Chapter XI: Part 11

"Ae morning last April Claver'se and his troopers were oot on the moors a mile or twa to the west o' Dairy, when they saw twa men comin' towards them. Ane o' the men was chasin' the other up and doon amang the moss-hags, and the troopers put spurs to their horses and sune had them surrounded. When Claver'se looked at them he recognised in ane o' them a young Covenanter wha' had escaped twa nichts afore frae a barn near New Galloway where he had been flung after a dose o' the thumbikins. The other was a much aulder man. The younger o' the twa was clean demented: and they could get nae sense oot o' him--juist a screed o' haivers whenever they questioned him. The auld man was as dour as a rock--and would gie nae account o' himsel', but it was enough that he had been seen chasin' the daft lad on the moors, belike wi' the intention o' concealin' him in some hidie hole. Weel, Claver'se was for shootin' the auld man oot o' hand if he wouldna speak, and said as much; but a' the answer he got was 'I'm ready, sir. Ye can dae nae mair than kill my body,' and he took off his bonnet and looked undaunted up at the sky. Weel, just then ane o' the troopers drew up alangside Claver'se and spoke to him. He had recognised the man as Andrew Paterson o' Daldowie, and tellt Claver'se as much. 'O, ho!' said Claver'se, 'the old fox! So this is the guid-man o' Daldowie. I think we had better tak' him hame to his ain burrow. Maybe we'll find other game there.' So wi' that they tied Andrew and the lad to the stirrup leathers o' twa troopers and made for Daldowie--maybe ten miles awa.

"As they drew near to Daldowie they saw a woman standin' in the doorway lookin' into the distance under the shade o' her hand. She dropped her hand, and made a half turn, and then she saw them comin'. Wi' that she rushed into the hoose and closed the door: but nae doot she was watchin' through a crack, for when they were near enough for her to see that her guid-man was a prisoner, she cam' oot again and stood waitin'. When they drew up she threw oot her airms, and like a mither that rins tae keep her bairn frae danger, she ran towards her man, callin', 'Andra! Andra!' But at a sign frae Claver'se ane o' the dragoons turned his horse across her path and kept her off. Then Claver'se louped frae his horse, and tellin' ane o' the dragoons to lay hold on the woman, and calling half a dozen to follow him, drew his sword and walked in at the open door.

"Inside they made an awfu' steer, pokin' here and searchin' there, nosin' even into the meal barrel and castin' the blankets off the beds after Claver'se himsel' had driven his sword through and through them. Then ane o' the troopers spied a ladder in the corner, and up he goes into the loft, and Claver'se follows him. Then they cam' doon again, Claver'se leadin' and no' lookin' pleased like. He stalked oot o' the kitchen into the open air. Juist then the daft laddie let a screech oot o' him, and Claver'se flung up his heid. 'What the devil is he yelling about?' he cried. 'I'll stop his girning!' and wi' that he shouted an order and twa sodgers ran forward and cuttin' the thongs frae his wrists, dragged him tae the wall o' the hoose. They cast their hands off him, but stood near enough to keep him frae runnin' away. He looked at the dragoons wi' a simple look on his face, and then his e'en wandered away to the blue hills in the distance,--'From whence cometh mine aid,' he said. But he spoke nae mair, for, wi' a quick 'Make ready: present: fire!' Claver'se let his sword drop, the muskets crashed, and the boy fell deid. 'A good riddance,' said Claver'se, spurning the body with his foot. 'There's enough daft folk in the world,' and he laughed.

"There was a sudden turmoil among the men, and the soond o' a woman's voice. The guid-wife was strugglin' to free hersel', and as she did so she shouted, 'Inhuman deevils! Is there nae milk o' mercy in yer herts? What has the puir lad done that ye should murder him?' But a word frae her husband quieted her, 'Jean,' he said--that was a'; but she stood quite still and struggled nae mair, though the tears streamed doon her face. Then Claver'se made a sign and Andra was unbound and led before him, and at the same time the troopers let go their hold o' the woman and she cam' and stood beside her man. 'Daldowie,' says Claver'se, 'you have long been suspected of consorting with and harbouring the hill-men. I have caught you red-handed to-day in the act of succouring one of them; and in your house I have found proof that you have sheltered fugitives from justice. What have you to say for yourself?' Andra looked his judge straight in the face. 'The facts are against me, sir; but I ha'e dune naething for which my conscience rebukes me, and I am ready to answer to God.'

"'More cant! More cant!' roared Claver'se. 'You have to answer to me, the representative of the King. God only comes into the question later,' and he laughed as though he had said a clever thing. 'Will ye tak' the Test? Will ye swear allegiance to the King?'"

"'Time was,' said Andra, 'that I would gladly ha'e sworn fealty to the King in things temporal; but in things spiritual I am answerable to a Higher than ony Stuart. I was a loyal subject, like a' the hill-folk, till the Stuarts broke their ain pledged word: and ye canna' expect a Scot, least o' a' a Galloway man, tae turn aboot like a weather-cock, when it pleases the King to turn.'

