathless, and unable to speak for a moment, and then his words were of ominous import.

"It is surely madness to be holding a meeting here, and the dragoons so near! They have pursued me since daybreak, and I have only escaped through being familiar with every by-path on the way. Scatter yourselves quickly, for they will be upon us in a moment. Father and David, let us make haste together to our usual hiding. I have longed for the Corbie's Cliff all day."

Just then a watcher on the western height blew a warning note on the trumpet, and in a few moments the assemblage melted away like mist in the noonday sun.

Jane Gray entreated her brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn, to flee with the ministers and Hartrigge to the friendly shelter of the Corbie's Cliff, but he stoutly refused, saying that the soldiers would not be likely to trouble Rowallan again, seeing they had met with so little success on their previous visit. But Jane herself was not at all sanguine, and as they stole homewards by the most unfrequented field paths, her mind was filled with strange misgivings regarding Martha Miller, the maid, who had gone home to spend the Sabbath day with her parents at the North Lodge, on Inverburn. She was walking a little in advance of Adam, and was the first to ascend the little hill, from which a glimpse of Rowallan could be had. She stood still there, for in the distance she saw the gleam of steel, and a party of horsemen riding rapidly up the road to the farm.

"See yonder, Adam!" she said, in a trembling whisper; "you must flee at once, either to the cave at Hartrigge, or into the Corbie's Hole, if you can reach it unseen."

"What! and allow you, a defenceless woman, to go down alone among these brutal fellows?" inquired Adam, incredulously. "You hardly know what you say, Jane."

"Yes, yes! I know very well; I am not afraid. They will not harm me. I have still some of the Burgundy which wrought the charm on Turner," she answered, hurriedly. "Oh, Adam! do make haste and flee, in case they catch sight of us."

Involuntarily Adam Hepburn grasped his sword, as his eyes turned towards the dragoons. Yet he hesitated; for when there were fifty to one, what would be his chance? Nay, certain death awaited him if he ventured in their midst.

"Run, run, Adam. I entreat you!" exclaimed Jane, in tones of keen distress. "You know there is a price upon your head; and I would not that I should witness a second deed of violence at Rowallan. Run, my brother; we cannot yet spare you from our midst."

"But you, Jane? It is selfish, cowardly, to leave you like this."

"No, no! I repeat, I am not afraid. I can easily frame an excuse for my absence from the place, should they question me. You can safely leave Rowallan in my hands. God gives a deep and peculiar courage even to frail women in these times, and I believe I could influence these men, bad as they are. Only go, for every moment you stay is an agony."

"Well, I will; and God forgive me if I am in the wrong, and may He protect you, my sister," said Adam, hoarsely. Then, with a fervent grip of the hand, they parted; Adam to steal with caution and speed to some safe hiding, and Jane to make her way down to Rowallan. She was a singularly brave and fearless woman, and yet her heart quailed a little as she made haste to get in by the back premises, hoping to reach the house and throw off her cloak before she was observed by the dragoons. She was greatly favoured in that respect, for the soldiers made a halt for some reason or other on the road, and she had slipped unobserved into the house before they rode into the farmyard. She threw off her cloak, tied an apron about her, and busied herself in the kitchen, just as if continuing her usual morning work. But when she heard them ride into the yard, with a great din and clatter, she took such a violent trembling that she was obliged to sit down in order to recover herself. However, when she heard a foot on the step, and a hand on the latch of the door, she regained calmness, and rose to her feet. She had purposely unbarred the kitchen door; therefore, somewhat to his own astonishment, he having been otherwise informed, the captain of the detachment found nothing to impede his entrance. He was still further amazed, on entering the kitchen, to behold a woman there, who turned her fair, calm face to him, as if in questioning surprise.

Captain McNab, though unflinching and uncompromising in the performance of duty, however painful or harsh it might be, was a gentleman, and did not address Jane Gray with that insolent familiarity which had characterised Sir James Turner's questioning.

