Chapter V: Part 5

"O God of Battles," exclaimed the venerable stranger aloud, in the fervour of his devotion, "behold and visit us in our affliction; stretch out thy right hand and save us from the dangers which threaten us, that a remnant may be saved to worship thee according to the ways of our fathers. O heavenly Father, the mighty ones of the earth are arrayed against us, but if thou, our Father, art with us, what have we to fear from the hate and malice of our enemies." The petitioner then went on to pray for those appointed to suffer martyrdom in the cause of their religion, that their faith might be strengthened in the last hours of their sojourn on earth, that no tortures inflicted on them by their merciless persecutors might have the power of inducing them in their agony to yield up their glorious privileges; that those ministers unjustly deprived of their churches might be enabled to preach the blessed doctrine of salvation with comfort and edification to those who hungered and thirsted after the truths of the gospel amongst the mountains and valleys of Scotland; and that the Almighty would be graciously pleased to hear the prayers and petitions of his children. Towards the conclusion of his supplication, he besought the blessing of the Lord on the head of him who had so recently become a convert to Protestantism--that he might long be spared to labour in the Lord's vineyard, and his hands be strengthened for the work he had yet to perform; but if the Almighty, in his wisdom, was pleased to remove him from thence in the spring-time of life, that there might be laid up for him a crown of glory, such as is promised to those who have fought the good fight. Thus prayed the venerable stranger; and it was an affecting sight to view the grey-haired soldier of the cross, who had grown aged in the battles of the Lord, and the golden-haired youth, who had newly donned his armour for the fight, kneeling side by side on the solitary shore, with no ear to hearken to the voice of their petition, save His to whom all hearts are open--all desires known; and no sound to disturb the tenor of their thoughts save the wild roar of ocean, as it rolled along, obedient to the commands of its creator--"Thus far shalt thou come and no farther."

"By what name shall I for the future address one with whom I have become so singularly acquainted?" inquired the stranger on rising from his kneeling posture.

"I am Andrew Ayton; and you?"

"Am styled Walter Denoon."

Young Ayton was delighted beyond measure at having formed a friendship with one whom he had so frequently heard, and expressed an earnest desire that the acquaintanceship so auspiciously commenced might be continued during their lifetime. Mr. Denoon save utterance to a similar wish, adding that he had but a few days to remain in St. Andrews, whither he had come for the purpose of visiting some near and dear friends, before proceeding to Morayshire, where he had much labour to accomplish. In the course of conversation, Andrew Ayton ventured to express a hope that the cause of the Church of Scotland was not so desperate as they had been led to imagine; but in reply to this, Mr. Denoon informed him that, instead of the accounts they had received having been exaggerated, they had in many cases come far short of the sad reality; and the sanguinary acts on the part of the government had everywhere filled men's minds with terror and consternation. As an example of what he alluded to, Mr. Denoon proceeded to make his companion acquainted with much that had taken place during the time he had remained in retirement; how government had placed the price of four hundred pounds sterling on the heads of the most celebrated field-preachers, and issued letters of intercommuning against all those persons who had neglected or declined to appear in court and take the oath of abjuration. How the father was forced to give evidence against the son, and the son against the father--the daughter against the mother, and the husband against the wife; and that driven to madness by the inveterate persecution of the government, the people had forsaken their homes and fled to the wilds and solitudes of their country, or sought in a foreign land that peace and safety no longer to be found in Scotland; preferring to encounter any degree of hardship, even death itself, to the horrors of miserable incarceration in dungeons, or the tortures of perpetual apprehension. "The King," continued Mr. Denoon, "is evidently dreadfully embittered against the Covenanting party, regarding them as morose, sullen, blood-thirsty fanatics, on whom all his benefits are entirely thrown away. He has been led to believe by the prelatic body that the hierarchy is in danger, and is therefore determined to bear the Presbyterians down by every means in his power. They are, as he terms them, the enemies of his unhallowed pleasures, and must needs suffer for being so."

Young Ayton sighed deeply on being made aware of the gloom and dejection which pervaded his beloved country. "Alas!" he cried, "that such things are permitted to take place; but surely," he continued, "sooner or later there must come a day of reckoning."

"There will come a day of retribution," said Mr. Denoon solemnly, "and the consequences thereof may be dreadful. The persecuted adherers of the Covenant may indeed suffer long, but in the end they will turn on their oppressors, and a general rising take place throughout Scotland to repel the invaders of their rights; but God grant that such a fearful alternative may be avoided, and Scotland spared the horrors of a bloody civil war."

"Amen," said his companion; "but should necessity require it, may every true Scotchman be found enrolled beneath the banner of the Covenant!" then he quickly added, while the faltering tones of his voice betrayed his agitation, "Reverend father, I would to heaven you could ever meet with Mary Cunninghame, so persuaded am I that you might under the mercy of God, be the instrument of her conversion. She is young and enthusiastic; ardent and zealous, it is true, in favour of her religion, but then, what other has she ever known? All her friends are Roman Catholics, and have early inculcated in her youthful mind the doctrines of their Church, to the exclusion of all others: but were she instructed by some sincere and devoted servant of God in the pure and glowing truths of our simple faith, she might indeed become a sincere Protestant. Oh, father," he continued, "do this, and you will overwhelm me with gratitude, for every moment that passes over my head is fraught with sweet remembrance of her!"

