Hunted and Harried

Chapter One.
On the Hunt

On a brilliant summer morning in the last quarter of the seventeenth century a small troop of horsemen crossed the ford of the river Cairn, in Dumfriesshire, not far from the spot where stands the little church of Irongray, and, gaining the road on the western bank of the stream, wended their way towards the moors and uplands which lie in the neighbourhood of Skeoch Hill.

The dragoons, for such they were, trotted rapidly along the road that led into the solitudes of the hills, with all the careless dash of men whose interests are centred chiefly on the excitements of the passing hour, yet with the unflagging perseverance of those who have a fixed purpose in view—their somewhat worn aspect and the mud with which they were bespattered, from jack-boot to iron headpiece, telling of a long ride over rugged ground.

The officer in command of the party rode a little in advance. Close behind him followed two troopers, one of whom was a burly middle-aged man with a stern, swarthy countenance; the other a youth whose tall frame was scarcely, if at all, less powerful than that of his comrade-in-arms, though much more elegant in form, while his youthful and ruddy, yet masculine, countenance suggested that he must at that time have been but a novice in the art of war.

This youth alone, of all the party, had a somewhat careworn and sad expression on his brow. It could hardly have been the result of fatigue, for there was more of ease and vigour in his carriage than in that of any of his companions.

“We should be near the river by this time, Glendinning,” said the leader of the party, reining in and addressing the swarthy trooper.

“Ay, sir, the Cluden rins jist ayont the turn o’ the road there,” replied the man. “Ye’ll hear the roar o’ the fa’ in a meenit or twa.”

Even as he spoke the dull growl of a cataract was heard, and, a few minutes later, the party came upon the ford of the river.

It was situated not many yards below the picturesque waterfall, which is now spanned by the Routen Bridge, but which, at that time, was unbridged—at all events, if a bridge had previously existed, it had fallen in or been carried away—and the wild gorge was impassable.

The sound of the fall alone told of its vicinity, for a dense mass of foliage hid it completely from the troopers’ view until they had surmounted the steep bank on the other side of the stream.

“Are you well acquainted with this man Black?” asked the leader of the party as they emerged from the thick belt of trees and shrubs by which the Cluden was shaded, and continued their journey on the more open ground beyond.

“I ken him weel, sir,” answered the trooper. “Andrew Black was an auld freend o’ mine, an’ a big, stoot, angry man he is—kindly disposed, nae doot, when ye let him alane, but a perfe’t deevil incarnate when he’s roosed. He did me an ill turn ance that I’ve no paid him off for yet.”

“I suppose, then,” said the officer, “that your guiding us so willingly to his cottage is in part payment of this unsettled debt?”

“Maybe it is,” replied the trooper grimly.

“They say,” continued the other, “that there is some mystery about the man; that somehow nobody can catch him. Like an eel he has slipped through our fellows’ fingers and disappeared more than once, when they thought they had him quite safe. It is said that on one occasion he managed even to give the slip to Claverhouse himself, which, you know, is not easy.”

“That may be, sir, but he’ll no slip through my fingers gin I ance git a grup o’ his thrapple,” said the swarthy man, with a revengeful look.

“We must get a grip of him somehow,” returned the officer, “for it is said that he is a sly helper of the rebels—though it is as difficult to convict as to catch him; and as this gathering, of which our spies have brought information, is to be in the neighbourhood of his house, he is sure to be mixed up with it.”

“Nae doot o’ that, sir, an’ so we may manage to kill twa birds wi’ ae stane. But I’m in a diffeeculty noo, sir, for ye ken I’m no acquaint wi’ this country nae farer than the Cluden ford, an’ here we hae come to a fork i’ the road.”

The party halted as he spoke, while the perplexed guide stroked his rather long nose and looked seriously at the two roads, or bridle-paths, into which their road had resolved itself, and each of which led into very divergent parts of the heathclad hills.

This guide, Glendinning, had become acquainted with Black at a time when the latter resided in Lanarkshire, and, as he had just said, was unacquainted with the region through which they now travelled beyond the river Cluden. After a short conference the officer in command decided to divide the party and explore both paths.

“You will take one man, Glendinning, and proceed along the path to the right,” he said; “I will try the left. If you discover anything like a house or cot within a mile or two you will at once send your comrade back to let me know, while you take up your quarters in the cottage and await my coming. Choose whom you will for your companion.”

“I choose Will Wallace, then,” said Glendinning, with a nod to the young trooper whom we have already introduced.

