Lady Dundee lifted up the child for him to kiss. [Pages 261-2.]

Graham of Claverhouse

By

IAN MACLAREN

Author of

“Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush,”
“Kate Carnegie,” “Young Barbarians,”
“A Doctor of the Old School,”
Etc., Etc.

Illustrated in Water-Colors by Frank T. Merrill

Copyright, 1907, by John Watson

The Sale of this book in New York and Philadelphia is confined to the stores of
JOHN WANAMAKER.

New York and London
The Authors and Newspapers Association
1907

Copyright, 1907, by JOHN WATSON.

Entered at Stationers’ Hall.
All rights reserved.

Composition and Electrotyping by
J. J. Little & Co.
Printing and binding by
The Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass., U. S. A.

CONTENTS

(Facsimile Page of Manuscript from BESIDE THE BONNIE BRIAR BUSH)

11

GRAHAM OF CLAVERHOUSE

Book I

CHAPTER I

BY THE CAMP-FIRE

That afternoon a strange thing had happened to the camp of the Prince of Orange, which was pitched near Nivelle in Brabant, for the Prince was then challenging Condé, who stuck behind his trenches at Charleroi and would not come out to fight. A dusty-colored cloud came racing along the sky so swiftly––yet there was no wind to be felt––that it was above the camp almost as soon as it was seen. When the fringes of the cloud encompassed the place, there burst forth as from its belly a whirlwind and wrought sudden devastation in a fashion none had ever seen before or could afterwards forget. With one long and fierce gust it tore up trees by the roots, unroofed the barns where the Prince’s headquarters were, sucked up tents into the air, and carried soldiers’ caps in flocks, as if they were flocks of rooks. This 12 commotion went on for half an hour, then ceased as instantly as it began; there was calm again and the evening ended in peace, while the cloud of fury went on its way into the west, and afterwards we heard that a very grand and strong church at Utrecht had suffered greatly. As the camp was in vast disorder, both officers and men bivouacked in the open that night, and as it was inclined to chill in those autumn evenings, fires had been lit not only for the cooking of food, but for the comfort of their heat. Round one fire a group of English gentlemen had gathered, who had joined the Prince’s forces, partly because, like other men of their breed, they had an insatiable love of fighting, and partly to push their fortunes, for Englishmen in those days, and still more Scotsmen were willing to serve on any side where the pay and the risks together were certain, and under any commander who was a man of his head and hands. Europe swarmed with soldiers of fortune from Great Britain, hard bitten and fearless men, some of whom fell far from home, and were buried in unknown graves, others of whom returned to take their share in any fighting that turned up in their own country. So it came to pass that many of our Islanders had fought impartially with equal courage and interest for 13 the French and against them, like those two Scots who met for the first time at the camp-fire that night, and whose fortunes were to the end of the chapter to be so curiously intertwined. There was Collier, who afterwards became My Lord Patmore; Rooke, who rose to be a major-general in the English army; Hales, for many years Governor of Chelsea Hospital; Venner, the son of one of Cromwell’s soldiers, who had strange notions about a fifth monarchy which was to be held by our Lord himself, but who was a good fighting man; and some others who came to nothing and left no mark. Two young Scots gentlemen were among the Englishmen, who were to have a share in making history in their own country, and both to die as generals upon the battle-field, the death they chiefly loved. Both men were to suffer more than falls to the ordinary lot, and the life of one, some part of whose story is here to be told, was nothing else but tragedy. For the gods had bestowed upon him quick gifts of mind and matchless beauty of face, and yet he was to be hated by his nation, till his name has become a byword, and to be betrayed by his own friends who were cowards or self-seekers, and to find even love, like a sword, pierce his heart.

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Scotland contains within it two races, and partly because their blood is different and partly because the one race has lived in the open and fertile Lowlands, and the other in the wild and shadowy Highlands, the Celt of the North and the Scot of the south are well-nigh as distant from each other as the east from the west. But among the Celts there were two kinds in that time, and even unto this day the distinction can be found by those who look for it. There was the eager and fiery Celt who was guided by his passions rather than by prudence, who struck first and reasoned afterwards, who was the victim of varying moods and the child of hopeless causes. He was usually a Catholic in faith, so far as he had any religion, and devoted to the Stuart dynasty, so far as he had any policy apart from his chief. There was also another sort of Celt, who was quiet and self-contained, determined and persevering. Men of this type were usually Protestant in their faith, and when the day of choice came they threw in their lot with Hanover against Stuart. Hugh MacKay was the younger son of an ancient Highland house of large possessions and much influence in the distant North of Scotland; his people were suspicious of the Stuarts because the kings of 15 that ill-fated line were intoxicated with the idea of divine right, and were ever clutching at absolute power; nor had the MacKays any overwhelming and reverential love for bishops, because they considered them to be the instruments of royal tyranny and the oppressors of the kirk. MacKay has found a place between Collier and Venner, and as he sits leaning back against a saddle and to all appearance half asleep, the firelight falls on his broad, powerful, but rather awkward figure, and on a strong, determined face, which in its severity is well set off by his close-cut sandy hair. Although one would judge him to be dozing, or at least absorbed in his own thoughts, if anything is said which arrests him, he will cast a quick look on the speaker, and then one marks that his eyes are steely gray, cold and penetrating, but also brave and honest. By and by he rouses himself, and taking a book out of an inner pocket, and leaning sideways towards the fire, he begins to read, and secludes himself from the camp talk. Venner notices that it is a Bible, and opens his mouth to ask him whether he can give him the latest news about the fifth monarchy which made a windmill in his poor father’s head, but, catching sight of MacKay’s grim profile, thinks better and only shrugs 16 his shoulders. For MacKay was not a man whose face or manner invited jesting.

Upon the other side of the fire, so that the two men could only catch occasional and uncertain glimpses of each other through the smoke, as was to be their lot in after days, lay the other Scot in careless grace, supporting his head upon his hand, quite at his ease and in good fellowship with all his comrades. If MacKay marked a contrast to the characteristic Celt of hot blood and wayward impulses, by his reserve and self-control, John Graham was quite unlike the average Lowlander by the spirit of feudal prejudice and romantic sentiment, of uncalculating devotion and loyalty to dead ideals, which burned within his heart, and were to drive him headlong on his troubled and disastrous career. A kinsman of the great Montrose and born of a line which traced its origin to Scottish kings, the child of a line of fighting cavaliers, he loathed Presbyterians, their faith and their habits together, counting them fanatics by inherent disposition and traitors whenever opportunity offered. He was devoted to the Episcopal Church of Scotland, and regarded a bishop with reverence for the sake of his office, and he was ready to die, as the Marquis of Montrose had done before him, 17 for the Stuart line and their rightful place. One can see as he stretches himself, raising his arms above his head with a taking gesture, that he is not more than middle size and slightly built, though lithe and sinewy as a young tiger, but what catches one’s eye is the face, which is lit up by a sudden flash of firelight. It is that of a woman rather than a man, and a beautiful woman to boot, and this girl face he was to keep through all the days of strife and pain, and also fierce deeds, till they carried him dead from Killiecrankie field. It was a full, rich face, with fine complexion somewhat browned by campaign life, with large, expressive eyes of hazel hue, whose expression could change with rapidity from love to hate, which could be very gentle in a woman’s wooing, or very hard when dealing with a Covenanting rebel, but which in repose were apt to be sad and hopeless. The lips are rich and flexible, the nose strong and straight, the eyebrows high and well arched, and the mouth, with the short upper lip, is both tender and strong. His abundant and rich brown hair he wears in long curls falling over his shoulders, as did the cavaliers, and he is dressed with great care in the height of military fashion, evidently a gallant and debonair gentleman. He has just ceased from 18 badinage with Rooke, in which that honest soldier’s somewhat homely army jokes have been worsted by the graceful play of Graham’s wit, who was ever gay, but never coarse, who was no ascetic, and was ever willing to drink the king’s health, but, as his worst enemies used grudgingly to admit, cared neither for wine nor women. Silence falls for a little on the company. Claverhouse looking into the fire and seeing things of long ago and far away, hums a Royalist ballad to the honor of King Charles, and the confounding of crop-eared Puritans. Among the company was that honest gentleman, Captain George Carlton, who was afterwards to tell many entertaining anecdotes of the War in Spain under that brilliant commander Lord Peterborough. And as Carlton, who was ever in thirst for adventures, had been serving with the fleet, and had only left it because he thought there might be more doing now in other quarters, Venner demanded whether he had seen anything whose telling would make the time pass more gayly by the fire, for as that liberated Puritan said: “My good comrade on the right is engaged at his devotions, and I also would be reading a Bible if I had one, but my worthy father studied the Good Book so much that men judged it had 19 driven him crazy, and I having few wits to lose have been afraid to open it ever since. As for Mr. Graham, if I catch the air he is singing, it is a song of the malignants against which as a Psalm-singing Puritan I lift my testimony. So a toothsome story of the sea, if it please you, Mr. Carlton.”

“Apart from the fighting, gentlemen,” began Carlton, who was a man of careful speech and stiff mind, “for I judge you do not hanker after battle-tales, seeing we shall have our stomach full ere many days be past, if the Prince can entice Condé into the open, there were not many things worth telling. But this was a remarkable occurrence, the like of which I will dare say none of you have seen, though I know there are men here who have been in battle once and again. Upon the ‘Catherine’ there was a gentleman volunteer, a man of family and fine estate, by the name of Hodge Vaughan. Early in the fight, when the Earl of Sandwich was our admiral and Van Ghent commanded the Dutch, Vaughan received a considerable wound, and was carried down into the hold. Well, it happened that they had some hogs aboard and, the worse for poor Hodge Vaughan, the sailor who had charge of them, like any other proper Englishman, was fonder of fighting than of 20 feeding pigs, and so left them to forage for themselves. As they could get nothing else, and liked a change in their victuals when it came within their reach, they made their meal off Vaughan, and when the fight was over there was nothing left of that poor gentleman except his skull, which was monstrous thick and bade defiance to the hogs. This is not a common happening,” continued Carlton with much composure, “and I thank my Maker I was not carried into that hold to be a hog’s dinner. Yet I give you my word of honor that the tale is true.”

“Lord! it was a cruel ending for a gallant gentleman,” said Collier, “and it makes gruesome telling. Have you anything else sweeter for the mouth, for there be enough of hogs on the land as well as on sea, and some of them go round the field, where men are lying helpless, on two legs and not on four, from whom heaven defend us.”

“Since you ask for more,” replied Carlton, “a thing took place about which there was much talk, and on it I should like to have your judgment. Upon the same ship with myself, there was a gentleman volunteer, and he came with the name of a skilful swordsman. He had been in many duels and thought no more of standing face to face with another 21 man, and he cared not who he was, than taking his breakfast. You would have said that he of all men would have been the coolest on the deck and would have given no heed to danger. Yet the moment the bullets whizzed he ran into the hold, and for all his land mettle he was a coward on the sea. When everyone laughed at him and he was becoming a thing of scorn, he asked to be tied to the mainmast, so that he might not be able to escape. So it comes into my mind,” concluded Carlton, “to ask this question of you gallant gentlemen, Is courage what Sir Walter Raleigh calls it, if I mind me rightly, the art of the philosophy of quarrel, or must it not be the issue of principle and rest upon a steady basis of religion? I should like to ask those artists in murder, meaning no offence to any gentleman present who may have been out in a duel, to tell me this, why one who has run so many risks at his sword’s point should be turned into a coward at the whizz of a cannon ball?”

“There is not much puzzle in it as it seems to me,” answered Rooke; “every man that is worth calling such has so much courage, see you, but there are different kinds. As Mr. Carlton well called it, there is land mettle, and that good swordsman was not afraid 22 when his feet were on the solid ground, then there is sea mettle, and faith he had not much of that, a trifle too little, I grant you, for a gentleman. So it is in measure with us all I never saw the horse I would not mount or the wall within reason I would not take, but I cannot put my foot in a little boat and feel it rising on the sea without a tremble at the heart. That is how I read the riddle.”

“What I hold,” burst in Collier, “is that everything depends on a man’s blood. If it be pure and he has come of a good stock, he cannot play the coward any more than a lion can stalk like a fox. Land or sea, whatever tremble be at the heart he faces his danger as a gentleman should, though there be certain kinds of danger, as has been said, which are worse for some men than others. But I take it your gentleman volunteer, though he might be a good player with the sword, was, if you knew it, a mongrel.”

“If you mean by mongrel humbly born,” broke in Venner, “saving your presence, you are talking nonsense, and I will prove it to you from days that are not long passed. When it came to fighting in the days of our fathers, I say not that the lads who followed Rupert were not gallant gentlemen and hardy blades, but unless my poor memory has been 23 carried off by that infernal whirlwind, I think Old Noll’s Ironsides held their own pretty well. And who were they but blacksmiths and farmer men, from Essex and the Eastern counties. There does not seem to me much difference between the man from the castle and the man behind the plough when their blood is up and they have a sword in their hands.”

“I am under obligation to you all for discussing my humble question, but I see that we have two Scots gentlemen with us, and I would crave their opinion. For all men know that the Scots soldier has gone everywhere sword in hand, and whether he was in the body-guard of the King of France, or doing his duty for the Lion of the North, has never turned his back to the foe. And I am the more moved to ask an answer for the settlement of my mind, because as I have ever understood, the Scots more than our people are accustomed to go into the reason of things, and to argue about principles. It is not always that the strong sword-arm goes with a clear head, and I am waiting to hear what two gallant Scots soldiers will say.” And the Englishman paid his tribute of courtesy first across the fire to Claverhouse, who responded gracefully with a pleasant smile that 24 showed his white, even teeth beneath his slight mustache, and then to MacKay, who leaned forward and bowed stiffly.

“We are vastly indebted to Mr. Carlton for his good opinion of our nation,” said Claverhouse, after a slight pause to see whether MacKay would not answer, and in gentle, almost caressing tones, “but I fear me his charity flatters us. Certainly no man can deny that Scotland is ever ringing with debate. But much of it had better been left unsaid, and most of it is carried on by ignorant brawlers, who should be left ploughing fields and herding sheep instead of meddling with matters too high for them. At least such is my humble mind, but I am only a gentleman private of the Prince’s guard, and there is opposite me a commissioned officer of his army. It is becoming that Captain Hugh MacKay, who many will say has a better right to speak for Scotland than a member of my house, and who has just been getting counsel from the highest, as I take it, should give his judgment on this curious point of bravery or cowardice.”

Although Graham’s manner was perfectly civil and his accents almost silken, Venner glanced keenly from one Scot to the other, and everyone felt that the atmosphere had 25 grown more intense, and that there was latent antipathy between the two men. And even Rooke, a blunt and matter-of-fact Englishman, who having said his say, had been smoking diligently, turned round to listen to MacKay, who had never said a word through all the talk of the evening.

“Mr. Carlton and gentlemen volunteers,” MacKay began, with grave formality, “I had not intended to break in upon your conversation, which I found very instructive, but as Claverhouse” (and it was characteristic of his nation that MacKay should call Graham by the name of his estate) “has asked me straightly to speak, I would first apologize for my presence in this company. I do not belong, as ye know, to the King’s guard, and it is true that I have a captain’s commission. As the tempest of to-day had thrown all things into confusion, and it happened that I had nowhere to sit, Mr. Venner was so kind as to ask me to take my place by this fire for the night, and I am pleased to find myself among so many goodly young gentlemen. I make no doubt,” he added, “that everyone will so acquit himself as very soon to receive his commission.”

“The sooner the better,” said Hales, “and as I have a flask of decent Burgundy here, I 26 will pass it round that we may drink to our luck from a loving cup.” And everyone took his draught except MacKay, who only held the cup to his lips and inclined his head, being a severe and temperate man in everything.

“Concerning the duel and the action of that gentleman,” continued MacKay, “my mind may not be that of the present honorable company. It has ever seemed to me that a man has no right to risk his own life or take that of his neighbor save in the cause of just war, when he doubtless is absolved. For two sinful mortals to settle their poor quarrels by striking each other dead is nothing else than black murder. There is no difficulty to my judgment in understanding the character of that duellist. When he knew that through skill in fencing he could kill the other man and escape himself, he was always ready to fight; when he found that danger had shifted to his own side, he was quick to flee. My verdict on him,” and MacKay’s voice was vibrant, “is that he was nothing other than a butcher and a coward.”

“As the Lord liveth,” cried Venner, “I hear my sainted father laying down the law, and I do Captain MacKay filial reverence. May I inquire whether Scotland is raising many such noble Puritans, for they are 27 quickly dying out in England. Such savory and godly conversation have I not heard for years, and it warms my heart.”

“The sooner the knaves die out in England the better,” cried Collier; “but I mean no offence to Venner, who is no more a Puritan than I am, though he has learned their talk, and none at all to Captain MacKay, whom I salute, and of whose good services when he was fighting on the other side we have all heard. Nor can I, indeed, believe that he is a Roundhead, for I was always given to understand that Highland gentlemen were always Cavaliers, and high-spirited soldiers.”

“Ye be wrong then, good comrades,” broke in Claverhouse, “for all Highlanders be not of the same way of thinking, though I grant you most of them are what ye judge. But have you never heard of the godly Marquis of Argyle, who took such care of himself on the field of battle, but afterwards happened to lose his head through a little accident, and his swarm of Campbells, besides some other clans that I will not mention? My kinsman of immortal memory, whom I maintain to be the finest gentleman and most skilful general Scotland has yet reared, could have told you that there were Highland Roundheads; he knew them, and they knew him, and I hope I 28 need not be telling this company what happened when they met.” As Graham spoke, it may have been the firelight on MacKay’s face, but it seemed to flush and his expression to harden. However, he said no word and made no sign, and Claverhouse, whose voice was as smooth as ever, but whose eyes were flashing fire, continued: “If there should be trouble soon in Scotland, and my advice from home tells me that the fanatics in the West will soon be coming to a head and taking to the field, we shall know that some of the clans are loyal and some of them are not. And for my own part, I care not how soon we come to our duel in Scotland. Please God, I would dearly love to have the settling of the matter. With a few thousand Camerons, Macphersons, MacDonalds, and such like, I will guarantee that I could teach the Psalm-singing canters a lesson they would never forget. But I crave pardon for touching on our national differences, when we had better be employed in cracking another flask of that good Burgundy.” And Graham, as if ashamed of his heat, stretched his arms above his head.

