Chapter VII: Part 7

"Here they come!" exclaimed Adam Hepburn, setting his teeth; then the order was given to fire upon the advancing foe, already making a bold effort to cross the bridge. The volley was fired, but there was no time to repeat it, for the enemy came pouring across the narrow defile, and now it was only hand to hand combat, which could keep them back. Brave David Hackstoun, supported by Balfour and Adam Hepburn, were in the very fore front, and many a soldier fell before the dauntless three. Nor was Andrew Gray idle. At the very outset of the fray he received a wound thrust In the left thigh, but continued to fight, although nearly fainting with the pain and loss of blood. It was a fearful sight; the wildest confusion seemed to prevail on the bridge, which speedily began to be rendered almost impassable by the bodies of the fallen. The snorting and pawing of horses, the clashing of swords, the boom of cannon, and the sharp report of musketry, the hoarse wild cries of those maddened with the excitement, mingling with the moans and shrieks of the wounded and dying, filled the air with a din of sound quite indescribable. The clear summer air was obscured by the smoke of the cannon, and at times those sullenly watching the fray from the moor could scarcely discern how went the battle, but they _could_ see that the Clyde ran red with blood.

Seeing his brother-in-law engaged with a dragoon, and that he was like to fall, Adam Hepburn stepped aside, and thrust the trooper through the heart, just as Hartrigge fell.

"Mortal?" he inquired briefly, bending down over him, thus doubly risking his own life by a moment's swerving from his post.

"Yes, to-night I shall sup with my Lord Jesus, and see my son. Tell his mother," Andrew Gray gasped; then Adam had to see to himself, for he was nearly surrounded. Step by step that brave band was driven from their post, one by one they fell, until but a remnant remained. These at last were finally driven from the last foot of the bridge, and Monmouth ordered his entire battalion to mount the cannon and pass over. The remnant turned to flee, but only those who were on horseback had a chance to escape. Rathillet and Balfour, seeing all was lost, gave spur to their steeds and rode rapidly off the field. Adam Hepburn, with faithful Watty McBean, who was wounded in the shoulder, fled on foot, but being pursued by a party of the Duke's army, were taken prisoners, with hundreds of their brethren fleeing across Hamilton Muir. The soldiery disarmed every man among their prisoners, divested them of half their clothing, and ordered them to lie flat down on the ground, warning them that any movement would be followed by instant death.

"I say, Adam Hepburn, whaur will the minister o' Broomhill be, think ye?" queried Watty, who was lying beside Adam, and groaning grievously with the pain of his wound.

"I have not set eyes on him since before we went into action," said Adam. "Oh, for a horse, Watty, to get clean off this fatal field!"

"Ye may say it. I dinna believe this is mysel'," replied Watty. "I was aye a peaceable man, an' to think I should come to this beats a'. I maun just ease mysel' up a wee an' look roond for the minister."

"Watty, if you do, it will be your death," Adam warned him; but Watty was not to be repressed, and accordingly raised his head. No sooner had he done so, than a bullet came whizzing past his ears, and then another, which did not miss its mark. A deep groan escaped Watty's lips, and he rolled over on his side. In a few minutes all was over, and poor Watty had gone where he would inherit that peace which had been so dear to his soul on earth. Adam Hepburn groaned also, in the bitterness of his soul. Of all his kindred and friends was he alone left upon the face of the earth, a desolate outcast, for whom the prison tortures were in reserve? With his own hand he had cut down seven troopers on Bothwell Bridge; only one more well-aimed stroke, and he had been released from his vow!

Oh, if he had but shot or stabbed the trooper who had disarmed him, instead of tamely submitting, although his own life would have been instantly forfeited, it would have but been an end of all his troubles! But Adam Hepburn had still a desire to live. Although he had no craven fear of death the thought of it was not so pleasant as it was to many of the suffering remnant, whose daily prayer had been that they might be taken from these weary troubles into the rest prepared for those who endure for the Master's sake.

The captain commanding the battalion which made all these captive was about to give orders for a general slaughter, when an aide-de-camp from the Duke brought the command that as many prisoners as possible should be spared alive. But there was a body of cavalry pursuing the fugitives who had escaped on foot, and all they overtook were instantly cut down.

The thirst for blood and vengeance being awakened in the breasts of many of the royal officers and men, the most horrible suggestions were made, such as that all the country, including the towns in the west, should be burned, and a general slaughter made of the people; but the Duke of Monmouth very firmly and indignantly set all these infamous proposals aside, and gave peremptory orders for the exercise of due mercy towards the defeated rebels. He thus showed himself a generous and noble-hearted man, and gave evidence in his actions that it had been against his own desire that he had been compelled to suppress the Covenanters in such a summary fashion. But he could not altogether influence those under him, neither could he see everything with his own eye, and the poor prisoners, at the hands of his subordinate officers, met with but little mercy.

It was decided that the prisoners be conveyed to Edinburgh. They were accordingly tied two and two together, and driven before the soldiery, who treated them with the greatest barbarity.

Adam Hepburn had for his companion the godly Mr. John Kid, one of the most devoted sufferers for the cause.

"This is a grievous day for the name and cause of our sweet Lord, friend," said Mr. Kid, when, after the march was begun, he could get a word spoken.