"My son," said Mr. Denoon in a tone of tender sympathy, "you are very young, and your heart and affection still retain all the exquisite tenderness of one's early days, while the generous feelings of your nature are aroused within you at the thought that she whom you so deeply love must regard you as faithless, and unworthy of the confidence formerly reposed in you; but who amongst us have not, at some period of their lives, been liable to misconception? In many cases all has been made right in the end; and please God, should I have an opportunity, Mary Cunninghame shall not remain long in ignorance of your real worth and steadfast devotion towards her. Remember, however, as I told you before, affliction falls to the lot of every man on earth; and as for me, sorrow has been my companion since childhood. I too loved a maiden with all the fervour of youth, but it pleased the Almighty to remove her from this scene of trial ere ever I had called her mine; while one by one my parents and brethren fell around me, until I stood alone, even as the oak survives the stormy blast which laid its companions prostrate in the dust. But," continued the venerable patriarch, raising his hat reverently as he spoke, and allowing his grey hairs to float in the breeze, "even in the midst of my afflictions I recognised the wisdom and goodness of the hand that smote me; for, deprived at one fell stroke of all whom I loved, perchance too well, on earth, I but clung the more closely to Him who sticketh closer than a brother. Yes, my son, it is when bowed down beneath a load of sorrow, such as seemeth to mortal eyes too grievous to be borne, that the real confiding Christian experiences the unspeakable blessings to be derived from a firm belief in the doctrines of Christianity. Amid the darkness and gloom which surrounds him, he beholds his Father's face bright with pitying love; he recognises the benevolence of the motive even while smarting under the weight of the infliction, and is supported amid the dangers and difficulties which encompass his path through life by the comforting assurance to be derived from the gracious words, 'whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.'"

Just at the moment Andrew Ayton had framed a suitable reply to this address on the part of his companion, the hour of three rung out from the city churches. Uttering an exclamation of regret at the arrival of the hour when he must return to the university, he darted hastily from his seat, and expressing his disappointment at this unseasonable interruption to their conference, ventured to express a hope that it would be resumed on the following day. Mr. Denoon having cheerfully responded to the wish, they shook hands and parted.

At an early hour on the following morning, Inchdarnie once more retraced his steps to the sea-shore, where he was shortly afterwards joined by Mr. Denoon. In the course of conversation, Andrew Ayton informed his companion that it was his intention at once to quit the university of St. Andrews, and to endeavour, by every means in his power, to aid those whose cause he now so warmly espoused; adding that it was his most earnest desire that Presbyterian ministers might be induced to visit Fifeshire, in order that those poor people who were deprived of all opportunity of hearing Episcopalian clergymen, might not be altogether left without a preacher. Mr. Denoon replied to this wish on the part of his young friend, by placing in his hands a letter that morning received from the Rev. Mr. Blackader, in which he made known his intention of presiding over a meeting shortly to be held at Divan.

"Oh, merciful Father!" cried Inchdarnie in a transport of joy, "and shall I then have an opportunity of seeing that good and holy man whose noble bearing during his great and unmerited misfortunes has already filled my soul with admiration and esteem, and awakened in my breast the most ardent desire to know him, and if possible receive from him some counsel necessary for the guidance of my own steps through the dark and tangled mazes of life?"

"Yes, my young friend," said Mr. Denoon; "he has indeed given us a bright example to follow. Never shall I forget the holy, pious resignation depicted on his countenance that morning when, with many others of his brethren, he was constrained to abandon the flock the Lord had committed to his care. It was on a Sabbath morn--the last on which he should ever address his parishioners from the pulpit of Traquair Church. Saddened but not utterly cast down, he entered his little garden, there to strengthen himself to bear the burden imposed upon him by private communion with his Maker. In a little while I ventured forth to join him. He was standing in a contemplative attitude, his head leaning on his hand, and his eyes rivetted on the ground. My dear friend!" I exclaimed.

"Hush, hush," he said; "list to these bells--these sacred bells now inviting those to enter the house of God who may never again worship within its walls."

I stood and listened. There they came pealing through the air, these hallowed chimes, the heavy stillness of the atmosphere rendering them painfully distinct, as they knelled forth the expiring liberties of the Church of God. Mr. Blackader remained mute and motionless while they lasted, and then when the last faint note died away on the passing breeze, he started suddenly from his reverie, and ringing my hand convulsively, withdrew to his chamber, there to fortify himself by earnest prayer for the coming trial.

