Chapter III: Part 3

"Fiend or angel," cried the prince, "which art thou? Are the counsels of heaven couched in irony, or am I advised by a messenger of hell? Give thy thoughts another and a clearer form, and satisfy me that thou art well commissioned for the counsel of youth, and I will hail thee friend. Of sage advisers, with hair as white as thine, and speech as strange, circuitous, and wild, I have enough--my soul is torn by their contests for the mastership of my royal will. I'd give an earldom of ten thousand acres for ten words winged with the wisdom of above. Speak!--what art thou?"

"All that is good comes from the skies," replied the man; "and mortals, to attain it, are not required to trust alone to the vicarious powers which live in that blue light of the moon's silver glory. The triumph of God's wisdom soundeth through man's heart. Thou hast heard it, and heeded it not. The soft and solemn notes of goodness, suited to the gravity of knowledge that tendeth to salvation, have not awakened thee; and the harsh tones of stimulating irony have, as a last resource, been tried on the obdurate heart of filial disobedience. Why more? Hast thou forgot our meeting in the Castle of Stirling? Renounce thy vain speculations on the origin of my mission and the nature of this form, which, thou seest, casteth a shadow on the ground, and listen to the counsel which is independent of the tongue of man or angel that pronounceth it. Agree to thy father's terms; hasten to his bosom, fall on it, weep away the dregs of thy disobedience, and rejoice in the composing and healing virtues of the fatted calf."

Having said these words, the figure glided quickly out of the tent; and, though James immediately rose and followed, he could see no trace of the extraordinary being who thus haunted him, and counselled him, apparently for his good. He called some of his attendants, and asked of them if they had seen any person leave his tent; but they answered in the negative; and, though he personally searched among the tents, and even visited the camp of the sutlers, he could find no trace of the mysterious counsellor. He returned to his tent, and again threw himself on his couch. This vision was at least no dream. All the powers of Shaw, and all the sceptical raillery of those who laughed his father's credulous belief in dreams and divinations to scorn, could not, he was satisfied, drive from his mind the effects produced by the appearance and language of this extraordinary visiter. He began to think that the wisdom of his father, whose maxim was, that there is more in nature than man's shallow philosophy can fathom, was truer and better lore than the self-sufficient and profane knowledge of his noble advisers; and, though he had no evidence that the figure was an unincorporated essence, but rather suspected that it was made of flesh and blood like himself, there was an impressiveness and solemnity in his thoughts and manner of delivering them, which justified the maxim he had himself delivered, that wisdom may come from heaven by other means than the mediation of celestial messengers. The train of reflections which followed were grave and sage; the feelings of a son who had injured his father, and wished to make amends, acquired an ascendency where they should never have lost their power, and a resolution to agree on the morn to the terms of accommodation offered, and thus obey the counsel of the mysterious visiter, was formed before slumber overtook his distracted mind.

Early in the morning, the council of nobles again met, and the discussions were resumed as to the expediency of accepting the offers of peace. The prince sat listening to the arguments in a mood of gloomy abstraction, from which he appeared to struggle to get free, and, at last starting up, he put an end to the strife of contending tongues by delivering solemnly his changed opinion.

"We have all heard," he said, "that there is great wisdom in night counsel (_consilium in nocte_)--forgive me--I do not say in dreams, or visions, or consultations of the heavens, but in the weighing of rational arguments in the balance of the judgment, when there is no disturbing cause to shake the scales, and no prejudice to add a false weight to the deductions of a biassed reasoning. I stand in a position different from you all. You are fighting against your king, I against my father. You are seeking what is offered to you by the terms in question; I am fighting for what death or superannuation alone can bestow--a king's crown or a vice-regent's tiara; and I am offered what I scarcely deserve--an indulgent father's forgiveness and affection. Why should I hesitate, when, by standing out, I may lose the crown and my father's love, while, by acquiescing, I insure the one at present, and retain the other by a sure expectancy? The words of Argyle have sat on my heart all night. If I live till my father die, a crown and a coffin are equally certain to me; and I shall put on the one and lie down in the other with feelings better befitting the heir of a kingdom on earth, and one in heaven, by acting as becometh a good son, than those that can result from a consciousness of disobedience. Our commissioners, therefore, have my authority for agreeing to the terms of peace."

This speech, so different from the one of the previous day, was received with loud murmurs of dissatisfaction from the leading rebels, who calculated with certainty on the steadiness of a youth, who, having been untrue to his father, might safely have been suspected of a tendency to a dangerous vacillation as regarded his new colleagues. The numbers on the side of the prince were, however, great--perhaps amounting to a majority--so that the discontented nobles were obliged to suppress their chagrin, and permit the commissioners to go through the ceremony of accepting the terms of accommodation. The treaty was therefore concluded in the course of the day.