"It has been a bloody day, indeed!" answered Adam Hepburn. "It had been otherwise had there been fewer vile wranglings in our midst. Saw you not how many stood aloof, and left a handful to defend the bridge?"

"Aye, truly my heart was riven by these sad dissensions among the brethren," said Mr. Kid. "You were not, then, of that protesting party which stood back because certain brethren who had accepted the indulgence were in the ranks?"

"No, truly," replied Adam Hepburn, with a slightly bitter smile. "It was all one to me, who or what fought beside me, so long as I got in grips with the enemy."

"Is it so sweet to you to shed blood, my brother?" inquired Mr. Kid, in a mild tone of surprise. But just then a dragoon rode past, and observing that they talked, gave Mr. Kid a blow across the cheek with the flag of his sword, which caused the blood to flow from his nostrils in a copious stream. Being in bonds, he could not endeavour to staunch it, and was therefore in a pitiable plight, seeing which the soldier, with a loud and brutal laugh, bade him hold his blasphemous tongue, unless he desired another blow to keep it company.

"Oh, that I had my good blade!" exclaimed Adam Hepburn under his breath, and at the same time flashing a glance of intense hatred after the trooper.

"Let him be, poor man. He is like those Jews of old that buffeted our dear Lord, who compassionately prayed, 'Father, forgive them; they know not what they do,'" said Mr. Kid, in a quiet voice. "Shall this poor worm, professing to be His servant, not strive to follow that sweet example?"

Adam Hepburn was silent, for what was there in his stormy and rebellious soul in unison with his companion's sweet forgiveness and merciful compassion?

"Know this, friend, that not many days from now I shall be beyond the reach or power of those who can hurt or kill the body," whispered Mr. Kid, after a brief interval. "In a dream my Lord bade me be of good cheer, for these sufferings should not long continue, but should presently have an ending in His Paradise. Oh, to be there even now! But I would not that my Lord should call me until I have fulfilled my testimony, and borne whatsoever may be required of me for His cause and kingdom here."

Adam Hepburn spoke no word, and his companion, thinking him too much occupied with his own thoughts to be disturbed, presently desisted from his remarks, but comforted himself on the weary way by repeating in a low voice many sweet and precious passages of Scripture calculated to encourage the heart in these present trying circumstances.

Although night fell, the prisoners were not allowed to halt in their march, but were mercilessly kept on foot and driven before the cavalry towards Edinburgh.

In the grey dawning of the sweet summer morning they came within sight of the grey towers and turrets of the city.

*CHAPTER XXIII.*

*IN CAPTIVITY.*

The prisons in Edinburgh were so full that they could hold no more. What, then, was to be done with the twelve hundred victims brought from the slaughter at Bothwell Bridge?

The Government ordered that they should be shut into the churchyard of the Greyfriars, and there kept unceasing watch over day and night. So the old burying-ground, made memorable and sacred by another great gathering which had assembled within its boundaries forty years before, was now converted into an open gaol, the horrors of which pen could never describe.

In the Grass-market there abode still Edward Kilgour, the merchant, brother-in-law to the late minister of Inverburn. Although a zealous and worthy Presbyterian, he had never joined with his brethren in arms, but had followed the dictates of his conscience and religion more quietly at home, attending to his business and the affairs of his household, and had thus escaped molestation. He was a man now stricken in years, but was still able to perform the duties of his calling, and attend personally in his place of business. His daughter Ailie, now a middle-aged woman, had remained unmarried for her father's sake, and kept his house.

When they heard of the arrival of the prisoners from Bothwell, they were both much exercised in their minds as to whether any of their Inverburn kinsfolk should be among them.

"I'll go up, Ailie," said the old man, "I'll go up to the kirkyard, and, if permitted to approach the gates, see whether I can discern any of the faces of our dear ones among that pitiful throng. Very sure am I that, unless your cousins Andrew and David and Adam Hepburn were slain on the field, they will be there, for they would never turn their backs upon the foe."

"Do not needlessly expose yourself, father," said his daughter, anxiously. "Though you find any of my cousins there, what profit will it be but only to vex us, seeing we cannot help them?"

"You may be right, but I cannot sit still at home till I learn whether any of them be there," said the old man, quietly, and, getting his plaid about his shoulders, went out upon his quest.

Ailie Kilgour busied herself about the house, but as the time passed she began to grow extremely anxious for her father's return. He had been more than two hours gone, when, to her great relief, she at length heard his foot on the stair. When he entered the house she at once saw that he was greatly troubled, for seldom had she seen him look so grave and yet so agitated.

"Well, father?" she said, inquiringly.

"Let me sit down, my daughter, for I am exhausted with sorrow over what I have seen this day. That the Almighty does not at once interpose in the might of His omnipotent arm is, to my mind, evidence that the Church has required all these fearful sufferings to purify her from her iniquity, and that not yet is she refined enough in the fire to be a meet vessel for her Master's glory."

"Tell me what you saw, father," said Ailie, anxiously.

