Adam Hepburn's Vow: A Tale of Kirk and Covenant

Produced by Al Haines.

[Illustration: "Folding his withered hands, he said, in solemn and trembling tones, 'Let us pray'" (_see page_ 121).]

Adam Hepburn's Vow

*A Tale Of Kirk And Covenant*

By

*Annie S. Swan*

With Four Full-Page Illustrations

Twenty-Third Thousand

Cassell And Company, Ltd London, New York, Toronto And Melbourne 1885

To My Friend

C. M.

And To The Dear Ones Gathered Round Her In Her Happy Home

*Contents*

Chapter I.

The Travellers

Chapter II.

A Nation'S Testimony

Chapter III.

Forebodings Of Evil

Chapter IV.

The Minister'S Children

Chapter V.

The First Martyrs

Chapter VI.

A Thorn In The Flesh

Chapter VII.

A Long Farewell

Chapter VIII.

Mr. Duncan Mclean

Chapter IX.

Preparing For Emergencies

Chapter X.

Adam Hepburn'S Vow

Chapter XI.

Up In Arms

Chapter XII.

Rullion Green

Chapter XIII.

The New Maid

Chapter XIV.

Betrayed

Chapter XV.

Brave To The Last

Chapter XVI.

At The Dawning

Chapter XVII.

A Shock Of Corn Fully Ripe

Chapter XVIII.

At Haughhead

Chapter XIX.

Unlooked-For News

Chapter XX.

Drumclog

Chapter XXI.

Disunion

Chapter XXII.

Bothwell Bridge

Chapter XXIII.

In Captivity

Chapter XXIV.

Delivered

Chapter XXV.

Airsmoss

Chapter XXVI.

Rest

*List Of Illustrations.*

"Folding his withered hands, he said, in solemn and trembling tones, 'Let us pray'" . . . _Frontispiece_

"Uplifting his hand, he swore the solemn oath"

"Little Jeanie ... brought out a draught for the general"

"The wildest confusion seemed to prevail on the bridge"

*Adam Hepburn's Vow*

_*A Tale Of Kirk And Covenant.*_

*Chapter I.*

*The Travellers.*

Towards the close of a bleak grey February afternoon, in the year 1638, a small party of travellers might have been seen approaching Edinburgh by the high road from Glasgow. It consisted of a sturdy brown pony, whereon sat a fair-faced, sunny-haired little girl, whose age could not have exceeded nine years; a bright-faced, bold-looking lad, walking at the animal's head, and having the bridle-rein hung loosely over his arm; and a middle-aged gentleman, whose aspect and attire proclaimed him a clergyman. He walked slowly, a little apart from the others, and his hands were clasped before him, and his eyes bent thoughtfully on the ground. He was a man somewhat past his prime, of a noble and manly bearing, with a fine open countenance, and a speaking eye, wherein dwelt a singularly sweet and benevolent expression.

The shadows of evening were already beginning to gather over the surrounding scene, making objects at a distance somewhat indistinct.

Yet, truly, there was little at that season of the year to refresh the eye or gladden the heart. The icy hand of winter had scarcely yet relaxed its grasp on mother earth; there were no green buds on hedge or tree; no blades of promise springing up by the wayside: all was desolate, bleak, and cold. Yet the newly upturned furrows smelt fresh and sweet, and the purling brooks wandered cheerfully on their way; singing their song of gladness, as if they knew that spring was close at hand. Presently the little party ascended a gentle eminence, and then many lights were seen twinkling not far ahead.

"See, father, are yon the lights of Edinburgh?" exclaimed the lad, in his eagerness letting go his hold on Roger's rein.

The minister raised his head, and a light kindled in his eye as he looked upon the clustering roof-trees and towering spires of the beautiful city.

"Yes, my son, that is Edinburgh," he said in his full, mellow tones. "Thanks be to the Lord who hath brought us thither in safety. Would my little Agnes like to walk now? The evening dews are falling, and methinks a little exercise would do you no harm. Very soon now you will be warmed and cheered by the ruddy glow by Aunt Jean's fireside."

As he spoke, the minister turned to Roger (who at a word from his master stood perfectly still), and gently lifted his little daughter to the ground. It was then seen that her figure was very slight and fragile, her face pale and refined-looking, her whole expression thoughtful and even sad beyond her years.

"Are you wearied, David?" asked the kind father then; but the lad drew himself up proudly, and shook his head.

"Wearied! no, no, father. I could walk back to Inverburn, I believe, without resting."

"Keep within the bounds, my boy," said the minister. "See, lead Roger down to yon little pool, and let him drink. The poor animal is thirsty and wayworn. Then we will make what haste we can into the city, which will of necessity be in somewhat of a turmoil to-night, owing to the many strangers within her gates."

"Father, will there be a great crowd and a noise in Edinburgh?" asked the little Agnes, somewhat timidly and holding yet more closely by her father's hand.

"There will be a crowd, my daughter, but no unseemly noise, I trust. The occasion upon which the nation is assembled in her ancient capital is too solemn for vain clamourings," said the minister, somewhat sadly; and as his eyes once more roamed over the spreading roof-trees of the city, they were filled with tears. The little Agnes, too young to understand the cause of his emotion, still more closely clasped his hand, and looked with awe into his face.

"I wish it would not grow dark so soon, father," said David, now returning from watering the pony. "We will see nothing of Edinburgh till to-morrow."

"But to-morrow, please the Lord, there will be a sight seen in Edinburgh, the like of which there has never been in Scotland," said the minister with kindling eye. "The voice of her people raised in a national testimony against the injustice and oppression of an earthly ruler. May the Heavenly King look down in approval on the faithfulness of the Kirk of Scotland, and give her strength to stand firm to her vow; ay, to seal it if need be with her blood."

The minister spoke with solemnity and passionate earnestness, which impressed his young listeners not a little.

"Father, will the soldiers be out on their horses?" David asked with boyish eagerness; to him the great event to transpire on the morrow meant a gay pageant to delight the eye and stir the pulse of youth.

"My son, I cannot tell; only I know that peer and peasant, soldier and civilian, minister and ministered unto, will assemble to-morrow on equal ground, animated by one grand purpose, and stirred by a common zeal. May the God of Hosts look down upon and bless the assembled multitudes," replied the minister; and then a silence fell upon the little party which remained unbroken till they entered the city. Even in the outskirts there were not lacking signs of stir and unusual commotion. The streets were thronged with vehicles and foot-passengers, and the very air seemed full of murmurings, telling of a nation's heart stirred to its deepest depths. The young lad and his sister looked about them with lively interest; to them the city was a revelation indeed, in the great contrast it presented to the unfrequented roads and quiet solitudes of their native parish. Darkness had fallen when the minister guided Roger's steps into the Grass-market, where stood the hospitable dwelling which was to shelter them during their sojourn in Edinburgh. It was the abode of the minister's only sister, who was married to a well-to-do merchant, by name Edward Kilgour. Having been duly apprised of his brother-in-law's coming on that day, Edward Kilgour was waiting at the close mouth, anxiously peering up the street, which was now almost in total darkness, there being no appliances then for lighting the thoroughfares and byeways of the city. Hearing the click of the pony's hoofs, he walked a few steps up the street, and then catching sight of the little party, he called out in his cheery tones, "Andrew Gray of Inverburn, and his little ones, if I mistake not!"

"Yes; thus far hath the Lord permitted us to travel in safety, Edward," said the minister. "How is it with thee and thine?"

"All well; Jean a little impatient and fearful about you, as is the way of womenkind," replied the merchant, heartily shaking his brother-in-law by the hand. "But what! David, and little Agnes too! How did their mother ever trust them so far?" he exclaimed, in surprise, at sight of the children.

"She knew them safe with me, Edward, and I thought that the events of to-morrow might, please God, make an impression on their young minds which time would never efface. And the Kirk, I am thinking, will need both old and young to stand firm in her defence ere she be crowned and blessed with liberty," said the minister, with a sigh.

"You speak the truth, Andrew," replied the merchant, soberly. "Well, I will take Roger to his stall and see that he is rubbed down and fed. Do you take the bairns upstairs: you know the way."

The minister nodded, and taking his boy and girl by the hand, led them up the dark close and into a low doorway, which, unless he had been familiar with the way, would have been difficult to find.

Aunt Jean heard their steps on the stair, and presently appeared on the landing with a candle.

"Bless me! Andrew Gray, is that the bairns all the way from the manse of Inverburn?" she exclaimed, her motherly heart warming at sight of them.

"Even so, Jean. There will be room and welcome for them as well as for their father under this roof-tree," answered the minister. "Edward tells me you are well; and, truly, you look it."

"Oh, ay, I am well in body!" she answered, blithely, and stooping she lifted the little Agnes in her motherly arms, and affectionately kissed her cheeks. "Eh, Andrew, this bairn's her mother's living image. How is Ailie and Jane, and that stirring laddie, Andrew? Why did you leave him at home?"

"His master could not spare him, being busy preparing the ground for the seed," replied the minister. "It was a sore disappointment to the lad. He has a constant craving for something new."

By this time they had entered the wide and comfortable kitchen, where the log-fire burned merrily, casting its ruddy glow on the hospitable board spread for the expected guest. A wooden cradle stood in the warmest corner by the ingle-neuk, wherein slept peacefully the one child of the household, a babe of eight months, and the first which had blessed their hearth and home since their marriage, five years before.

The little Agnes looked very long and earnestly into her aunt's face, never remembering having seen her before.

Mrs. Kilgour had been married out of the manse of Inverburn, at which time Agnes was only four years old, but she had never visited it since, and had only once seen her brother's wife, when she accompanied her husband to Edinburgh on his being appointed to represent the Presbytery of Lanark at the General Assembly. Travelling in these days was very slow and laborious, and not unaccompanied by dangers on the roads, owing to the disturbed and unprotected state of the country.

"Ay, but she is like her mother, Andrew," repeated Mrs. Kilgour, as she stooped to unfasten the child's cloak. "She has her very een; may the spirt of the bairn be her mother's likewise! And this is David! He is greatly grown. I would hardly have known him again! Dearie me, what changes time works on bairns, as on other things!"

"You are right, Jean. How has business been prospering with you throughout the winter?"

"We cannot complain of the measure of prosperity the Lord has vouchsafed to us," Andrew answered Mistress Kilgour. "Edward has had to employ another young lad to help him in his work and still is hard-pressed; but here he comes himself to tell you all about it."

The merchant now entered the kitchen, and hung up his hat on the peg behind the door. Now that the light shone upon him, it revealed a short and somewhat stout figure, clad in homely grey, a broad kindly face adorned by a short brown beard, and made peculiarly expressive by the twinkling of a pair of merry, blue eyes.

He was a Lanark man by birth, but had come to Edinburgh to try his fortunes, and by steady well-doing and shrewd business capacity was likely to succeed.

"And how are they all at Inverburn? Come, tell me about every man, woman, and child in the parish, Andrew," said the merchant. "It's like a gliff of the heather-scented wind to look upon your faces, bairns, and to think you were reared in the shade of the birks of Inverburn!"

The merchant spoke lightly, but a tear started in his honest eye, as he lifted Agnes on his knee, and drew David to his side.

"'Deed they must have something to eat first, Edward, my man," interrupted Mistress Kilgour. "Come, bairns, to your milk and bread. It's no like the milk and home-made scones at the manse, but it's the best I have, an' ye get it wi' Auntie Jean's kind, kind love."

They drew in their chairs to the table, and after the minister had asked a fervent blessing on the board, they ate with a will, for their mode of travelling had given them all appetites.

"You are never asking for _our_ bairn, Andrew," said the fond mother slily, when presently the little one stirred slightly in its cradle.

"Truly I forgot, Jean," said the minister, with a smile; "and yet it was among Ailie's last messages--sympathy and love to you about the little one. God grant she may grow up a blessing to you both."

The little Agnes presently slipped from her chair, and, stealing over to the cradle, looked in upon the smiling face of the infant. Her own was suffused with a glow of tender wondering pleasure, which made her aunt look at her again. And when, presently, Mistress Kilgour lifted the child, Agnes kept close by her side, as if the babe were a magnet from which she could not separate herself.

The conversation during supper turned chiefly upon topics connected with the parish of Inverburn, in which both the merchant and his wife were deeply and affectionately interested, for, though they had built up a home in Edinburgh, their hearts were knit to their native glen in the bonds of a deep, enduring love.

While she cleared the table, Mistress Kilgour entrusted the babe to Agnes, who sat on a low stool holding the precious burden in her arms, with a mixture of love, rapture, and pride glorifying her face. Shortly thereafter, it being near eight of the clock, Mistress Kilgour made down beds for the children in the adjoining room, and they retired to rest. Then their elders drew up their chairs to the hearth, and began to speak in low, troubled, anxious tones, telling that the topic was one of vital interest, of terrible importance to them all. Before they separated for the night, the minister read a portion from Scripture, and then they knelt to pour out their hearts' desires before the Lord. The tones of Andrew Gray's voice trembled sore as he prayed with passionate earnestness that the arm of the Almighty would be about the tottering Church of Scotland, and that strength might be given to her people to stand up fearlessly in defence of her liberty and purity, ay, even though they should be required to seal their faithfulness with their blood.

"To-morrow will be a great day for Scotland," he said when he rose to his feet. "Either it will be the beginning of peace or the beginning of many sorrows for God's people. It is in times like these we feel the need of prayer, of constant and pious humbling of ourselves before Jehovah. There is that within me, my friends, which forewarns me that we are about to be visited by fierce and terrible temptations and dispensations. Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall."

Awed by the prophetic earnestness with which their kinsman spoke, the merchant and his wife spoke not, but silently bade him good night. Andrew Gray retired to his own chamber, but not to sleep. He sat long by the uncurtained window, looking out upon the city slumbering peacefully under the fitful February moonlight, as if all unconscious of the issues of the coming day.

During the silent watches of the night the minister of Inverburn wrestled in prayer for Scotland's Church and people, that they might be upheld and kept faithful in the tumults of the struggle to come.

*Chapter II.*

*A Nation'S Testimony.*

Chill and grey broke the morning of that memorable day over the city of Edinburgh. The inmates of Edward Kilgour's household were early astir, and the elder folk partook of breakfast by candlelight.

"I suppose your place of business will be closed to-day?" said the minister enquiringly to his brother-in-law.

"Yes; there will be little business done to-day, I fancy, except by the taverns and other places of like resort, which must be open to supply refreshments to the many strangers," replied Edward Kilgour. "There will be a goodly number of Inverburn folks in this morning?"

"Yes, Adam Hepburn of Rowallan, and a party with him, were to start on the evening of the day on which we left," replied the minister. "They would arrive a few hours' later than us--their animals being swifter of foot than our 'Roger.'"

"What is the Laird of Inverburn saying to the Covenant, Andrew?" asked Mistress Kilgour, replenishing her brother's cup with milk, which, with some wheaten cakes, composed his frugal meal.

A slight shade of sadness stole over the minister's fine face.

"Truly, Jean, Sir Thomas Hamilton proves himself a loyal subject and a faithful servant of the king. They tell me he uses the Liturgy in his household devotions, and he has never been in his pew in my church since the proclamation concerning the new book of service. I am told too, on good authority, that my neighbour minister, John Methven of Lochlee, uses it in the services of his church, in accordance with the express desire of the laird who worships there every Sabbath Day."

