"'I thank you,' he says at last. 'I thank you all, my men, for your good will. We have done well together in the past, and we'll do better in time to come. I will prove to the rebel folk o' this land that Gilbert Burnet will make them obey.'

"'Faith, Gilbert,' says Maister Veitch, 'hae ye no the grace to speak o'

your verra guid friend? I think ye're beholden to me for a hantle o'

your success.'

"The Captain looks at him wi' a glint o' guid humour. 'No more, Michael,' says he, 'than the cook owes to the scullion. You do my dirty work.'

"'Dirty work, quotha,' cried Maister Veitch, who was hot and fl.u.s.tered with wine. 'I wouldna tak that from any other than yoursel', Gilbert, and maybe no from you.'

"'Take it or not, just as you please,' said the Captain, scornfully.

'It's no concern o' mine.'

"This angered the other, and he spoke up fiercely:

"I am of as guid blood as yoursel', Gilbert Burnet. Is a Tweeddale gentleman no as guid as a bit westland lairdie?"

"'Faith, that is too much,' says the Captain. 'Michael, I'll make you answer for this yet.' So he sat with lowered brows, while Maister Veitch, to a' appearance, had forgotten the words he had spoken.

"In a little the Captain dismisses the men to their sleeping-quarters, and the pair were left alone, save for mysel', whae being in the dark shadows near the door escaped the sicht o' a'. The two gentlemen sat at the board eyeing each other with little love. By and by Gilbert speaks.

"Ye called me a bit westland lairdie no long syne, Maister Veitch, if ye'll be remembering.'

"The ither looks up. 'And what if I did?' says he. 'Is't no the fact?'

"'That it's no the fact I have a d.a.m.ned good mind to let you see,' says the ither.

"Michael looks at him askance. 'This is a gey queer way to treat your friends. I've done a' in my power to aid you in a' your pliskies. I've turned clean against the Laird o' Barns, who never did me ony ill, a'

for the sake o' you. And forbye that, I've done what I could to further your cause wi' my sister, who is none so well inclined to you. And this is a' the thanks I get for it, Gilbert?'

"I saw by the dour face o' the Captain that he was mortal thrawn.

"'And a' the thanks ye are likely to get,' says he. 'Is't no enough that a man o' my birth and fame should be willing to mate wi' one o'

your paltry house, a set o' thieves and reivers wi' no claim to honour save the exaltation o' the gallows-rope? Gad, I think it's a mighty favour that I should be so keen to take the la.s.s from among you.'

"'By Heaven, that is too much to swallow!' said Maister Michael, as some sparks o' proper feeling rose in him at last; and he struggled to his feet.

"The Captain also rose and looked at him disdainfully.

"'What would you do?' said he.

"'This,' said the other, clean carried wi' anger; and he struck him a ringing lick on the face.

"Gilbert went back a step, and (for his honour I say it) kept his wrath doun.

"'That's a pity,' says he; 'that was a bad action o' yours, Michael, as ye'll soon ken. I'll trouble ye to draw.'

"I hae felt vexed for mony folk in my life, but never for yin sae muckle as puir Maister Veitch. He reddened and stumbled and plucked his sword from its sheath. He was dazed wi' wine and drowsiness, but his enemy made nocht o' that.

"They crossed swirds and I watched them fall to. I was terrible feared, for I saw fine that the yin was as angry as a bull, the ither as helpless as a sheep. It was against a' decency to let sic a thing gang on, so I ran forrit and cried on them to stop. 'D'ye no see the man's fair helpless?' I cried out; but they never seemed to hear me, but went at it as hard as ever.

"At first baith fought nane sae bad, for baith were braw swordsmen, and even in sic a plight Michael's skill didna desert him. Gilbert, too, was quieter than was to be expect.i.t. But of a sudden a wild fury seized him. 'I'll teach ye to speak ill o' me and my house,' he cried in a voice like thunder, and cam on like a storm o' hail.

"Michael fell back and tried to defend himsel'. But the puir lad was sae dazed and foundered that frae the first he had nae chance. His blade wabbled at every guaird, and he never risked a cut. It was just like a laddie gettin' his paiks frae a maister and keepin' off the clouts wi'

yae airm.