"Saw, lassie! Ask me rather what I did not see! Hundreds of my fellow-countrymen penned up among the tombs like beasts, without any of the comforts which the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air are allowed to seek for themselves. And, more, they are at the ribald mercy of their vile and brutal sentinels, who never cease to taunt them, asking them what has become of their God, that He does not interpose in their behalf," said the old man, with heaving chest and flashing eye, which told how his whole being was stirred.

"Did they allow you to go near the gates?"

"No; I had to stand a good distance away. No man is allowed to approach the gates, though I saw some pious and kind-hearted women enduring patiently the jibes and insults of the soldiers, thankful that they were allowed to pass some little comforts to the prisoners through the iron bars. It seems that they receive no food save what is grudgingly allowed to be given in this way."

"How terrible!" said Ailie, and her ruddy cheek blanched as the picture of the wretched state of the captives was thus vividly presented to her mind. "But tell me, did you see any one you know there?"

"Yes, I saw the face of your cousin, David Gray, the minister of Broomhill, and he also recognised me. I saw, too, a figure I could swear belongs to Adam Hepburn, though the face was so changed that I would not have known it," returned the old man, sorrowfully.

Ailie Kilgour reflected a moment in silence, and then spoke in quiet but decided tones.

"Since they allow women to carry necessaries to the prisoners, I will go at once and take some food to my cousins. I am not afraid of the insults of the soldiers, for I can bear much, and make no sign."

"My daughter, I knew your kind heart would be moved to do this thing," said the old man, gladly. "Make haste, then, Ailie, for if ever hunger and want set their mark on human faces I saw it to-day on the wretched countenances of your cousins."

Accordingly, Ailie got some food prepared, and immediately set out for the Greyfriars. As was to be expected, there were many people about, for the unwonted spectacle to be seen in the churchyard drew many to the place, some out of idle curiosity, others out of sorrow and anxiety, lest perchance any relative or friend might be among that miserable throng. The chief entrance to the churchyard was guarded by half-a-dozen soldiers, who alternately amused themselves with the prisoners within and those compassionate people who sought to minister to them from without. The captives, gaunt, hungry-eyed, and eager-looking, were flocking near the entrance, watching with painful intensity the meagre dole of provisions allowed to be passed within the bars.

Ailie Kilgour stood a little back, scanning the faces in the hope that her eyes would presently fall upon that of her cousin, David Gray. Adam Hepburn she did not think she could recognise again, having only seen him on the occasion of his marriage with her cousin Agnes, thirty years before. Seeing an old, worn-looking man, with a thin, haggard face, and flowing white hair, very earnestly regarding her, she looked more particularly at him, and then gave a violent start, for a look of undisguised recognition of her was on his face. Could that old, old man, with the bent head and tottering frame, be her cousin David, whom she had last seen in all the pride and glory of his manhood, not ten years before? The recognition was so marked, and there was something so strangely familiar in the glance of the eye, that she felt she could not be mistaken. She therefore made a sign to him, and advanced towards the gate. Her basket was then rudely snatched from her by a soldier, and emptied of its contents. The tastiest morsels he reserved for his own eating; then, pointing to what lay on the ground, he bade her, with an oath and a coarse laugh, feed the dogs with the crumbs which fell from the master's table.

A sharp retort was on Ailie's lips, for her temper was easily roused, but she resolutely forced it back, and, meekly stooping, picked up the despised articles he had cast down, and passed them through the bars. A sentinel stood close by her side to see that no word was exchanged betwixt her and the prisoners, but he could not prevent them exchanging glances with each other. The plain loaves which the pampered soldier had so contemptuously cast aside were greedily devoured by the starving prisoners. David Gray distributed a portion among those about him and retired with the remainder to a tombstone, whereon sat Adam Hepburn, a picture of utter dejection and despair. As she walked home, Ailie Kilgour's mind was filled with certain plans and thoughts, which as yet she would not even communicate to her father. She was a shrewd, clever woman, and a prudent one as well, who never got herself into any trouble whatsoever through her tongue; therefore she kept all her thoughts that day to herself.

In the course of the week she went down to Leith, ostensibly to visit a kinswoman who dwelt in that town. But instead of directing her steps to the suburbs, where the maiden lady dwelt, she took her way directly towards that busier portion of the town which clustered about the harbour. Arrived there, she sought out the house of an old school companion, who had married the captain of a trading vessel, and who lived on shore during her husband's voyaging betwixt Denmark and Leith. This woman, Mrs. Barclay by name, was strongly attached to Ailie Kilgour, because she had shown her much real kindness in a time of distress, having herself come from Edinburgh to nurse her through a serious illness. Mrs. Barclay was unfeignedly glad to see her, and bade her a warm welcome. After the usual greetings, the talk turned, as was natural, upon the grievous condition of affairs, and the woeful sufferings of the Presbyterians, and especially of those lately taken on the field of Bothwell. In the course of their talk, Ailie informed Mrs. Barclay that her two cousins were among those imprisoned in the Greyfriars, and then asked when Captain Barclay was expected in port.

"On Sabbath morning, if the wind favour him," responded Mrs. Barclay. "And he will be at home for a few days before leaving to fill a cargo at Queensferry for Copenhagen."

"You can guess my interest in enquiring about your husband, Effie," said Ailie Kilgour, with a slight smile. "You have often said you wished you could repay what I did for you. It is in your power now, not only to repay me, but to place me for ever in your debt, if you will persuade your husband to assist my cousins to escape from the country, that is, if they can by any means get out of their present wretched prison."

