The Laird of Lag
One fine morning in April, as I was sauntering along the high-road leading to Dumfries, I observed a little way on the right-hand a small burying-ground, jealously protected from intrusion by a high wall and shaded by trees, whose boughs drooped in a half pensive manner, as if in sympathy with the memorials of the dead which were scattered around. Struck with the singularity of the situation, and the fact of there being no church within view, I turned my footsteps in the direction of the solitary burying-ground. Fortunately for the gratification of my curiosity, the old sexton—all sextons are old—was busily employed in digging a grave. While inspecting the various tombstones, some of which seemed very ancient, my attention was attracted towards a mass of ruins—apparently the remains of what had been a family burying-place. Unable to derive any information from the broken fragments that lay strewn around, I advanced towards the sexton, in order to have my curiosity gratified.
The old man raised his head at my approach, and in answer to my inquiry as to whose resting-place it was that was lying in ruins, whilst those around seemed in a state of good preservation, replied—pausing in the midst of his work and wiping his face with a handkerchief—“you must be a stranger in this part of the country, not to know that that is the grave of the Laird of Lag.”
“The Laird of Lag!” I exclaimed; “what! is he buried here?”
“O yes ma’m,” replied the sexton, “the Laird lies here.”
“How comes it?” I inquired, smiling at the old man’s sagacious look and still more mysterious shake of the head, “that his grave is in such a ruined state, whilst those around, bearing dates anterior to Lag’s time, are still in good repair?”
The sexton remained mute for a moment or so, then approaching nearer, inquired of me in a confidential whisper, “whether I had observed the violence of the wind in the burying-ground, when elsewhere there reigned a perfect calm?”
I replied, “I had indeed remarked the circumstance, but supposed it was owing to the exposed situation in which the burying-ground was placed.”
The old man shook his head as he answered, “Oh, no! that cannot be the reason; for even up amongst these hills, when not a leaf is stirring in the breeze, the wind there howls and tears along in the most boisterous manner.” Then after a pause he added, “no, no; that’s not the true explanation!”
“Well, then,” I said, “but what has your theory of the high wind to do with the ruined state of Lag’s grave?”
“Everything,” he replied; “and if you will just have a little patience I’ll explain it to you; but you must excuse my homely way of speaking, for I’m not good at the story-telling.” Then sticking his spade into the ground and seating himself on a neighbouring stone, he supported his arm on the handle of his spade, in the attitude of one about to make some mysterious communication, and began as follows:—
It was in the winter time that Lag’s grave was destroyed; and the night on which the occurrence took place was wild and stormy enough, but nothing to the like of me, who have seen many a fearful night in my young days, when—but let that pass, as it has nothing to do with my story. Well, as I was saying, it was rather a stormy evening, and the wind had an eerie sound as it moaned in the chimney and caused the window-frame to rattle in an odd sort of way; and my wife observed to me, just as I was on the point of falling asleep, “Oh, John, but this is an awful night for ony puir body to be out in!”
“Nonsense, wife,” I replied; “I trust they may never be out in worse weather; it’s a mere capful of wind, as the sailors say.”
“May the Lord forgive ye, John, for you livity (levity);” so saying she gave me a push with her elbow, as a kind of rebuke for my light way of speaking.
Well, mim, I was awoke about the middle of the night by my wife giving me a pull of the arm, whilst she exclaimed in a voice almost inaudible through fear, “Oh! John, hear till that in the auld grave-yard; isn’t that awful? what can it mean?”
I listened for a moment, and never in the whole course of my life had I heard such strange sounds—they were like nothing earthly. Up I got and ran to the window, which commands a view of this place, and suoh a sight as I then saw! May the Lord forgive me for the thought, but I was convinced all the devils were let loose that night. It was perfectly dark, and the trees were shaking and groaning in the blast, in a manner awful to hear; and every now and then a glimmering light appeared, as if some one was carrying a light in the grave-yard. You must know there’s an idle story in the country, that Lag walks about in the night-time with a lighted taper in his hand, but I don’t believe the like of that. Well, as I told you before, every now and again that strange light, which I took to be a “will-o’-the-wisp,” appeared dancing about, and the flashes of lightning were bright and frequent; whilst strange wild sounds seemed borne on the blast, that shook the cottage to its foundation. Overcome with fright and amazement, I went back to my bed; but not much sleep did I get that night—neither did my wife; and mighty glad were we when the bright rays of the morning sun streamed through the window shutter. The first thing I did was to come here, in case any damage had been done in the course of the night; and sure enough, when I arrived, I found everything as I had left it on the preceding day, except Lag’s burial-place, which was thrown to the ground, and the stones lying about just as you see them. Ever since that fearful night, the wind has never ceased blowing in this place; but, even in the calmest summer’s day it howls and rushes along, as if rejoicing over the ruin it had made of the wicked persecutor’s grave.
There was a pause after the sexton had finished his wild tale; the old man apparently was overcome at the remembrance of the horrors of that night, and I more than half-puzzled to account for the strange circumstance, supported by the evidence which the wreck around me attested in favour of the sexton’s recital, at length inquired, after expressing the pleasure his narration had afforded me, “Why there was no church attached to the burying-ground, and what was its designation?”
To which he replied, “That the old parish church of Dunscore formerly stood here, but the heritors of the parish had found fault with its situation, it being too far removed from the more distant parts of Dunscore parish; consequently, it had been taken down, and a new church erected in a more convenient position.”
I again demanded if he was acquainted with any old legends told in connection with the Laird of Lag, thinking there must be a good many extant which treated of his wild doings.
The sexton shook his head, and replied, No, ma’m, I cannot say that I do know anything of him in particular, not having paid much attention to the idle stories told in the parish; but, as I seemed fond of these kind of tales, he recommended me to visit an old woman, named Mrs. Walker, who was about ninety years of age, and who might be able to afford me some information on that subject.
After thanking the old man, and expressing my regret at having interrupted his labours, I turned to depart, when he called me back, for the purpose of attracting my attention to the fact that nothing but nettles and the rank weeds were growing around Lag’s grave; and, said he, with emphasis, “Nothing in the shape of flowers ever would grow there, do what I could.” After expressing my surprise at this singular occurrence, I bade him good morning, and directed my steps towards the habitation of Mrs. Walker. I found the old woman very comfortably seated in her arm-chair, by the kitchen fire, watching a piece of bread undergoing the process of toasting. This, and the fact of a brown delf tea-pot standing upon the hob, satisfied me that Mrs. Walker was about to regale herself with a comforting cup of tea.
Before proceeding further, I shall relate rather an amusing circumstance told in connection with a Mr. G——, who came to this part of the country for the express purpose of making good his claim to be one of the descendants of the Laird of Lag. Being very desirous of collecting all the information he could concerning his progenitor, he called upon all the old people whom he thought likely to assist him in his endeavours. Amongst others, he honoured Mrs. Walker with a visit. After having made a few inquiries concerning the object of his call, he abruptly demanded of her, “Well, Mrs. Walker, and what do you think of Lag?” “Oh, dear sirs!” she replied, “I never saw him!” “I am quite aware of that; but what have you heard of him?” “Nae gude, sir—nae gude!”
On entering the kitchen, I accosted Mrs. Walker, and informed her that, as I was desirous of hearing some of the wild tales that were told about the Laird of Lag, and understanding she was acquainted with many of the stories told in connection with that famous persecutor, I had taken the liberty of calling upon her, hoping she might be induced to relate one or two of the many with which her memory was stored. The old dame smiled complacently, at the same time observing, “That she was now an aged woman, entering upon her ninetieth year, consequently her memory was rather failing, and many of the tales she had heard regarding Lag in her youth had faded from her remembrance, like a vanished dream; but,” she added, “if you will only wait until I have had my cup of tea, something may come across my mind that may chance to interest you.” Cordially agreeing to the old dame’s proposition, and refusing a cup of the exhilarating beverage, I amused myself with gazing at the numerous prints adorning the walls, which had evidently been chosen more with an eye to gaudy colouring than artistic merit.
Mrs. Walker, after having finished her meal, replaced the tea-pot near the fire, and arranging her dress—as is often the custom with story-tellers—commenced the following account of the Laird of Lag:—
“Well, ma’am, you see, Sir Robert Grierson, commonly called the Laird of Lag—more briefly Lag—was a noted persecutor, and dreaded by all who espoused the side of the Kirk and Covenant. A bad cruel man was he, and many were the bloody deeds he did in his day. Some said he wasn’t so bad as people said, and others, again maintained he was worse; but let that pass, he did enough to win himself a bad name, and he got it, as was but justice. Well, Sir Robert married a daughter of the second Earl of Queensberry, who rejoiced in the appellation of the ‘Deil o’ Drumlanrig;’ and what good could be expected from Sir Robert after forming a connection like that? If the laird was bad, his father-in-law was counted worse, as along with other bad qualities, he was a mad gamester, and it was not very long ere he made Sir Robert as noted as himself in that respect. Many were the nights they spent over the ‘devil’s books,’ as they are justly called. In the end, the Laird was cleared out of all his property, except Rockhall, which, being strictly entailed, could not be touched.”
Here Mrs. Walker paused for a moment, drew a deep breath, and then inquired, “If I had ever seen the account given of Lag in the ‘People’s Edition of the Scots’ Worthies?’” Upon my answering in the negative, she immediately rose from her seat, and proceeded towards another apartment, when she presently returned with one or two numbers of this much-relished work, and once more seating herself in her comfortable chair, she donned her spectacles, and read aloud the following:—
“Sir Robert Grierson of Lag was another prime hero for the promoting of Satan’s kingdom. We think that it was some time after Bothwell that he was made sheriff or sheriff-depute of Dumfries. But to relate all the fining, spoiling, oppression, and murders committed by this worthy of Satan, or champion of his kingdom, were beyond our intention. Besides £1200 of fines exacted in Galloway and Nithsdale shires, he was accessory to the murdering, under colour of their iniquitous laws, of Margaret M’Lachlan, aged sixty-three years, and Margaret Wilson, a young woman, whom they drowned at two stakes within the sea-mark at the water of Baldnook. For his cold-blood murders, he caused hang Gordon and Mr. Cubin on a growing tree near Irongray, and left them hanging there, 1686.
“The same year he apprehended Mr. Bell of Whiteside, D. Halliday of Mayfield, and three more, and without giving them time to pray, shot them dead on the spot. Mr. Bell, whom Sir Robert Grierson knew, earnestly entreated but a quarter of an hour to prepare for eternity; but this was refused.
“The reply was, ‘What the devil, have you not had time to prepare since Bothwell?’ (Here Mrs. Walker shook her head.) He was, therefore, instantly shot with the rest; and so far did this persecuting renegado push his revenge, that he even denied interment to their lifeless dust!4 Shortly after this, Lord Kenmuir happening to meet Lag with Claverhouse in Kirkcudbright, called him to account for his cruelty to Mr. Bell, and more especially for his inhumanity in refusing burial to his remains. Sir Robert answered with an oath, ‘Take him, if you will, and salt him in your beef barrel.’ The insulted nobleman immediately drew his sword, and must have ran him through the body, had not Claverhouse interposed. And surely such a death had been too honourable for such a villain.
“This monument shall tell posterity
That blessed Bell of Whiteside here doth ly;
Who by command of bloody Lag was shot,
A murther strange, which should not be forgot.
Douglass of Morton did him quarters give,
Yet cruel Lag would not let him survive,
This martyr sought some time to recommend.
The tyrant said, ‘What devil? ye’ve pray’d eneugh,
Those long seven years on mountain and in clough,
So instantly caused him and other four
Be shot to death upon Kirkconnel Muir.
So this did end the lives of these brave saints,
For their adhering to the Covenants.”
“The same summer, Annandale having apprehended G. Short and D. Halliday, and having bound them, after quarters granted, the monster Lag came up, and as they lay on the ground, under the cloud of night, caused shoot them immediately, leaving their bodies thus all blood and gore; nay, such was their audacious impiety, that he, with the rest of his boon companions and persecutors would, over their drunken bowls, feign themselves divils and those whom they supposed in hell, and then whip one another as a jest upon that place of torment. When he could serve his master this way no longer, he wallowed in all manner of atheism, drunkenness, and swearing, for which he was excommunicated by the church after the Revolution; and yet by the then powers was made Justice of the Peace, some time before 1714, a disgrace to any civilised nation, not to mention a Presbyterian profession. Death’s pangs at last arresting him, and all other refuges failing him, under the views of his former wicked life, in imitation of his master Charles, he feigned himself of the popish profession, because a popish priest made him believe for money he could pardon his sins, and even when in purgatory for them he could bring him to heaven. He died December 23, 1733, and there is little doubt went down to Tophet with a lie in his mouth, and so remains in spite of all the priest could mutter over him, as the author of his elegy in his master’s name well expresses it:—
“For when I heard that he was dead,
A legion of my den did lead
Him to my place of residence,
And there he’ll stay and not go hence.
This Lag will know and all the rest,
Who of my lodging are possesst;
On earth no more they can serve me,
But still I’ll have their company,” etc.
“This is what is said of him in the ‘Scots’ Worthies,’” said Mrs. Walker, as she placed the numbers on a table beside her, “and it’s not much in his favour as you will perceive. I suppose,” she continued, “you will have heard of many other cruelties he committed—such as putting the poor Covenanters into barrels stuck round in the inside with knives, dagger-points, etc., then causing the barrels to be rolled down a steep hill, so that the persons inside were all cut to pieces in the descent; and shooting and stabbing others, so that his name became a by-word in the country.”
Answering in the affirmative, I then inquired of her “if there had been any picture taken of the Laird?”
“Oh! yes,” she replied, “there was one at Rockhall, but it was stolen from thence by some person in the time of one of the late baronets.”