"All the surrounding heights," continued Mr. Denoon, "were thronged with people, eager, and yet afraid to press into the church, lest it might chance to hurt their minister, as it would be termed by their enemies a breach of good order. At length many of them gathered together in small groups in the church-yard, and conversed in whispers, while they anxiously awaited the appearance of their beloved pastor. The object of their solicitude soon came forth from the manse, his step firm, his bearing erect, as that of one who had nought to fear from the malice of men. True, there was deep sorrow written on his brow, but it was mingled with an expression of almost cheerful serenity, for he had placed his faith and hopes in Him whom he had chosen as his guide and ruler even unto death. He ascended the pulpit; he gave forth the psalm in a loud clear voice, and his prayer was delivered with his wonted firmness and composure. As he proceeded with his discourse every eye was moist with tears, and many gave way to involuntary bursts of sorrow. In the midst of the sermon an alarm was raised that a party of soldiers were on their way from Dumfries to seize him, and that already they had crossed the bridge. Upon receipt of this intelligence, Mr. Blackader hastily pronounced the benediction, dismissed the congregation, and withdrew to his manse, there to await the arrival of the soldiers. They came, but contented themselves with merely taking down the names of those who were absent from their own churches, and then returned to head-quarters. After their departure, Mr. Blackader collected the remains of the congregation in his own house, and finished the sermon. The people remained lingering about the door, unwilling to leave their pastor while in danger of being arrested. Some of them implored his b;essing, while others again expressed their willingness to die in his defence. Mr. Blackader thanked them for their ready zeal in his behalf, but conjured them to avoid giving their enemies cause of offence."

"Go," said he, "and fend for yourselves: the hour is come when the shepherd is smitten, and the flock shall by scattered. Many are this day mourning the desolations of Israel, and weeping, like the prophet, between the porch and the altar. God's heritage has become the prey of the spoiler; the mountain of the house of the Lord as the high places of the forest. When the faithful pastors are removed, hirelings will intrude whom the Great Shepherd never sent, who will devour the flock, and tread down the residue with their feet. As for me, I have done my duty, and now there is no time to evade. I recommend you to him who is able to keep you from falling, and am ready, through grace, to be disposed of as the Lord pleases."

"During the following week," continued Mr. Denoon, "a party of rude soldiers attacked the manse of Traquair, and Mr. Blackader was forced to seek safety in flight; since which time he has been wandering through Scotland, preaching the gospel of peace, and everywhere exhorting the people to sobriety and gentleness of conduct."

Young Ayton's face flushed, and he enthusiastically exclaimed, "O that I were accounted worthy to stand at the helm with those mighty leaders who present so dauntless a front to the furious waves which threaten every instant to overwhelm them in destruction!"

"Courage, Inchdarnie," replied his reverend friend; "there is that in you which, through the grace of God, must yet render you distinguished; but be watchful and diligent, and follow the counsels of those who possess knowledge and wisdom sufficient to guide you in the way everlasting."

After much interesting conversation regarding the disturbed aspect of affairs, it was finally agreed upon between them that Mr. Denoon should, on the following Saturday, proceed to Kirkcaldy, there to meet Mr. Blackader and conduct him to Inchdarnie, where young Ayton should be in attendance to receive him. All being thus arranged for their future meeting, the two friends bade each other farewell for the present, as Mr. Denoon was about to proceed to Cupar, there to meet with some other devoted friends of the cause.

While on his way hack to the university, Inchdarnie encountered a young man whom he had frequently seen in the house of Mrs. Cunninghame, the aunt of Mary Cunninghame, and who immediately inquired if he could afford him any information respecting their mutual friends, who had suddenly quitted St. Andrews, and gone, no one knew whither. Young Ayton stammered forth some incoherent reply, and greatly to the astonishment of his friend, who stood staring after him in speechless amazement as if utterly at a loss to comprehend such extraordinary conduct, he broke from him and darted into an adjoining street, where he stood for some minutes leaning against the wall, pale and motionless as a statue. Having at length summoned up strength sufficient to proceed on his way, he regained his apartments, where he gave way to a passionate burst of grief. Mary Cunninghame was gone--gone from him for ever. She had willingly deserted him, and cast him from her thoughts as a thing too worthless to be remembered. It was indeed a bitter pang to hear. He felt his own weakness, and offered up an earnest supplication, in the deep solitude of his chamber, that grace might be given him from above. The hours flew on in their rapid flight, unmarked, unheeded in their progress, for he was seeking for comfort where it alone may be found--at the foot of the cross of Christ.