"It is a great risk to attempt such a thing, and is accounted a grave offence," said Mrs. Barclay. "Nevertheless, I will very gladly do my utmost. I do not think William will be very difficult to persuade, for he is a real Covenanter at heart."

"Then if I come down again, say upon the Sabbath night, I will see Captain Barclay himself, and get his advice," said Ailie. Then warmly thanking her friend, she went away home. That same day she again prepared a basket of food for the prisoners, and about the sunset proceeded with it to the Greyfriars. Being now known to the sentinels, they did not seek much to molest her, and she was allowed to pass the food through the bars, though one kept guard as formerly, lest any words should pass betwixt them. As Ailie took one small loaf out of the basket, she lifted her eyes to her cousin's face, with a look of such deep and peculiar meaning, that he at once understood he was to keep it to himself, there being something of special importance about it. Having, as was his wont, distributed a portion among a few of his less favoured fellow-sufferers, David Gray rejoined his brother-in-law, who occupied his usual position of listless despairing dejection on one of the tombs. So utterly impossible was it to arouse for a moment his extreme apathy, that David Gray sometimes feared lest Adam's mind had become unhinged by too long dwelling upon one morbid idea. Looking round, to see that none was particularly watching him, David Gray broke in two halves the loaf to which Ailie had directed his attention, and found in the inside a small slip of paper, whereon were some written words, which he immediately perused with feverish eagerness. They ran thus:--

"There are steps being taken for your flight from the country, in the vessel of a friend now lying at Leith. If you can make good your escape, and come here, we will assist you."

"See, here, Adam Hepburn, say, did ever such a thought occur to you?" queried David Gray, furtively slipping the paper into his brother-in-law's hand.

"Yes, the thought of my escape has never once left my mind since we came here," said Adam. "I have gotten the plan matured now, and if you will join me, I think it could be done."

"I am willing and ready," said the minister, eagerly. "What is your plan?"

"I have two, either to boldly scale the wall yonder under cover of the night, and trust to our speed to make good our escape," said Adam, "or else by stratagem creep down to the little gate at the north side, where they consider two guards sufficient. Surely, David, you and I yet could silence a man apiece."

"Desperation lends a new courage to a man when he is in straits," said the minister, thoughtfully. "I would be for trying the north gate in the darkness, but we will wait till Ailie comes again."

On the Sabbath evening, Ailie Kilgour again journeyed to Leith, and found Captain Barclay at home. She also found him sympathetic, and willing to assist, although quite conscious of the risk he incurred in aiding and abetting the escape of Government prisoners. There was one thing in his favour, however, that he was first to convey a cargo from Leith to Hamburg, the Queensferry commission being set aside, so that his passage would be direct from one port to the other.

The harbour and other officials in the employment of the Government were strictly enjoined to rigorously inspect every outward bound vessel, in quest of fugitives, but Captain Barclay did not despair of being able to steal a march upon them in some way or other. He was a bold man, and loved a spice of adventure by sea or land, so Ailie Kilgour knew the matter was safe in his hands.

She was to carry another message to the prisoners next day warning them to try and make good their escape the following night, as Captain Barclay expected to be ready to sail at daybreak on Tuesday morning, and unless they were at hand, could not possibly delay voyaging on their account. Late on the Sabbath evening, Ailie Kilgour and her father were sitting by the kitchen fire, discussing the probability of the prisoners' escape, when they heard a great scuffling on the stair, and a low knocking at the door.

Both started to their feet in alarm, and Ailie, recovering herself first, at once went and undid the bolts. What was her unutterable amazement to behold upon the threshold David Gray and Adam Hepburn!

"Are you pursued?" she asked, in a breathless whisper, and at the same time holding the door wide open.

"Not here; they have lost the scent, and are following us out the Lanark road," they responded. "Except God had veritably helped us this night, by sending down a thick mist when we leaped the wall, we had been both dead men," added David Gray, reverently; then suddenly, in the painful intensity of his feelings, he bent his head on his hands and burst into tears. Looking upon his emaciated frame, guessing the weakness which encompassed him, they marvelled not at his lack of self-control.

The old man now came forward, and being assured that they were indeed there in the body, and not pursued, he bade them, with tears of joy, welcome to his house.

The night was spent in earnest discussion, as to the next step to be taken on the morrow. Adam Hepburn expressed his readiness to go aboard, since it mattered not what became of him, but David Gray shook his head.

"The Almighty, who covered us this night with the wings of His mist, must have some other work for me here," he said. "My soul does not bid me leave Scotland, and my heart cleaves to mine own kindred, upon whose faces I have not looked for many weary days. Therefore I will travel westward as opportunity offers, knowing that except of my Lord's will the enemy shall not again lay hands on me."

On the morrow Ailie Kilgour produced a seaman's dress, which Captain Barclay had given her for a disguise to one of the prisoners, and when Adam Hepburn had shorn off his beard, and attired himself in this garb, his nearest kindred could not have recognised him. It was then agreed, that instead of stealing to the port in the darkness, he should walk boldly down in the broad light of day, and present himself at the abode of Captain Barclay, who might then take him on board publicly as one of his crew.

