Instantly a trooper spurred forward and cut him down from behind.

"Take him away," said Winram, and Quentin, while endeavouring to stagger to his feet, was ridden down, secured, and dragged away. Poor Peter shared his fate. So quickly and quietly was it all done that few except those quite close to them were fully aware of what had occurred. The blow on his head seemed to have stunned the shepherd, for he made no resistance while they led him a considerable distance back into the country to a retired spot, and placed him with his back against a cliff.

Then the leader of the party told off six men to shoot him.

Not until they were about to present their muskets did the shepherd seem to realise his position. Then an eager look came over his face, and he said with a smile, "Ay, be quick! Maybe I'll git there first to welcome her!"

A volley followed, and the soul of Quentin d.i.c.k was released from its tenement of clay.

Peter, on seeing the catastrophe, fell backwards in a swoon, and the leader of the troop, feeling, perhaps, a touch of pity, cast him loose and left him there. Returning to the sands, the soldiers found that the martyrdom was well-nigh completed.

The mouth of the Bladenoch has been considerably modified. At this time the river's course was close along the base of the hill on which Wigtown stands. The tide had turned, and the flowing sea had already reversed the current of the river. The banks of sand were steep, and several feet high at the spot to which the martyrs were led, so that people standing on the edge were close above the inrushing stream. Two stakes had been driven into the top of the banks--one being some distance lower down the river than the other. Ropes of a few yards in length were fastened to them, and the outer ends tied round the martyrs' waists--old Mrs. McLachlan being attached to the lower post. They were then bidden prepare for death, which they did by kneeling down and engaging in fervent prayer. It is said that the younger woman repeated some pa.s.sages of Scripture, and even sang part of the 25th Psalm.

At this point a married daughter of Mrs. McLachlan, named Milliken, who could not believe that the sentence would really be carried out, gave way to violent lamentations, and fainted when she saw that her mother's doom was fixed. They carried the poor creature away from the dreadful scene.

The old woman was first pushed over the brink of the river, and a soldier, thrusting her head down into the water with a halbert, held it there. This was evidently done to terrify the younger woman into submission, for, while the aged martyr was struggling in the agonies of death, one of the tormentors asked Margaret Wilson what she thought of that sight.

"What do I see?" was her reply. "I see Christ in one of His members wrestling there. Think ye that we are sufferers? No! it is Christ in us; for He sends none a warfare on his own charges."

These were her last words as she was pushed over the bank, and, like her companion, forcibly held, down with a halbert. Before she was quite suffocated, however, Winram ordered her to be dragged out, and, when able to speak, she was asked if she would pray for the King.

"I wish the salvation of all men," she replied, "and the d.a.m.nation of none."

"Dear Margaret," urged a bystander in a voice of earnest entreaty, "say `G.o.d save the King,' say `G.o.d save the King.'"

"G.o.d save him if He will," she replied. "It is his salvation I desire."

"She has said it! she has said it!" cried the pitying bystanders eagerly.

"That won't do," cried the Laird of Lagg, coming forward at the moment, uttering a coa.r.s.e oath; "let her take the test-oaths."

As this meant the repudiation of the Covenants and the submission of her conscience to the King--to her mind inexcusable sin--the martyr firmly refused to obey. She was immediately thrust back into the water, and in a few minutes more her heroic soul was with her G.o.d and Saviour.

The truth of this story--like that of John Brown of Priesthill, though attested by a letter of Claverhouse himself [See Dr. Cunningham's _History of the Church of Scotland_, volume two, page 239.]--has been called in question, and the whole affair p.r.o.nounced a myth! We have no s.p.a.ce for controversy, but it is right to add that if it be a myth, the records of the Kirk-sessions of Kirkinner and Penninghame--which exist, and in which it is recorded--must also be mythical. The truth is, that both stories have been elaborately investigated by men of profound learning and unquestionable capacity, and the truth of them proved "up to the hilt."