At a late hour on the same evening a young man, whose form was closely enveloped in the folds of a large cloak, and his cap drawn over his brow, so as in some measure to conceal his features, might have been seen slowly wending his way up the long dark avenue which led to the Priory, the late residence of Mary Cunninghame. This, as the reader may have already conjectured, was no other than Andrew Ayton, who had come in order to take a farewell look at a place linked with so many sad and tender memories. The hour and the scene were alike attuned to melancholy. The rays of the sun, now rapidly sinking behind the distant hills, were transmitted through the leafy boughs of the aged elms, and threw a dim cathedral light over the otherwise darkened avenue. On approaching the house, Inchdarnie was painfully struck with the air of desolation which reigned around. The Naiad still threw upwards a silvery shower of crystal drops from each uplifted hand, but the flowers which once bloomed in rich and grateful profusion now hung their graceful heads disconsolate and forlorn, as if they too were aware that the kind hand which formerly cherished them was gone. The casements were no longer open to admit the grateful breeze which wantoned amongst the ivy-clusters clinging to the walls, and an ill-omened magpie, rendered bold through long possession, now croaked forth a fierce defiance at the unwelcome intruder, from the jessamine bower where formerly he had held sweet converse with Mary Cunninghame. His heart wrung with untold anguish. Inchdarnie advanced with faltering steps towards the little gate which led into the garden. He opened it gently--he entered. All was unchanged, and yet, to him, how changed. Although the garden lay bathed in the glorious light of sunset, it seemed as though light had in reality departed, no more to cheer him with its gladdening beams. There was the seat from which Mary Cunninghame had started with a joyous exclamation to greet him on his entrance that fatal night. The chair remained, but the occupant--where was she? The funereal boughs of the old yew-tree waved noiselessly in the breeze, and seemed, to the excited imagination of young Ayton, like so many demons tossing their great arms to and fro, as if inviting him to enter within the charmed circle of the traditionary yew. At this instant the noise created by the opening of the gate caused Inchdarnie to turn suddenly round, when his eyes fell on the stooping form of an aged woman, who had evidently came with the intention of making all secure for the night.

"Holy Mary!" she exclaimed, crossing herself devoutly on observing the tall shrouded form of Andrew Ayton, who, recognising in her a retainer of the Cunninghames, advanced towards her for the purpose of making inquiries regarding her absent employers.

"The saints above he praised!" cried the aged domestic, "that it is you, Mr. Ayton, and no midnight marauder; oh, how you did startle me! When first I saw you standing beneath the shade of the trees I took you for some robber, who being made aware of the absence of the lady of the house, had taken advantage of the circumstance to steal into the garden with the intention of making his way into the priory. Holy St. Jerome,----"

"Whither has Mrs. Cunninghame gone?" impatiently interrupted Inchdarnie.

"Have you not been made aware?" exclaimed the old woman with an air of astonishment; "but I forget," she added; "you had ceased coming about the house for some little time before Miss Mary took so badly----"

"What!" cried young Ayton in an agonised tone of voice, "was Mary--I mean Miss Cunninghame--ill before she left the priory?"

"Holy mother! yes," was the reply; "so much so, that at one time we feared she never should have been able to quit the house alive."

Inchdarnie smote his hand on his forehead, and paced hurriedly to and fro for the space of a few moments. When he returned, he was, to all appearance, calm and collected, but his voice was husky with emotion, and sounded deep and hollow as he again demanded "whither they had gone?"

"To England," replied his informer, "there to join Miss Cunninghame's parents, who propose taking her to Italy on account of her weak state of health. I this morning," she continued, "received a letter from her aunt, which contained this intelligence, as also that poor Miss Mary was still very weak and languid."

"O God! and have I then killed her?" groaned forth young Ayton, almost frantic at the thought. At this instant he raised his eyes; they encountered the dark green boughs of the sepulchral-looking yew; he started, for the sight of that tree recalled to his memory the doom which, as Mary Cunninghame had informed him, was denounced on the person who ventured within its sacred precincts, or vowed aught save holy vows beneath its hallowed shade. The old woman perceived the steadfast gaze with which he was regarding the gloomy-looking tree, and again she crossed herself devoutly and mumbled over some half-dozen Paternosters, as if for protection against some unseen foe.

"Knowest thou aught concerning the legend told in connection with that yew?" at length inquired young Ayton.

