Chapter X: Part 10

It was a beautiful evening in the month of September--the air still and serene, forming a delightful change from the sultry heat of the day, which had been oppressive in the extreme. Nature seemed to have redoubled her energies; the swallows twittered cheerfully over the small pond; the bees returned laden with the rich fruits of their industry, humming their satisfaction; the heath sent its fragrance around; and the few sheep that Simon Wallace attended were nibbling earnestly the stunted grass, having spent the greater part of the day in the shade of a small knoll, listless from the heat which oppressed them. In the midst stood Simon, enjoying the scene around him, which, barren and desolate as it might be in the eyes of a stranger, was to him the loveliest spot in the universe; nor would he have bade it farewell to dwell in the most fertile vale in the Lothians. Here he had been born sixty summers before, and here he had enjoyed as much of happiness as falls to the lot of man. Humble and content, his wishes were bounded by the few acres of moss land that his fathers had reclaimed from the waste, and his knowledge of the busy world that lay beyond the hills that bounded the horizon around his humble cottage, was derived from a few books. Farther than the next market-town, Mid-Calder, he had never been, save upon one occasion--an important epoch in his life--when, upon some business of importance, concerning his lease, he had visited the capital, the wonders of which had been a never-failing subject of discourse at his humble hearth; yet, Simon was not ignorant, for he made good profit of the few books he could procure; and there was one--the fountain of all knowledge--he knew so well, that even Esdras, the holy scribe, could scarcely have found him at fault, in pointing out all the most beautiful of the inspired passages. His constant companion, he had been reading it on the hill for the last hour, and now, before retiring to his home for the night, he stood there in mental prayer, his face turned to the setting sun, which sunk beyond a sea of clouds, tinged with the most gorgeous colours, and his mind away among the bright realms of eternal felicity. A faint breeze had arisen, and the heavy clouds began to sail along, denoting rain, when he gave his orders to his faithful dog, to gather his sheep for the night, and urged him to be active, to enable him to proceed home before the shower came on. Looking along in the direction of the road that led through the moor, he thought he could perceive, at a considerable distance, three objects, urging their way forward; and, through the gloom, he with difficulty made them out to be a man and two females upon horseback. A feeling of surprise crossed his mind, as he saw travellers journeying over the moor, at a period when it was not usual, except upon urgent business, to leave Mid-Calder at a late hour, and proceed along roads almost impassable, with no other prospect than a night journey, in dangerous and troubled times. Musing on the circumstance, he had just reached the road on his way to his cottage, when the travellers came up and accosted him with an inquiry if they could find shelter for the night, as they had been overtaken by the storm, and one of the females had been taken suddenly ill since they had left the last town. With an apology for the poorness of his accommodation, Simon made them welcome to his home, and led the way homewards. Neither of the females spoke; but he thought he heard one of them utter, at intervals, a stifled groan, while the other supported her on her saddle, and the male led her horse over the rough path to prevent its stumbling. A few minutes brought them to the house, and they were soon seated by the blazing hearth, while Helen Wallace was busy preparing for them some humble refreshments; but the lady continued to become worse--she had been taken in labour, prematurely, as the female said, from the fatigue of travelling. She appeared to be of a rank far above her companions, who treated her with lowly attentions; but there was something harsh and forbidding in the manner and appearance of the man, which made Helen quail, and feel uneasy in his presence; and the female, who was above the middle age, and of a masculine appearance, had a harshness of voice and manner, that was disagreeable, even to the rustic wife of the moorland farmer. The young and beautiful female they attended--apparently not above eighteen, pale and dejected, her eyes red and swollen with weeping--had not, as yet, uttered a single word; but, apparently fearful of her attendants, especially the female, who sat close by her at the fire, had cast several stolen and imploring glances at Helen, and seemed anxious to speak, but afraid to give utterance to her thoughts.

The lady rapidly grew worse, and was put into their only spare bed, while Helen requested her husband to take one of the horses and ride to the town for assistance. This the man promptly forbade--saying, that the other attendant, a skilful woman, was capable of doing all that was required at such a time, with the assistance of the farmer's wife; that they were on their way to the residence of his master when the present unfortunate illness had occurred much sooner than was expected; that he had in the _valise_ with him everything requisite; and that for any trouble the farmer or his wife might be put to, they should be amply rewarded. The cottage consisted of only one apartment, divided by a hallen or thin partition, which did not extend beyond the centre of the floor, to protect the fire-place from the blasts of winter; and Simon and the stranger retired to a small distance from the door, where they stood and saw the full moon rising in grandeur in the east. In vain the farmer endeavoured to gain any information from his companion of who the strangers were, and whither they were going. He got only an evasive answer. His position was extraordinary and uncomfortable. Three hours had passed: no person appeared from the house; his unsocial acquaintance scarcely spoke; a scowl in his eye, and a shade of ferocity in his countenance, alarmed him; his whole soul, sometimes intent upon some signal from the cottage, at other periods became absent; and he clutched at the sword that hung by his side, as if he meant to draw it and attack the farmer, endeavouring again, in a husky voice, to make an apology for the inconvenience they had put him to. At length Helen came to the door, and requested them to come into the house, for the lady was now better.

