Evening Star Newspaper, June 29, 1895, Page 14

14 THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JUNE 29, 1895-TWENTY PAGES. (Copsright, 189, by Irving Bacheller.) CHAPTER L—THE ROBBER OF LEAD HILLS. It was at the change house of the “King’s Rest,” at the entering in of the pass which leads to the lead mines of the Lowther Hills, that Sir James Standafield and I fore- gathered. I had been down in the shire of Dumfries, where in the parish of Morton there was word of a vacancy, owing to the ill-doing of the incumbent. So, having some influence with Drumlanrig, who had the chief say in the matter, through my mother having been a servant with the laird, I journeyed down with water to push my claims. In the days of my youth, it is true that I had companied with the hill folk, but long ago I @iscerned the error of my ways, desiring to be married and seeing no prospect of It, save in taking of the Test, and afterward, by means df Drumlanrig and the bishop of Galloway, getting a parish in which to settle down. “And how go the curates?” eried Sir James 80 soon as he saw me, for he was mostly a jovial man, and had now a glass of strong waters before him. “How go the curates In Dumfries? Have they all been rabbled since the king's popish proclama- tion, or have they yet learned to read with- out their finger at the line?’ “There is one of them out of place, and that in the good parish of Morton,” said hich it is my hope to obtain by the good will of Drumlanrig.” “Ye are some kin to him, I have heard say!” said Sir James, pawkily. No kin whatsoever,” I made answer, with some heat, “save that my mother was sometime maid to the old Lady Drum- lanrig.” “And left of her own accord to be mar- THE ried to Gibby Beil, the Muirkirk carrier— well do I mind of it,” said Sir James. So we had bite of bread and stoup of ale together, and were merry in sober and sedate fasnion, speaking chiefly of the evil State of the country, of the exactions of the king’s men, which waxed worse and Ww and the frenzy of the fanatical party that had threatened to turn the world upside down if they had their will. ntly the lass of the change house, one and plump, ‘to whom, for my shaming, Sir James slandered me, telling her that I was a merry curate and game- some, opened the coor, and came to us where we fat at table. “Gentiemen,” she said, speaking very well and clearly for a countr: “bear with me if I say that it behooves you to set out ere it he dusk, for there are ill folk about, and you might come to an in- jury. “Which,” said Sir Jam you wish not to so sportive a lad as this my friend here, and one that hath a beard to his face wherein there is yet not a hair of gra “Indeed,” said She, turning on him with “I see nought the matter with the J n's beard, nor yet seems he so Merry as those whose beards are grayer, d therefore might have more sense. -_ “And well said for _a brave lass!" cried Sir James. ‘The maid had me on the hip that time and has thrown me fairly. Here is a silver shilling for you, Marget. What hast thou to say to that?" The plump, well-shapen maid servant took the silver piece between her teeth and Dit upon it sedately. “I say that your silver is better than your wit (which God mend), Sir James,” she said, and looked at me as she said it, in a way that was not becoming to reply to. So that instead, I looked with modesty upon the ground. ‘Then with that and no more we mounted and rode away, both of us being well horsed, Sir James riding upon a hackney of gray, and I on a roan, which Drum- lanrig had given me from'a whig’s farm hotse—one of the Welshes of Scaur, as I learned afterward, when they came upon me to make me restore it. It was by a solitary pass that broke a way through the hills, where the water: run up into the heart of the blind “Hope: that Sir James and I were riding slowly talking peaceably, and taking solid pleas- ure in our conversation. For James had ever a leaning for the things of the kirk, and, if his star had risen in the right sea- son, he had made none so fll a minister. So we discoursed of foreknowledge, of the right of the civil magistrate, and of the Urim and Thummim, which are all vexed and difficult questions; so that it was great pleasure to me to dispute with one so learned and discreet as Sir James, though he was, to my thinking, ever a little over- whigish in his beliefs, and, as I knew, had no great opinion of those ministers’ who had taken the Test. We went thus daintily and cozily along, pacing upon our emblmg palfreys, when all of a sudden—“Crack!” There went off a shot behind us, and Sir James’ horse set pro head down and spread its heels in the gir. I looked over my shoulder, and saw a tall young man, riding upon a heavy cart horse as it had been fresh frem a plow tail, and with a pair of pistols ready bended in his hand, pursuing after us with a dark and fearsome countenance. At this I had very &reat fear, for I had heard the stories of the ill folk that companied about the roots of the hills and waited the passage of those that were honest. I looked to see Sir James face about and draw weapon of war upon the assailant. But he was already setting spurs to his horse and dashing headlong down the ra- vine, making speed, and not steel, keep his head. So, being by my cloth no man of War, and with no weapon but a riding whip, I put my horse to his stride, and drew ahead of the young man upon the heavy Work horse, But the clappering of the broad hoofs Pounding behind me sounded so perilous and made me so ill at ease that when we Fassed a little runnel of water, with fern and bracken thereabout, I thought it fitter that I should cast myself from my horse and take refuge under the green covert. This I did with ease, for the beast I rode was a little roan of Galloway; and I, being long of the If off without peril and 1 the under- growth. Foi and the most peaceable was & to me. I peeped out a an look about him to s spy me, and right glad was I that he could not. But I observed him pursue Sir James with more deadly fury, and spur his horse to its speed. Nevertheless, Sir James, on his light roan, had easily the heels of him. And at this I saw the young man stop his beast, and with his elbow