"The saints be between us and harm! for it is not good to speak of things above our comprehension, but still----" Here the old woman paused as though in doubt as to whether she should proceed or not. At length her love for relating aught pertaining to the marvellous overcame all prudential resolves, and she commenced thus:--"You must know that once upon a time it pleased the blessed Mary to appear in a vision by night to St. Regulus, a holy man of Achaia, and inform him that he must instantly set sail for this then benighted country--bearing with him the arm-bone, three fingers, and three toes of the most holy apostle St. Andrew--where work should be given him to do. Delighted beyond measure at having been the instrument chosen by his most blessed patroness to execute so mighty a mission, St. Regulus set sail with some chosen companions in obedience to the celestial mandate. For some days," continued the narrator, "they were wafted on their way by a favouring breeze, but during the latter part of their voyage the foul fiend (jealous no doubt of the devout saint and his precious relics) caused such a hurricane to sweep over the deep that all on board speedily gave themselves up for lost, with the exception of St. Regulus, who again in the watches of the night, was visited by our holy mother, who addressed him in the most comforting terms, and assured him of her gracious protection, adding as she touched the three fingers of the martyred St. Andrew, which glowed at the contact with a lambent flame, 'I have much labour for these to accomplish.' Overcome with joy at this renewed proof of his favour with heaven, St. Regulus lost no time in making his companions aware of his second visitation, who immediately thereupon regained their ancient courage and faith in their leader's mission. After being tossed for many days by the winds and the waves, the ship at length struck on these shores, then named Otholania, but all on board were saved. The then King, on being made acquainted with the arrival of these holy men with their precious relics, instantly gave orders for their being received with all possible honours. Indeed he afterwards bestowed his own palace, which then occupied the present site of the priory, on St. Regulus, and built the church which still bears the name of the saint. Perhaps you are not aware," she continued, "that at that remote period of time all round here was one vast forest, abounding with boars, noted for their immense size and uncommon ferocity. Well, one night as the blessed St. Regulus (Holy Mary protect us!) was walking in the garden which surrounded the house, praising the saints with a joyful voice for their watchful care in bringing him through so many dangers into so safe and comfortable a haven, all of a sudden he was started by observing two large fiery eyes gleaming on him from among the trees. Unable to seek for safety in flight, and no one being within call, the reverend father gave himself up for lost, when, just as the boar was about to spring forth on him, there rose up from his very feet (so the tradition says) this miraculous yew with branches growing down to the ground, so that the saint, recovering his presence of mind, was enabled to ascend the tree, where he remained seated in safety, while an armed warrior, hitherto invisible, darted forth as it were from the root of the tree, at once finished the enraged animal by a stroke from his spear, and then disappeared ere ever St. Regulus had time to recover his astonishment; so sudden had been the whole proceeding. On that same night the blessed Mary again visited the reverend father in a dream, and warned him that that tree must be consecrated and dedicated to the most holy St. Andrew, who had himself appeared in his defence and slain the boar, adding that the yew was possessed of the most miraculous qualities; and that by applying a small piece of one of its branches to any wound or bruise, the sufferer, after having fasted two days and two nights, and given to the Church a portion of his worldly goods, should immediately be cured; but that whenever aught but holy vows had been breathed beneath its hallowed shade, its virtue should depart. St. Regulus, as legends tell, rose in an ecstacy of delight, and lost no time in proceeding at the head of a splendid procession to the tree, which was at once consecrated and dedicated to St. Andrew, who thereupon testified his gratitude by causing the yew to perform the most miraculous cures; indeed to such celebrity did it afterwards attain that pious pilgrims traversed sea and land to obtain evidence of its virtues, having heard in far distant countries that the good and pious King Hergustus had himself been cured, through its wonderful properties, of a malady hitherto deemed incurable. Well, centuries after the blessed St. Regulus had received his heavenly crown, the prior of the holy establishment founded here by order of the departed saint, was one night aroused from slumber by a terrible cry proceeding from the garden. Lost in amazement, he listened for a few seconds in order to hear if it would be repeated, but no, all continued silent; and fancying himself the sport of some evil dream, he returned to his pallet, from whence he was summoned at the dawn of morning by a loud knocking at the door of his chamber. In answer to his invitation, a pious brother entered, apparently overcome with horror, for he remained motionless and unable to speak. The heart of the prior misgave him, and he eagerly demanded what had happened. Father Anselmo said nought, but pointed with his finger to the garden. Fearing he knew not what, the prior rushed forth, in his anxiety oblivious of the fact that the wind was cold and his shaven head defenceless. Holy Mary! and what a sight greeted the eyes of the aged prior! There lay his own nephew, a youth of great promise, and hitherto deemed possessed of superior sanctity, cold and stiff, his hand clasping that of a young and beauteous lady who had shared his fate under the boughs of the sainted yew. The pious men, who then crowded round the sorrow-stricken prior, informed him that when found they were standing upright, and seemed as though they had been struck by a bolt from heaven, as all around the ground was blackened and scorched. Since that sad day," said the old woman with a sigh, "all sacred virtue has departed from the tree; but it is still affirmed and believed that some terrible doom awaits those who dare to murmur vows of earthly love within its consecrated precincts."

"Truly a gloomy enough tale," said young Ayton at the conclusion of the legend, the bare narration of which had chased all colour from the cheeks of the old woman, who again made the sign of the cross, as if in atonement for having yielded to the temptation of relating so horrible a story. Both remained silent for a little while, each being busy with his and her own individual thoughts, until at length the silence was broken by young Ayton's inquiring, in a low tone of voice, "if Miss Cunninghame seemed sorry on leaving the priory?"

"Oh, yes! the poor sweet creature," said the garrulous dame, "she was indeed overwhelmed with sorrow; and just before setting off she came hither and wept, and sobbed most bitterly for longer than I can remember, and always kept exclaiming, 'Farewell happiness! Farewell to all trust and confidence in mankind.' Then she would take something that hung from her neck--probably some sainted relic--kiss it passionately, and then weep more bitterly than before. (This was when she thought no one was observing her.) On her return she seemed crushed-like and broken, but still calm and collected, until entering the carriage, when she again gave way to tears. All this time Mrs. Cunninghame endeavoured to soothe and comfort her to the best of her ability, and whispered words of consolation, but in vain; she seemed deaf to them all. Never while I live shall I forget the look of agony with which she gazed on the house; it was like that of one who should never more behold it."