"'Damnable treason,' shouts Claver'se. 'Don't you know that the King is above the law, and reigns by Divine Right?'

"Andra shook his head, but his wife answered: 'Ay, so the Stuarts say, but they waited till they got to England before they blew that bubble. Weel they kent there were ower mony jaggy thistles in Scotland for that bag o' win' tae last long this side o' the border.'

"'Woman,' says Claver'se, angrily, 'be silent,' and turning to Andra he said: 'You know you have forfeited your life: many a man has died for less; but I would not be hard on you. Will you be done with the Covenanters? Say the word and you are free. Refuse'--and he waved his hand towards the body o' the lad. Andra followed the gesture wi' his e'en. Then he looked at Claver'se again--wi' nae sign o' fear on his face. 'You ken my answer, sir, I canna.' And as Claver'se turned angrily away the guid-wife threw her airms aboot her husband's neck and sobbed, 'Oh, Andra, my ain brave man!' The dragoons had loosened their hold o' him, and he put his airms aboot her, and patted her heid. 'Dinna greet, lassie,' he murmured, 'dinna greet. Death is naething: only a doorway that lets us ben the Maister's hoose. I'll wait for ye yonder; the pairtin' will no be lang.'

"Claver'se had turned to the dragoons and was rapidly gi'eing them orders. Twa sodgers laid hold on the woman and tried to drag her awa' frae her man, but wi' her face buried on his shoulder she clung to him sobbing. Wi' his ain hands he took her airms frae his neck, and haudin' her face between his palms, kissed her. 'My ain Jean,' he said, 'God keep you. You ha'e been a guid wife tae me,' and kissing her again he left her and took his place by the wall o' the hoose. The firing party was ready. Claver'se half raised his sword to gi'e the signal; then he checked himsel' and turned to Andra.

"'An' you will,' he said, 'you may have five minutes to make your peace with your Maker.'

"'I thank you,' replied Andra, 'but that's settled lang syne.' Claver'se's blade rose sharply in the air. 'Ready,' he shouted--and the sword fell, and as its point struck the ground, Andra Paterson o' Daldowie passed ower unafraid.

"The smoke had no' had time to blaw frae the muzzles o' the muskets ere Jean had broken frae her captors, and flung hersel' on her knees beside the body o' her man. She raised his heid and held it in her lap: and bendin' ower kissed his face. 'Andra,' she cried, 'Andra--my ain bonnie man! Waken, Andra! waken! and speak to me. Andra! Andra! Canna ye hear me? It's me--Jean, yer ain wee lass: ye mind, Andra, ca'in' me that lang syne afore Dauvit was born. Andra, speak to me! Juist ae wee word, Andra!' She paused, and stared wildly at the upturned face. Then bursting into tears she sobbed, 'Oh, Andra, my ain dear man, the faither o' my bairns, they ha'e killed ye.' As the tears streamed doon her cheeks she took her kerchief frae her neck and spread it ower his face. Then lovingly and tenderly she laid his heid doon and spreadin' her open hands abune it said, 'Ane o' the elect noo.'

"Then she rose tae her feet. As she did so she noticed the body o' the lad, and wringing her hands knelt doon beside it. 'Puir wee laddie,' she said. 'God comfort your mither, wherever she may be,' and she bent ower and kissed his broo. Then springing up she faced Claver'se and the dragoons. He was pacing up and doon restlessly, sword in hand. Clenching her fists she shook them angrily at him. 'May God in heaven pey ye for this day's wark. Inhuman fiends! Are ye men born o' women--or spawn o' the de'il?' and leaping forward sae suddenly that Claver'se hadna time to throw himsel' on guard, she seized his sword and wrenched it frae his grip afore he knew that she was on him. She swung up the blade, and brocht it wi' a crash upon his heid. It was sic a blow as would ha'e cleft him to the chin, if she had had skill wi' the weapon. But it turned in her haun' so that she struck him wi' the flat o't, and he fell senseless to the ground. And then she turned on the troopers--ae woman against twenty armed men--striking richt and left, stabbing, lunging, and thrusting till she had scattered the hale troop, aghast at her onslaught, and the mischief she had dune their leader. But her triumph was short. Four o' the troopers plunged their spurs into their horses and rode her down, and as she lay stunned ane o' the troopers dismounting put his musket to her heid and fired."

*CHAPTER XXXIX*

*FALSE HOPES*

The tears were streaming down my cheeks.

I could contain myself no longer. "Then, Mary is alive," I cried. "Thank God! thank God!"

The packman raised a warning hand, and in a steady voice which, to my fevered ears, sounded harsh and cold, said: "Haud yer wheesht till I feenish the story." And with the sudden hope that had sprung up in my breast quenched like a watered flame, I knitted my hands together and waited.