"John Methven was ever a time-server and a worshipper of rank," said Edward Kilgour, with curling lip. "He would sell conscience and liberty for the smile of a patron so high in station as the Laird of Inverburn."

"Let us not so hardly judge the man, Edward," said the minister, gently. "His motives and his conscience are known only to himself and his God. Yet I fear that when the times of trouble grow hotter in the land, the Church will not find a supporter in the minister of Lochlee."

"What I fear, Andrew," said Mistress Kilgour, with a sigh, "is lest the Laird of Inverburn, not finding you conforming to his desires, may do you injury in the parish, may even turn the people against you."

The minister smiled.

"I am in the Lord's hands, Jean. Except He will, Sir Thomas Hamilton cannot touch a hair of my head, nor even damage my interests in the parish. And my people, thanks be to God, are faithful and honest, and I think have some little love for their minister in their hearts."

"As well they may," said the merchant, fervently.

"The name of Gray has long been honoured in Inverburn, certainly," said the mistress, musingly. "Our forbears have been so many generations in the manse that I think the people would be sad to see a stranger under its roof-tree, or ministering to them in the kirk on the Sabbath Day."

"We will not trouble ourselves with such things to-day, Jean, there being graver issues at stake than the interests of Inverburn, which, though very dear to us, is but a small corner of the Lord's vineyard," said the minister, rising. "While you dress the bairns, Edward and I might walk a little way into the town, and see what is doing. I see the shadows of the night are wearing away from the castle heights, and day breaking in the east!"

Accordingly the twain left the house together, and wended their way through the streets. Even thus early there were many people abroad, some standing in little groups, earnestly discussing the one topic of absorbing interest occupying the minds of citizens and strangers alike. Arm in arm the minister and the merchant walked together in the shadow of the grey turrets of the castle, until they came to the shores of the North Loch, which was tossing uneasily under the grey and wintry sky. A keen east wind was sweeping up from the Frith, and it had a wailing in its tone as if in warning of a coming storm.

The two pedestrians, alone at that hour by the solitudes of the loch, talked low and earnestly together on the crisis to which affairs in Scotland had now reached. The merchant was a keen Churchman, and a devoted, pious Christian, with a heart ready to suffer and endure for the cause of religion, and a brave, indomitable courage to fight for his principles if required. Needless to say, the friendship between his brother-in-law and himself was warm and sincere, because they had so much in common. Engrossed in conversation, the time passed unheeded, until the solemn strokes of the Tolbooth bell proclaimed the hour of nine.

Then they turned their steps towards the Grassmarket once more, which was now considerably busier than it had been an hour ago. Yet there was no disorder or sign of tumult, nor was the aspect of the people wild or excited. There was an expression of calm yet fixed resolution, especially upon the faces of the older among them, which indicated that no giddy froth of passion, no excitement of a moment moved them. Andrew Gray remarked upon that to the merchant, and expressed his satisfaction at the visible earnestness and quietness of spirit which seemed to be abroad.

When they returned to the house they found the children up and dressed and partaking of their morning meal, good Aunt Jean talking to them all the while.

"Are you going forth to witness for the Covenant with us to-day, Jean?" enquired the minister.

The mistress shook her head.

"I cannot well leave my house and my bairn, Andrew, but the Lord knows that I can make my vow at home and keep it as faithfully as I would keep a public testimony," she answered, with a smile and a tear. "But are you going to take both these young things with you to the vast assembly gathered in and about the Greyfriars?"

"For that purpose I brought them on this journey, Jean. As I said to Edward, the proceedings of this day may make an impression on their minds which will never be effaced, and--who knows?--the memory of it may even serve to build them up yet more steadfastly in the faith in days to come. Well, I think we should be going now. The proceedings, I learn, are to begin early, and I would not that we should be at the outside limits of the crowd."

Accordingly Aunt Jean prepared the children for going out of doors, fastening the cloak of the little Agnes very closely about her neck, and adding a scarf of her own to protect the throat against the biting wind of March. David wrapped his plaid about his shoulders in true Highland fashion, put on his bonnet, and, taking in his hand the stout ash stick he had cut in the woods of Inverburn, bravely announced that he was ready. So, followed by kind Aunt Jean's blessing and prayer, the little party left the house and emerged into the busy streets.

Although it was yet early, every thoroughfare was thronged with human beings, some moving on towards the place of meeting, others standing about in little knots discussing the solemn occasion upon which so many were gathered together. Our friends made their way leisurely up the Bow, and were among the earliest to enter the churchyard, and thus were enabled to take up a good position where everything could be seen and heard. The church doors were standing wide open, and it was evidently intended that the chief service should be held within the walls of the sacred edifice itself. The minister of Inverburn, leaving his little ones with their uncle, entered into the church, and met there many of his colleagues in the ministry, as well as others with whom he had some acquaintance.

As the stream of humanity surging towards the churchyard widened and broadened, until it seemed as if there could be no room for even one more, it was hastily decided that the proceedings should take place out of doors, in order to prevent any undue crowding in the church, and to enable as many as possible to hear and take part in the solemn service, which was to precede the signing of the Covenant.

Accordingly a table was set in the middle of the church, and thereon was laid the Bible used in the Greyfriars pulpit, and side by side with it the gigantic sheet prepared to receive the signatures of a nation. Everything being made ready, there gathered about the table the venerable Earl of Loudon, the Earl of Sutherland, Sir Archibald Johnston, the Reverend Alexander Henderson, with many other nobles and ministers and prominent personages.

Beyond that circle was gathered a vast throng, comprising every rank, age, and calling, upon whose faces, lit by a holy enthusiasm, the chill March sunlight played fitfully as it escaped through the refts in the cloudy sky. It was a wondrous sight. There was no noise, no unseemly clamourings or vain babblings; the great concourse seemed to be hushed into solemn expectancy, even the hot blood of the more passionate among them being held in curb by the strange awe-inspiring nature of this national gathering.

After a confession of national sin, an eloquent sermon was preached to the assembled multitude by one of the most gifted ministers in the Church.

Then amid a strange, deep silence Sir Archibald Johnston slowly and distinctly read aloud to the people the contents of the document to which every loyal Scot was asked to subscribe his name. It was beautifully and reverently compiled, and so simple and clear in its phraseology, that even the youngest and most illiterate person present could not fail to comprehend its meaning. It was simply a protest against all the corruptions and unholy innovations which the king sought to introduce into the service of the Church, and in signing the bond the subscribers pledged themselves solemnly before God to use every lawful means to recover and preserve the early purity and simplicity of worship in the Church of Scotland, and to resist every effort made by the king to introduce an Episcopal form of worship into the land.

When the reading of the Covenant was concluded, the Earl of London addressed the multitude in eloquent, heart-stirring tones, exhorting them to consider well the solemn and binding nature of the oath about to be taken, and impressing upon them the necessity of standing steadfast by their testimony, for not otherwise could that liberty, civil and religious, so dear to every Scottish heart, be restored and maintained in the land. One of the leading and most devoted ministers in the Church then gave utterance to a prayer, which hushed the very breathing of the assembly, and moved them as if by a mighty wind from Heaven. Amid the solemn silence which ensued, the Earl of Sutherland stepped forward, and uplifting his hand he swore the solemn oath, and then affixed the first signature to the Covenant. He was followed by nobles, ministers, citizens, men, women, and children, who subscribed name after name on the great sheet, until it could hold no more. Some, more enthusiastic than their fellows, opened veins in their arms, and wrote their names in their blood.

[Illustration: "Uplifting his hand, he swore the solemn oath"]

It was a day such as Scotland had never witnessed before, and which she will never witness again, since, thanks be to God, the need for a national covenanting to protect civil and religious rights is swallowed up in the glorious liberty of these present days.

The impressive proceedings over, the people departed peaceably to their homes.

The minister of Inverburn, with his children, abode another night under Edward Kilgour's hospitable roof-tree, and early on the second morning the little party set out upon their return journey to their home in the pleasant vale of Inverburn.

*Chapter III.*

*Forebodings Of Evil.*

It was the month of April, and all Nature was sweetly rejoicing in the wealth and beauty of a perfect spring. While spring is ever a pleasant season in rural districts, it was especially so in that rich and picturesque part of Lanarkshire which included the parish and village of Inverburn. It lay in a secluded and lovely valley, sheltered from the north and east by heather-clad hills, while to the west it commanded a magnificent and wide-stretching view of the Vale of Clyde, at the utmost limit of which the smoke from the populous city of Glasgow obscured the clear brightness of the horizon. Although the parish of Inverburn was by no means small, the village itself consisted only of a small main street and a few straggling houses in the outskirts. The only building of any pretensions was the Hamilton Arms Inn, a substantial two-storey block, with a wide, low doorway and a trellised porch set round with benches, a favourite resort for the villagers on the long summer evenings, when honest Mistress Lyall's parlour became too close and warm to be pleasant. Upon a gentle eminence about a mile removed from the village, the grey turrets of Inverburn, long time the seat of the Hamiltons, peeped out from among its ancestral trees. It was a fine, proud old place, renowned for its beauty and its antiquity even in a district where many a princely heritage reared its stately head. The graceful spire of the parish church intervened, however, between the village and the mansion. It also stood upon a gentle knoll, and was beautifully shaded by the birch trees which were known far and near as the "birks of Inverburn." The manse was close by, a grey and rambling house, just such a one to be hallowed by many precious memories of home and loved ones. It was a common saying that there had been Grays in the manse as long as there had been Hamiltons in Inverburn, so that the one family could claim equal antiquity with its prouder neighbour.

There could be no sweeter spot to live and die in than that old-fashioned country manse, standing so cosily amid its wealth of greenery, the roses and honeysuckle and sweet woodbine clambering about doors and windows with a loving clinging touch. It looked fair indeed that mild April evening, for lilac, laburnum, and hawthorn were in flower in the shrubberies, and primrose and polyanthus blooming in the old-fashioned plots before the door. The air about it was sweet and fragrant indeed; but it was more: it breathed something of the peace which dwelt ever under its roof-tree.

By the open window of the family sitting-room sat a pleasant-faced, sedate-looking young woman, busily engaged embroidering a white frock for a child. She was neatly though plainly dressed, and there was an air of precision and daintiness about her which some women acquire as they grow older, especially if they are unmarried. It was a pleasant face, as I said, yet there was a grave firmness about the mouth, a dauntless gleam in the fine clear brown eye, which betokened that Jane Gray was not without a will of her own. She looked what she was, a firm, prudent, self-reliant woman, who had known the cares as well as the joys of life. To her dying mother Jane Gray had solemnly pledged herself not to quit the roof-tree of the manse so long as her father needed her care. Both the giver and receiver of that promise had felt assured that it would not be long ere she was released from its fulfilment, because the minister of Inverburn was at that time in a precarious state of health.

But, to the joy of those who loved him, certain means prescribed by an Edinburgh physician were blessed to his complete recovery, and he seemed to receive a new lease of life. That made no alteration, however, in the resolution of the elder daughter of the manse. Very faithfully year by year she discharged her duties as mistress of her father's household. She was mother and sister in one to her brothers, and it was a question which was dearer to her heart, the broad-shouldered, bluff-mannered farmer Andrew, or gentle-voiced, scholarly, meek-minded David, minister of the neighbouring parish of Broomhill.

She had watched them go forth to their own homes, with a blessing and a tear, and she had dressed for her bridal her fair and delicate sister Agnes, who had now been for two years the wife of Adam Hepburn of Rowallan. It must not be supposed that Jane Gray had no other alternative but to remain under her father's roof-tree. Nay, it was far otherwise. Many knew and appreciated her sterling worth, and more than one had pleaded for her love. But though there came one at last who stirred her heart to its deepest depths, she shook her head. She looked at her father's white head and drooping shoulders, thought of his desolate old age, the empty, childless home she would leave behind, and, crushing down the yearnings of her heart, she answered no. Perhaps it was that experience, undreamed of by those to whom she so unselfishly ministered, which had lined her broad brow, and tinged her hair with grey before its time. Her face in its repose was apt to look sad, for it was in the stillness of an evening such as this that Jane Gray's heart was often peculiarly stirred by memories of the past. She laid down her seam at length, and leaning her arm on the sill, looked out into the flower-laden garden, which was sweet with all the lovely bloom of spring.

Just then her reverie was disturbed by a short, sharp whistle, and a light, hurried footfall coming round the approach which led down to the gate, and thence to the public road. And almost immediately a young lad came bounding over to the open window, waving his cap in the air. Jane Gray looked at the young, eager face with a kindly smile, for the eldest son of her brother Andrew was very dear to her heart. He had been sojourning for some months at the manse, his grandfather taking much pride and pleasure in forwarding him in his studies preparatory to his entering the University of Edinburgh or Glasgow, as a student of divinity. It had been his father's desire that he should follow his vocation, and by-and-by succeed him as the farmer of Hartrigge, but the lad had so early shown his distaste for outdoor labour, and his love for books, that it was evident nature intended him for a scholar.

"What is it, Gavin? You seem eager and excited," said his aunt, resuming her work.

"There is a horse and rider coming up the road, Aunt Jane, and I am sure it is the Reverend James Guthrie. It is his horse, I am quite sure, by the white foot and the white star on its forehead. Is grandfather in?"

"Yes, he is in his study; nay, do not disturb him yet, until we make sure you are right," she said, restraining the impetuous boy, as he was about to run off in search of his grandfather. "Stay, and I will walk down with you to the road, and by that time the horse and his rider, whoever he may be, will have reached the gate."

So saying, Jane Gray folded up her work, and in a minute had joined her nephew out of doors. "I cannot think that you can be right, Gavin," she said thoughtfully, "for I remember that Mr. Guthrie intended to be present at a special meeting in Edinburgh this week, and he has not yet had time to return to Stirling and come on so far as this."

"Why, there he is alighting at the gate, Aunt Jane! it is _just_ Mr. Guthrie!" exclaimed the lad, and darting forward, he was the first to greet the much-beloved minister of Stirling, and to relieve him of his horse's bridle rein.

A glow of pleasure overspread the face of Jane Gray as she advanced to meet her father's revered friend, who was almost a brother to her, so close and dear was the intimacy between the two families.

"Mr. Guthrie, it is no ordinary pleasure to see you so unexpectedly," she said, as they shook hands; nevertheless her eyes dwelt rather anxiously upon his fine face, for in these troublous and foreboding times the announcement of danger or alarm might come at any moment.

"To me also, Miss Gray; I trust I have arrived to find your honoured father under his own roof-tree.

"Oh, yes; he is busy with his sermon. It is not often a minister is far from home on a Friday evening if he is to supply his own pulpit on the Sabbath Day. We thought you had been in Edinburgh this week, Mr. Guthrie."

"So I have been; and thanks to the Lord's journeying mercies vouchsafed to his unworthy servant, I have again been brought to my father's house in safety. The lad is out of hearing, I see," he added, glancing towards Gavin, who was leading the hot and dusty steed away in the direction of his grandfather's stable, "so I may say that a strange apprehension of evil came upon me in my bed last night, and so strong was the conviction in my mind this morning that I should not long be at liberty, that I was constrained to ride over here to be encouraged and comforted by your father's sweet counsel, and, if need be, bid your family circle, who are as dear to me almost as my own kinsfolk at Guthrie, a last farewell."