The youth did not seem at all flattered by the selection, but of course obeyed orders with military promptitude, and followed his comrade for some time in silence, though with a clouded brow.

“It seems to me,” said the swarthy trooper, as they drew rein and proceeded up a steep ascent at a walk, “that ye’re no’ sae pleased as ye might be wi’ the wark we hae on hand.”

“Pleased!” exclaimed the youth, whose tone and speech seemed to indicate him an Englishman, “how can I be pleased when all I have been called on to do since I enlisted has been to aid and abet in robbery, cruelty, and murder? I honour loyalty and detest rebellion as much as any man in the troop, but if I had known what I now know I would never have joined you.”

Glendinning gazed at his companion in amazement. Having been absent on detached service when Will Wallace had joined—about three weeks previously—he was ignorant both as to his character and his recent experiences. He had chosen him on the present occasion simply on account of his youth and magnificent physique.

“I doot I’ve made a mistake in choosin’ you,” said Glendinning with some asperity, after a few moments, “but it’s ower late noo to rectifee’t. What ails ye, lad? What hae ye seen?”

“I have seen what I did not believe possible,” answered the other with suppressed feeling. “I have seen a little boy tortured with the thumbscrews, pricked with bayonets, and otherwise inhumanly treated because he would not, or could not, tell where his father was. I have seen a man hung up to a beam by his thumbs because he would not give up money which perhaps he did not possess. I have seen a woman tortured by having lighted matches put between her fingers because she would not, or could not, tell where a conventicle was being held. I did not, indeed, see the last deed actually done, else would I have cut down the coward who did it. The poor thing had fainted and the torture was over when I came upon them. Only two days ago I was ordered out with a party who pillaged the house of a farmer because he refused to take an oath of allegiance, which seems to have been purposely so worded as to make those who take it virtually bondslaves to the King, and which makes him master of the lives, properties, and consciences of his subjects—and all this done in the King’s name and by the King’s troops!”

“An’ what pairt did you tak’ in these doin’s?” asked Glendinning with some curiosity.

“I did my best to restrain my comrades, and when they were burning the hayricks, throwing the meal on the dunghill, and wrecking the property of the farmer, I cut the cords with which they had bound the poor fellow to his chair and let him go free.”

“Did onybody see you do that?”

“I believe not; though I should not have cared if they had. I’m thoroughly disgusted with the service. I know little or nothing of the principles of these rebels—these fanatics, as you call them—but tyranny or injustice I cannot stand, whether practised by a king or a beggar, and I am resolved to have nothing more to do with such fiendish work.”

“Young man,” said the swarthy comrade in a voice of considerable solemnity, “ye hae obviously mista’en your callin’. If you werena new to thae pairts, ye would ken that the things ye objec’ to are quite common. Punishin’ an’ harryin’ the rebels and fanatics—Covenanters, they ca’ theirsels—has been gaun on for years ower a’ the land. In my opeenion it’s weel deserved, an’ naething that ye can do or say wull prevent it, though what ye do an’ say is no’ unlikely to cut short yer ain career by means o’ a rope roond yer thrapple. But losh! man, I wonder ye haena heard about thae matters afore now.”

“My having spent the last few years of my life in an out-of-the-way part of Ireland may account for that,” said Wallace. “My father’s recent death obliged my mother to give up her farm and return to her native town of Lanark, where she now lives with a brother. Poverty and the urgency of a cousin have induced me, unfortunately, to take service with the dragoons.”

“After what ye’ve said, hoo am I to coont on yer helpin’ me e’noo?” asked Glendinning.

“As long as I wear the King’s uniform you may count on my obeying orders unless I am commanded to break the plainest laws of God,” answered the young man. “As our present business is only to discover the cottage of Andrew Black, there seems likely to be no difficulty between us just now.”

“H’m! I’m no’ sure o’ that; but if ye’ll tak’ my advice, lad, ye’ll haud yer tongue aboot thae matters. If Clavers heard the half o’ what ye’ve said to me, he’d send ye into the next warl’ withoot gieing ye time to say yer prayers. Freedom of speech is no permitted at the present time in Scotland—unless it be the right kind of speech, and—”

He stopped, for at that moment two young girls suddenly appeared at a bend of the road in front of them. They gazed for a moment at the soldiers in evident surprise, and then turned as if to fly, but Glendinning put spurs to his horse and was beside them in a moment. Leaping to the ground, he seized the girls roughly by their arms as they clung together in alarm. One of the two was a dark-eyed little child. The other was fair, unusually pretty, and apparently about fifteen or sixteen years of age.