The monarch, acting upon the supposition that everything was amicably settled, withdrew his army, and retired back upon Edinburgh, where, in the excess of his gratitude to those who had brought about a result so beneficial to the kingdom, and so gratifying to the feelings of a father, he bestowed upon several of the nobles and knights substantial marks of his royal favour. The Earl of Crawford was created Duke of Montrose, Lord Kilmaurs was raised to the rank of Earl Glencairn, and the Lairds of Balnamoon, Lag, Balyard, and others, received grants of land. All was settled, as the weak, but good, monarch thought, amicably and lastingly. Yet how vain are the anticipations of mortals! At the very time when a species of jubilee was celebrating in Edinburgh, on the re-organisation of the court and the restoration of peace and tranquillity, the uncompromising rebel lords were triumphing in another victory over the mind and sentiments of the prince. The versatile youth having survived the solemn impression made on his mind by his nocturnal counsellor, was as ready as ever to listen to the rebellious advice of the nobles, who, trusting to their power over him, had secretly kept together the army, which they had merely cantoned in various parts of the south. The monarch had scarcely rested himself in the Castle of Edinburgh, when he was informed that the same fierce faction had resumed their ambitious schemes, and were again assembled, with the prince at their head, in more formidable array than before.

The instant this intelligence reached Edinburgh, the king's friends who had remained in the city urged him to re-assemble his army without delay, and put a total end to the insurrection, by a quick and decisive blow. The loyal nobles were active in their measures, and collected, in a very short time, their retainers; while summonses were issued to all those who had returned home, and especially the lords of the north, to assemble their clans, and meet the king's troops at Stirling, whither his majesty intended to repair in person. The commands were most readily obeyed; the popularity of the cause of the father against the son was very great, and had considerably increased since the breach of faith which the latter and his rebel colleagues had displayed in not adhering to the late solemn treaty; and in a very short time the royal army exhibited an enlargement of its ranks, which justified expectations of a speedy settlement of this unnatural strife. Abandoning the Castle of Edinburgh, the monarch approached Stirling, where, having placed himself at the head of his army, he met and attacked with considerable spirit the forces of his son, which having dispersed, he forced them across the Forth, and immediately after demanded admittance into his Castle of Stirling. This request was refused by Shaw, the governor; and before preparations could be made for forcing a surrender, or, indeed, before a decision was come to whether an attack should, in the circumstances, be resorted to, intelligence was brought that the antagonist forces had re-assembled, and were encamped in strong array on the level plain above the bridge of the Torwood.

Upon hearing this intelligence, the monarch immediately advanced against the insurgents; and having no longer any faith in the breakers of solemn covenants, encountered them on a track of ground known at present by the name of Little Canglar, situated upon the east side of a small brook called Sauchie Burn, about two miles from Stirling, and one from the field of Bannockburn. The royal army was drawn up in three divisions, under the advice of Lord Lindsay--the first composed of the northern clans, under Athole and Huntly, forming an advance of Highlandmen, armed with bows, daggers, swords, and targets; the rear division, consisting of Westland and Stirling men, under Menteith, Erskine, and Graham; and the main battle, composed of burghers and commons, being led by the king himself. On the right of the king, who was splendidly armed, and rode a tall grey horse, presented to him by Lord Lindsay, was that venerable warrior and the Earl of Crawford, commanding a noble body of cavalry, consisting of the chivalry of Fife and Angus; while on his left Lord Ruthven, with the men of Strathearn and Stormont, formed a body of nearly five thousand spearmen. On the other hand, the rebel lords formed themselves also into three battles: the first division, composed of the hardy spearmen of East Lothian and Merse, being led by Lord Hailes and the Master of Hume; the second, formed of Galwegians and the hardy Borderers of Liddesdale and Annandale, being led by Lord Gray; while the middle, composed of the rebel lords, was led by the prince, whose mind, recurring again to the vision of Stirling and Blackness, was torn with remorse, and compelled him to seek some relief--alas! how small could the means afford!--by issuing an order that no one should dare, in the ensuing conflict, to lay violent hands on his father.

A shower of arrows (as usual) began the battle, and did little execution on either side; and it was not till the Borderers, with that steady and determined valour which practice in war from their infancy enabled them to turn to so good account, advanced, and attacked the royal army, that the serious work of the engagement could be said to have begun. But the beginning was more like an ending than the incipient skirmishing of men not yet warmed into the heat of strife. The onset was terrible, and the slaughter so great, that the Earls of Huntly and Menteith retreated in confusion upon the main body, commanded by the king, and threw it into an alarm from which it did not recover. After making a desperate stand, the royal forces began to waver; and the tumult having reached the spot where the king was stationed, he was implored by his attendant lords not to run the risk of death, which would bring ruin on their cause, but to leave the field while yet he had any chance of doing so with safety. The monarch consented reluctantly, and, while his nobles continued the battle, put spurs to his horse, and fled at full speed through the village of Bannockburn. On crossing the Bannock, at a hamlet called Milltown, he came suddenly upon a woman drawing water, who, surprised and terrified by the sight of an armed horseman, threw down her pitcher, and flew into her house. The noise terrified the noble steed, which, flying off and swerving to a side, cast his rider. The king fell heavily, with his armour bearing him to the ground, and being much bruised by the concussion, swooned, and lay senseless on the earth. He was instantly carried into a miller's cottage by people who knew nothing of his rank, but, compassionating his distress, treated him with great humanity.

Having put the unfortunate monarch to bed, the inmates of the house brought him such cordials as their poverty could command. In a short time he opened his eyes, and earnestly requested the presence of a priest.