"Sorry to disturb you, mistress," he said courteously enough. "I am astonished to find you here; we were credibly informed that all the inmates of the house had gone to a field-preaching about a mile distant, and that we should find the coast clear."

"Your informer might be more zealous than trustworthy, sir," Jane Gray made answer quickly, though her heart grew sick with apprehension. Doubtless Martha Miller had been the informant, and how many other secrets had she discovered and divulged?

"It was a wench, one of the serving-maids here, I believe," answered the Captain candidly. "We are in search of four desperate Whigs, two ministers and two farmers; but I think we will lay hands upon them here. Come, tell me, my sweet dame, how can so comely a gentlewoman as you countenance such disreputable rebellion?"

"What you term rebellion, sir, may convey another meaning to my mind," answered Jane Gray. "Pray, would you call it rebellion to desire to exercise liberty in matters pertaining to conscience?"

"Faith, you put it glibly," retorted the Captain, with a smile. "Many of my fellow officers would give but a rough denial to such rebellious words, but I would scorn to make war on women. Well, have you anything to drink in the house? I intended to force an entrance and ransack the cupboards, but it would have a sweeter relish if poured out by those fair hands."

"If you will be good enough to step into the inner room, sir, I will set what I have before you," answered Jane courteously.

"Thanks. I will step out first and see what speed they are making with their search. We have been well guided to the cunning corner which has sheltered the renegades so long, and the parson himself is with us to assist us in our work," said the Captain carelessly. "Faith, madam, I do not wonder that the folk get sick of his snivelling ministrations. He is a mean, despicable dog, whom it would do me good to thrash."

So saying, the Captain sauntered out to the yard again, and Jane Gray, stepping into a little closet, which had a window to the back, saw him enter the barn. Folding her hands, her white lips moved in an agony of prayer, for without a doubt the secret of the chaff hole was a secret no longer, and unless warned by the noise overhead, the fugitives could not possibly escape.

Several minutes passed, and at length Jane saw McLean, the curate, emerge from the barn with a very disgusted and chagrined expression on his ill-favoured face. He was followed shortly by Captain McNab, who, with his lieutenant, came slowly towards the house.

"They have found the nest, but the birds have flown," he said, in tones of annoyance, as he entered the kitchen. "With your permission, mistress, we will now taste your fare, while my men make a further investigation of the secret passage, which is indeed a cunningly devised hiding. Little wonder it has remained undiscovered so long."

Jane Gray drew a breath of relief, and a silent thanksgiving for deliverance vouchsafed arose to heaven from her grateful heart. She knew at once that the unusual stir and clamouring about the quiet homestead had penetrated the ears of the fugitives in their hiding, and given them timely warning to flee. Once out of the subterranean passage, they were comparatively safe, for there was many a cave and snug corner by the banks of the Douglas Water, where they could shelter till the kindly darkness fell. In about three-quarters of an hour, those who had followed the subterranean passage to its outlet returned to Rowallan, reporting that there was neither sight nor sound of the fugitives to be seen or heard.

Captain McNab, though considerably chagrined, for it would have been greatly to his credit and advantage to have laid hands on so many marked rebels, hid his feelings much better than the curate, who, forgetting his holy office, swore roundly in his disappointment; and vowed increased vengeance on the name and house of Gray. Serene and matchless was the contempt with which Jane Gray regarded him: she never allowed her eyes to rest on his countenance, and never betrayed, by look or gesture, that she heard the rude remarks he addressed to her.

Captain McNab bade Miss Gray a polite farewell, and even apologised for so disturbing her on a Sabbath morning, a courtesy which she gratefully acknowledged with an expressive glance from her fine eyes and a low bow.

Mounting his horse at the door, Captain McNab gave the word of command, and the troop rapidly rode away.

Then Jane Gray, unable to bear the unspeakable relief following upon the great strain upon her nerves, sank down on her knees and burst into tears.

*CHAPTER XV.*

*BRAVE TO THE LAST.*