The trooper proceeded to question them sharply.

“Be gentle,” said Will Wallace sternly, as he rode up, and, also dismounting, stood beside them. “No fear of their running away now.”

The swarthy trooper pretended not to hear, but nevertheless relaxed his grip and merely rested his hand upon the fair girl’s shoulder as he said to the other—

“Now, my wee doo, ye canna be far frae hame, I’s be sworn. What’s yer name?”

“Aggie Wilson,” answered the child at once.

“And yours?”

“Jean Black,” replied the blonde timidly.

“Oho! an’ yer faither’s name is Andrew, an’ his hoose is close by, I’ll be bound, so ye’ll be guid eneuch to show us the way till’t. But first, my bonny lass, ye’ll gie me a—”

Slipping his arm round the waist of the terrified blonde, the trooper rudely attempted to terminate his sentence in a practical manner; but before his lips could touch her face he received a blow from his comrade that sent him staggering against a neighbouring tree.

Blazing with astonishment and wrath, Glendinning drew his sword and sprang at his companion, who, already full of indignation at the memory of what he had been so recently compelled to witness, could ill brook the indignity thus offered to the defenceless girl. His weapon flashed from its sheath on the instant, and for a few moments the two men cut and thrust at each other with savage ferocity. Wallace, however, was too young and unused to mortal strife to contemplate with indifference the possibility of shedding the blood of a comrade. Quickly recovering himself, he stood entirely on the defensive, which his vigorous activity enabled him easily to do. Burning under the insult he had received, Glendinning felt no such compunctions. He pushed his adversary fiercely, and made a lunge at last which not only passed the sword through the left sleeve of the youth’s coat, but slightly wounded his arm. Roused to uncontrollable anger by this, Will Wallace fetched his opponent a blow so powerful that it beat down his guard, rang like a hammer on his iron headpiece, and fairly hurled the man into the ditch at the roadside.

Somewhat alarmed at this sudden result, the youth hastily pulled him out, and, kneeling beside him, anxiously examined his head. Much to his relief he found that there was no wound at all, and that the man was only stunned. After the examination, Wallace observed that the girls had taken advantage of the fray to make their escape.

Indignation and anger having by that time evaporated, and his judgment having become cool, Wallace began gradually to appreciate his true position, and to feel exceedingly uncomfortable. He had recklessly expressed opinions and confessed to actions which would of themselves ensure his being disgraced and cast into prison, if not worse; he had almost killed one of his own comrades, and had helped two girls to escape who could probably have assisted in the accomplishment of the duty on which they had been despatched. His case, he suddenly perceived, was hopeless, and he felt that he was a lost man.

Will Wallace was quick of thought and prompt in action. Carefully disposing the limbs of his fallen comrade, and resting his head comfortably on a grassy bank, he cast a hurried glance around him.

On his left hand and behind him lay the rich belt of woodland that marked the courses of the rivers Cluden and Cairn. In front stretched the moors and hills of the ancient district of Galloway, at that time given over to the tender mercies of Graham of Claverhouse. Beside him stood the two patient troop-horses, gazing quietly at the prostrate man, as if in mild surprise at his unusual stillness.

Beyond this he could not see with the physical eye; but with the mental orb he saw a dark vista of ruined character, blighted hopes, and dismal prospects. The vision sufficed to fix his decision. Quietly, like a warrior’s wraith, he sheathed his sword and betook himself to the covert of the peat-morass and the heather hill.

He was not the first good man and true who had sought the same shelter.

At the time of which we write Scotland had for many years been in a woeful plight—with tyranny draining her life-blood, cupidity grasping her wealth, hypocrisy and bigotry misconstruing her motives and falsifying her character. Charles the Second filled the throne. Unprincipled men, alike in Church and State, made use of their position and power to gain their own ends and enslave the people. The King, determined to root out Presbytery from Scotland, as less subservient to his despotic aims, and forcibly to impose Prelacy on her as a stepping-stone to Popery, had no difficulty in finding ecclesiastical and courtly bravos to carry out his designs; and for a long series of dismal years persecution stalked red-handed through the land.

Happily for the well-being of future generations, our covenanting forefathers stood their ground with Christian heroism, for both civil and religious liberty were involved in the struggle. Their so-called fanaticism consisted in a refusal to give up the worship of God after the manner dictated by conscience and practised by their forefathers; in declining to attend the ministry of the ignorant, and too often vicious, curates forced upon them; and in refusing to take the oath of allegiance just referred to by Will Wallace.