"What has she got?" inquired Simon.

"Two beautiful boys as ever I saw," answered the wife; "--but one of them is dead, and the mother is very weak."

While this and some other conversation passed between the farmer and his wife, the man and the woman were busy whispering at the other end of the house; but they at length approached the hearth and partook of some refreshment which had been prepared for them. The farmer offered the female, for the remainder of the night, the use of their only other bed; but both the man and the woman objected to this proposition--saying, that they preferred to sit by the hearth and attend to their mistress, and requesting that their hosts should retire to it themselves. This they did, and soon both fell into a sound sleep. Helen awoke about two hours afterwards, and, to her astonishment, found that neither of the two attendants was in the cottage. She arose and went to the bed of the sick lady, who lay apparently in a deep and troubled sleep, with the babe in her bosom. She looked for the body of its brother; but it was gone. She felt alarmed, and gently awaking Simon, in a whisper told him to arise. He was soon dressed, and, on going out, found that the strangers were gone, the horses were away, and with them everything that had been brought, even to the dress the lady had worn upon her arrival. In great anxiety they approached the bed: the lady still appeared in a deep sleep; her breathing was heavy and laborious, every attempt to awaken her was in vain; her eyes were opened and closed unconsciously, and without a word of utterance.

"Surely," said Helen, with clasped hands, "that woman hasna poisoned the puir young creature wi' that mixture she requested me to gie her just before I ca'ed you into the house. She said it was to compose her to sleep. She had offered it to the lady hersel, who, being afraid o' her, wadna taste it. Then she gave me the cup, and I offered it. O Simon! what a piteous look she threw upon me, as she said, 'From you I will take anything; you, I know, will not do me harm'--and she drank it from my hands. Surely, surely, I am not guilty of her blood, if death was in that cup!"

Here the poor woman sank upon the side of the bed in a passion of tears, while Simon stood the image of horror, gazing alternately upon his wife and the unconscious lady in the bed. Sinking upon his knees, he prayed for counsel in this hour of distress, and his mind became more calm and collected.

"Helen," said he, "you will not be afraid to stay by the poor young creature, while I go and catch Mally, and ride as fast as she can carry me to the manse, and bring the minister, who is a skilful man, and who, perhaps, may be able to do something for the sufferer; at least, he will advise us what is best for us to do in this hour of need."

"I will, indeed, be eerie," answered Helen--"very eerie; but do mak all the haste ye can, and I will tent baith mother and bairn until ye return."

In a very short time, the farmer was on his way to the manse, and soon, along with the minister, on his return to his cottage; but, before they arrived, the victim had breathed her last sigh.

Helen was at the door, weeping and wringing her hands. She blamed herself as being the cause of the young mother's death; nor was it until after the minister had prayed, and assured her that no guilt could attach to her, that she became composed. On his way to the cottage, the farmer had informed him of every circumstance, as far as it had happened under his own eye:--That the young lady had been very ill; that the female appeared expert at her duty, and kept Helen as much at a distance from her patient as she could; that the young creature wished her much to be near her, as if she had something to communicate; but the attendant always told her, in a harsh manner, that it was improper for her to speak, and found always some excuse to send her from the bedside; that the lady appeared to be in great awe of her; and that the first boy, the one that was alive, Helen kept at the hearth until the other came; that she heard it cry once, and inquired what it was, when the assistant said it was also a boy, but dead, and she threw it from her upon the bed; that, after a time, she took a vial from her pocket, and poured it into a cup, requesting the lady to drink it, as it was a composing draught, but she put it away from her; and that the poor murdered creature was persuaded by Helen to accept it at her hands.

The minister having drawn up a circumstantial detail of all the circumstances narrated, bade the sorrowing couple adieu, and departed, to send one of his maids to assist Helen, and to stay with her through the day. He vowed to make the horrid transaction as public as possible, in hopes of discovering the two wretches and their employer, and promised to call in the evening, and direct what was further to be done. He rode direct to Mid-Calder; and, on inquiry at the hostelry, if any such travellers had been there the day before, found that they had passed through the town, only stopping to bait their horses, and no particular attention had been paid to them by the landlord of the house. Here his inquiries necessarily terminated. In the meantime, Helen and her assistant had been employed laying out the corpse of the murdered woman, and tending the orphan boy. Tied by a silken cord, a curious gold ring, of massive workmanship, was suspended from her neck, and lay resting upon her bosom.