“Did you ever hear any description of his personal appearance?”
“Well,” she replied, “I have heard it said that he was a fair man with long yellow hair which hung in ringlets down to his shoulders, but I cannot believe that any fair person ever possessed such a black soul as he must have had. However, he might have been a bonnie man for all that.”
Begging pardon for the interruption, I prayed her to continue, which she did as follows:—
“Well ma’m, as I told you before, my memory is not so good as it was, and there are many things told of the Laird of Lag that I have quite forgotten; yet one thing I still remember, and that is the account of what took place at the time of his burial. My Thomas told me his grandfather remembered that day well, and such a one he never saw. It was in the winter time and bitterly cold; yet notwithstanding, there was a storm of thunder and lightning the like of which never occurred in the memory of man. As Lag died in Dumfries, horses were brought from the Kings’ Arms Inn in order to bring his body to Dunscore. I suppose you have seen his grave?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and very sorry I am to see it all in ruins!”
“Ay,” she, said, “Lag is in a sad state!”
After this sage remark, Mrs. Walker continued: “As I was saying, horses were brought from the inn at Dumfries, for the purpose of driving the hearse to the burial-ground; but when they were yoked, and the driver endeavoured to set them in motion, not one foot would they stir. All this time the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed in an awful manner. Half-blinded by the vivid flashes that played around, and smarting under the furious strokes of the driver’s whip, the poor horses trembled in every limb; yet no power on earth was capable of causing them to proceed with their burden. Well, Sir Thomas of Closeburn was there, and he swore a great oath that he would drive Lag to his grave, although the devil was in him. So, unyoking the horses from his own carriage, he fastened them to the hearse, and mounting himself on the driver’s seat, prepared to urge them forward. At this moment, a large black rook, that had been seated on one of the housetops, apparently watching the whole proceedings with the deepest interest, flew down from its elevated situation, and, with a loud caw, seated itself on the top of the hearse. Strange to say, whenever it placed itself there, the horses set off at a gallop; and the roads being rough and heavy with the recent rains, the hearse was jolted about in a fearful manner; still the rook kept its seat, and cawed every now and again. Whenever it did so the horses went faster and faster, until at length on arriving at the churchyard, they fell down dead, from sheer exhaustion. Then the strange bird rose up from its seat, and, with a loud scream and a flap of its wings, flew away and was soon out of sight. The people about maintain to this day that it was the devil who had come in person to superintend the funeral of his colleague. At the time I speak of there were copies of an elegy on the Laird of Lag—a verse of which I read to you from the ‘Scots’ Worthies’—distributed throughout the country; and as no one knew the composer, it was universally believed that the devil himself wrote it, as a lament for having lost so good a servant as Lag had been to him while on earth. All the copies that could be procured were bought up by by Sir Robert’s granddaughter, who could not bear that her grandfather’s memory should be held in such detestation, and I doubt if there is a copy now in existence.”
“How far is Lag Tower from here?” I inquired, after thanking her for the tale.
“About four miles,” replied Mrs. Walker, “and an easy road it is to find out. You go past the Free Church Manse, and turn up the Barjarg Road: then go through Glen Midge, and you will soon see the old tower. It is a wild place, and well worth visiting.”
Whilst pursuing my way along the path which led to the ancient residence of the Laird of Lag, a sudden turning in the road revealed to my gaze the form of an aged man, who pursued, with praiseworthy assiduity, his laborious employment of stone-breaking. There was something at once pleasing and impressive in the physiognomy of the venerable labourer. From beneath the Kilmarnock bonnet which surmounted his grey hairs, his blue eyes sparkled with yet unsubdued fire and animation; while the ruddy glow on his weather-beaten cheek, and the vigorous strokes with which his hammer descended on the stony pile before him, betokened energy of character and a total absence of those ailments so often attendant on the footsteps of age.
Being now somewhat at a loss how to arrive at the object of my wishes, the road at this point branching off in different directions, I inquired of the labourer whither I should direct my steps, so as to avoid losing my way amongst the surrounding morasses. The old man, thus accosted, paused in his labour, and replied to my inquiry, in the usual Scotch fashion, by putting another, “And so you are going to visit the old Toor o’ Lag?” I answered in the affirmative. “Ay ay! well it’s a queer solitary place.” “From all accounts, the Laird must have been a very extraordinary man,” I observed. “You may well say so,” said the old stone-breaker, as ceasing from his arduous task, he stood with one hand on the handle of his implement, while with the other he uncovered his head, to allow the cool breezes to refresh his heated temples, “he was just a most ex-tre-or-nary man, if all be true that is said about him.” “Are you inclined to doubt the truth of those stories told concerning him in Dumfriesshire?”
“No,” was the reply, accompanied by a sagacious shake of the head, “I cannot say that I do. Many of them may be enlarged on, for, as one knows, a story always gathers in the telling; but still in the main they are true enough, and certainly reflect little honour on him about whom they are told. A-well-a-day!” he continued, “these were indeed sad times when men, left to their own inventions, played such a cruel and unworthy part; the persecutors were, in general, a cold-blooded, relentless sect, and at the head o’ the tribe you may put the Laird of Lag, for none of the others, in my opinion, were fit to hold a candle to him for pure malice and steadfastness of purpose in the shedding of blood. There was Claverhouse, evil spirit as he was, it is well known he felt some compunction of consciences for having murdered that godly person, John Brown, and seldom or never refused his intended victim a few moments to commend his departing spirit to Him who save it; but, as related of Sir Robert Grierson, he laughed to scorn the tearful entreaties of the captured Covenanter, and turning a deaf ear to all the poor man’s agonised appeals for only one moment to make his peace with God, or to implore a blessing on his country, sent him straight to that bourne from whence no traveller returns.”
There was a pause for a few moments, which was at length broken by the old man.
“This was a great part of the country for the Laird’s exploits: the militia, with him at their head, were constantly riding up and down Dumfriesshire and Galloway, and woe to the unlucky wight who fell into their hands: guilty or not guilty, it was all one—shot or hanged he must be. The Laird sent forth the iniquitous decree, ‘Soldiers, do your duty! Prisoner, prepare for death! not one word!’ Bang, bang! he is dead; and away rides Sir Robert, priding himself in no small degree on his strict adherence to the laws of vengeance, and taking no pains to conceal his exultation at the summary punishment he had inflicted on one of the canting rebels, as he was pleased, in common with his fellow-labourers in the vineyard of iniquity, to designate the hapless body of men he had sworn to exterminate.”
“Have you read much about the Covenanters?” I inquired of the labourer, whose eyes burned like coals of living fire while dwelling on the misfortunes of those whose cause he evidently espoused with no small amount of zeal.
“Every book that I can lay my hands on, from the ‘Scots’ Worthies’ down to ‘Helen of the Glen,’ and not only once, but over and over again, until I could repeat the most of them off by heart. Next to the lives of these good and holy men, whose names are an honour and glory to Scotland,” pursued the labourer, “James Renwick’s sermons is the book most prized by me—ay! there are no preachers like him now-a-days! What would I not have given to have been with him on some bonnie hill-side when he was holding forth to the faithful few privileged to hear him! Have you ever read his sermons?” he inquired.
I replied in the negative.
He then continued, “Well, all I can say is, you have missed something good, so full are they of sound, wholesome doctrine and Christian principles; how he must have been inspired by the cause he espoused, to be able to preach such truly comforting doctrines!”
“It is a pity,” I said, “but Sir Robert Grierson had heard him, he might have been converted——”
“Him!” interrupted the old man; “no, no; he was a brand reserved for the burning; no sermons, however forcible, would have had the slightest effect on his black nature; his heart would have resisted the knocks of the minister, as the stone resisteth the hammer.”
Here the labourer, by way of illustration, inflicted with his implement a vigorous stroke on an obdurate piece of rock, which effectually resisted all his attempts to reduce its dimensions.
“That hill,” I observed, alluding to the one previously mentioned by Mrs. Walker, “seems to have been the theatre of many an evil deed; was it not there that the Laird executed judgment on many of the poor men who chanced to fall into his power?”
The old man gazed for a moment on the hill in question, then with a shake of the head, accompanied by a deep-drawn sigh, confirmed Mrs. Walker’s statements to their fullest extent, dwelling at considerable length on the many acts of butchery perpetrated on the summit of the eminence, which, covered with a sombre mass of dark firs, frowned gloomily upon us.
“Is there no story you can recall to remembrance connected with some of Sir Robert Grierson’s wild exploits?” I inquired, fully persuaded from the old man’s garrulity that his memory was like a well-stored garner in respect to these matters, and that a little time and leisure were all that was necessary to produce some thrilling narration of horror—some marvellous tale still treasured up in the breasts of a few, relating to the days of persecution. I was not disappointed. The old man, thus appealed to, stood silent for a moment, as if buried in deep thought, then throwing his hammer carelessly from him, he leisurely seated himself on the pile of stones beside him, and after a few preparatory hems, commenced the following tale, which clothed in my own language is now presented to the reader.
On a fine spring evening in the year sixteen hundred and eighty-five, that year so fraught with gloom and disaster to all espousing the Covenanting cause, a young man, who, judging from his military garb and martial appearance, belonged to one of those militia regiments then scouring the country in search of those they were commissioned to kill or make captive, came riding slowly along the road leading from Irongray to Dunscore. He was evidently in a thoughtful mood, for his forehead was contracted by a deep frown and his eyes were bent steadily on the ground so as to render him oblivious to the motions of his charger, which, finding from the slackened rein and idle spur that his former impatient master had ceased to hasten his onward progress, speedily took advantage of this discovery to snatch a few mouthfuls of grass which grew in wild luxuriance along the sides of the road. This little indulgence of his inclinations being allowed to pass unpunished, the poor animal, apparently worn out by his previous hard work, finally came to a stand-still and proceeded leisurely to crop the tempting herbage presented to his view. This sudden stoppage on the part of his charger, speedily aroused the soldier from the absorbing reverie into which he had fallen, and snatching up the neglected reins, he thrust his rowels into his sides and forced him into a hand-gallop. For some little time he pursued his rapid career, until his horse, accidentally treading on a stone, stumbled, and being unable to recover his lost footing, fell heavily on the road, bearing his rider with him. For one moment, the horseman lay stunned and motionless from the force of the shock; but speedily recovering his scattered senses, he extricated his feet from the stirrups, and proceeded to raise his fallen charger. Greatly to his annoyance, the soldier perceived from the halting gait of his faithful steed that further use of his services was for the present impossible. Uttering an exclamation of disappointment, he gathered the reins in his hands, and leading the horse off the highway, struck into a wild, solitary path, winding away amongst the hills which lay to the right hand of the road leading to Dunscore. The gloaming was now advancing with rapid strides; and anxious to reach his destination without further delay, the young man pressed onwards as swiftly as the disabled state of his horse would allow; but soon the lameness of the poor animal increased to such a degree that he was fain to pause for a few moments, in order to discover, if possible, the extent of the injury inflicted. The horse, with the natural instinct of its race, seemed at once aware of the nature of the service about to be rendered, and placing his swollen foot in the outstretched hand of his master rubbed his head against his shoulder, as if to evince his gratitude for the kindly feelings which prompted the examination. Whilst inspecting the bruised leg, the natural buoyancy of the soldier’s spirits, which had been in no small measure disturbed by the untoward events of the day, returned in full vigour; and with all the joyous gaiety of youth, which rises superior to the frowns of adversity, he commenced singing the song so popular with his party, namely, that which related to King Charles’ return. He had not proceeded farther than the words—
“Oh, the twenty-ninth of May,
It was a glorious day
When the king did enjoy his own again!”
when a slight cough behind made him pause in the midst of his ditty, and, greatly to his surprise, on turning round he perceived an aged man, whose broad, blue bonnet and dress of hodden-grey betokened his adherence to the cause of the Kirk and Covenant leaning on the butt-end of a musket, and regarding him attentively with a look of stern displeasure, which seemed rather to amuse than terrify the object of his scrutiny, who, noways daunted by the ominous-looking weapon upon which the stranger leaned, returned his scowling glance with one of haughty defiance for he instantly exclaimed, “How now, old wiseacre! wer’t nourished on vinegar, that thou lookest so sour? Why, man alive! one would fancy from thy rueful visage that things are not so well with thee as thou fain wouldst wish; speak out, man, and tell us at once the cause of thy disturbed aspect.”
The aged wanderer smiled grimly, but vouchsafed no further reply to the scoffing inquiries of the soldier, who, somewhat nettled by the contemptuous silence maintained by the stranger, burst forth into one of the many songs then so much in vogue amongst the cavaliers, and which consigned to (in their eyes) condign punishment all those who ventured to differ from them so essentially as did the Puritans. The eyes of the Covenanter flashed sparks of fire on hearing this scornful ballad, and grasping his musket, he seemed as if about to rush on the object of his wrath, then, apparently by a mighty effort, conquering his disposition for violence, he regained his original position, and continued gazing with a gloomy brow on the performer, who heedless of its effects on the person before him, pursued his ditty with admirable coolness, repeating over and over again with marked emphasis, the verses he thought most likely to annoy and irritate the grey-haired Covenanter.
“Young man,” said the stranger at the conclusion of the song, “you have verily moved me to anger by your unwarrantable attack on our poor, afflicted body; and yet fain would I argue with you in all soberness and good-will on the evil doings of the party with whom you consort, for that you are one of these cruel persecutors of our church, now ranging the country, I make bold to believe, therefore——”
“Now, cease your fanatical jargon,” interrupted the soldier, “I care not to bandy words with one pertaining to that rebellious sect I am bound to molest by every means in my power, and to despise as being utterly incapable of listening to a word of sense, even although delivered in season,” (this was said by the soldier in a snivelling tone); “so leave me in peace to attend my good steed, which well merits all the attention I have to bestow.”