"Weel," he went on, "after they had murdered the guid-wife, the troopers gathered roond Claver'se anxious-like, for he looked deidly. But when they had sprinkled water on his face, he began to come tae himsel'. By and by he opened his e'en and looked aboot him dazed like.

"'What has happened?' he said; then, memory coming back, he cried: 'Whaur the devil is the old hell-cat? Blow her brains out.' The sergeant saluted and said, 'Your orders ha'e already been carried out, sir.' Wi' that Claver'se pulled himsel' thegither and sat up. But he was a' o' a dither. He couldna staun' by his lane, but there was enough o' the de'il left in him to gi'e orders to set the steadin' on fire and burn it to the ground. When the place was a' in a blaze and the roof had fallen in, he sent off others to round up the cattle and the sheep and drive them to Kirkcudbright.

"'Nothing like making a clean job o't,' he said. Then wi' the help o' the sergeant he mounted his horse, but his heid went licht again and he couldna sit in the saddle. So there was naething for it but to cairry him back to heidquarters. The sergeant and maybe a dozen dragoons were left behind to see that the fire didna gang oot till the bodies were completely destroyed. The rest set oot for heidquarters, taking it in turns to cairry Claver'se on a stretcher they had knocked thegither, while others drove the cattle behin'.

"That is the story," said Hector, "as the trooper telled it to me. Though my heart was heavy, I forced up the ghost o' a laugh when he had feenished and said, 'So that was what the guid-wife o' Daldowie did to Claver'se. Weel, weel, a bonnie tale!' Then I plied him wi' mair drink, for there was something else I wanted to ken, aboot which he had said naething. And when he had primed his pipe aince mair I said switherin'-like, as though I were tryin' to mind something: 'Let me see. I think in my traivels I ha'e visited Daldowie. If I'm no wrang I aince sold a ribbon to a bonnie lass there, wha I took for the dochter. Did ye see onything o' her when ye were up by?' The trooper shook his heid.

"'No,' he said, 'I saw naething o' ony bonnie lass, and it was as weel for her, for in the mood that Claver'se was in he would ha'e made short work o' her tae. Are ye sure ye're no' mistaken?' he asked.

"'No, no,' I said, 'I'm no mistaken. If I min' richtly the lassie's name was Mary.'

"'Weel,' he replied, 'I saw naething o' her while I was at Daldowie. But I'm thinkin' that if she happened to be hidin' onywhere aboot she wad be discovered by the sergeant and the men that were left behin', and mair than likely they'd mak' a clean job by feenishing her tae. Hooever,' he said, 'if it'll be ony satisfaction to ye, I'll speir at ane o' the men wha' was left behin' wi' the sergeant. And if ye're here the morn, at this time, it will gi'e me pleasure tae drink the health o' the King wi' ye again and I'll then be able to tell ye what ye want to ken.'

"Wi' that he rose, and I pressed anither truss o' Virginia weed in his hand and promised to wait for him in the inn the next day. So off he went, but at the door o' the parlour he turned and flung a kiss to the servin'-maid wha was keekin' through the ither door after him. When I had had anither pipe, I found a bield bit in a field, and, wi' my heid on my pack, I settled myself to sleep. I was in great hopes o' hearin' mair when I met the trooper again: but in the grey dawn I heard the soond o' horses coming alang the road, and peepin' through the hedge I saw Claver'se at the heid o' his dragoons makin' for the hills. The trooper I had cracked wi' was among them. That is the last I ever saw o' him, and as they didna come back tae the toon that nicht, I didna learn what he had to tell. But I turned the thing ower in my mind and said to mysel', 'Ane o' twa things has happened--either Mary cam' back and was ta'en by the troopers and martyred like her father and mother, or she escaped and is somewhere in hidin'.' And I said to myself, 'Hector, if the lassie's leevin', it's for you to find her.' So I shouldered my pack and set oot for the west again. I wandered frae hoose to hoose, frae cottage to cottage, frae clachan to clachan, aye wi' the ae quest in my mind, aye wi' the same question on my lips, and keepin' my ears wide open to hear some whisper if I could o' bonnie Mary Paterson.

"I went west as far as the sea. On my road back again I passed here and there and everywhere. But frae Portpatrick to the brig end o' Dumfries I saw neither sign nor heard a word o' her."

He ceased, and a silence fell upon us, so heavy that our hearts were crushed and not one of us dared speak. At last I rose, and crept out of the cave. I stood on the ledge above the frozen pool and felt the ice gather about my heart. Was Mary dead or not? This awful uncertainty was harder to bear than the knowledge I had believed was mine. I slipped my hand into the pocket over my heart and drew from it the fragment of her ring. It lay glistening faintly in the light in my open hand, and then I could not see it for my tears. Mary was dead! I sat down and buried my face in my hands. My soul was in the depths.