"A true love-gift," ejaculated Helen, "an exchange o' plighted faiths. Dearly had you loved the giver, for, even in sore distress and death it lay upon thy bosom. Cruelly has your love been requited; but rest in peace--your sorrows are past. I will keep this for your babe, and, as soon as he can speak, I will tell him where I found it. I fear it will be a' I will ever be able to inform him of either father or mother." She then placed the ring in her own bosom, until she could shew it to her husband; renewed her offices to the dead; took the babe in her lap, and, weeping over it, resolved, as she thought of its desolate state, without a relation in the world, that, so long as she had life, she would be a parent to it--for death had been a spoiler in her own family of three sons, all of whom it had been her misfortune to bury.

The minister arrived again in the evening. They shewed him the ring, and told where it had been found. He examined it closely; but there were neither armorial bearings nor cypher upon it, to lead even to a guess of the person to whom it had belonged--yet the make and chasing were peculiar, and might lead a person who had once examined it to remember it. The mother was interred; the babe baptized by the name of William, put out to nurse; and the usual routine of the cottage once more restored. The boy grew up under the roof of his kind protectors. To his education the minister paid particular attention, and was proud of his pupil--for William Wallace, as he was called, did honour to the labour bestowed upon him. He was quick to learn, yet his mind was not given to literary pursuits--for he delighted in feats of strife, and dwelt with rapture on the feats of the warrior. Sir William Wallace was the hero of his youthful imagination--and he longed to be of man's stature, only that he might be a soldier. Thus years rolled on. William was now eighteen years of age; the labour of the farm, in which he engaged, was irksome to him; yet he restrained his inclinations, and toiled on for his benefactors, who had both become so frail that they required his aid. By the time he arrived at his twentieth year, his foster parents died within a few months of each other, and left him possessor of their little wealth. When spring returned, he made known to his benefactor, the minister, his resolution of leaving the moor and going into the busy world. The stock was turned into cash, and William, bidding a long adieu to the scenes of his youth, set off for the capital, accompanied by the prayers of the good man for his success. Since the death of his protectors he had worn his mother's ring, and he had a vague hope that it might, by some way or other, lead to a discovery of his parents, and enable him to avenge her murder. All the mild lessons of his teacher upon this point had been vain. His mind dwelt with a gloomy satisfaction upon a just retribution. At times his feelings rose to agony--the idea that the guilty individual might be his own parent, often flashed across his mind and made him love his ignorance; but, nature prevailing, his wonted desire recurred again, and, musing thus, he rode on towards Edinburgh, now with the reins resting upon his horse's neck; and then, when urged by his troubled mind, urging forward his steed. He stopped at the borders of the moor, and turned towards the scenes so dear to him, where he had passed what of his life had gone by in innocence and peace. For the first time, he felt alone in the world; and a few involuntary tears fell from his eyes--a token of regret due to the memory of departed worth, and a pleasing recollection of scenes endeared to him by many tender associations. Thus in pensive meditation he rode on, undetermined as to his future mode of life. Prior to his setting out, everything had appeared to his imagination of easy execution; but now he began to encounter difficulties he had never dreamed of before; and the sight of Edinburgh, which he reached before nightfall, did not diminish them. The vastness of the city overpowered him; the stateliness of the buildings appeared to him the work of giants; and he almost shrank from entering it, through a feeling of his own littleness. In his approach, his eyes had been constantly fixed upon the buildings of the Castle, perched high above the town, and crowning the almost circular, bold, and craggy rocks on which it stands. Along the line of houses to the east, that stretched farther than his eye could trace, the setting sun threw his departing rays, and innumerable windows glanced like burnished gold; while the diadem-shaped spire of St Giles', towering above all, in the centre, seemed to proclaim her the queen of cities. With all the impatience of youth, he urged on his horse, expecting to see all the inhabitants of so fair a place themselves fair. But scarce had he entered the West-Port gate, when his feelings were shocked to witness, on every side, squalid misery and wretchedness, and every token of poverty and vice. He put up for the night at one of the many inns of the Grassmarket; and, revolving in his mind what he had already seen, retired to bed.

Early next morning, he arose, dressed, and sallied forth to gratify his curiosity; but, with no one to whom he could communicate the feelings that every new object awakened, he felt solitary among the surrounding crowds. On the second day after his arrival, as he walked in the Meadows, he observed among the crowd of well-dressed pedestrians that thronged the walks, an elderly gentleman, who eyed him with marked attention. William's curiosity was excited, and he threw himself again in his way. The old gentleman bowed.

"I beg pardon," said he--"may I be so bold as to request your name?--for I feel as if you and I had not now met for the first time. Yet it cannot be; for it is now above twenty years since that time, and you do not appear to be more than that time old."

"My name is William Wallace," answered William, with a beating heart. "I never had the honour to see you until to-day."

"Wallace? Wallace?" said the old gentleman, musing. "No---my friend's name was not Wallace; we were both of Monro's regiment--his name was Seaton; but the likeness was so strong that you must excuse me for addressing you."