Here the feelings of Andrew Ayton overcome him; he could listen no longer, and dashing away the tears which almost blinded him, he fled from the spot, greatly to the astonishment of his informer, who gazed after him as if in doubt whether he would return or not. At length she exclaimed, "Holy Mary! could it be that----"

Here she paused for a moment as if lost in thought. Whatever was the result of her cogitations to this day remains a mystery, for on recovering in some measure from her surprise, she simply shrugged her shoulders, and muttering an ave, proceeded leisurely to lock the gate, and with many a weary sigh retraced her steps to the house.

Early on the following morning young Ayton quitted St. Andrews and repaired to Inchdarnie, there to await the coming of Mr. Blackader, who arrived on the day appointed in company with Mr. Denoon. On the ensuing morning (Sunday) they set out for Divan, distant about eight miles, where a great concourse of people were assembled to greet one of whom they had heard so much. Greatly to the astonishment of Mr. Blackader, on arriving at the place of meeting he perceived a large pile of arms lying ready in case of necessity. On demanding the reason for such unusual preparation, he was informed that Prelate Sharpe--at the mention of whose name a groan of execration passed through the assembly--had ordered out a band of militia to apprehend any minister who had the temerity to venture within his bounds. The service then commenced, and while Mr. Blackader was dispensing the holy communion, there arose a cry that the militia were upon them, upon which Balfour of Burly placed himself at the head of a small party of horse, and went forth to obtain a view of the soldiers, who, apprehensive of the Covenanters being armed, kept themselves aloof with the intention of capturing some of the people on the dismissal of the congregation. When the service was finished, and the hearers dispersed, with the exception of the body-guard headed by Inchdarnie, who remained to protect Mr. Blackader, a new alarm was raised that the soldiers were again advancing upon them. On receipt of this intelligence, the Laird of Kinkel and Balfour of Burly, with some few horsemen, rode up the face of the hill where the militia were pouring down in the expectation of making an easy prey of those remaining. The alarm having reached the ears of the young men, who, fancying all danger at an end, were quietly wending their way homewards, they instantly returned and joined themselves to the party commanded by Andrew Ayton, who earnestly entreated Mr. Blackader to be allowed to pursue the soldiers, who had immediately taken to flight on perceiving the preparations made to receive them, which, had he agreed to, the Covenanters must have gained a complete victory, as the militiamen had resolved, if overtaken by their enemies, to throw down their arms and surrender at discretion. But Mr. Blackader strongly opposed all hostile measures, and at length dissuaded them from it. "My friends," said he, "your part is chiefly to defend yourselves from hazard, and not to pursue: your enemies have fled--let their flight sheath your weapons and disarm your passions. I may add, without offence, that men in your case are more formidable to see at a distance than to engage hand in hand. But since you are in a warlike and defensive posture, remain so, at least till your brethren be all dismissed. Conduct them through their enemies, and be their safeguard until they get beyond their reach; but, except in case of violence, offer injury to none." On receiving assurance that the soldiers had fled towards Cupar, the armed Covenanters quietly retired to their homes, with the exception of nine, who remained to conduct Mr. Blackader, to his sleeping quarters, at an inn situated in the parish of Portmoak. Here the three friends parted. Mr. Blackader returned to Edinburgh, Mr. Denoon, after an affectionate farewell with his young friend, set off for Morayshire, and Andrew Ayton, sore distressed at having lost his kind preceptor, once more retraced his steps to Inchdarnie. His parents soon afterwards returned from Perthshire, where they had been visiting some relations; and grieved as they were at the step their son had taken, they forbore addressing him on the subject, being convinced that he had done so from a sincere belief in its rectitude. He was, as his amiable dispositions merited, fondly beloved by them, and in return he strove by every means in his power to testify his filial love and reverence towards the authors of his being. But their domestic happiness was soon to be invaded. The names of those present at so celebrated a conventicle as that recently held at Divan could not, nor was it wished that they should, long remain a secret; and young Ayton was specially mentioned as having been foremost among the hearers on that day. Since then he had made the most strenuous efforts to bring other holy men to Fifeshire, firmly persuaded of the incalculable benefits it would confer on the people in whom he took so deep an interest; consequently he must be punished. One evening on his return from his accustomed ramble in the romantic woods of Inchdarnie, a packet was placed in his hands. He opened it; it contained one of those letters of intercommuning then so fearfully common throughout Scotland. He must therefore fly; the doors of his father's house must henceforward be closed against him--the light of his mother's countenance openly withdrawn from him for ever; for according to these terrible missives, not only the individuals mentioned therein, but those of their relations who showed them the least kindness, or sheltered them when oppressed, were treated with equal severity. In one letter alone, as we read in a book written on these times, "above ninety clergymen, gentlemen, and even ladies of distinction, were interdicted from the common intercourse of social life. All who received them or supplied them with sustenance, intelligence, or relief--who conversed or held communication with them--were made equally criminal." In order to procure evidence of the guilt of those they wished to criminate, all persons were forced, under the highest penalties, to inform against offenders, and made to swear upon oath whatever they knew regarding them. If they refused to do so, they were subject, at the pleasure of the counsel, to fines, incarceration, or banishment to the American plantations. Immediately on receipt of this letter, Andrew Ayton determined upon setting out for Morayshire, where he thought he should be safe from pursuit. In an agony of grief his mother clasped him in her arms, and besought him, for her sake, not to expose himself to needless danger. This be faithfully promised, and after a sad farewell, set out on his journey.