“May God in His mercy avert so great a calamity,” said MacKay after a pause. “When brother turns against brother in the same nation it is the cruellest of all wars. But 29 the rulers of Scotland may make themselves sure that if they drive God-fearing people mad, they will rise against their oppressors. Mr. Graham, however, has wisdom on his side––I wish it had come a minute sooner––when he said there was no place for our Scots quarrels in the Prince’s army. Wherefore I say no more on that matter, but I pray we all may have the desire of a soldier’s heart, a righteous cause, a fair battle, and a crowning victory, and that we all in the hour of peril may do our part as Christian gentlemen.”

“Amen to that, Captain MacKay of Scourie, three times Amen!” cried Graham. “I drink it in this wine, and pledge you all to brave deeds when a chance comes our way. The sooner the better and the gladder I shall be, for our race have never been more content than when the swords were clashing. I wish to heaven we were serving under a more high-spirited commander; I deny not his courage, else I would not be among his guard, nor his skill, but I confess that I do not love a man whose blood runs so slow, and whose words drop like icicles. But these be hasty words, and should not be spoken except among honorable comrades when the wine is going round by the camp-fire. And here is Jock Grimond who, because he taught me to 30 catch a trout and shoot the muir-fowl when I was a little lad, thinks he ought to rule me all my days, and has been telling me for the last ten minutes that he has prepared some kind of bed with the remains of my tent. So good night and sound sleep, gentlemen, and may to-morrow bring the day for which we pray.”

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CHAPTER II

THE BATTLE OF SINEFFE

It was early in the morning on the first day of August, and darkness was still heavy upon the camp, when Grimond stooped over his master and had to shake him vigorously before Claverhouse woke.

“It’s time you were up, Maister John; the Prince’s guards are gatherin’, and sune will be fallin’ in; that’s their trumpets soundin’. Ye will need a bite before ye start, and here’s a small breakfast, pairt of which I saved oot o’ that stramash yesterday––sall! the blast threatened to leave neither meat nor lodgin’, and pairt I happened to light upon this mornin’ when I was takin’ a bit walk through the camp with my lantern.”

Grimond spread out a fairly generous breakfast of half a fowl, a piece of ham, some excellent cheese, with good white bread and a bottle of wine, and held the lantern that his master might eat with some comfort, if it had to be with more haste.

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“Do you ken, Jock, where I was when you wakened me, and flashed the light upon my face? Away in bonnie Glen Ogilvie, where everything is at its best to-day. I dreamed that I was off to Sidlaw Hill, to see what was doing with the muir-fowl, and I felt the good Scots air blowing upon my face. This is a black wakening, Jock, but I’ve slept worse, and you have done well for breakfast. Ye never came honestly by it, man. Have ye been raiding?”

“Providence guided me, Maister John, and I micht have given a little assistance mysel’. As I was crossing thro’ a corner of the Dutch camp, I caught a glimpse of this roast chuckie, with some other bits o’ things, and it cam into my mind that that was somebody’s breakfast. Whether he had taken all he wanted or whether he was going to be too late was-na my business, but the Lord delivered that fowl into my hands, and I considered it a temptin’ o’ Providence no to tak it, to say nothin’ o’ the white bread. The wine and the ham I savit frae yesterday.”

“You auld thief, I might have guessed where you picked up the breakfast. I only hope ’twas a heavy-built Dutchman who could starve for a week without suffering, and not a lean, hungry Scot who needed some breakfast 33 to put strength in him for a day’s fighting, if God be good enough to send it. Isn’t it a regiment of the Scots brigade which is lying next to us, Jock?”

“It is,” replied that worthy servitor, “and I was hopin’ that it was Captain MacKay’s rations which were given into my hands, so to say, by the higher power. I was standing behind you, Maister John, last nicht when you and him was argling-bargling, and if ever I saw a cunning twa-faced Covenanter, it’s that man. They say he has got a good word with the Prince through his Dutch wife, and where ye give that kind of man an inch, he will take an ell. It’s no for me to give advice, me bein’ in my place and you in yours. But I promised your honorable mither that I wouldna see you come to mischief if I could help it, and I am sair mistaken if yon man will no be a mercilous and persistent enemy. May the Almichty forbid it, but if MacKay of Scourie can hinder it there will be little advancement for Graham of Claverhouse in this army.”

“You are a dour and suspicious devil, Jock, and you’ve always been the same ever since I remember you. Captain MacKay is a whig and a Presbyterian, but he is a good soldier, and I wish I had been more civil to 34 him last night. We are here to fight for the Prince of Orange and to beat the French, and let the best man win; it will be time enough to quarrel when we get back to Scotland. Kindly Scots should bury their differences, and stand shoulder to shoulder in a foreign land.”

“That is bonnie talk, laird, but dinna forget there’s been twa kinds of Scot in the land since the Reformation, and there will be twa to the end of the chapter, and they’ll never agree till the day of judgment, and then they’ll be on opposite sides. There was Queen Mary and there was John Knox, there was that false-hearted loon Argyle, that ye gave a grand nip at the fire last nicht, and there was the head o’ your hoose, the gallant Marquis––peace to his soul. Now there’s the Carnegies and the Gordons and the rest o’ the royal families in the Northeast, and the sour-blooded Covenanters down in the West, and it’s no in the nature o’ things that they should agree any more than oil and water. As for me, the very face of a Presbyterian whig makes me sick. But there’s the trumpet again,” and Grimond helped his master to put on his arms.

“I’ve been awfu favored this mornin’, Maister John, for what div ye think? I’ve 35 secured nae less than a baggage waggon for oorsels. The driver was stravagin’ aboot in the dark and didna know where he was going, so I asked him if he wasna coming for the baggage of the English gentlemen, to say naething of a Scots gentleman. When he was trying to understand me, and I was trying to put some sense into him, up comes Mr. Carlton, and I explained the situation to him. He told the driver in his own language that I would guide him to the spot, and me and the other men are packing the whole of the gentlemen’s luggage and ane or twa comforts in the shape of meat and bedding which the fools round about us didna seem to notice, or were going to leave. That waggon, Mr. John, is a crownin’ mercy, and I’m to sit beside the driver, and it will no be my blame if there’s no a tent and a supper wherever Providence sends us this nicht.” And Jock went off in great feather to look after his acquisition, while his master joined his comrades of the Prince’s guard.

As the day rapidly breaks, they find themselves passing from the level into a broken country. The ground is rising, and in the distance they can see defiles through which the army must make its way. The vanguard, as they learn from one of the Prince’s aides-de-camp, 36 is composed of the Imperial corps commanded by Count Souches, and must by this time be passing through the narrows. In front are the Dutch troops, who are under the immediate command of the Commander-in-Chief, the Prince of Orange. The English volunteers being the next to the Prince’s regiment of Guards, followed close upon the main body of the army, and behind them trailed the long, cumbrous baggage train. The rear-guard, together with some details of various kinds and nations, consisted of the Spanish division, which was commanded by Prince Vaudemont. As they came to higher ground Claverhouse began to see the lie of the country, and to express his fears to Carlton.

“I don’t know how you judge things,” said Claverhouse, “but I would not be quite at my ease if I were his Highness of Orange, in command of the army, and with more than one nation’s interest at stake, instead of a poor devil of a volunteer, with little pay, less reputation, and no responsibility. If we were marching across a plain and could see twenty miles round, or if there were no enemy within striking reach, well, then this were a pleasant march from Neville to Binch, for that is where I’m told we are going. But, faith, I don’t like the sight of this country in which 37 we are being entangled. If Condé has any head, and he is not a fool, he could arrange a fine ambuscade, and catch those mighty and vain-glorious Imperialists and that fool Souches like rats in a trap. Or he might make a sudden attack on the flank and cut our army into two, as you divide a caterpillar crawling along the ground.”

“The General knows what he is about, no doubt,” replies Carlton with true English phlegm; “he has made his plan, and I suppose the cavalry have been scouting. It’s their business who have got the command to arrange the march and the attack, and ours to do the fighting. It will be soon enough for us to arrange the tactics when we get to be generals. What say you to that, Mr. Graham? There’s no sign of the enemy at any rate, and Souches must be well in through the valley.”

“No,” said Graham, “there are no Frenchmen to be seen, but they may be there behind the hill on our right, and quick enough to show themselves when the time comes. Oh! I like this bit of country, for it minds me of the Braes of Angus, and I hate a land where all is flat and smooth. By heaven! what a chance there is for any commander who knows how to use a hill country. See ye here, comrade, suppose this was Scotland, and this 38 were an army of black Whigs, making their way to do some evil work after their heart’s desire against their King and Church, and I had the dealing with them. All I would ask would be a couple of Highland clans and a regiment of loyal gentlemen, well-mounted and armed. I would wait concealed behind yon wood up there near the sky-line till those Imperialists were fairly up the glen and out of sight and the Dutch were plodding their way in. Then I’d launch the Highlanders, sword in hand, down the slope of that hill, and cut off the rear-guard, and take the baggage at a swoop, and in half an hour the army would be disabled and the third part of it put out of action.”

“What about the Imperial troops and the Dutch, my General?” said Carlton, much interested in Claverhouse’s plan of battle. “You can’t take an army in detachments just as you please.”

“You can with Highlanders and cavalry, and then having struck your blow retire as quickly as you came. Faith, there would be no option about the retiring with your Highlanders; when they got hold of the baggage they would do nothing more. After every man had lifted as much as he could carry, he would make for the hills and leave the other 39 troops to do as they pleased. An army of Highlanders is quickly gathered and quickly dispersed, and the great point of attraction is the baggage. Condé has no Highlanders, the worse for him and the better for us, but he has plenty of light troops––infantry as well as cavalry––and if he doesn’t take this chance he ought to be discharged with disgrace. But see there, what make you of that, Carlton?”

“What and where?” said Carlton, looking in the direction Claverhouse pointed. “I see the brushwood, and it may be that there are troops behind, but my eyes cannot detect them.”

“Watch a moment that place where the leaves are darker and thicker, and that tree stands out; you can catch a glitter, just an instant, and then it disappears. What do you say to that?”

“By the Lord!” cried Carlton, who was standing in his stirrups and shading his eyes with his hand, “it’s the glitter of a breastplate. There’s one trooper at any rate in that wood, and if there is one there may be hundreds. What think you?”

“What I’ve been expecting for hours. Those are the videttes of the French army, and they have been watching us all the time our vanguard was passing. I’ll stake a year’s 40 rental of the lands of Claverhouse that if we could see on the other side of that hill we would find Condé’s troops making ready for an attack.”

“I will not say but that you are right, and I don’t like the situation nor feel as comfortable as I did half an hour ago. Do you think that the general in command knows of this danger, or has heard that the French outposts are so near?”

“If you ask me, Mr. Carlton, I would say that those Dutch officers don’t know that there is a Frenchman within ten miles; they are good at drill, and steady in battle, but their minds are as heavy as their bodies. Their idea of fighting is to deploy according to a book of drill on a parade ground; you cannot expect men who live on the flat to understand hills. That wood,” and Claverhouse was looking at the hill intently, “is simply full of men and horses, and within an hour, and perhaps less, you will see a pretty attack. Aren’t we at their mercy?” Claverhouse pointed forward to the crest of a little hill over which the Dutch brigade were passing in marching formation, and backward to the lumbering train of baggage-wagons.

“‘Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad,’ is a Latin proverb I picked up 41 at St. Andrew’s University, and one of the few scraps of knowledge I carried away from the good old place. They might at least have thrown out some of our cavalry on the right to draw fire from that wood, and enable us to find their position. It’s not overly pleasant to jog quietly along as if one were riding up the Carse of Gowrie to Perth fair, when it’s far more likely we are riding into the shambles like a herd of fat bullocks going to Davie Saunders, the Dundee butcher.”

“See you here, friend,” cried Carlton, “I am not in a mind to be taken at a disadvantage and ridden down by those Frenchmen when we are not in formation. They have us at a disadvantage in any case, but, by my life, we ought at any rate to deploy to the right, and seize that higher ground, or else they will send us into that marshland that I see forward there on the left. If they do, there will be some throats cut, and it might be yours or mine. What say you, Mr. Graham, to ride forward and tell one of the officers in attendance on his Highness what we have seen, and then let them do as they please?”

“I have nothing to say against that, but I know one man who will not go, and that is John Graham of Claverhouse. It may be vain pride, or it may not, but I will not 42 have the shame of telling my tale to one of those Dutchmen as if you were speaking to a painted monument, and then have him order you back to your place as if you were a mutineer; my hand would be itching for the sword-handle before all was done, and so I’ll just be doing. But I will be ready when the cloud breaks from yon hill, and it’s not far off the bursting now.” And Graham pointed out that the glitter was repeated at several points, as when the sun is reflected from broken dishes on a hillside.

“You Scots are a proud race,” laughed Carlton, “and quick to take offence. We English have a temper, too, but we are nearer to those Dutchmen in our nature. I’ll not see the army ambuscaded without a warning. If they take it we shall make a better fight, and for the first hour it will be bad enough anyway till the vanguard are brought back, and if they won’t take it, why, we have done our duty, and we will have to look after ourselves.” And Carlton spurred his horse and cantered forward to where the headquarters staff were riding with the troop which was called the Scots brigade, because it was largely officered and to some extent manned by Scotsmen, and in which MacKay had a captain’s commission.

43

In some fifteen minutes Carlton rejoined Claverhouse red and annoyed, and on the sight of him Claverhouse laughed.

“Without offence, good comrade, I take it you have not been thanked for your trouble or been promised promotion. Sworn at, I dare say, if those godly Dutchmen are allowed to rap out an oath. At any rate you have been told to attend to your own work and leave our wise generals to manage theirs, eh?”

“You are right, Graham. I wish I had bitten off my tongue rather than reported the matter. I got hold of an aide-de-camp, and I pointed out what we had seen, and he spoke to me as if I was a boy with my heart in my mouth for fear I would be shot every minute. For a set of pig-headed fools–––”

“Well, it would not have mattered much, for the news, as it happened, would have come too late. See, the attack has begun; whatever be the issue of the battle before night, it will be one way or another with us within an hour.” As he spoke Claverhouse began to put himself in order, seeing that his pistols were ready in the holsters, his sword loose in the scabbard, and the girths of his saddle tight.

“It will be a sharp piece of work for us, and some good sword play before it is done.”

44

Suddenly from the wood a line of cavalry emerged, followed by another and still another, till at least three regiments were on the side of the hill, and behind them it was evident there was a large body of troops. By this time the staff had taken alarm, and an officer had galloped up with orders that the English volunteers and Dutch cavalry should deploy to the right, and orders were also sent to the Spaniards in the rear to advance rapidly and cover the baggage. The Dutch troops in front who had entered the defile were arrested, and began to march back, and an urgent message was sent to the Imperialists to follow the Dutch in case the French should make a general attack. Before the Dutch troops had returned to the open, and long before the Imperialists could be in action, the French, crossing the hill with immense rapidity and covered by a screen of cavalry, attacked the Spanish rear-guard before it was able to take up a proper form of defence, and though the Spaniards fought with their accustomed courage, and no blame could be attached to the dispositions made in haste by Vaudemont, this division of the army was absolutely routed, and one distinguished Spanish general, the Marquis of Assentar, was killed when cheering his men to the defence. The defeat of the 45 Spaniards left the baggage train unprotected, and the French troops fell upon it with great zest: indeed, Claverhouse that night declared that the Highlanders themselves could not have raided more heartily or more swiftly. Nor did the Spaniards, when once they had been beaten and scattered, and fighting was no longer of any use, disdain to help themselves to the plunder. Grimond was furious as he saw his wagon in danger, and endeavored to rally some odds and ends of flying Spaniards and terrified wagon-drivers to defend his cherished possessions. But he was left to do so himself, and after beating off the two first Frenchmen who came to investigate, and being wounded in a general fight with the next lot, he was obliged to leave the possessions of the English volunteers to their fate and set off to discover how it fared with his master.

The Battle of Sineffe was to last all day, and before evening the two armies would be generally engaged; eighteen thousand men were to fall on both sides, and there were to be many hot encounters, but the sharpest took place at the centre and early in the day. The cavalry with the English volunteers were thrown forward to hinder the advance of the French cavalry who, while their infantry 46 were dealing with the Spanish corps, were being hurled at the centre in order to cut the army in two and confine the Dutch troops to the defile, or if they emerged from the defiles, to crush them before they could deploy on the broken country.

“Where do you take it is the point of conflict?” asked Carlton as the regiment of the guards with which they were serving went forward at a sharp trot across the level ground, on which the French cavalry should soon be appearing. “Where is his Highness himself, for I can get no sight of the rest of the Dutch cavalry?”

“To the left, I take it, where the fight has already begun. Do you not hear the firing? and I seem to catch some shouts, as if the Dutch and the French were already meeting. Mind you, Carlton, his Highness may have been too confident and laid the army open to attack, but he can tell where the heart of the situation is, and his business will be to resist the French onslaught till the infantry are in position. Just as I thought, we are to go to his aid, and in ten minutes, or my name is not Graham, we shall have as much as we want.”