“The horse,” rejoined the old man, “has more sense than its master, and faints in the bloody service to which you have doomed it; but since you despise the good counsel I would bestow, even on an enemy, I will content myself by simply inquiring from whence you come and whither you are bound?”
“I do not see,” was the reply, “by what right you presume to question me as regards my movements; but still I will not refuse to satisfy you on that point, so make answer that I have come from Drumlanrig, burdened with a special message from the Earl of Queensbury to Sir Robert Grierson, whom I serve, as in duty bound, having been born on his estate, and whom I am willing to follow to the death should he please so to lead me.”
The brows of the stranger contracted into a frown of fearful import, and, grasping his gun with frantic violence, he hissed through his clenched teeth, “You are a servant of his, are you? Then, you belong to one whom I have sworn to dispatch should he cross my path—he, the inhuman monster!” (here the soldier started to his feet, and drawing his sword, sprang towards the Covenanter, but waving him off with his hand, the stranger continued), “he, I say, has this day deprived me of my faithful and loving brother—one who had never injured him in thought, word, or deed. He lived in his secluded home—peaceful and happy in the bosom of his family. Fortune smiled upon him. He was rich, yet he was humble; he was prosperous, yet no one envied him; and why? because of his abundance he gave to them who were in want, and never said to the hungry—Depart; I have nought for thee. In midst of these religious grievances which have racked our native land, Elias Henderson displayed no symptoms of fear and dismay. Claverhouse, with his bloodhounds, overran Galloway; Johnstone of Westerraw, with his myrmidons, scoured the plains of Annandale; Grierson of Lag, the worst of them all, traversed the hilly country of Dumfriesshire; yet was he tranquil. ‘I have harmed none of these men,’ was his reply, on being questioned as to the reason of his undisturbed serenity of countenance, when all around him were tortured with gloomy apprehensions; ‘It is true I espouse the side of the Covenant, but what of that? is not liberty of conscience the prerogative of every British subject? then wherefore injure one for worshipping the God of his fathers in the way that seemeth him best?’ Ah, my poor Elias! little recked he of the awful fate which awaited him. This morning,” here the speaker paused for a moment overcome with emotion, “my brother was walking in the vicinity of his farm; suddenly a band of horsemen appeared in sight, with the redoubted Sir Robert Grierson at their head; they approached the spot where my brother stood. Unconscious of fear, Elias walked bravely forward, and uncovering his head, inquired of the fierce baronet the reason of his coming.”
“You shall soon learn that,” was the mocking reply; and without further parley, the cruel relentless demon drew from his pocket a loaded pistol, and levelled it at the head of my unsuspecting brother.
“‘Mercy, mercy!’ he cried, perceiving the cruel intent with which Sir Robert had visited his farm; ‘only five minutes to make my peace with God, to beg a blessing on my wife and children!’
“‘Not one second,’ was the stern rejoinder; and that instant my brother—my poor brother, fell a lifeless corpse; he is dead, but I live to avenge him!” so saying, the wanderer leant his head on his gun and sobbed aloud. There was a momentary pause, during which the soldier stood motionless, gazing on the speaker, apparently astonished at the wild frenzy which so powerfully characterised his every movement. He seemed as if about to speak, when, dashing away the tears which almost blinded him, the stranger, or, as we may now term him, Walter Henderson, started from his drooping posture, and raising his hands and eyes to heaven, thundered forth with vehemence, “Before God I swear that I live for nothing but revenge on him who has rendered my brother’s house desolate and forlorn; who has transformed the happy wife into a bereaved widow, and smiling children into wailing mourners. From this day henceforward shall Walter Henderson be an alien to his house and kindred, until he has gratified his thirst for vengeance, and the bones of his enemy are left to bleach beneath the wasting winds of heaven!”
“Come, cease your foolish bragging,” replied the soldier, “Sir Robert Grierson may not be accountable to you or any man for the justice he pleases to administer to these bog-hunting fellows, who have thrown the whole of Scotland, ay, and England to boot, into a state of uproar and confusion by their fanatical nonsense. I doubt not but that he had some powerful reasons for dispatching your brother a little before his time, indeed, according to your own reasoning, that the day of a man’s death is appointed at the instant of his birth—my most worshipful leader was merely an instrument under Providence to fulfil the verdict that had gone forth against your brother, therefore——”
“And does that lessen his guilt?” sternly interrupted Walter Henderson; “think you that Pontius Pilate will stand at the judgment-seat with an undaunted front, because it was decreed he should condemn his Lord and Master? Think you that the precious blood of the saints and martyrs, which now reddens the heaths and valleys of our native land, will not be avenged because the day for its shedding had arrived? In not blood for blood the decree of One who holds the scales of justice in his bands? Hath he not said, ‘Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed?’ Then woe to him, who, by the strict performance of the bloody duty imposed upon him by those whom he professes to hold himself bound to obey, encourages the wicked in their evil counsels, and for his own reward heaps up endless misery, if not in this present world, in that which is to come! Young man,” pursued Walter Henderson, advancing nearer to the astonished soldier, and speaking in a tone of kindlier import than that he had adopted while dwelling on his brother’s death, “it grieveth me much to see one apparently so young in years following so readily in the footsteps of him who is, alas! but too truly believed to bear a most deadly hatred to all espousing the side of our Kirk and Covenant; and I would fain address to you a few words of warning, for which you may yet learn to thank me, as it may be you have a mother whose stay you are, therefore be guided by me in this matter, and advance no farther on your road; it is beset with perils of which you wot not; beneath the shade of each leafy tree; recline armed men; every cottage which you pass contains a foe. Aroused to madness by fresh acts of cruelty daily perpetrated against them, the inhabitants of this district have risen to a man in defence of their civil and religious liberties; more than this, they have determined upon attacking the stronghold of the ungodly leader whom you serve; and soon, we trust, under the favour of Almighty God, to see the Tower of Lag a heap of smouldering ruins.
“Now, as sure as my name is John Kirsop,” exclaimed the soldier, overwhelmed with anger, and seizing his horse’s bridle as he spoke, “shall this communication reach the ears of him who is likely to feel most interested in it;” so saying he made a motion to depart, when Walter Henderson with a grim smile instantly laid his hand on the bridle as if to restrain him. In a transport of fury, young Kirsop drew his sword and prepared to rush on the aged Covenanter, who thereupon started hastily back and gave utterance to a shrill whistle, in answer to which about a dozen men rushed forth from their various places of concealment and surrounded the infuriated soldier, who, bewildered by this sudden change in the aspect of affairs, quietly surrendered himself their prisoner.
“Now, most valiant sir,” said Walter Henderson, who appeared to be the leader of the party, “as you have despised the warning, I, out of kindness and consideration for your youth was foolish enough to give you, you must prepare to accompany us as our captive. No evil is intended you, but should you evince the slightest disposition to escape—that moment shall be your last;” so saying, he gave orders for the party to set themselves in motion. The moon had risen, and her pale crest appeared over the summits of the surrounding hills, throwing a dim and shadowy light on the path trod by the Covenanters, as they silently, and with many precautions against surprise, pursued their way along the rough-winding road leading in the direction of Lag Tower. Suddenly they were startled in the midst of their progress by a scream, so shrill and wild in its death-like agony, that all paused to listen, awestruck by the heart-rending burst of sorrow which sounded painfully distinct amid the deep and impressive silence that reigned around. Again and again it was repeated; now floating on the breeze like the wail of some restless spirit, and anon dying away in sounds resembling the mournful cadence produced by the wind sweeping the chords of an Æolian harp. The party, at the orders of Walter Henderson, made a sudden halt, and, with deepened gloom on their faces, awaited an explanation of the harrowing sounds which now saluted their ears. Nearer and nearer sounded the voice of lamentation, and in a few minutes a small procession appeared in sight, and approached the spot where stood the wanderers, some of whom instantly rushed forward to ascertain the meaning of what they saw. The first object that met their eyes was a rude bier constructed of green boughs, on which lay the lifeless body of a young man, supported on the shoulders of four men; while at his head, with streaming eyes and dishevelled locks, walked an aged woman, the mother of the deceased. She it was who gave utterance to these terrible bursts of sorrow that first attracted the attention of Walter Henderson and his party.
“What new horror is this?” cried the aged leader, gazing with distended eyes on the bloody object before him, and addressing himself to the woman, who, totally unable to speak, merely pointed to the lifeless corpse, and again gave utterance to a shriek which froze the blood of those who stood speechless around. Perceiving that the wretched mother was wholly incapable of replying to his inquiry, Walter Henderson then turned to one of the four men supporting the bier, and begged to be informed as to the cause of the sad occurrence, and by whose hands the unfortunate man had perished.
“Just the old story!” was the reply; “a poor innocent lad done to death by the blood-hounds of the opposite party; and all for refusing the oath of abjuration. Four of us” continued the speaker, “were this morning seated on the brow of a hill near Dunscore; James Wishart, he who lies on this stretcher, was reading aloud from the Bible, and we were lying beside him listening to the comforting words, when suddenly four or five dragoons appeared at the base of the hill on which we were stationed. Seeing, from their threatening gestures, that harm was intended us, we prepared for flight. ‘Pursue different directions,’ cried James Wishart, who was himself an excellent runner, throwing off his coat as he spoke. We shook each other by the hand and commended ourselves to God. Away went James Wishart fleet as the wind, and after him, with the fire of hate in their breasts, sped the dragoons. Finding ourselves unmolested, we stood as if spellbound, in breathless anxiety gazing after the retreating figure of our comrade. On he went, swift as the roe-deer. ‘He will escape,’ murmured one who stood by my side; at that instant he stumbled and fell. ‘Oh, God protect him!’ cried we all. In an instant he regained his footing, and darted on swifter than ever. Soon he disappeared in the distance. Anxious concerning our own safety, we parted and set off in different directions. This took place in the morning. Towards the hour of noon, prompted by anxiety regarding the fate of young Wishart, I, who had remained concealed beneath a cairn of stones near the spot where my friends left me, sought by a circuitous route to approach the place where last we saw him in advance of the dragoons. Alas! a few paces distant from thence there he lay extended on the ground. Observing, however, some portion of his garments in motion, I hastened joyfully forward, hoping to find him alive; but no; it was only the wind which stirred his yellow hair and a pocket-handkerchief that lay deluged in blood beside him. He was gone! His young life had ebbed away through a gun-shot wound in his breast. I sat down beside him, devoutly hoping my late companions would also return to ascertain the fate of their comrade, as I did not wish to leave his lifeless body to the mercy of the hungry ravens which hovered in circles around our heads, watching for their prey. Soon they rejoined me, another accompanying them. The dragoons, they informed me, satisfied with their morning’s work, had galloped off in another direction, therefore we might with safety convey the body of James Wishart to his mother’s cottage, which stood not far distant. Having constructed this rude bier, we laid his body upon it, and bore it on our shoulders along this path; just about a mile from thence we encountered his mother, who, alarmed at the protracted absence of her son, had set forth in search of him——”
“Yes!” screamed forth the distracted parent, “the spirit of my murdered boy drove me forth to meet his mangled body. I sat in my house, bewailing my solitary widowhood—alone with my foreboding fears concerning my son, and brooding with tortured soul over the fearful calamities that has befallen the faithful of the land. Suddenly I was seized with a trembling and sinking of the heart—an indescribable feeling of awe, as if some mysterious being invisible, yet distinctly felt, hovered around, overcame me, and I bowed my head in acknowledgment of its presence. Then a voice, which I instantly knew to be that of my son, although sweet and low, whispered the name of—mother! Distracted with fear, I fled from the cottage; and led by my mysterious guide, my footsteps turned in this direction. Maddened by cruel uncertainty, I ran swiftly onwards until I encountered the bier which bore all that remained of my murdered son.”
Here the mother ended her sad recital, and weeping afresh, resumed her station at the head of the procession.
“Men, and fellow-sufferers in the good cause!” shouted Walter Henderson at the conclusion of the widow’s tale, “what merits the man, who, on account of his high position and influence in this county, has it in his power to succour those overwhelmed by dangers and miseries of every description, and to befriend the followers of the Covenant, but who, instead of shielding these poor afflicted ones under the strong arm of his might, reduces them to the bonds of slavery, and exercises his authority over the minds of his friends and dependants to the furtherance of every evil work, whereby the blood of innocent and inoffensive men is poured out like water on the hills and valleys of Scotland?”
“Death!” was the rejoinder.
“What punishment should be inflicted on him,” pursued their leader, “who has driven the labourer from his kindred and home, and the patriot from his country?”
“Let him perish in the midst of his ungodliness, and let his stronghold be razed; yea even to the ground!”
“Comrades,” shouted Walter Henderson, “It is Sir Robert Grierson whom ye have with one accord denounced; he it is who has clad the green hills of Dumfriesshire in mourning, and caused the wail of widows and orphans to ascend up to heaven for a testimony against him; then let us, trusting in the help of the Almighty God, call upon him to account for his iniquities, and burn down the stronghold of his cruelties.
“Amen,” said they all.
“Who is this? how comes it to pass that you have one of the ungodly in your company?” inquired one of the bier-bearers, addressing Walter Henderson, and pointing to John Kirsop as he spoke.
“He is a soldier I chanced to encounter on my way hither,” replied the person addressed, “and not having succeeded in bringing him to reason, I have taken the liberty of making him captive lest he interfere in some measure with the projects we have in view. But come along,” he added, “night wears apace, and the work we have in hand brooks not of delay; here, Thompson, a word with you.” So saying, he beckoned to one of the party, and withdrawing a few paces apart from the others, entered into a whispered conversation, which, greatly to the annoyance of young Kirsop, who strained every nerve to catch a few syllables of what tvas passing, proved wholly inaudible to the rest of the group.