The friends with whom Inchdarnie resided during his sojourn in Morayshire lived near Pluscardine, a ruined priory founded by Alexander the Second in the year 1230. It was dedicated to the honour of St. Andrew, and named Valles St. Andrea. Amongst its sacred ruins did young Ayton love to wander, when the moon's bright beams sparkled like diamonds on the bosom of the river Lossie, which seemed like some silver mirror, so still, so placid were its waters. One lovely morning, while rambling along the soft green walks which surrounded the ancient gardens attached to the priory, he was startled by hearing a footstep behind him. He turned hastily, and perceived Mr. Denoon advancing towards him. Overcome with joy on again beholding his reverend friend, Inchdarnie eagerly advanced to meet him, his eyes sparkling with pleasure, and his hand extended to grasp the one outstretched to meet it. After an interchange of warm and affectionate greetings, Mr. Denoon informed Andrew Ayton that he had been apprized of his arrival in Morayshire while visiting in Elgin, and had lost no time in coming to see him, as he had longed much to converse with him again on the subject that lay nearest his heart; whereupon he gave Inchdarnie a long and circumstantial account of all that he had done and laboured to do since his arrival in Morayshire. How he had frequently preached, both in rooms and on open moors, greatly to the delight of the poor people, who had assembled in crowds to hear him; and that everywhere much sympathy had been expressed and felt on behalf of those of their brethren who had been called upon to suffer for their adherence to the Covenant; and prayers were daily offered up that the Lord might strengthen their hearts and hands, adding, "that both in Cromarty and Morayshire many of the inhabitants evinced a fellow-feeling for the persecuted Covenanters, and that he trusted they would not be backward when the time came for their testifying their faith and determination to do that which was right."

In answer to an inquiry on the part of Mr. Denoon as to how things had fared with himself since last they met, Andrew Ayton informed him regarding the letter of intercommuning which had forced him to visit Morayshire much sooner than he otherwise would have done, being desirous of remaining in Fifeshire some little time longer, in order that he might, if possible, labour in conjunction with others in behalf of those who desired to have the pure gospel preached unto them.

"You are now," said Mr. Denoon with a sigh, "called upon to share in the trials and sorrows of those who have as it were cast the world behind them. But fear not; there is One who will guide thy bark upon the waters, and still the waves which threaten to engulph thee. Cast, therefore, thy care upon Him, and should thy path through life be compassed with thorns, yet thy reward hereafter will be great."

As they walked to and fro amongst the venerable ruins, Mr. Denoon attracted the attention of his youthful companion towards the beautiful and elaborate carving with which the walls of the interior were adorned. "See," said he, "that exquisite tracery on yonder cornice; mark that curiously-defined cross; how strange that such things should still exist, when those who grudged not the time and labour bestowed on perishable works such as these have long been mouldering in the dust. What changes are produced by the flight of years! At no very distant period," he continued, "this priory was inhabited by a body of monks, who, according to their constitution, were obliged to lead a lonely and austere life. For some time they religiously adhered to the rules of their order, until at length grown weary of so restricting themselves, they gave way to riotous excesses, and from being an independent house, Pluscardine was degraded to a cell dependent on the Abbey of Dunfermline. Years rolled on, and the tide of Reformation resistlessly rushed over the hills and valleys of Scotland. All gave way before it. The walls of the monasteries and cathedrals then existing in our country were razed to the ground, the monks fled to less hostile shores, and now"--here Mr. Denoon paused for a moment, as if overwhelmed by painful thoughts--"this green turf once pressed by the sandalled foot, is trod by the feet of those who are at this moment trembling for the safety of that Church our fathers strove to establish in our land."

"Was it not," said Andrew Ayton, "in reference to the gay doings of the monks of Pluscardine that the verses I am about to repeat were written?" So saying, he recited the following:--

A right merry set were the monks of old,
They lived on the best of cheer;
They drank the red wine out of cups of gold,
And hunted the fallow-deer.
Quoth father Anselmo, "I wot that we,
Thrive right well on the faithful's charity."

As they gazed on the walls of their Abbey,
All fair with carved work within,
"'Tis better to live where one may pray,
Than dwell in proud tents of sin."
Quoth father Anselmo, "Yes," said he,
"And thrive on the faithful's charity."