The ruddy colour faded out of Jane Gray's cheeks, and her startled eye looked with alarm into the minister's face. She was astonished and relieved at its sweet serenity; evidently his gloomy convictions had not power to rob him of his tranquillity.

"The Lord forbid that a hand should be laid on you, one of His most honoured and valued servants," she said involuntarily; "but pray tell me, Mr. Guthrie, have you had any warnings that the evil men in power are jealous of your influence for good?"

"In Edinburgh, yesterday, I was told that that good and noble lord, Archibald, Marquis of Argyll, will be laid hands upon ere long. If that be so, I cannot hope to escape, for I am doubly guilty of the actions which have doomed him. If it be so, and the Lord call me to bear witness for Him on the scaffold, He will give me strength to crucify the passions and affections of the body, and to glory in suffering for His sake."

The good man's face was suffused with a holy peace and joy, but a shudder ran through Jane Gray's frame, for not yet had the scaffold become so common, and in those brutal times so desirable a mode of exit from this troublous life as it was destined to become ere long in poor stricken Scotland.

"The prayers of God's people can but be offered up on your behalf, Mr. Guthrie. Such as you can ill be spared from the vineyard in these times," said Jane Gray, earnestly. "But now, let us tarry no longer out of doors; I am sure you stand in need of refreshment after your long ride."

Ere he crossed the threshold, the minister, as was his wont, raised his eyes to Heaven and reverently invoked a benediction in the words of the apostle of old: "Peace be to this house."

Having shown her guest into the sitting-room, Jane Gray sent Betty the maid to tap at the minister's door and tell him the Reverend James Guthrie, from Stirling, had arrived at the manse. Betty, or Elizabeth McBean, had served with the Grays since her girlhood, and her love for the family was only exceeded by her intense love and devotion to the Kirk of Scotland, and her intense hatred to every form of religion alien to the sound Presbyterianism of her forefathers.

While Jane Gray with her own hands set about preparing some refreshment for the guest, the minister, her father, left his study with joyful haste, and entering the family room, very warmly greeted his friend and brother-minister, whom he had known and loved these many years. There was a great change in the minister of Inverburn since that memorable time three-and-twenty years before, when he had visited Edinburgh, and witnessed with his brethren for the Covenant in the Kirk of the Greyfriars.

His tall, spare figure was now much stooped, his face worn and wrinkled, his eye, though still bright and clear, far sunken in his head, his long hair and flowing beard as white as the driven snow. He looked a patriarch indeed, and the serene and heavenly expression on his face, his kindly smile, and sweet fatherliness of manner and tone were calculated to inspire the deepest reverence and love.

"Bless the Lord, I am again permitted to look upon your face, my brother!" he said, as he warmly and fervently grasped Mr. Guthrie's hand. "But I trust no untoward circumstances prompt your unlooked-for visit. In these troublous times we are all as watchers on the house-top."

"I was but saying to your daughter, Mr. Gray, that it was a presentiment of evil which brought me here to-night," replied the minister of Stirling. "I only returned from Edinburgh yesterday, and what I heard there augured ill for the peace of Zion. It is rumoured that the Marquis of Argyll is no longer safe, so the king's emissaries are not to be satisfied with common prey."

"I can hardly credit the truth of such rumours, Mr. Guthrie," replied the minister of Inverburn. "Gratitude for past invaluable services should render his person sacred in the eyes of the king."

An expression of mild scorn passed over Mr. Guthrie's face.

"Gratitude is a word not found in the vocabulary of the House of Stuart," he said, quietly. "The Marquis, I am told, leaves for London on Monday, to offer his congratulations to the king on his restoration. I fear me he takes the journey at his own great risk."

"If need be the Lord will hold His sheltering arm over him, Mr. Guthrie," said the minister of Inverburn, cheerfully. "No man, either prince or peasant, shall die before the appointed time. But here comes Jane with your refreshment. I hope it is not your intention to quit the roof-tree of the manse before the dawning of another day."

"If convenient for Miss Jane I will very gladly stay," answered Mr. Guthrie. "As troubles thicken round us, opportunities for sweet counsel together, though more sorely needed, will become more limited, I fear. And now, are all your kinsfolk at Hartrigge and Rowallan well? and is the kirk at Broomhill prospering under David's ministrations?"

"Verily the Lord hath been pleased to greatly bless the lad in his labours," said the minister of Inverburn, in tones of satisfaction. "Here comes young Gavin Gray, in whose studies I take a deep interest. Here Gavin, lad, come and speak to the Reverend Mr. Guthrie, and behold in him the pattern of what I one day hope to see you become."

The bright, happy-faced boy came forward frankly, and was again addressed cordially by the minister of Stirling.

"I have been thinking, father," said Jane Gray's pleasant voice in the doorway, "that Gavin might saddle Donald, and carry word of Mr. Guthrie's visitation both to his father's house, and to his uncle and aunt at Rowallan. Andrew and Susan, I am sure, would be greatly rejoiced to come over to the manse. They could drive round in their little cart to Rowallan, and bring over Adam and Agnes with them."

"A very good suggestion, my daughter," said Mr. Gray. "You hear what your aunt says, Gavin," he added to the lad. "Run and get Donald saddled and if you ride quickly they can all be here before the evening is far spent."

Gavin, nothing loth, at once obeyed his grandfather's behest, and was soon scampering along the road towards Hartrigge.

*Chapter IV.*

*The Minister'S Children.*

The farm of Hartrigge, where abode the minister's eldest son, was one of the largest holdings on the estate of Inverburn. Andrew Gray had entered it on his marriage, seventeen years before, and was therefore drawing near the expiry of his lease. Having been trained as a practical farmer, he had converted the somewhat poverty-stricken acres into rich and fertile soil. He was a careful, prudent man himself, and, having married Susan Baillie (the daughter of the farmer under whom he had learned his business), one eminently fitted to be a true helpmeet to him in every way, he was a prosperous, and might even be called a rich man.

In disposition he was not nearly so lovable as his brother, the minister of Broomhill. He was by nature rather harsh and stern, and, though his anger was not easily kindled, it was a slow and deadly fire which did not quickly burn out. Had his wife not been of a singularly sweet and amiable temperament, Hartrigge would not have been such a happy, peaceable household as it was. And yet Andrew Gray was a sincerely good man, rather austere in his religious views, perhaps, but ardently attached to the Church of Scotland, and passionately jealous regarding all her ancient privileges. Four children had blessed Hartrigge with the sunshine of their presence--Gavin, the eldest; then Jane, a quiet douce maiden of fourteen; then merry, rattling Sandy; and sweet, winsome, gentle-eyed little Agnes, whom they called Nannie, to distinguish her from her namesake aunt at Rowallan.

Hartrigge was distant about two miles from the manse, the road leading in a southerly direction through rich and beautiful scenery, exquisitely varied by all the changing tints of spring. Here the tender, delicate green of the beech showed in sharp relief against some sombre fir; again the silver buds on the chestnut gleamed side by side with the brighter hue of the larch and the mountain ash. Cowslip and daisy dotted every grassy slope, and the hedgerows already were gleaming white with hawthorn bloom--so early had the summer burst in fragrance on the earth.

About a mile beyond the massive stone gateway which gave entrance to the grounds surrounding the mansion-house of Inverburn, a low white gate shut out intruders from the private road leading to Hartrigge. This familiar barrier Donald took at a bound, and in five minutes afterwards was galloping round the path which cut through the fir wood surrounding the house. It was a substantial dwelling, of plain and sober aspect, befitting its inmates, and, though there was ample garden ground in front, there were no flowers blooming sweetly as in the manse garden. Everything was austerely neat, simple, and plain. Gavin rode the pony round to the kitchen door, and, dismounting, tied the rein to a projecting hook placed in the wall for that purpose. Then he bounded into the house, It was milking-time, and the maids were in the byre (cowhouse), and he knew that his mother would be upstairs putting the younger ones to bed, for everything moved by clockwork in that most methodical of houses. The sound of voices in the ben-end (parlour) proclaimed that his father was giving Jeanie her evening lesson, which Gavin boldly interrupted.

"Grandfather sent me to bid mother and you come to the manse, father," he said, impetuously. "Mr. Guthrie from Stirling is here, and would like to see you. And I am to go to Rowallan and tell Uncle Adam and Aunt Agnes to be ready to drive down with you when you come for them."

Andrew Gray closed his book and rose to his feet, with a gleam of interest brightening his rugged face. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose physique was suggestive of giant strength, while his keen, stern black eye and massive jaw indicated an indomitable will. He was plainly dressed in rough homespun, and looked what he was--a substantial, well-to-do Clydesdale farmer.

"Mr. James Guthrie! Surely his coming was not anticipated, Gavin," he said in tones of surprise. "Was your grandfather very pressing? It is somewhat late to leave the house to-night."

"Yes; I believe it is something special, father, and I must away. Well, Jeanie, have you learned to milk Mysie yet?" he added, teasingly, to the quiet-faced little maiden, who was being initiated into all the household ways.

"Yes, I can milk her fine, Gavin, all but the strippings!" she answered, proudly. "Are you going away already?"

At that moment Mrs. Gray, having heard Gavin's voice upstairs, entered the room. She was a comely, pleasant-faced woman, with shrewd, grey eyes, in which shone a kindly, and at times very humorous gleam. She looked very young to be the mother of her tall son, for her figure was well preserved, and even graceful, her cheeks red and bonnie, as they had been in her girlhood. She appeared much pleased to hear of the invitation to the manse, and at once said they could go, for Sandy and Nannie were asleep, and Margaret, the more responsible of the two maids, could very well see to the house in their absence. So after another teasing word to Jeanie, a run upstairs to look at Sandy and Nannie sleeping in their beds, Gavin mounted Donald again, and turned his head into the field-path which led straight to Rowallan.

If Hartrigge was noted for its simplicity and absence of all outer adornments, Rowallan was renowned for the exquisite beauty of its natural situation and surroundings, as well as for the taste with which the little garden was laid out and kept.

Hartrigge stood upon a somewhat bleak and barren hill. Rowallan was sheltered in a cosy hollow, protected on every side from every wind that blew. It also formed a part of the lands of Inverburn, but was considerably smaller in extent than its neighbour.

And yet it had sufficed as a dwelling-place and livelihood for the Hepburns for generations. There had been an Adam Hepburn in Rowallan as far back as the country folk could remember or tell, and an Adam Hepburn of Rowallan had left his ploughshare at the call of patriotism, and had met his death on the fateful field of Flodden; an Adam Hepburn had signed the Covenant at Edinburgh, three-and-twenty years before, and though he was now gathered to his fathers, there was an Adam Hepburn in Rowallan still. True friends and generous foes the Hepburns had ever been, faithful to their plighted word, scorning the very name of meanness or dishonour. A wild, passionate impetuous temper was the family failing, and yet for deeds done, or words spoken in the heat of anger, they were ever ready to make amends. Although Adam Hepburn was married to Agnes Gray, her brother Andrew, at Hartrigge, had never taken kindly to him. Both were good men, and yet there was a strange antipathy between them, and it was better that they should not meet often. There was nothing of rigid solemn austerity about Adam Hepburn, and he often indulged in good-humoured banter against his brother-in-law's solemnity; yet none could have a truer reverence for things divine than Adam Hepburn. Under the gay exterior there was a deeper, more earnest current of feeling, which kept him in the paths of righteousness and peace. Both Uncle Adam and Aunt Agnes were almost worshipped by the young folk at Hartrigge, and also by the little Hepburns, the children of Adam's brother, who was a well-to-do merchant in the town of Lanark. Even manse Donald himself seemed to know and love the way to Rowallan, for he fairly capered and whinnied with delight when he came in sight of the cosy homestead at the foot of its sheltering hill. It was indeed a sweet spot. The house was whitewashed, and built in a low, rambling style, with many a quaint gable and window, about which crept green and lovely creepers, as well as time-honoured honeysuckle and wild-rose. A little lawn in front sloped down to a broad swift-running stream, which had its being in the hill to the east of the house, and which danced merrily over its pebbly bed on its way to join the noble Clyde. In the stillness of the April evening its bosom was broken by many a circling eddy, where the lusty trout leaped up to catch the buzzing insects which hummed in the drowsy air.

Catching sight of his aunt standing in the doorway, Gavin waved his cap, a salutation to which she replied by fluttering her white handkerchief in the breeze. And as if in response to a word from her, her husband joined her outside, and they came slowly along the path to meet the messenger. They were a goodly pair. Adam Hepburn stood six feet in his stockings, and his tall figure was well-built and splendidly proportioned, while his fine head, with its clustering, chestnut curls, was set firmly on his shoulders, giving the idea of strength and resolution as well as manly beauty. His face was sunny, open, and honest as the day; his keen, blue eye, with its humorous gleam, his firm yet tender mouth, redeemed the face from any harshness which the strongly-marked features might otherwise have given. His wife had fulfilled all the gentle promise of her girlhood. She was a sweet, shy, shrinking woman, such as makes the sunshine of home for one, but who is lost sight of in the busier ways of life. She was like the gentle lily-of-the-vale, breathing forth in her quiet life an unseen but exquisite perfume, which shed its influence on all around it. Of her husband's strong, deep, yearning love for her I cannot write; it was the passion of his life, and she was indeed the very desire of his heart and the apple of his eye. And she loved him, if less demonstratively, as truly and tenderly as such women do.

"Hullo, youngster, how have you and Donald managed to escape from the manse so late?" queried Uncle Adam when the pony and its rider were within a hundred yards or so of them, while Aunt Agnes gently hoped that he brought no bad news. Gavin delivered his message, which seemed to be very acceptable to both, and they signified their willingness and pleasure to prepare themselves against the arriving of the conveyance from Hartrigge. Then he turned Donald's head once more, and trotted rapidly back to the manse. About eight of the clock the conveyance arrived also, and all the minister's family with the exception of David, whose absence all deplored, were gathered under his roof-tree. Mr. Guthrie had not yet seen the husband whom Agnes Gray had married, and he was greatly taken with his pleasant manner and fine open face. Of the daughters of the manse the younger had ever been his favourite, because she reminded him of a dear sister of his own he had lost in early life. After the usual greetings, the talk turned upon the one absorbing topic of interest--the Church and her affairs, together with the evil doings of the two men, Middleton and Sharp, who held in their hands the reins of Scottish Government, and who seemed determined to exercise their power to the suppression of both civil and religious liberty in the land.

While the minister of Stirling fearlessly expressed his opinion regarding these matters, for all under the roof-tree of the manse were true as steel, it might have been observed with what deep and breathless interest Andrew Gray of Hartrigge hung upon every word, and how, at some revelation of tyranny and injustice hitherto unknown to him, he clenched his hands, and the veins on his forehead stood out like knotted cords. It was easy to see that when the approaching crisis came he would be found in the hottest forefront of the battle.

"I am of opinion, my friends, that there should be a day set apart for the nation to humble herself before the God of nations, lest it be through any backsliding or lukewarmness of her own that these ominous things are happening in her midst," said the minister, thoughtfully; "there had need to be a reviving of the covenanting spirit among us. In these times how many are sitting at their ease in Zion, while her very bulwarks are assailed by the sons of Belial."

"Could you not move such a resolution at the first meeting of your Presbytery, Mr. Guthrie, an example which I also would follow upon the eighteenth of May in my own Presbytery of Lanark?" suggested the minister of Inverburn.