"Who are you?" inquired the good woman who attended him, "that we may tell who it is that requires the assistance of the holy man."

"Alas! I was your sovereign this morning," replied he.

On this the poor woman ran out of the cottage, wringing her hands, and calling aloud for some one to come and confess the king.

"I will confess him," answered an old man in a grey cloak, tied round the waist with a blue sash. "Where is his majesty?"

The woman led him to the house, where the monarch was found lying on a flock-bed, with a coarse cloth thrown over him, in an obscure corner of the room. The old man knelt down, and asked him tenderly what ailed him, and whether he thought that, by the aid of medical remedies, he might recover? The king assured him there was no hope, and begged the supposed priest to receive his confession; whereupon the old man, bending over him, under pretence of discharging his holy office, drew a dagger, and stabbed the unresisting victim to the heart; repeating deliberately his thrusts, till he thought life was extinct.

On hearing of the death of his father, James was inconsolable. He ordered all search to be made for the murderer. No trace of him could be found--the only evidence that could be procured against him was the description of his person by the old woman of the cottage, and the dagger with which the deed had been committed. The woman was taken before James, that he might receive the evidence with his own ears. The room in which he led the evidence was purposely darkened. The dreadful state of mind into which the _quasi_ parricide was cast, exhibiting alternately remorse, terror, grief, and shame, would have consigned him to absolute seclusion, had he not thought that he would make some amends for his crime, by endeavouring to discover the murderer of his parent. He threatened the most exemplary vengeance; and, while he sat wrapped in gloom, in an apartment darkened almost to night, his emissaries were active on every hand, in endeavouring to find some clue to the murder. The old woman was placed before the king, and the dagger put into his hands.

"What is this?" he exclaimed, as he looked at the instrument, which still retained upon its blade the blood of his father's heart. "God's mercy! It is my own dagger!--ay, that very dagger I wore and lost upon that dreadful day!"

The words were uttered in a low tone, and rendered, by the king's dreadful excitement, unintelligible. Partly recovering himself, he cast his eyes on the woman and the two courtiers that sat beside, and seeing them occupied in arranging the materials for taking down the precognition, he thrust the dagger among the folds of his robes, and sat and trembled, as if the finger of an avenging God was pointing him out to the world as the murderer of his father. He was several times on the point of swooning, as he thought he observed Lord Gray, who was present, following with his eye his extraordinary motions, and searching with a keen look for the dagger.

"We had better have the dagger for the woman to speak to," said Gray. "Your majesty hath examined it, I opine."

"Proceed with the precognition, my lord," said James, hesitatingly. "I shall retain the dagger, and examine it in private. My grief chokes me. I cannot put the questions. Proceed, my lord."

The king trembled as he uttered these words, and Gray and the other courtier looked at each other, as if they held a mental colloquy as to his strange conduct. They proceeded in the examination of the woman, in which they went over several incidents already communicated.

"Are you sure the dagger was that carried by the old priest who stabbed the king?" said Gray.

"I'm sure it is," answered the woman. "It fell frae him as he hastened out o' the cottage. It was the bluid on't that first tauld me o' his cruel act; for I thought the king's granes cam frae the pains o' his distress."

"You got a good sight of the old man, then, I presume?" continued Gray.

"A far better sight than thae closed shutters will allow me to hae o' his majesty, wha sits there," replied she.

James started, and looked fearfully at the witness.

"Describe the man," said Gray.

"He was a tall man," replied she, "dressed in a lang grey cloak, which was bound round the middle by a blue belt. I observed a deep scar on his right cheek, and his left ee was like a white grape."

This description, which was exactly that of James's night-visiter, came upon him like the ghost of his murdered father. He fainted. Lord Gray ran to his assistance; and, as he supported him, the dagger fell out from among the folds of the robes. James remained insensible for some time. As he recovered, his eye fell upon the bloodstained instrument, that was now in the hands of Gray; and, stretching out his right hand, he convulsively seized it, took it from the baron, and again secreted it in the folds of his robes. His manner was wild and confused.

"Take away that woman," he cried; "she has no more to say; and if she had, I am not in a condition to hear it. She talks strange things about a man that hath a gash on his cheek and an eye like a grape. I cannot listen to these things. The words burn my brain. She must be a sorceress. I shall have her sent to the stake."

"She is an honest dame, your majesty," said the other courtiers, "and beareth an excellent reputation where she resideth."

"Thou liest!" cried the king. "Take her away! take her away! I must be alone. These windows are not darkened enough. Hath the smith forged my penance-belt? See to it, Gray. My soul crieth for pain, as he who hath been burned crieth for fire to cure the pain of fire. I did not lose my dagger at Sauchie. It was a lie forged by a renegade. I have it still, and will show it thee on the morrow. Let me rest. This brain requireth repose."

