Refusing to delay for even half an hour, the two friends hurried away.

They had scarcely left, and the six hunted men were still standing on the road where they had bidden them G.o.d-speed, when Bruce with his dragoons suddenly appeared--surprised and captured them all. With the brutal prompt.i.tude peculiar to that well-named "killing-time," four of them were drawn up on the road and instantly shot, and buried where they fell, by Lochenkit Moor, where a monument now marks their resting place.

The two spared men, Gordon and McCubine, were then, without reason a.s.signed, bound and carried away. Next day the party came to the Cluden Water, crossing which they followed the road which leads to Dumfries, until they reached the neighbourhood of Irongray. There is a field there with a mound in it, on which grows a clump of old oak-trees. Here the two friends were doomed without trial to die. It is said that the minister of Irongray at that time was suspected of favourable leanings toward the Covenanters, and that the proprietor of the neighbouring farm of Hallhill betrayed similar symptoms; hence the selection of the particular spot between the two places, in order to intimidate both the minister and the farmer. This may well have been the case, for history shows that a very strong and indomitable covenanting spirit prevailed among the parishioners of Irongray as well as among the people of the South and West of Scotland generally. Indeed Wodrow, the historian, says that the people of Irongray were the first to offer strenuous opposition to the settlement of the curates.

When Gordon and McCubine were standing under the fatal tree with the ropes round their necks, a sorrowing acquaintance asked the latter if he had any word to send to his wife.

"Yes," answered the martyr; "tell her that I leave her and the two babes upon the Lord, and to his promise: `A father to the fatherless and a husband to the widow is the Lord in His holy habitation.'"

Hearing this, the man employed to act the part of executioner seemed touched, and asked forgiveness.

"Poor man!" was the reply, "I forgive thee and all men."

They died, at peace with G.o.d and man. An old tombstone, surrounded by an iron rail, marks to this day the spot among the old oak-trees where the bodies of McCubine and Gordon were laid to rest.

Commenting on this to his friend Selby, the Reverend George Lawless gave it as his opinion that "two more fanatics were well out of the world."

To which the Reverend Frank replied very quietly:

"Yes, George, well out of it indeed; and, as I would rather die with the fanatics than live with the G.o.dless, I intend to join the Covenanters to-night--so my pulpit shall be vacant to-morrow."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

COMING EVENTS CAST SHADOWS.

In February 1685 Charles the Second died--not without some suspicion of foul play. His brother, the Duke of York, an avowed Papist, ascended the throne as James the Second. This was a flagrant breach of the Const.i.tution, and Argyll--attempting to avert the catastrophe by an invasion of Scotland at the same time that Monmouth should invade England--not only failed, but was captured and afterwards executed by the same instrument--the "Maiden"--with which his father's head had been cut off nigh a quarter of a century before. As might have been expected, the persecutions were not relaxed by the new king.

When good old Cargill was martyred, a handsome fair young man was looking on in profound sorrow and pity. He was a youth of great moral power, and with a large heart. His name was James Renwick. From that hour this youth cast in his lot with the persecuted wanderers, and, after the martyrdom of Cameron and Cargill, and the death of Welsh, he was left almost alone to manage their affairs. The "Strict Covenanters"

had by this time formed themselves into societies for prayer and conference, and held quarterly district meetings in sequestered places, with a regular system of correspondence--thus secretly forming an organised body, which has continued down to modern times.

It was while this young servant of G.o.d--having picked up the mantle which Cargill dropped--was toiling and wandering among the mountains, mora.s.ses, and caves of the west, that a troop of dragoons was seen, one May morning, galloping over the same region "on duty." They swept over hill and dale with the dash and rattle of men in all the pride of youth and strength and the panoply of war. They were hasting, however, not to the battlefield but to the field of agriculture, there to imbrue their hands in the blood of the unarmed and the helpless.

At the head of the band rode the valiant Graham of Claverhouse. Most people at that time knew him as the "b.l.o.o.d.y Clavers," but as we look at the gay cavalier with his waving plume, martial bearing, beautiful countenance, and magnificent steed, we are tempted to ask, "Has there not been some mistake here?" Some have thought so. One or two literary men, who might have known better, have even said so, and attempted to defend their position!

"Methinks this is our quarry, Glendinning," said Claverhouse, drawing rein as they approached a small cottage, near to which a man was seen at work with a spade.

"Yes--that's John Brown of Priesthill," said the sergeant.

"You know the pestilent fanatic well, I suppose?"

"Ay. He gets the name o' being a man of eminent G.o.dliness," answered the sergeant in a mocking tone; "and is even credited with having started a Sabbath-school!"

John Brown, known as the "Christian carrier," truly was what Glendinning had sneeringly described him. On seeing the cavalcade approach he guessed, no doubt, that his last hour had come, for many a time had he committed the sin of succouring the outlawed Covenanters, and he had stoutly refused to attend the ministry of the worthless curate George Lawless. Indeed it was the information conveyed to Government by that reverend gentleman that had brought Claverhouse down upon the unfortunate man.

The dragoons ordered him to proceed to the front of his house, where his wife was standing with one child in her arms and another by her side.