*CHAPTER XL*

*I SEEK A FLOWER*

Many a time in the weeks that followed I pondered over Hector's story. Andrew--dour, stout-hearted, and faithful--and Jean--shrewd, loving, and whimsical--had borne themselves valiantly in the hour of doom, and the darkness of the tragedy was illumined by the thought of their high heroism. My sorrow was flushed with pride, though the pride was akin to tears; but ever in my mind there was a torturing doubt. Reason urged me to believe that Mary was dead. But love, and desire which is the child of love, bade me hope on.

More than once I laid bare my heart to the minister, and from his wise words I gained much solace; but, though he would not say so, I knew that in his heart he believed that Mary had fallen into the hands of the troopers and been done to death like her father and mother.

A day came when I could bear the suspense no longer. Inaction served only to increase my torture of mind. I must seek Mary myself.

I told my companions what I purposed. With one voice they tried to dissuade me. They pointed out that such an enterprise was beset with hazard and might lead to death. Little did they know that death had no terrors for such a love as mine, and that I would have counted it a pleasant thing when weighed against the unquenchable torment that burned in my breast. So I beat down all their objections until, convinced that I was set in my purpose, they ceased to oppose me and planned means whereby I might the better carry out my quest. It was from Hector that the most useful suggestion came.

"Ye micht," he said, "gang through the country as a packman, but frae what I mind o' your puir success at New Abbey, you wouldna fill the pairt." His eyes twinkled. "Besides," he continued, "I feel that I ha'e a proprietary richt to ony customers there are to be had in Galloway, and you micht be interferin' wi' my business--an affront I couldna weel thole. Better pose as a puir gangrel body, wounded, if ye like, in the wars. Yer game leg is evidence eneuch o' that, and when ye come to a toon or a wee bit clachan, ye can aye turn an honest penny by singin' a sang. I mind ye tellin' me Mary was a bonnie singer. Belike ye min' some o' the songs she sang--dootless weel-kent auld Scots sangs. If she were to hear ye singin' ane or ither o' them, mair than likely, oot o' curiosity, she would come oot to see wha it was that was singin' ane o' her ain sangs. If ye keep yer e'en open as weel as yer ears, wha kens but what ye may find her. Besides, the disguise o' a puir gangrel body is hardly likely to be seen through by ony dragoons ye may come across, for ye can aye, if ye like, if ye imagine there are troopers aboot, sing a King's song, sic as 'Awa, Whigs, awa!' and they'll never suspect ye o' bein' a Covenanter. And dinna forget this; if ye ever want word o' Hector the packman, ask at Phemie McBride's. She'll no hae forgotten ye, and she'll aye be able to tell ye where ye'll find me. If ye will gang, gang ye must; but ae last word o' advice I would gi'e ye--dinna be runnin' yersel' into needless danger and aye remember that a guid ash stick laid on tae the heid o' a trooper will mony a time thwart an evil deed devised in his black he'rt. There's nae ither man I would dae it for, but I'm makin' ye a present o' 'Trusty,'" and he pressed his own stick into my hand.

So, just as the darkness had closed in, one January night I set out. Hector and the minister accompanied me to the edge of the wood and, with many good wishes and the blessing of the saintly man still ringing in my ears, I took the road. Before morning broke I was close to Lincluden Abbey, and, under the shelter of its hoary walls, I lay down and rested for a while. I slept till the late afternoon and, having refreshed myself with food, which I procured from a cottage near, I took the road again in the twilight and, avoiding the town of Dumfries that lay on the other side of the river, I made for the heart of Galloway.

Day after day I wandered--hither and thither--not blindly, but of set purpose. Sometimes I travelled upon the high road, and at other times I would leave it and take to the less frequented by-paths in order that no little sequestered cottage might escape me. Here, there and everywhere I sought--one day close down by the sea, the next far back in the solitary places of the hills, questing--questing--questing--but ever without avail. Sometimes, when in a village street I would essay to sing one of the sweet old songs which I had heard so often fall golden from the lips of her I loved, memories of happier days would surge over me, and for very pain my voice would falter and I would cease to sing.

And though, over and over again, the sound of my singing would bring women, old and young, to the open doors of their cottages, my hungering eyes never caught a sight of that face for which they longed. Sometimes a girl, standing in the doorway, pitying my poor attempt at melody, would join her voice to mine and lend to my singing a beauty that it lacked; but though my ears were ever alert for the lute-like voice of Mary, they were never gladdened by the sound for which they ached.

And once on a day I stood blinded by tears beside the ruins of Daldowie.

Day followed day, and still I wandered on. Week after week found my quest still fruitless, and at last I stood upon the confines of the land where the sea expends its futile thunder upon the black rocks by Corsewall point. I had reached the uttermost limit of the journey I had set myself, and my journey had been in vain. So, with a heavy heart, I turned, crushing down the sudden desire that had risen within me to make an end of it all by hurling myself into the sea. The temptation was sore upon me--for life gaped empty before me--but something within me shouted "Coward," and I crushed the impulse down.