Conventicles, as they were called—or the gathering together of Christians in houses and barns, or on the hillsides, to worship God—were illegally pronounced illegal by the King and Council; and disobedience to the tyrannous law was punished with imprisonment, torture, confiscation of property, and death. To enforce these penalties the greater part of Scotland—especially the south and west—was overrun by troops, and treated as if it were a conquered country. The people—holding that in some matters it is incumbent to “obey God rather than man,” and that they were bound “not to forsake the assembling of themselves together”—resolved to set the intolerable law at defiance, and went armed to the hill-meetings.

They took up arms at first, however, chiefly, if not solely, to protect themselves from a licentious soldiery, who went about devastating the land, not scrupling to rob and insult helpless women and children, and to shed innocent blood. Our Scottish forefathers, believing—in common with the lower animals and lowest savages—that it was a duty to defend their females and little ones, naturally availed themselves of the best means of doing so.

About this time a meeting, or conventicle, of considerable importance was appointed to be held among the secluded hills in the neighbourhood of Irongray; and Andrew Black, the farmer, was chosen to select the particular spot, and make the preliminary arrangements.

Now this man Black is not easily described, for his was a curiously compound character. To a heart saturated with the milk of human kindness was united a will more inflexible, if possible, than that of a Mexican mule; a frame of Herculean mould, and a spirit in which profound gravity and reverence waged incessant warfare with a keen appreciation of the ludicrous. Peacefully inclined in disposition, with a tendency to believe well of all men, and somewhat free and easy in the formation of his opinions, he was very unwilling to resist authority; but the love of truth and justice was stronger within him than the love of peace.

In company with his shepherd, Quentin Dick—a man of nearly his own size and build—Andrew Black proceeded to a secluded hollow in Skeoch Hill to gather and place in order the masses of rock which were to form the seats of the communicants at the contemplated religious gathering—which seats remain to this day in the position they occupied at that time, and are familiarly known in the district as “the Communion stones of Irongray.”

Chapter Two.
The “Fanatic” and the “Spy.”

The night was dark and threatening when Andrew Black and his shepherd left their cottage, and quickly but quietly made for the neighbouring hill. The weather was well suited for deeds of secrecy, for gusts of wind, with an occasional spattering of rain, swept along the hill-face, and driving clouds obscured the moon, which was then in its first quarter.

At first the two men were obliged to walk with care, for the light was barely sufficient to enable them to distinguish the sheep-track which they followed, and the few words they found it necessary to speak were uttered in subdued tones. Jean Black and her cousin Aggie Wilson had reported their rencontre with the two dragoons, and Quentin Dick had himself seen the main body of the troops from behind a heather bush on his way back to the farm, therefore caution was advisable. But as they climbed Skeoch Hill, and the moon shed a few feeble rays on their path, they began to converse more freely. For a few minutes their intercourse related chiefly to sheep and the work of the farm, for both Andrew and his man were of that sedate, imperturbable nature which is not easily thrown off its balance by excitement or danger. Then their thoughts turned to the business in hand.

“Nae fear o’ the sodgers comin’ here on a nicht like this,” remarked Andrew, as a squall nearly swept the blue bonnet off his head.

“Maybe no,” growled Quentin Dick sternly, “but I’ve heard frae Tam Chanter that servants o’ that Papist Earl o’ Nithsdale, an’ o’ the scoondrel Sir Robert Dalziel, hae been seen pokin’ their noses aboot at Irongray. If they git wund o’ the place, we’re no likely to hae a quiet time o’t. Did ye say that the sodgers ill-used the bairns?”

“Na!—ane o’ them was inclined to be impident, but the ither, a guid-lookin’ young felly, accordin’ to Jean, took their pairt an’ quarrelled wi’ his comrade, sae that they cam to loggerheeds at last, but what was the upshot naebody kens, for the bairns took to their heels an’ left them fechtin’.”

“An’ what if they sud fin’ yer hoose an’ the bairns unproteckit?” asked the shepherd.

“They’re no likely to fin’ the hoose in a nicht like this, man; an’ if they do, they’ll fin’ naebody but Ramblin’ Peter there, for I gied the lassies an’ the women strick orders to tak’ to the hidy-hole at the first soond o’ horses’ feet.”

By this time the men had reached a secluded hollow in the hill, so completely enclosed as to be screened from observation on all sides. They halted here a few moments, for two dark forms were seen in the uncertain light to be moving about just in front of them.