His private conference with Thompson being ended, Walter Henderson once more joined his companions, and addressed them as follows:—“My friends, it is agreed upon between us that this night must witness the destruction of Lag Tower; then, let us hasten with resolute hearts and hands to our appointed task. Danger menaces us in every direction, for the tramplers of the Covenant lie lurking in secret places, seeking whom they may devour, and certain destruction awaits us should we fail in our attempt, or Sir Robert Grierson be made aware of our purpose; nevertheless, let us have faith in Him (here Walter Henderson uncovered his head) who is strong in might, and able and willing to save all those whose trust is placed in His word. It is true we are few in number; but when the soul is animated by steady and devoted zeal in the good cause, much that to us poor frail mortals seems almost impossible, may under the blessing of God be accomplished. You are all of you aware,” he continued “of the motives which have induced me to embark in this hazardous enterprise, namely, to revenge the death of my beloved brother, and to prevent, if possible, by the destruction of his stronghold, the perpetration of fresh crimes—the bare contemplation of which excites the inmost soul with horror—by that wicked Laird, against whom there has ascended a warning cry to heaven proclaiming that the measure of his iniquities is completed; then, let us press forward in this most blessed work, the execution of which promises us so great a reward.”
Here Walter Henderson paused for a moment, then turning to another of the party, named Andrew Hamilton, he requested him to accompany the body of James Wishart to the dwelling of the bereaved mother, in case of any surprise by the way, taking with him their prisoner, whose company would only prove an annoyance in the difficult enterprise they were about to undertake. The man thus addressed took no pains to conceal his displeasure at being prevented from attending and sharing with them in so daring an exploit as the burning of Lag Tower; but Walter Henderson represented to him the importance of the duty committed to his care, and adjured him to maintain the prisoner in all safety until the morrow, when his fate should be decided. His instructions finished, the brave old Covenanter placed himself at the head of the small but resolute party, all eager to do his bidding, and uttering a few hurried words of sympathy and farewell to the weeping widow, who now turned her steps in an opposite direction, he commenced his rapid march towards the feudal Tower of Lag, whose outline was even then dimly discernible, amid the darkness now rapidly closing around them.
We must now leave Walter Henderson and his followers pursuing their way towards the residence of Sir Robert Grierson, and return to Andrew Hamilton, who, in accordance with the wishes of his leader, walked alongside the sad procession, his hand holding the bridle of the disabled steed, on whose back, his hands tied in such a manner so as effectually to prevent his making any efforts to escape, rode John Kirsop, his cheeks glowing with ill-concealed annoyance, and his eyes, burning with impatience, resting alternately, and with no very benign expression on the faces of the different individuals composing the group. As there still remained about a mile of their journey to accomplish, Andrew Hamilton seized the opportunity to express his surprise and regret at the unworthy part chosen by John Kirsop, which he did as follows:—“It really astonishes me beyond measure to see a young man, apparently possessed of a good understanding, and in appearance not unlike the rest of us, amongst the ranks of those we have but too much reason to style the natural enemies of all who uphold the Kirk and Covenant. O dearie me, man! but you are wandering far far from the paths of sobriety and well-doing when thus espousing the cause of the mortal antagonists of sound spiritual doctrines and church freedom; really, I am grieved to behold you thus treading the path that leadeth to destruction, with eyes blindfolded and ears shut to the words of wisdom. And what kind of amusement is this, think you, to be hunting a parcel of your fellow-creatures from bog to bog, and from hill to valley, as if the Almighty had created the one-half of mankind to be meet sport for the other? No, no, my friend; true religion does’na begin with a chase and end with a murder; far more profitable would it be for the like of you, and those whom you serve with so much zeal and devotion, to be chasing pride, vain-glory, hypocrisy, and every evil tenant from your cold stubborn hearts, than to be hanging and shooting those who are manly enough to stand up for their civil and religious liberties in the face of the assembled world.”
“Cease your foolish prating,” sternly interrupted the irritated soldier.
“‘Deed and I will not!” rejoined Andrew Hamilton, who, like many of his brethern, was fond of indulging in a little disputation; “at least not until I have endeavoured to convince you of the base unworthy part you are acting towards those whose side you should have espoused with all the alacrity of a true Christian and the patriotic feelings of a Scotchman. What are you at the present time,” he continued, “but a tool in the hands of one who would dispatch you to-morrow did you give him the slightest cause for provocation or distrust? Why, then, continue in his service to the utter ruin of your immortal soul? Has not the fearful occurrence of to-day made some impression on your youthful heart? Think you that men who thus wantonly imbrue their hands in the blood of the innocent can be held guiltless in the presence of Him who abhorreth the wicked and cruel man? or that mercy will be bestowed on those who know it not, and who, by the cruel measures they have adopted towards the adherents of a stricken Church, have brought down woe and desolation on our beloved land?”
“Why, then,” said John Kirsop, “will you still remain hostile to Government? You cannot expect, if you set the whole country in a state of revolt by your fanatical and impious jargon, but that such measures as our leaders may deem proper to employ will be taken to reduce your strength and restore you to reason——”
“Reason!” wrathfully exclaimed Andrew Hamilton, “I think, friend, you are a little mistaken on that point; it is the Government that must be brought both to hear and understand reason, likewise to take care how they offend and ridicule those both able and willing to stand to their arms when their rights are trampled on and their freedom assailed.”
“Miserable fanatic,” said the soldier in reply, “I would avoid wasting words on one so narrow-minded and bigoted as thou art; so, pri’thee cease, and permit me to indulge in my own thoughts, which are much more likely to prove profitable than any arguments proceeding out of thy mouth. I quarrel not with thee for the part thou has taken in these unhappy disturbances which now agitate our land; nor will I, in spite of all the abuse thou has been pleased to heap on our devoted heads for our cruelty and revenge, dwell on the atrocious act thy companions are, perchance even now, engaged in; but were I free of these bonds I should teach thee to keep a civil tongue in that thick head of thine, and not thus waste thy breath in giving advice unasked and unwished for.”
Here the prisoner relapsed into moody silence; and Andrew Hamilton, somewhat disconcerted at the haughty tone assumed by his new acquaintance, forbore to press the conversation further. They had now arrived at the cottage inhabited by old Mrs. Wishart; it was a dwelling situated on the bank of a rippling stream, which shone like molten silver in the pale moonlight, while the dusky foliage of a few pine-trees overtopping the roof of the straw-thatched cottage harmonised well with the procession now advancing beneath their gloomy boughs. On reaching the threshold, the sorrowing mother paused for a moment, as if dreading to enter the desolate home, whose blazing hearth would never more be enlivened by the cheerful voice now hushed for ever—never more! She sighed deeply; and after engaging in mental prayer that she might be endowed with fresh strength to support this fearful trial, she raised the latch and entered, beckoning on the others to follow. All was as she had left. The fire smouldered in the grate, the clock ticked on the wall; while the kettle gave forth its cheerful song, unheeded in the midst of the general desolation. Opening a side-door which led into a little sleeping-room, Mrs. Wishart, her face ghastly with intense emotion, signed to the bier-bearers thither to convey the body of her murdered son. The men obeyed; and placing the corpse, at the mother’s desire, on the snow-white counterpane, they retired with noiseless steps and uncovered heads to the adjacent apartment, leaving her alone in the chamber with the dead. In the meanwhile, Andrew Hamilton, who had been busily occupied in searching out a place of security in which to deposit his prisoner, of whose company he was, to own the truth, heartily tired, at length discovered a barn which he at once chose as being adapted in every respect for the present purpose. Windows there were none; and the door being secured by a double lock, rendered all attempts at escape fruitless—so Andrew Hamilton thought; and acting upon his hastily-formed opinion, he thrust in the hand-bound prisoner, and double-locking the door, proceeded to stable the exhausted steed. This done, he retraced his steps to the kitchen, where he found his four companions seated around the hearth, conversing in subdued whispers on the sad occurrences of the day.
“I really wonder how Walter Henderson and his party are getting on,” at length observed one of the party, and he shook his head as he spoke.
“Not very well, I fear,” replied another, “for if all tales be true, Sir Robert Grierson keeps up too much correspondence with the powers of darkness not to be made acquainted beforehand with so important an event as the burning of his tower; and should he catch any of the unfortunate wights engaged in the act, their time on earth will be but short. Sir Robert understands not mercy at any time, and an attempt such as this will be enough to drive him mad; nor will he be appeased until the perpetrators are hanged as high as Haman.”
“In verity, he is a terrible man,” said a third. “I never saw him but once, nor do I wish to behold him again; his eye as it rested on me seemed to read my very thoughts at a single glance, and his brow had a gloom I have never seen equalled. Off went my bonnet in a trice, and my head stooped to the very ground as he approached, so anxious was I to do him all honour, while I strove to look calm and collected, although Heaven knows I was trembling like an aspen leaf, so great was my terror of the noted Laird. ‘Ho, ho!’ he shouted as he came alongside of me, and his voice went through me like a sword, and seemed to take all the strength, as it were, out of my back. ‘Ho, ho! but you seem a well mannered knave; and could you wield a sword or fire a gun as quickly as you can lower that bullet-head of yours, I would make your fortune; say, are you willing, provided you excel in these accomplishments, to enter my service?’ ‘Most worshipful sir,’ I replied, with a joyous expression of face and an inward shudder, ‘I should indeed have esteemed it a favour far above my humble deserts to have ranked even amongst the humblest of your retainers, but——’ ‘No buts,’ roared Sir Robert, with a fierce glance and a scowling brow; ‘yes, or no, for me!’ ‘Pray hear me,’ I replied in an imploring voice, fearful of incurring the deadly auger of so unscrupulous a person as Sir Robert was reported to be, ‘I only intended to assure you of my regrets that circumstances——’ ‘Cease your abominable falsehoods,’ he again sternly interrupted, ’and own the truth at once, you unshaven rascal; speak out like an honest man and tell me, what you know to be the case, that you are not ambitious to be enrolled amongst the “Laird’s Devils.”’ So saying, he made a cut at me with his whip and rode off, laughing heartily, as if considering the whole affair an excellent joke; while I, delighted to have escaped so easily, made the best of my way homewards; and ever since that day I have taken especial care always to keep a good stone wall between me and Sir Robert, for fear the second meeting should not terminate quite so pleasantly.”
“Ay, Ay,” chimed in a fourth, “but were you to see the Laird suffering from an attack of the gout, such as my father once witnessed, you would then have reason to remember the meeting.”