In less than that space of time the regiment, now galloping, found themselves in the 47 immediate rear of the fighting line, and opened out and prepared to advance. In front of them three regiments of Dutch cavalry were being beaten back by a French brigade, and just when the English volunteers arrived the French received a large accession of strength, and the Dutch, broken and ridden down by weight of men and horses, were driven back. It was in vain that their colonel ordered his men to charge, for in fifty yards the mass of Dutch cavalry in front were thrown upon them and broke their line. It was now a man to man and hand to hand conflict for a few minutes, and Claverhouse, when he had disentangled himself from the hurly-burly, and forced his way through the mass, was in immediate conflict with a French officer in front of their line, whom he disarmed by a clever sword trick which he had learned from a master of arms in the French service. A French soldier missed Claverhouse’s head by a hair’s-breadth, while he, swerving, struck down another on his right. Carlton had disappeared, Hales had been wounded, but in the end escaped with his life. Collier and Claverhouse were now in the open space behind the first line of the French cavalry, and they could see more than one Dutch officer and 48 some of the Dutch troopers also in the same dangerous position. Graham was considering what to do when he caught sight, a short distance off on the left, of a figure he seemed to know: it was an officer riding slowly along the line as if in command, and taking no heed of the many incidents happening round him.

“Collier,” cried Graham, “see you who that is among the French soldiers alone and at their mercy? As I am a living man it is the Prince himself. Good God! how did he get there, and what is he going to do?”

While Graham was speaking the Prince of Orange, who was now quite close to him, but gave no sign that he recognized him, suddenly threw out an order in French to the regiment behind which he was riding, and which was hewing its way through a mass of Dutch. He called on them to halt and reform, and their officers supposing him to be one of their generals who had arrived from headquarters, set to work to extricate their men from the mêlée. The Prince passed with the utmost coolness through their line as if to see what was doing in front, while Claverhouse and Collier followed him as if they were attached. As soon as he had got to the open space in front, for what remained of the Dutch were in rapid retreat, and were scattering in all directions, 49 he put spurs to his horse, and shouting to Claverhouse and Collier to follow rapidly, for his trick had already been detected, he galloped forward to the place where the crowd of fugitives was thinnest, that he might as soon as possible rejoin his staff and resume command when above all times a general was needed. A French officer, however, had recognized him as he passed through the line, and now with some dozen soldiers was pursuing at full speed. The Prince’s horse had been wounded in two places and was also blown with exertion, and passing over some marshy ground had not strength to clear it, but plunged helplessly in the soft soil. In two minutes, the French would have been upon them and made the greatest capture of the war. Claverhouse, leaping off his horse, asked the Prince to mount, who, instantly and without more than a nod, sprang into the saddle and escaped when the Frenchmen were within a few yards. Claverhouse fired at the French officer and missed him, but brought down his horse, which did just as well, and Collier sent his sword through the shoulder of the French soldier who followed next. Claverhouse, seizing this minute of delay, ran with all his might for a hedge, over which dismounted stragglers were climbing in hot 50 haste, and made for the nearest gap. It was blocked by a tall and heavily-built Dutch dragoon, who could neither get through nor back, and was swearing fearfully.

Claverhouse fired at the French officer and missed him, but brought down his horse. Page 49.

“It’s maist awfu’ to see a Christian man misusing the Lord’s mercies like that,” and at the sound of that familiar voice Claverhouse turned to find Grimond by his side, who had been out in the hope of finding his master, and had certainly come to his aid at the right time.

“Would onybody but a blunderin’ fool of a Dutchman think of blockin’ a passage when the troops are in retreat? If we canna get through him, we had better get ower him. I’ve helped ye across a dyke afore, Maister John, and there ye go.” Claverhouse, jumping on Grimond, who made a back for him, went over the Dutchman’s shoulders. Then he seized the Dutchman by his arm, while Grimond acted as a battering-ram behind: so they pulled what remained of him, like a cork out of the mouth of a bottle, and Grimond followed his master. Collier, who had been covering the retreat, left his horse to its fate, and ran by the same convenient gap.

“To think o’ the perversity o’ that Dutchman obstructin’ a right o’ way, especially on sich a busy day, wi’ his muckle unmannerly 51 carcase, as if he had been a Highland cattle beast. Dod! he would make a grand Covenanter for the cursed thrawnness o’ him.”

That night when the English volunteers, who had all escaped with some slight wounds and the loss of their baggage, were going over the day’s work, an officer attached to the Prince asked if a Scots gentleman called Mr. Graham was present. When Claverhouse rose and saluted him, the officer said, with the curt brevity of his kind, “His Highness desires your presence,” and immediately turned and strode off in the direction of the headquarters, while Claverhouse, shrugging his shoulders, followed him in his usual leisurely fashion. On arriving at the farm-house where the Prince had gone after the French had retired, Graham was immediately shown into his room. The Prince, rising and returning Claverhouse’s respectful salutation, gave him one long, searching glance, and then said: “You did me a great service to-day, and saved my person from capture, perhaps my life from death. I do not forget any man who has done me good, and who is loyal to me. What you desire at my hands I do not know, and what it would be best to do for you I do not yet know. If you determine after some experience to remain in my service, and if 52 you show yourself the good soldier I take you to be, you will not miss promotion. That is all I will say to-night, for I know not where your ambitions may lie.” The Prince looked coldly at Graham’s love-locks and Cavalier air. “Your cause may not be my cause. I bid you good-evening, Mr. Graham. We shall meet again.”

53

CHAPTER III

A DECISIVE BLOW

“You have the devil’s luck, Graham,” said Rooke, who had taken a meal fit for two men, and now had settled down to smoke and drink for the evening. “To get the best place in the attack to-day on the town, and to escape with nothing more than a cat scratch, which will not hurt your beauty, is more than any ordinary man can expect. There will be some hot work before Grave is taken, and plenty of good men will get their marching orders,” for the Prince and his troops were now besieging Grave keenly, and the English volunteers were messing together after an assault which had captured some of the outworks.

“I would lay you what you like, Rooke,” drawled Venner, “if I were not a Puritan, and didn’t disapprove of drinking and gambling and other works of Satan, that Chamilly will come to terms within fourteen days. He has no stomach for those mortars that are playing on the place, and he knows that 54 Orange, having got his teeth in, will never take them out. Another assault like to-day will settle the matter. Graham here used to say that his Highness was an icicle, but I judge him a good fighting man. You will get as much as you want if you follow the Prince. Ballantine that’s gone to-day always said that there was no soldier in Europe he would put before the Prince. Speaking about that, who, think you, will get the place of lieutenant-colonel in the Scots Brigade in succession to Sir William?”

“Don’t know, and don’t care,” said Collier, stretching himself and yawning. “It will go to some officer of the Scots Brigade, and though I am a born Scot, nobody remembers that, and I pass for an Englishman. And to tell the truth, I’m happier with you volunteers than among those canny Scots; they are as jealous and as bigoted as a Roundhead Conventicle, and I don’t envy the man who gets promotion among them. But it doesn’t concern any of us.”

“There I differ with you, comrade,” broke in Carlton. “You seem to have forgotten that one of our good company is not only a Scot, but has done the Prince priceless service. I make little doubt that we shall hear news in twenty-four hours. We are proud to 55 have Mr. Graham with us, for he is a good comrade and a good soldier, but I expect to-morrow to drink a flask of wine to his commission as lieutenant-colonel. What say you to my idea?”

“If promotion went by merit, I’m with you, Carlton; but, faith, it goes by everything else, and specially back-door influence. A man gets his step, not because he is a good soldier, but because he has got a friend at court, or he is the same religion as the general, or I have heard cases where it went by gold.”

“That such things are done, Rooke, I will not deny, but they say that promotion goes fairly where his Highness commands; he has an eye for a good soldier, and you have forgotten that he would not be in his place to-day had it not been for our comrade’s help.”

“I remember that quite well, and I wish to God other people may remember, for Graham ran a pretty good chance of closing his life that day and never seeing Scotland again, but Princes have short memories. If Charles II. of sainted character had called to his mind that my grandfather, more fool he, melted all his plate and lost all his land, to say nothing of three or four sons, for the Stuart cause, I would not be a gentleman volunteer in this 56 army without a spare gold piece in my pocket. Kings bless you at the time with many pretty words, and then don’t know your face next time you meet; but I wish you good luck, Graham, and I drink your health. What think you yourself?”

“What I ought to think, gentlemen, is that I am much honored to have your good opinion and your friendly wishes.” And Graham gathered them all with a smile that gave his delicate and comely features a rare fascination. “You are true comrades as well as brave gentlemen. I will not deny, though I would only say it among my friends, that I have thought of that vacancy, and have wondered whether the appointment would come my way. I received, indeed, a private word to apply for it this evening, but that I will not do. The Prince knows what I have done, though I do not make so much of saving his life as you may think. If he is pleased to give me this advance, well, gentlemen, I hope I shall not bring disgrace upon the Scots Brigade. But let us change the subject. We be a barbarous people in the North, but after all a gentleman does not love to talk about his own doings, still less of his own glory. To bed, my comrades, we may have heavy work to-morrow.”

57

The Prince gave his troops a day’s rest, and left the artillery to do their work, and Claverhouse was reading for the sixth time some letters of his mother’s, when Grimond came in with the air of a man full of news, but determined not to tell them until he was questioned, and even then to give what he had grudgingly and by way of favor.

“What news, did ye say, Mr. John? Weel, if ye mean from Scotland, ye have the last yersel’ in the letters of your honorable mither. What I am hearing from some Scot that cam oot o’ the west country is that if the council does na maister the Covenanters, the dear carles will maister them, and then Scotland will be a gey ill place to live in. It will be a fine sicht when you and me, Claverhouse, has to sign the Solemn League and Covenant, and hear Sandy Peden, that they call a prophet, preachin’ three hours on the sins o’ prelacy and dancin’. My certes!” And at the thought thereof Grimond lost the power of speech.

“Never mind Scotland, Jock, just now; the auld country will take care of herself till we go home, and then we’ll give such assistance as in the power of a good sword. Who knows, man, but we’ll be riding through the muirs of Ayrshire after something bigger 58 than muir-fowl before many years are over? But the camp, man, what’s going on here this morning, and what are the folk talking about, for, as ye know, I’ve been on the broad of my back after yesterday’s work?”

“If ye mean by news, laird, what wasna expected, and that, I’m judging, is a correct definition o’ news, there’s naethin’ worth mentionin’. A dozen more Scots have come to get their livin’ or their death, as Providence wills, in a foreign army, instead of working their bit o’ land on a brae-side in bonnie Scotland. But that’s no news, for it has been goin’ on for centuries, and I’m expectin’ will last as long as thae foreign bodies need buirdly men and Scotland has a cold climate.

“They are saying, I may mention, that Chamilly is getting sick o’ these mortars, and didna particularly like the attack yesterday, and the story is going about that he will soon ask for terms, and that if he gets the honors of war the Prince may have the town. It will be another feather in his cap, and, to my thinkin’, he has got ower many for his deservin’––an underhand and evil-hearted loon.” And Grimond spoke with such vehemence and a keen dislike that Claverhouse suspected he had heard something more important than he had told.

59

“‘Is that all?’ ye ask, Claverhouse, and I reply no; but I wish to gudeness that it was. If news be what has happened, even though some of us expected it, then I have got some, although I would rather that my tongue was blistered than tell it. It cam into my mind that the Prince micht be appointin’ the new colonel to the Scots Brigade this mornin’, and so I just happened to give a cry on an Angus man who is gettin’ his bit livin’ as a servant to one of the aides-de-camp. He is called a Dutchman, but has honest Scots blood in his veins. We havered about this and about that, and then I threipit (insisted) that he would never hear onything that was goin’ on, and, for example, that he wouldna know who was the new colonel. ‘Div I no?’ said Patrick Harris. ‘Maybe I do, but maybe I wouldna be anxious to tell ye, Jock Grimond, for ye michtna be pleased.’ ‘Pleased or no pleased,’ I said, ‘let me hear his name.’ ‘Well,’ he answered, ‘if ye maun have it, it’s no your maister that folk thought would get it.’ ‘Then,’ said I, ‘Patrick, I jalouse who it is; it’s MacKay of Scourie.’ ‘It is,’ said Patrick. ‘I heard it when I was standin’ close to the door, and I canna say that I’m pleased.’ Naither was I, ye may depend upon it, Claverhouse, but I wouldna give onybody 60 the satisfaction of knowing what I thocht. So I just contented mysel’ wi’ sayin’, ‘Damn them baith, the are for an ungrateful scoundrel, and the other for a plottin’, schemin’ hypocritical Presbyterian. I cam to tell ye, but no word would have passed my lips if ye hadna chanced to ask me.”

“Jock, you’ve been a faithful man to the house of Graham for many years,” said Claverhouse, after a silence of some minutes, during which Grimond busied himself polishing his master’s arms, “and I will say to you what I am not going to tell the camp, that you might have brought better news. Whether I was right or wrong, man, I had set my heart upon succeeding Ballantine, and I was imagining that maybe this very afternoon I could write home to my mother and tell her that her son was a lieutenant-colonel in the good Scots Brigade. But it’s all in the chances of war, and we must just take things as they come. Do ye know, Jock, I often think I was born like the Marquis, under an unlucky star, and that all my life things will go ill with me, and with my cause. I dinna think that I’ll ever see old age, and I doubt whether I’ll leave an heir to succeed me. I dreamed one nicht that the wraith of our house stood beside my bed and said, ‘Ye’ll be cursed in love and cursed 61 in war, and die a bloody death at the hand of traitors whom ye trusted.’”

“For God’s sake, Maister John, dinna speak like that.” And Grimond’s voice, hard man though he was, was nigh the breaking. “It’s no chancy, what ye say micht come to pass if ye believe it. Whatever the evil spirit said in the veesions o’ the nicht––oh! my laddie, for laddie ye have been to me since I learned ye to ride your pony and fire your first shot, ye mauna give heed or meddle wi’ Providence. Ye have been awfu’ favored wi’ the bonniest face ever I saw on a man, so that there’s no a lass looks on ye but she loves ye, and the hardiest body ever I kenned. Ye have the best blood of Scotland in your veins, and I never saw ye fearful o’ onything; ye have covered yersel’ wi’ glory in this war, and I prophesy there will be a great place waiting you in the North country. There’s no a noble lady in Scotland that wouldna be willing to marry you, and I’m expectin’ afore I die to see you famous as the great Marquis himsel’, wi’ sons and daughters standin’ round ye. I ken aboot the wraith o’ the house o’ Graham, a maleecious and lying jade. If she ever comes to ye again by nicht or day, bid her begone to the evil place in the name o’ the Lord wha redeemed us.”

62

“You’re a trusty friend, Grimond, for both my mother and myself count you more friend than servant, and you’ve spoken good words; but I take it this day’s happenings are an omen of what is coming. Maybe I am ower young to take black views o’ hidden days, but ye’ll mind afterwards, Jock Grimond, when ye wrap me in a bloody coat for burial, for there will be no shroud for me, that I said the shadow began to fall at the siege of Grave. But there’s no use complaining, man; our cup is mixed, and we must drink it, bitter or sweet. Aye, the Grahams are a doomed house, and we maun dree oor weird (suffer our destiny).”

“Weird,” broke out Grimond, with a revulsion from pathos to anger. “Ye speak as if it were the will o’ the Almichty, but I am thinkin’ the thing was worked from another quarter. Providence had very little hand in it, unless ye call Captain Hugh MacKay Providence, and in that case it’ll be true what some folks say, that the devil rules the world. From all I can gather, and I keep my ears open when you are concerned, laird, I am as sure as you are Laird of Claverhouse that Scourie, confoond his smooth face, has been plottin’ aginst ye ever since ye sat that nicht afore the Battle of Sineffe roond the 63 camp-fire. I saw how he looked, and I said to mysel’, ‘You’re up to some mischief.’ His party hangit the noble Marquis and plagued him wi’ their prayers on the scaffold, and it is as natural for a Covenanter to hate a Graham as to eat his breakfast. MacKay saw we were dangerous, and ye’ll be more dangerous yet, Claverhouse, to the black crew. He has been up the back stairs tellin’ lies aboot ye, and sayin’ that though many trust ye, for a’ that ye are an enemy to Presbytery. Ye’ll have your chance yet, laird, and avenge the murder o’ the Marquis, but there’ll be no place for ye here so long as MacKay is pourin’ the poison o’ asps, as auld David has it, into the Prince’s ear.”

“Na, na, Mr. John,” concluded Grimond when his master had remonstrated with him for speaking against the Prince and an officer of the army, and warned him to be careful of his tongue, “ye needna be feart that a word o’ this will be heard ootside. I mind the word in the Good Book, ‘Speak not against the King, lest a bird of the air carry the matter.’ There’s plenty o’ birds in this camp that would be glad enough to work us wrang. Gin onybody speaks to me aboot Captain MacKay being made a colonel, I’ll give him to understand that my master was offered the 64 post and declined to take it for special reasons o’ his own; maybe because ye wanted to stay wi’ the gentlemen volunteers, and maybe because there was a grand position waitin’ for ye in Scotland. Let me alone, laird, for makin’ the most o’ the situation: but dinna forget MacKay.”

Claverhouse was of another breed from Grimond, and had the chivalrous instincts of his house, but as the time wore on and Graham went with the Prince’s guards after the surrender of Grave to The Hague, where Colonel MacKay and the Scots Brigade were also stationed, the constant spray of insinuations of MacKay’s cunning and the Prince’s prejudice began to tell upon his mind. He was conscious of a growing dislike towards MacKay, beyond that coolness which must always exist between men of such different religious and political creeds. It was a tradition among the Scots Royalists from the days of Montrose that the Whig Highlanders, such as the Campbells, were cunning and treacherous, and then it was right to admit that MacKay might think himself justified in warning the Prince of Orange, who was surrounded by Presbyterians, and already coming under the masterful influence of Carstairs, the minister of the Presbyterian Church, and afterwards 65 William’s most trusted councillor, that Graham belonged to a thoroughgoing and dangerous Cavalier house, and that it would not be wise to show him too much favor. Although they were fellow-soldiers, and had met in camp life from time to time, they had never been anything more than distant acquaintances. Now it seemed to Claverhouse that MacKay looked at him more coldly than ever, and that he had caught a triumphant expression in his eye. MacKay was getting upon his nerves, and he had come to hate the sight of him. As a matter of fact, and as Claverhouse granted to himself afterwards, while MacKay was not his friend and could not be, he had never said a word against him to the Prince, and if he had used no influence for him, had never tried to hinder his promotion. The day was coming when Claverhouse would acknowledge that though MacKay was on the wrong side, he had conducted himself as became a man of blood and a brave soldier. In those days at The Hague, disappointed about promotion, and with evil news from Scotland, to say nothing of Grimond ever at his elbow goading and inflaming him through his very loyalty, Claverhouse allowed himself to fall into an unworthy and inflammatory temper. When one is in this morbid state of 66 mind, he may at any moment lose self-control, and it was unfortunate that, after a long tirade one morning from Grimond, who professed to have new evidence of MacKay’s underhand dealing, Claverhouse should have met his supposed enemy in the precincts of the Prince’s house. MacKay was going to wait upon the Prince, and was passing hurriedly with a formal salutation, when Claverhouse, who in this very haste found ground of offence, stood in the way.