William's heart sank--he remained silent for a few minutes--his face was alternately flushed and pale--a new train of ideas crowded upon his mind--he wished to speak, but he could not find utterance--wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and went through the other forms of confusion and bashfulness. His new acquaintance looked upon him, much surprised at his emotion; and, with an energy bordering on violence, seized his hand.

"Young man," said he, "that ring was once the property of my friend: how came you by it? He valued it above all things, nor would he have parted with it but with life. At this moment, I almost think the last long twenty years of my life a dream, and that I am still a captain in Monro's regiment. You must come and dine with me, and explain how this came into your possession."

"With pleasure," replied William. "It is a sad account, I have to give, and I am most impatient to learn something of its possessor. Alas! I fear I must feel too great an interest in him."

"The early friend I allude to," replied the old man, "was an honour to his country. A braver or more generous heart, no officer in the army possessed. This you will acknowledge when I have told you all. Alas! poor Seaton! shall I ever see you again?"

Thus conversing, they reached the house of Colonel Gordon, one of the principal flats of a house in the High Street. After they had dined, William gave a distinct account of his birth and the death of his mother, and a modest outline of himself. His hearer listened to him with the greatest interest, only interrupting him at the account of his mother's death by an exclamation of horror.

"Henry Seaton," he cried, "had no hand in this, I could pledge my head for him. I am strongly impressed, young man, with the idea, that my friend has been cruelly injured, and his generous heart wounded past recovery by this deed of darkness. Savage monsters! worse than demons! would to God I had you in my power!" And he walked about the room in a state of violent excitement. "William," said he again, "I have no doubt you are the son of Henry Seaton, my more than brother; and, so far as is in my power, I shall assist you in the discovery of your parents, and avenge the murder of your mother. I shall now give you my story:--I was an ensign in Munro's regiment of Scots, serving in Flanders, when your father (for I have no doubt that he was such) joined us, early in the spring of the year 1706, a short time before the battle of Ramilies. We were both of the same company, and of congenial minds; so that we soon became bosom friends, and were ever as much as possible in each other's society. In battle we fought side by side, without being jealous of each other's fame. In our first battle, that of Ramilies, the Scots had more than their share of the loss, and I had the misfortune to be shot in the leg early in the action. When I fell, your father saved me from the sword of the enemy, and bore me out of the line at the hazard of his own life; for we were at the time, pressed by a strong division of the French. I soon recovered, and joined the ranks, when our friendship, if possible, was stronger than ever. At the battle of Oudenard, where we drove the French from their trenches, your father led on his men, over the works, with too much eagerness, and was not supported for a time, as the enemy sprung a mine and made the ditch impassable, killing and wounding a great many of the advancing column. Bravely did he and his handful of Scots stand their ground, surrounded and overwhelmed by numbers; but they were dropping fast, for they fought hand to hand, and they were so pressed by the enemy, and hemmed in, that they could not fire, for fear of killing their own men. I saw the perilous situation of my friend; with the greatest efforts, I and a few noble countrymen got clambered up to their rescue. At our arrival, there were not more than six of them upon their feet--all were covered with wounds and spent with fatigue. Your father still raged like a lion in the toils--all swords were aimed at him--he seemed invulnerable. I had reached his side, when a severe wound laid him insensible at my feet; but I stood over him, and backed by my brave followers, we fought till the French gave way before the numbers of our troops that had forced the works and poured in on every side. I raised him up--the blood streamed from his side--he appeared to be dead--his eyes were closed--I placed my hand upon his breast--all appeared still--then mournfully I supported his head on my knee, and saw his eyelids move, and then a faint heaving of the breast. I snatched the canteen of a dead soldier that lay by my side; there was some wine in it; I applied it to his lips--he opened his eyes."

"'Edward,' said he, 'I thank you. I fear my career of glory is run. I hope we have beat the enemy. I die content. Farewell!' And he sank again into insensibility."

"All this had passed in the course of a couple of minutes The enemy had made a fresh stand, and were forcing our troops back upon the intrenchments. I gently laid him down, and, rallying the men who were retreating, again forced them back. The enemy began to give way in all directions, and we followed up our advantage until the order for ceasing the pursuit was given. For a time I had forgot everything, in the impetuosity of battle; but, after rallying my company, and marching back to our camp, I took a file of men, and proceeded to the spot where I had left my friend. I looked for some time in vain. So active had been the work of the pillagers that followed the camp, that the dead and the dying had been stripped; and by the countenance alone could one discover a friend from a foe, I examined every face amidst a heap of dead bodies, and discovered my friend. Life was not yet extinct. I had him removed to my tent, and went for a surgeon, who examined and dressed his wound, but gave me no hopes of his recovery. He was carefully removed into Oudenard, where our hospitals were established, and for some days his life was despaired of; but youth and a good constitution prevailed, and he again bade fair for life and happiness. As soon as he was enabled to converse, I was at my usual place by his bedside, when, after thanking me for his preservation, he expressed the deepest sorrow for the loss of his ring, which had been torn from his finger by the pillagers.