On his being urged to give them an account of the interview in question, the speaker narrated the following:—
“One day my poor father, who is a staunch old Covenanter, and cares not to avow the fact, was taken up on suspicion of having secreted some rebels who had rendered themselves particularly obnoxious to Government, and nothing would satisfy his accusers but his going before Sir Robert Grierson to answer the charge preferred against him. My father said, the very idea of facing that fearful man, as he styled the Laird, made him feel ready to faint; but he was determined to show no signs of fear, lest it might be construed against him; so putting a bold face on the matter, he not only expressed his willingness, but his anxiety, to meet Sir Robert; and, in accordance with his desire, he was instantly conveyed to Lag Tower. It happened, very unfortunately for my father, that very day on which he went to abide his trial, Sir Robert was confined to bed from a dreadful attack of his old enemy, the gout, which had rendered him so savage that his domestics were afraid to venture near him; but no sooner was he made aware of the fact of there being a prisoner awaiting his pleasure, than he left his couch; and dressing himself as speedily as repeated twinges of the gout would permit, he hobbled down stairs, blaspheming the while in a manner horrible to listen to. On entering the room where stood my father, with his accusers beside him, Sir Robert darted a keen glance at him from beneath his shaggy eyebrows, and then proceeded to question those present regarding the offence alleged to have been committed by my father. A grim smile played at the corners of his mouth, and a fiery gleam shot from his eyes as he listened to the rather complicated statement regarding my father’s conduct in the affair of the late concealment. He then thanked them for the ready zeal they had displayed in the king’s service, and desired that they should retire to another apartment, ‘For,’ said he, with a hoarse laugh, ‘I should like to have a little private conversation with the old Whig, and I dare say I shall manage to make him sensible of the heinous crime he has committed, thereby rendering himself amenable to the laws of his country.’ The room being cleared of all save my father, who stood boldly confronting the Laird, his head erect and his hands folded across his breast, in the attitude of one who fears no evil and is conscious of having performed none, Sir Robert seated himself at the head of the table, and motioning to my father to approach nearer to the judgment-seat, as he styled his huge arm-chair, he addressed him in the following language:—‘Is it not a downright disgrace for an old man like you, whose grey hairs ought to have covered a head of wisdom, to be arraigned before us, charged with having aided in the secreting of a parcel of knaves, rebels in fact, against their king and country; thereby frustrating the ends of justice, which required the lives of these men, and not these only, but of all who similarly transgress the righteous laws established by our most gracious sovereign King Charles the Second, whom may Heaven long preserve to the utter confusion of all who wish him harm? What have you to say for yourself, that we may be satisfied of your innocence in this matter, and permit you to depart in peace?’ My father, to tell you the honest truth, was in no small degree puzzled how to reply to this strange mode of address adopted by Sir Robert; but reflecting for a moment on the character of the man he had to deal with, he arrived at the conclusion that the best way to avoid giving a direct answer to so startling a question would be to propound another, so he said, ‘Well, Sir Robert, since you have desired me to reply to the question you were pleased to put as regarded my complicity in this aflair of the secreting of these poor unfortunate men, whom I cannot look upon in the light of malefactors, I shall do so firmly, and without reserve, feeling assured that no real blame can be attached to the part I have acted throughout; but, before proceeding to enter into details, I would simply ask in return, if any of those belonging to the side you espouse so warmly were in grievous distress, and in imminent danger of being deprived of their lives, should they fall into the hands of their enemies, who were eagerly following on their track, would you not esteem it a positive duty to harbour these unhappy fugitives? Would you not, I say, rejoice in the good deed you had accomplished, on beholding their foes depart cheated of their expected prey, and seek no other reward than the happiness arising from a self-approving conscience?’ ‘Then you acknowledge having aided these men to escape from the just doom awaiting them,’ roared Sir Robert, his brow black with ungovernable wrath. ‘You cannot prove that I did,’ coolly replied my father, nowise daunted by the terrible looks of the fiery Laird; for his blood was up, and when once he had got over his natural timidity of character, he could have faced the old gentleman himself. ‘I will make you prove it, however,’ was the fierce rejoinder; ‘reach me hither that Bible.’ My father did so. Now, you old solemn-faced hypocrite,’ said Sir Robert, accompanying these words with a hideous grimace, occasioned by a sudden and severe twinge of the gout, ‘as you value your life, you must swear by this blessed book that you are entirely innocent of the offence alleged against you, and that you know nothing of the whereabouts of these men.’ ‘But what if I do know something of the whereabouts of these men?’ demanded my father, who was fully determined to display no coward spirit, or evade the truth, even though death should pay the penalty. ‘Then your last hour has come,’ replied the Laird, in a somewhat milder tone, for he was not a little astonished at my father’s boldness of speech; ‘so you may at once say your prayers.’ ‘That is rather an unusual favour for you to bestow,’ said my father, with a smile; ‘for if all is true that’s said of you, praying does not come within your province; and instead of your victim’s soul being borne aloft on the incense of prayer, it is generally dismissed with something the very reverse of a blessing.’ ‘No insolence, you ungrateful varlet,’ thundered forth Sir Robert, while his brow contracted into the most fearful frown, my father said, he had ever witnessed; ‘and since you sneer at the boon I was pleased to offer you, your prayer shall be of my framing; so down on your knees this instant, and mark you, every word you utter must be in an audible tone of voice that I may be able to hear and judge of the same. You must pray as if your soul was in every word you give forth, for the welfare of Church and State, dwelling at considerable length on the goodness of his most gracious Majesty in adopting such lenient measures towards those who have so justly offended him, likewise on the wisdom he has displayed in his choice of leaders to execute his commands.’ ‘Not at your desire will I kneel, you bloody man!’ stoutly replied my father, his eyes flashing and his colour rising as he spoke; ‘nor shall my lips be polluted with such words as you may devise. If death be the decree sent forth against me, I will meet it as becometh one who hath endeavoured to prepare himself to meet his Maker,—therefore, do your worst; and learn from me, that not to win an empire, should I say aught of the king than that he is a perjured——’ ‘Hold!’ screamed Sir Robert in a transport of fury, ‘how dare you venture to attack his most blessed Majesty in my presence? This moment is your last!’ So saying, and forgetful of the malady under which he laboured, he darted from his chair and seizing hold of a loaded pistol, which lay on an adjoining table, levelled it at my father. But, fortunately for him, just as Sir Robert was on the point of firing, he was suddenly seized with a most dreadful attack of his irresistible enemy. His agony was so great that the pistol dropped from his hand; and after vainly endeavouring to preserve his footing, he gave utterance to a wild scream of mingled rage and pain, and fell prostrate on the floor. Taking advantage of the opportunity afforded him for escape, my father rushed to the door, opened it, and fled along the passage, shouting at the top of his voice, ‘Help, help! Sir Robert is dead, or dying!’ Overcome with terror and dismay, the domestics at once rushed to the assistance of their master, thereby permitting my father to leave the castle unquestioned—a feat he took not long to accomplish—and considering this part of the country no longer safe for him, he speedily removed to a retired spot in Annandale, where he now resides.”
“Do you think there is any truth in the stories they tell about Lag Tower being haunted?” inquired Andrew Hamilton, who was not a little prone to indulge in the superstitious fears so generally entertained by his countrymen.
Just as one of his companions was about to reply, a loud crash in the yard, as if some heavy substance was thrown to the ground, at once arrested their attention. The men instantly started to their feet, and eagerly listened for a repetition of the sound; but nothing more was heard.
“What can it be?” said one of the party, whose pallid face and faltering voice betokened the agitation. under which he laboured.
“O! it is just the wind that has blown down something about the barn,” replied one of his comrades.
At the mention of the word barn Andrew Hamilton gave utterance to a loud exclamation, and seizing a lantern that stood on the table, darted towards the door, closely followed by his astonished companions. With a sinking heart, he pursued his way; and to his unspeakable horror, the first object that greeted his eyesight, on his arriving at the spot, was the door—the key of which he was carrying for safety in his pocket—lying prostrate on the ground, bereft of its hinges. Impatient to learn the worst, he rushed into the barn; it was empty—the prisoner was gone.
The reader must now please to accompany us into the interior of Lag Tower, in the banqueting hall of which several gentlemen are seated round a long oaken table, strewn with the remains of dessert, half-emptied bottles of wine, drinking cups, etc. The gentleman presiding over the entertainment, and whose hoarse laugh even now resounds through the hall, is the dreaded persecutor, Sir Robert Grierson; on his right hand are seated Captain Bruce and Captain Dalziel, also notorious for their dreadful cruelties practised towards the Covenanters; while Lieutenant Livingstone, Cornet Douglas, and others of lesser note, occupy the remaining seats. The hall, which is long and narrow in its proportions, is lighted up by the aid of pine-torches stuck in the wall, and the huge fire, as it roars in the capacious chimney, casts a ruddy glow over the swarthy faces of the revellers, and dances fantastically over the suits of time-honoured armour, swords, guns, pistols and other warlike weapons with which the walls of the apartment are adorned.
A pause has ensued in the conversation—it is the Laird who breaks it. “Well, Dalziel, and so you managed to make the old Whig swallow the oath after all, ha, ha, ha! Upon my word, it is well worth all the trouble we have been put to during these troublous times, just to witness the rare state of terror into which some of these canting knaves are thrown when they imagine their last hour is come. Down they go smack upon their knees, turning up their eyes, and if you only permitted them, they would spend at least three hours in praying for the steadfast upholding of the most blessed Kirk and Covenant; and, for my part, I don’t believe one out of twenty understands the precise meaning of the words; it is just the fact of their having them so constantly dinned into their ears by these old maundering hypocrites, whom they regard as the precious salt of the earth, that impresses them with the belief of their embracing everything that ought to be prayed for. Little encouragement do they get from me in that line. At the bare whisper of the words ‘Covenants of Grace’ I discharge my pistol close to their ears, and they very soon come down to earth again, and endeavour to enter into a covenant of mercy with me, whom they style the Man of Sin; but they soon discover temporising does not do for me: my words are few and plain. Take the oath at once or suffer the penalty. ‘Mercy, mercy, Sir Robert! remember our wives and helpless little ones at home; what will become of them should we be deprived of our lives?’ Then take the oath! I find this peremptory mode of speech does my business far more effectually than any long-winded discourse; that’s what they are accustomed to, and they would willingly listen for hours, if we had only breath sufficient to hold out so long, to any amount of rubbish with which it might please us to cram them; but the brevity of speech with which I issue forth my demands puts them at once to the rout; and the short and the long of the matter is, they are either brought to hear reason, or look their last upon the sun.”
“It is really extraordinary how many maintain their firmness even to the last,” said Captain Dalziel, as he filled his goblet to the brim and drained it at a single draught; “they seem to take a pride in suffering death, and I firmly believe would rather lose fifty lives, or endure any amount of torture, than allow the oath of abjuration to pass their lips.”
“Ha, ha! my friend,” exclaimed Sir Robert Grierson with a loud laugh, “I think I am the only one of you all who can manage these skulking fellows and compel them to take the oath in spite of themselves. Never shall I forget that scene in the church of Dairy, should I live to be an hundred; how horror-stricken the whole pack were!”
“Why, what did you do to them?” inquired Lieutenant Livingstone. “I have never heard what I considered to be a true version of that affair, although I have often wished to learn what really occurred on that occasion, as it seems to have made a great noise throughout the country.”
“Why, you see,” said the Laird in reply, “towards the beginning of last year I chanced to be in Galloway holding courts throughout the different parishes—and a fatiguing time I had of it, I can tell you. The Courts were wretchedly attended. Of course, ill-affected people did not come of their own accord, and there was not sufficient force to compel them to do so. Determined, however, not to be defeated, I one day assembled a large concourse of men and women—in fact, every one belonging to Dairy—in the parish church, without assigning any ostensible reason for so doing. After the church was filled to overflowing, I caused the door to be locked; and at the blast of my bugle, a band of trusty followers—previously made acquainted with my plans—came galloping up and instantly surrounded the church. This done I put my head in at one of the windows, and gazing with a wrathful countenance—though I could scarce forbear laughing outright—on the astonished group within, I shouted aloud, ‘He or she, who wishes to leave this place alive, must instantly take the oath of abjuration!’ Had a bombshell fallen in the midst of the assembled company, scattering death and ruin around, they could not have looked more appalled than they did on hearing these awful words. To all their prayers and entreaties—and they were not a few—I vouchsafed but the same reply—free egress and pardon to all those to whom I administer the oath. This was accompanied by a loud flourish of trumpets which seemed to complete the general consternation. ‘O, Sir Robert, hae ye nae conscience, man, that ye tak sic a pleasure in making folks’ lives a burden to them?’ whined out an old witch, raising her apron to the corner of one eye, and looking at me hard from the other; ‘do let me out; I am an auld woman——’ ‘The greater reason for your being a sensible one,’ I replied; but she continued as though she heard me not. ‘I have a large family, some of whom are biding at hame; and it would be an unco-like thing for the likes o’ me to have it to say on my return that I had been and taken a non-juring oath, or some ither thing equally wicked. What chance, think ye, wad there be o’ my getting to heaven after doing the likes o’ that?’ ‘There appears to be very little chance of your getting there at present,’ I said in reply; ‘for, if you are an attentive reader of your Bible, as I trust you are, you must have observed the strict injunction to honour the king. And I think you will allow there is not much consideration for the person of his most gracious Majesty in your composition, or you would not refuse to take the oath which would at once prove to my satisfaction that you are a true and loyal subject.’ ‘Ay, ay,’ she rejoined, ‘that may be all very true; but it is not an earthly monarch we are bound to obey, when our consciences testify against his proceedings; and you know brawly yoursel’, that the king has slipped away sadly from the straight line it behoved him to keep till, if not for his own sake, at least for the sakes of these pious and now persecuted men wha wad fain hae regarded him in the light o’ a parent. But, oh, he is, indeed, a sad example o’——’ ‘Enough, enough, my good woman!’ I exclaimed in an angry tone, for I was waxing wroth at the pertinacity with which she eluded the subject of the oath; and pulling a pistol out of my pocket, I affected to be examining the priming as though to make ready to fire should she not yield obedience to my wishes. The sight of the ugly weapon was enough. With a loud exclamation betwixt a groan and a howl, the old beldame testified her willingness to do my bidding; adding, she hoped she might not be held accountable for that day’s work, as it was only to prevent the crime of murder she had given in. A few of those present, seeing how greatly things were against them, imitated her good example; while others, again, possessing the stubborn old Covenanting spirit, repelled with scorn all offers of pardon purchased at such a price. However, they soon discovered that if they were obstinate so were we; and being, moreover, thoroughly wearied of their confinement, and alarmed at the prospect of a still longer imprisonment, they gradually gave in one by one, until the whole had consented to come to terms. After having duly administered the oath—which seemed indeed a terrible ordeal for the most of them—I wound up the affair by exclaiming, ‘Now you are a fold full of clean beasts—you may go away home;’ upon which the doors were thrown open, and amid loud shouts of derisive laughter, the crest-fallen Covenanters issued forth, looking and muttering unutterable things.”
Here Sir Robert ended his narration, and the loud shouts of approving merriment with which the recital was received, testified how much the listeners relished hearing of any practical joke that had for its object any one of the party who had rendered themselves so obnoxious to the then existing Government.
“And did the varlets keep true to their oath?” inquired Lieutenant Livingstone, after he had in some measure recovered his wonted composure of countenance.
“I understood not, from some spies whom I had placed in and about Dairy,” answered the Laird, “whereupon I immediately set out at the head of some chosen followers and traversed the whole extent of the parish. Having very good reasons to believe that my spies were correct in their information, I took the liberty of exacting some pretty considerable fines from the richer portion of the community, greatly to their astonishment and indignation, they having fancied themselves secure from all further molestation. No less a sum than seven hundred pounds was extorted by me from three persons who had been bewailing at a sad rate their defalcation in the church of Dairy; and, as you may fancy, their hearts were not lightened by the loss of so much money.”
“By the bye, Laird, how did you get on with that beggarly fellow also residing in Galloway?” inquired Captain Dalziel, when Sir Robert had finished speaking. “You may remember the last time I saw you, you were on the point of starting off in pursuit of him. Did you manage to catch him, or is he still lurking in some secret place? if so, we shall ferret him out.”