On my homeward way I made greater speed than I had done upon my outgoing. Still I searched, and still my search was vain. At last when April had come with laughter and tears and all her promise of summer, I was within sight of Dumfries once more.

I had cause to remember Dumfries. I knew that within its gates danger might await me, but danger had ceased to have any terrors for my stricken heart. At the most, discovery could only mean death, and death was preferable to a life without her whom I loved. When the town came within view I quickened my steps and in the late afternoon I descended the hill that led down to the bridge. As I approached it I was tempted to turn aside and seek the house of Phemie McBride at once, for I remembered Hector's parting words; but some impulse to stand again upon the spot where Fate had descended upon me, all bloody in the uniform of a Sergeant of Dragoons, drove me onward.

When I reached the bridge I stepped into the little alcove where aforetime my destiny had been so strangely moulded, and leaning over looked down upon the rushing stream. My eyes followed the water as it flowed into the distance. Suddenly my gaze was arrested by a crowd which I saw coming along the Sands. At such a distance I was unable to see clearly, but I could make out mounted men and the gleam from their trappings told me they were dragoons. In their wake was a crowd, and as I watched I saw it grow steadily. Men and women and children dashed out of the streets and alleys which opened on to the Sands and joined the rabble behind the troopers. Discretion bade me have a care, but curiosity impelled me and I crossed the bridge and descended to the Sands. Already a throng of folk who had seen, in the distance, the approaching company of troopers, had begun to assemble and I mingled myself with them. The soldiers were advancing at a walking pace and from this and the presence of the rabble at their heels I knew that they had prisoners. Ere long the sound of the horses' hoofs was audible and rumour began to be busy among the people around me.

"What's a' the steer?" asked a woman who had just joined the crowd, her shawl slipping back from her head on to her shoulders. Her question was addressed to the crowd, and out of it somebody made answer.

"It's the troopers. They say they've ta'en twa Covenanters, a man and a woman, somewhere ayont the Kingholm."

Steadily at a march the soldiers approached us. With necks craned eagerly forward we tried to get a glimpse of the prisoners.

"Wha are they?" asked a voice; but to this there was no answer, for the cavalcade was almost upon us. Just as it came to the Port of Vennel the officer turned in his saddle and rapped out a few words of command. The company divided into two, the front half coming to a halt, and I saw that tied to the stirrup leather of one of the troopers was a man. Wheeling to the right, without pause, the second half of the company continued its march. The crowd broke and ran across the intervening space to catch a closer glimpse of the female prisoner. Almost against my will I was carried on by the surge of the people. I could not see the woman's face, but the sunlight fell upon her hair, and--God in heaven! it was chestnut brown, and over her forehead, where the light struck it, it shone like burnished gold. My heart shouted within me, but something--was it the finger of God?--was laid upon my lips and they were still. Rudely flinging men and women aside, I sprang forward that I might see the woman's face. It was Mary in very deed--Mary, in the hands of the persecutors, beautiful as a flower, pride in the poise of her head, courage in her dauntless eyes.

*CHAPTER XLI*

*IN THE HANDS OF THE PERSECUTORS*

I reined in the impulse that seized me to spring forward and attempt a rescue. That way lay madness, and the failure of all hope to effect my purpose. If I adventured it I knew that I should be shot down like a dog and that Mary would go to her fate unsuccoured. Wisdom lay in waiting to see how events would shape themselves. If, at the last, I found that Mary was being taken to Christie's Mount to be martyred on one of the gibbets there, then I should not stand quietly by and see a merciless vengeance wreak itself upon her. If I could not rescue her, I should die with her.

I mixed with the crowd again and was borne onward as it surged up the Vennel. In the press I was thrust so near to Mary that, had I stretched out my hand, I could have touched her, and though my eyes sought her face and feasted upon it, I tore myself away lest she should see me and in a moment of recognition betray us both. The cavalcade breasted the hill up to the High Street and as we went the crowd grew as every shop door added its unit. Here and there a high window was thrown open suddenly and the head of a man or woman would appear, with eyes downcast, to see what was going on in the street below. More than once I heard a word of pity fall from unseen lips.

The company swung into the High Street. Eager new-comers thrust themselves forward and broke the line of my vision so that it was difficult to keep Mary in sight, but I watched for the aureole of gold set among her chestnut hair, and seeing it my heart beat high again.

By and by we came to the Tolbooth and the cavalcade halted. There was a loud knocking at the door which, in a moment, was thrown wide open, and two of the dragoons rode in with Mary between them. Then the door was shut in our faces. The crowd hung uncertain for a little space, then it began to disperse slowly till only a handful of curious idlers was left gazing vacantly at the prison. Of them I was one, but though my body was idle my mind was working at fever heat. Mary was in the Tolbooth! That meant, at the very least, that no immediate travesty of justice was to be perpetrated upon her. Perhaps, like the women at Wigtown, she would be given a trial, and it might come to pass that she would be found blameless and set free.