Mr. Guthrie remained for a few minutes silent, while his countenance wore an expression of deep seriousness and settled conviction.

"If I be still in the body and at liberty, brother, I will indeed act upon your suggestion," he said at length.

"Why, Mr. Guthrie, do you fear that you may be laid hands on?" quoth Adam Hepburn, impetuously. "Surely the ill men in power would never venture upon sic an offence."

"There is no offence too heinous to be committed by those who sell their souls to Satan, young man," said the minister, mildly. "Will you bring the Book, Miss Jane, and we will comfort ourselves for a little season with the precious Word of His grace. It may be the last time we will have so sweet a privilege together."

Nothing loth, Jane Gray lifted the Book from its honoured place and laid it before the minister of Stirling. He read an appropriate portion of Scripture, and commented thereon in his own eloquent and persuasive style. Then the minister of Inverburn led the devotions of the little gathering, and so devout and impressive were these exercises that all felt that Jesus was indeed Himself in their midst. The memory of that night remained very sweet and precious in their hearts when Mr. Guthrie's prediction was fulfilled, and there were few opportunities for Christian fellowship permitted to God's people. When they parted for the night Mr. Guthrie bade them all a solemn farewell, knowing in his inmost heart that they should meet no more on earth.

*Chapter V.*

*The First Martyrs.*

As several weeks passed, and Mr. Guthrie was still left to peaceable ministrations in his church and parish, his friends at Inverburn began to hope that his direful prophesies regarding his own fate might, after all, prove themselves to be but vain imaginings. The most noble Marquis of Argyll repaired to London according to arrangements, in response to the urgent solicitations of the king that he should present himself at Court, and for a space nothing was heard of him.

In the month of August a number of the ministers met in Edinburgh, by special appointment, for the purpose of drawing up a petition to the king. The Reverend Mr. Gray of Inverburn had hoped and expected to be present at that gathering, but was prevented by a severe chill caught after a long walk in the heat of the day. As it afterwards turned out, it appeared as if the Lord had specially preserved him in safety at home, for no sooner was the conference gathered together in Edinburgh than they were all apprehended, with the exception of one who very miraculously escaped. They were first imprisoned in the Castle of Edinburgh, but Mr. Guthrie was afterwards removed to Stirling Castle, as if to be taunted with his confinement in the place where he had long exercised so much liberty both of person and conscience. And so desolation and mourning fell upon the people of Stirling because of the strange and grievous affliction which had befallen their minister.

A very bountiful harvest blessed Scotland that year; nevertheless it was ingathered with a strange foreboding that ere long the dark cloud of want and misery would overshadow the now plentiful and peaceful land.

One evening early in the bleak month of December, when the minister of Inverburn was returning from visiting a sick parishioner, a shepherd among the hills beyond Rowallan, he met the laird riding between the manse gate and the entrance to Inverburn. Sir Thomas Hamilton was a fine, handsome-looking man, but, owing to his haughty and overbearing manner and his well-known leanings towards the side of Prelacy, he was not greatly beloved in the parish. The minister gravely and courteously saluted him, but, somewhat to his surprise, the laird drew rein, with the intention of speaking to him.

"Good evening, Mr. Gray. I have been to the manse seeking you," he said in his quick, imperious way. "Having missed you there, I am fortunate in meeting you. You were preaching in your own kirk on the Sabbath Day, I am told?"

"I was, Sir Thomas," answered the minister, in tones of mild surprise.

"And they tell me you preached a very disloyal discourse, calculated to stir up strife against the king and his honourable counsellors and representatives in Scotland," said the laird, with a peculiar smile.

"Nay, Sir Thomas; whoever carried such a tale to you grievously and wilfully misrepresented me," said the minister, quietly. "I said that these were woeful and troublous times for the Kirk and country, when such good men as James Guthrie of Stirling were imprisoned for fearlessly advocating the principles of civil and religious liberty, and protesting against the many strange and heathenish innovations which the king, through his representatives, is seeking to force into the worship of the Kirk of Scotland."

"Heathenish! By the powers, Andrew Gray, have a care, and keep a better bridle on thy prating tongue, or it will get thee into mischief yet," said the laird, rudely. "The time is coming when a man may get his mouth closed for less."

"Nay, it now is," said the minister, mournfully. "Truly, I know not whither this poor country is drifting nor what will become of her Church, unless the God of the Covenant stretch out to her a helping hand."

"See here, Andrew Gray," said the laird, leaning down from his saddle and speaking in very significant tones; "you are a prating old fool. Let me advise you, for your own safety and that of your household, to take a leaf out of the book of your neighbour, the minister of Lochlee. He is a wise man, now, who can seal his lips and obey the reasonable desires of the king, without making so much ado."

"You speak truly, Sir Thomas. John Methven is indeed a wise man for this present life, but woe is me for the lustre of his crown in glory. I fear me the fear of man is much more before his mind than the fear of God."

"But tell me, Andrew Gray," said the laird, impatiently, "what harm can there be in using the new prayer book in the service of the Church? It is a very holy and good book, and there is nothing in it even to offend the most fastidious taste."

"It savours too strongly of the popish breviary, Sir Thomas, besides being the thin end of the wedge which will drive the pure worship of God from every Scottish pulpit. As such I humbly pray it may be as resolutely kept without the church doors as it has been hitherto," returned the minister, fearlessly.

"I tell you, Andrew Gray, it is useless to resist the will of the king, who has might as well as right upon his side. And think you that when such men as Archibald of Argyll are not reckoned too high in influence and station to be punished for treason, that the king will regard with leniency lesser lights like you?"

The minister started.

"Then the spirit of prophecy which was vouchsafed to James Guthrie has had its double fulfilment and His Grace is a fellow-captive with his ministerial brethren?" he said sadly.

"Even so," replied the laird. "I have had intelligence from London that Argyll is confined in the Tower, awaiting trial for treason. I tell you this in confidence, to warn you, Andrew Gray, for, obstinate though you be, I have no desire to see any harm befall your grey hairs. And take my word for it, Episcopacy must sooner or later be established in Scotland, and it is simple madness to attempt to swim against the tide."

With these significant words the Laird of Inverburn gave his horse the rein, and rode rapidly away, leaving the minister to pursue his solitary way in sad meditation over the difficulties and dangers daily thickening round the path of God's people.

Turning a bend in the road, he beheld in the distance the figure of his son David, the minister of Broomhill, advancing to meet him. He was not surprised, having been duly apprised of his intention to come with his wife and child that day to spend a brief season at the manse. David Gray was now a tall and fine-looking man, although his figure was very slim and slenderly built, and his face wore that thoughtful and even careworn aspect common to the scholar and the earnest minister of the Gospel. Although only in his thirty-fifth year, his black locks were already tinged with grey, and there were not a few wrinkles on his high and thoughtful brow.

A warm greeting passed between father and son, mutual inquiries for each other's health and welfare, and then both plunged into the subject which was occupying the minds of all thinking people at that time. They walked slowly on to the manse, engaged in earnest discussion, and were so deeply absorbed that they stood outside the door, heedless of the chill and biting evening air, until Jane Gray, hearing voices, came and peremptorily ordered them in.

In the family room David Gray's wife was sitting by the hearth with her baby on her knee. She was a fair-faced, flaxen-haired young woman, without much depth of character or soundness of understanding. She was the only daughter of a little laird, in the parish of Broomhill, and had been brought up to think of little except her own pretty face. She was not in any way fitted to be the wife of a minister, especially of such a one as David Gray, and many had marvelled at his choice. The Grays had not much approved his marriage with her, but seeing his heart was set upon the maiden, they had kept their thoughts to themselves, and hoped that under his influence Lilian Burnet would become a better woman.

"And how is it with thee, my daughter?" queried the minister of Inverburn in his fatherly manner, and at the same time laying his hand in blessing on the fair head of the child sleeping on her knee.

"Oh I am very well, grandfather," she answered, flippantly; "and glad to come here for a change. David has harped so long about coming to the manse of Inverburn. I wanted to go home to my father's house at Haughhead and let him come alone, but he would not listen to me."

The minister readily guessed the cause of his son's desire to separate his wife as much as possible from the influence of her own kinsfolk. Although they followed an outward form of Presbyterianism they were at heart attached to Episcopacy, solely because it was the form of religion most favoured then by royalty and great folk, for whom the needy Burnets had a great admiration. In the presence of Mrs. David Gray there was not much said anent the affairs of the Church; but as there were many other matters relating to family and social life interesting to them, the conversation did not flag. Also, later in the evening, Adam Hepburn and his wife walked over from Rowallan and joined the family circle at the manse. And so the night sped on swift and pleasant wings.

Next day Betty McBean's brother, a carrier by trade, and who had been at Edinburgh on some errands for various people in the parish, brought word to the manse that the Marquis of Argyll had been brought a close prisoner by sea from London to Leith, and was confined in Edinburgh Castle. So the laird's statement, which Mr. Gray had partly disbelieved, was true after all. It was with deep anxiety that Mr. Gray, in common with all other God-fearing people throughout Scotland, awaited the results which must follow upon these significant proceedings.

On the 13th of February the Marquis of Argyll was arraigned before the bar of the Parliament in Edinburgh, charged with high treason. The evidence against him was of a very slender character, and was chiefly made up of a number of vile and baseless slanders gathered together for his condemnation. Upon the 20th of the same month the Reverend James Guthrie was put upon his trial, charged with a similar offence. But the real cause of offence against these two great and good men was that they were the two most influential Protestants in Scotland, and must therefore be removed out of the way.

Therefore both, after a mockery of a trial, were put on their defence, which not being satisfactory to their base accusers and unjust and perjured judges, they were both condemned to die, Argyll on the 28th of May, and Mr. Guthrie on the 1st of June. When the grievous news was brought to Inverburn, Mr. Gray at once rose and prepared himself for a journey to Edinburgh, in order to be present with his beloved friend during the last days of his life, to comfort him with the sweet counsel of brotherly and Christian sympathy. Jane Gray saw her aged father depart with some forebodings of mind, and was indeed moved to tears, as she bade him God-speed and farewell.

"Weep not for me, my daughter," said the minister, sadly, "but rather for our harassed and persecuted land. Know, Jane, that except it be of the Lord's good pleasure, wicked men shall not lay a hand upon me. And if his friends desert him in his hour of need, the soul of the Lord's servant may sink within him in his extremity."

Owing to his age and somewhat infirm health, the minister of Inverburn found it impossible to make the journey in one day, and had therefore to rest by the way at the house of a friend, about fifteen miles west from Edinburgh. And on the following morning he rode with speed into Edinburgh, arriving about noon at the house of his brother-in-law, in the Grass-market. His sister Jane was now dead, but her one child, grown to womanhood, ministered with kind heart and capable hands to her father's wants. The minister was warmly greeted by Ailie Kilgour and her father and made heartily welcome under their roof-tree. As was to be expected, the merchant was able to furnish his brother-in-law with all the particulars of the two trials, which had occasioned such excitement and sorrowful indignation in the city. He also assured him that he would have no difficulty in obtaining access to Mr. Guthrie, because he had been allowed to enjoy the fellowship of several friends, as well as some of his kinsfolk from Guthrie. So, before the day was spent, Mr. Gray betook himself to the tolbooth, or gaol, and was without ado admitted to the presence of his condemned friend. As was natural, the minister of Inverburn expected to find him somewhat cast down, for he was not yet stricken in years, and had many sweet ties to bind him to life; but he was agreeably surprised to find him not only composed and cheerful, but encompassed with a holy joy, a blessed and wondrous serenity, which seemed to have been specially vouchsafed to him from above.

"Ah, friend Gray," he said, as he affectionately embraced him, "hast thou come to see how our God can uphold His servants in the very swelling of Jordan? Wicked men can lay hands on and torment this poor body indeed, for which I am not ungrateful, since they will do me a good turn by giving me a quicker introduction to my Father's house, where are many mansions."

In that state of mind Mr. Guthrie continued up to his execution. Nor was the Marquis of Argyll less wonderfully upheld in his extremity. He died upon the Monday with triumphant courage, and it seemed as if the Lord's arm were veritably around him.

On the Friday following Mr. Guthrie followed his illustrious fellow-sufferer into glory. The minister of Inverburn was among those who accompanied him to the scaffold, and who witnessed (not without a passing feeling of envy, that he had reached the end of his troubles) the holy and triumphant joy with which he met the King of Terrors.

His last words, "The Covenants will yet be Scotland's reviving," were destined to be gloriously fulfilled, but not until the blood of the saints, of which his was but the earnest, was made to run like water on the ground.

*Chapter VI.*

*A Thorn In The Flesh.*

On a dreary October afternoon in the year 1662, David Gray, the minister of Broomhill, was sitting in the study in his own manse, with his arms leaning on the table, and his face wearing an expression of deep perplexity and care.

That very day had been published the proclamation drawn up by the Privy Council in Glasgow, commanding the ministers to own the power of the newly-appointed bishops, and to accept anew presentations of their livings at the hands of the prelates within four weeks, on pain of being immediately, with their families, ejected from their manses, livings, and parishes, beyond even the very bounds of their Presbyteries.

In a sore strait was the minister of Broomhill that day. In his own mind there was not the slightest hesitation as to the course to be pursued; he had already refused to own the power of the Bishop of Glasgow, in whose diocese was the parish of Broomhill. The trouble lay not with his own conscience; it was connected with his wife and her kinsfolk, who had already made his life miserable with their reproaches concerning what they termed his obstinacy and bigoted Presbyterianism. She was not yet aware of this new proclamation, and the minister bethought himself that he might try to enlist her sympathies on his side before she was influenced by her friends at Haughhead. Accordingly he rose from his chair, and went to the living-room in search of his wife. Hearing his foot in the passage, his little daughter, now able to run alone, came toddling to meet him, and stooping, the father raised her in his arms and passionately clasped her to his heart. Her little arms met fondly round his neck, her rosy cheek was pressed lovingly to his; the grave disturbed look on her father's face could not awe or frighten the little one, for he was her father still. That sweet caress did the heart of the minister good, and he entered the inner room with a lighter step than that with which he had left his study. Another child, a little son, just three months old, lay in the wooden cradle which the young mother was gently rocking with her foot, while over her sewing she crooned a lullaby to hush the babe to rest. She looked up at her husband's entrance, and slightly smiled in recognition.

"Is the child asleep? can we talk here, Lilian?" he asked in a whisper.

"Yes, he is very sound now, and will not awake for an hour," she answered. "What is it you have to say?"

For answer he drew from an inner pocket a copy of the proclamation and handed it for her perusal. She carelessly glanced it over and laid it aside, while a peculiar little smile touched her red lips.

"I am not surprised; my father has always said the Government would resort to more extreme measures. Well, would it not have been better to have owned the bishop's sway of your free will, without being hunted and compelled to do it like this?" she asked.

The tone of her voice as well as her words went to her husband's heart like a knife. He wearily passed his hand across his brow, and offered up a silent prayer for guidance and strength to stand firm in the struggle he knew was at hand.

"When I refused to own the bishop of my own free will, as you say, Lilian, do you think it a likely thing that such an edict, compiled by a few drunken and infamous men, will compel me to it? Middleton and his underlings have mistaken the men with whom they have to deal," he said, quietly, yet with unmistakable firmness.