“May I have the honor, if you be called not immediately to the Prince’s presence, to wish you good-morning, Colonel MacKay, and to say, for it is better to give to a man’s face what one is thinking behind his back, that, although I have not the satisfaction of speaking much with you, I hear you are busy enough speaking about me.”

“If we do not meet much, Claverhouse,” replied MacKay, with a look of surprise on his calm and composed face, “this is not my blame, and doubtless it may be counted my loss. It is only that our duties lie apart and we keep different company. I know not what you mean by your charge against me, which, I take it, comes to this, that I have said evil of you to some one, I know not whom, and in some place I know not where. 67 Is that why you have been avoiding me, and even looking at me as if I were your enemy? My time is short, but this misunderstanding between gentlemen can surely be quickly cleared. I pray you of your courtesy, explain yourself and give your evidence.”

“No doubt you have little time, and no doubt you will soon be busy with the same work. You were born of a good house, though it has taken an evil road in these days; you know the rules by which a man of blood should guide his life, and the things it were a shame for him to do, even to the man he may have to meet on the battle ground. Is it fitting, Scourie, to slander a fellow-officer to his commander, and so to pollute his fountain of influence that he shall not receive his just place? You have asked what I have against you; now I tell you, and I am ashamed to bring so foul an accusation against a Scots gentleman.”

“Is that the cause of your black looks and secret ill-will?” And MacKay was as cold as ever, and gave no sign that he had been stirred by this sudden attack. “In that case I can remove your suspicion, and prevent any breach between two Scots officers who may not be on the same side in their own country, but who serve the same Prince in this land. 68 Never have I once, save in some careless and passing reference, spoken about you with the Prince, and never have I, and I say it on the honor of a Highland gentleman, said one word against you as a man or as a soldier. You spoke of evidence. What is your evidence? Who has told you this thing, which is not true? Who has tried to set you on fire against me?”

“It is not necessary, Colonel MacKay, to produce any witness or to quote any saying of yours. The facts are known to all the army; they have seen how it has fared with you and with me. I will not say whether I had not some claim to succeed Ballantine as lieutenant-colonel in the Scots Brigade, and I will not argue whether you or I had done most for his Highness. I have not heard that you saved his life, or that he promised to show his gratitude. I will not touch further on that point, but how is it, I ask you, that since that day, though I had my share of fighting at the siege of Grave and elsewhere as ye know, there is no word of advance for me? If you can read this riddle to me and keep yourself out of it, why then I shall be willing to take your hand and count you, Presbyterian though you be, an honest man.”

“Why ask those questions of me, especially 69 as ye seem to doubt my word, Captain Graham?” And for the first time MacKay seemed stung by the insinuation of dishonorable conduct. “If you will pardon my advice, would it not be better that you go yourself to the Prince and ask him if any man has injured you with him, and how it is you have not received what you consider your just reward?”

“That is cheap counsel, Hugh MacKay, and mayhap you gave it because you knew it would not be taken. Never will I humble myself before that wooden image, never will I ask as a favor what should be given as my right. It were fine telling in Scotland that John Graham of Claverhouse was waiting like a beggar upon a Dutch Prince. I would rather that the liars and the plotters whom he makes his friends should have the will of me.”

MacKay’s face flushes for an instant to a fiery red, and then turns ghastly pale, and without a word he is going on his way, but Claverhouse will not let him.

“Will nothing rouse your blood and touch your honor? Must I do this also?” And lifting his cane he struck MacKay lightly upon the breast. “That, I take it, will give a reason for settling things between us. Mr. 70 Collier will, I make no doubt, receive any officer you are pleased to send within an hour, and I will give you the satisfaction one gentleman desires of another before the sun sets.”

“You have done me bitter wrong, Captain Graham.” And MacKay was trembling with passion, and putting the severest restraint upon his temper, which had now been fairly roused. “But I shall not do wrong against my own conscience. When I took up the honorable service of arms, I made a vow unto myself and sealed it in covenant with God that I would accept no challenge nor fight any duel. It is enough that the blood of our enemies be on our souls. I will not have the guilt of a fellow-officer’s death, or risk my own life in a private quarrel. I pray you let me pass.”

“It is your own life you are concerned about, Colonel MacKay,” answered Claverhouse, with an evil smile full of contempt, and in the quietest of accents, for he had resumed his characteristic composure, “your own precious life, which you desire to keep in safeguard.” Then, turning with a graceful gesture to some officers who had been passing and been arrested by the altercation, Claverhouse said with an air of careless languor: “May I have the strange privilege 71 never given me before, and perhaps never to be mine again, of introducing you, by his leave or without it, to a Scot whom no one can deny is by birth a gentleman, and whom no one can deny now is also a coward––Lieutenant-Colonel MacKay, of the Prince’s Scots Brigade.”

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CHAPTER IV

A CHANGE OF MASTERS

When his first fierce heat cooled, and Claverhouse had time for reflection, he was by no means so well satisfied with himself as he had imagined he would be in the foresight of such a scene. For one thing he had shown the soreness of his heart in not getting promotion, and had betrayed a watchful suspiciousness, which was hardly included in a chivalrous character. He had gone out of his way to insult a fellow-Scot, and a fellow-officer who had never pretended to be his friend, and who was in no way bound to advance his interest, because, to put it the worst, MacKay had secured his own promotion and not that of Claverhouse. As regards MacKay’s courage, it had been proved on many occasions, and to call him a coward was only a childish offence, as if one flung mud upon a passer-by. When Claverhouse reviewed his conduct, and no man was more candid in self-judgment, he confessed to himself that 73 he had played an undignified part, and was bitterly chagrined. The encounter, of course, buzzed through the camp, and every man gave his judgment, many justifying Captain Graham, and declaring that he had shown himself a man of mettle––they were the younger and cruder minds––many censuring him for his insolent ambition and speaking of him as a brawling bravo––they were some of the staid and stronger minds. His friends, he noticed, avoided the subject and left him to open it if he pleased, but he gathered beforehand that he would not receive much sympathy from that figure of common-sense Carlton, nor that matter-of-fact soldier Rooke, and that the ex-Puritan Venner would only make the incident a subject of satirical moralizing. With another disposition than that which Providence had been pleased to give John Graham, the condemnation of his better judgment, confirmed by the judgment of sound men, would have led him to the manly step of an apology which would have been humiliating to his pride, but certainly was deserved at his hands. Under the domination of his masterful pride, which was both the strength and the weakness of Graham’s character, making him capable of the most absolute loyalty, and capable of the 74 most inexcusable deeds, a pride no friend could guide, and no adversity could break, Claverhouse fell into a fit of silent anger with himself, with MacKay, with his absent critics, with the Prince. It was also in keeping with his nature to be that afternoon gayer than usual––recalling the humorous events of early days with Grimond, who could hardly conceal the satisfaction he dared not express, treating every man he met with the most gracious courtesy, smiling approval of the poorest jest, and proposing healths and drinking national toasts that evening with his friends as if nothing had happened, and no care heavier than thistledown lay upon his mind. But Claverhouse knew that the incident was not closed, and he was not surprised when an officer attached to the Prince’s person called at his lodging and commanded his presence at the Prince’s house next morning. He was aware that in striking MacKay and challenging him to a duel he had infringed a strict law, which forbade such deeds within the Royal grounds.

William of Orange was a younger man than when England knew him, and he came as king to reign over what was ever to him a foreign people, as he was to them an unattractive monarch. He was a man of slight 75 and frail body; of calm and passionless nature, capable as few men have been of silence and reserve. His mind worked, as it were, in vacuo, secluded from the atmosphere of tradition, prejudice, emotions, jealousies. It was free from moods and changes, clear, penetrating, determined, masterful. Against no man did he bear a personal grudge, for that would have only deflected his judgment and embarrassed his action. For only two or three men had he any personal affection; that also might have affected the balance of his judgment and the freedom of his action. His courage was undeniable, his spirit of endurance magnificent, his military talents and his gift of statesmanship brilliant. Perhaps, on the whole, his most valuable characteristic qualities were self-control and a spirit of moderation, which enabled him to warm his hands at other men’s fires and to avoid the perils of extremes. His weakness was the gravity of his character, which did not attract the eye or inspire devotion in the ordinary man, and an inevitable want of imagination, which prevented him entering into the feelings of men of a different caste. It would, indeed, have been difficult to find a more vivid contrast between the two men who faced each other in the Prince’s room, 76 and who represented those two schools of thought which have ever been in conflict in religion––reason and authority, and those two types of character which have ever collided in life––the phlegmatic and the empassioned.

“What, I pray you, is the reason of your conduct yesterday in the precincts?” asked the Prince at once after formally acknowledging Claverhouse’s reverence. “I am informed upon good evidence that you wantonly insulted Lieutenant-Colonel MacKay of the Scots Brigade, and that you invited him to a duel, and that when he, as became an officer of judgment and piety, as well as of high courage, declined to join with you in a foolish and illegal act, that you called him a coward. Have I been rightly informed?

“Then that point is settled as I expected, and in order that you may not make any mistake on this matter I will add, though I am not obliged to do so, that Colonel MacKay did not condescend to inform against you. The scandal was public enough to come from various quarters, and now to my chief question, have you anything to say in your defence?”

“Nothing, sir,” replied Claverhouse. “I judged that Colonel MacKay had done me a 77 personal injury for which I desired satisfaction in the way that gentlemen give. He has a prudent dislike to risk his life, although I endeavored to quicken his spirit. And so I allowed him to know what I thought of him, and some officers who overheard our conversation seemed to have been so much pleased with my judgment that they carried it round the army. In this way I presume it came to your Highness’s ears. That is all,” concluded Graham with much sweetness of manner, “that I have to say.”

“It is what you ought to be ashamed to say, Mr. Graham,” said William severely. “Neither of us are old men, but I take it you are older than I am–––”

“I am twenty-six years of age, may it please your Highness,” interpolated Claverhouse, “and have served in two armies.”

“We are, at any rate, old enough not to play the fool or carry ourselves like headstrong boys. As regards your quarrel, I am given to understand that the cause lies not so much with your fellow-officer as with your general. You are one of that large company who can be found in all armies, who are disappointed because, in their judgment, promotion has not corresponded with their merits. Be good enough to say if I do you an 78 injustice? You are silent, then I am right. And so, because another officer was promoted before you, you choose to take offence and try to put shame upon a gallant gentleman. Is this”––the Prince inquired with a flavor of contempt––“how well-born Scots carry themselves in their own country?”

“Your Highness’s reasoning,” replied Graham with elaborate deliberation, “has convinced me of my error, but I should like to make this plea, that if I had not been carried by a gust of passion in the park yester-morning, I had not disputed with Colonel MacKay. It still seems to me that he has been treated with over much kindness in this matter of promotion, in which––it may be their foolishness––soldiers are apt to be jealous, and I have been in some degree neglected. But I most frankly confess that I have been in the wrong in doing what I did, since it was more your Highness’s business than mine to have resented this quarrel.”

“What mean you by this word, for it has an evil sound?” But there was not a flush on William’s pale, immovable face, and it was marvellous to see so young a Prince carry himself so quietly under the polite scorn of Claverhouse’s manner and the rising insolence of his speech.

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“As your Highness insists, it is my pleasure to make my poor meaning plain in your Highness’s ears. If I know what happened, Colonel MacKay, reaching the highest quarter by the back stair, persuaded your Highness to give him the colonelcy, although it in honor belonged to another officer, and I submit to your Highness’s judgment that it was you who should have flicked him with your cane. Colonel MacKay has done John Graham of Claverhouse less injury in disappointing him of his regiment, though it has been a grievous dash, than in inducing your Highness to break your promise.” And Claverhouse, whose last word had fallen in smoothness like honey from the comb, and in venom like the poison of a serpent, looked the Prince straight in the face and then bowed most lowly.

“You are, I judge, Captain Graham, recalling a certain happening at the Battle of Sineffe, when you rendered important service to me, and it may be saved my life. If you conclude that this has been forgotten, or that a Prince has no gratitude, because you did not obtain the place you coveted, then understand that you are wrong, and that with all your twenty-six years and your service in two armies, you are ignorant of the 80 principle on which an army should be regulated. Upon your way of it, if any young officer, more raw in character than in years, and not yet able to rule his own spirit, or to keep himself from quarrelling like a common soldier, should happen to be of use in a strait––I acknowledge the strait––to a king, his foolishness should be placed in command of veteran officers and men. It were right to recompense him at the cost of the Prince, mayhap, but not at the cost of gallant soldiers whom he was unfit to govern, because he could not govern himself.”

Whether William was angry at Claverhouse’s impertinence, or was no more touched than the cliff by the spray from a wave, only his intimates could have told, but in this conflict between the two temperaments, the Prince was in the end an easy victor. If William had no boiling point, Claverhouse, though as composed in manner as he was afterwards to be cruel in action, had limits to his self-restraint. As the Prince suggested that, though two years older than himself, he was a shallow-pated and self-conceited boy, who was ever looking after his own ends, and when he was disappointed, kicked and struggled like a child fighting with its nurse; that, in fact, in spite of thinking 81 himself a fine gentleman, he ought to know that he had neither sense nor manners, and was as yet unfit for any high place, Claverhouse’s temper gave way, and he struck with cutting words at the Prince.

“What I intended to have said, but my blundering speech may not have reached your Highness’s mind, is that if a Prince makes a promise of reward to another man who has saved his life at the risk of his own, that Prince is bound to keep his word or to make some reparation. And there is a debt due by your Highness to a certain Scots officer which has not been paid. Is a Prince alone privileged to break his word?”

“You desire reparation,” answered the Prince more swiftly than usual, and with a certain haughty gesture, “and you shall have it before you leave my presence. For brawling and striking within our grounds, you are in danger of losing your right arm, and other men have been so punished for more excusable doings. You have been complaining in a public place that you have not obtained a regiment, as if it were your due, and you have charged your general with the worst of military sins after cowardice, of being a favorer. I bestow upon you what will be more valuable to you than a regiment which 82 you have not the capacity to command. I give you back your right arm, and I release you from the service of my army.”

“May I ask your Highness to accept my most humble and profound gratitude for sparing my arm, which has fought for your Highness, and if it be possible, yet deeper gratitude for releasing me from the service of a Prince who does not know how to keep his word. Have I your Highness’s permission to leave your presence, and to make arrangements for my departure from The Hague?”

Claverhouse spoke with an exaggerated accent of respect, but the words were so stinging that William’s eyes, for an instant only, flashed fire, and the aide-de-camp in the room made a step forward as if to arrest the Scots officer. There was a pause, say, of fifteen seconds, which seemed an hour, and then the Prince ordered his aide-de-camp to leave the chamber, and William and Claverhouse stood alone.

“You are a bold man, Mr. Graham,” said the Prince icily, “and I should not judge you to be a wise one. It is not likely that you will ever be as prudent as you are daring, and I foresee a troubled career, whether it be long or short, for you.

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“No man, royal or otherwise, has ever spoken to me as you have done; mayhap in the years before me, whether they be few or many, no one will ever do so. As you know, for what you have said any other Prince in my place would have you punished for the gravest of crimes on the part of an officer against his commander.”

Claverhouse bowed, and looked curiously at the Prince, wondering within himself what would follow. Was it possible that his Highness would lay aside for an hour the privilege of royalty and give him satisfaction? Or was he merely to lecture him like the Calvinistic preachers to whom his Highness listened, and then let him go with contempt? Claverhouse’s indignation had now given way to intellectual interest, and he waited for the decision of this strong, calm man, who, though only a little more than a lad, had already the coolness and dignity of old age.

“Were I not a Prince, and if my creed of honor were different from what it is, I should lay aside my Princedom, and meet you sword in hand, for I also, though you may not believe it, have the pride of a soldier, and it has been outraged by your deliberate insolence. Whether it was worthy of your courtesy to offer an insult to one who cannot 84 defend himself, I shall leave to your own arbitrament, when you bethink yourself in other hours of this situation. I pray you be silent, I have not finished. My intention is to treat your words as if they had never been spoken. The officer in attendance has learned better than to blaze abroad anything that happens in this place, and you will do as it pleases yourself, and is becoming to your honor as a gentleman. I have no fear of you. You are a brave man whatever else you be; you will do me the justice of believing I am another.” Claverhouse remembered this was the first moment that he had felt any kindness to the Prince of Orange.

“My reason for dealing with you after this fashion is that you have some cause to complain of injustice, and to think that the good help you gave has been forgotten, because I have not said anything nor done anything. This is not so, for I have not been certain how I could best recompense you. When a moment ago I spoke of you as not fit for promotion, I did you injustice, for, though there be some heat in you, there is far more capacity, and I take it you will have high command some day.” The last few words were spoken with a slight effort, and Graham, when in his better mood the most 85 magnanimous of men, was suddenly touched by the remembrance of the Prince’s station and ability, his courage and severity, and his grace in making this amend to one who had spoken rudely to him. Claverhouse would have responded, but was again silent in obedience to a sign from the Prince.