"I had, until now, scarcely paid any attention to this bauble; but remembered, when he spoke of it, of having seen at all times a ring upon his finger. I expressed my concern at his loss, but said, that it ought not to give him so much concern, at a time when a miraculously spared life called for his gratitude to God.

"'I value it next to life itself,' was his reply, 'for it was the gift of my mother, and had been in our family for ages. Publish among the sutlers, my good friend, that fifty dollars will be given for the ring, upon its delivery to me; and twenty dollars to any one who will give information that will lead to its recovery.'

"I promised, and left him, consoled with the hopes of again getting the jewel; yet I could not help thinking my friend too profuse in his offer. I immediately published in the camp, a reward of ten dollars for the ring, or five for any information to lead to its recovery, and next morning the ring was delivered, and the ten dollars paid to one of the fiends in human shape, that, like vultures, follow in the track of war. My fingers itched to cut the ruffian down, but I restrained myself. I paid him the promised reward with a hearty curse--the word of a soldier is sacred; and it was at this time that I examined the bauble so minutely, that I never can forget it. I never saw joy more vividly expressed than when he placed it upon his emaciated finger, and said I had given him a medicine that would quickly recover him.

"'Shade of my sainted mother,' he ejaculated, 'I have still thy latest gift, and it shall be parted with only with my latest breath.' And he kissed it fervently as he spoke."

"In the course of a few weeks, he was convalescent, and again joined the regiment. Each officer had received one step of promotion, and our duties went on in the usual routine, though we were principally occupied in foraging parties. It was the depth of winter, and provisions were scarce. Henry had the command of a strong foraging party; and, on one occasion, he came in his route to a large farm-house, where he hoped to obtain supplies. Approaching the house, he heard cries of distress and supplication in female voices. He put his men into rapid motion, and rushed forward alone. Passing a thick fence, he saw a party of Dutch soldiers, who had anticipated him, and some of whom were at the door, guarding it; but the greater part were within the house. The cries became more piteous and piercing. He drew his sword and rushed past the sentinels at the door, who attempted to prevent him; but the view of his men coming up unnerved them. A scene of horror met his eyes: the male inmates of the house were bound, and soldiers were standing over them, ready to plunge their bayonets into their bosoms at the least movement, while others were proceeding to acts of violence towards the females. With a voice of thunder, he commanded them to desist, and, seizing the officer, hurled him from the terrified and fainting daughter of the farmer. The Dutchman, in rage, drew and made a furious lounge at him, which he parried; and his men entering at the same time, they drove the others out of the house. My friend, in French, requested the Dutchman to follow his men; but he refused, and challenged him to single combat, for the insult he said he had received at his hands--adding some opprobrious epithets, which roused the choler of the brave Englishman. In an instant, they were engaged hand to hand; but short was the strife--the Dutchman fell dead on the scene of his violence, and his men returned to the camp, and made a complaint against Monro's regiment, which was like to have led to some serious consequences; but, after your father stating the circumstances to the colonel, the latter waited upon the Duke of Marlborough, and we heard no more of the affair.

"The last action we were in together, we both escaped unhurt; yet it was the bloodiest one we had ever been in. Of all the honours of Malplaquet, the Monroes had their full share; for, although the Duke did not like the Scots, and used at times to throw a sarcasm at their country, he always gave them a situation of danger, either from dislike or a reliance on their courage. About twelve months after Malplaquet, your father left the service and retired into France. Peace was now evidently at hand, and an armistice had been agreed upon and signed by several of the allies of the English; and our gallant leader was now in disgrace. Much as Henry Seaton and I esteemed each other in all other points, we had no fellowship in politics. I was and am a Whig; he, a Tory of the first water--a devoted adherent of the exiled family; yet, high as parties ran at this time in cities, we had no differences in the camp, where each respected his neighbour's opinion, nor overvalued his own. The last letter I received from him was about twelve months after we parted. It was dated St Germain's. He said, and in a mysterious sort of way, half-earnest, half-jest, that, in a short time, we might meet, to try the force of our different opinions. I, at the time, only laughed at it, and returned, for answer, that I had no doubt we would both do our best, and leave the issue to the Disposer of events. Soon after, Mar's ill-concerted rebellion took place, in which I have no doubt your father was an active agent; but I have, since this last letter, lost all trace of him. Your being born in the year '16 would lead me to suppose that he must have married your mother about the time of the Rebellion, either in Scotland or France."