for a rest take a deliberate aim at the back of my companion. At the noise of the pistol I closed my eyes. For so tender was my heart that I dared not look out lest I should see the good man, my co n, dead upon the heather. “But presently I heard the § man return, cursing and swear’ and say! “The devil rive him! Curse on the faise aim, the deceitful bullet, the evil fat Whereat lged that his cruel intent could not el well. So by misadven- ture I rais ad and Ieoked about me, And lo! there standing upon the heather within a dezen yards of me was the robber, h his ree pistol yet in his hand. “Ho! ho! have we here?” cried he, coming up to me with his pistol upon his A poor son of the ch I told him, hat had ot the worth ¢ areat about him, and ht of value save his poor n if he were spared woi e man that projonged his indeed," said the young and fleree countenance: ever poer prayers. be up fort Poor p aS ed again on h reat Fiande “Get up, 3 “had it not been for tne: z undering pile-driv ing feet of y I had been howking a hole for both the lion and the ass. Well for you, craven dog, that the gray carried your master w. or I had been obliged to put you in ch with him, to keep your tongue fre telling tales—which is all that it Is go i. So the ribald young man rode away, and I gat me up and went to catch my roan— a work of time and much difficulty. And as I pursued my beast over the moss hag: I saw the young man rising and falling BY “SR Rocket ipon his sodden*and paceless horse. And I blessed the beast, because his manifest de- fects have saved two honest men’s lives that day. Nevertheless, I came not up with Sir James all the way to my own house in Ed- inburgh, so well had his good gray carried nim. The morning of the next day I repaired to the lodging of Sir James Stansfield,which was in a close at the head of West Bow, ‘vhere there are many godly people dwell- ing. Though some of them, alas! for the sake of the times and the favor of the mag- istrates, make a pretense of ungodliness, saying “Devil take” and “Zounds!’: loudty in the street when a notable person passes by. For to us? oaths is counted the mark of a well-affected person by the govern- ment of this time. When I entered I found the worthy knight with his head fallen upon his hand, and a little red book before him of a square shape and well bound in leather. His tears were falling upon the pages, as I judged, to the hurt of the printing. I was for drawing back, for I thought that I had found my friend at his devotions. But his tears inclined me to stay that I might comfort him with the apples of per- tinent advice. “A good morning!’ I bade him, speaking softly and putting my hand on his shoul- ders. But he never gave me a word of answer, but to sigh and groan and read upon his book. “Be of good heart, Sir Jame: I said to him, “for I am going to the town’s au- thority and the privy council, with whom I am in good odor, and, with their help, we shall soon have yon knave by the heels. I saw him so close, and held such discourse with him that I can describe him to a hair.” But Sir James was no ways encouraged. “For,” said he, “it is all worse than use- my shame sits heavy on me. I am “And well said for a brave Iass.” | not a man to make complaint, but yester- day I was hurt to death in my tenderest part.” : “Why,” said I, “the knave surely shot not true. You are not wounded. You rode away briskly enough.” “Yea,” said Sir James, “wounded am I to the heart; for he that shot at me with intent to take my life was my eldest sen Philip.” At hearing of which the life as it were went from me, and I had e’en to sit down on a settle to keep from falling. For then, indeed, I knew that my friend, who seem- ed so mirthful and full of good cheer, had all the time a canker worm gnawing at his heart. At last he lifted his head, and I saw that the book he read in was Burton's. “Mel- ancholy,” the little, square Look of the earliest imprint, which so many count next to their Bibles. Yet I judged it to be mightily unsuitable reading for one so afflicted as he; there- fere, as the right of mine office was, I directed him to lay tt aside and turn to suitable passages of Scripture. And in especial I counseled him to meditate upon the mystical meaning of certain verses in the Canticles and in Ezekiel, upon which I had preached with great comfort to my- self for one year in my last pastoral charge. I was proceeding to expound some of these to him, when he broke out upon me in a way that was certainly not well- becoming in a man of his years and pro- fession. ‘Tut, tut!” he said; “ye are over much giv Mr. Bell, to speak upon matters ye have small understanding of. I find mora egg-meat in’a page of honest Burton than in all the songs of King Solomon—who to my mind might have employed himselt better!” “You speak as a carnal man, and not as an elder, Sir James,” I said to him, for I was ever firm with him; “know you not that these things are to be interpreted after the spir: “Bide ye, Master Bell, till ye ken some- thing about it,” said he; “till ye are a man with a family and no comfort in them —your home a perpetual brawl, your sons either dogs that bite or curs that snap— your wife perpetually peevish of counte- nance, acid of tongue—will you then bide it all meekly as a stranger tyke that claps its tail between legs and seurries down the public way when other messans yelp. I ken you ministers, specially the younger sort of you that have rolled ‘tests and indulgences.’ like sweet morsels, under your tongues; ye would take it upon you to prescribe for death wounds from your experience of the aching of your own little fingers.”” Now during my life, which after all has been but forty years, I have found great benefit in knowing when to forbear speech and when to joke aside and let the angry jaw go by. This I did at this pres- ent, knowing that like the scent of rose water and balm after a shower in June, so the pleasant countenance of my friend would again be turned upon m2. And so it proved, for in a little he turn- ed his eyes upon me, having shut his bo =“{ pray you pardon me, good frien he said; “my blagk choler hath infected my heart, and my ill-tempers_break out most readily on them that I love the most.” With that he put forth his hand to me, and, being of an easy heart, I tock it in mine and was affected to tears. So our friendship was made up of new, and that never to be broken up any more. H2 was silent a leng season, but at: the last he found his speech. “Mr. Beil,” dhe, “I will be plain with for plainness is best among friends. ive too long let my heart know its own will no longer make a you. It is not m: any think, that trouble mi these Englishmen, cloth weavers merchants, Umphray Spurway is folk, have come out of Yorkshire, they have put me in a good and easy way of life. It is that I have no comfort in my family. My wife loves me not, but cries cut upon me continually that I am hard to the children. My eldest you have seen pursue me to the death; and now my younger, to whom I had conveyed my es- tate, having disherished my son Philip, is become even as the other. And this is the more bitter to me, because that my heart and my hepe were set upon him. Now his brother, who is the most debauched man in four counties, has so infected John that of late he has ofttimes come home in drink even as the other. Tell me, was ever man so driven by his own?” Then I eounseled him to try if there was not yet some hope of ining his heart. “I will come with you,” I said to encour- | age him, it may be that his heart may be moved by my advice, especially after the miscarriage of his evil enterprise upon the Lead Hills.” you, But Sir James shook his head. The lad is too bitterly joined to his idols. e he took service in the Scots regiment } abre and I thought that would settle | him: but he was confined in prison, and I got him delivered by my influence with our ambassader at the Hague. Then he was condemned to death at Treves, and I pro- vided money wherewith he briff® his jail- ers and so made his escape. I have receiv- ed him Into mine own house since his re- turn. And after all my care and tender- ness it is come to that pass of it that when I go to my own fireside I know not whether I shall get my supper or a musket shot in my _wame.” “Providence may yet soften his heart,” I oO said, though, Indeed, I saw no great pros- pect. “AY, I " replied Sir James, “it may. thought that a good wife might do that even better; but since I got Philip, my son, married to a decent lass, I have just another mouth to feed, and makes no difference to his debaucheries. “Nevertheless,” said I, “I will come to New Milns with you. Who knows but that we may be able to do something?” “Well said, minister,” said Sir James; “ye were not greatly bauld on the muir, but, let me tell you, ye were a deal safer with a good sheltie under your hip and the heather afore ye than sleeping in your naked bed within my house of the New Milns.”” “I have no fear in the path of duty,” said I. CHAPTER II.—THE MAN ON THE MUIR. Indeed, it is no shame to a man to have fear in his nature. It is, I well believe, born in a man’s blood; and he hath no more to do with it than with who was his father. Yet mark the great crying that there has been in all ages about brave men and valiant men, and men that have never known fear. Yet what credit is there in such like? They cannot help it more than I could help having an eye that had a cast in it (if such ilke I had), or red hair, or a nose turned up at the end like that of a wild Eirionach. Yet such men come to honor, and their sons inherit it. For this also is the folly of the times. We rode out of Edinburgh, passing the gates without question, for Sir James was a@ man in good odor with the government. We had a bitter winter’s day for our jour- neying, and we had trouble enough to keep warm; yet with wrappings of foreign fur and a flask of French brandy we managed to shut out the cold. Also our hearts were somewhat cheered, and our converse grew more heartsome. Thus making merry, to the extent even of singing a catch or two which Sir James had learned in the old wars and which T heard for the first time, though not whol- ly with approval, yet with tolerance, we came to a place called Cockmuir, a wild and solitary place, shut in between hills that have no living thing upon them. No heartsome reek of habited house was to be seen. The place was in the midst of a great wilderness, and it needed the crow- ing of the black cock and the nicher of the grouse to‘make the silence endurable. But even these were wanting that bitter day of gray skies and gripping frost. Just as we had gotten fairly to the midst of the moor there rose up before us a man, or, rather, as it might be, we came sud- denly upon him. He was standing stock still, as if he had been meditating, looking away toward the hills of Lammermuir. But at the first sound of our horses’ feet overtopping the brae, he turned and show- ed us the pallid countenance of a young lad, bitten blue with the winter winds, and with his black clothes hanging about him as though his limbs had been so many bar- ren tree branches. I knew him at a first glance. It was James Renwick of Minny- Rive, whose mother was some kin to mine, being also on the estate of Drumlanrig, where the Douglas ts the father of us all. It so happened, by mischance, that Sir James was putting back his flask of strong waters into the breast of his coat at the mement when Mr. Renwick turned him about. I wished that it had not been so; but, nevertheless, I gave him greeting, for he had been a child when I was a young lad, and our folk were, as I have said, some manner of kin. ‘Then I asked him how he did, and that in a pleasant way. But he stood lowering at me with eyes so sunken and such a lest countenance that I wished we had come some other way. “Fear not, James,” I said, “for this is Sir James Standsfield of New Milns, a good man, and one that, though a magis- trate, is no ill-wisher to the folk of the hill— “Ah, John Bell,” said young Renwick, at last, heeding my kindly speech no more than the tune of a bird whistling, “is that indeed you? Your friends for whom you left us have clad and comforted you weil! There are no fine foreign coats on the muirs, and the hags distill not the brew_of French brandy. Doubtless ye have made a fine exchange, and the wide throat that took the Test