As though in answer to this thought the great oaken door swung open again. With eyes almost starting from their sockets, I watched to see her come forth. But no; my hopes that had been soaring in the sky crashed headlong to the earth. The dragoons that had led her in rode forth and the door closed behind them. The company formed up and set out for its quarters and I was left gazing at the door as though a spell were upon me. Suddenly it flashed upon me that to stand there with eyes riveted upon the Tolbooth was to draw attention to myself; so I turned slowly away and walked, as though I were a casual wayfarer, down the High Street again. By the time I had reached the head of the Vennel my mind was set. Mary must be saved. I should rescue her or perish in the attempt. A hive of schemes swarmed in my brain, and my mind was perplexed and divided. Then I thought of Hector. He, if anyone, could aid me: but time was precious and where could I find him? Then I remembered Phemie McBride, and quickening my pace I hurried down the Vennel. Near the Vennel Port a crowd was assembled and when I came to the edge of it I found that my way was blocked by the press of the people. As I stood waiting for a break through which to worm myself, I overheard two boys talking together on its outskirts:

"Ay, I'm tellin' ye, I ha'e juist seen a man shot."

"Get awa'!"

"Ay."

"Tell me aboot it."

"They stood him up on the Sands and six sodgers stood afore him and took aim at his breist."

"Was he feart?"

"De'il a bit!"

"Get on."

"He never even trem'led. But ane o' the young sodgers was gey shaky. Then the captain cried 'Fire' and they a' shot thegither. The man gied a kin' o' jump in the air and fell in a heap."

"Deid?"

"Ay, deid, but no quite, for ane o' his legs gied a bit shake, and scraped the grun'. Weel, the captain took a lang pistol oot o' his belt a' covered wi' siller, and bendin' doon pit it to his heid and fired."

"Behin' his lug?"

"Ay, behin' his lug."

"Eh, I wish I had been there!"

"Weel, never mind, ye'll come the morn wi' me."

"Whaur tae?"

"Tae the College pool and see them droonin' the woman."

"Are they gaun to droon a woman?"

"Ay, they are that."

"As shair as daith?"

"Ay, as shair as daith," and he drew a wet finger across his dirty neck.

"Hoo will they droon her?"

"They'll pit her in a poke wi' twa channel stanes and they'll fling her richt into the pool."

"Will she sink?"

"Ay, richt eneuch."

"I'm comin'."

"Come on, and I'll show ye the bluid o' the man they shot; maybe we'll fin' a bullet."

My fingers itched to be at the throats of these carrion-crows of the streets, to whom Mary's extremity and mine was nothing more than an occasion of amusement.

My heart cried within me--"O my beloved!" and I pulled myself together and began to force a path through the rabble and by and by succeeded in reaching the Vennel Port. Quickly I crossed the bridge and made for the cottage of Phemie McBride.

I knocked anxiously at the door. Would she remember me and--would she know where Hector was? As these doubts and fears were racing through my mind, the door was opened just far enough to allow the good woman to protrude an inquiring face. She looked at me penetratingly; then recognition dawned:

"It's you, is it?"

"Where's Hector?" I answered brusquely.

"Come awa' ben," she said, "and see for yersel'," and with that she threw the door wide open to allow me to enter. I sprang past her, and there, sitting by the kitchen fire, his pipe aglow and his well-thumbed copy of Horace in his hand, sat the packman. He sprang to his feet and grasped me warmly by the hand.

"Man," he said, "ye couldna ha'e come at a better time. I'm fair graivelled by this passage in Horace. Can ye gie me the sense o't?"

"To perdition with Horace," I shouted. "Mary's in the Tolbooth of Dumfries and I want your help."

The book fell spinning from his hand and lay face down on the floor.

"In the Tolbooth o' Dumfries!" he exclaimed. "Wha tellt ye that?"

"I saw her enter less than an hour ago with my own eyes," I said.

Hector stooped, and, before replying, picked up his book. "In the Tolbooth o' Dumfries," he said slowly. "Guid sakes! I thocht the lassie was deid. Ye're sure it's her?"

"As sure," I answered, "as I am that I am speaking to you."

"Weel," he replied, "if that's so Horace maun juist bide a wee. This is a maitter that wants considerin'. Come awa' to my room," and he led the way to the chamber in which, close on a year ago, I myself had slept.

*CHAPTER XLII*

*IN THE TOLBOOTH OF DUMFRIES*

That night, as the town clock spoke the hour of nine with its silver tongue, any casual wayfarer passing the Tolbooth might have seen an old, bowed woman knocking timorously at its oaken door. Under the shawl which covered her head and enveloped her to the feet she held a letter, sealed with a large seal. After she had knocked for a second time, the door was partially opened and a hurried conversation took place between her and the jailer. She handed him the letter and, in order the better to read it, he admitted her within the door. Its contents satisfied him, for, at once, he led the way to a cell and taking the great key from a chain that hung at his belt, he unlocked the door and threw it open.