As to Graham of Claverhouse--there are people, we believe, who would whitewash the devil if he were only to present himself with a dashing person and a handsome face! But such historians as Macaulay, McCrie, McKenzie, and others, refuse to whitewash Claverhouse. Even Sir Walter Scott--who was very decidedly in sympathy with the Cavaliers--says of him in _Old Mortality_: "He was the unscrupulous agent of the Scottish Privy Council in executing the merciless seventies of the Government in Scotland during the reigns of Charles the Second and James the Second;"

and his latest apologist candidly admits that "it is impossible altogether to acquit Claverhouse of the charges laid to his account."

We are inclined to ask, with some surprise, Why should he wish to acquit him? But Claverhouse himself, as if in prophetic cynicism, writes his own condemnation as to character thus: "In any service I have been in, I never inquired further in the laws than the orders of my superior officer." An appropriate motto for a "soldier of fortune," which might be abbreviated and paraphrased into "Stick at nothing!"

Coupling all this with the united testimony of tradition, and nearly all ancient historians, we can only wonder at the prejudice of those who would still weave a chaplet for the brow of "Bonnie Dundee."

Turning now from the south-west of Scotland, we direct attention to the eastern seaboard of Kincardine, where, perched like a sea-bird on the weatherbeaten cliffs, stands the stronghold of Dunnottar Castle.

Down in the dungeons of that rugged pile lies our friend Andrew Black, very different from the man whose fortunes we have hitherto followed.

Care, torment, disease, hard usage, long confinement, and desperate anxiety have graven lines on his face that nothing but death can smooth out. Wildly-tangled hair, with a long s.h.a.ggy beard and moustache, render him almost unrecognisable. Only the old unquenchable fire of his eye remains; also the kindliness of his old smile, when such a rare visitant chances once again to illuminate his worn features. Years of suffering had he undergone, and there was now little more than skin and bone of him left to undergo more.

"Let me hae a turn at the crack noo," he said, coming forward to a part of the foul miry dungeon where a crowd of male and female prisoners were endeavouring to inhale a little fresh air through a crevice in the wall.

"I'm fit to choke for want o' a breath o' caller air."

As he spoke a groan from a dark corner attracted his attention. At once forgetting his own distress, he went to the place and discovered one of the prisoners, a young man, with his head pillowed on a stone, and mire some inches deep for his bed.

"Eh, Sandy, are ye sae far gane?" asked Black, kneeling beside him in tender sympathy.

"Oh, Andry, man--for a breath o' fresh air before I dee!"

"Here! ane o' ye," cried Black, "help me to carry Sandy to the crack.

Wae's me, man," he added in a lower voice, "I could hae carried you ye wi' my pirlie ance, but I'm little stronger than a bairn noo."

Sandy was borne to the other side of the dungeon, and his head put close to the crevice, through which he could see the white ripples on the summer sea far below.

A deep inspiration seemed for a moment to give new life--then a prolonged sigh, and the freed happy soul swept from the dungeons of earth to the realms of celestial, light and liberty.

"He's breathin' the air o' Paradise noo," said Black, as he a.s.sisted to remove the dead man from the opening which the living were so eager to reach.

"Ye was up in the ither dungeon last night," he said, turning to the man who had aided him; "what was a' the groans an' cries aboot?"

"Torturin' the puir lads that tried to escape," answered the man with a dark frown.

"Hm! I thoucht as muckle. They were gey hard on them, I dar'say?"

"They were that! Ye see, the disease that's broke oot amang them-- whatever it is--made some o' them sae desprit that they got through the wundy that looks to the sea an' creepit alang the precipice. It was a daft-like thing to try in the daylight; but certain death would hae been their lot, I suspec', if they had ventured on a precipice like that i'

the dark. Some women washin' doon below saw them and gied the alarm.