"And then he let his sword drop, whether wi' weariness or no I canna tell, and stood glowrin' afore him. The Captain never stopped. I dinna think he ettled it, for when he began I think he didna mean mair than to punish him for his words. But now he lunged clean and true. Nae sword kept it aff, nae coat o' mail wardit it, but deep into Michael's breast it sank. Wi' yae groan he fell back, and the breath gaed frae his body.

"I could hardly contain mysel wi' rage and sorrow. At first I was for rinnin' forrit and throttlin' the man, but I got a glimpse o' his face, and that keepit me. It was dark as a thunder-clud, and regret and unquenched anger lookit oot o' his een.

"'This is a black business,' he says to himsel', 'a black d.a.m.nable business. G.o.d knows I never meant to kill the fool.' And he began to walk up and down wi' his heid on his breast.

"I felt that I had seen eneuch. My whole hert was sick wi' the peety o'

the thing, and forbye it was time for me to be going if I was ever to win to Tweedside. So I slips frae the house, which was still quiet, for naebody kenned o' the deed, and far away somewhere I heard the lilt o' a sodger's song. I sped doun the Harbour Walk and syne into Embro', as though the deil were ahint me. When I won to Auchendinny it was aboot three in the mornin', and I made a' the haste I could. I think I maun hae run a' the road frae there to Leidburn. Then I took ower the Cloch hills and doun by Harehope and the Meldons. I crossed Lyne abune the Brig, and came doun Stobo burn, and here I am. I never met a soul for good or ill, so the land's quieter thereaways than folk make it oot.

But doun by the Eddleston Water there's a geyan nest o' sodgers, so ye've nae time to lose, Laird, if ye wad win to the hills."

When I turned to Marjory at the close of this tale she was weeping silently; yet there was little bitterness in her tears. Her brother had, after all, made a better end than one could have guessed from his life. Indeed, I had small cause to feel kindness to him, for he had betrayed his trust, and had been the author of all the ills which had come upon my mistress. But for her sake I was sad.

"Marjory," I said, "I have many scores to settle with my cousin, for all his life he has done me ill, and the time will come when I shall pay them. I will add this to the others. Be a.s.sured, dear, that your brother shall not be unavenged."

And Marjory dried her tears, and from that hour spake never a word of Michael. But I knew well that deep in her heart remained an abiding sorrow which chastened the gaiety of her spirits.

CHAPTER V

I CLAIM A PROMISE, AND WE SEEK THE HILLS

And now I set myself resolutely to think out something that might be the saving of my life and my love. I was in a perilous case, for when Gilbert found that I had escaped him, he would come on forthwith to Dawyck, and, in all likelihood, be here ere nightfall. One thing was clear-that I could not bide myself nor leave Marjory to his tender mercies. The hills for me; and for her-ah, that was the rub in the matter!

At last I made out some semblance of a plan. On the edge of Douglasdale, in the shire of Lanark, dwelt William Veitch at the house of Smitwood, the uncle of the dead Sir John, an old man well fallen in the vale of years. He was unmolested by all, being a peaceable soldier who had served G.o.d and the king in his day, and now thought of nothing save making a good ending. He would gladly take the la.s.s, I knew, and shelter her till such time as I should come and take her again. Nor would Gilbert follow her thither, for no word should come to his ear of her destined harbour, and he knew naught of the place nor the relationship. The plan came upon me with such convincing force that I took no other thought on the matter. Nicol should be left there both as a guard of the place-and who so vigilant?-and as some means of communication between me and my mistress. For my own part, when once I had seen my la.s.s safely sheltered, I should take to the hills with a light heart. I should love to be free and careless among the wide moors, and try my wits in a fair contest against my sweet cousin.

I told the thing to Nicol and he gladly agreed. Then I sought out Marjory, who had gone to make some preparations for my flight, and found her talking gravely to the old man, the only remaining servant. I drew her to the little oak parlour.

"Marjory, la.s.s," I said, "I am but new come home, and I little thought to have to take flight again so soon. Do you mind ere I went to the Low Countries I came here to bid you farewell, and you sang me a song?"

"I mind it well," said she.

"Have you a remembrance of the air, my dear? How did it go?" and I whistled a stave.

"Ay, even so. You have a good ear, John."

"I think, too, that I have mind of a verse or so," said I. "There was one which ran like this:

"'And if he were a soldier gay And tarried from the town, And sought in wars, through death and scars, To win for him renown,

I'd place his colours in my breast And ride by moor and lea, And win his side, there to abide And bear him company.'