The Prior he raised his glass on high,
With the grape's juice mantling o'er;
He view'd the red wine with a critical eye.
And laughed as he call'd for more.
"Yes, Brother Anselmo, yes," said he,
"We thrive on the faithful's charity!"

Mr. Denoon could scarcely forbear smiling at the satirical nature of the song, as he answered, "that they might indeed be so; the monks no doubt having afforded, by their luxurious style of living, much cause for censure amongst those who were in some measure acquainted with the revelries held within the walls of Pluscardine;" adding, "ay, even within the walls of a sanctuary such as this, where men profess to devote themselves exclusively to the service of God, worldly thoughts and human feelings will intrude."

Inchdarnie, while gazing on the remains of former grandeur, could not help expressing his admiration of the buildings these men erected in honour of their God, and his regret that such splendid cathedrals as existed in Scotland at the time of the Reformation should have been so recklessly destroyed.

"It is certainly to be regretted," said Mr. Denoon in reply; "but at that time strong measures were deemed necessary for the expulsion of the Romish faith from Scotland, and the destruction of all connected therewith was deemed a proceeding requisite for the safety of the people. But, my son," he continued, "it is not the place where one worship, but the heart of the worshipper that God values. Believe me, a heart-felt prayer uttered by a soldier on the bloody field of battle, a few words of earnest supplication breathed on the solitary moor or sequestered glen, are more acceptable in his sight than the prayers of those kneeling in the lofty cathedral aisle, if their souls are not in unison with the scene around them."

In company with his reverend friend, Andrew Ayton visited numbers of the poorer class of people inhabiting the shire of Moray, and attended several meetings where Mr. Denoon officiated as clergyman. Before quitting Elgin, the latter, in accordance with a wish expressed to that effect, made known his intention of holding a conventicle in the ruins of Pluscardine. The morning of the day appointed for the meeting having arrived, Mr. Denoon and Andrew Ayton set off for the ruined priory. The day was beautiful, and on their arrival they found the interior of the ruins thronged with an eager multitude in readiness to receive them. Inchdarnie was impressed beyond imagination with the touching solemnity of the scene, as Mr. Denoon, taking his stand on a huge fragment of stone dislodged from the building by the relentless hand of time, proceeded to address the congregation. The rays of the sun at this moment penetrating through the ivy-clad windows, tinged with a golden lustre his venerable locks, and imparted an air of majesty to his countenance, in harmony with the heavenly messages he was entrusted to deliver. He spoke, and as his voice resounded through the vast space with the force of a trumpet, arousing his hearers to a sense of their danger, young Ayton felt the incapacity of the most gorgeous pageantry to add to the grandeur of words like these. While all eyes and ears were fixed on the preacher with an earnestness that precluded all other sights and sounds, Inchdarnie was startled on observing a strange face, almost shrouded beneath a brass helmet, gazing in at one of the windows. Unable to credit his senses, he kept his eyes fastened on the spot with an eagerness that was almost painful. His suspense was not of long duration. Again the same form presented itself, but this time accompanied by several others, who stationed themselves near every possible outlet, so as to shut out all hopes of escape. His worst fears realised, Andrew Ayton sprung from his seat, and shouting, "Betrayed, betrayed!" he drew his sword, and dashing through the midst of the terror-stricken congregation, placed himself by the side of Mr. Denoon as though determined to share his fate. The latter stood calm and resolute, while those by whom he was surrounded evinced their readiness to fight in their own and his defence. At this instant a soldier, who from his proud bearing and superior style of dress appeared to be the leader of the party, entered, and approaching Mr. Denoon, politely uncovered his head, while he expressed his regret that so unpleasant a duty as that of arresting Mr. Denoon should have devolved upon him; but that, however repugnant it might be to his own feelings to do so, yet his orders must be obeyed, and Mr. Denoon must therefore prepare to accompany them, adding that no harm was intended to any of the congregation, who were at liberty to retire if so inclined.

"Arrest Mr. Denoon!" cried Inchdarnie, "never!" so saying, he raised his sword on high, and was about to rush on the officer, when Mr. Denoon, throwing his arms around him, besought him to forbear; then turning to the commander, he demanded of him whither he had orders to take him?

"To Dundee," was the reply, "there to await further instructions."

"The Lord's will be done!" piously exclaimed Mr. Denoon, raising his hands and eyes to heaven as he spoke; then turning to the people, who loudly expressed their sympathy, he bade them be of good cheer, as the Lord would soon find them another and more zealous pastor.

While parting with Inchdarnie, many tears were shed on both sides, but to all his young friend's entreaties that he would permit him to strike one blow in his defence, he simply replied: "My son, it is the duty of a Christian to suffer, and to suffer meekly; if it please the Lord we shall meet again, and till then farewell;" so saying he expressed his readiness to depart, whereupon the officer, his head still uncovered, courteously led the way to the spot where his men stood armed to receive the prisoner.