at a gulp will soon swallow a fat benefice. But there are other spirits abroad that you will yet have to reckon with. “James,” said I peaceably, “not thus was your father wont to speak to me, when I drave home the kye in the even’ from the braes at the town end of Minnyhiv .”” said he, “that may be; but since then the kye have been in many a man’s corn beside my father’s, honest man!” ‘And I knew that he meant to cast up to me that I had joined the persecuting party. For the ordinary cry among the hill folk, by which they passed on the word of warning the one to the other when the horse soldiers were out, was “The kye’s in the corn!” “Ye prate of honest men,” said Sir James, speaking to Mr. Renwick for the first time; “but take notice that there are other honest ren in the realm that are no rebels, but bide quietly at home wishing ill to none, and who grudge, forbye, an orra sheep no more to a hill body than a can of ale to a red soldier.” James Renwick bent his eyes on Sir James, and for a moment looked through him. “Puir man,” he said, gently, “pir man! I rede ye turn about your bridle rein and tide back the way ye came, or the bed that ye shall lie on shall be darker than the mirk of night that comes fast upon us, and colder than the linen sheets that Janet Johnstone has spread for ye at the Wauk- Miln.” “Man!” cried Sir James, fiercely, shaking His bridle reins at the field preacher, “what ken ye of Janet Johnstone? And why speak ye the name of my son’s con- cubine, that is to me as the name of the enemy of mankind! That evil woman has not crossed the step of my -joor for years— na, nor shall na while I live!” 5 So cried Sir James at his volce's pitch. James Renwick shook his head wear “The message is not of me nor from me, he said. “I speak as I am bidden. Your light-o’-loves I reck nought of. Lut I wish you well, and I warn you from riding fur- ther, for the powers of darkness are abroad this night, and it is their hour. urn your horses about, and never draw rein till ye are safe within the walls of Rdinburgh.” “Ye speak as a foolish person,” said Sir James, severely; “this night I bide in mine own house and sleep in mine own chamber, with this honest man and law-abiding min- ister of the gospel to keep me company ‘And with that he rode off and I rode af- ter him. Yet often and after 1 looked back, and there in the fading light of that bleak and unkindly afternoon I saw the fanatic preacher stand as we had lett him, gazing lonesomely up at the hills as though he looked and saw a vision upon them. Sir James Stansficla rode bravely away, as set on his own intent as a man that has taken the bit of his fate between his teeth and rides whither he will, against his better knowledge. “The ranting and fanatical knave,” he sald, over his shoulder, ‘to speak to me of warnings and concubines. I will e’en ap- prehend him and have him sent to the scaffold.” Of which I knew well he had no smallest intention. But as we neared home and tke night settled about us, methouzht that Sir James Stansflelc rode ‘not so hastily nor looked so eagerly for the lights of his house. Ever he found some new excuse to lol- ter, and showed me bis own various im- provements, together with the weaving mill and the wauk mill, which he said had teen set up by one Spurway, a good enough man from Yorkshire, but very new-fangled and conceity in his own opinions. Then we came to a little thatch house that had a lamp shining in the window. “Ah,” said Sir James, “Jet us light off here and have a draught for our evening ordinary. This {s James Marr's, a very de- cent man and keeps good ale. Yet I wondered that he should go buy- ing of ale, well-nigh within call of his own great and well-furnished house. But I eculd see that the man was ill at ease and like one that strives to put off an eyil day. Nevertheless, we lighted down at the change house and tied our horses to the ring of the door post. When we had seat- €d_ ourselves, ¢ James called for ale, and was exceedingly merry, but not (as T thought) in the wisest way, seeing that he was so close to his own docr, and his wife certain to hear of it on the morning. Then he cried for the elder maid of the two that were James Marr’s daughters, and declared that he would find a matenh for her, swearing that she was too well- locking to be going about breeding quar- rels and making ill-biood among the lads. Whereupon came in a great red-bearded man, full of pomp and importance, with as much shortness of breath as port of pres- ence. “Ha, Umphray Spurw so soon as he saw nim, thee. What means it that this bonny lass, Elspie Marr, goes about at thy door unwed, and thou, great English lout, have neither wife to keep thee warm o’ nights, nor wean to heir thy goods and go clad in cloth of thy weavins? Go to, man. See to it.” The great red Englishman laughed and sat down well content, as all men do when they are jested upon concerning women. “Ah, Sir James,” he said, “had I an es- cried Sir James ‘here is matter for tate of farms ani rillis I had not so long have eaten the bread of another’s banking. Elspie is a bonnierizss, and an honest, but would never haye ,aught to say to an ancient graydeard of an Englishman. “Never yet did“I get the chance to say yea or nay, Umphtay Spurway. But ‘’tis better late than newer,’ said the lass El- spie, speaking from the doorway where Sir James had stayed her. She was a orisk lass, with no ill in her that ever I saw. “Well, listen héfe, Fispie,” cried the En- glishman,. daffing with her, “tell us all Whether you will'have me or my man Henry Bowman, ‘that is a limber lad and likely of his face?!’ “For a marrie@°man or for a lad to court?” asked thé lags, looking from one to the other. TERT “For a marriéd@ man, of course,” said Sir James, before’the Englishman had time pto speak. > “Then I choose Umphray Spurway, the Englishman,” said she. “Bonny faces make bare downsittings.”” “A wise lass,” safd Sir James; “ye couldna do better, Umphray.” But even as he spoke I saw his jaw drop and he stared at the door, at which ap- peared the face of the young man who had pursued us the day on the muir cf Lowther. Sir James rose to his feet and set his hand +o his sword. The tace of the young man was flushed with wrath cr wine, I know not whici “Come in hither, Janet,” he cried to some one without; “here is a gailant company at the drink. Ye will see the whole pack together that have disinherited me—the canting priest, the lying Englisher, and the old hound himself. The devil rive them all! May their cups choke them!’ And with these wicked words Philip Standsfield strode upon the stone pavement of the inn. He was a tall young man, but with a face surfeited with passion and blotched with evil living. Behind him, with a fleering laugh, there entered a young slattern of a woman, buxom of feature, in- deed, but with no good or housewifely look in her eyes. io “See, there they stand, Janet,” cried he, “and for a groat I would send them all to hell, and swing for them in thé Grass Mercat.” “Philip,” said Sir James, gripping the table to steady himself, for all his mirth had gone from him and left him gray to the lips, “Philip, my lad, I have come to forgive you, and to see gin ye will lead a new life. Dinna—dinna begin by breaking my heart. Send away that woman, that has made ye live like a beast. Think on your wife that greets for you by her lone—" What more he would have said I know not, but the woman broke out furiously upon him, asking who he was that he should take her good name, saying that ate was an honest man’s wife and much else. “Said ye ‘an honest man’s honest wife? ” sald Sir James. And he looked very direct at her as she spoke. The woman turned away as if she could not bear the question-and the eyes of all that were in the house. She made as though she would go to the fireside by which sat James Marr’s wife with her daughter Elspie standing beside her. -But they gathered the skirts of their kirtles about them and swept off into an inner room. So the woman came back shame- facedly to the side of her paramour, who stood browbeating us all, save the Eng- lishman, who sipped contentedly at his ale and smiling in.a way that was a vast admiration to me to behold. It was not, perhaps, the wisest time to give a man advice, but nevertheless, be- cause I knew not whether indeed I should see him again, I rose from my place and exhorted him to repent and put away his sin; for that his father was ready to for- give him and receive him again, as in the days before his first going from home. “Out upor you, canting hound!” he cried, breaking in on me; “I tell you plainly, gin I had as muckle as sixpence in the day, I would never trouble my father more.” . “Come to dinner and worship tonight, and we shall see if we cannot make a new thirg of it, your father and you and I. We have come from Edinburgh for that purpose. But the more mention that was made of his father’s kindliness, the fiercer was the son against him, which made his sin like the sin against the Holy Ghost, as I have so often expounded. “The devil take him and you both,” he cried. “Think ye I would go to his table to have him grin at me like a sheep's head in a tongs. Ye dog with band-strings, what are ye concerned in the matter? Do ye understand to whom ye speak? Then Umphray Spurway whipped a pair of pistols out of his pocket, and laid them bended on the table. “There has been enough and to spare of i talk,” he said; “get out of this house without another uncivil word, Philip Stand- field, or I will make a hole in you, you debauched man and blasphemer of your father. And you, Janet Johnston, shall be whipped at the cart-tail from here to Mor- hau:—aye, if I have to lay on the lashes mvself!”” : So, snarling and counter snarling, with changed countenances, more like those of beast than human kind, Philip Standsfield and the wench went out vowing vengeance upon us all. Then there comes into my tale that night of great fear, which grips me yet in the telling of it. It was a bitter night of frost at the changing of the moon. A horror of great darkness fell upon the earth. Yet there was also, what is not so 2 on a night of cold, a soughing andering wind that whispered by going and coming uncertainly whiles, among the stepped gables of the house of New Milns. CHAPTER III.-THE NIGHT OF DREAD. Sir James and I took supper that Sat- urday night in his own dining hall, where we found a fire on and the table set. For it had been the first of his concern when we came to the house of James Marr to send a messenger to the mansion house to warn them of our arrival. But this very anxious care of his brovght trouble upon him. For so soon as we en- tered the hall, I heard a shrill voice call to Sir James from an upper room. He went within, leaving one Spofforth his servitor, to take me to the supper cham- ber. Then I heard the sharp tongue which I took to be that of the Lady Standstield berate Sir James because that he had not come straight to his own home, but had gone to a change house with a guest. What Sir James said in repiy I could not hear. Nor, indeed, did I hold it to be my duty to listen over carefully, for the excuse which a man makes to his wife concerns himself alone, and even the church claims no authority over such privileged commun- ications. In a little space Sir James came within the chamber and partook of supper with me, speaking clear and soberly was his went upon certain books of ser- mons which he loved to read, such being his taste. But of his family, or of the sor- row concerning his son, he spake no fur- ther word. Then, so soon as the clock had chapped ten, he rose and called in the servants to worship, which at his request I took, pray- ing about the space of three-quarters of an hour, and never better in my life, as is great comfort to me now to think upon. After this, without a word spoken, he rose. I would have returned to speak of other things, but he checked me with a solemn movement, strange in one that hitherto had been so merry withal. fter*the Buik on Saturday night,” he said, ‘it is our custom to take our candles and get to bed. So, with a dignified and gracious mien, he lighted me to my room, with gravity and affection shook me by the hand, and so departed, taking leave of me without a word. As all may ‘believe, it was with some fear upon me’because of the saying of Renwick and the power of the evil spirits that