So Adam Hepburn bade farewell to his friends in the Grass-market, walked without molestation over to Leith, and was duly taken on board the _Bittern_. The vessel was rigorously inspected before she sailed, but no suspicion being attached to the crew, she was allowed to quit the harbour, and in the dawning of Tuesday morning was out in the open sea.

*CHAPTER XXIV.*

*DELIVERED.*

As it was by no means safe for David Gray to sojourn with his kinsfolk in Edinburgh, he was anxious to get away as soon as possible. Ailie Kilgour, with a true woman's ingenuity, had decided upon a plan whereby he might make the journey by easy stages, and without molestation, to Inverburn. Nevertheless, she was somewhat afraid to lay it before her cousin, lest he might laugh at her for her pains. After Adam Hepburn's departure, her father and cousin were sitting discussing ways and means by the kitchen fire, when she came in, bearing in her hand an old linsey-woolsey gown and a faded tartan plaid, which had belonged to her mother.

"All these plans you speak of are too dangerous to be undertaken, Cousin David," she said. "What do you say to disguising yourself as a female hawker, and thus pursue your journey, not only with safety, but with profit?"

In spite of the gravity of his position, David Gray burst into a hearty laugh, such as had not passed his lips for many a day.

"Oh, Cousin Ailie, give me a woman for ingenuity!" he exclaimed. "But what would I make of my beard and my white hair?"

"Follow Adam's example and shave your face smooth and clean," said Ailie. "As for your hair, after it is fastened up under a white cap, it will the better help your disguise."

"Are you in earnest, Ailie, woman?" queried her father, in no little amusement.

"Father, I am in dead earnest," she said, soberly. "I have everything to dress him with, and when I run out for needles and cotton, and buttons and other sundries to plenish his basket with, the disguise will be complete."

David Gray had for a moment fancied his cousin merely joking, but seeing she was in earnest, the feasibility and even the wisdom and cleverness of her suggestion appeared to him quite plainly.

"Cousin Ailie, I believe I will try your plan," he said, suddenly. "I will at least put on the disguise and see what manner of a woman I present."

Much pleased, Ailie ran to the adjoining room for the other articles of attire, and brought also her father's shaving things, in order that her cousin might remove his beard. She then retired, and after about half-an-hour they called to her to come and see the disguise. When she looked upon the complete and wonderful transformation it had made, she nearly clapped her hands with delight. The minister was certainly a tall woman, but in every other respect he was the exact picture of what he wished to represent.

Ailie took her little tartan neckerchief from her shoulders, tied it above the white cap, and then retired back to admire the effect.

"Cousin David, that is just the finishing touch!" she exclaimed, in no small glee. "Your appearance would deceive the cleverest person in the world, I am sure. You look exactly like an aged dame who has weathered a good many storms on the road. If you don't reach Inverburn in safety in my mother's old gown, my name isn't Ailie Kilgour."

"What say you, Uncle Edward?" asked David Gray, turning to the old man.

"Truly, lad, the deception is most wonderful," he replied. "Of course it is hardly a fitting thing for a minister of the kirk to tramp the country in an old wife's gown, but desperate ills need desperate remedies. So I would say, take the lassie's advice, and God go with you."

"Well, I will," said David Gray, "for in my own person and garb I am convinced I should never reach Inverburn alive, nor, indeed, get beyond the environs of Edinburgh."

"You said the pursuers went by the Lanark road," said Ailie. "Your plan will be to go to Stirling, and then across the moors. I daresay you will find the way."

"Easily," responded David Gray, cheerfully. "You are a clever, far-seeing woman, cousin; the thought of such a disguise would never have entered my head."

"It will be a great joy to me, Cousin David, if I am rewarded by saving your life," she said, with a smile and a tear, and so the matter was settled.

All that day David Gray remained in hiding in his uncle's abode, and early on the following morning he bade them both a warm farewell, and set out upon his journey back to his native place. As Ailie watched the gaunt, uncouth-looking figure with the basket and the big cotton umbrella stalking down the street, the very picture of a practised peddling woman, she scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry. So a woman's ingenuity twice outwitted the sharpness of the Government.

We have been long absent from the vale of Inverburn, yet truly nothing of note was happening there, only a dreary and despairing waiting for the dawning of a brighter day, occasionally deepened and intensified by some deed of violence or brutal pillage executed by the dragoons, who infested the entire west of Scotland. Since the fateful day of Bothwell severities had been increased, greater licence given to the soldiery, and less mercy extended to the suffering country folk, whether there were anything against them or not. Along the entire course of the Clyde the country presented a most dismal aspect. In place of smiling homesteads and rich and fertile fields, there was nothing to be seen but smouldering ruins and tract upon tract of desolate wastes, which had not been upturned by the plough for many a year. The population, though now sadly thinned, was in a state bordering upon starvation, everything they had formerly possessed having been stolen from them, and every means of subsistence removed. Yet still it seemed as if the words of Scripture must needs be literally fulfilled, since from him that had not was taken even that which he had. Hundreds had no shelter in the wide earth save that afforded by glens and caves and mountain fastnesses, and even there they were not safe.