His wife lifted her light blue eyes to his face, with a look of incredulous wonder on her own.

"Do you really mean that you would sooner bear the penalty than obey, David Gray?" she asked.

"The penalty I would bear gladly if it did not involve breaking up our home. I doubt not the Lord will guide my feet in the right way. If He shows me that it is my duty to endure hardship for His sake, will my wife not willingly endure with me? On such a vital question, Lilian, we cannot, dare not be divided!" said the minister, hoarsely.

Lilian Gray shrugged her slender shoulders, and an expression of scorn somewhat marred the childish beauty of her face.

"None but a madman, David, would give up a comfortable manse and a good stipend for such a small thing; but doubtless though your folly should render your wife and children homeless, it would not greatly exercise your spirit. But I am glad to think that my father's house will not be closed against me," she said, pettishly, and turned her face away from her husband.

The minister groaned in the anguish of his spirit for his shallow-hearted wife tried him to the utmost limit of endurance. Before he had time to frame an answer to her most unfeeling speech, there came a loud knocking to the outer door, and presently he heard the voice of his father-in-law, Gilbert Burnet of Haughhead, enquiring whether he was within. So he turned upon his heel, and, quitting the room, met his father-in-law in the hall. Opening the study door, he motioned him to enter therein, for he saw well enough that it was the proclamation which had brought him to the manse. Burnet of Haughhead was a little burly man, of very self-important and consequential demeanour, for, in truth, he thought himself of no mean importance in the parish, and considered that he had greatly honoured the minister of Broomhill in giving him his daughter to wife.

"I see by your face, son-in-law, that you have already received notification of the august decree concerning the bishops and the ministers," he said, in a facetious voice. "Ha! ha! they are to be dealt with like refractory schoolboys now--mastered or expelled."

David Gray turned his head away with a swift gesture, for he was tempted to speak somewhat unbecomingly to the father of his wife. Such jesting and mocking allusion to such a serious matter were more than painful to him; nay, he could scarcely endure it in patience.

"Would it not have been a much more satisfactory state of things had you quietly acquiesced in the desires of the king, without having to be brought under this humiliating ban?" said Haughhead presently. "You are still a young man, and ought to have been guided by the counsels of your elders."

"Mr. Burnet, do you think that, though still a young man, I have neither opinions nor conscience of my own?" enquired David Gray, hotly, for his quick temper was touched by the manner and words addressed to him.

"A conscience is a very good thing within certain bounds, young man," said Gilbert Burnet, drily. "I suppose now you will be halting still betwixt two alternatives. Perhaps the wording of the Act is not yet plain enough for your understanding."

"Sir, I know not why you should address such insulting and extraordinary remarks to me. I fear I must have fallen far short of my profession as a minister of the Gospel that you should entertain for me so small a measure of respect," said the minister of Broomhill, with quiet but rebuking dignity. "I am halting betwixt no two alternatives. As I have hitherto refused to acknowledge the bishop as the head of the Church, so I refuse still, at any cost. Come what may, I humbly pray that I may be accounted worthy to suffer for Him who is the true and only head of the Church on earth."

A flush of anger overspread the face of Gilbert Burnet.

"So, sir, it was for this I gave my daughter to you," he said slowly. "Know this, if you still persist in your mad and bigoted resolve, I will remove her and her children to my own house of Haughhead, and you will see them no more."

"You have no power to do that, sir, except Lilian go with you of her own free will," said the minister, quietly. "I cannot think that she would consent to be entirely separated from me."

"We will see, we will see," fumed the irate Laird of Haughhead. "I will away home, and see what her mother says to it; no, I'll not wait to see Lilian, so good day to you, David Gray."

So saying, the Laird abruptly quitted the manse, and rode away in anger to his own house of Haughhead. In his deep perplexity and sadness, the heart of the minister turned with a strange, deep yearning to his own kinsfolk at the manse of Inverburn. So, as the day was not yet far spent, he saddled his sturdy cob, and rode away by the wild hill paths, in the bleak December weather, to his father's house. The way he took was much shorter than the public high road, the distance not exceeding five miles, so that he came within sight of the roofs of Inverburn before darkness fell. He carefully guided his steed down a very steep mountain path, and from the valley into which he descended he had a good view of his brother Andrew's house of Hartrigge on the summit of the opposite height. He could either continue his course along the valley, which would bring him by a somewhat roundabout way to the village, or climb the hill to Hartrigge, and thence reach the high road, a little to the south of the entrance to Inverburn. He bethought him that he might as well look in at Hartrigge, and enquire for the welfare of its inmates; therefore he urged his horse to make the steep ascent, and in a short space of time the animal's hoofs made a clatter on the path outside the house, and brought Andrew Gray to the door.

"David, is that indeed you in person?" he exclaimed in surprise, and hastened to relieve him of his bridle rein. "No ill news, I hope, brings you so far from home this bleak night."

"No worse news than has come to many another household this day, Andrew," replied the minister, with a sigh. "I am on my way to the manse, so you need not stable Charlie. He will stand quiet enough if he hears my voice, or if you could send one of your lads to hold him till I step in and ask for Susan and the bairns, that will suffice."

"Gavin is in the house; he has been biding with us these three days; go in and send him out," said Andrew Gray. But there was no need, for presently the lad Gavin appeared in person at the door, looking surprised and pleased to see his uncle.

"Well, Gavin, lad?" said the minister, kindly, and after shaking him by the hand passed into the house. Mrs Gray rose from her spinning-wheel to greet her brother-in-law, her comely face smiling her hearty welcome. "Come away in, David," she said in her own cheery fashion. "Hoo's a' wi' ye? Is Lily and the bairns well?"

"All well, thank you, Susan," said the minister, bending to pat, first Sandy's woolly head, and then wee Nannie's sunny curls; and he had a kind word too for douce Jeanie, who was sitting demurely by the spinning-wheel. It was a picture of quiet family happiness and contentment, soon, alas! to be looked for in vain throughout the length and breadth of bonnie Scotland.

"Doubtless you have heard concerning the new proclamation?" said the minister, turning enquiringly to his brother, who had followed him into the room.

Hartrigge nodded, and a gleam shot through his fearless eye, telling that it had roused and stirred his innermost being.

"Have you seen our father to-day?"

"Yes, and I was amazed at his serenity. Jane feels it worse than him, and Betty McBean is the worst of them all. When I was in she was audibly wishing she had her hands about Middleton's neck, and her mouth at Sharp's ear. I'll warrant she wouldna spare them," said Andrew Gray, with a grim smile.

"Eh, man, David, they's awful times for folk tae live in," said Aunt Susan, in a kind of wail. "I declare it makes a body lie doon i' their bed at nicht wi' fear an' tremblin', no kenin' what strange and waefu' thing may happen afore the daw'in'."

"You speak truly, Susan, and I fear the worse is not yet," said the minister, gravely. "My father, then, has quite made up his mind concerning his course of action?" he added to his brother.

"Of course; there is but one way open to every single-hearted servant of God," said Andrew Gray with heaving chest and flashing eye. "I would the day were here, and it is surely coming, when the people of Scotland, roused to a sense of their own wrongs will take arms in defence of their liberties."

"Wheesht, Andrew! Wheesht, wheesht!" said his wife, looking round in terror, as if expecting her husband would be laid hands on then and there for such rebellious words. "Dinna speak that way. We maun bear afore we fecht. Peace is better than war."

"Spoken like a woman, Susan," said her husband, with his grim smile. "But there is peace which means degradation and dishonour, as well as war, which is honourable and richt. Must you go already, David? I wouldna mind yoking the beast and following ye to the manse."

"Let me go too, father," called out Gavin's shrill eager tones from the doorstep, where he had been a breathless listener to what was passing. The lad, young as he was, had as deep and heartfelt an interest in public affairs as his elders, and he was as intelligent in his interest as any of them all.

His father did not say him nay, but directly the minister rode away, sent him to get out their own horse and cart.

Betty McBean answered the minister's knock at the manse door, and at sight of the younger son of the manse, threw up her hands and burst into a loud wail.

"Eh, Maister Dauvit, man, come awa'! It's a waefu' hoose ye're comin' intil the nicht; it'll be the last time ye'll cross in safety the doorstane o' the manse," she exclaimed, incoherently. "Eh, sir, they bluidy and perjured monsters wha hae sold themsels tae Sautan for the persecution o' the servants o' the Maist High. Tae think they wad tak' the very rooftree frae above focks' heids, the very flure frae under their feet, and cast them oot intae the howlin' wilderness, because they'll no----"

The old woman's incoherent ramblings were here interrupted by Jane Gray, who, hearing the great commotion of Betty's shrill tongue, came out to see what was the matter, and at sight of her brother, her tears also flowed afresh. Her face was pale and anxious-looking, her eyes already red with weeping. The minister of Broomhill held her hand long in his fervent grip, and said tremblingly,

"God go with and comfort you, my sister, as He had need to comfort us all in this desolation."

Then the twain entered the study where their father sat, and at sight of that aged face, so peaceful and benignant in its expression, David Gray felt rebuked and ashamed.

"David, my son, my heart was much with you. You are very welcome to your father's house this night," said the old man, in significant tones.

For a moment David Gray was unable to speak, but sat him down by the hearthstone in utter silence. It was broken at last by the reverent tones of his father's voice.

"If we must go forth from our heritage, David, it is the Lord's will. Let us see to it that, instead of vain grumbling and looking back, we examine ourselves, and be glad that we are accounted worthy. They may take from us our earthly habitations, but, blessed be His name, they cannot rob us of that Heavenly City, whose builder and whose maker is God. How has the proclamation been received in the parish of Broomhill?"

For answer David Gray gladly poured forth into his father's sympathising ears the substance of his father-in-law's remarks, as well as the disposition of his wife's mind respecting the alternatives offered in the Act.

"Verily, she is a thorn in the flesh, and Gilbert Burnet of Haughhead showed his little discretion when he so harrowed up your soul, my son," said the old man, with sorrowful indignation. "But be of good courage. With God all things are possible, and your backsliding wife may yet be the brightest jewel in your crown. My son, I hope the arguments brought to bear upon you will not turn your heart away from the Covenant which, in boyish and trembling handwriting, you attested in the kirkyard of the Greyfriars," he added, with anxious solicitude.

David Gray flung up his head, while his eyes beamed with a new and unmistakable resolve.

"Nay, father; not so lightly have your precepts and example taken hold upon my heart. My wife and children are as dear to me as they are to most men, but the God of the Covenant is dearer still. Therefore, whatever may befall me or mine, I am in the Lord's hands, only desirous that I be accounted worthy to suffer for His sake."

"God grant that the like spirit may be abroad throughout the Lord's Zion, stimulating her ministers to the glory of self-sacrifice rather than to dwell at ease at the expense of conscience," said the minister, in tones of lively satisfaction. "Fear not, my son; the God of Hosts will not desert His covenanted people in their hour of need. Therefore, I say, be of good cheer."

*Chapter VII.*

*A Long Farewell.*

A special meeting of the Presbytery was convened at Lanark during the following week to consider what action the ministers were to take individually and collectively. It was a mere form, because they were unanimous in their resolution to leave all for conscience sake. In the entire Presbytery there was only one exception to be found, viz., John Methven, the minister of Lochlee. He absented himself from the conference of his brethren, an action which, coupled with his attitude in the past, indicated that it was his intention to retain his living at the Government price. The ejected ministers had three weeks wherein to prepare for the sad change in their circumstances and position. Many were at their wits' end, for, as the Act forbade that they should reside within the bounds of their presbyteries, whither could they turn for assistance or shelter? For themselves they felt it not, but what would become of the wives and little ones rendered homeless and destitute in the very outset of a bleak Scottish winter?

Grey, calm, and still broke that November Sabbath morning, the last upon which the ministers were to break the Bread of Life to the people of their choice over the length and breadth of Scotland. In the vale of Inverburn the dawn was preceded by a thick, heavy mist, which hung low over hill and moorland, giving a very dreary aspect to the already too wintry face of Nature. But long before the hour of service it had cleared away, revealing a peaceful, grey sky, relieved by flecks of brightness in the east. Not a breath of air was stirring; a silence as of the grave seemed to brood over the land. Very early the worshippers began to repair to the house of God. They came from far and near that day; the shepherd from his lonely shieling in the mountain solitude, as well as the dweller in the village, was each found in his accustomed place. Long before the bell began to toll, the churchyard had its groups of earnest, sad-faced worshippers discussing in low and fearful tones the evil days which had come upon the land. Very many were too much overcome to be able to speak, for the thought that this was the last Sabbath Day upon which they would hear the voice of their shepherd in his accustomed place was more than they could bear.

Watty McBean, the carrier, and brother to Betty, the manse maid, was bell-ringer and minister's man in the parish. He tolled the bell that day in a slow, solemn, and painful manner, the echo of each stroke being suffered to die away ere it was drowned by another. It was the "burial" bell Watty tolled that day, and surely nothing could be more fitting or more in unison with the feelings of all who heard it.

At the usual hour Mr. Gray entered the church, but it seemed to those who so mournfully and affectionately watched him ascend the pulpit stair, that never had their minister looked so feeble and aged; never had his face seemed so worn and ill. As his sunken eye roamed over the sea of faces gathered round him, his tears suddenly overflowed, and departing from the usual routine of service, he folded his trembling hands, and said in broken and feeble tones, "Let us pray!"

In the manse pew sat Jane Gray, who never since entering the church had once uplifted her face from her hands, and by her side her nephew Gavin, whose young face wore an expression of manly resolution, upon which many remarked.

Adam Hepburn and his wile were also in their places, and there was none absent from the Hartrigge pew, at the head whereof sat Andrew Gray, erect and calm, with his arms folded across his breast, and a hard, stern expression on his face. And although his father's prayer caused many a bursting sob to echo through the church, he sat unmoved, save when his lips convulsively twitched, telling of a storm of passion held in curb. The psalm was the eighty-fourth, the tune Dundee's "wild wailing measure," fitting words, fitting music to express the tumultuous throbbings of the people's heart. The minister then read the seventeenth chapter of John, slowly and with tremulous distinctness, and without remark or comment of any kind. Next they sang again a portion of the ninety-fourth psalm, then the minister gave out his text.

"All these are the beginning of many sorrows."

That sermon was never forgotten by any who heard it. It seemed as if the aged servant of God had risen above the frailty and feebleness of age, for as he proceeded his clear bell-like voice rang through the building with all the eloquence which had made such a stir among the dry bones in the earlier days of his ministry among them. He spoke passionately and prophetically of the sea of troubles upon which the Lord's Zion was now launched, he forewarned them that the time was at hand when they would need to testify to their faithfulness with their blood, yet he bade them be of good cheer, because it was through great tribulation that the brightness of their eternal crown would be gained in joy.