The gairds cam', the hue and cry was raised, the yetts were shut and fifteen were catched an' brought back--but twenty-five got away. My heart is wae for the fifteen. They were laid on their backs on benches; their hands were bound doon to the foot o' the forms, an' burnin'

matches were putt atween every finger, an' the sodgers blew on them to keep them alight. The governor, ye see, had ordered this to gang on withoot stoppin' for three oors! Some o' the puir fallows were deid afore the end o' that time, an' I'm thinkin' the survivors'll be crippled for life."

While listening to the horrible tale Andrew Black resolved on an attempt to escape that very night.

"Wull ye gang wi' me?" he asked of the only comrade whom he thought capable of making the venture; but the comrade shook his head. "Na," he said, "I'll no' try. They've starved me to that extent that I've nae strength left. I grow dizzy at the vera thoucht. But d'ye think the wundy's big enough to let ye through?"

"Oo ay," returned Black with a faint smile. "I was ower stoot for't ance, but it's an ill wund that blaws nae guid. Stervation has made me thin enough noo."

That night, when all--even the hara.s.sed prisoners--in Dunnottar Castle were asleep, except the sentinels, the desperate man forced himself with difficulty through the very small window of the dungeon. It was unbarred, because, opening out on the face of an almost sheer precipice, it was thought that nothing without wings could escape from it. Black, however, had been accustomed to precipices from boyhood. He had observed a narrow ledge just under the window, and hoped that it might lead to something. Just below it he could see another and narrower ledge. What was beyond that he knew not--and did not much care!

Once outside, with his breast pressed against the wall of rock, he pa.s.sed along pretty quickly, considering that he could not see more than a few yards before him. But presently he came to the end of the ledge, and by no stretching out of foot or hand could he find another projection of any kind. He had now to face the great danger of sliding down to the lower ledge, and his heart beat audibly against his ribs as he gazed into the profound darkness below. Indecision was no part of Andrew Black's character. Breathing a silent prayer for help and deliverance, he sat down on the ledge with his feet overhanging the abyss. For one moment he reconsidered his position. Behind him were torture, starvation, prolonged misery, and almost certain death. Below was perhaps instantaneous death, or possible escape.

He pushed off, again commending his soul to G.o.d, and slid down. For an instant destruction seemed inevitable, but next moment his heels struck the lower ledge and he remained fast. With an earnest "Thank G.o.d!" he began to creep along. The ledge conducted him to safer ground, and in another quarter of an hour he was free!

To get as far and as quickly as possible from Dunnottar was now his chief aim. He travelled at his utmost speed till daybreak, when he crept into a dry ditch, and, overcome by fatigue, forgot his sorrow in profound unbroken slumber. Rising late in the afternoon, he made his way to a cottage and begged for bread. They must have suspected what he was and where he came from, but they were friendly, for they gave him a loaf and a few pence without asking questions.

Thus he travelled by night and slept by day till he made his way to Edinburgh, which he entered one evening in the midst of a crowd of people, and went straight to Candlemaker Row.

Mrs. Black, Mrs. Wallace, Jean Black, and poor Agnes Wilson were in the old room when a tap was heard at the door, which immediately opened, and a gaunt, dishevelled, way-worn man appeared. Mrs. Black was startled at first, for the man, regardless of the other females, advanced towards her. Then sudden light seemed to flash in her eyes as she extended both hands.

"Mither!" was all that Andrew could say as he grasped them, fell on his knees, and, with a profound sigh, laid his head upon her lap.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE DARKEST HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN.

Many months pa.s.sed away, during which Andrew Black, clean-shaved, brushed-up, and converted into a very respectable, ordinary-looking artisan, carried on the trade of a turner, in an underground cellar in one of the most populous parts of the Cowgate. Lost in the crowd was his idea of security. And he was not far wrong. His cellar had a way of escape through a back door. Its grated window, under the level of the street, admitted light to his whirling lathe, but, aided by dirt on the gla.s.s, it baffled the gaze of the curious.