The farm of Hartrigge had not escaped these later desolations, for now all that remained of that once substantial and even imposing homestead was one cot-house, which had escaped the flames on account of it being detached from the main buildings, and having thus been overlooked by the ruffians, who, after pillaging the entire place, had set it on fire.

In this humble abode dwelt the widow of Andrew Gray, his sister Jane, and a young lad with his sister, the Sandy and wee Nannie, who had been so dear to their father's heart. Jeanie was now safe with her father and Gavin in that land where eternal peace abides. The bairn's heart seemed to be weighed down by the things happening around her, and she just faded away.

Strange as it may seem, the few yet remaining who loved her on earth saw her depart with gladness, for it had come to that pass in poor stricken Scotland that he who lay down to die was accounted much more to be envied than he who was preserved alive.

One beautiful evening towards the end of July, Susan Gray and her sister-in-law, Jane, were sitting together on the bench outside their cottage door, with their hands lying idle on their laps, a thing they would have accounted a sin in the days of the happy past. But now there was nothing for hands to do, and life was at times a very weariness. These troublous years had wrought a woeful change upon both those women, and had aged them long before their time. Also upon the face of Susan Gray there appeared at times a vague, wandering kind of expression, which seemed to indicate a weakness of the mind, and verily it was not greatly to be wondered at that the nerves of women-folk should be unable to bear the awful strain upon them.

They were not conversing together, for such sorrows as theirs will not bear to be spoken of by the lips; there was a hopeless, purposeless look about them, which was painful in the contrast it presented to their busy, cheerful energy of long ago.

"See Jane!" said Susan Gray, presently. "Is not that a figure on the road? Is it Sandy or the bairn Nannie? They should be on their way home from the village now."

"No; it is a taller figure than either of the bairns," replied Jane. "It is a woman, and she has a basket on her arm."

"Is she like a gangerel [tramp], Jane? She need hardly come here seeking now," said Susan, listlessly.

"Yes, she looks like that. There are not many of her kind on the roads now," said Jane. Then they relapsed into silence, and so sat until the woman with the basket appeared on the path in front of the cottage door. Susan Gray only gave her a careless look, and then went into the cottage, leaving Jane to deal with her.

"My woman, ye need hardly have come this length with your basket," said Jane Gray, kindly, and looking compassionately at the evidences of fatigue on her face. "The wherewithal is much lacking here now. But sit down on the bench here and rest a while, till I bring you a piece of bread, which, thanks be to God, we can still offer to those in greater need than ourselves."

So saying, she pointed to the bench, and retired into the house. The woman set down her basket, and dropping on the seat, covered her face with her hands, and uttered a low but passionate prayer of thankfulness. In this attitude Jane Gray found her when she again stepped out of doors. She laid her hand on the bent shoulders, and said kindly, "You seem quite overcome. Have you travelled many miles this day?"

Slowly the stranger's head was raised, and a pair of eyes fixed themselves on the kind, womanly face with a glance which stirred her very soul; and, without knowing why, she began to tremble from head to foot.

"Sister Jane, do you not know me?" said the voice of one she had mourned as dead. "Then indeed my disguise is as complete as Ailie Kilgour assured me. I am your brother David!"

Jane Gray uttered a low cry, which brought Susan hurrying out to the door. The moment, however, that her eyes rested keenly and sharply on the stranger's face, they penetrated the disguise, and she exclaimed--

"David Gray, as I am a living woman!"

"Even so; thus far the Almighty has brought me through many perils to my native parish," said the minister of Broomhill, fervently.

Jane, having now recovered her first shock of surprise, embraced her brother with great joy, the tears chasing each other down her cheeks in her emotion. So the name of Gray was not entirely swept off the face of the earth, as they had bitterly imagined, and there was hope for the old house yet. They hastened to take him in, and set refreshment before him, after partaking of which he related to them all that which had befallen him and his brethren since they had last met.

Greatly rejoiced were they to learn of Adam Hepburn's escape, but they shed many tears over their hardships in the prison yard at Edinburgh. As David in low and earnest tones delivered his brother's last message to his widow, the tears flowed from her eyes, but in a gentle rain which brought healing with it. It was for these precious words her widowed heart had long and sorely hungered. It was decided that so long as it was considered safe, he should abide under his disguise with them, though a few trusty brethren in hiding in the district would be duly informed of his safety.

So a little sunshine penetrated the dark cloud, and shed a measure of brightness on the hearth of the poor little cottage at Hartrigge.

*CHAPTER XXV.*

*AIRSMOSS.*

Poor Watty McBean's hole in the Witches' Cleugh had indeed been of great benefit to many fugitives, and it had never been empty since the fleeing after the slaughter at Bothwell. During the next day the minister of Broomhill repaired in his disguise to that safe hiding, in order to see the brethren there, and so commune with them regarding their present state, and the future fate or welfare of them and such as them. As he pursued his way leisurely along the sequestered and lonely paths which led to the cleugh, he mused much on the wonderful way in which the Lord had led him hitherto. He also marvelled within himself that he had been so long spared, and in his heart there was a petition that he might be made willing and glad to continue his suffering and weary way through life, until the Lord should see fit to call him to Himself. These profitable and godly communings were interrupted somewhat summarily by the abrupt appearance of two dragoons, who came rapidly riding up from the direction of the cleugh, and who immediately drew rein at the sight of the woman, as they imagined the wayfarer to be.