“Let me say plainly, Mr. Graham, that you are a soldier whom any commander will be glad to enroll for life service in his army, but”––and here his Highness looked searchingly at Graham as he had once done before––“I doubt whether your calling be in the Dutch army or in any army that is of our mind or is likely to fight for our cause.

“It is not given to man to lift the veil that hides the future, but we can reason with ourselves as to what is likely, and guide our course by this faint light. I have advices from Scotland, and I know that the day will come, though it may not be yet, when there will be a great division in that land and the shedding of blood. Were you and I both in your country when that day comes, you, Mr. Graham, would draw your sword on one side and I on the other.

“We may never cross one another in the unknown days, but each man must be true to the light which God has given him. Colonel 86 MacKay will fulfil his calling in our army and on our side; in some other army and for another side you will follow your destiny. It is seldom I speak at such length; now I have only one other word to say before I give you for the day farewell.

“Mr. Graham, I know what you think of me as clearly as if you had spoken. Let me say what I think of you. You are a gallant gentleman, full of the ideas of the past, and incapable of changing; you will be a loyal servant to your own cause, and it will be beaten. To you I owe my life. Possibly it might have been better for you to have let me fall by the sword of one of Condé’s dragoons, but we are all in the hands of the Eternal, Who doeth what He wills with each man. You will receive to-day a captain’s commission in the cavalry, and in some day to come, I do not know how soon, and in a way I may not at present reveal to you, I will, if God please, do a kindness to you which will be after your own heart, and enable you to rise to your own height in the great affair of life. I bid you good-morning.”

Few men were ever to hear the Prince of Orange use as many words or give as much of his mind. As Claverhouse realized his fairness and understood, although only a 87 little, then, of his foresight, and as he came to appreciate the fact that the Prince was trying to do something more lasting for him than merely conferring a commission, he was overwhelmed with a sense of the injustice he had done his Highness. He also realized his own petulance with intense shame.

“Will your Highness forgive my wild words, for which I might have been justly punished”––Graham, with an impulse of emotion, stepped forward, knelt down, and kissed the Prince’s hand––“and the shame I put upon a Scots gentleman, for which I shall apologize this very day. My sword is at your Highness’s disposal while I am in your service and this arm is able to use it. If in any day to come it be my fate to stand on some other side, I shall not forget I once served under a great commander and a most honorable gentleman, who dealt graciously with me.”

Two years passed during which Captain Graham saw much fighting and many of his fellow-officers fall, and it was in keeping with the character of the Prince that during all that time he took no special notice of Claverhouse, and gave no indication that he had that interview in mind. Claverhouse had learned one lesson, however––patience––and 88 he would have many more to learn; he had also been taught not to take hasty views, but to wait for the long result. And his heart lifted when, after the abortive siege of Charleroi, he was summoned for a second time to the Prince’s presence. On this occasion the Prince said little, but it was to the point; it was the crisis in Claverhouse’s life.

“Within a few days, Captain Graham,” said the Prince, with the same frozen face, “I leave for London. I may not speak about my errand nor other things which may happen, but if it be your will, I shall take you in attendance upon me. At the English court I may be able to give you an introduction which will place you in the way of service such as you desire, and if it be the will of God, high honor. For this opportunity, which I thought might come some day, I have been waiting, and if it be as I expect, you will have some poor reward for saving the life of the Prince of Orange.”

It was known by this time in the army, and, indeed, throughout Europe, that William of Orange was going to wed the Princess Mary, who was the daughter of the Duke of York, the King of England’s brother, and likely to be herself the daughter of an English sovereign. For certain reasons it seemed 89 an unlikely and incongruous alliance, for even in the end of 1677, when the marriage took place, anyone with prescience could foresee that there would be a wide rift between the politics of the Duke of York when he became King and those of William, and even then there must have been some who saw afar off the conflict which ended in William and Mary succeeding James upon the throne of England. There were many envied Claverhouse when it came out that he was to be a member of the Prince’s suite, and be associated with the Prince’s most distinguished courtiers. But he carried himself, upon the whole, with such graciousness and gallantry that his brother officers congratulated him on every hand, and feasted him so lavishly before he left that certain of his own comrades of the Prince’s guard were laid aside from duty for several days. It was to the credit of both men that on the morning of his departure one of his last visitors was Colonel MacKay, who wished him success, and prophesied that they would hear great things of him in days to come, since it was understood that Claverhouse would not return to the Dutch service.

For some time after the arrival of the Prince and his staff in London, William gave no sign of the good he was going to do Claverhouse. 90 Indeed, he was busy with the work of his wooing and the arrangements for his marriage. Claverhouse by this time had learned, however, that William forgot nothing and never failed to carry out his plans, and his pulse beat quicker when the Prince requested him to be in attendance one afternoon, and to accompany him alone to Whitehall, where the Duke of York was in residence. There was a certain superficial likeness in character between the Prince and his father-in-law, for both appeared unfeeling and unsympathetic men, but what in James was obstinacy, in William was power, and what in James was superstitious, in William was religion, and what in James was pride, in William was dignity. His friends could trust William, but no one could trust James; while William could make immense sacrifices for his cause, James could wreck his cause by an amazing blindness and a foolish grasping at the shadow of power. If anyone desired a master under whom he would be led to victory, and by whom he would never be put to shame, a master who might not praise him effusively but would never betray him, then let him, as he valued his life and his career, refuse James and cleave to William. But it is not given to a man to choose his creed, far less his destiny, 91 and Claverhouse was never to have fortune on his side. It was to be his lot rather to be hindered at every turn where he should have been helped, and to run his race alone with many weights and over the roughest ground.

“Your Highness has of your courtesy allowed me to present in public audience the officers who have come with me from The Hague,” said the Prince of Orange to James, “and now I have the pleasure to specially introduce this gentleman who was lately a captain in my cavalry, and who some while ago rendered me the last service one man can do for another. Had it not been for his presence of mind and bravery of action, I had not the supreme honor of waiting to-day upon your Highness, and the prospect of felicity before me. May I, with the utmost zeal towards him and the most profound respect towards your Highness, recommend to your service Mr. Graham of Claverhouse, who distinguished himself on many fields of battle, and who is a fine gentleman and a brave officer fit for any post, civil or military. I will only say one thing more: he belongs to the same house as the Marquis of Montrose, and has in him the same spirit of loyalty.”

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Claverhouse, overcome by the remembrance of the past, is stirred to the heart, and can hardly make his reverence for emotion. As he kisses James’s hand he registers a vow which he was to keep with his life. And when he has left the presence of the Duke, the Prince of Orange said to Claverhouse’s new master: “You have, sir, obtained a servant who will be faithful unto death; I make him over to you with confidence and with regret. This day, I believe, he will begin the work to which he has been called, and so far as a man can, he will finish it.”

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BOOK II

CHAPTER I

A COVENANTING HOUSE

The glory of Paisley Castle has long departed, but it was a brave and well-furnished house in the late spring of 1684, to which this story now moves. The primroses were blooming in sheltered nooks, where the keen east wind––the curse and the strength of Scotland––could not blight them, and the sun had them for his wooing; there were signs of foliage on the trees as the buds began to burgeon, and send a shimmer of green along the branches; the grass, reviving after winter, was showing its first freshness, and the bare earth took a softer color in the caressing sunlight. The birds had taken heart again and were seeking for their mates, some were already building their summer homes. Life is one throughout the world, and the stirring of spring in the roots of the grass and in the trunks of the trees touches also human hearts and wakes them from their winter. The season of hope, which was softening 94 the clods of the field, and gentling the rough massive walls of the castle, were also making tender the austere face of a Covenanting minister standing in one of the deep window recesses of what was called in Scots houses of that day the gallery, and what was a long and magnificent upper hall, adorned with arms and tapestry. He was looking out upon the woods that stretched to the silver water of the Clyde, then a narrow and undeveloped river, and to the far-away hills of Argyleshire, within which lay the mystery of the Highlands. Henry Pollock had been born of a Cavalier and Episcopalian family, with blood as loyal as that of Claverhouse; he had been brought up amid what the Covenanters called malignant surroundings, and had been taught to regard the Marquis of Montrose as the first of Scotsmen and the most heroic of martyrs. Although the senior of Claverhouse by two years, he had been with him at St. Andrew’s University, and knew him well, but in spite of his heredity Pollock had ever carried a more open mind than Graham. During his university days he had heard the saint and scholar of the Covenant, Samuel Rutherford, who was principal and professor in the university and a most distinguished preacher of his day in 95 Scotland. No doubt Rutherford raged furiously against prelacy as a work of the devil, and the enemy of Scots freedom; no doubt he also wrote books which struck hard at the authority of the King, and made for the cause of the people. His name was a reproach among Pollock’s friends, and Pollock began with no sympathy towards Rutherford’s opinions, but the lad’s soul was stirred when, in the college chapel of St. Andrew’s and also in the parish kirk where Rutherford was colleague with that servant of the Lord Mr. Blair, he listened to Rutherford upon the love of God and the loveliness of Christ. One day he was present, standing obscure among a mass of townsfolk, when Rutherford, after making a tedious argument on the controversies of the day which had almost driven Pollock from the Kirk, came across the name of Christ and then, carried away out of his course as by a magnet, began to rehearse the titles of the Lord Jesus till a Scots noble seated in the kirk cried out, “Hold you there, Rutherford.” And Pollock was tempted to say “Amen.” With his side he resented the Covenanting regime, because it frowned on gayety and enforced the hateful Covenant, but even then the lad wished that his side had preachers to 96 be compared with Rutherford and Blair, and the words of Rutherford lay hidden in his heart. When the Restoration came he flung up his cap with the rest of them, and drank only too many healths to King Charles. For a while he was intoxicated with the triumph of the Restoration, but there was a vein of seriousness in him as well as candor, and as the years passed and the people were still drinking, and as the tyranny of Cromwell gave place to the brutality of the infamous crew, Lauderdale, the renegade, and others, who misruled Scotland in the name of the King, Pollock was much shaken, and began to wonder within himself whether the Presbyterians, with all their bigotry, may not have had the right of it. If they did not dance and drink they prayed and led God-fearing lives, and if they would not be driven to hear the curates preach, there was not too much to hear if they had gone. When the Covenant was the symbol of oppression, Pollock hated it, when it became the symbol for suffering he was drawn to it, till at last, to the horror of his family, he threw in his lot with the Covenanters of the west of Scotland. Being a lad of parts with competent scholarship, and having given every pledge of sincerity, he was studying theology in Holland, 97 while Claverhouse was fighting in the army of the Prince, and he was there ordained to the ministry of the kirk. When one has passed through so thorough a change, and sacrificed everything which is most dear for his convictions, he is certain to be a root and branch man, and to fling himself without reserve, perhaps also, alas, without moderation, into the service of his new cause. Pollock was not of that party in the kirk which was willing to take an indulgence at the hands of the government and minister quietly in their parishes, on condition that they gave no trouble to the bishops. He would take no oaths and sign no agreements, nor make any compromise, nor bow down to any persecutor. He threw in his lot with the wild hillmen, who were being hunted like wild birds upon the mountains by Claverhouse’s cavalry, and as he wandered from one hiding place to another, he preached to them in picturesque conventicles, which gathered in the cathedral of the Ayrshire hills, and built them up in the faith of God and of the Covenant. Like Rutherford, who had been to him what St. Stephen was to St. Paul, he was that strange mixture of fierceness and of tenderness which Scots piety has often bred and chiefly in its dark days. He 98 was not afraid to pursue the doctrine of Calvin to its furthest extreme, and would glorify God in the death of sinners till even the stern souls of his congregation trembled. Nor was he afraid to defend resistance to an unjust and ungodly government, and he was willing to fight himself almost as much, though not quite, as to pray.

But even the gloomiest and bitterest bigots that heard him, huddled in some deep morass and encircled by the cold mist, testified that Henry Pollock was greatest when he declared the evangel of Jesus, and besought his hearers, who might before nightfall be sent by a bloody death into eternity, to accept Christ as their Saviour. When he celebrated the sacrament amid the hills, and lifted up the emblems of the Lord’s body and blood, his voice broken with passion, and the tears rolling down his cheeks, they said that his face was like that of an angel. Times without number he had been chased on the moors; often he had been hidden cunningly in shepherd’s cottages, twice he had eluded the dragoons by immersing himself in peat-bogs, and once he had been wounded. His face could never at any time have been otherwise than refined and spiritual, but now it was that of an ascetic, worn by prayer and fasting, 99 while his dark blue eyes glowed when he was moved like coals of fire, and the golden hair upon his head, as the sun touched it, was like unto an aureole. Standing in the embrasure of that gallery, which had so many signs of the world which is, in the pictures of sport upon the walls and the stands of arms, he seemed to be rather the messenger and forerunner of the world which is to come. As he looks out upon the fair spring view, he is settling something with his conscience, and is half praying, half meditating, for, in his lonely vigils, with no company but the curlew and the sheep, he has fallen upon the way of speaking aloud.

“There be those who are called to live alone and to serve the Lord night and day in the high places of the field, like Elijah, who was that prophet, and John the Baptist, who ran before the face of the Lord. If this be Thy will for me, oh, God, I am also willing, and Thou knowest that mine is a lonely life, and that I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus. If this be my calling, make Thy way plain before Thy servant, and give me grace to walk therein with a steadfast heart. He that forsaketh not father and mother ... and wife for His name’s sake, is not worthy.” And then a change came over his mood.

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“But the Master came not like the Baptist; He came eating and drinking; yea, He went unto the marriage of Cana in Galilee, and He blessed little children and said, ‘For of such is the Kingdom of God.’ Thou knowest, Lord, that I have loved Thy children, and when a bairn has smiled in my face as I baptized it into Thy name, that I have longed for one that would call me father. When I have seen a man and his wife together by the fireside, and I have gone out to my hiding-place on the moor, like a wild beast to its den, I confess, oh, Lord, I have watched that square of light so long as I could see it, and have wondered whether there would ever be a home for me, and any woman would call me husband. Is this the weakness of the flesh; is this the longing of the creature for comfort; is this the refusing of the cross; is this my sin? Search me, oh, God, and try me.” And again the gentler mood returned. “Didst Thou not set the woman beside the man in the Garden? Has not the love of Jacob for Rachel been glorified in Thy word? Art not Thou Thyself the bridegroom, and is not the kirk Thy bride? Are we not called to the marriage supper of the Lamb? Is not marriage Thine own ordinance, and shall I count that unclean, as 101 certain vain persons have imagined, which Thou hast established? Oh, my Saviour, wast Thou not born of a woman? My soul is torn within me, and unto Thee, therefore, do I look for light; give me this day a sign that I may know what Thou wouldst have me to do, that it may be well for Thy cause in the land, and the souls of Thy servants committed to my charge.”

He is unconscious of everything except the agony of duty through which he is passing, and his words, though spoken low, have a sweet and penetrating note, which arrest the attention of one who has come down the gallery, and is now standing at the opening of the alcove where Pollock is hidden. It is his hostess, the widow of Lord Cochrane, the eldest son of the Earl of Dundonald, who was still living, though old and feeble, and who left the management of affairs very much to Lady Cochrane. Like many other families in the days of the “Troubles,” the Cochranes was a house divided against itself, although till now the strength had been all on one side. Lord Dundonald had been a loyal adherent of the Stuarts, and had rendered them service in earlier days, for which it was understood he had received his earldom; but he was a broken man now, and had no strength in him 102 to resist his masterful daughter-in-law. She was a child of the Earl of Cassillis, one of the stoutest and most thoroughgoing of Covenanters; her husband had died in the year when the Battle of Bothwell-Brig had been fought, and his last prayers were for the success of the Covenanters. His younger brother had been one of the Rye House Plot men, and was now an exile for the safety of his life in Holland. By her blood and by her sympathy, by everything she thought and felt, Lady Cochrane was a Covenanter, and in her face and figure, as she stands with the light from the window falling upon her, she symbolizes her cause and party. Tall and strong-boned, with a lean, powerful face, and clear, unrelenting eyes, yet with a latent suggestion of enthusiasm which would move her to any sacrifice for what she judged to be righteousness, and with an honest belief in her religious creed, Lady Cochrane was one of the godly women of the Covenant. The old Earl had no chance against her resolute will, and contented himself with a quavering protest against her ideas, and bleating disapproval of her actions. When she denounced the Council as a set of Herods, and filled the house with Covenanting ministers and outlawed persons, his only comfort and sympathizer 103 was Lady Cochrane’s daughter Jean. This young woman had of late taken on herself the office of protector, and had shown a tendency to criticise both her mother’s words and ways, which led to one or two domestic scenes. For though her ladyship was loud against the tyranny of the government, she was an absolute ruler in her own home. And that day she was going to assert herself and put down an incipient rebellion.

“I give you good-morning, Mr. Pollock,” said Lady Cochrane, “and I crave your pardon if I have done amiss, but since you were, as I take it, wrestling in prayer I had not the mind to break in upon you; I have therefore heard some portion of your petitions. It seems to me, though in such matters I am but blind of eye and dull of hearing, that God indeed is giving a sign of approval when He seems to have been turning your heart unto the thought of the marriage between the bridegroom and the bride in the Holy Scriptures, of which other marriages are, I take it, a shadow and a foretaste.”

“It may be your ladyship is right,” said Pollock after he had returned his hostess’s greeting, “but we shall soon know, for God hath promised that light shall arise unto the righteous. For myself, I declare that as it 104 has happened on the hills when I was fleeing from Claverhouse, so it is now in my affairs. I am moving in a mist which folds me round like a thin garment; here and there I see the light struggling through, and it seems to me most beautiful even in its dimness; by and by the mist shall altogether pass, and I shall stand in the light, which is the shining of His face. But whether I shall then find myself at Cana of Galilee or in the Garden of Gethsemane, I know not.”