The lords hurried away the witness, and left the king to his meditations. He was seized with one of those extraordinary fits of terror and remorse that afterwards visited him at regular intervals. When the fit left him, he summoned up courage to publish an account of the person who killed the king, and offered a large reward for his apprehension. In this description, he followed the account of the woman as well as his own experience; the fearful marks were set forth with great care; and no one doubted but that an individual, so strangely pointed out by nature, as differing from other men, would be instantly seized and brought before the throne. While this hope was vigorous, the king was in misery. He feared a meeting with the mysterious being who had tracked him in his rebellious course. Every sound roused him, and made him tremble. But the time passed, and the hope died. No such person was ever seen or heard of; and James was left, during the remainder of his life, to the terrors of a conscience that never slept. We do not pretend to reconcile the conduct of this mysterious personage, in first dissuading the prince from opposing his father, and then killing the latter with the former's dagger; but James himself put a construction upon it which accorded with the state of his mind and feelings. He wore around him, ever after, an iron chain, as penance for being the cause of the death of his father--conceiving that Providence followed that extraordinary course we have detailed for punishing him for his filial disobedience. Some say the same figure appeared to him before he went to Flodden. A reference to our forthcoming story, "The Death of James IV.," may clear up this point. The legends are clearly connected, and make one history. They are, however, both equally mysterious and obscure. In both, the figures boded for good, and yet evil came. They were fearful demonstrations of a secret power, that worketh "in strange ways." Inscrutable at the time, the mystery has never been cleared up. We have done something--yet how much remains in darkness!

GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.

V.--THE RESCUE AT ENTERKIN.

The Pass of Enterkin is well known to us. How often have we passed through it in the joyous season of youth, when travelling to and from the College of Edinburgh! It is a deep and steep ravine among the Lowther Hills, which separate Dumfries from Lanarkshire; through which a torrent pours its thousand-and-one cascades--

"Amidst the rocks around,
Devalling and falling into a pit profound."

The road, which is a mere track, winds along the banks of the torrent, ever and anon covered and flanked by huge masses of rock, which have been shaken from the brow of the mountain, or been excavated, as it were, and brought into high relief, by the roaring flood. About the middle of this pass, as if it were for the express purpose of relieving the thirst of the weary traveller, in a wilderness "unknown to public view," and at a distance from any human habitation, there sparkles out, from beneath a huge mass of grey-stone, a most plentiful and refreshing fount or well of spring-water. How often have we enjoyed the refreshment of this spring, in the society of the companions of our travel and of our early days! Here we reposed at noon, making use of refreshments, and indulging in all the wild and ungoverned hilarity of high spirits and bosoms void of care. Yet, even amidst our madness, we could not help viewing, or at least imagining that we viewed, a blood-spot on the very rock from which the water burst in such purity and abundance, and recollecting the sad narrative with which that stone was connected--for we were all Closeburn lads, and had heard the tale of the Pass of Enterkin repeated by our nearest and dearest relatives. Fletcher of Saltoun says, "Let me make the popular songs of a country, and any one who pleases may make the laws." We would go a little farther, and say that, in youth, the character is decidedly formed by traditionary lore; and that thus mothers contribute, far more than they are aware of at the time, to the formation of the future character--to the happiness or misery, through life, of their children. At least we know this, that we would not give what we learned from our mother, for all that we have ever attained either by private or public study. But to our story.

It was during a drifty night in the month of February, 168-, that a party of ten individuals were travelling up this awful pass. The party consisted of six dragoons, who had dismounted from and were leading their horses, and four country people, three males and one female, whom they were driving before them, bound as prisoners, on their way to Edinburgh. The drift was choking, and they had ever and again to turn round to prevent suffocation. There were other and imminent dangers. At every turn, the road, from the eddies of the drift, became invisible; and they were in danger of losing footing, and of being precipitated many fathoms down into the bottom of the roaring linn beneath. The soldiers were loud in their curses against their commanding officer, Captain Douglas, who had sent them, under command of a serjeant, on this business, at such an unseasonable hour, in such a tempest, and along such a difficult road; whilst the poor nonconformists--for such they were--employed their breath, in the intervals of the blast, in singing a part of the 121st Psalm:--

"I to the hills will lift mine eyes,
From whence doth come mine aid;
My safety cometh from the Lord,
Who heaven and earth hath made."