That Henry Seaton was his father, William earnestly prayed; but how was he to ascertain this fact? He knew not; neither could his kind host assist him. The lapse of time was so great, that, in all probability, he was dead; and, with a mind worse at ease than it had ever been, he took leave of the Colonel, promising to call again in the forenoon of the following day, to consult what steps he should take to follow out the information he had so unexpectedly acquired. He reached the inn, and retired to rest; but sleep had fled his pillow. A thousand ideas crowded his mind; method after method was canvassed, each for a time offering assured success, but, upon more mature consideration, being rejected. Day dawned, and found him as unresolved as when he left Colonel Gordon. As soon as it was consistent with propriety, he waited upon the Colonel, by whom he was greeted heartily.

"Well, tell me," said he, "the fruit of your invention for tracing out your father, and I will tell you what has occurred to me as the best mode of procedure."

William, without hesitation, told the state of his mind, and his utter inability to think of any feasible plan, from his ignorance of the world and its ways.

"Poor fellow! I do not wonder at what you tell me," replied the Colonel. "Before many years go over your head, you and the world will be better acquainted. My own opinion is, that you must forthwith proceed to France, where you will find many of the adherents of the Stuarts. The young Charles Edward is easy of access to Scotchmen, for he is anxious to make adherents; and I have no doubt that he, or others of his followers, will be able to give you every information about Henry Seaton. But you must beware how you acquit yourself, lest they cajole you into their party; for, if your father be alive and acknowledge you, the trial will be greater than you are aware, to resist him."

"I will at once follow your wise counsel," replied William. "I trust--nay, my heart tells me I shall be successful. Of my ever being an adherent of the Stuart family, I have no fears. Before that can happen, I must first forget all I have ever learned, from my first dawn of reason up to this present moment. The first tears of sorrow I ever shed were for the woes of others, drawn forth by the tale of the sufferings of my foster parent's father, who suffered for the cause of truth, near the very spot where I now lodge. The worthy minister, to whom I am indebted for all the learning I possess, had also some share in my politics. Nay, do not smile, when I say he had political opinions. He spiritualized everything. Nebuchadnezzar was a type of the Stuart family. The Babylonish king, driven out from men, was only an emblem of their expulsion, during the time of the Commonwealth, and his being restored was only the fortune of Charles II.; but, as he continued in idolatry after his restoration, so did Charles, after his subscribing the Covenant at Scone; and, as Nebuchadnezzar's family were destroyed, so are the Stuarts cut off from the throne for ever. To the whole of this I do not subscribe; but my aversion to the family of the Stuarts, I can never overcome."

"My young friend," replied the Colonel, "I am not one to quarrel with any one for his opinion; but I rejoice to find we are of one mind. I will accompany you to Leith, and we will make inquiries if there is any vessel there likely soon to sail for France."

They accordingly proceeded to Leith, where they found there was a brig to sail in the course of a week or two for Bourdeaux, to bring home a cargo of wine. There were also several vessels to sail in a few days, for different ports in Holland; but the Colonel advised William to agree with the captain of the vessel for Bourdeaux--which, he did; and, having never seen the sea but at a distance, nor a vessel in his life, his friend, to oblige him, lingered on the shore, and examined them with him. In this manner the time passed. They dined in Leith, and again walked about the shore, enjoying the delightful scene. The shades of evening were beginning to approach, when they resumed their way back to the city. They had reached about half-way to the Abbey-Hill, when two men rushed from behind the fence, and, presenting pistols to their breasts, demanded their money or their lives.

"Ho, my good fellows, not so fast!" exclaimed the Colonel, and drew his sword. William did the same. One of the villains fired, and wounded the Colonel in the right shoulder. William, at the same moment, plunged his sword into his side, and he fell. The other ruffian fled, pursued by William; but he escaped. He then hastened to his friend, who stood leaning against the wall, with the wounded robber beside him. William inquired if he was much injured.

"No, Seaton," he said. "I believe it is only a flesh wound, for I can wield my sword yet." And he raised it up, and pointing it at the breast of the fallen wretch, who lay groaning at his feet--"We must secure him," said the Colonel; "and, at the same time, be on our guard against his cowardly associate. If he could walk, I would know how to act with him; but I am not going to carry the base carrion. Indeed, my arm bleeds, and is getting stiff; otherwise I would dispatch him where he lies, and save the hangman his labour."

"For the love of God, do not despatch me!" cried the man. "I will try to walk; I would not be cut off so suddenly. In mercy, spare me, even for a few hours. I am unfit to die; yet I feel life ebbing fast."

He rose to his feet, but was sinking again, when William's pity overcoming his anger, he supported him. The wretch looked in his face, uttered a scream of horror, and sank senseless in his arms. He looked to the Colonel in astonishment. The latter looked narrowly into the face of the robber, passed his hand across his forehead, and mused, as if recalling something to his memory, but spake not.