“If it were in my handling,” said Lady Cochrane, regarding her guest with a mixed expression of admiration and pity, “ye would find yourself, and that without overmuch delay, at a marriage feast. The dispensation of John Baptist is done with in my humble judgment, and I count the refusing to marry to be pure will-worship and a soul-destroying snare of the Papists. Ye are a good man, Mr. Henry, and a faithful minister of the Word, but ye would be a better, with fewer dreams and more sense for daily duty, besides being more comfortable, if you had a wife. Doubtless the days are evil, and there be those who would say that this is not a time to marry, but if you had the right wife it is no unlikely ye might be safer than ye are to-day. For there would be a big house to hide 105 you, and, at the worst, you and she could make your ways to Holland, and get shelter from the Prince till those calamities be overpast.”

“My fear,” continued her ladyship, “is not that ye will do wrong in marrying, but that ye may fail to win the wife ye told me yesterday was your desire. No, Mr. Henry, it is not that I am not with you, for I am a favorer of your suit. In those days when the call is for everyone to say whether he be for God or Baal, I would rather see my daughter married to a faithful minister of the kirk, than to the proudest noble in Scotland, who was a persecutor of the Lord’s people. As regards blood, I mind me also that ye belong to an ancient house, and as regards titles, it was from King Charles the earldom came to the Cochranes, and the most of the nobles he has made have been the sons of his mistresses. There will soon be more disgrace than honor in being called a lord in the land of England.”

“It may be,” hazarded Pollock anxiously, “that the Earl then does not look on me with pleasure, and as the head of the house–––”

“As what?” said Lady Cochrane. “It is not much his lordship has to say on anything, for his mind is failing fast, and it never, to my seeing, was very strong. He says little, and it’s a mercy he has less power, or rather, 106 I should say, a dispensation of Providence, for if the misguided man had his way of it, Jean would be married to-morrow to some drinking, swearing officer in Claverhouse’s Horse, or, for that matter, to that son of Satan, Claverhouse himself.”

“While I am here,” continued this Covenanting heroine, “you need not trouble yourself about the Earl of Dundonald, but I cannot speak so surely for my daughter. Jean’s name was inserted in the Covenant, and she has been taught the truth by my own lips, besides hearing many godly ministers, but I sorely doubt whether she be steadfast and single-hearted. It was only two days ago she lent her aid to her grandfather when he was havering about toleration, and before all was done she spoke lightly of the contendings of God’s remnant in this land, and said that if they had the upper hand Scotland would not be fit to live in. So far as I can see she has no ill-will to you, Mr. Henry, and has never said aught against you. Nay, more, I recall her speaking well of your goodness, but whether she will consent unto your plea I cannot prophesy. Where she got her proud temper and her stubborn self-will passes my mind, for her father was an exercised Christian and a douce man, and there never was a 107 word of contradiction from him all the days of our married life. It may be the judgment of the Lord for the sins of the land, that the children are raising themselves against their parents. Be that as it may, I have done my best for you, and now I will send her to the gallery and ye must make your own suit. I pray God her heart may be turned unto you.”

When the daughter came down the middle of the gallery, with an easy and graceful carriage, for she was a good goer, it would seem as if the mother had returned, more beautiful and more gentle, yet quite as strong and determined. Jean Cochrane––whose proper style as a lord’s daughter would be the Honorable Jean, but who, partly because she was an earl’s granddaughter, partly in keeping with the usage of the day, was known as Lady Jean––was like her mother, tall and well built, straight as a young tree, with her head set on a long, slender neck, and in conversation thrown back. Her complexion was perfect in its healthy tone and fine coloring; she had a wealth of the most rich and radiant auburn hair, somewhat like that of Pollock, but redder and more commanding to the eye; her eyes were sometimes gray and sometimes blue, according to their expression, which was ever changing with her varying moods. This is no 108 girl of timid or yielding nature who can be coaxed or driven, or of clinging and meek affection. This is a woman full grown, not in stature only, but in character, of high ambition, of warm passion, of resolute will and clear mind, who is fit to be the mate for a patriot, in which case she would be ready to accompany him to the scaffold, or for a soldier, in which case she would send him to his death with a proud heart. Her mobile face, as flexible as that of a supreme actress, is set and hard when she enters the gallery, for she and her mother had just crossed swords, and Lady Jean knew for what end she had been asked to meet the Covenanter. Lady Cochrane was an unhappy advocate for such a plea, and with such a daughter, although she might have been successful with a helpless and submissive girl. With that look in her eyes, which are as cold as steel and have its glitter, one could not augur success for any wooer. It was a tribute not so much to the appearance of Pollock as to the soul of the man shining through his face in most persuasive purity and sincerity, that when they met and turned aside into that window space and stood in the spring sunlight, her face softened towards him. The pride of her carriage seemed to relax, and the offence went out of 109 her eyes, and she gave him a gracious greeting, and no woman, if she had a mind, could be more ingratiating. Then, still standing, which suited her best, and looking at him with not unfriendly gravity, she waited for what he had to say.

“Lady Jean,” he began, “your honorable mother has told you for what end I desired speech with you this day, and I ask you to give me a fair hearing of your kindness, for though I have been called of God to declare His word before many people, I have no skill in the business to which I now address myself. In this matter of love between a man and a maid I have never before spoken, and if I succeed not to-day, shall never speak again. Bear with me when I explain for your better understanding of my case, that I began my life in the faith of my family, and that I came into the Covenant after I was a man. I was called, as I trust of God, unto the ministry of the Evangel, and I have exercised it not in quiet places, but in the service of God’s people who are scattered and peeled among the hills. It seemed therefore of my calling that I should live as a Nazarite and die alone, having known neither wife nor child, and indeed this may be my lot.” Having said so much, as he looked not at the girl 110 but out of the window, he now turned his face upon her, which, always pale, began now to be ashen white, through rising emotion and intensity of heart.

“Two years ago I first came to this castle and saw you; from time to time upon the errands of my master or sheltering from my pursuers I have lived here, and before I knew it I found my heart go out to you, Lady Jean, so that on the moors I heard your voice in the singing of the mountain birds, and saw your face with your burning hair in the glory of the setting sun. The thought of you was never far from me, and the turn of your head and your step as you have walked before me came ever to my sight. Was not this, I said to myself, the guidance of the Lord in Whose hands are the hearts of men, and Who did cause Isaac to cleave to Rebecca? But, again, might it not be that I was turning from the way of the cross and following the desires of my own heart? I prayed for some token, and fourteen days ago this word in the Song of Solomon came unto me, and was laid upon my heart. ‘Behold thou art fair, my love, behold thou art fair, thou hast dove’s eyes within thy locks, thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead.’ Wherefore I make bold to speak to you to-day, and 111 on your reply will hang the issue of my after life.” His eyes had begun to shine with mystic tenderness and yearning appeal, so that she, who had been looking away from him, could not now withdraw her gaze.

“Is there in your heart any kindness and confidence towards me, and have you been moved to think of me as one whom you could wed and whose life you could share? It is not to wealth nor to honor, it is not to ease and safety that I invite you, Lady Jean; you must be prepared to see me suffer, and you must be willing that I should die. What I could do to protect and cherish you, if God gave you to me, I should, and next to the Lord who redeemed me, you would be the love of my heart in time and also in eternity, where we should follow the Lord together, unto living fountains of waters.”

It was not the wooing of quieter days or gentler lives; it was not after this fashion that a Cavalier would have spoken to his ladylove, but his words were in keeping with the man, and streamed from the light of his eyes rather than from his lips. And the girl, who had come to say no as briefly and firmly as might be consistent with courtesy, was touched in the deepest part of her being, and for the moment almost hesitated.

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“Ye have done me the chief honor a man can offer to a woman, Mr. Pollock, and Jean Cochrane will never forget that ye asked her in marriage. It cannot be, and it is better that I should say this without delay or uncertain speech, but I pray you, Mr. Henry, understand why, and think me not a proud or foolish girl. It is not that I do not know that you are a holy and a brave man, whom the folk rightly consider to be a saint, and whom others say would have made a gallant soldier. It is not that I doubt the woman ye wedded would be well and tenderly loved, for, I confess to you, ye seem to me to have the making of a perfect husband. And it is not that I”––and here she straightened herself––“would be afraid of any danger, or any suffering either, for myself or you. I should bid it welcome, and if I saw you laid dead for the cause ye love, I should take you in my arms and kiss you on the mouth, though you were red with blood, as I never kissed you living on our marriage day.” And she carried her head as a queen at the moment of her coronation.

“No,” she went on, while the glow faded and her voice grew gentle; “it is for two reasons, but one of them I tell you only to yourself, in the secrecy of your honor. I admire and I––reverence you as one lifted above 113 me like a saint, but this is not the feeling of a woman for the man that is to be her husband. I do not love you as I know I shall in an instant love the man who is to be my man when I first see him, and for whom I shall forsake without any pang my father’s house, or else, if he appear not, I shall never wed. That mayhap is reason enough, but I am dealing with you as a friend this day. Though my name be in the Covenant, I am not sure––oh, those are dark times––whether I would write it to-day with my own hand. I might be able to do so when I was your wife, but that I may not be. Yet it is left to me, Mr. Henry, to have your name in my prayers, that God may keep you in the hard road ye have chosen, and give you in the end a glorious crown. And I will ask of you to mention at a time Jean Cochrane before the throne of grace. For surely ye will be heard, and blessed shall she be for whom ye pray.”

For an instant there was silence, and then, before she left, Lady Jean, as Pollock stood with head sunk on his breast and lips moving in prayer, bent forward and kissed him on the forehead. When an hour later the minister descended to Lady Cochrane’s room, he told her that his suit was hopeless, but that he was thankful unto God that he had spoken with Lady Jean.

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CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF THE AMALEKITE

It would have been hard to find within the civilized world a more miserable and distracted country than Scotland at the date of our history, and the West Country was worst of all. The Covenanters, who were never averse to fighting, had turned upon Claverhouse and his dragoons when they came to disperse a field-meeting at Drumclog, and had soundly beaten the King’s Horse. Then, gathering themselves to a head and meeting the royal forces under the Duke of Monmouth at Bothwell Bridge, they had in turn been hopelessly crushed. What remained of their army was scattered by the cavalry, and since that day, with some interludes, Claverhouse had been engaged in the inglorious work of dispersing Presbyterian Conventicles gathered in remote places among the hills, or searching the moss-hags for outlawed preachers. It was a poor business for one who had seen war on the grand scale under the Prince 115 of Orange, and had fought in battles where eighteen thousand men were left on the field. War was not the name for those operations, they were simply police work of an irksome and degrading kind. There were some who said that Claverhouse gloried in it, and that the inherent cruelty of his nature was gratified in causing obstinate Covenanters, who had not taken the oath, to be shot on the spot, and haling others to prison, where they were treated with extreme barbarity. Others believed that being a man of broad mind and chivalrous temper, he absolutely disapproved of the government policy and loathed the butcher work to which he and his troopers were set.

Upon one way of it he was a bloodthirsty tyrant, and upon the other he was an obedient soldier, but the truth was with neither view. There is no doubt that, like any other ambitious commander, he would much rather have been engaged in a proper campaign, and it may be granted that as a brave man he did not hanker to be the executioner of peasants; but he absolutely approved of the policy of his rulers, and had no scruple in carrying it out. It was the only thing that could be done, and it had better be done thoroughly; the sooner the turbulent and irreconcilable Covenanters 116 were crushed and the country reduced to peace the better for Scotland. And it must be remembered that, though they were only a fraction of the nation, the hillmen were a very resolute and harassing fraction, and kept the western counties in a state of turmoil. No week passed without some picturesque incident being added to the annals of this lamentable religious war, and whether it was an escape or an arrest, an attack or a defeat, the name of Claverhouse was always in the story. The air was thick with rumors of his doings, and in every cottage enraged Covenanters spoke of his atrocities. No doubt the king had other officers quite as merciless and almost as active, and the names of men like Grierson of Lag and Bruce of Earleshall and that fierce old Muscovite fighter, General Dalziel, were engraved for everlasting reprobation upon the memory of the Scots people. But there was no superstition so mad that it was not credited to Claverhouse, and no act so wicked that it was not believed of him. During the hours of day he ranged the country, a monster thirsting for the blood of innocent men, and the hours of the evening he spent with his associates in orgies worthy of hell. His horse, famous for its fleetness and beauty, was supposed 117 to be an evil spirit, and as for himself, everyone knew that Claverhouse could not be shot except by a silver bullet, because he was under the protection of the devil. Perhaps it is not too much to say that during those black years––black for both sides, and very much so for Claverhouse––he was, in the imagination of the country folk, little else than a devil himself, and it was then he earned the title which has clung to him unto this day and been the sentence of his infamy, “Bloody Claverse.”

Although there were not many houses of importance in the west which Graham had not visited during those years, it happened that he had never been within Paisley Castle, and that he had never met any of the family except the earl and his aged countess. Lady Cochrane and the Covenanting servants could have given a thumb-nail sketch of him which would have done for a mediæval picture of Satan, and an accompanying letter-press of his character which would have been a slander upon Judas Iscariot. Her heroic ladyship had, however, never met Claverhouse, and she prayed God she never would, not because she was afraid of him or of the devil himself, but because she knew it would not be a pleasant interview on either side. But it 118 was not likely in those times that the Dundonalds should altogether escape the notice of the government, or that Graham, ranging through the country seeking whom he might devour, as the Covenanters said, should not find himself some day under their roof. The earl himself was known to be well affected, and in any case did not count, but Lady Cochrane was a dangerous woman, and her brother-in-law, Sir John, had been plotting against the government and was an exile. No one was much surprised when tidings came to the castle early one morning that Claverhouse with two troops of his regiment, his own and the one commanded by Lord Ross, Jean Cochrane’s cousin, was near Paisley, and that Claverhouse with Lord Ross craved the hospitality of the castle. It was natural that he should stay in the chief house of the neighborhood, and all the more as Lord Dundonald was himself notoriously loyal, but it was suspected that he came to gather what information he could about Sir John Cochrane, and to warn Lady Cochrane, the real ruler of the castle, to give heed to her ways.

“The day of trial which separates the wheat from the chaff has come at last, as I expected it would,” said Lady Cochrane, with 119 pride triumphing over concern; “it would have been strange and a cause for searching of hearts if the enemy had visited so many of God’s people and had passed us by as if we were a thing of naught, or indeed were like unto Judas, who had made his peace with the persecutors. Have ye considered what ye will do, my lord?” she said to the earl, who was wandering helplessly up and down the dining-hall.

“Do, my lady?” It was curious to notice how they all called her my lady. “I judge that Claverhouse and any servants he brings must be our guests, and of course Ross. But you know more about what we can do than I. Do you think we could invite the other officers of his troop? There will be Bruce of Earleshall and––” Then, catching Lady Cochrane’s eye, he brought his maundering plans of hospitality to a close. “Doubtless you will send a letter and invite such as the castle may accommodate. I leave everything, Margaret, in your hands.”

“I invite John Graham of Claverhouse and his bloody crew, officers or men it matters not, to cross our threshold and break bread within our walls––I, a daughter of the house of Cassillis and the widow of your faithful son? May my hand be smitten helpless 120 forever if I write such a word, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth if I welcome this slayer of the saints to my home!” And Lady Cochrane rose from her place and stood like a lioness at bay. “Receive that servant of the Evil One into Paisley Castle? Yea, I would receive him if I could. If early word had been sent of his approach and it were in my power, I would call together every man in this region who is true unto God and the Covenant, and I would close the gates of the castle and bid the persecutor take it by force. I should count it an honor before the Lord to shed my own blood in its defence. But I doubt that may not be.”

“What shall I do, then?” in answer to a quavering question from the earl, who was now huddled in a chair before the huge open fireplace. “I would leave the castle if it were not too late, and seek some lodging till Claverhouse be gone, for I fear to dwell beneath the same roof with this man of blood lest the Lord smite us with a common destruction. See him or speak with him I will not; I will to my own rooms, and there I will seclude myself, praying that God may speedily judge this man, and cast him from his place. Lord Dundonald, I will leave it 121 to you to play the host: very likely ye will not have much sorrow over it, for ye have more than a friendly heart to the Malignants.”

“It seems to me, if I be not too bold in saying it, that ye are taking a wise course, my lady, for there might arise some slight debate between you and Claverhouse, and that in the present circumstances would not be convenient. Not quite, as I said, convenient. You are a brave woman, Margaret, and worthy of your honorable house, but Claverhouse is the king’s officer, and I forget––my memory is not what it was––the number of men in a troop, but he has two troops with him. Apart from that,” rambled on the earl, “we must remember John, who is in danger, and we may not give offence if we can speak a canny word which will get the right side of Claverhouse.”

“Ye have learned your lesson well, my lord, and ye will do your part in this day of expediency when men are more concerned about their safety and that of their children than that of the kirk of God and the cause of righteousness. I make sure that there will be much fair talk between you and your guests, but I cannot breathe this air, and so you will excuse me from your company. 122 Jean, you will come with your mother and stay with me till this plague has left the house, for I count a visit of Claverhouse worse than leprosy or the black death.”

“Craving your pardon, mother,” said Jean, who had been listening to this conversation with intense sympathy, and entering keenly into the contrast between the earl and Lady Cochrane, “I will not go with you and hide myself till Colonel Graham be gone. There should, it seems to me, be some woman by the side of the head of the house, especially when he is no longer young, to receive Claverhouse, for whether we hate or love him he is our guest while underneath this roof. I am not afraid of him, and I will make free to confess that I desire to see this man of whom we have heard so much ill. It may be, after all, that he is not what those foolish people think. At any rate, by your leave, I shall stand by the earl’s side if he will have me.”

“Ye speak boldly, girl. Though you have often debated with me more than was becoming, I do not recall till this day that ye have disobeyed me. But be it so, since this gives pleasure to his lordship” (who had crept over and was standing, as it were, under the shield of his bold granddaughter). 123 “Only, one word of warning, if ye be not too proud and high-minded to take it. Albeit this man has the heart of Pontius Pilate, and will be the curse of everyone that has to do with him, yet the story goes that the master whom he serves has given him a fair face and beguiling words, and I bid you beware. But from what I hear outside it is time I left. Your guest is at your gate: I pray you may have comfort in him, and that he may not bring a shadow to this home.” And Lady Cochrane swept her majestic way out of the dining-hall; and retired to her apartments in another wing.