"Mary Paterson," he called, "are ye sleeping? Here's yer auntie come to see ye wi' the special warrant o' the Shirra' himsel'. I never kent the like o' this afore, but I ha'e his warrant for it sealed wi' his ain seal."

There was no response. So, seizing the old woman rudely by the shoulder, the jailer thrust her forward and closed the door behind her. As the key grated in the lock he growled through an iron grille set in the solid wood: "Ye ha'e half an' 'oor thegither: no ae minute langer."

I listened anxiously until I heard his footsteps die gradually away: then with arms outstretched I stepped forward into the darkness.

"Mary, Mary," I cried, in a loud whisper, and out of the darkness a voice spoke:

"What trick is this? Wha are ye? I ha'e nae aunt that would visit me. In a' the world I am alane."

The sadness of that dear voice, once sweet with witchery, unmanned me, but I knew that every minute was precious and that there was need to make haste. "Mary," I said, "it is Walter, your own beloved."

There was a pause, then a sob, and the sweet voice said brokenly: "It canna be. My loved ane is deid lang syne. Are ye someane come here for his ain ill ends?"

"Mary," I said, "where are you? Come to me! come and lay your hand on my face and you will know that it is I indeed."

There was a movement in the cell, and in the darkness a little hand touched me timidly. I seized it in both my own, and smothered it with kisses. Then I drew a shrinking figure towards me and took Mary, my own loved one, in my arms. She nestled to me sobbing gently, for she knew that I was in very deed her lover come again.

"Beloved!" I whispered. "Little flower of the heather." Oh the rapture of that long embrace for which my heart had hungered through so many weary months! "Dear heart," I whispered, with my lips set close to her little ear, "I have come to save you. Be brave, do what I bid you and all will be well."

"To save me?" she said. "Oh, it's no' possible."

"Yes," I answered, "all things are possible to love."

Quickly, in whispers, for the minutes were rapidly fleeing, I explained my plans to her. Wrapped in the great shawl with which I had disguised myself, she was to impersonate the old woman who had come to visit her, and, when the jailer returned, to quit the dungeon with him and make her way to freedom and to safety.

"Once you are out of the Tolbooth," I said, "hurry to the Townhead Port. By the side of the Moat Hill you will find an old man waiting for you. He will be smoking a pipe. Trust him; and he will take you to a place of safety."

I wrapped the shawl about her. It covered her, from head to foot. Then she clung to me once more while I hurriedly whispered the little words of love with which my heart was full, and heard her sweet whispers in return. Suddenly she disengaged herself from my arms, and seizing me by the hand, said:

"My love, my love, it canna be. Why did I no' think o' it afore. I am escaping, and you are to be left behin'. No, I wunna, I canna dae it."

"What a foolish little Mary you are!" I murmured, as I clasped her to me once again. "Feel this," and I guided her fingers along the rough edge of a file I had concealed about me. "Within an hour of your escape I shall be with you. There is only one iron bar to file." I turned her head and made her look at the little window set in the wall high up near the roof of the cell, through which the uncertain light of the moon sent a faint beam. "I knew all about this cell before I came into it. The friend to whom I am sending you has been here himself. He remembered that there was but one bar to the window. He it was who told me how I should escape. So, sweetheart, be brave. On you all depends. If you love me, do what I ask and we shall both soon be free."

She gave her promise as the silence was broken by the sound of the approaching footsteps of the jailer.

"Be brave," I whispered, as I kissed her lips. She clung to me in a brief storm of sobbing, but let her arms fall as the key grated in the lock. The door was thrown open, and the light of a lamp trembled athwart the darkness.

"Come on, auld wife," growled the jailer: "the time's up. Ha'e ye ta'en yer fareweel o' the lass? I jalouse you'll no' see her again till she's swingin' at the end o' a tow."

There was no answer but a burst of sobbing from Mary, who turned from me. I sank back into the darkness of the cell, while she walked bowed as though with age and sorrow towards the open door. She passed through, the door clanged behind her and the key grated in the lock. With ears pressed tight against the door I listened eagerly to the sound of their retreating footsteps. Would she escape, or would some mishap reveal her to the jailer? My heart, that was in a tumult of suspense, bounded for joy when at last I heard the massive oak door close with a hollow clang on the doorposts. My loved one was free, and I--well, what did it matter? I had held her in my arms once again: I had kissed her sweet lips and with that memory to uphold me I could go bravely to my death. But hope beats high in the heart of youth. I ran my finger over the stout file which I had brought with me. In an hour--or at most two--I should be at liberty.