"And now my faithful and well beloved flock, the time has come for me to bid you farewell," he added in conclusion. "In the ordinary course of nature I could not expect to minister to you for a much more lengthened space. As it is, the fiat has gone forth, not from the Eternal King, but from the poor despicable worm who sits upon an earthly throne that you and I, beloved, shall no more worship together within this place. Looking upon its walls to-day for the last time I know how unspeakably dear it is to me. It is peopled with rich and hallowed memories of the past. In this place I have baptised many of you as children, and here, my own children, now worshipping with you, were all consecrated and received into the Lord's Church. Beloved, from Sabbath to Sabbath these many years I have broken the Bread of Life in your midst, and God be my witness that I have expounded the Word to you in accordance with the light vouchsafed to my own soul. I have also had sweet counsel with you in your own homes, in the ordinary course of pastoral visitation, and I call you to witness that in these visitations I have never failed to be faithful in my personal dealings, when I saw it to be for the glory of God, and for the good of souls. Beloved, all that has come to an end. Next Sabbath day neither you nor I will worship within these walls. When or how the doors will again be thrown open for public worship I cannot say. I tremble when I think upon our now desolate Kirk of Scotland, cast out from her heritage, and bidden make her habitation in the wilderness. It is not for me now, and in this place, to say what will be the reward of these sons of Belial, who have wrought this woe in our midst. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' Brethren, farewell. I would my tongue could utter what is in my heart this day. It is with no common sorrow I repeat the words; Brethren, farewell."

The minister ceased, and looked with eyes of unutterable love upon the sobbing multitude. There was no dry eye in the assembly, save that of Andrew Gray the younger, and his seemed to burn with a strange and lurid fire. His hands beneath the book board were so firmly clenched together that the nails were sunk into the flesh. In the midst of these audible tokens of grief, the minister raised his trembling hands, and in slow, clear, solemn tones, breathed upon them his last benediction. Then he sank back in the pulpit, wholly overcome.

The scene I have just described was no solitary instance; in its main features it was being enacted that day in almost every kirk and parish in Scotland.

In the church of Broomhill that day David Gray also spoke his last farewell to his flock. His was not in any respect so united a congregation as that of Inverburn. There were many, who, for peace' sake would have had their minister bow to Middleton's decree, and make an outward semblance of acknowledging the bishop. David Gray entered his church that day with a heavy heart, not because of the sacrifice he was about to make--that occasioned him but little concern--but because of his wife's coldness and estrangement evinced towards him since he had announced his fixed determination to abide by the dictates of his own conscience. Upon the plea that the younger child could not be left, she absented herself from the church that Sabbath morning; and the minister was not surprised to behold the Haughhead seat unoccupied likewise. He delivered an impressive and heart-stirring discourse from the words, "He that taketh not his cross, and followeth after Me, is not worthy of Me," and when he concluded many were weeping. They crowded round him as he came out of the vestry, shaking him by the hand and assuring him of their continued and unaltered love, and offering assistance in every form. It was with difficulty he escaped their loving detention, and, making his way through the churchyard, entered his own garden by the private door. He reproached himself that he did not feel a lively satisfaction in the thought that he had renounced so much for conscience' sake; he felt sore angered at himself for his miserable and foreboding thoughts, which weighed him nigh to the very dust. As he set foot upon the threshold of the manse, he felt oppressed by the strange stillness of the house. On ordinary occasions, the prattle of his children's voices was the first sound which greeted him at his own door. As he stepped into the house, he heard a sound, like that of weeping, proceeding from the direction of the kitchen. Somewhat alarmed, he immediately proceeded thither, and found Ellen Carmichael, the maid, sitting apparently in the very abandonment of grief.

"Be quiet, Ellen Carmichael, and tell me the cause of this noise," he said, with some sternness. "And what has become of your mistress and the bairns?"

A fresh burst of tears was Ellen's only answer; but at length she managed to sob out some words which whitened her master's face to the very lips.

"They're awa', sir; a' awa' tae Haughheid. The laird cam' wi' the coach jist efter the kirk was in, an' the mistress gaed awa' in't, wi' the bairns, an' a' her claes an' the bairns' claes, an' she said she wasna' comin' back. An' I, sir, what cud I dae but sit doon an' greet, thinkin' on you comin' home tae this empty an' desolate hoose?"

The minister turned about and walked with unsteady step back to the pleasant family room, where, with his wife and little ones, he had spent so many happy hours. It had a desolate, deserted, dreary look, and the very fire seemed to have died in despair in the grate. He looked about him in a dazed manner, and then sinking into a chair, these words escaped his lips in a deep groan of anguish:

"If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."

Verily that was a day of sharp and bitter searching for the minister of Broomhill; nevertheless, ere the hushed silence of the night fell, he had found peace in his desolate home.

*Chapter VIII.*

*Mr. Duncan Mclean.*

In the course of the ensuing week, the last of the honourable family who had so long dwelt beneath the roof-tree of Inverburn manse, quitted its shelter for ever. Pen fails me to describe fitly that sad farewell. It was indeed a very rending of the heart-strings to the venerable minister of Inverburn. In spite of the wording of the Act, that every ejected minister should remove without the bounds of his Presbytery, Mr. Gray and his daughter went no farther than Adam Hepburn's house at Rowallan, where they were very warmly welcomed. So long as was permitted, they would remain among their own kith and kin. The minister of Broomhill found a shelter at Hartrigge, so that united and affectionate family were not as yet separated one from the other.

On the next Sabbath day no kirk bell rang its sweet, familiar chimes through the quiet Sabbath air. The gates of the churchyard remained closed, and the only sign of life about the venerable pile was the cawing of hoarse-throated rooks, which had assembled by scores on the leafless boughs of the "birks of Inverburn," as if met in convocation over this strange and sad Sabbath day. Betty McBean had gone home to her brother Watty's house in the village; and blithe enough he was to see her, being a bachelor, with no womenkind to make a bite for him or to clean up his house. On the Saturday word was carried through the parish by Watty that the Word would be preached next day in the barn at Rowallan by their beloved shepherd, and all whose soul thirsted for the living water were invited to attend. And, lo, at the hour of meeting, so great was the press thronging in Adam Hepburn's barn that it was hastily decided to hold the meeting out of doors. So a kitchen table with a settle behind it was erected as a pulpit in the corn-yard, and from this the minister of Inverburn preached to his flock. Something in the unusual nature of the proceedings seemed to stir all hearts and to imbue them with a holy enthusiasm. Never had the psalm been sung with such deep fervour; never had the attitude of the hearers been so rapt and reverential. There was something in the knowledge that it was against the law that they assembled together which lent a strange, sweet, yet fearful joy to their relish of that Sabbath day. Hartrigge, with all his family, was there, and the minister of Broomhill also took part in the service. When they separated, just before the twilight, all felt that it had indeed been good for them to be there; and they said one to another, that so long as they could get the Word by walking to Rowallan for it, the king's decree might not prove such a hardship as had been anticipated. But, alas for their vain hopes, their happy congratulations! the day was near at hand when listening to, as well as preaching, the Word was to become a crime worthy of death itself.

The Laird of Inverburn, with Lady Hamilton and the young heir, had driven in their coach that day to Lochlee, to hear John Methven preach. On their way home they passed so many dressed people on the roads, especially as they neared Inverburn, that a suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon the mind of the laird.

Just outside their lodge gates they overtook Watty McBean and his sister Betty, leisurely wending their way homewards. At a word from the laird the coachman pulled up his horses.

"Here, McBean," said the laird, in his peremptory fashion, "tell me why there are so many people on the road at this hour. They look to me as if they had been at kirk somewhere, though very sure am I that none of them worshipped with me to-day at Lochlee."

"Did they no', Sir Thomas? but how should I ken whaur a' the folk hae been wanderin' tae?" asked Watty, innocently. "Mebbe they've been awa' seein' their freens or takin' a bit walk tae theirsels, like Betty an' me."

Very red grew the face of Betty McBean, as she heard her brother utter this deliberate falsehood, and she tugged vehemently at her cap strings, to give some vent to her feelings.

"I believe you are telling me a lie, sirrah!" said the laird, wrathfully, "and if you are it will be the worse for you. Here, you woman, you were the manse maid, I think," he added, directing his remarks to Betty. "Can you tell me whether it be true that your minister is still in the parish, in fact that he is under the roof-tree of Adam Hepburn, at Rowallan?"

"Oh, Sir Tammas, my lord, dinna mak me tell a lee," said Betty piteously; "ye wudna hae me get my auld maister into trouble. He----"

"Betty, if ye dinna haud yer tongue, and come on, it'll be the waur for ye," shouted Watty in her ear, and taking her by the arm, dragged her right away from the coach, and past the gate of Inverburn, without so much as making an apology to the laird.

Sir Thomas looked angry, but his wife sank back, laughing, in the coach, not sorry that Betty had not committed herself.

Lady Hamilton's sympathies were much with the Presbyterians, but she was of too sweet and gentle a disposition to set up her own opinions in opposition to those of her husband.

"Eh, Watty McBean, man, hoo cud ye tell sic a barefaced lee?" queried Betty when her brother released his grip on her arm. "Did the thocht o' the fire and brimstane, which the Word says is the portion o' leers, no pit the fear o' death on yer tongue?"

"Hoot ye silly crater, there's lees _an'_ lees!" quoth Watty, with an air of superior wisdom. "Was I gaun to get the minister and the flock into a peck o' troubles wi' my lang tongue? I see I'll need to keep an e'e on you, Betty. Auld though you be, ye hinna muckle gumption."

"Ye're no feared either tae daur [defy] the laird," said Betty, with a sigh.

"I'm no awn the laird naething, and he canna gar me speak against my will," said Watty, calmly; and Betty, completely overcome by her brother's undaunted spirit, relapsed into silence.

For several weeks the parish kirk at Inverburn remained closed, and the people worshipped with the ministers they loved either in barn or outhouse, or, when weather permitted, under the canopy of heaven. Such a state of affairs, which betokened such utter disregard and contempt for the Prelacy, could not long be allowed to continue undisturbed. The next step taken by the bishops was to fill the places of the ejected ministers with curates of their own, so that the parishioners might no longer have the closed doors of the churches to point at as an excuse for their behaviour.

Sir Thomas Hamilton, a staunch loyalist and an intimate friend of the Bishop of Glasgow, offered his shelter and patronage to any gentleman his lordship might elect to minister in the church at Inverburn.

It was on the third Saturday in January that a notice was posted up on the church door intimating that public worship would be resumed next Lord's Day by Mr. Duncan McLean, at the hour of noon.

The bellman was also sent round, and the news well circulated throughout the parish. It occasioned no little excitement and talk; but the people, with the exception of a few of the laird's pensioners in the village, had not the smallest intention of attending upon the curate's ministrations. Service was to be held at three of the afternoon in the sheltered glen behind the house of Hartrigge, and as Watty McBean expressed it--

"When folk could lift Presbyterian wheat for the gaun [going], it wasna likely they wad be content wi' the curate's puir chaff."

About eleven o'clock on the Sabbath morning, Betty McBean, watching from the window, beheld the coach from Inverburn coming rapidly over the manse brae, towards the village.

"The laird's in't, Watty, an' a jimpy black body, wha'll dootless be the curate, and Peter Rintoull, the bailiff, 's on the box aside the coachman," she cried, excitedly. "I'll bet ye what ye like they'll be comin' seekin' you tae gang up by an' ring the bell."

"Let them come, I'm ready for them," said Watty serenely. "But gang you intae the ben-end [parlour], or yer waggin' tongue'll play mischief."

Only too thankful to be relieved from the necessity of again meeting the laird's questioning gaze, Betty hastily retired into the ben-end just as the coach drew up at the door.

"Watty, Watty McBean!" called out the coachman. "Coome oot; Sir Tammas wants ye!"

Watty took his pipe from his cheek, and retired slowly out to the door, a very uncouth looking figure in his rough homespun garb, and his unwashed unshaven face surmounted by a dirty red night-cap!

"Why are you not more decently attired, McBean? It is time you were getting ready for the service," said the laird sternly. "This is the new minister of the parish, Mr. Duncan McLean."

"Ay, so I was thinkin'. I canna say I'm prood tae see Mr. Duncan McLean," said Watty, in his canny way, and giving his somewhat loose nether garments an expressive hitch. "If he's come tae a cauld pairt, it's no' his blame, puir chield. I'm thinkin' he'll no' be lang afore he gangs back tae them that sent him."

Mr. McLean looked much surprised, and not too well pleased at the man's freedom of address.

"The man is witless, Mr. McLean, a half crazy loon, whom nobody heeds," the laird explained, and then he turned his stern eye on Watty's unruffled countenance. "Look here, McBean, go into the house and put on your Sabbath garments as fast as you can; and see that you be up to ring the kirk bell at the usual time."

"Eh, me? they telt me the Bishop wad send a bell-ringer an' a minister's man wi' the curate," said Watty, with well-feigned astonishment. "Sir Tammas, it's perfectly unpossible that I could be ready at the time. Just look at me; I've a week's dirt tae scrape aff my skin, no' tae mention that my claes taks an hour tae aire afore I cud pit them on without catchin' my death."

The laird bit his lip.

"This is gross impertinence, McBean, for which, as I sit here, I swear you shall not go unpunished. Once for all, will you or will you not be ready to perform your usual duties in the bell tower and the session house in half an hour?"

"That I winna, Sir Tammas; seein' the lord bishop, or whatever be his title, has made the kirk session of Inverburn null and void, he has made the minister's man null and void too; so Maister McLean maun e'en get a man for hissel," answered Watty, with fearless resolution. Then he fixed his keen eye on the ill-favoured face of the curate, and addressed a concluding remark to him. "Ye hae taen muckle upon yersel', young man, tae step into the honoured shoon o' the Reverend Maister Gray. An' if ye get but a cauldrife hearin' this day ye may blame no' the faithfu' folks o' Inverburn, but them that sent ye."

With which comforting assurance Watty turned about, and entering his own house, shut the door.

"If this is the disposition of the parish, Sir Thomas," said the curate sourly, "I fear stronger measures will be necessary ere long."

"If necessary, doubtless they will be taken, Mr. McLean," said the laird. "But do not be cast down by the insolent utterance of a half-witted fellow like Watty McBean. I cannot think the people of Inverburn will so far forget their respect to me, as well as to those in power, as to follow such an example."

One of the laird's servants was procured to undertake Watty's duties, and the bell was duly rung at the appointed time. But it appeared to convey to the hearts of the people no welcome summons to the House of God. Only a few stragglers, and these persons of no note in the parish, came dropping into the church, and when the hour struck there were not more than thirty persons present, and these included the laird and his retinue from Inverburn. Nevertheless the service was proceeded with, and conducted after the true Episcopal fashion; prayers being read from the new book of service. The curate was humiliated and ashamed, the laird furious, and on their way home to Inverburn the two discussed various plans whereby the people might be compelled to attend service in the church.

The following morning Sir Thomas started on horseback to make a tour of the tenantry on his estate, in order to see what they had to say in defence of their absence from the church on the previous day. His first place of call was Rowallan, but before he reached the house he met Adam Hepburn leading one of his work-horses to the smithy. Adam doffed his cap to the laird, and stood still, not unprepared for what was coming.

"I have called to see for what reason you absented yourself from Divine service yesterday, Hepburn?" the laird said briefly, and without greeting of any kind. "Do you know that in so absenting yourself you were guilty of a civil offence?"

"I know not as to that, Sir Thomas; but if a man's heart be not in the service, he is better at home," replied Adam, quietly. "And the king has no power over a man's own conscience."

"See here, Hepburn," said the laird; "is that old man, your father-in-law, still under your roof-tree?"

"He is, Sir Thomas," answered Adam, in the same quiet tone.