As she left, the earl, with Jean, went to the public door of the hall to meet Lord Ross and Claverhouse, who, without waiting for any invitation to stay in the castle, had come to pay their respects to the earl. They were already ascending the narrow stone stairs by which visitors came from the courtyard to the hall, and almost as soon as the earl and Jean had taken their places, Lord Ross came through the doorway, and having bowed to the earl turned aside to present Claverhouse. Jean saw him for the first time framed in the arch of the door, and never while she lived, even after she was the loyal wife of another man, forgot the sight. Ten years 124 had passed since Graham jested at the camp-fire with his comrades of the English Volunteers, on the night before the battle of Sineffe, but war, with many anxieties, had left only slight traces upon his face. He was no longer a soldier of fortune, but the commander of “His Majesty’s Own Regiment of Horse,” and a colonel in the king’s army. By this time also he was a member of the Privy Council, and a favorite person at Court; he had held various offices and taken part in many public affairs. Yet he was the same gracious and engaging figure, carrying on his face the changeless bloom of youth, though now thirty-six years of age. He was in the handsome uniform of his regiment, completed by a polished and gleaming breastplate over which his neckerchief of white lace streamed, while his face looked out from the wealth of brown hair which fell over his shoulders. His left hand rested on his sword, and Jean marked the refinement and delicacy of his right hand, which was ungloved, as if for salutation. The day had been cloudy, and the hall, with its stone floor, high roof, oaken furniture, and walls covered by dark tapestry, was full of gloom, only partially relieved by the firelight from the wide, open hearth. While Claverhouse was coming 125 up the stairs to the sound of his spurs and the striking of his sword against the wall, the sun came out from behind a cloud, and a ray of light streaming from an opposite window fell upon the doorway as he entered. It lingered but for a moment, and after touching his picturesque figure as with a caress, disappeared, and the eyes of John Graham and Jean Cochrane met.

They were the opposite of each other: he slight and graceful, she tall and strong; he dark and rich of complexion, with hazel eye, she fair and golden, with eyes of gray-blue; he a born and convinced Cavalier, and she a born and professed Covenanter; he a kinsman of the great marquis whom the Covenanters beheaded, and she on her mother’s side the daughter of a house which hated Montrose and all his works. There was nothing common between them; they stood distant as the east from the west, and yet in that instant their hearts were drawn together. They might never confess their love––there would be a thousand hindrances to give it effect––it was in the last degree unlikely that they could ever marry, but it had come to pass with them as with innumerable lovers, that love was born in an instant.

“I thank you, my lord,” said Claverhouse, 126 bowing low to the earl, “for this friendly greeting, and for the invitation you now give to be your guest during my short stay in the district. It is strange that through some ordering of circumstances, to me very disappointing, I have never had the honor of offering to you an assurance of my respect as a good subject of the king, and one whom the king has greatly honored. As you know, my lord, I come and go hastily on the king’s business. I only wish, and I judge his Majesty would join in the wish, that my visits to those parts were fewer. One is tempted, preachers tell us, to think well of himself, overmuch indeed, maybe, but I have been wonderfully delivered from the snare of imagining that I am a beloved person in the west of Scotland.” As he spoke, a sudden and almost roguish look of humor sprang from his eyes and played across his face. And he smiled pleasantly to Lady Jean, to whom he was now introduced, and whose hand he kissed.

“You will give your indulgence to a poor soldier who must appear in this foolish trapping of war, and whose time in these parts is spent in the saddle rather than in a lady’s rooms. I trust that it is well with the Lady Cochrane, of whom I have often heard, and 127 whom I dared to hope I might have the privilege of meeting.” And a second time the same smile flickered over Claverhouse’s face, and he seemed to challenge Jean for an answer.

“My mother, Colonel Graham,” responded Jean, with a careful choice of words, “does not find herself able to receive you to-day as we would have wished, and I fear she may be confined to her room during your visit. It will, I fear, be the greater loss to you that you have to accept me in her place, but we will try to give you such attention as we can, and my good cousin here knows the castle as if it were his own home.”

“Yes, and he has often spoken of our fair hostess of to-day”––and Claverhouse led Lady Jean to the table, where a meal was spread––“and everyone has heard how wide is the hospitality of Paisley Castle. Am I too bold in asking whether Lord Ross and I are the only guests, or whether we may not expect to have a blessing on this generous board from some minister of the kirk, even perhaps from the worthy Mr. Henry Pollock? I think, my lord, he favors you sometimes with his company.” Again the smile returned, but this time more searching and ironical.

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“Pollock? Henry? That name sounds familiar. One of the leaders of the hillmen, isn’t he, who were giving such trouble to the government? I am not sure but he was in this district not long ago, maybe a month since. Last Monday, was it? Well, you will know better than I do, Colonel. My Lady Cochrane and I don’t perhaps quite agree in this, but I can’t approve of any trafficking with persons disaffected to the government. Gone! what, did any man say that Pollock was here?” And the earl shuffled in his chair beneath Claverhouse’s mocking eyes.

“If you desire to know the truth,” Jean Cochrane said, with severe dignity, “it were better not to ask my lord, because many come and go, and he sometimes forgets their names. Mr. Henry Pollock was our guest three days ago, as you are ours to-day, but next day he left, and we know not where he is. If, as I judge, you have surrounded the castle, I think you might let your troopers go to their dinner.”

“It is good advice,” laughed Claverhouse, concealing his disappointment, and nodding to Lord Ross, who rose and left the table, to send off the soldiers. “For one thing, at any rate, I have come a day behind the fair, and I shall not have the pleasure this time of 129 hearing some gracious words from that eminent saint, and introducing my unworthy self to his notice. We have met once or twice before, but at a distance, and he had no leisure to speak with me. Some day I hope to be more fortunate.”

“When you do meet, Colonel Graham,” retorted Jean, stung by this mockery, for she knew now that one of the ends of Claverhouse’s visit was the arrest of Pollock, and if it had not been the accident of her refusal, Pollock would have been Claverhouse’s prisoner, “you will be in the company of a good man and a brave, who may not be of your way, but who, I will say in any presence, is a gentleman of Christ.”

“Whatever else befall him, Pollock is fortunate in his advocate.” Claverhouse looked curiously at Jean. “God knows I do not desire to say aught against him. Had I found him in Paisley Castle I should have done my duty, and he would have done his. We were together in the old days at St. Andrew’s, and he was a good Cavalier then; he is a man of family and of honor. Pardon me if I think he has chosen the wrong side, and is doing vast evil in stirring up ignorant people against the government and breeding lawlessness. But there, I desire not to debate, 130 and none grieves more over the divisions of the day than an unhappy soldier who is sent to settle them by the rough medicine of the sword. Henry Pollock has chosen his side and taken his risk: I have chosen mine and taken my risk, too. If it be his lot when the time comes he will die as a brave man should, for there is no cowardice in Pollock, and when my time comes, may heaven give me the same grace. But I fear, Lady Jean, it is a struggle unto life or death.” Claverhouse’s face grew stern and sad, and he repeated, “Unto life or death.”

Then suddenly his face relaxed into the old polite, mocking smile as he turned to Lord Dundonald. “The Lady Jean and I have fallen upon much too serious talk, and I take blame, my lord, that I have not been inquiring for the welfare of your family. I congratulate you on my Lord Cochrane, who well sustains the fame of your house on all its sides for turning out strong men and fair women. Some day I hope Cochrane will ask for a commission in his Majesty’s Regiment of Horse and join his kinsman Ross under my command. But what news have you from Sir John? It came to my ears somehow that he was travelling abroad; is that so, my lord? Some one told me also that you had a letter from him a week ago.”

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“John! We have not seen him for a year. He was in London, but he is not there now. Yes, I seem to remember that he had some business which has taken him out of the country for a little. We hope he will soon return, and when he knows that you have done us the honor of coming beneath our roof he will be very sorry that he was not here to meet you.” The earl havered to the end of his breath and his prevarications, like a clock which had run down.

“It would have been more good fortune than I expected from my information if I had found Sir John here, for unless rumor be a wilder liar than usual he is in Holland, where there is a considerable gathering of worthy Presbyterians at present, taking council together, no doubt, for the good of their country. When you are writing to Sir John, would you of your courtesy give him a message from me? Say that I know Holland well, and that the climate is excellent for Scotsmen––more healthy sometimes, indeed, than their native air––and that some of his well-wishers think that he might be happier there than even in Paisley Castle. If he wishes service in the army, I could recommend him to the notice of my old fellow-officer MacKay of Scourie, who is now, I hear, 132 a general in the Prince’s service. You will be pleased to know, my lord, that the Rye House Plot against his Majesty was a very poor failure, and that all engaged in it, who were caught, will be soundly trounced.”

“If anyone says that my son had anything to do with that damnable proceeding, which all loyal subjects must detest, then he is slandering John, who is–––”

“Your son, my lord, and the brother of my late Lord Cochrane cut off too soon. I am curious to get any gossip from the low country. Would it be too great a labor for you to let your eyes rest again on Sir John’s letters, and to learn whether he has anything to tell about my old commander, his Highness of Orange, or anything else that would satisfy my poor curiosity. Burned them, have you? Strange. If I had a son instead of being a lonely man, I think his letters would be kept. But you are a wise man, my lord, no doubt, and I seem to be doomed to disappointment to-day in everything except the most gracious hospitality. Now, with your permission, Lady Jean, I must go to see that those rascals of mine are not making your good people in the town drink the king’s health too deeply.”

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CHAPTER III

BETWEEN MOTHER AND LOVER

For no less a time than fourteen days did Claverhouse and his men remain in Paisley, to the amazement of the district and the fierce indignation of Lady Cochrane. During that time the soldiers made sudden journeys in various directions, but if they arrested any Covenanters they were never brought to Paisley, and although Lady Cochrane prophesied the murder of the saints every day, no new atrocity was laid to her guest’s charge. Once or twice he went out with his men himself, but he mostly contented himself with directing their operations, and he occupied his time with writing long despatches on the case of Sir John Cochrane and the state of affairs in Scotland. He was not so busy, however, that he had no leisure for the duties of a guest, and now that he had missed Pollock and had found out all he wanted about Sir John, he never came a thousand miles within controversy. He was studiously courteous 134 to the servants at the castle, who had regarded his coming with absolute terror; he calmed and gentled the timid old earl, and drew him out to tell stories of the days of the Commonwealth, when one of Cromwell’s troopers pulled the minister out of the pulpit of the Abbey kirk, and held forth himself on the sins both of Prelacy and Presbytery, declaring that he was as good a priest as any man. Claverhouse made no objection when the minister of the Abbey, who had taken the indulgence and was on good terms with the government, but whom Lady Cochrane detested and considered to be a mere Gallio, came up to hold family worship in the castle. He attended the service himself, and explained that he always had prayers when he was at home, and that he generally had a chaplain with him. When he was not shut up in his room reading or writing despatches, he mingled freely with the family and suited himself to each one’s taste with great tact and good nature. It was not long since he had returned from Court at London, where he was now a popular and influential person, and he had many good tales for young Lord Cochrane, about hunting with the Duke of York, cock-fighting and other sports in vogue, and all the doings of the royal circle. For 135 Jean he had endless interesting gossip from the capital about the great ladies and famous men, and the amusements of the Court and the varied life of London. But he was careful never to tell any of those tales which buzzed through the land about the ways of Charles, but which were not fit for a maiden’s ears. From time to time, also, as they walked together in the pleasaunce of the castle, they touched on deeper things, and Jean marked that, although this man had lived a soldier’s life, and had been much with people who were far removed from Puritanism, he was free from the coarseness of the day, and that, although he might be capable of severity and even cruelty, he was of more fastidious and chivalrous temper than anyone else she had met among the Covenanters except Henry Pollock. Unconsciously Jean began to compare the two men, and to weigh their types of character. There was nothing to choose between them in honor or in manliness, though the one was a minister of the Evangel and the other a colonel of his Majesty’s Horse, but they were different. Pollock, with all his narrowness of faith and extravagance of action, was a saint, and no one could say that of Claverhouse, even though they might admit he was not the devil of the 136 Covenanting imagination. But John Graham was more human: he might not see visions, and there never came into his face that light of the other world which she had seen on Pollock’s, but he knew when a woman was walking by his side, and his eyes caressed her. His voice never had that indescribable accent of eternity which thrilled Henry Pollock’s hearers, and was to them as a message from God, but Graham’s speech could turn from grave and courteous mockery, which was very taking in its way, to a gentle deference and respectful appeal, which, from a strong man with so dazzling a reputation, was irresistible to a woman’s heart. Then, no one could deny that his person was beautiful––a rare thing to say of a man––or that his manner was gracious, and Jean began to admit to herself that if he set himself he would be a successful lover. The very contradiction of the man––with so graceful a form and so high a spirit, with so evil a name for persecution and so engaging a presence, with such a high tone of authority among the men in power and so modest a carriage towards maidens––made him a captivating guest and dangerous to women’s hearts. There was also a natural sympathy between John Graham and Jean Cochrane, because, though they 137 had been brought up under different traditions and were on opposite sides, they were both resolute, honest, independent, and loyal. No word or hint of love passed between them during those days, but Jean knew that for the first time her heart had been touched, and Claverhouse, who had seen all kinds of women and had been indifferent to them all, and who for the beauty of him had been tempted at Court quite shamelessly and had remained cold as ice, understood at last the attraction of a maid for a man, and also realized that Jean Cochrane was a fit mate for him because her spirit was as high as his own.

They were trying days for Lady Cochrane in her self-enforced seclusion, and her temper was not improved by the news, brought diligently to her by her waiting-maid, that her daughter was doing her utmost to make the persecutor’s time pass pleasantly. Her mother had no suspicion at this point that Jean was really wavering in loyalty to the good cause, but as a woman with insight and discernment she knew the danger to which Jean was exposed, and blamed herself for her own inconvenient pride. What if by way of putting a slight on this arch enemy she were to sacrifice her own child? It was impossible, of course, that any daughter of hers should 138 ever allow her affections to be entangled by the murderer of the saints, and Claverhouse dared not, if he would, marry a Cochrane, for he might as well throw up his commission and join Henry Pollock at the next preaching on the moors. But foolish ideas might come into the girl’s head, and it was said that Claverhouse could appear as an angel of light. It might be as well to strengthen and safeguard her daughter against the wiles of the wicked one, so she summoned her to her room, and, as her manner was, dealt with Jean in a straightforward and faithful fashion. Lady Cochrane had, however, learned that her daughter could not be browbeaten or captured by direct assault, but that, however thorough might be her own mind and uncompromising her will, she would have to walk warily with Jean.

“It was an ill wind that blew that evil man to this castle, and an ill work, I make no doubt, he has been after in this district. He came like a bloodhound to catch Henry Pollock, and like a fox to get what news he could about Sir John. What he lingers for his master only knows, but it grieves me, lassie, that ye have had the burden of him on your shoulders. They are too light, though they may be stronger than most, for such a weight; 139 I will not deny your spirit, but he, as the Proverb goes, must have a lang spoon to sup wi’ the deil. Has he spoken civilly”––and Lady Cochrane eyed her daughter keenly––“or has he been saying evil of our house and the cause?”

“Claverhouse has said no evil of any man that I can mind of, mother,” replied Jean coldly; “and what he did say about Mr. Henry Pollock would have rather pleased than angered you. He does not discourse without ceasing, as certain do when they come to the castle, about the times and all the black troubles; he seems to me rather to avoid matters of debate, I suppose because they would give offence. I doubt whether you could quarrel with him if you met him.”

“What, then, is the substance of his talk––for, if all stories be true, it is not much he knows of anything but war and wicked people? What has he for a godly maiden to hear?”

“Nothing worth mentioning, mayhap”––and Jean spoke with almost studied indifference––“what is going on in London, and how the great ladies of the Court are dressed, and the clever things the king says, and how the Duke of York loves sport, and suchlike. 140 It would please you to hear him, for ye have seen the Court.”

“Once, Jean, and never again by God’s mercy, for it is a spring of corruption from which pours every evil work, where no man can live clean, and no chaste woman should ever go. The like of it has not been seen for wickedness since the daughter of Herodias danced before Herod and his lewd courtiers, and obtained the head of John the Baptist on a charger for her reward. Black shame upon John Graham! Cruel he is, but I thought he would not pollute any girl’s ears with such immodest tales.” And Lady Cochrane was beginning to lose control of herself.

“Colonel Graham said never a word which it were unbecoming a maiden to hear, and especially a daughter of Lady Cochrane.” And Jean grew hot with indignation. “His talk was about the ceremonies and the dresses; there was no mention of any wrongdoings. Nor was his speech always of London, for he touched on many other things, and seemed to me to have right thoughts, both of how men should live and die. For example, he said, that though Mr. Henry Pollock and he differ, Mr. Henry was a good and brave gentleman.”

“Did he, indeed?” and Lady Cochrane was very scornful. “Doubtless that was 141 very cunning on his part, and meant to tickle your ears. But ye know, Jean, that if by evil chance, or rather, let us say, a dark ordering of the Lord, he had caught Mr. Henry here, like a bird in the snare of the fowler, he would have given him a short trial. If ye had cared to look ye would have seen that godly man shot in our own courtyard by six of Claverhouse’s dragoons. Aye, and he would have given the order in words as smooth as butter, and come back to tell you brave tales of the court ladies with a smile upon his bonnie face. May God smite his beauty with wasting and destruction!”

“Mother,” said Jean, flushing and throwing back her head, “ye speak what ye believe to be true, and many hard things are done in these black days on both sides; but after I have spoken with Claverhouse, I cannot think that he would have any good man killed in cold blood.”