“It’s them,” whispered Andrew.

“Whae?” asked the shepherd.

“Alexander McCubine an’ Edward Gordon.”

“Guid an’ safe men baith,” responded Quentin; “ye better gie them a cry.”

Andrew did so by imitating the cry of a plover. It was replied to at once.

“The stanes are big, ye see,” explained Andrew, while the two men were approaching. “It’ll tak’ the strength o’ the fowr o’ us to lift some o’ them.”

“We’ve got the cairn aboot finished,” said McCubine as he came up. He spoke in a low voice, for although there was no probability of any one being near, they were so accustomed to expect danger because of the innumerable enemies who swarmed about the country, that caution had almost become a second nature.

Without further converse the four men set to work in silence. They completed a circular heap, or cairn, of stones three or four feet high, and levelled the top thereof to serve as a table or a pulpit at the approaching assembly. In front of this, and stretching towards a sloping brae, they arranged four rows of very large stones to serve as seats for the communicants, with a few larger stones between them, as if for the support of rude tables of plank. It took several hours to complete the work. When it was done Andrew Black surveyed it with complacency, and gave it as his opinion that it was a “braw kirk, capable o’ accommodatin’ a congregation o’ some thoosands, mair or less.” Then the two men, Gordon and McCubine, bidding him and the shepherd good-night, went away into the darkness from which they had emerged.

“Whar’ll they be sleepin’ the nicht?” asked the shepherd, as he and Andrew turned homeward.

“I’ the peat-bog, I doot, for I daurna tak’ them hame whan the dragoons is likely to gie us a ca’; besides, the hidy-hole wull be ower fu’ soon. Noo, lad,” he added, as they surmounted a hillock, from which they had a dim view of the surrounding country, “gang ye doon an’ see if ye can fin’ oot onything mair aboot thae sodgers. I’ll awa’ hame an see that a’s right there.”

They parted, the shepherd turning sharp off to the right, while the farmer descended towards his cottage. He had not advanced above half the distance when an object a little to the left of his path induced him to stop. It resembled a round stone, and was too small to have attracted the attention of any eye save one which was familiar with every bush and stone on the ground. Grasping a stout thorn stick which he carried, Andrew advanced towards the object in question with catlike caution until quite close to it, when he discovered that it was the head of a man who was sleeping soundly under a whin-bush. A closer inspection showed that the man wore an iron headpiece, a soldier’s coat, and huge jack-boots.

“A dragoon and a spy!” thought Andrew, while he raised his cudgel, the only weapon he carried, and frowned. But Andrew was a merciful man; he could not bring himself to strike a sleeping man, even though waking him might entail a doubtful conflict, for he could see that the trooper’s hand grasped the hilt of his naked sword. For a few moments he surveyed the sleeper, as if calculating his chances, then he quietly dropped his plaid, took off his coat, and untying his neckcloth, laid it carefully on one side over a bush. Having made these preparations, he knelt beside Will Wallace—for it was he—and grasped him firmly by the throat with both hands.

As might have been expected, the young trooper attempted to spring up, and tried to use his weapon; but, finding this to be impossible at such close quarters, he dropped it, and grappled the farmer with all his might; but Andrew, holding on to him like a vice, placed his knee upon his chest and held him firmly down.

“It’s o’ nae manner o’ use to strive, ye see,” said Andrew, relaxing his grip a little; “I’ve gotten ye, an’ if ye like to do my biddin’ I’ll no be hard on ye.”

“If you will let me rise and stand before me in fair fight, I’ll do your business if not your bidding,” returned Wallace in a tone of what may be termed stern sulkiness.

“Div ye think it’s likely I’ll staund before you in fair fecht, as you ca’d—you wi’ a swurd, and me wi’ a bit stick, my lad? Na, na, ye’ll hae to submit, little though ye like it.”

“Give me the stick, then, and take you the sword, I shall be content,” said the indignant trooper, making another violent but unsuccessful effort to free himself.

“It’s a fair offer,” said Andrew, when he had subdued the poor youth a second time, “an’ reflec’s favourably on yer courage, but I’m a man o’ peace, an’ have no thirst for bloodshed—whilk is more than ye can say, young man; but if ye’ll let me tie yer hands thegither, an’ gang peaceably hame wi’ me, I’s promise that nae mischief’ll befa’ ye.”

“No man shall ever tie my hands together as long as there is life in my body,” replied the youth.