The usual ensnaring questions as to the supremacy of the King, etcetera, were put to him, and the answers being unsatisfactory, Claverhouse ordered him to say his prayers and prepare for immediate death. Brown knew that there was no appeal. All Scotland was well aware by that time that soldiers were empowered to act the part of judge, jury, witness, and executioner, and had become accustomed to it. The poor man obeyed.

He knelt down and prayed in such a strain that even the troopers, it is said, were impressed--at all events, their subsequent conduct would seem to countenance this belief. Their commander, however, was not much affected, for he thrice interrupted his victim, telling him that he had "given him time to pray, but not to preach."

"Sir," returned Brown, "ye know neither the nature of preaching nor praying if ye call this preaching."

"Now," said Claverhouse, "take farewell of your wife and children."

After the poor man had kissed them, Claverhouse ordered six of his men to fire; but they hesitated and finally refused. Enraged at this their commander drew a pistol, and with his own hand blew out John Brown's brains.

"What thinkest thou of thy husband now, woman?" he said, turning to the widow.

"I ever thought much good of him," she answered, "and as much now as ever."

"It were but justice to lay thee beside him," exclaimed the murderer.

"If you were permitted," she replied, "I doubt not but your cruelty would go that length."

Thus far the excitement of the dreadful scene enabled the poor creature to reply, but nature soon a.s.serted her sway. Sinking on her knees by the side of the mangled corpse, the widow, neither observing nor caring for the departure of the dragoons, proceeded to bind up her husband's shattered skull with a kerchief, while the pent-up tears burst forth.

The house stood in a retired, solitary spot, and for some time the bereaved woman was left alone with G.o.d and her children; but before darkness closed in a human comforter was sent to her in the person of Quentin d.i.c.k.

On his arrival in Wigtown, Quentin, finding that his friends the Wilson girls had been imprisoned with an old covenanter named Mrs. McLachlan, and that he could not obtain permission to see them, resolved to pay a visit to John Brown, the carrier, who was an old friend, and who might perhaps afford him counsel regarding the Wilsons. Leaving Ramblin'

Peter behind to watch every event and fetch him word if anything important should transpire, he set out and reached the desolated cottage in the evening of the day on which his friend was shot.

Quentin was naturally a reserved man, and had never been able to take a prominent part with his covenanting friends in conversation or in public prayer, but the sight of his old friend's widow in her agony, and her terrified little ones, broke down the barrier of reserve completely.

Although a stern and a strong man, not p.r.o.ne to give way to feeling, he learned that night the full meaning of what it is to "weep with those that weep." Moreover, his tongue was unloosed, and he poured forth his soul in prayer, and quoted G.o.d's Word in a way that cheered, in no small degree, his stricken friend. During several days he remained at Priesthill, doing all in his power to a.s.sist the family, and receiving some degree of comfort in return; for strong sympathy and fellowship in sorrow had induced him to reveal the fact that he loved Margaret Wilson, who at that time lay in prison with her young sister Agnes, awaiting their trial in Wigtown.

Seated one night by the carrier's desolated hearth, where several friends had a.s.sembled to mourn with the widow, Quentin was about to commence family worship, when he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Ramblin' Peter. The expression of his face told eloquently that he brought bad news. "The Wilsons," he said, "are condemned to be drowned with old Mrs. McLachlan."

"No' baith o' the la.s.ses," he added, correcting himself, "for the faither managed to git ane o' them off by a bribe o' a hundred pounds-- an' that's every bodle that he owns."

"Which is to be drooned?" asked Quentin in a low voice.

"Marget--the auldest."

A deep groan burst from the shepherd as the Bible fell from his hands.

"Come!" he said to Peter, and pa.s.sed quickly out of the house, without a word to those whom he left behind.

Arrived in Wigtown, the wretched man went about, wildly seeking to move the feelings of men whose hearts were like the nether millstone.

"Oh, if I only had siller!" he exclaimed to the Wilsons' father, clasping his hands in agony. "Hae ye nae mair?"

"No' anither plack," said the old man in deepest dejection. "They took all I had for Aggie."

"Ye are strang, Quentin," suggested Peter, who now understood the reason of his friend's wild despair. "Could ye no' waylay somebody an' rob them? Surely it wouldna be c.o.o.nted wrang in the circ.u.mstances."

"Sin is sin, Peter. Better death than sin," returned Quentin with a grave look.

"Aweel, we maun just dee, then," said Peter in a tone of resignation.

Nothing could avert the doom of these unfortunate women. Their judges, of whom Grierson, Laird of Lagg, was one, indicted this young girl and the old woman with the ridiculous charge of rebellion, of having been at the battles of Bothwell Bridge and Airsmoss and present at twenty conventicles, as well as with refusing to swear the abjuration oath!

The innocent victims were carried to the mouth of the river Bladenoch, being guarded by troops under Major Winram, and followed by an immense crowd both of friends and spectators. Quentin d.i.c.k and his little friend Peter were among them. The former had possessed himself of a stick resembling a quarter-staff. His wild appearance and bloodshot eyes, with his great size and strength, induced people to keep out of his way. He had only just reached the spot in time. No word did he speak till he came up to Major Winram. Then he sprang forward, and said in a loud voice, "I forbid this execution in the name of G.o.d!" at the same time raising his staff.