“There are no such proceedings necessary,” replied Sir Robert with a grim smile; “we have had many a peck at him since that eventful day, the cowardly skulking fellow that he is. Why, we spent nearly a fortnight in search of him; but, my word! his goods and chattels paid toll for all the annoyance he gave us. I wish you could have seen his wife’s face as we ripped up the mattresses, scattered the contents on the floor, and carried off the ticken, as well as every other thing capable of being transported; how she did wring her hands and tear her hair; yet for all we did and threatened to do, she would not betray her husband’s lurking-place. Women are so obstinate in cases like these. However, while ransacking the house, we came upon a young damsel, whom we concluded to be the daughter of the person we were in quest of. To all my inquiries regarding her father, she turned a deaf ear, protesting she knew nought of his whereabouts. Determined to try another plan, I then inquired of her where she had spent the previous evening? Entirely thrown off her guard, and suspecting no evil, she answered, in the house of Mrs. ——, naming an elderly gentlewoman, whose name I have at this instant forgotten. Thither we instantly went, and were rewarded for our trouble by the discovery of two other rebels of whom we were also in search. Suspecting the other would not be far distant, we then galloped to the sea-shore and ransacked the caves amongst the rocks, in one of which we came upon our friend, and also another who had taken refuge with him. In accordance with my orders, all four were instantly conveyed to Bangor prison, where the proper authorities tendered to them the oath of abjuration, which was taken by one and refused by the others. Then a court of assize was held and indictments served on the remaining rebels, two of whom also gave in. On being informed that the fourth still held out, I went thither, determined to reduce him to reason. He remained steadfast to his purpose, declaring nothing should tempt him to swerve from his duty, upon hearing which I broke out into a fearful passion, and swore by the bones of my father that if he did not take the oath in the space of five minutes, he should be barking and flying on his way to another world. This produced the desired effect, and the fellow, who seemed most horribly afraid, at length succumbed. But I can tell you it was all they could do to get me to spare his life I was so indignant with the rascal.”
Here Sir Robert paused and replenished his goblet.
“Is there any truth in the report that the Whigs are arming themselves in this part of the country?” inquired Captain Bruce of Sir Robert Grierson, who replied in the negative, adding that the sneaking poltroons had suffered too much at the Pentlands and Bothwell Bridge ever to attempt anything like a formal stand against the Government soldiers; besides the stringent measures he had thought proper to adopt in Dumfriesshire and Galloway would effectually prevent any of the opposite faction from attempting aught like retaliation in the neighbourhood. He then proceeded to give them a detailed account of the summary manner in which he had, that morning, dispatched old Elias Henderson—a proceeding on his part which met with unqualified approbation from the assembled revellers, who each in his turn related some memorable exploit in which they had in a special manner signalised themselves by their unheard of atrocities.
“Ha! ha!” shouted Sir Robert Greirson, “what a fine set of fellows we are to be sure! come, let us drink each other’s good health in a goblet of sparkling Burgundy. There’s myself, whom the rascals have nicknamed ‘the bloody Lag.’ There’s you, my worthy friend on the right, who rejoice in the appellation of ‘the fiery Dalziel;’ and Bruce, who is termed ‘the ungodly;’ and you, Livingstone, ‘the wicked lieutenant.’ And pray, what are you styled?” he added, turning towards Cornet Douglas, who replied with a frightful grimace, “the black cornet,” an answer which convulsed the hearers with laughter, as the young man in question rejoiced in an unwonted sallowness of complexion.
“I wonder, Sir Robert,” observed Captain Dalziel, after they had duly honoured the proposed pledge, “that you do not feel apprehensive of these exasperated men attacking you some night in this old castle. It strikes me that you are rather incautious in thus making enemies so near your own threshold. This is a wild, solitary place; and were these wandering, psalm-singing fellows to unite together, they might work serious damage ere you could possibly have time to aprize your nearest friends. I am not joking, I assure you,” pursued Captain Dalziel; “the idea just came into my head this evening while riding through the glen; more particularly, as I observed some rather grim-looking rascals hovering near the bye-roads. I paused for a moment in order to observe their motions more closely; but guessing my evident intentions, they addressed a few words to each other, and then sauntered carelessly away across the heath.
“What! attack Lag Tower!” cried Sir Robert, with a loud burst of incredulous laughter. “I only wish the knaves would try it. But, no; they are too well aware of what the consequences would be to brave the lion in his den. But should they come, they will find a cold, if not a warm reception; for, in the twinkling of an eye, I can, by means only known to myself, surround the castle with a lake which it would rather puzzle these canting Whigs to get across. Ha! ha! there is nothing I should like better than to see a whole troop of them immersed in such a slough of despond. What say you, Livingstone? would you not think it a transporting sight to see our most worthy friends—all clad in hodden-grey and Kilmarnock bonnets—floundering in the water like so many porpoises, while you stood on the castle-wall with your musket, in readiness to pop them off one by one as they showed their heads above water? On my life, Dalziel, I would willingly lose the best suit of armour in my possession should——”
At this instant, while loud shouts of laughter resounded through the hall, the door was flung open to its widest extent, and John Kirsop, his face haggard with emotion, staggered into the room.
“How now, sirrah!” exclaimed Sir Robert Grierson indignantly; “how darest thou enter our presence after this fashion?”
“Pardon, pardon! Sir Robert,” broke in John Kirsop, his voice trembling through apprehension; “but this is no time for ceremony.”
“What meanest thou, knave?”
“The rascally Whigs have flown to arms, and even now are but a few paces distant, threatening all manner of vengeance against you and yours. Their present plan, so far as I could learn, is to destroy the castle by fire. This they propose doing this very night.”
“Ha!” cried Sir Robert, starting to his feet, an example that was speedily followed by the others; “have the traitors presumed thus far? Saw ye aught of these bold conspirators?” he continued; “how many may they number? Speak out, knave, and let us lose no time in dallying; even now the villains may have commenced their operations. Livingstone, do you run to the loop-hole facing the north, and keep a look out from that quarter; and you, Douglas, hasten to the one on the right hand as you ascend the stair, where you may be able to perceive what is going on; and now, Kirsop, proceed with your narration, and that as briefly us possible.”
Thus admonished, Kirsop related all that had befallen him since leaving Drumlanrig. When he came to mention his interview with Walter Henderson, Sir Robert smiled grimly, and nodded his head towards Captain Dalziel, as though he recognised the truth of his warning.
At the conclusion of the story, Sir Robert exclaimed, while filling a goblet with wine, which he handed to the exhausted soldier, “Thou art an honest fellow, Kirsop, and shalt not lose thy reward when once we get this troublesome affair arranged to our satisfaction.”
Scarcely had Sir Robert Grierson finished speaking, when Lieutenant Livingstone rushed into the hall, exclaiming in a hurried whisper, “They are here! they are here! even now I perceived them stealing round the corner.”
“How many may there be?” demanded Sir Robert.
“A dozen or more, I should fancy,” was the reply.
“A dozen!” cried Sir Robert, with a scornful laugh, “why, from the way that fellow Kirsop spoke, one would have imagined that a hundred men at least were at the gates.”
“I but told the truth,” said Kirsop doggedly; “they numbered a few when they started, but they spoke of reinforcements; and that old Whig, Walter Henderson, declared the whole country-side were in arms in defence of their liberties, so——”
“Enough, enough!” exclaimed Sir Robert impatiently, “and now, my friends, let us hasten to crush these rebels. A dozen men! Why, we ourselves would be sufficient to cope with thrice that number.”
“What mean you to do, Sir Robert?” inquired Captain Dalziel.
“Mean to do!” re-echoed the fiery Laird. “Why, roast the knaves alive, to be sure! ay, every mother’s son of them.”
“Will you open the flood-gates on this occasion?” said Lieutenant Livingstone, laughing as he spoke.
“No, no,” was the stern reply; “that were too speedy a death for these undisciplined rascals; a more lingering doom awaits them. Lag Hill shall witness their last agonies.” So saying, Sir Robert Grierson strode across the hall, and detaching a sword from a pin on which it hung, fastened it to his belt. While thus engaged, Cornet Douglas entered, and, in addition to Lieutenant Livingstone’s information, told Sir Robert that the assailants were even then engaged in piling up huge logs of wood, obtained from the supply set apart for the use of the castle against the outer walls.
“Then no farther time must be lost,” broke in Sir Robert. “Do you, Livingstone, Bruce, and Douglas station yourselves at the three windows overlooking the scene of action; and the instant the rascals attempt to set fire to the wood, send a volley amongst them, whilst we steal round by the side postern and attack them on the rear. I think that will settle the business,” said Sir Robert with a laugh, as he cautiously descended the stair, closely followed by his companions. In the meantime, as notified by Cornet Douglas, Walter Henderson and his party were proceeding noiselessly and rapidly with their operations, and already a considerable portion of their labour had been accomplished. The increasing darkness of the night favoured their project, the moon, which in the former part of the evening shone with a brilliancy that in some measure threatened to frustrate their schemes, having veiled her brightness behind huge masses of leaden-coloured clouds which slowly drifted along the sky. It formed a strange and striking picture this old castle of Lag, rising, as it did, amid a wide extent of flat, desolate moor-land which stretched away in the distance until relieved by a range of bare irregular looking hills bounding the prospect. So thought one of the party, William Hislop by name, as in common with his comrades, he proceeded leisurely to pile up around the castle walls huge blocks of wood destined, as he imagined, to level it with the ground. In conjunction with this thought, he remarked to one of his companions that it was a lonesome-looking place, and that for his part he did not quite like the task they were engaged in, adding, by way of consolation, “if that old vulture, Lag, gets us atween his claws, it’s little flesh we’ll hae on our backs when aince we get out o’ them.”
“Why, then, did you join us if such were your feelings?” said the person addressed. “I am sure had Walter Henderson known you had no love for the undertaking, he would not have pressed you to come hither.”
“It’s not that I think we are doing anything wrong in burning doon the castle—no, no; the bloody persecutor, as he is, weel deserves it at our hands, and I felt rale brave and anxious about the doing o’ the same, when Walter Henderson brought it hame to our souls in the manner he did; but somehow or another the case looks different now, and it’s such an eerie-looking bit to be meddling wi’ at this time o’ night, that——”
“Hear till that, man!” suddenly exclaimed his by no means comfortable companion in a low tone of voice.
“Hear till what?” cried William Hislop, now fairly started out of all composure by this sudden exclamation. “Tush, man,” he said after a moment’s pause, “it’s only an owlet screaming; do you no’ see it up by yonder?” and they both stood still a while to observe the bird which wheeled in rapid circles around the castle, screaming and flapping its wings as though to apprise the inmates of the terrible danger that menaced them.
“Do you think that can be ain of Lag’s familiar spirits?” he continued, addressing his companion; “for ye ken it is reported through the country that he keeps a wheen evil spirits to tell him all that he wants to know.”
“That I canna’ pretend to say,” answered his comrade, whose eyes still followed the excited bird; “but it seems in a terrible state o’ flutter: what can it mean by going on at that gait?”
“Did you see that strange light dancing along the moor as we came across the road?” inquired William Hislop, who was evidently a firm believer in ought that savoured of the supernatural.
“Yes I did,” was the reply.
“And what do you think it was?”
“A will-o’-the-wisp, to be sure!”
“Aweel, may be!” was the doubting reply; “truly may I say that never yet has that same twinkling light cam’ across my path, but something most terrible has happened to me afterwards!”
“Silence!” cried Walter Henderson in a low stern voice. At this instant a cock, which had taken up its quarters for the night on a neighbouring tree, apparently cheated into the belief from the unusual stir that prevailed around its generally peaceful domicil, that morning had already dawned, gave forth its usual challenge to the sun; a proceeding which so thoroughly alarmed William Hislop, that he exclaimed aloud, regardless of time and place, “Gude save us a’! The cock to be crowing at this time o’ night; it’s easy seen what ’ill be the end o’ this fine work!”
“Have you a mind to ruin yourself and us, that you thus indulge in such untimely remarks?” whispered Walter Henderson, and he grasped William Hislop tightly by the arm as he spoke. “The greatest caution is necessary,” he continued, “lest we be discovered and our plans thereby frustrated. Now cease your apologies and attend to me. The wood is all ready; and it but remains for us to apply the light, and our labour will be accomplished. I will advance first, and do you follow; here are the necessary materials;” so saying, he placed a piece of flint and tinder in the trembling hands of William Hislop, who rather unwillingly proceeded to fulfil the duty imposed upon him. But scarcely had the match been ignited, when, according to the commands of Sir Robert Grierson, a volley of musketry was discharged from the windows overhead, which stretched several of the assailants upon the ground. On hearing this dreadful sound, the forerunner of yet more terrifying alarms, the lighted match fell from William Hislop’s Land, and giving utterance to a loud exclamation of horror, he fell forward, as though he had been shot, on the pile of wood before him.
“Betrayed! betrayed!” shouted Walter Henderson, drawing his sword as bespoke; “fly, my friends, fly, while there is yet time!”
In obedience to his commands, the panic-stricken men rushed to the outer gate; but scarcely had the foremost reached it, when a firm grasp was laid on his collar, and he found himself a prisoner. The others were captured in a similar manner; the darkness of the night preventing their being able to distinguish friends from foes. The terrible voice of Sir Robert Grierson was then heard, ordering lights to be brought that the faces of the prisoners might be discernible. Eager to do his bidding, several of his retainers rushed to the banqueting hall, and snatching the pine-torches from off the walls, brought them to Sir Robert, who, seizing the one borne by John Kirsop, waved it aloft in the air over the heads of the terrified prisoners, as they stood motionless in the hands of their captors awaiting the doom they feared to be inevitable. By the ruddy glow of the lights, Sir Robert at once distinguished the venerable form of Walter Henderson. “Ha, thou hoary-headed traitor!” he exclaimed in a furious tone; “and is this the way in which you seek to follow after that which is good? Is it by deeds like these that you would fain hope to build up the walls of your crumbling kirk, and patch up anew your broken Covenant! Covenant forsooth! Who would seek to enter into terms with traitors such as you? Not I for one, and that you will learn right speedily; dearly shall all of you rue this night’s work. And you thought to catch the lion asleep,” he pursued in a mocking tone; “ha, ha! then you made a slight mistake, that is all; and were it not that business, which brooks no delay, requires my presence in another part of the country, to-morrow should witness your final agonies; but ere the sun has thrice completed its circuit of the heavens, shall you, and your partners in iniquity, cease to cumber the earth. Away with the villains,” he cried, addressing his retainers, “throw them into the deepest and darkest dungeons beneath the castle, and there, amid the gloom that surrounds them, let them comfort themselves with the thoughts of a speedy doom awaiting them.”