This employment was matter of scoffing and merriment to the soldiers, who said they would prefer a good fire and a warm supper, with a kind landlady, to all the hills in Scotland. They continued, however, captive and guard, to advance, till they arrived at a spot somewhat sheltered by a rock, beneath which the snow had melted, and presented a black appearance amidst the surrounding whiteness. It was manifest that this was a well of spring-water; and the serjeant called a halt, that the soldiers might partake of some refreshment from a flask of brandy which he had wisely provided. The poor prisoners were not so well supplied, and were admonished by the licentious and cruel-hearted soldiers to refresh themselves with a stave. Amidst the prisoners there was a young woman of great beauty, the daughter of the Laird of Stennis, or Stonehouse; whom, because she had refused to betray her own father, and had intercommuned, as they termed it, with a young man in her neighbourhood, to whom she was promised in marriage, they were dragging onward to Edinburgh, to stand her trial, along with her uncle, Thomas Harkness, Peter M'Kechnie, and John Gibson. After the soldiers had made several applications to the flask, one of them, manifestly intoxicated, put his arms around the maiden's waist, and, using language improper to be mentioned, was in the act of compelling her to admit his unseemly and dishonourable addresses, when all at once a musket was fired, and the soldier fell down, gave one groan, and expired. This was clearly a signal which had been anticipated by the survivors, for in an instant they were out of sight, with the exception of poor John Gibson, who was shot through the head as he was making for the linn beneath. There was an intended rescue; for several more shots were fired from behind the rock, and one of the surviving soldiers was severely wounded. However, the three remaining prisoners had escaped for the time, probably through their better knowledge of the road, which at this point leads to a fordable part of the torrent. This was the famous rescue of Enterkin, mentioned in Woodrow, in consequence of which the whole lower district of Dumfries-shire was laid under military law; and Grierson, and Douglas, and Dalzell of Binns, went about like roaring lions, devouring and murdering at their pleasure. The rescue had been planned and conducted by William M'Dougal, the young Laird of Glenross, who, knowing the route the soldiers would take, and arranging the thing with Mary Maxwell, had resolved upon a rescue at this very spot. The impertinence, however, of the soldier had accelerated the catastrophe; for Robert M'Turk, one of his own servants--whom, along with a young band of seven or eight from Monihive, he had associated with himself in the plot--observing the indignity to which Miss Maxwell was exposed, could not wait orders, but killed the brute on the spot. Poor Robert suffered for his rashness; for a volley was immediately fired in the direction of the shot, which proved immediately fatal to him, and wounded, though slightly, one or two of his associates. William M'Dougal, immediately observing the affray, followed Mary, who, according to a preconcerted scheme, had fled into the linn; and, detaching themselves from the other two, for purposes of safety, they, with great difficulty, gained the summit of the Lowther Hills, from which the snow had drifted into the hollows; and, after various efforts to secure shelter, were compelled to sit down amidst the cold drift, and under the scoug of a peat-brow. Poor Mary was entirely overcome; but her lover was strong and resolute; and, having provided himself with sufficient refreshments, these two attached lovers felt themselves comparatively comfortable, even amidst the snow and the tempest. Burns talks of "a canny hour at een," and Goldsmith of "the hawthorn shade, for whispering lovers made;" but here was the bare fell; the cold snow accumulating in drifted wreaths around their persons; and yet Will never kissed his Mary with greater good-will; nor did Mary at any other time--not even in the snug "chaumer ayont the close"--cling so closely to the breast or to the lips of her faithful lover and the saviour of her life. But what was to be done? The tempest continued unabated. It was twelve o'clock, and the moon was up, though only visible at intervals. There was no house known to them nearer than the shieling at Lowtherslacks, about two miles distant. The hollows were heaped up with drift, and it was scarcely possible to clear or to avoid them, in directing their course towards Lowtherslacks. What was to be done? They might have kindled a fire with Will's musket; but where were the combustibles? In spite of French brandy, a chilliness was gradually coming over them; and they were upon the point of falling into that fatal state in such a situation--namely, into a sound sleep--when their attention was aroused by the barking, or rather howling, of a dog in their immediate neighbourhood. At first Will sprung to his gun; but, upon reflection, he began to divine the cause; and, whilst raising his voice to invite the approach of the dog, the animal was literally betwixt his shoulders. It was manifestly in a great state of alarm, and looked and pulled at his clothes, as if inviting him to follow it. This was immediately done; and the couple were led on, across the moss, into a ravine or hollow, on the further side of which, where the snow lay deep, the dog began to scrape and work most vigorously. In a little the end or corner of a shepherd's plaid made its appearance, and ultimately the full-length figure of a man, who was still warm, and breathed as in a deep and refreshing sleep. With much difficulty the reclining body was aroused into perception, and he was made aware of his danger, and help which had thus miraculously arrived. There being still some of the cordial remaining, it was immediately applied to the awakened sleeper's lips; and, after a few minutes of mutual inquiry, it was resolved to attempt the road to Lowtherslacks, whence the shepherd had come, in quest, and to secure the safety, of his master's flocks. This, however, would have been almost impossible, had not the shepherd's son, with a young and stout lad, been in the neighbourhood, and actually in quest of the perishing man. With much difficulty, however, and through some danger from scaurs and deep wreaths, the party at last reached the shieling, where a half-distracted wife and a daughter, woman-grown, were thrown into ecstasy by their safe arrival.

Such accommodation and refreshment as the house could afford was freely and kindly given; and Mary Maxwell slept soundly, after all her troubles and escapes, in the arms of the shepherd's daughter.

Next morning brought light, a keen frost, a clear sky, and many serious thoughts regarding the safety of all concerned. The shepherd was not ignorant of the risk which he ran; and the guests were equally aware of the danger to which this hospitable family was exposed, in consequence of an act of humanity, or rather of gratitude. It was resolved at last, that, till the weather mitigated, Mary Maxwell should remain in hiding, in the corner of a ewe bught, in the neighbourhood, having her food supplied from the house, and coming out occasionally, during the darkness of night in particular, to join the family party. This small erection had been made to shelter one or two ewes, which had felt the severities of a late spring, during lambing time. It was lined with rushes, built of turf, and scarcely visible even when you were close upon it, in consequence of a high wall, into a corner or angle of which it was fixed, like a limpet to a rock. William M'Dougal bore away by a glen which opened into the Clyde; and, having promised to return for his beloved Mary when occasion should suit, he was seen no more for the present.