Two men now came up to them, and assisted them to carry the body to the nearest house, where a surgeon was sent for, and intimation given to the authorities, who were all in a state of the greatest alacrity--stimulated, doubtless, by the Porteous mob, which had taken place only a few months before. Until the surgeon arrived, William, by the directions of the Colonel, bound up his shoulder. What the Colonel called a scratch, appeared to him a serious wound; for the ball had passed through the muscle of his arm. They proceeded to stanch the blood which flowed from the side of their prisoner, when the surgeon arrived; who, after having examined it, at once declared it mortal, and that the man had not many hours to live. After some time, he succeeded in restoring sensibility to the sufferer. He opened his eyes--fixed them on William, who was assisting the surgeon in his efforts--a fearful change came over him--he groaned, and, clasping his hands, shrieked, and closed them again. A sudden recollection had come over the Colonel.

"I cannot be mistaken," said he; "I have seen him before; but when or where I cannot say, unless he was one of my company in Monro's regiment."

At the mention of Monro's regiment, the wretched man shuddered--his eye fell upon the ring upon William's hand, as he held up the candle by the bedside--the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead--he would have started up, but was restrained.

"Nay, then, since I am discovered," he cried, "I will confess all to you, my injured and betrayed master. I see the Colonel recollects me; but I am surprised you do not remember your old servant, Alick Brown."

"Who was your master?" exclaimed William, in surprise.

"Captain Henry Seaton--yourself," said the man. "I cannot be mistaken. That ring--your height and countenance. You are, I am happy to see, much improved since I last saw you--time appears to have made no change."

"Know you aught of Henry Seaton?" demanded the Colonel; while William stood mute in astonishment and surprise.

"If this is not my old master whom I see," said the man, "who can he be? My mind is filled with guilt and remorse. Die I must, either of this wound, or by the law--for me there is no hope here or hereafter." And he groaned and ground his teeth in despair, while the surgeon bade him prepare for death, as he had but a few hours to live. The officers entered, and claimed him as their prisoner. The villain once more arose in his mind. "Ha!" he exclaimed, "I have bilked you yet. I have a sufficient bail in my side to rescue me out of your hands." The effort to speak now became more difficult; his voice sank into whispers; he appeared to be dying. Remorse again roused him; and, turning his head, he inquired who William was? The Colonel told him. He became more dreadfully agitated, and groaned in anguish, till the officers of justice looked upon him in horror.

"I can doubt no longer," he cried. "It is too true. There is a God that governs all! Mercy, mercy! How shall I appear before Him, covered with the blood of his creatures? Let me perform the only act now in my power--to atone for the past. Young man, you are the son of my noble and injured master. After he left the army in Flanders, I accompanied him to France, where he lived on terms of great intimacy with the royal exiles and their followers for several months; at the end of which time, he and two other gentlemen, accompanied by me, set out for Scotland on a secret mission to the disaffected, preparatory to the preconcerted rising. We remained concealed for several months, in the houses of those whom we knew to be adherents to the cause we were embarked in. At the house of Lord Somerville we remained for a long time, where my master won the affections of his daughter, and proposed for her; but his Lordship objected to their union at that time, on account of the unsettled state of affairs. With the consent of Helen, they were, however, privately married; and soon after we set out for Aboyne, and joined in the unfortunate affair. He was slightly wounded at Sheriff-muir, but escaped by my assistance, and got safe to our camp. The Prince and the Earl of Mar embarked when all hopes of success were cut off, and I was sent back to the house of his wife's father, to bring her to her husband, who had remained concealed in the Highlands, during the severity of the winter. It was arranged, through me, that, as soon as he had received remittances from France, I was to conduct her to the coast of Argyle, by Glasgow and the Clyde. It was far on in the summer before he could get all the arrangements made. His wife, who expected in a few weeks to be confined, and concealed her situation with difficulty, became most urgent. Early in the month of September, she escaped unseen from her father's house, and joined me at the appointed place, accompanied by a fiend in woman's shape, the agent whom I had employed to carry on our intercourse. She had been a follower of the camp, and, by the little service for which I paid her well, had won the confidence of the simple Helen. We rode as fast as the lady's circumstances would admit, only halting twice for a short time, in secret places. It was then that the devil first assailed me in the person of this woman. She told me what a quantity of money and jewels the lady had in her valise, and how easy it would be to get all into our possession. I shuddered at the very idea, and threatened to shoot her upon the spot. She laughed, and said it was all a jest; but it took hold of my mind during the course of our journey, and she judged by my looks, I suppose, that I was now more fit for her purpose. We conversed about it; the idea became familiar; but I shuddered at blood. She said there would be none shed. Still I could not consent--neither was I sufficiently averse. The poor lady was taken ill as we passed through the moor. You know the rest. As we stood at the cottage door, the pious discourse of the farmer tortured me past endurance. I was several times on the point of rushing into the cottage, and guarding my lady from the fiend; but my evil genius prevailed. When we entered and got the unsuspecting couple to their bed, my tempter smiled, and whispered 'All is safe.' I shuddered, and inquired what she meant.