"You know the wording of the Act which commands that the ejected ministers shall remove themselves without the bounds of the Presbytery? Rowallan is not without these bounds. I have it in my power to have your father-in-law punished, imprisoned if I like, by simply letting my friend the bishop know how his commands are disobeyed."

A dark red flush rose to Adam Hepburn's brow, and he bit his lip. The hot blood of his race sprang up at the laird's threatening and mocking words.

"And you would make betrayal of the old man the price of my non-attendance at the curate's preaching, Sir Thomas," he said with curling lip. "Such a threat is scarcely worthy of your name. I fear that such measures will not avail with the God-fearing people in the parish."

"You defy me then, sirrah; then be prepared to take the consequences," said the laird furiously, and digging his spurs into his horse's sides, turned the animal's head, and rode away full gallop to Hartrigge, only to have his ire additionally kindled there by the cool defiance and dogged determination of Andrew Gray.

*Chapter IX.*

*Preparing For Emergencies.*

When the laird rode away, Adam Hepburn turned and walked slowly back to Rowallan. He was somewhat disturbed by what he had heard, not on his own account, but on that of the venerable father of his beloved Agnes. When he entered the room where the minister sat with his daughter Jane, Mrs. Hepburn being busy with her household work, both saw that he was troubled about something.

"Have you heard aught about the preaching yesterday, Adam, that you look so grave?" queried the minister.

"Yes; I met the laird down the road, and he seems sore displeased over the thin attendance at Mr. McLean's ministrations yesterday," replied Adam, a little quickly. "He threatened me, too, that unless I attended the services he would get you into trouble, Mr. Gray."

"I said to you, Adam, my son, when you so nobly offered me the shelter of your roof-tree, that it might get you and yours into trouble, harbouring an ejected and rebellious minister," said the old man sadly. "Better let me go forth ere that trouble comes upon your house."

"Go forth! and whither? At your age, and in the dead of winter, to wander in the open air as some are compelled to do would mean certain death," said Adam Hepburn. "No, no; though I am not such a red-hot churchman as Hartrigge, still, whoever seeks to molest you, be he king's or bishop's official, must first deal with me."

Tears started in Jane Gray's eyes as she looked with pride and gratitude at the erect figure and manly face of her brother-in-law. At that minute Agnes, hearing such serious voices, came in from the kitchen, asking what was the matter. Adam Hepburn turned his blue eyes fondly on his wife's sweet pale face, and smiled to reassure her.

"We are like to get into trouble, wife, by our dourness to attend the curate's preaching, that is all," he answered lightly.

A slightly troubled look stole into Agnes Hepburn's gentle eyes.

"I know not why, but I have of late had many dark forebodings, Adam," she said. "These are sad, sad days in which we live, and especially trying for timorous women-folk like me."

"It is your poor health, dear one, that makes you fanciful. No harm can come upon Rowallan so long as my stout right arm retains its cunning," Adam answered, lightly still; but Agnes, shaking her head, stole back to her duties with a heavy heart.

"I am concerned about Agnes, Jane," said Adam Hepburn, turning his troubled eyes on his sister-in-law's face. "She is not well, and in her sleep is restless and troubled, as if haunted by some strange dread; and she is so thin and worn. Looking on her face, at times I am afraid."

"When the spring time is past she will gather strength, please God," said Jane, cheerfully. "Agnes never was strong in the spring time."

"No; and these exciting and troublous times are too severe a strain upon her sensitive heart," said the minister. "As Agnes herself says, they are not for timorous women-folk to live in."

For some weeks they heard no more of the laird or of his threats, although report had it that severe measures were about to be taken to compel the people to respect the authority of the bishops and to attend upon the ministrations of their curates. Ere long these rumours became terrible realities, and a troop of brutal and unprincipled dragoons, under Sir James Turner, was let loose upon the western and southern shires of Scotland, which they scoured in search of the ejected ministers, and of their faithful flocks, who travelled miles to hear them in the mountain solitudes, worshipping with them in temples not made with hands, but which were consecrated to the Lord by the faithfulness and fearless piety of these Christian people. For a time the parish of Inverburn, although very offensive in its treatment of the curate, escaped the severity with which many other parishes, notably those in the shires of Galloway and Dumfries, were visited. It was at length, however, publicly announced from the pulpit that all who failed to attend Divine service on the following Sabbath day would be apprehended and punished either by fine or other penalty, and that all who gave aid to the ejected ministers or who attended upon their services in the open air were liable to be dragged before the High Commission Court, of which Sharp was the head, and there punished according to the prelates' good pleasure.

Adam Hepburn heard unmoved that report, as also did his brother-in-law at Hartrigge, where David Gray, the minister of Broomhill, was still sheltered, almost, however, at the peril of his life. When the dragoons at length came to Inverburn, he hid in the day-time in a cunningly-concealed cave on the face of the hill upon which Hartrigge stood, and the existence of which was known only to a very few. It was in a spot so difficult of access, and was, besides, so well hidden by brambles and nettles and other brushwood, that for a time at least the fugitive was perfectly safe.

When Sir James Turner and his troop arrived at Inverburn, he, with his subordinate officers, was immediately offered shelter by the laird, while the men were drafted upon various households in the village, notably those who were known to be very zealous Presbyterians. Watty McBean's house was taken possession of by four coarse, swearing, drunken soldiers, who raised Watty's ire to the utmost pitch and nearly frightened Betty out of her wits, besides eating her out of house and home.

At nightfall on the day of their arrival, Watty stole away through the fields to Rowallan to give timely warning to its inmates to get the minister removed out of the way before he should be taken prisoner. He crept up to the room window and gave a familiar tap on the lower pane, lest a knocking at the door might alarm the household. Adam Hepburn himself came to the door, and, at a sign from Watty, stepped outside.

"I've jest come tae warn ye, Adam Hepburn, that Turner an' the sodgers came this nicht," he whispered. "An' by what I hear the rascals, wha hae taen my hoose frae me, sayin' tae ane anither, it's oor minister an' the minister o' Broomhill they're after. Hae ye ony means o' getten Maister Gray outen the road?"

Adam Hepburn nodded.

"We knew the soldiers were on their way to Inverburn, and I'll warrant they'll no lay hands on the minister, or they'll be sharper than I think them. Come in, Watty, and speak to Mr. Gray. He's still with us in the house."

"Ye dinna mean to say so!" exclaimed Watty in consternation. "Certy ye're no feared. If ye take my advice ye'll get him awa' intae safe hidin' as sune as possible. I was sayin' tae Bettie I kent a bonnie howdie hole on the Douglas Water doon the Sanquhar road a bit, that it wad puzzle the sodgers tae find."

"Keep your secret for awhile, Watty. It may be useful some day," said Adam Hepburn, and beckoning to Watty, he ushered him into the warm ingle-neuk, where sat the minister of Inverburn in undisturbed serenity, with his daughters by his side.

"Good evening to you, Watty McBean, my faithful friend," said the minister, rising to shake hands with Watty. "What tidings have ye brought?"

"No very braw [nice] for leddie's ears. The sodgers have come upon Inverburn at last, an' gin they bide lang ther'll be neither bite nor sup, nor an article o' gear in the parish," answered Watty dolefully. "The four villains quartered on us have already pocketed my watch an' my mither's spunes, no' tae speak o' Betty's brooch she got frae yer lamented wife."

Agnes Hepburn's pale cheek grew, if possible, a shade whiter, and instinctively her husband moved to the back of her chair, and laid his firm hand on her trembling shoulder as if to re-assure her.

"Adam, if this be so, my place is no longer here!" said the minister rising. "My son, I have already stayed too long, not only at the peril of my own life, but it is imperilling yours likewise. It will be better for me to keep my hiding-place now, both night and day."

"You will lie down first, father, and snatch a few hours rest," said the sweet voice of Adam Hepburn's wife. "At the cock-crowing Adam will awake you, and you can hide until the nightfall."

"Oh, ye'r safe eneuch till the daw'in', sir," Watty assured him. "The laird's wine, an' soft beds, an' routh [abundance] o' breakfast 'll keep Sir Jeems at the big hoose, I'se warrant, till the sun be up."

"Certainly you will do as Agnes says, Mr. Gray?" said Adam, in his decided way. "Now, Watty, if you'll say good-night, and come with me, I'll show you a 'howdie hole' which would match yours on the Douglas Water."

"Guid nicht, then, Maister Gray, an' may the Lord blind the e'en o' the sodgers, and keep you oot o' their clutches," said Watty with fervour. "Mistress Hepburn an' Miss Jean, guid nicht wi' ye baith; an' should ye need a strong arm and a willint heart at any time, to defend ye, mind that Watty McBean's ay ready!"

"Good night, my faithful Watty; and may the Lord give you patience to bear the infliction of the soldiery on your abode. Provoke them not to anger, Watty, I entreat, for I am told that they are very swift to shed blood," said the minister, earnestly.

"I'll thole [bear] as long as I can, I never was a fechter," said the good soul, with a comical smile, and pulling his forelock in token of respect, he followed Adam Hepburn out of doors.

The moon had now risen, and its clear radiance struggled through the rifts in the cloudy sky, and shone weirdly and fitfully on the wintry landscape, making strange fantastic shadows too on the walls of the outhouses grouped about the farmhouse. Adam Hepburn stepped across the courtyard, and opened the barn door. He then motioned to Watty to enter, and after carefully closing the door, lighted the lantern he had brought with him from the house. The barn at Rowallan was a large and commodious place, with a steep ladder-like stair ascending to the granary above. In one corner a small door gave admittance to an inner apartment, something resembling a closet in a house, and into which the chaff was swept after it was separated from the wheat by the flail. At the present time it was, however, almost empty, there being only a slight sprinkling on the wooden floor. Into this place Adam Hepburn threw the light of his lantern, and then looked enquiringly at Watty.

"What do you see there, Watty, anything by ordinar?" he asked.

"Naething but a common chaff-hole," answered Watty, "and no' a very safe hidin'-place, I wad think. The Douglas Water hole beats it yet."

"Come in, though, Watty, and I'll show you something," said Adam, with a smile, and Watty stepped into the place, in which he could scarcely stand upright. Adam then set down his lantern, and with his hands swept aside the chaff, but still Watty saw nothing save a moth-eaten and discoloured wooden floor. But when Adam inserted into some of the seams the strong blade of his gully knife, and Watty saw a distinct movement in the flooring, he began to have an inkling of what was coming. After some little exertion, Adam Hepburn raised a small trap-door, sufficient to admit the body of a man, and Watty peering into the chasm, with excited interest, saw a ladder which appeared to lead into the bowels of the earth.

"Now creep down after me, Watty, and shut the door after you, and I'll show you something worth seeing," said Adam, and Watty made haste to obey. The ladder was of considerable length, but at last Watty felt his feet on the firm earth, and looking about, saw by the light that he was in a subterranean passage, narrow certainly, but of sufficient height to accommodate even Adam Hepburn's tall figure. Still following his guide, Watty walked a little way along the passage, and then found himself in a kind of cave, a wide open space, sufficient to hold about a dozen people. There was a rude couch composed of stones, built in one corner, upon which now had been piled a substantial tick filled with chaff, above which was spread plenty of blankets and thick coverings, which would make a very comfortable resting place, even in winter. A piece of rough matting covered the floor in front of the bed, and there were some benches which formed a table, or could be used for seats. The floor of the place was perfectly dry, and the atmosphere felt warm and free from dampness. Watty gazed round him in unmitigated astonishment and admiration, and at lasted gasped out--

"This _is_ a howdie hole, an' nae mistak'! Whaur did it come frae, an' wha made it?"

"It has always been here. I believe my great-grandfather, who was killed at Flodden, had something to do with it," replied Adam Hepburn. "At any rate, not a living soul knows of its existence but our own family and you, Watty. But you don't know half its advantages yet. See, the underground passage continues right through here," he added, shedding the light of his lantern into another dark recess; "and what do you think? it runs right through the fields of Rowallan, and under the bed of the Douglas Water, and comes out in the middle of all the brushwood and tangle on the face of the Corbie's Cliff. Ye didna ken there was a hole there, did ye, Watty?"

"No; although I hae speeled [climbed] the Corbie mony a time for nests when I was a laddie," said Watty, solemnly. "It seems as if the Lord had made the place Hissel'."

"Mr. Gray can be made very comfortable here, Watty," continued Adam Hepburn; "and, by the simple pulling of a string I have fastened up in the chaff-hole, I can make a noise which will warn him to escape by the Corbie should the soldiers discover the trap. But I don't think there can be any fear of that."

"No' likely, for I couldna see onything but the flure," said Watty, in much glee; "an' I'm no' blind. Eh, weel, may be mair than the minister 'll be glad o' this grand shelter."

"It is likely the minister of Broomhill will come here under cover of the night some of these days. I would think he was not very safe much longer at Hartrigge," said Adam Hepburn. "Well, Watty, I think we'd better get upstairs again, and you can tell Betty that we are ready for the soldiers whenever they like to come."

"'Deed, Maister Hepburn, I'll no' tell her naething. Weemin folk are no' to be trusted. No' that they mean tae dae mischief; it's jist their tongues, puir craters, fashed [troubled] wi' a weakness, an' they canna help themselves," said Watty, so seriously that his companion could not refrain from laughing.

After some little delay, they again mounted the ladder, and, pushing up the trap-door, emerged into the chaff-hole, and thence out into the open air, where, after a few more words concerning the shelter of the ministers, they parted for the night.

*Chapter X.*

*Adam Hepburn'S Vow.*

The business of life seemed to be standing still in Inverburn. Although it was not the season of the year in which much outdoor labour could be accomplished, the barren fields still lay waiting to be upturned by the plough, and all interest in the ordinary routine of work seemed to be absorbed in other things. The morning after the quartering of the soldiery on the householders there were many strange sights and sounds witnessed and heard in the quiet hamlet of Inverburn. Needless to say that the inn was the chief rendezvous, and honest Mistress Lyall had to pour out her ale and whisky, and even her small stock of wine and brandy, without stint or payment. The swearing horde took possession of the bar, and, in the terror of her soul, poor Katie Lyall flew to a neighbour's house, and left them in undisturbed possession. Having drunk their fill, the ruffians made a raid on every house, lifting what valuables they could lay hands upon, and insulting the women, and bringing many a burning blush to the fair cheek of youth. The unarmed and defenceless men folk in the village were only deterred from open resistance by the sight of the long gleaming swords and loaded pistols of the troopers. But curses, not loud but deep, filled the quiet air, and many a manly hand was clenched, many a manly voice uttered a deep and ominous vow of vengeance.

About half-past nine Sir James Turner and his subordinate officers rode down the manse brae, and, drawing rein at the head of the village street, sounded the _reveille_. In a short time the regiment was in marching order, and the horses' heads were turned towards Rowallan. And then many a fervent prayer rose to Heaven that the God of Hosts would throw the strong arm of His defence about Adam Hepburn's house, and shelter its dear inmates from the bloody men. Early that morning Adam Hepburn had walked across the fields to Hartrigge to warn David Gray of his danger, and to bid the inmates of the house be prepared for a visit from the soldiery. He arrived to find the minister of Broomhill quietly seated at breakfast with the family, having just crept up from his hiding-place. It was at once hastily resolved that, as it was still early, Adam Hepburn and David Gray should creep down into the valley behind Hartrigge, and, keeping within shelter of the trees and brushwood, follow the course of the Douglas Water until they reached the Corbie's Cliff; then, entering the mouth of the subterranean passage, join the minister of Inverburn in his hiding at Rowallan.