Leadhills was the nearest inhabited abode to this lonely shieling; and any little necessaries which so humble a cottage required were obtained from this village. In consequence of this intercourse, it was early known at the shieling of Lowtherslacks, that the strictest search had been made, and was still making, for the prisoners, and for the rescuers at the Pass of Enterkin; that several had been taken, and marched off to Edinburgh; but whether William Macdougal was of the number or not was not ascertained. In fact, it was more than dangerous to make any direct inquiry respecting any particular individual, as attention was thus drawn to his case; and informers were kept and paid all over the country (under the superintendence of the Aberdeen curates), to give information to the military, even of the most casual surmise. It was during a dark night, about a fortnight after Will M'Dougal's disappearance, that he reappeared at Lowtherslacks, and spent the whole evening in company with his beloved Mary and her kind entertainers. He had learned, he said, whilst in hiding at Crawfordjohn, that the soldiers had been called off to quell an apprehended insurrection at Glencairn, and had taken this opportunity of revisiting the spot which was so pleasantly associated in his mind. He had been observed, however, in crossing the hills, which had now escaped from a part of their covering, and information had been lodged with Grierson at Wanlockhead of the fact. The truth was, that the report of the absence of the dragoons from the hill country was a mere device to bring forth the poor nonconformist from his hiding-place, and to expose him the more readily to surprise. The fireside of Lowtherslacks was never more cheerfully encircled than on this memorable evening. The peats burned brightly, and the sooty rafters looked down from their smoky recesses, with a placid gleam, on the happy group. About twelve o'clock, it was judged safe to separate--Mary to return to her straw bed in the sheepfold, and William to make the best of his way back to his retreat at Crawfordjohn. Next morning, an hour before daybreak, and under the dim light of a waning moon, saw this solitary cottage surrounded with armed men on horseback. The inmates were immediately summoned from their beds, and a strict and unceremonious search for William M'Dougal commenced. The father, the son, the wife, the daughters, and the herd-lad, were all turned out, half naked, to the croft before the door. Never, perhaps, was there a more fearful and melancholy gathering. That moon,

"Well known to hynd and matron old,"

in her last quarter, hung on the southern horizon, ready to shroud herself from such unhallowed doings in the mountain shadow. Above them was the famous burial-ground, where, time out of mind, the suicides of two counties had been enearthed. The earth was partially blackened by a thaw, which still continued; but vast wreaths lay in the hollows, and looked out in cold and chilly brightness from their mountain recesses. Grierson insisted, in terms peculiar to himself, on the old shepherd and his family giving information of the retreat of M'Dougal, who had been traced but last night to the neighbourhood. It was mentioned by one of the dragoons, that he even saw the herd-lad foregather with a figure, which he took to be William M'Dougal, on the hill-top; but he was too distant, and without his horse, else he would have given chase.

The young man was interrogated, but refused to give any information on the subject. Grierson lost all patience, swore a round oath, and, presenting his pistol, shot him dead on the spot. The report of firearms brought up two figures, scarcely discernible in the dubious light, from the fold-dyke. The one was a female, the other a male. O God! they were those of Mary and William, who, being unable to withdraw himself from his beloved, had ensconced himself, along with her, amongst the rushes of the little cot. They came rushing on in frenzy, exclaiming that they were there to suffer--to be shot--to be tortured; but entreating that their kind and innocent entertainers might not suffer on their account. "So ho!" exclaimed Grierson, "we have unkennelled the foxes at last; secure them, lambs, and let us march for the guid town of Biggar; we will reach it ere night; and then, ho! my jolly lovers, for Edinburgh--sweet Edinburgh! Can you sing, my sweet maiden,

'Now wat ye wha I met yestreen?'

It's a pretty song, my neat one; and all about Edinburgh, and Arthur's Seat, and love, and sweet William. You will certainly give us a stanza or two by the way? It beats your covenanting psalm-singing hollow." And then he sang out, in a whining covenanting tone--

"'Wo's me, that I in Meschech am
A sojourner so long;
Or that I in the tents do dwell
To Grierson that belong.'

March, march, devils and devil's dams; we have now picked up a goodly company of these heather-bleats--these whistling miresnipes of the hills--no less than eight; we will march them, every clute, in at the West Port, to glorify God at the head of the Grassmarket. March! It is broad day, and we have a pretty long journey. As for you" (speaking to the shepherd), "old sheep's-head and Moniplies, we will leave you and your good friends to do the duties of sepulture to this bit of treason. There is good ground, I am told, hard by, where the weary rest. You can all cut your own throats, to save us the trouble, and your churchyard accommodation is secured to you. Good-by, old Lucky and young Chucky! I have no time at present to doff my bonnet and do the polite; and your joe, there, is past speaking, I suspect, much more past kissing. Good-by! good-by!" said the monster, waving his sword, and laughing immoderately at his own savage wit.