"Hulloa, mistress! do you know anything of that confounded lair where so many Whigs sleep in safety?" queried one, fixing his piercing eye on the face of David Gray.

"Truly the Whigs have had many hiding places in this district," he answered, mildly. "To what one do you specially refer?"

"Faith, I hardly know; it is somewhere about these hills or in the valley between," said the dragoon, pointing backward to the cleugh. "We are creditably informed that several very noted rebels were concealed there, and me and my mate swore an oath that we should find the place, which has baffled the king's soldiers so long. We have made a thorough search, but can find no clue."

"I never heard of any place of concealment among those hills," said David Gray. "Those who are so eager to inform sometimes overreach themselves, and----"

"Leave the hag in peace, Munro!" interrupted the younger man, impatiently. "I believe she is right enough, and we were told lies to beguile us. I for one will get away out of this confounded district with what speed I can. My horse is dead lame, see, stumbling through that accursed ravine."

Marvelling much at the very easy manner in which he had escaped questioning, David Gray watched the two ride away, but did not then pursue his way to the cleugh, lest he should unwittingly betray his brethren. But his soul, long separated from such as had suffered like persecutions with him, was yearning for the sweet fellowship of brotherly counsel, both for the strengthening of his own hands and heart, and also to learn, if possible, whether any of the more noted saints were still alive. He felt himself deeply and peculiarly blessed in the communion he was privileged to obtain with that poor remnant of his kinsfolk still dwelling in the parish of Inverburn, and during the evening of that day the women and the young folk at Hartrigge were much edified with his conversation and with his exposition of the Word. It was long, indeed, since such a joy had been vouchsafed to them. Owing to the somewhat limited accommodation of the humble dwelling which now sheltered the Grays, the lad, Sandy, went down to Inverburn to sleep in the house of an old woman, who gladly gave him shelter for his father's sake. Nannie, with her aunts, abode in the kitchen, and the best end was given up to the minister. They retired early to rest, and in spite of the troubles and anxieties which encompassed them, very soon all beneath the roof-tree of the cottage were asleep. The atmosphere had been dull and heavy all day, and the night was dark and starless; the low-hanging, sullen presaging rain, of which the parched earth stood in sore need. About midnight Susan Gray, who slept lightly, was awakened by a sound she had heard so often during these past weary years, that she could not mistake it now. It was the tramp of hoofs, and in a moment a wild fear that even already the minister was betrayed took possession of her soul. Hastily awaking Jane, both strang up, threw on their outer garments, and stealing over to the casement, which was a little ajar to admit the fresh air, they peered fearfully out. The night was utterly, intensely dark, and they could see nothing, but they could hear now both the trampling and the snorting of horses, and also at a little distance the low, eager voices of men. Through the still, soundless air their strained ears caught these words:--

"He shall not escape us this time, I swear! Egad! it was a clever disguise!--a wench's idea, without doubt. To think that old hag we met peddling her wares in Walston was that veritable heretic David Gray, and we knew it not! It is enough to make a man ashamed of himself!"

Swiftly and silently Jane Gray stole across the narrow passage to the inner room, and awakened her brother, who was enjoying a very sound and refreshing repose. By the time she had made him aware of the danger at hand, the troop had quite surrounded the house, and a great noise broke the stillness of the summer night.

David Gray sprang from his bed to the floor, thinking his hour was come. And yet, was it but to be slain in cold blood like this that the Lord had let him get clear away both from the slaughter at Bothwell and the wearisome captivity of the Greyfriars?

In that moment of agonising suspense and apprehension, when he was striving to prepare for death, even with a soul yearning for life, his eye, as if guided by some unseen power, fell upon the wide, old-fashioned chimney, and in a moment his resolution was taken. Even when the foot of the enemy was on the very threshold of the outer door, the fugitive wrapped a plaid about his white night-clothes, and, committing himself to the God who had so often delivered him, he hastily scrambled up the chimney and out on to the roof. Jane Gray did not see him perform this extraordinary action, she having gone to accost, and, if possible, conciliate and delay, the officer at the outer door.

Without hesitating a moment, knowing he would speedily be observed on the roof, David Gray lay himself flat down, and, sliding down to the eaves, dropped to the ground in front of a mounted dragoon. The apparition in waving white garments terrified the horse, and caused him to rear and plunge wildly, so that his rider was almost unseated. In the momentary confusion that ensued the fugitive took to his heels, and in a brief space was out of sight and beyond pursuit. Meanwhile, quite unconscious of this miraculous escape, Jane Gray was endeavouring to parley with the officer at the door.

"Sorry to disturb your repose, sweet mistress," he said. "If you will but deliver up that renegade, David Gray, who is sheltering here, we will go away and leave you in peace."

"David Gray!" ejaculated Jane Gray, faintly; "what men-folk have we under this roof-tree, sir? The only stranger here is a relative, who has travelled a great distance on foot to sojourn awhile with us, if that be a fault in your eyes."