The children at Hartrigge, all but Gavin, being too young to understand the peril of the hour, wondered why uncle David bade them farewell so solemnly and with tears in his eyes; and little Jeanie, listening to his last words to her mother, pondered them long in her heart.

"Farewell, Susan, my sister. The Lord requite thee for thy sisterly kindness to me, who, now a wanderer on the face of the earth, can never hope either to acknowledge or repay it. And may the Lord also vouchsafe the wings of His shelter to this house and its inmates, and shield them in the day of trouble."

Mistress Gray wrung the minister's hand, but was unable to speak. Andrew Gray himself accompanied them to the door, but their parting words were interrupted by the shrill echo of the trumpets sounding the _reveille_ in the village along the vale. Then Adam Hepburn and the minister understanding that ominous sound, plunged into the thicket, and scrambled down the steep into the richly wooded valley below. Meanwhile the women folk at Rowallan busied themselves with their household tasks, and Agnes at least longing for her husband's return. The nervous fear had so grown upon her of late that she was never a moment at rest, save when he was by her side. As she stepped out into the courtyard with a basin of warm food for the poultry, the clatter of hoofs fell upon her ears, and turning her startled eyes in the direction of the road, she saw what appeared to be a moving mass of steel, glittering in the chill winter sunshine, and coming rapidly towards the house.

With a slight scream she dropped the basin with its contents, and fled into the house. Jane Gray, hearing the noise, came hurrying downstairs, and caught her trembling sister in her arms.

"Agnes, my lamb, what is it? What has so frightened you?" she asked, anxiously.

"The soldiers, Jane! they are here!" exclaimed the terrified girl. "Oh, Jane, hide me from them! I wish Adam had not gone away!"

Even Jane Gray's brave heart quailed at the thought of their defenceless state, but she tried to console and assure her sister.

"Don't be afraid, my dearie, they will never harm two defenceless women, and Adam must now be near home. It is nigh two hours since he went away."

Before she could say more the troops swept across the stack-yard, and drew up with a great clatter before the door. The pawing and snorting of the horses, the rattling of their trappings, and the voices of the men, made a strange and alarming din about the quiet house of Rowallan.

Jane Gray placed her sister in a chair, shut the sitting-room door, and drawing herself up, as if with a sudden courage, went out boldly to the door. She was deadly pale, but her demeanour was outwardly perfectly unmoved.

At sight of the woman, Sir James Turner, a coarse and forbidding-looking man, rode his horse up to the very doorstep, and fixed his insolent eyes on the fair, calm face.

"Well, mistress, this is the rebellious house of Rowallan, is it not? Are you the wife of that notorious Whig, Adam Hepburn, who so persistently disavows the king's commands, and shelters the rebel preachers?"

"This is Rowallan, sir," Jane Gray made answer in a clear, steadfast voice. "But I am not Adam Hepburn's wife. There is none within this house but me and my sister, who is in delicate health. May I appeal to your honour as a soldier and a gentleman not to needlessly distress or alarm us?"

A coarse laugh fell from Turner's lips, which was re-echoed by his subordinates.

"A modest request, truly; I might grant it if I get a kiss from those sweet lips for my payment. But say, is that renegade old man, Andrew Gray, the field preacher, not hidden in the house?"

"He is _not_," said Jane Gray, calmly, while a red spot began to burn hotly on either cheek.

"I am sorry I cannot take your word for it, mistress," said Turner, coolly. "With your permission we will make a search of the house. Here, Dawson and McTavish," he added, turning to a corporal and a sergeant, "dismount, and search the house, and you, Captain Blane, and young Drew, with the others make a thorough inspection of the outhouses. Now, ma'am, let me have a glass of ale or wine to cool my thirst, and show you a loyal subject of the king."

For peace' sake, as well as on the account of her sister, Jane Gray crushed back the indignant refusal burning for utterance, and, holding the door open, briefly bade him enter. She led the way direct to the room where Agnes sat, judging it better that she should be present with her, before the soldiers in their search reached the sitting-room. At sight of the spurred and booted soldier, with his fierce aspect and forbidding eye, Agnes Hepburn again uttered a slight scream, but Jane hastily laid her hand on her lips.

"Hush, hush, Agnes; Sir James Turner will not harm you. He has but come in for some slight refreshment," she said, hurriedly.

"Is this Adam Hepburn's wife, then?" asked Sir James, with insolent curiosity. "Do not tremble so, my sweet mistress. Unless compelled by duty, I would not lay a finger on you. But come, tell me where your brave husband, and the old man, your father, are in hiding, and we will go away and leave the house in peace."

"I do not know; my husband has not been at home for--for--long," Agnes faltered back, and breathing an inward and passionate prayer that the Lord might detain him on the way until the dragoons had left the place.

"How glibly these pretty lips can utter a falsehood!" said Turner, mockingly. But just then he was somewhat mollified by the sight of a cup of rich Burgundy, which Jane Gray had brought from the cupboard to appease his wrath.

"By the powers, I never tasted the like in a Whig house before!" he said, smacking his lips. "For your courtesy to me, mistress, I will not insist upon your revealing the rebel hiding-place. I know your kind, and how obstinate they can be when they choose; yet I swear that, if Adam Hepburn or the minister be about Rowallan, they shall not escape this day."

The two men who had been searching the house now appeared in the doorway, saying they had met with no success, and that there was no possible corner within the four walls where a fugitive could be hid.

Turner then rose and left the house to superintend the search outside.

With agonised eyes the two women watched from the window, trembling at the long delay the searchers made in the barn.

But at length, to their unspeakable relief, those who had entered it again emerged into the open air, and it was quite evident from their faces that their search had been unsuccessful.

After some little delay and consultation, Turner gave the word of command, and the dragoons sprang to horse once more, and stood ready in the courtyard to depart. Then Turner again approached the door, where the sisters now stood, for they could not rest within.

"Though we have been unsuccessful to-day, mistresses," he said, in an angry tone, "we will yet lay hands upon the renegades. I know not what keeps me from compelling you to divulge the secret of their hiding-place; but, hark! I will not be so lenient when I come back. It's not the first time I have had to make a wench confess at the point of the sword."

At that moment, to the dismay and horror of the women, Wyllie, Adam's collie, came running round from the stack-yard barking furiously. Knowing he had accompanied his master to Hartrigge, they stood in intense and silent agony, momentarily expecting to see Adam stride round the corner, and then----. Jane's lip quivered, Agnes covered her face with her hands, and a low moan escaped her lips.

Turner, thinking his threat had frightened them sufficiently, turned his horse's head, and gave the order to march. The dog, now in a perfect fury, and seeming to have taken a special dislike to the commander, ran barking and snapping at the horse's heels.

"Some of you put a bullet through that yelping cur!" he said, with a great oath. Almost as if understanding the brutal order, Wyllie turned tail and ran to his mistress's side, crouching in at her skirts. Turner's order was obeyed, and two pistols were recklessly fired towards the door, heedless of the danger to the women. They missed their aim, but found a mark in Agnes Hepburn's side. Without a sound she fell at her sister's feet. For a moment Turner looked dumbfounded and as if uncertain what to do; then, with another great oath, he repeated the word of command, and the whole troop rode off towards Hartrigge. Before they were well out of sight Adam Hepburn, just arrived in the underground shelter with David Gray, pushed up the trap-door, and stepped out into his own barn-yard. From the great confusion and marks of hoofs, he at once saw that the dragoons had visited Rowallan in his absence, and, with sinking heart, lest any harm should have befallen his darling, he hurried into the house.

At the door Wyllie met him, and looked up into his face with a piteous moan. The dread stillness in the house almost made the man's heart stand still. He strode through the kitchen, and when he stood upon the threshold of the sitting-room door, what a sight met his view! Upon the couch lay the prostrate form of his wife, and Jane kneeling by her side, apparently laving something with water. But stay; what was that staining the whiteness of the handkerchief? Was it blood?

"My God, Jane, what is this?" he asked, hoarsely, and, with one step, was at the side of the couch.

Then he saw the wound in his wife's side, from which her life blood was slowly ebbing.

"They have been here! That is their work, Adam!" Jane Gray answered, in a voiceless whisper. "The bullet intended for poor Wyllie pierced her side! Oh, my poor sister!"

Adam Hepburn knelt down by the couch, and, folding his strong arms about the unconscious figure, called his wife by every endearing name to look up to tell him she was not dead. The tones of that well-beloved voice seemed to recall for a brief space the ebbing breath of life.

The long lashes stirred on the white cheek; after a tremor of the lids they were lifted, and the sweet eyes met his in a look of unutterable love. It was the last effort of the feeble strength. In the moment of agony which followed, the breath gently left the lips, the beat of the heart was stilled for ever, and Agnes Hepburn was safe from the trouble to come.

In the deep and awful silence which ensued a strange and terrible change was wrought upon the face of Adam Hepburn. The pleasant lines and curves, which had but added to its beauty, were deepened into the furrows of a desperate resolution. Gently he laid his dead wife back upon the pillow, and, walking over to the hearth, took down his father's sword from its accustomed place on the wall, and returned with it to the side of the couch.

"I call you to witness, Jane Gray, that I swear here, by the body of my murdered wife, that this sword shall never again be allowed to dry in its sheath until it has been wetted with the life blood of as many dragoons as there were years upon my darling's head," he said, in slow, deep, measured tones, and with eyes gleaming with a fierce resolve. "And God do so to me, and more also, if I fail to stand to the very letter of my vow!"

*Chapter XI.*

*Up In Arms.*

Twelve o'clock was the usual dinner hour at Hartrigge. In spite of the stirring excitement of that morning, the table was spread punctually at noon, and the family gathered about the board. Before, however, Andrew Gray had finished asking a blessing on the food, the dragoons swept up with a great noise to the front door. Catching sight of a gleaming sword out of the window Jeanie screamed in affright, and her mother's face visibly paled. But little Sandy, in all a child's delight over a gay pageant, scrambled up on the window seat, and fairly jumped with glee at sight of so many prancing steeds. With grave, resolute, undisturbed face, Hartrigge rose from his chair, and turned his eyes upon his trembling wife.

"If I lose my life this day, Susan," he said, quietly, "promise me you will rear the bairns in the true religion, and teach them to love and reverence the Church of Scotland and the faith of their forefathers."

Mistress Gray had no opportunity to reply, for at that moment the door was rudely thrown open, and Turner, with a corporal and sergeant, strode into the room.

"Andrew Gray of Hartrigge?" he said, briefly and imperiously.

"I am Andrew Gray," answered Hartrigge, with corresponding brevity.

"A vile Whig and a bigoted Presbyterian, a rebel against the king, and a harbourer of field preachers and like vermin," continued Turner, in his coarse fashion. "I have just come from Rowallan, but the puling womenfolk there have lost their tongues, and could tell us nothing of those we seek. In the king's name, Andrew Gray, I command you to instantly tell me where your canting old father, and your brother, the minister of Broomhill, are to be found. Remember you stand at peril of your life."

Andrew Gray folded his arms across his chest, and looked his questioner in the face with undaunted eye.

"Very well do I know that I stand at peril of my life," he made answer, calmly. "But I can tell you nothing of those you seek."

"You will not, you mean," cried Turner, passionately. "By heavens, the name of Gray seems inseparable from dogged obstinacy, as well as from rebellion and treason. If I tie up your eyes and point a pistol at your mouth it may refresh your memory."

Hartrigge spoke never a word; his wife sank weeping helplessly into a chair, while the children, all but Gavin, who had left the room, crouched beside her in terror.

"Woman, bid your husband obey orders, unless you want me to leave him to you to bury!" said Turner. "I have already wasted too much precious time among your kind."

But never a word spoke Mistress Gray. Then Turner looked towards his subordinates--

"Bind the obstinate pig-headed Whig," he said, briefly. "If I cannot make him speak, we will take him to those who will."

Susan Gray uttered a loud shriek, and sprang to her husband's side; but she was rudely cast aside, while the officers pinioned Hartrigge's arms.

"Stop that howling, woman, or I will give you something to yelp about! I've a mind to burn your house about your confounded ears, but it would take too much time to-day. Let the prisoner to horse, and let us be off. We have other game to bag before sunset to-day."

As Andrew Gray was about to leave the room he stepped to his wife's side, and hastily bade her be of good cheer, for his time had not come yet; then, looking upon the children with a strange softening in his stern eyes, he waved them an affectionate farewell.

With the little ones clinging to her skirts, Mistress Gray followed the oppressors to the door, and stood watching while they bound her husband on a steed. He again turned his face towards her, and exhorted her to be of good cheer, and keep a firm hold upon her faith in God, until they should meet again. His words were brought to a sudden close by a blow upon the mouth, administered by the corporal, who was fastening him securely to the back of the horse. At sight of the blood, Susan Gray covered her face with her hands, and was afraid to look again. Ere he mounted his horse, Turner peremptorily ordered Mrs. Gray to bring him a tankard of ale, or a cup of wine, a command of which she was too much agitated to take notice. Little Jeanie, however, fearing a new exhibition of the terrible man's wrath, with womanly thoughtfulness ran into the house, and brought out a draught for the general. He smiled grimly as he took it from the slim hands of the little maiden, and having quaffed it, bade her not follow the example of her renegade father; and, mounting his horse, gave the order to march, and the troops, with their prisoner in the midst, rode away from Hartrigge. Just then the lad Gavin came through the kitchen with a flushed eager face, and bearing in his hands an old fowling-piece, chiefly used for scaring rooks and other vermin off the crops.

[Illustration: "Little Jeanie ... brought out a draught for the general"]

"Why, Gavin, laddie, what did ye think to do?" asked his mother, with a mournful smile.

"Are they away, mother? If they had killed my father I would have shot Turner with this. I have been down at the tool house, loading it with some lead I got in my uncle Peter's shop, at Lanark, when I was there with Uncle Adam," replied the lad, fearlessly.

"Then they would have surely killed you, too, my son," replied the mother, shaking her head; though inwardly admiring the spirit of the boy. "Well, well, Gavin, you will need to take care o' us all now that your poor father is away."

"Mother, what do you think they'll do to him?"

"My son, how can I tell? But I dinna feel as if any great harm would come to him, for he says his time is not come yet," replied Mistress Gray. "I think the Lord in His mercy will restore him ere long to his wife and bairns. But now, Gavin, get away by the fields to Rowallan, and see whether all be well there."

Just at that moment, however, a messenger on horseback appeared at the door, conveying the terrible tidings from Rowallan, and bidding Hartrigge and his wife come over at once. Susan Gray, dumb with horror, sat helplessly down, and wrung her hands in despair. Not having heard the right way of the story, her hopes concerning her husband's comparative safety swiftly ebbed away, for since they spared not a defenceless and delicate woman, how could they allow such as Andrew Gray to escape unhurt? So desolation and woe fell upon the houses of Rowallan and Hartrigge, and it appeared as if the Lord had deserted them, and removed the light of His countenance from His servants.

Meanwhile the regiment had halted on the public road, and after a brief consultation, a portion, under command of Captain Blane, was sent back to Inverburn, where they were to remain for several days, keeping a sharp look-out for the fugitives. They were also empowered to compel all upon whom they could lay hands to attend upon the ministrations of the curate the following S