The body of Sandy Laidlaw was indeed carefully interred--not where pointed out by Lag, but in the churchyard of Leadhills, over which a small headstone still retains the letters, "A. L., murdered 1687." Poor Leezy Lawson, who was indeed the betrothed of Sandy, never saw a day to thrive after this dreadful morning. She went out of one strong convulsion into another for many hours; and then sank into a lethargic unconsciousness, which terminated in mental and bodily imbecility, which ended, in less than twelve months, in death. Her body lies alongside of that of her lover; but there is no intimation of this fact on the stone; and all marks of the presence on earth of these two once living and happy beings has passed away--_etiam periere ruinae_--their very dust has perished.

The court at Edinburgh was crowded on the trial of the state prisoners, particularly of those who had been concerned in the rescue at Enterkin. There Lauderdale sat, after an evening's debauch, with his long hair hanging uncombed about his shoulders and over his brow; with his waistcoat unbuttoned towards the bottom; his face round, swollen, red, and fiery, and his eyes swimming in every cruel and unhallowed imagining. Poor Mary Maxwell, trembling, weak, and worn out with travelling on foot, was placed at the bar, and M'Kenzie, the king's advocate, proceeded against her. Her indictment was in the usual style. She was accused of harbouring nonconformists; of intercommuning with outlaws; of conspiring and aiding in the hellish rescue at Enterkin, where murder had been committed; and in continuing, after all due warning, to hold intercourse with the king's enemies. But the proof of all this was somewhat deficient; and even in these awful times, such was the respect for public opinion, that the court durst not, in the absence of some direct evidence, pronounce sentence of death. She, as well as William M'Dougal, against whom there was still less evidence, were remitted to Dunnottar Castle--of which march and unheard-of misery we have already told the tale--and were to have been exported thence, in due time, to America; but mercy and King William intercepted the cruel sentence: and William M'Dougal and Mary Maxwell were permitted to return to their native glen in peace. The M'Dougals of Glenross are sprung from this root, and still continue a respected name in the valley.

VI.--THE FATAL MISTAKE.

Old Elspeth Wallace lived, at the time of which I am about to speak, in a sequestered spot in the Parish of Dalry, in the district of Carrick, Ayrshire. She was a widow woman, but not in indigent circumstances. Through the kindness of the family of Cassilis, she had a cow's grass, a small croft, a pickle barley, which, in due time, and under the usual process, was converted into small drink, or tippenny, as it was called in those days.

"Wi' tippeny," says Burns, "I fear nae evil."

She had, besides, a good large kailyard, from which she contrived to support her cow during the winter season. In fact, Elspeth's whole riches consisted in her cow and an only daughter, who, however, was out at service in a neighbouring farm town. This cow and Elspeth were constant companions, and it was difficult to say which was most essential to the other's happiness. The first thing Elspeth did, after her duty to her God, was to attend to Doddy; and the first look Doddy gave over her shoulder was towards the door through which Elspeth was expected to enter. During the fine days of summer, Elspeth might be seen conversing with her cow as with a rational being, whilst Doddy was engaged in plucking, or in ruminating. If Elspeth went for a day from home, Doddy was quite disconsolate, and would roam about the house and park, as if in quest of her companion. In fact, these two sentient beings had become, as it were, essential to each other's happiness. The small circumstance of rationality had been overlooked, and the common instinct of kindly feeling had united them completely. There was just one other inmate of this sequestered apartment--a large, sonsy, gaucy cat. This animal partook in all Elspeth's meals and movements; ceased purring when Elspeth prayed, and went afield and returned at Elspeth's heels like a colly-dog. To be sure, there was a little jealousy on Doddy's side, when pussy seemed to occupy too much attention, for she (_videlicet_ Doddy) would come up and smell at pussy as she sat on Elspeth's knee, and then, shaking her head and snorting, make off quick-step to a distance. Nevertheless, these three--we dare not say this triumvirate, for fear of the etymologists--got on exceedingly well, and with fewer disputations and quarrellings than generally occur amongst the same number of rationals. Elspeth had been married for one single year and fifteen days, as she often mentioned. Her husband had been gardener at Collean, and had been killed on the spot by the fall of a tree, which he was assisting in felling. Jenny, or, as she was familiarly called, Jessy, Wallace was born a few days after this mournful accident, and had been reared with much care and affection. Necessity, however, removed her, at the age of fifteen, from her mother's roof, but to no great distance; and she would frequently come to visit her mother of a Saturday evening, and return next day to her post of duty. Such was the state of things at Blairquhan, in the year of our Lord 1678, when the Highland Host was let loose upon the western district of Scotland, in particular. Bonds! bonds! bonds! were then the order of the day; the proprietor must give bond for his tenantry, the tenantry for their servants, the father and mother for their children, and the brother, even, for his sister. These bonds were certifications to prevent those who were, or were presumed to be, under your authority, from attending conventicles, hill-preachings, and prayer-meetings--in short, from committing any act which could be construed into a resistance to the most despotic and cruel executions that ever vexed an oppressed people. This Highland Host, as it was familiarly called, consisted of an army of half-naked and wholly savage Highlanders of the name and clan of Campbell, from the County of Argyle. Their only object was pillage, their only law the gratification of the lowest propensities, and their only restraint their officers' pleasure. "When the Highlanders went back," says Woodrow, "one would have thought that they had been at the sacking of some besieged town, by their baggage and luggage. They were loaded with spoil; they carried away a great many horses, cows, and no small quantity of goods out of merchant ships. You would have seen them with loads of bedclothes, carpets, men and women's wearing apparel, pots and pans, gridirons, shoes, and other furniture," &c. Such was the nature and character of the Highland Host, which, at the date to which we have referred, overspread, and oppressed, and outraged from Greenock to Galloway, from Lanark to the town of Ayr.