"Does the stranger wear a linsey-woolsey gown, a tartan plaid, and a white cap, and peddle ribbons and laces to the country lasses, eh?" queried the captain, with grim humour. "To show you that we do not doubt your word, bring out the old lady, so that we may pay our respects to her. Methinks we have met before."

At her wits' end, Jane Gray turned about and went into the room, which, to her astonishment, seemed to be empty. The captain followed her, and, not finding the fugitive there, strode into the kitchen. Susan Gray and Nannie were there, and it needed but one glance at their faces to tell him that neither was the person he sought.

"Your kinswoman has hidden herself, I perceive," he said, grimly. "You had better bid her come forth, or I will give orders to set the place on fire. I have no time to dally here; it is time all honest folk were in bed."

"We are guiltless of hiding him you seek, sir," said Jane Gray, no longer attempting to deny that her brother had been sheltering with them. "And, truly, where in this small abode could he hide? It is a mystery to me where he has gone, unless, indeed, the Lord hath miraculously aided his escape."

At that moment one of the dragoons came hurrying in to say that the prisoner had without doubt made his escape from the roof, and was already beyond pursuit. Then the captain fell into a great rage, and cursed and swore in a manner which made the women-folk tremble. And truly it was a sore disappointment to the man to have had so valuable and notable a Covenanter within his very reach, and yet to be baulked so simply. In his fury he was like to have taken the lives of the fugitive's kinswomen, but was persuaded by a more merciful subordinate to let them be in peace. Nevertheless, he caused lighted brands to be held to the thatched roof of the cottage, and, being dry as tinder, it immediately took fire.

In a short space of time the darkness of the night was illumined by the flames of the burning cottage, and the three defenceless women, now rendered indeed utterly homeless, hastily gathered such small but valuable things as they could carry, and, withdrawing themselves a little, watched the rapid destruction of the only shelter they could call their own on the face of the earth. Yet they could not feel utterly cast down, since God had so marvellously delivered the dear fugitive out of the hands of the pursuer once more. The captain and his troop immediately rode away down to the village, to inflict themselves on such of the inhabitants as could yet give them bite and sup and shelter for the night. Meanwhile David Gray fled, under the grateful cover of the darkness, by the familiar field-paths to poor Watty's famous hiding, where he knew he should find both shelter and comforting welcome from his brethren. His long residence in the cleugh had made him so familiar with it, that even in the darkness he had no difficulty whatever in finding the thicket which hid the cave. And yet he had to creep slowly and with caution, for the nettles and brambles and brushwood proved very formidable to his uncovered limbs, and his feet were already bleeding from coming into contact with the stones as he made his rapid flight from the cottage. As he came up nearly to the mouth of the cave, he gave a long, low whistle, which Jane had told him was a signal understood by those in hiding. In a few minutes it was answered by a similar sound, and the brushwood was carefully swept aside from the mouth of the cave, and he saw the figure of a man.

"Who comes?" a voice said, in an anxious whisper.

"A brother in sore straits, whom the Lord, of His good pleasure, hath this night marvellously delivered," answered David Gray, and at that the man standing at the mouth of the cave stretched out his hand and drew the new-comer into the dimly-lighted recess beyond. In this place there were no fewer than seven persons, both old, young, and middle-aged, whose faces were thin and worn, as if they had suffered much privation. They looked with no little astonishment upon the strangely-attired figure which appeared so suddenly in their midst, and one, an elderly man, of very grave and reverent aspect, after looking intently on his face, jumped up and grasped him by the hand.

"David Gray, an I mistake not, whom I last saw in grips with the enemy at Bothwell Brig!" he exclaimed.

"And whom the Lord hath marvellously preserved from that woeful day to this," supplemented David Gray. "Little did I think last time we met, Mr. Donald Cargill, that we should look upon each other's faces again, and in this place of all places."

"Verily, strange are the vicissitudes of the scattered remnant of the Lord's Zion," said Mr. Cargill. "I have been obliged to keep in hiding these few days, being sore pursued by a troop of dragoons for preaching at Lanark and at various other places in Clydesdale; but come, tell us what hath befallen thee of late, and by what means thou art come hither in this strange attire."

Nothing loth, David Gray entered upon the recital of his exciting experiences during the last two months, and when he had finished, Mr. Cargill had his story to tell, and in this pathetic and mournfully interesting talk the night speedily wore away. Although Mr. Cargill had been obliged to flee for his life to the shelter of the cleugh, it was impossible for one of his ardent and restless spirit to remain long inactive. As soon as they heard from a trusty reporter, who carried them both provisions and news from Inverburn, that the hot pursuit was slackened in the neighbourhood, he announced his intention of going forth once more to the preaching of the Word.

Fired by the eloquence and zeal of the old man, and feeling himself much persuaded to testify in public once more, David Gray petitioned that he might be allowed to go forth in company with him. So the twain quitted their hiding, and travelled eastwards towards Edinburgh, preaching as they went, and meeting with many perils, out of which they had many marvellous deliverances, which would occupy too long a space to recount. In the spring of 1680, new life was infused into the scattered and sometimes fainting remnant, by the return to Scotland of that eloquent preacher and godly man, Richard Cameron, who had been persuaded to retire to Holland for a time previous to the Battle of Bothwell.