I had learned from Hector that the jailer would make a round of the Tolbooth at ten o'clock, now near at hand. On the last stroke of the hour on the town clock a beam of light came through the grille in the door and a voice said: "Is a' richt wi' ye?" I answered in a whisper. Whether all was right or not the jailer did not trouble to ascertain, for, with a grunt, the light was withdrawn from the grille and the sound of his footsteps faded away in the distance. I threw off the woman's garments that encumbered me.

The moment had come for action. The window, with its solitary bar, was set high above my head, and groping anxiously over the wall below for any means by which I might raise myself up to it, I found a few chinks, but none of them large enough for the purpose. Rapidly and noiselessly I scooped some of the mortar from between several of the great stones, and in a few minutes had succeeded in clambering up to the window and laying hold of the upright bar with my left hand. The wall was a thick one, and the outer sill of the window sloped down at a sharp angle from the bar. I recognised that once the bar was severed I should have little difficulty in squeezing myself through the window. Confidently I set to work, beginning at the top of the bar and filing on the inner side. I soon discovered that the iron was weather-beaten and rusty, and as the dust of it fell upon my left hand, tightly clasped about the base of the stanchion, I rejoiced to find that my task was proving easier than I anticipated. But when the bar was filed nearly half through at the top, the cramped position in which I was compelled to work began to weary me, and I dropped down upon the floor of the cell to rest. When I climbed up again, I passed the file to the outer side of the bar and set to work on it at the base. My hope was that when I had filed the stanchion half through, top and bottom, I might be able to break it. The tool bit into the iron, and I worked feverishly. Suddenly there was a snap--the handle of the file was left in my hand--the blade slid down over the sloping sill ere I could catch it, and I heard it drop with a tinkle in the street below.

For a moment I hung there in despair. I was left with nothing but my naked hands, and what could they do against a stout iron stanchion and thick stone walls. I threw my whole weight upon the bar and sought to break it through; but strive as I might it would neither bend nor break. A second time I tried, but still without avail. Its sharp edges tore my hands so that they were wet with blood, but, hardly conscious of physical pain, I continued to struggle with it. My efforts were fruitless, and from sheer exhaustion I was compelled to desist. I hung for a moment on the edge of the sill, and then dropped down into the cell. My shaking legs refused to support me and I sank in a heap on the ground, bathed in perspiration, with panting breath and parched tongue. As I lay there I remembered how I often watched a bird beating its wings vainly against the bars of its cage, and a great pity for all wild things made captive rose within me. Picking myself up I groped my way round till I reached the door. I felt for the grille. Its bars were thin and rickety, but even if they were removed my arm alone would scarcely go through that tiny aperture. I began to examine the door, passing my hands carefully over it in the hope of finding the lock. The lock was upon the other side! Escape in this direction was impossible, so I fumbled my way round until I stood beneath the window once more. I climbed up to make another attack upon the stanchion. Still it resisted me, and, at last, for very weariness I was compelled to desist and drop down to the floor again. The town clock struck one. A few short hours--I could count them up on the fingers of one hand--and I should be discovered, and discovery meant death. Well, Mary, my Mary, was safe, and my sacrifice was a very little price to pay for that. I had held her in my arms; I was content to die. As I sat in the dark, memory after memory of the things that had befallen me chased each other through my brain. Some were memories of unspeakable happiness, others were memories touched by pain, but even those of pain were made fragrant by the knowledge that my loved one was free.

In Hector's keeping she would be safe from harm. Hector--warm-hearted, beloved adventurer--I could trust her to him.

Once again the silence was broken as the town clock pealed out the hour of two. As its last note was dying I heard a muffled thud above me. I looked up quickly, but could see nothing except the faint beam of light which came through the window, blocked by that tantalising bar. What had the sound been? Was it some phantasm of my disordered brain? My senses were alert again, and I dragged myself once more up to the window. I peered out. Across the street I could see the roofs of the houses, but of the street itself I could catch no glimpse.

My ears had deceived me; there was nothing to be seen or heard. I had taken hold of the iron stanchion to steady myself, and the grip of my hand upon it awoke in me a fresh desire to put it to the test. Perhaps it needed only one more effort to break it! I would try. With legs wide apart I planted both my feet flat against the wall, and, bracing the muscles of my thighs until they were tight as bowstrings, I flung the whole weight of my body upon my outstretched arms, and, with breath held, pulled. Suddenly the beam of light that came through the window was broken by a moving shadow, as though a bird had flown across it, and almost in the same instant something struck me sharply on the chin, then fell between my extended limbs to the floor. In an instant I had dropped down into the cell and on hands and knees was groping for the missile. As I did so, something touched my face, and putting my hand out I caught a piece of cord. This guided me at once to the object of my search, and seizing it I discovered, to my amazement, that it was a book. The cord was firmly tied about it so that I could not open it; but there was no need for that. Its size and the smoothness of its leather cover told me that it was the copy of Horace which was Hector's constant companion. The darkness about me glistened with a thousand stars. Hope sprang on tip-toe in my heart again. Hector was just outside, and I should yet escape.