“Stop, stop, callant!” exclaimed Andrew, as Will was about to renew the struggle. “The pride o’ youth is awful. Hear what I’ve gotten to say to ye, man, or I’ll hae to throttle ye ootright. It’ll come to the same thing if ye’ll alloo me to tie ane o’ my hands to ane o’ yours. Ye canna objec’ to that, surely, for I’ll be your prisoner as muckle as you’ll be mine—and that’ll be fair play, for we’ll leave the swurd lyin’ on the brae to keep the bit stick company.”

“Well, I agree to that,” said Wallace, in a tone that indicated surprise with a dash of amusement.

“An’ ye promise no’ to try to get away when you’re tied to—when I’m tied to you?”

“I promise.”

Hereupon the farmer, reaching out his hand, picked up the black silk neckcloth which he had laid aside, and with it firmly bound his own left wrist to the right wrist of his captive, talking in a grave, subdued tone as he did so.

“Nae doot the promise o’ a spy is hardly to be lippened to, but if I find that ye’re a dishonourable man, ye’ll find that I’m an uncomfortable prisoner to be tied to. Noo, git up, lad, an’ we’ll gang hame thegither.”

On rising, the first thing the trooper did was to turn and take a steady look at the man who had captured him in this singular manner.

“Weel, what d’ye think o’ me?” asked Andrew, with what may be termed a grave smile.

“If you want to know my true opinion,” returned Wallace, “I should say that I would not have thought, from the look of you, that you could have taken mean advantage of a sleeping foe.”

“Ay—an’ I would not have thought, from the look o’ you,” retorted Andrew, “that ye could hae sell’t yersel’ to gang skulkin’ aboot the hills as a spy upon the puir craters that are only seekin’ to worship their Maker in peace.”

Without further remark Andrew Black, leaving his coat and plaid to keep company with the sword and stick, led his prisoner down the hill.

Andrew’s cottage occupied a slight hollow on the hillside, which concealed it from every point of the compass save the high ground above it. Leading the trooper up to the door, he tapped gently, and was promptly admitted by some one whom Wallace could not discern, as the interior was dark.

“Oh, Uncle Andrew! I’m glad ye’ve come, for Peter hasna come back yet, an’ I’m feared somethin’ has come ower him.”

“Strike a light, lassie. I’ve gotten haud o’ a spy here, an’ canna weel do’t mysel’.”

When a light was procured and held up, it revealed the pretty face of Jean Black, which underwent a wondrous change when she beheld the face of the prisoner.

“Uncle Andrew!” she exclaimed, “this is nae spy. He’s the man that cam’ to the help o’ Aggie an’ me against the dragoon.”

“Is that sae?” said Black, turning a look of surprise on his prisoner.

“It is true, indeed, that I had the good fortune to protect Jean and her friend from an insolent comrade,” answered Wallace; “and it is also true that that act has been partly the cause of my deserting to the hills, being starved for a day and a night, and taken prisoner now as a spy.”

“Sir,” said Andrew, hastily untying the kerchief that bound them together, “I humbly ask your pardon. Moreover, it’s my opeenion that if ye hadna been starvin’ ye wadna have been here ’e noo, for ye’re uncommon teuch. Rin, lassie, an’ fetch some breed an’ cheese. Whar’s Marion an’ Is’b’l?”

“They went out to seek for Peter,” said Jean, as she hastened to obey her uncle’s mandate.

At that moment a loud knocking was heard at the door, and the voice of Marion, one of the maid-servants, was heard outside. On the door being opened, she and her companion Isabel burst in with excited looks and the information, pantingly given, that the “sodgers were comin’.”

“Haud yer noise, lassie, an’ licht the fire—pit on the parritch pat. Come, Peter, let’s hear a’ aboot it.”

Ramblin’ Peter, who had been thus named because of his inveterate tendency to range over the neighbouring hills, was a quiet, undersized, said-to-be weak-minded boy of sixteen years, though he looked little more than fourteen. No excitement whatever ruffled his placid countenance as he gave his report—to the effect that a party of dragoons had been seen by him not half an hour before, searching evidently for his master’s cottage.

“They’ll soon find it,” said the farmer, turning quickly to his domestics— “Away wi’ ye, lassies, and hide.”

The two servant-girls, with Jean and her cousin Aggie Wilson, ran at once into an inner room and shut the door. Ramblin’ Peter sat stolidly down beside the fire and calmly stirred the porridge-pot, which was nearly full of the substantial Scottish fare.