“Murderer of my brother!” shouted Walter Henderson, struggling to free himself; “this night’s work is a fitting termination to a day so begun; but think not, though thy infernal arts have prevented the completion of our purpose, that thou wilt always escape. No; a terrible day of retribution awaits thee, and when it does arrive, thou wilt remember the innocent blood thou hast shed, and cease to hope. In what had my poor brother wronged thee that thou must basely deprive him of life? In what manner had he infringed the laws that his blood must pay the forfeit? Oh, Judas, that thou art!——”
“How darest thou speak to Sir Robert Grierson thus?” cried Lieutenant Livingstone, at the same time dealing him a buffet on the side of the head.
“Away with the old hypocrite!” thundered forth Sir Robert Grierson with an impatient wave of the hand; “convey him to his quarters, and feed him on coarse bread and water during the remainder of his sojourn on earth; it will, in some measure, cool the fever of his blood, and enable him to view things in a clearer light than he has hitherto done. Kirsop, to your watchful care I commit the prisoner.”
“Kirsop!” exclaimed Walter Henderson in a tone of dismay, “ha, that explains it all! Fool, fool that I was to trust him for one moment out of my sight!”
“Don’t blame yourself, old fellow,” said the soldier with a grin, “because fortune has given the scales a turn in our favour; but rather rejoice in the thoughts that you will leave the world with your conscience freed from the heavy crime which would otherwise have rendered it top-heavy, and prevented your getting out of purgatory quite so soon as you would have wished, had I not escaped from the hands of the person to whose care you commended me.”
This last stroke of bad fortune quite overcame Walter Henderson, and muttering “God’s will be done!” he suffered his captor to lead him away, to the loathsome dungeon appointed for his reception.
The remains of the unfortunate Covenanters who had perished at the outset of the affair had long been removed from the court yard, and Sir Robert Grierson and his friends were again seated at the festive board, carousing and blaspheming according to their wont; still William Hislop had not yet mustered up courage sufficient to emerge from his hiding-place. It was, to say the least of it, rather a hard bed he had chosen on which to repose his wearied limbs, still, as he himself expressed it, anything was preferable to lying dead on the courtyard or sickening in a dungeon; and it would be the height of ingratitude for him to complain who had, without doubt, fared the best of the party. True he was still, in some measure, within the “Laird’s grasp;” yet as he listened to the wild bursts of revelry which ever and anon fell upon his ear, he felt assured that soon the whole party would be laid prostrate beneath the table, and then he might venture forth in safety. An hour or two, which seemed to William Hislop, in his anxious state of mind, like so many ages, passed away without producing the desired change in the banqueting hall; on the contrary, mirth seemed on the increase; and William Hislop, from his hiding-place, could distinctly hear Sir Robert Grierson, whose voice he had reason to remember, deliver a song, which, judging from the uproarious shouts of laughter that followed each verse, seemed of an unusually joyous character.
“The auld vagabond that he is!” muttered the incensed listener, “to be going on in that daft manner just after he has doomed a wheen fellow-creatures to death; it really astonishes me that the walls o’ the castle dinna’ come doon about his ears and finish him in the midst o’ his evil on-goings. Truly the Lord is merciful! Nae wonder cauld water takes to the boil whenever he puts his foot in’t! I am sure I wad gin he cam near me, the nasty fellow that he is. My very blood rins cauld till hear him going on at that gait; it’s like naething human. Gude sake! how I pity these poor fellows at this moment in the power o’ sic a character; indeed, I may just as well pity myself when I’m at it, for I’m no that far out o’ the wood that I can afford to waste time in talking to mysel’ like some auld spaewife—the more especially when I may be able to do something a hantle better, than a wheen useless words, for my comrades in captivity.” So saying, William Hislop thrust aside a huge block of wood which somewhat obstructed his exit, and prepared to issue forth. Scarcely had he ventured a few steps across the courtyard, when, with a loud scream, the owl darted forth from its hiding-place amongst the ivy, and again commenced wheeling in rapid circles around the castle; but this time in such close proximity as almost to strike him with its wings. Horrified beyond measure at the sight of this unexpected apparition, and fully persuaded of its being nothing else than an emissary of Satan’s, William Hislop crept back to his retreat amongst the wood, where he lay for several minutes, gazing with distended eyes on the ill-omened bird as it pursued its wayward flight.
“I am a gone man!” he muttered; “a gone man! that owl will be the death o’ me! It has discovered I am here, and the next thing will be the Laird coming his ain sell to pull me out o’ my hiding-place. Whist ye there wi’ your crying! I am sure ye might be contented wi’ the lot that has fallen to your share and let me alane. O sirs me! had I but foreseen the tae half o’ the misfortunes that were to befall us this dreadful night, I wad hae been sitting by my mother’s hearthstane, supping my porritch wi’ a thankfu’ heart, instead o’ lying here, expecting every moment to be my last.”
While William Hislop was thus indulging in soliloquy, one of the windows of the banqueting hall was thrown open, and a voice exclaimed, evidently in reply to a question from within, “Morning breaks, and ere another hour has passed, we must be in our saddles;” then the casement was closed, and once more the festivity was resumed.
“Now, William Hislop, now or never!” With these words, addressed to himself, the impatient Covenanter again ventured forth from the place of his concealment. This time the owl kindly forebore screaming; but stationed itself on the branch of a tree overhanging the courtyard, from which elevation it gazed on the intruder with eyes that seemed to emit sparks of fire, as though questioning his right to depart. Creeping cautiously along, under shadow of the wall, William Hislop managed to gain, unobserved, that portion of it which admitted of an easy descent on the other side. This position attained, his courage in some measure revived, and pausing a moment to shake his hand at the owl before taking his final leap, he muttered between his teeth, “There now, ye may gang and tell your hopeful master, from me, that maybe there ‘ill be mair company assembled on Lag Hill, on the morning o’ the execution, than he wots o’,” and with these mysterious words, accompanied by another gesture of defiance, William Hislop darted from off the wall, and rapidly disappeared amidst the gloom of the early morning.
About two miles to the south of the village of Dunscore, in a little valley, sheltered by mountains from every blast that swept over the neighbouring heath, stood the form belonging to the deceased Elias Henderson. The house pertaining to the farm partook of the usual appearance of farm-houses in Scotland, at the period of which we write, and was scrupulously clean and attractive in its exterior; while the well-stocked yard and barns bespoke the thrifty farmer. Indeed, few persons following this precarious occupation could boast of greater success than had fallen to the lot of Elias Henderson.
It was the evening of the second day from that on which our story opens, and the deep air of silence that reigned in and around the farm-house of Westercleugh, told in language more expressive than the most eloquent words, that death had laid its ice-cold hand on one of the inmates. In the kitchen, close to the window, is seated an aged woman, the mother of the deceased; her hands are crossed on her breast, and her eyes remain immovably fixed on the open pages of the Bible lying on her knee. In appearance she is calm and resigned, for more than three-score years and ten have passed over her head, and old age has somewhat chilled the current of human affection, yet she mourns her sad bereavement; and while lamenting that death should have taken him who was in the prime of manhood and spared the aged, she turns to the Word of God for consolation in her affliction. In another corner of the apartment is seated, or rather reclining, for her head is thrown over the back of her chair, the bereaved wife, in an utter abandonment of grief. Her children stand grouped around her; the elder ones sharing their mother’s sorrow; while the youngest, an infant of not more than two years old, sits smiling and crowing in its little chair. Silence is everywhere maintained; and the servants belonging to the farm tread with the utmost caution as they go in and out in the execution of their accustomed duties, so truly do they sympathise with their mistress in the loss of her husband, and no less deep and sincere is their grief for the loss of a kind and indulgent master. The rays of the setting sun streamed through the casement, lighting up the venerable features of the matron, as though to comfort her, in midst of her grief, with the blissful promise of a future state, where those for ever separated in this world should be re-united in the bonds of love. After gazing for a moment on the brilliant messenger, she arose from her seat, and putting aside her Bible, crossed over to where Mrs. Henderson lay absorbed in grief, and placing her hand on her shoulder, said in a sad, yet firm voice—“Marion, grieve no more for him who has now gone from amongst us! Rouse yourself from that state of useless sorrow; it is the living who require our sympathy and care—the dead need it not. No amount of weeping ran ever restore those who have once crossed the river of death. But, oh! bethink you, Marion, of the happiness, we may humbly venture to hope, our beloved one is now enjoying in the presence of his Maker, for he was a sincere Christian, and strove to do ins duty manfully. Think not,” she continued, “because my poor old eyes refuse to weep, that I lightly esteem the irreparable loss I have sustained. During the long period of years it has pleased the Lord that I should sojourn in this vale of tears, I have seen the young whom I loved and the aged fall around me like the leaves of autumn. And what, think you, has strengthened me in all my affliction? Nothing but the hope of a cloudless hereafter. Think on that, Marion. Think on the promises of the Gospel, and endeavour, while on earth, so to do your duty to yourself and your children, that no link may be awanting in the chain, which will, I trust, unite us all in the regions above.” At the mention of her children, Mrs. Henderson started up from her recumbent posture, and throwing her arms around their necks, clasped them to her bosom, weeping passionately, and exclaiming the while, “Oh my poor fatherless children!” In the midst of this ungovernable burst of sorrow, the latch of the outer door was gently lifted, and a slow and cautious footstep was heard advancing along the passage leading to the kitchen. On her turning round, old Mrs. Henderson was surprised, and in some degree terrified, to perceive it was the wife of her son Walter who at that moment entered.
“What has happened, Sarah? in the name of heaven, speak!” she cried, observing the look of hopeless misery with which her daughter-in-law advanced towards her.
“Walter! Walter! have ye seen nought of my Walter?” exclaimed the fainting woman as she sank upon the nearest chair. “He left me on the morning of his brother’s death, and has never returned. Yesterday,” she continued in a choking voice, “my son set off in search of him, and he, too, has failed to come back. Oh, what shall I do if they also have fallen into the hands of that wicked Lag!”
This sad intelligence struck the hearers dumb, and they remained motionless, gazing on one another with eyes that revealed the horror their tongues refused to express. At length, with a noble effort, the sorrowing mistress of Eastercleugh roused herself from her hitherto inactive grief, and strove, by every means in her power, to alleviate the uncontrollable distress of her sister-in-law, who having recently arisen from a sick bed, was thoroughly exhausted by the fatigue and anxiety she had undergone.
“And have you heard nothing concerning your husband since his departure from home?” inquired old Mrs. Henderson, who stood with her arm supporting the aching head of her daughter-in-law.
“Nothing,” was the weeping reply; “but yesterday morning strange reports reached us concerning some desperate encounter that had taken place between the Laird and some of our party. This alarmed me dreadfully, and my son, seeing the sad state to which I was reduced by anxiety regarding the prolonged absence of Walter, went off at an early hour with the intention of seeking him. Up to the time at which I left home he had not returned, and too anxious to remain longer without news of some kind, I instantly resolved, spite of the distance, and my own weakness, to come hither, hoping he might be with you, or that you would be able to give me some information respecting him.”
“Now may God, in his infinite mercy, grant that this new and exceeding bitter trial be averted from us,” piously exclaimed the venerable matron, throwing her arms around the necks of her weeping daughters; “but let us not murmur, my children, should it be otherwise decreed by Him whose goodness and loving-kindness are beyond all praise. Our heart’s dearest treasures are but lent us for a season—soon, soon must they be restored; then let us, recognising the unspeakable love which prompts the removal of our choicest blessings that our thoughts may be weaned from earth to heaven, exclaim with the bereaved King of Israel, ‘The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord!’”
Scarcely had old Mrs. Henderson finished her pious exhortation, ere the door again opened—but this time it was a man’s eager footstep which paced the passage, and the voice of Walter Henderson’s son that saluted their ears. He entered; his countenance looked worn and haggard, and he tossed back his dishevelled hair from his forehead with an air of despondency that escaped not the eyes of the watchful mother.
“My son! my son!” she exclaimed, throwing herself on his neck; “what of your father? speak, I can bear it all; only speak, my son!”
“You here, mother!” he gasped forth, and his voice died away in a broken murmur.
“Oh, my Walter! I see it all; thou art dead! I, too, am a widow!”
“No, mother, no! he is not yet dead, and while there is life there is hope—comfort yourself, my mother!”
“Where is he, that we may try and save him?” demanded his grandmother.
The young man shook his head as he answered, “He lies in a dungeon beneath Lag Castle, and to-morrow’s sunrise sees him suffer on Lag Hill!”
“To-morrow!” screamed forth the distracted wife, and fell prostrate on the floor.
“He shall not die; oh, mother, speak to me!” cried her almost distracted son; and raising her tenderly in his arms, he gazed in her face with a look of unspeakable anguish, fearful lest she too might be snatched from him. Then seeing her recover a little, he continued pouring in words of consolation into her ears, such as were dictated by love and hope.
“Oh! can ye do nought to save him?” cried his aged grandmother, “I fear me her life will go, should he suffer death. Poor thing; oh my helpless children, you have indeed suffered much! God in his mercy succour you, for I fear man can do but little.”