Elspeth Wallace and her daughter were sitting, of a Saturday's night, by the side of a comfortable peat-fire. It was a hard frost, moonlight, and in the month of February. Their supper consisted of boiled sowans, with a small accompaniment, on such occasions, as that of beer and bannock. Elspeth had just got her pipe lighted, and was beginning to weigh the propriety of her daughter accepting of a proposal of marriage, when the door opened, or rather gave way, and in burst "her nane sel," in all the glory of filth and nakedness. There were two figures on the floor, in Highland plaids; but with a very scanty appointment of nether garments. There was no commanding officer present; and these two helpless women were left to the mercy, or rather the merciless pleasure, of these two Highland savages. In vain did Elspeth expostulate, and represent the cruelty of their conduct. They but partially understood what she said, and replied in broken English. Their actions, however, were sufficiently demonstrative: for the one laid hold of the poor girl, who screamed and expostulated in vain; and the other unloosed the cow from the stake, and tying the old helpless woman to the same stake from which they had unloosed the cow, they immediately began their march up the Glen of Blairquhan. Poor Jessie Wallace soon learned that she was destined for the closet of my Lord Airley, then commanding in the district, who had unfortunately seen her, marked her beauty, and destined her to ruin; and that the cow was the price at which the services of these two savages had been procured. It was difficult to say which of these brothers (for brethren they were, not only in iniquity, but by blood) had the more difficult task--he who dragged onwards the camstairy and unwilling brute, or he who half-dragged, half-carried, the resisting and struggling maiden. The Sabine rape was playwork to this. Donald swore, and Archibald cursed; but still the progress which they made was little, and the trouble and labour which they were subjected to were immense. At last matters came to a dead stand: Doddy absolutely refused to march one inch further; and Donald proposed that, since "matters might no better be," they should "slay te prute" at once. So, having secured Jessie's ankles by means of her napkin, and placed her upon a rock in the midst of the mountain stream, with all suitable admonitions respecting the folly of even meditating an escape, Archibald and Donald set to work to carry their deadly purpose into execution on Doddy. But how was this to be effected? Doddy, very unaccountably, as it seemed to her nightly visiters, would neither lead nor drive, nor in any way be art and part in her own destruction. Having held a council of death, and having resolved to carry over the hill as much as they could of Doddy's flesh, they immediately set to work in compassing the means of destruction. But these were not so much at hand as might have been wished. They had neither nail nor hammer, else they would have given Doddy a Sisera exit; nor had they even an ordinary pocket-knife. They were totally destitute of arms, by order of their officer, as their duty was not to kill, but to keep alive--not to conquer, but to spoil. What was to be done? "Deil tak them wha hae nae shifts," says the old proverb; but then it unfortunately adds, "Deil tak them, again, that hae owre mony." So, at the suggestion of Donald, a large water-worn stone was selected from the channel of the burn, and being tied up firmly into the corner or poke of the Highland plaid, it was judged an efficient instrument of death. Doddy, however, observed, and appeared, at least to Jessie, to understand what was going on, and had taken her measures accordingly. There they stood--Donald holding _on_ by the horns, and Archy swinging and aiming, but hesitating, from the instability of the object to be struck, to inflict the fatal blow. Again and again the stone was swung, and the blow was meditated; but again and again did Doddy twist and twine herself almost out of Donald's hands. At last, losing all patience, Archy swung the great stone round his head, which, when in mid-air, took a different direction from that which was intended--or it might be that the error was owing to the sudden wresting of Doddy; but so it was, and of verity, that the stone came ultimately full swing, not upon the forehead of the cow, but upon the temples of Donald, and felled him to the ground.

"Wi' glowering een and lifted hands,"

says Burns,

"Poor Hughoc like a statue stands."

It would be impossible, by any similitude or quotation, to give an accurate picture of Archy Campbell, when he saw Doddy, free as air, taking the bent and crooning defiance, and his own brother lying a corpse at his feet, and all by his own hands. It is needless to say that, in all bosoms, there are sympathies and calls of affection. The trade upon which Donald and Archy were employed was a bad one; but they had great brotherly affection; and it was indeed, as has been repeated to us, an affecting sight to behold Archy's grief on this occasion. He leaned over, he embraced, he kissed his brother, he raised up the dead body to the wind, he braided back the hair, he wiped the foam from the lips, he burst at last into tears, and fell down, apparently lifeless, on his brother's corpse. So deeply has God imprinted himself on our natures, nothing--not even Lauderdale cruelty--could entirely erase his image.

Poor Jessy escaped, in the meantime, to her mother, and was married in the course of a month. The present member of Parliament for the Ayr Burghs is her lineal descendant.

VII.--BONNY MARY GIBSON.