I aid me down. For strange as it may appear, so Tong.as I shared the fanatic opinions and lay abroad in_ the flelds, I was hot feared of thee devil him- self; but would have wrestled with him had he come upon mein the heather, where oft it was my hap to He alone. Yet, since I drew in, and set my feet in milder courses and easier ways, I have been none so set in my 't ; but as it were, more easily feared ‘and léss assured of my in- terest. Nevertheless, I laid me down, and what with the tiredness of a long day’s travel and our so recently having well supped, I was asleep before I knew it. Yet it was a troubled and unstable rest, with many startings and much uneasiness, for I felt that there was that about the house that night which was more than canny. I knew not how long I slept; but it must have been well into the deep silence of the night that I was waked out of sleep by a cry so wild, so strange and so loud, that it shook my reasonable soul within me. Yet it seemed that I must have heard it in my dream, for only the echoes of it lingered in my ears when I sat up in bed, trembling, and with my night-gear damp about me with af- ghtment. er had I heard so great and fearful a ing. It seemed to me like the crying of demon from whom one stronger has a snatched a prey. But with the perturbation in mine own head, and the dashing of my spirits by tha unearthly cry which awoke me, I could not tell whether the noise was in mine own imagination or whether I really had heard it. But it was soon clear to me that the confused din about the house which went and came like a fitful wind was no imagination, but proceeded from the machinations of the evil spirits which Mr. Renwick had presaged would follow me. Then, indeed, I was in terror to which all that had gone before was as nothing. Sometimes the noise seemed like the con- fused sound of many persons walking and struggling together. Whereat I knew that the fiends strove to be at me, but were re- strained by some One that for the moment was stronger—as it might be, my good guardian angel. So I endeavored to fall to the praying. But such was the power of Satan, and such the tremor of my spirit, that all the prayers I knew had departed from me. No words came to my mind save some old babbles of the mathematics I had learned long ago when I was at the Edin- burgh college, which now stood me in no stead at all, for the least little imping devil cares no jot for all the mathematics of Euclid. Then there came again the din of voices louder than before, the trampling of many feet in the rooms above me, and along the transe. At last I heard them come through the passage, as it hid been to enter at my door. Then at last I gat strength to leap from my bed, and make a shift to bolt my door, which may well seem a daft-like thing to do. For what would evil spirits care for bolts whose ordinary way of enter- ing a chamber is through the keyhole. ‘When I had locked the door I feli on my knees, and, mine eyes being opposite to the latchet-hole, I looked through, and saw what seemed to me very horr:ble—the form of a man, all black, stand with a light be- bind him, and with a bare shining sword in his hand that pointed straight to my chamber door. And all the house about me and the dense air were filled with the sound of groaning and little sharp shrieks of ultimate agony, as of one that wished to die but could not.’ Whereat,for very agony, I fainted away. When I came to myseif I lay along the wall by the door, rigorously cold, and, as it had beea, stark frozen by reason of the bit- terness of the night. The house was silent within, and the latch-hole dark. But about the house and about there went the same whispering and crying of fiends, rising and falling—now sharp and quarrelsome, now more laigh and fearsome, till in a little time the crying came again worse than ev below my chamber window. So, before I dared to look out, not knowing but what I might see the devil and all his angels at carnival, I made shift to commend me for preservation and protection to the majesty of God. At last I manned courage to go to the window, and, looking out, | saw upon the thin sprinkling of sncw that had fallen in the night the veritable resemblances of evil 5s) ts, dragging away that which seemed to be a heavy burden. And once more, even as I looked forth, there came the terrible crying voice that awakened me, as high as before, so that again I fell down as a dead man, Nevertheless, though I own that in things which are counted of the flesh I am far from being a brave man, yet now, from very desperation, and because I feared that the evil spirits would ‘come and take me away in like manner when they had dis- posed of thelr present burden, i gat cou age to rise and do my breeches upun me. Then I went out and followed on to s: what the spirits might contrive. But be- cause of their master’s arts they were in- visible. I saw no more of them till I had stumbled down the steep bank to the river side. It 1s an ill place thus to adventure into under silence of night, for the trees grow close together, so that I knocked and bruised myself as I went. But to my great joy I came, by the way, to a little burn with water still running in it in spite of the frost. So this I crossed, and when once I stood on the other side I thanked God, knowing that no evil spirit could now over- pass to me. > Then, whether it was that by my crossing of the running water the spells of the spirits had no power to render them invis- ible, or whether it was that my eyes had become more accustomed to the darkness of the night, but as I stood behind a great rough tree I again gat sight of the demons with their burden, They were scrambling by the side of the water, and I saw them lay their burden upon a cake of floating ice which the chief devil drew toward him with a thing like a shepherd’s “‘clep” or crook. Then I is again in some fear lest this should be some cantrip by which they might set the power to overpass running water, and so get at me to tear me in pieces—as is their devilish wont with Christian ministers when they grip them. But as I looked I saw the demons stand and stamp pon the margin of the water as though the matter did