“Mother, he shall not die! God will never permit such an atrocious deed to sully the face of his beautiful earth,” cried John Henderson, his eyes beaming with renewed hope; “so do not despair—all will yet be well. Yesterday,” he continued hurriedly, “I fell in with William Hislop wending his way towards our house. On seeing me he expressed his satisfaction at the meeting, and informed me that my father was a prisoner in Lag Castle. It appeared, from his statement, that, driven to the verge of madness by my uncle’s death, my father had determined upon burning the castle to the ground. This he proceeded to do in company with some friends; but information of their coming was conveyed to the Laird by a soldier who had been taken prisoner by my father, and managed to escape, so that he entrapped them all, with the exception of William Hislop, who fortunately succeeded in secreting himself among some wood, from which retreat he overheard the bloody Lag declare his intention of murdering them to-morrow. The hour sun-rise; the place Lag Hill. We are determined, if possible, to prevent this dastardly deed. Even now William Hislop is scouring the country in search of aid, and I have managed to secure some bold youths who are only too willing to assist in so good a cause. Being in this neighbourhood, I came to acquaint you with my purpose, hoping that my dear mother would hear nothing of it until all had been decided; but ’tis better thus, the sight of her pale suffering face has nerved me anew for the combat.” So saying, he embraced her tenderly, and again exclaiming “Mother, he shall not die!” rushed forth from the dwelling.
The fatal morning at length arrived; and scarcely had the appearance of a few streaks of red in the east betrayed the early dawn, ere Sir Robert Grierson and his companions were pursuing their way, on horseback, towards Lag Hill, whither the prisoners had already gone. Owing to the unavoidable absence of Captain Bruce, with a considerable portion of the Laird’s followers, the guard in charge of the Covenanters was composed of but few men; yet, trusting in the terror of his name, and the secrecy with which the whole affair had been conducted throughout, Sir Robert was not apprehensive of any attempt at rescue being made. On gaining the summit of the hill where stood the prisoners, Sir Robert Grierson, placing his hand on a barrel all stuck round with sharp-pointed weapons, demanded of Walter Henderson how he relished the thoughts of quitting the world in so terrible a manner; adding, with a hoarse laugh in which his companions joined, “that it would enable him to judge whether the Word was indeed sharper than any two-edged sword!”
“Sir Robert Grierson,” replied Walter Henderson mildly, “jest not thus with one about to bid farewell to this world, and who would fain compose his mind that he might be able to reflect on the joys pertaining to a better. But before suffering death,” he continued, “I would wish to obtain your forgiveness for the sinful attempt I made to destroy your castle. In the darkness and solitude of my dungeon I had time to reflect on the crime I had been guilty of, in taking vengeance into my hand instead of leaving it to Him who hath said, ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay!’ but you had foully slain my brother, and I was mad. At the best we are but poor erring mortals; for a time Satan got possession of my heart, and I thirsted for revenge. I am now about to pay the penalty of my presumptuous sin—would God it were alone!—and I would fain leave the world at peace with you and all men.”
“Bravo, old hodden-grey!” cried Sir Robert with a loud laugh of derision. “Thou hast mistaken thy vocation; the pulpit were a fitting place for thee, and had I but known of thy talents in this line, I should have had one erected for thee that thou mightest have held forth in a style becoming thy merits.”
Walter Henderson turned from the speaker with a look of mingled contempt and pity, and gazing on his companions with the deepest sorrow expressed on his countenance, seemed as if about to address them, when Captain Dalziel interposed, exclaiming in a stern voice, “Now cease your canting nonsense; we want none of your conventicle phrases!”
“No, no,” said Sir Robert Grierson; “pray let him go on; I never was at a field-preaching, and should like to hear how they conduct matters there; besides, there is plenty of time, and the rascals will have leisure to examine our playthings. So now, old Round-bonnet, proceed—we are all attention!”
“My friends,” said Walter Henderson, heedless alike of their remarks and the jeers that accompanied them, “we have been brought here to suffer death, and I trust we shall meet it with the calm serenity of men who are travellers towards a better country. Of the cruelty of him who hath decreed that we should perish by such unheard-of tortures I shall say nought, lest, by dwelling on the subject, I should forget my recently-acquired spirit of Christian forgiveness, and heap such curses on his head as might endanger my own salvation. Let us not, then, dwell on the sufferings we must experience ere we can win repose in death, but rather let us rejoice that we are thus called upon to suffer, and in the glorious prospect that lies before us of our being accepted in the sight of God.” (“Prophesy, prophesy, old fellow!” shouted Cornet Douglas.) “Oh, my friends,” pursued the aged Covenanter, his face flushed with enthusiasm, “even now, as I stand at the gates of death, the thin veil which separates the future from us is torn from my sight, and I behold a scene which gladdens my old eyes.” (“Out with it, out with it, hurrah!” cried the Laird and his party, amid shouts of laughter.) “I see,” he continued, “a prosperous and happy country smiling around me, the inhabitants of which live in peace one with another, and the hand of the persecutor is no longer lifted to smite. The village bell sounds sweetly on the Sabbath morn, and the faithful preacher of the Word of God, no longer fearing to teach his little flock in the sight of all men, instructs his hearers in the simple doctrines of their beloved faith; while aged matrons, as together they cross the peaceful churchyard, pause for a moment, ere entering the house of God, to gaze on the simple stone which marks the Covenanted grave. My brethren, we shall not be forgotten. In the bosoms of our countrymen, we shall live for ever. Till remotest ages, shall our wrongs and our sufferings form a soul-stirring theme; and the aged parent, as with kindling eyes he rehearses in the ears of his children the tales that have descended to him of our untiring zeal in the cause of the Covenant, shall point to the rusted sword hanging sheathed on the wall, and bless God that his forefathers were amongst the number of those who fought and bled in defence of the rights and privileges of the Church of Scotland.”
“Thine hour has come!” said Sir Robert Grierson, making a signal for him to prepare for death.
The sun had now arisen, and its bright rays tinted with a roseate hue the summit of the mighty Criffel, and lit up the wild and desolate hill on which the bloody deed was about to be enacted. At the sight of the brilliant luminary, which never more should rise for him, Walter Henderson seemed for an instant overcome, but it was only for an instant, and soon he regained his wonted composure.
“Now, we shall soon see how the old rascal will face death,” cried Sir Robert, in a tone of fiendish delight; “here, bring hither the barrel, and see that all the weapons are properly arranged so that he shall lose nothing of his punishment. That’s it; in with him, and whenever I fire off this pistol send him head-long down the hill!”
Scarcely had the soldiers advanced to do their leader’s bidding, when, with a deafening cheer which awoke the echoes amongst the neighbouring hills, a large body of men, headed by William Hislop and John Henderson, and armed with scythes, pitch-forks, spades, and every other available weapon, rushed in amongst them, and ere they had time to recover from their astonishment, drove them right down the hill.
“Cowards!” shouted Sir Robert, in a transport of rage, on beholding the sudden onslaught made on his retainers, “dare you thus molest us in the rightful discharge of our duty? Dalziel!—Livingstone! stand by me, and we will teach these knaves a lesson.”
With these words, Sir Robert Grierson struggled to regain his former position on the summit of the mountain, but all in vain. The dense crowd came pouring on, bearing all before them.
“That’s the way; that’s the way, my lads, to serve these bloody tyrants!” cried Andrew Hamilton, as several soldiers fell beneath the weapons of their adversaries.
At this instant, his eye encountered the form of John Kirsop, who was vainly endeavouring to force his way towards Sir Robert Grierson. With a cheer of satisfaction he threw himself instantly upon him, and so great was the force of the shock that they both lost their balance and rolled together to the foot of the hill, where they lay cuffing and tearing each other until fairly exhausted by their mutual efforts. The contest was but of short duration. In vain did Sir Robert Grierson threaten with death the first man who evinced a desire to escape. In vain did Captain Dalziel and Lieutenant Livingstone endeavour to recall the panic-stricken soldiers. Fruitless were all their efforts to maintain order. Overpowered by numbers, their followers were driven from the field; while they themselves, unable to make anything like a stand against so superior a force, were also obliged to seek safety in flight.
“Father, O father! and have I then saved you?” cried John Henderson, as he clasped the old man in his arms. “God in heaven be praised for his kindness unto us this day.”
“Hurrah!” shouted William Hislop, tossing up his cap in the air, as he gazed after the fugitives, “flee awa, Laird, to your castle; and the next time ye gie orders for an execution see that there’s no listeners near to circumvent ye in your evil doings.”
Little more remains to be told. But few hours had elapsed since the above scene was enacted ere Mrs. Henderson was weeping on her husband’s neck; and their son, as he clasped them alternately in his stalwart arms, cared not to conceal the tears which coursed down his cheeks, while he exclaimed, “Mother, I told you my father should not die!”
It was now considerably past the middle of the day, and the sun was shining in all its wonted splendour. The hedges bursting forth into vernal beauty, and the “lark at heaven’s gate singing,” together with the melody of less-aspiring songsters, proclaimed the presence of spring; while the soft freshness of the air imparted an invigorating elasticity to the spirits. After a walk of about an hour and a half’s duration, I at length arrived at the glen in which Lag Tower is situated. The nearer I advanced to my journey’s end, the more wild and solitary the scenery became. The road wound past the foot of a hill—the scene of many of the Laird’s wild exploits; for it is related of him that when tired of the comparative tameness of riding upon a level road, he was in the habit of ascending the face of the mountain upon horseback—a circumstance which contributed not a little towards preserving the country people’s belief in his supernatural powers.
The ground in the vicinity of the tower is marshy, thereby affording evidence of the truth of the statement, that when Lag was in fear of being attacked in his stronghold, he could, by some secret process, at any time lay the surrounding country under water, thus preventing his enemies from approaching the tower. With affection, still constant amidst decay and ruin, the ivy clings to the old walls of Lag Tower, as though to preserve it from the further inroads of Time. Alas! unavailing protection. The heap of broken fragments which lie strewn around attest the fact that Time—that ruthless destroyer—has marked it for its prey. Whilst indulging in these melancholy reflections, the sound of footsteps behind me caused me to turn my head, in order to discover who thus intruded upon my privacy. The good-humoured face of one of the servant girls belonging to a neighbouring farm, coupled with the inquiry, “Had I come to take a look at the auld toor?”—the steadfast gaze with which I was regarding the said tower might have satisfied her that I had come for that special purpose—disarmed me of any feeling of momentary anger I might have entertained at thus being disturbed in the midst of my pleasing reverie; and I replied that I was there with the intention of seeing all that remained of Lag Tower, adding, “I suppose you find it very lonely here in the long winter nights?”
“Ay,” she replied, “it’s rale eerie when the owls flee about flapping their wings and screaming from amongst the ivy.”
“Do you ever hear any strange sounds in the tower?”
“Many and many a time; every one about here thinks the auld place haunted, and I am certain it is. Often I canna get sleeping at night for the queer sounds ower here.”
“Are there any owls now in the ivy?”
“O yes!” she replied; “there is an owl that has built its nest up there, and it has twa wee anes. It flees ower to the wood ye see yonder, and hides there the whole day; then it comes back at night and makes an awfu’ disturbance—hissing and the like, so that we are feared to gae oot.”
I pursued my inquiries still farther, and heard it was currently reported that whatever liquid Lag raised to his lips turned to blood! and that whenever he put his feet into cold water it boiled! She thought he must have been a dreadfu’ man! She said she would now show me the place where he put all the bodies of the people he murdered, and, so saying, she called a man to assist her in removing a stone from the mouth of what had evidently been the draw-well for supplying the inmates of Lag Tower with water. This regular “murder hole” both the girl and her companion evidently regarded with the greatest horror.
“Wasna’ that an unco-like place to put the puir bodies in?” inquired the girl, gazing intently in my face, evidently expecting to read there the consternation depicted in her own.
I could not repress a smile, as I answered that I thought Lag would not be so foolish as to pollute with dead bodies the water he and his friends drank in the tower.
“What wad he mind what he took?” replied the girl, evidently rather offended at her statement being doubted. “Na, na; that’s just the place where he threw the murdered folk!”
After a little more conversation, she was called away to her work, and I was left alone. There is something indescribably melancholy in wandering among the ruins of some ancient castle, whose inmates, in days gone by, bore a conspicuous part in the annals of their country, when the courtyard, which once resounded with the trampling of steeds and the shrill sound of the trumpet, now only re-echoes to the tread of some passing stranger, whom perchance curiosity has brought out of his way to inspect a ruin leagued with historical associations. I experienced this sensation strongly as I stood gazing on the setting sun pouring its bright rays fully on the old Tower of Lag. A gentle breeze had sprung up, and the ivy bent low its head before the welcome visitor, as if to woo its tender embraces; whilst the low sighing of the wind amongst the crevices and openings in the ruined walls seemed like some departing spirit’s wail o’er the bloody deeds of the wicked persecutor.
The adventurous tourist, while exploring the romantic valleys of Dumfriesshire, would do well to visit this solitary spot, where lived the author of many an evil deed, professedly done in the cause of religion, which all who recognise the mild and gentle precepts it inculcates, would be the first to grieve over and condemn.
How pleasing to relate that a lineal descendant of this famous persecutor is revered for her many deeds of Christian charity and active benevolence, throughout the country which formerly rung with the evil doings of the Laird of Lag!
Notes
4 This epitaph engraved upon the tombstone in the churchyard of Anwith lying on the corpse of John Bell of Whiteside, who was most barbarously shot to death at the command of Douglass of Morton and Grierson of Lag, in the parish of Tongland, in Galloway, anno 1685.