"'Oh, nothing,' she replied. 'The lady cannot recover; the woman of the house has given her a composing draught. She will never awake. The money and jewels are our own.'

"And cautiously she displayed before me more gold than I had ever seen. I could not think of parting with it. We carried off all that had belonged to my mistress, even her body-clothes and the body of the dead babe, resolved to shew it to my master, and impose upon him by saying that his wife had died in childbed, and that we had left her to be buried by the clergyman. Our object in this was to do away all suspicion of unfair play. Our excuse for not seeing the body interred was haste to inform him, and prevent inquiries that might lead to his discovery. On the day after we left the cabin, I found my master at the appointed place, in the utmost anxiety for the arrival of his wife. Every hour of delay was attended by the utmost danger. A government cruiser had been seen on the coast; and there were fears that the small vessel might be discovered. Oh, moment that has ever since embittered my life! The agony he endured no human tongue can describe. He was in a state of distraction. I, with a guilty officiousness, displayed her wardrobe. He turned from it in an agony. The dead body of the babe he kissed and pressed to his bosom. Low groans had as yet only escaped him; but suddenly, to my alarm, he resolved to go with me and die on her grave. I trembled and felt a faintness come over me--for I was then young in guilt. My associate, hardened and inventive, began to urge the folly of the attempt. He pushed her from him with violence, and would have set out; but at that moment word was given that the cruiser was in sight, as if bearing for the land. Two friends and some of the crew seized him, and by force hurried him on board the vessel, and set sail. I felt as if reprieved from death, and did not go on board; for I dreaded the presence of my injured master. We returned to Glasgow, where we remained for a few weeks, rioting on the fruits of our guilt. One morning when I awoke after a debauch, I found my companion fled, and all the gold and valuables gone. I arose in a state of distraction, ran to the port in quest of her; but in vain--no vessel had sailed. I proceeded to Greenock; on the way I got traces of her, and dogged her at every turn. My mind took a new direction as I followed her. I looked upon her now as a fiend that had led me to ruin, and left me, loaded with guilt, to die under the pangs of poverty and an awakened conscience. My mind was distracted. Holding up my hands to heaven, I vowed vengeance, and cursed and swore in such a manner that people on the road turned and looked at me, and thought me mad. I was mad; but it was the madness of passion that burned in my brain, and the stings of conscience that pierced my heart. I paused several times in my pursuit. I was told by one traveller that the woman I sought was not a mile from me, that she was sitting by the road-side drinking ardent spirits alone, and muttering strange words to herself. Ha! thought I, conscience is busy with her too, and she drinks to drown its dreadful voice. 'Shall I kill her?' I said to myself. My heart yearned for her blood. Why should I deny it? I felt that I required that satisfaction to enable me to live a little longer upon earth. So much was my frenzy roused, that I pictured to myself a total impossibility to live and breathe if I did not feel the satisfaction of having visited on that woman's head the evil she brought on that sweet lady who died by her hands. Then did her beautiful face beam before me in full contrast with that of the hag who had led me to ruin, to misery, to hell. Every thought inflamed me more and more, and on I flew to the relief of my burning brain. Wretch! How little did I think that, even in meditating her death, who deserved that punishment, I was only adding more and more power to my burning conscience? But all calculation of future accidents died amidst my thirst of vengeance. Breathless I hurried on. I had a dagger in my hand ready for the work of death. At a turn of a beech wood, I saw her sitting by the road-side. She was drinking spirits; and, as I approached, I heard her muttering strange words--yet she was not intoxicated. She was only under the power of the demons that ruled her. Her back was to me, and she knew not of my approach. I saw her take out the money and jewels she had stolen from me, and for which, by her advice, I had sold my soul to Satan. The sight again brought before me the horrid crime I had committed. I saw the sweet lady before me, extended in the grasp of death; and conscience, with a thousand fangs, tore at my heart. I grasped the dagger firmer and firmer as she counted the money, and wrought myself up to the pitch of a demon's fury. I advanced quietly. She burst into a loud laugh as she finished the counting of the gold. 'Ha, ha, ha!' she cried--'I have'--she would have said 'outwitted him,' but my dagger fixed the word in her death-closed jaws. I struck her to the heart through her back, and the word 'outwitted' died in her throat. She lay at my feet a corpse. I threw the body in a ditch, and took up the money and jewels for which I had sold my soul. I would have cast them away; but the devil again danced in the faces of the gold coins. I put them in my pocket. The gold again corrupted me. I drowned my conscience in drink at the next inn. I fled into England, where I have lived by rapine ever since, until the other day, when I returned to Scotland to meet the fate I so well deserve, from the hands of the son of those I had injured. Of my old master I have never heard anything. If he is alive, he is still in France."