not progress to their satisfaction. Then the chief black fiend that held the crook steiled and pushed with it upon the broad piece of ice, so that I saw it slowly turn about like ‘a wheel upon its axle, and, with the black burden still upon it, glide out of my sight down the water. The company of demons (as in my fantasy I thought them) stood. there, as it had been, watching their strange ship and its cargo depart for another country. Then I heard them clamber, ing and quarrel- ing as before, up the bank out of my sight. How I ever got back to my chamber I know not, but certain it is that when the serving man came the next morning to light my fire she found me, with bleeding feet and scanty garments, lying in the midst of the ficor, as one that had been overtaken’ unseemly, and the bed coverlets all thrown hither and thither, even as I had cast them abroad when I leaped from my bed. By which I am encouraged to think that the fury of the fiend had been mercifully restrained in my case, and that Providence had more interest in me, in spite of my shortcofhirgs, than in my modesty I had believed. CHAPTER IV._THE MURDER BY THE WATERSIDE. It was no more than an hour after day when I was surprised by the coming of the young man Philip Standsfleld to my cham- ber door. He came in without knocking, and leaned upon the bed foot. There he weeped and cried, and though I cannot say that I had any opinion of his qualities be- fore. I was somewhat affected by his peni- tence. Indeed, I could not but suppose that, even thus late, my words of rebuke had taken effect upon the hardened and indu- rate heart of this heinous sinner. With this comforting thought upon me, I asked of him when the grace of repentance had been given to him, and told him that I had had a vision during the night of demons that had wrestled for his soul, but which by my watchfulness and prayer had fled away baffled and vanquished. For, very clearly, I saw the meaning of it ali now. I had of a surety been sent to the New Milns to deliver the soul of this young man. At last Philip Standsfield ceased his sigh- ing and grieving, and I looked for some words of grace. Tut he said: “Alas! Mr. Bell, Sir James, my dear father, has left his chamber during the night and wandered abroai, so that vc fear he has done him- self a mischi: But I comforted him saying that belike Sir James had bee disturbed by the same noise of demons which J had heard, and had gone abroad to see more of them, even as I had done myseif. At this Philip looked somewhat strange- ly at me, and so went his way for that time, so that I was left alone. Then I dressed me in my bettermost clothes, he- ing the Sabbath day, and went down stairs to go abroad. As I passed through the gate and went along the causeway that leads to the manufactory, one came running to say that they had found Sir James lying frozen in the water, with his face down, and all the breath gone out of his body. Thither I hasted with great lament for my kind friend and patron, remembering all his kindliness and hos- pitality to me in past days, and grieved to think that all was at an end. When I got to the place there was al- ready a great crowd, and Phillip Stands- field standing by ordering them to have him taken out. Sir James lay with his face down, frozen in firmly on_ either side, with little on, but a great thick coat of blue done about him. And when they drew him to the side, he lay on the bank so dismal a sight to behold that my hear bied for him, and my tearsran freely down upon, the ground. ‘At this moment I got a sudden surprise, for as it had been the thought of a demon Philip Standsfield came and caught me by the sleeve, crying out, “Here stands the murderer of my father. He it was that enticed him hither, and hath, for his own wicked ends, choked and worried him to death and flung him into the rive Then certain that were in Philip's fa tion, George Johnston, whom I Beard them call “the devil's tailor,” and one Nichols, came and caught me, pushing me rudely, and riving the good black clothes off my back, crying out all the while, “It is the murderer! It is the murderer! See his coun- tenance! He cannot find speech to deny it.”” And of a verity speech had departed from me, as well it might from one that is suddenly accused of the death of his best friend, from whom he parted in all love and amity only the night before. So they hauled me along the path, and, making me touch the body, they declared that blood came from it, which was mani- festly false, for none was to be seen, save where the glass of the window had cut iny own hand in returning during the nigat. “It 1s God's ordinary mode of discov- ering crime,” said Philip Standsfield, und he wiped his own hands on his sleeve, for he had been standing beside me. So they took me, along with the body of my late beloved friend, into the wauk- mill, and there, saying that they had caught me red-hand in the act, Philip Standsfield was for straightway hanging me, by virtue of his warrant as a magis- trate of the county, having been chamber- jain and deputy sheriff to his father. But this others debated upon as doing things it a high hand, ard without color of aw. Then, so wonderful are the ways of the evidence of things and circumstances, that they found one of my shoes down by the waterside where I had stood behind the tree. This they asked of me to explain, a dozen crying at once, “Did I deny having been during the night near to where the dead body had been found?” I told them that I did not deny the truth. But I begged of them to listen while I told them how that evil spirits, to my knowl- edge and in my sight, had dragged a bur- den down to the water edge and set it afloat on the river. But at this they all laughed aloud. Even those that were not ill-affected to me were shaken in their belief by my rambling words, which seemed to them to bear guilt on theeface of them. I cried and protested that they should never think so base a thing possible as that I should murder my well-loved friend, and that wholly without reason. But they went and pointed out the double track of my feet to the water side, and again, with one shoe gone from my right foot, back again to the