“What does it matter, Jean, what you think, for it is weel kent that a young lassie’s eye is caught in the snare of a glancing eye and a gallant’s lovelocks. Listen to me, and I will tell you what three weeks ago this fair-spoken and sweet-smiling cavalier did. He was hunting for the hidden servants of the Lord in the wild places of Ayrshire, and he 142 caught near his own house a faithful professor of religion, on whose head a price was set, and for whose blood those sons of Belial were thirsting. Claverhouse demanded that he should take the oath, which no honest man can swear, and of which ye have often heard. And when that brave heart would not, because he counted his life not dear to him for the Lord’s sake, Claverhouse gave him three minutes to pray before he died. You are hearing me, Jean, for I have not done?

“The martyr of the Lord prayed so earnestly for his wife and children, for the downtrodden Kirk of Scotland, and for his murderer, that Graham ordered him to rise from his knees, because his time was come. When he rose he was made to stand upon the green before his own house, with his wife and bairns at the door, and Claverhouse commanded so many of his men to fire upon him. Ah! ye would have seen another Claverhouse than ye know in that hour. But that is not all.

“His dragoons are ignorant and ungodly men, accustomed to blood, but after hearing that prayer their hearts were softened within them and they refused to fire. So Graham took a pistol from his saddle, and with his own hands slew the martyr. Ye are hearing, Jean, but there is more to follow. With her 143 husband lying dead before her eyes, Claverhouse asked his wife what she thought of her man now. That brave woman, made strong in the hour of trial, wrapt her husband’s head in a white cloth and took it on her lap, and answered: ‘I have always honored him, but I have never been so proud of him as this day. Ye will have to answer to man and God for this.’ This is what he gave back to her: ‘I am not afraid of man, and God I will take into my own hands.’ That is how he can deal with women, Jean, when he is on his errands of blood, and that is what he thinks of God. But his day is coming, and the judgment of the Lord will not tarry.”

“Ye will have to answer to man and God for this.” Page 143.

“My lady,” said Jean, who had grown very pale, and whose face had hardened through this ghastly story, “that, I am certain as I live, is a lie. Colonel Graham might order the Covenanter to be shot, and that were dreadful enough. He would never have insulted his wife after such a base manner––none but a churl would do that, and Claverhouse is not base-born.”

“He is base, girl, who does basely, it matters not how fair he be or how pleasing in a lady’s room. And I am not sure about his respect for ladies and the high ways of what ye would call his chivalry. Mayhap ye have not 144 heard the story of his courting––then I have something else, and a lighter tale for your ears, but whether it please you better I know not. Though I begin to believe ye are easily satisfied.” At the mention of courting Lady Cochrane searched the face of her daughter, but though Jean was startled she gave no sign.

“There be many tales which fly up and down the land, and are passed from mouth to mouth among the children of this world, and some of them are not for a godly maiden’s ears, since they are maistly concerned wi’ chambering and wantonness. But this thing ye had better hear, and then ye will understand what manner of man in his walk and conversation we are harboring beneath our roof. For a’ he look so grand and carries his head so high, he has little gold in his purse, but the black devil of greed is in his heart. So, like the lave of the gallants that drink and gamble and do waur things at the king’s court, he has been hunting for some lass that will bring him a tocher (dowry) and a title. For this is what the men of his generation are ever needing. Ye follow me, Jean? This may be news to a country lass wha has not been corrupted among the king’s ladies.

“Weel, it’s mair than three years ago our brave gentleman scented his game, and ever 145 since has been trying to trap this misguided lass, for like the rest o’ them, when he is not persecuting the saints, he is ruining innocent women soul and body. I would have you understand that, daughter, and maybe ye will walk with him less in the pleasaunce.” Both women were standing, and Lady Cochrane was watching Jean to see whether she had touched her. Her daughter gave no sign except that her face was hardening, and she tapped the floor with her foot.

“Ye may not have heard of Helen Graham, for she belongs to another world from ours, and one I pray God ye may never see the inside of, for a black clan to Scotland have been the Grahams from the Marquis himself, who was a traitor to the Covenant and a scourge to Israel, to this bonnie kinsman of his, who has the face of a woman and the dress of a popinjay and the heart of a fiend. Now, it happens that this fair lass, whom I pity both for her blood and for her company, for indeed she is a daughter of Heth and hath the portion of her people, is heiress to the Earl of Monteith, and whaso-ever marries her will succeed to what money there is and will be an earl in his own richt. A fine prize for an avaricious and ambitious worldling.

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“For years, then, as I was saying, Claverhouse has been scheming and plotting to capture Helen Graham and to make himself Earl o’ Monteith. It wasna sic easy work as shootin’ God’s people on the hillside, and for a while the sun didna shine on his game. Some say the Marquis wanted her for himself, and then John Graham of Claverhouse would have to go behind like a little dog to his master’s heel. Some say that her father had some compunction in handing over his daughter into sic cruel hands. Some say that the lass had a lover of her own, though that is neither here nor there with her folk. But it’s no easy throwing a bloodhound off the track, and now I hear he has gained his purpose, and afore he left the Court and came back to his evil trade in Scotland the contract of marriage was settled, and ane o’ these days we will be hearing that a Graham has married a Graham, and that both o’ them have gotten the portion that belongeth to the unrighteous. Ye ken, Jean, that I have never loved the foolish gossip which fills the minds o’ idle folk when they had better be readin’ their Bibles and praying for their souls, but I judged it expedient that ye should know that Claverhouse is as gude as a married man.”

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“If he were not,” said Jean, looking steadily at her mother, and drawing herself up to her full height, “there is little danger he would come to Paisley Castle for his love, or find a bride in my Lady Cochrane’s daughter. Ye have given me fair warning and have used very plain speech, but I was wondering with myself all the time”––and then as her mother waited and questioned her by a look––“whether miscalling a man black with the shameful lies of his enemies is not the surest way to turn the heart of a woman towards him. But doubtless ye ken best.” Without further speech Jean left her mother’s room, who felt that she would have succeeded better if her daughter had been less like herself.

Jean gave, truth to tell, little heed to the stories of Claverhouse’s savagery, partly because rough deeds were being done on both sides, and they were not so much horrified in the West Country of that time at the shooting of a man as we are in our delicate days; partly, also, because she had been fed on those horrors for years, and had learned to regard Claverhouse and the other Royalist officers as men capable of any atrocity. Gradually the dramatic stories had grown stale and lost their bite, and when she noticed that 148 with every new telling it was necessary to strengthen the horrors, Jean had begun to regard them as works of political fiction. But this was another story about Claverhouse’s engagement to Helen Graham. Jean would not admit to herself, even in her own room or in her own heart, that she was in love with Graham, and she was ready to say to herself that no marriage could be more preposterous than between a Cochrane and a Graham. It did not really matter to her whether he had been engaged or was going to be engaged to one Graham or twenty Grahams. She had never seen him till a few days ago, and very likely, having done all he wanted, he would never come to Paisley Castle again. Their lives had touched just for a space, and then would run forever afterwards apart. They had passed some pleasant hours together, and she would ever remember his face; perhaps he might sometimes recall hers. So the little play would end without ill being done to her or him. Still, as she knew her mother was not overscrupulous, and any stick was good enough wherewith to beat Claverhouse, she would like to know, if only to gratify a woman’s curiosity, whether Claverhouse was really going to marry this kinswoman of his, and, in 149 passing, whether he was the mercenary adventurer of her mother’s description.

This was the reason of a friendly duel between that vivacious woman Kirsty Howieson, Jean Cochrane’s maid and humble friend, and that hard-headed and far-seeing man of Angus, Jock Grimond, Claverhouse’s servant and only too loyal clansman.

“It’s no true every time ‘Like master like man’”––and Kirsty made a bold opening, as was the way of her class––“for I never saw a woman wi’ a bonnier face than Claverhouse, and, my certes, mony a lass would give ten years o’ her life, aye, and mair, for his brown curls and his glancing een. I’m judgin’ there have been sair hearts for him amang the fair Court ladies.”

“Ye may weel say that, Kirsty,” answered Jock; “if Providence had been pleased to give ye a coontinance half as winsome, nae doot ye would have been married afore this, my lass. As for him, the women just rin after Claverhouse in flooks. It doesna matter whether it be Holland or whether it be London, whether it be duchesses at Whitehall or merchants’ daughters at Dundee, he could have married a hundred times over wi’ money and rank and beauty and power. Lord’s sake! the opportunities he has had, 150 and the risks he has run, it’s been a merciful thing he had me by his side to be, if I may say it, a guide and a protector.”

“If the Almichty hasna done muckle for your face, Jock, He’s given you a grand conceit o’ yoursel’, and that must be a rael comfort. I wish I’d a share o’ it. So you have preserved your maister safe till this day, and he’s still gaeing aboot heart-free and hand-free.”

“Na, Kirsty”––and Grimond looked shrewdly at her––“I’ll no say that Claverhouse isna bound to marry some day or ither, and, of course, in his posseetion it behove him to find a lady of his ain rank and his ain creed. Noo, what I’m tellin’ ye is strictly between oorsel’s, and ye’re no to mention it even to your ain mistress. Claverhouse is contracted in marriage to Miss Helen Graham, the daughter of Sir James Graham, his own uncle, and the heiress to the Earl of Monteith. Ye see, Miss Helen is his kinswoman, and she brings him an earldom in her lap. Besides that she’s verra takin’ in her appearance and manner, and I needna say just hates a Covenanter as she would a brock (badger). It’s a maist suitable match every way ye look at it, and it has my entire approbation. But no a word aboot this, mind 151 ye, Kirsty––though I was juist thinkin’ this afternoon of recommendin’ Claverhouse to let this contract be known. He’s an honorable man, is the laird, and, by ordinary, weel-livin’; but there’s nae doot he is awfu’ temptit by women, and I wouldna like to see their hearts broken.”

“A word in season to my Lady Jean, if I’m no sair mistaken”––and Jock chuckled to himself when Kirsty had gone––“and a warning to the laird micht no be amiss. It would be fine business for a Graham o’ Claverhouse to marry a Covenantin’ fanatic and the daughter o’ sic a mither. Dod! it would be fair ruin for his career, and misery for himsel’. I’ll no deny her looks, but I’ll guarantee she has her mither’s temper. What would Claverhouse have done without me––though I wouldna say that to onybody except mysel’––he would have been just an object––aye, aye, just a fair object.”

As Grimond had communicated the engagement of Claverhouse to Helen Graham under the form of a secret, he was perfectly certain that Kirsty would tell it that evening to her mistress and in the end to the whole castle. But he thought it wise to reinforce the resolution of the other side, and when he waited 152 on his master that evening he laid himself out for instruction.

“Ye would have laughed hearty, Mr. John, if you had heard the officers over their wine this afternoon in the town. Lord Ross wasna there, and so they had the freedom o’ their tongues, and if Sir Adam Blair wasna holdin’ out that you had fallen in love wi’ Lady Jean, and the next thing they would hear would be a marriage that would astonish Scotland. Earleshall nearly went mad, and said that if ye did that you would be fairly bewitched, and that you might as well join the Covenanters. I tell ye, laird, they nearly quarrelled over it, and I am telt they got so thirsty that they drank fourteen bottles o’ claret to five o’ them besides what they had before. Ye will excuse me mentionin’ this, for it’s no for me to tell you what the gentlemen speak aboot, but I thought a bit o’ daffin’ (amusement) micht lichten ye after the day’s work.”

“It is no concern of mine what the officers say between themselves, and I’ve told you before, Grimond, that you are not to bring any idle tales you pick up to my ears. You’ve done this more than once, and I lay it on you not to do it again.”

“Surely, Mr. John, surely. I ken it’s no becoming and I’ll no give ye cause to complain 153 again. But as sure as death, when I heard them saying it as I took in your message to Earleshall I nearly dropped on the floor, I was that amused. Claverhouse married to a Covenanter! It was verra takin’.

“Na, na, Mr. John, I kent better than that, but I’m no just comfortable in my mind sae lang as ye are in Paisley Castle and in the company o’ Lady Jean. Her mither is an able besom, and her young ladyship is verra deep. What I’m hearin’ on the ither side o’ the hedge is that she’s trying to get round ye so as to get a pardon for Sir John, and to let him come home from Holland. No, Claverhouse, ye maunna be angry wi’ me, for I’ve waited on ye longer than ye mind, and I canna help bein’ anxious. Ye are a grand soldier, and ye’ve been a fine adviser to the government. There’s no mony things ye’re no fit for, Mr. John, but the women are cunning, and have aye made a fule o’ the men since Eve led Adam aff the straicht and made sic a mishanter o’ the hale race. They say doon stairs that Lady Jean is getting roond ye fine, and that if it wasna that her family wanted something from you, you would never have had a blink o’ her, ony mair than her auld jade o’ a mither. For a hypocrite give 154 me a Covenanter, and, of course, the higher they are the cleverer.

“Just ae word more, Claverhouse, and I pray ye no to be angry, for there’s naebody luves ye better than Jock Grimond. I hear things ye canna hear, and I see things ye canna see. Naebody would tell you that Lady Jean and Pollock, the Covenantin’ minister, are as gude as man and wife. They may no be married yet, but they will be as sune as it’s safe, and that’s how he comes here so often. She has a good reason to speak ye fair, laird, and she has a souple tongue and a beguilin’ way, juist a Delilah. Laird, as sure as I’m a livin’ man this is a hoose o’ deceit, and we are encompassed wi’ fausehood as wi’ a garment.” And although Claverhouse’s rebuke was hot, Grimond felt that he had not suffered in vain.

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CHAPTER IV

“THY PEOPLE SHALL BE MY PEOPLE, THY GOD MY GOD”

A month had passed before Claverhouse returned to Paisley, and this time he made his headquarters in the town, and did not accept the hospitality of the castle, excusing himself on the ground of his many and sudden journeys. His real reason was that he thought it better to keep away, both for his own sake and that of Jean Cochrane. During his lonely rides he had time to examine the state of his feelings, and he found himself more deeply affected than he thought; indeed he confessed to himself that if he were to marry he should prefer Jean to any other woman he had ever met. But he remembered her ancestry, especially her mother, and her creed, which was the opposite of his, and he knew that either she would not marry him because he was the chief opponent of her cause, or if he succeeded in winning her, he would most likely be discredited at Court by 156 this suspicious marriage. It was better not to see her, or to run any further risks. He had made many sacrifices––all his life was to be sacrificed for his cause––and this would only be one more. He tried also to think the matter out from her side, and although he hated to think that she was a traitress trying to ensnare him for her own ends, yet it might be that her family were making a tool of her to seduce him from the path of duty, and although he doubted whether she was betrothed to Pollock, yet it might be true, and he certainly was not going to be Pollock’s unsuccessful rival. Altogether, it was expedient that they should not see one another, and Claverhouse contented himself with sending a courteous message by Lord Ross to the earl and Lady Jean, and busied himself with his public and by no means agreeable task of Covenanter-hunting. As, however, he had received the very thoughtful and generous hospitality of the castle on his last visit, and as Lord Ross was constantly saying that the earl would like to see him, he determined to call on the afternoon before his departure. Lady Cochrane, as usual, did not appear, and neither did her daughter, and after a futile conversation with Dundonald, who seemed feebler than ever, Claverhouse left, and had it 157 not been for a sudden whim, as he was going through the courtyard, he had never seen Jean Cochrane again, and many things would not have happened. But there was a way of reaching the town through the pleasaunce, and under the attraction of past hours spent among its trees Claverhouse turned aside, and walking down one of its grass walks, and thinking of an evening in that place with Jean, he came suddenly upon her on her favorite seat beneath a spreading beech.

“I crave your pardon, my Lady Jean,” said Claverhouse, recovering himself after an instant’s discomposure, “for this intrusion upon your chosen place and your meditation. My excuse is the peace of the garden after the wildness of the moors, but I did not hope to find so good company. My success in Paisley Castle has been greater than among the moss-hags.”

“It is a brave work, Colonel Graham, to hunt unarmed peasants”––and for the first time Claverhouse caught the ironical note in Jean’s speech, and knew that for some reason she was nettled with him––“and it seems to bring little glory. Though, the story did come to our ears, it sometimes brought risk, and––perhaps it was a lie of the Covenanters––once 158 ended in the defeat of his Majesty’s Horse. I seem to forget the name of the place.”

“Yes,” replied Claverhouse with great good humor, “the rascals had the better of us at Drumclog. They might have the same to-morrow again, for the bogs are not good ground for cavalry, and fanatics are dour fighters.”

“It was Henry Pollock ye were after this time, we hear, and ye followed him hard, but ye have not got him. It was a sair pity that you did not come a day sooner to the castle, and then you could have captured him without danger.” And Lady Jean mocked him openly. “Ye would have tied his hands behind his back and his feet below the horse’s belly, and taken him to Edinburgh with a hundred of his Majesty’s Horse before him and a hundred behind to keep him safe; ye would have been a proud man, Colonel Graham, when ye came and presented the prisoner to your masters. May I crave of you the right word, for I am only a woman of the country? Would Mr. Henry Pollock have been a prisoner of war––of war?” she repeated with an accent and look of vast contempt.

Never had Claverhouse admired her more than at that moment, for the scorn on her face 159 became her well, and he concluded that it must spring from one of two causes. Most likely, after all, Pollock was her lover.

“‘Tis not possible, my Lady Jean,” softening his accent till it was as smooth as velvet, and looking at the girl through half-closed eyes, “to please everyone to whom he owes duty in this poor world. If I had been successful for my master his Majesty the King––I cannot remember the name of any other master––then I would have arrested a rebel and a maker of strife in the land, and doubtless he would have suffered his just punishment. That would have been my part towards the king and towards Mr. Henry Pollock, too, and therein have I for the time failed. To-morrow, Lady Jean, I may succeed.”

“Perhaps,” she said, looking at him from a height, “and perhaps not. And to whom else do you owe a duty, and have you filled it better?”