window. “I will have his life for a black-hearted rogue and the murderer of my father!” cried Philip Standsfield. And he bade them bring a rope, which put me tn great fear when I saw Nichols run off to do his will. For they took me out to the dule tree and Garred read a kind of warrant about find- ing me red-hand in the act, while I stood on a wooden tub that was used for wash- ing, with the rope about my neck, and the other end rove over a branch. I was in much tumult and perturbation of spirit when I thought that in another moment I should find myseif in Abraham's bosom, for which, in my present state, I knew I was desperately ill-fitted. Presently, standing thus with my thougats whirling about me, I heard a voice I knew speaking loud and angry at the outside of the throng. It was the voice of Umphray Spurway, the Englishman. And that was small comfort to me, for the man had never Lked me. Indeed, Englishmen, for com- mon, have small kindness for ministers. So that I looked for no pause or mercy. Nevertheless, I cried to the man that I asked for trial with coior of law.. And I tcok all that were there present to witness that it should lie upon him, that was a man of substance and responsibility, if he should allow mine enemy to shed my blood without trial. Then treired, as th: the Englishman, who had been ‘all are, to fine instinct of law-abiding, cried cut among them all: “Let the maa be taken to prison. Let him be kept close till he have fair trial. A man is surely mnocent till he be proved guilty, in every country save in this un- couth land of the Scots, where they set a man to a hedge and skoot bim, or string him to a tree and try him as he dangles. Give the man to my hand, and I will keep him safe in mine own house, and produce him upon warrant, for which I shall be suiety to the whole extent of my goods.” So in spite of Philip Standsfield and his cabal, I was let go with Umphray Spur- way, for he was an urgent men, and im- perilous, so that very few dared say no to bim in all that country side. So as soon as I got him alone in his own house I began to tell him all the tale cf the demons, at which relations, first of all he cried “Pshaw!" and ‘“Clotted nonsense,” with other expressions I cannot repeat, being unseemly to be written down by a minister. But after he had thought a little he bade me repeat it all again from the beginning, and, indeed, several times over, question- ing me of what I had seen, till now I said to him, “Ah, Mr. Spurway, bide a little, ard you will come to believe in the de- mons.” “Tut! gull-head,” he sald, very rudely to me, that am a minister (though till lately without charge). “I will find your demons for you when my good friend the commis- sary comes from Edinburgh.” Then he told me Fow it had been resolved to hush the matter up, now that Philip and his clan had been balked in the im- mediate killing of me for the fact but that he, Umphray Spurway, had taken upon him to write to one Mr. George Hume, merchant in Edinburgh, who was great with my Lord Advocate Dalrymple. to have him order a public examination. “Then it will go hard if I grip not your devils for you, minister, as readily as a herd that grips sheep at a narrow slap in | a stone dyke.” These things I et down as he said them, fer that was nis strange and immodest way of speech. But I deny not that the man treated me well enough all the time I abode in his house by the cloth manu- factory, to which he went and came at stated hours, as regular as the clock, which is the use and wont of Yorkshire men. It wes about 12 that night of the Sab- bath—the strangest I have ever seen, and God and the angels keep me from seeing any stranger—that Umphray Spurway waked me out of sleep. He stood by my bedside, with William Bowman, his’ serv- ant. I feared that he had come to tell me that I was to go to prison. But in- stead he asked me to rise, and be a wit- ness of a strange transaction. So soon as we came out of the house and the door was shut behind us, we saw a great many flitting lights at the door of the place of New Miln. As we went nearer we heard also the trampling of horses and @ concourse of people. By the way we met a man hurrying | greatly. He would have rassed us by with- out speech, but William Bowman tripped him up, being a Cumberland man and skill- ed in such plays. I heard Umphray Spurway say to him, “William Robinson, whither way so fast? What goes forward with so great a con- course at the house of Sir James Stands- field?” Then the man, being held fast at either side, muttered that Philip had given or- ders for the bringing out of the body. And they were burying it secretly in Morham Kirk that night. “For,” said Philip Standsfield, “if my father was not mur- dered by the rogue of a minister that set him against me and played tale-pyet to my doings—why, then, he made away with him- self, and, having died Ike a dog, he shall be buried like a dog.” “We will e’en go our ways down,” said Umphray Spurway, and I mind that his beard was red as fire where the pitch-pine lights caught it as we followed the pro- cession to the kirk. It was a gruesome sight we saw when we got there. Two women went dancing before with torches in their hands. One of them I knew not, but the other was the buxom besom Janet Johnston whom we had seen with Philip Standsfeld in the changehouse. Then came the corpse, w! hested and coft looking twice the ordinary length of a man, borne upon the shoulders of men, and with the head not stiff but ging from side to side like a twig with a broken top. It was a memory for a man to carry to his grave. And a thousand times when I sleep alone I wish that I had never seen it. -Then the unseemly procession went into the kirkyard with jest and levity, stum- bling over graveyard stones, being most of them well touched with drink. Cursing and swearing they went, like men that are not in love with the!r job, and would take out their anger upon the dumb stones among their feet. CHAPTER V. Presently they came to an open grave, with the earth piled red about it, and two men leaning upon their spades. The women with the torches stood at head and foot, and when the men came up with their burden Philip Standsfield bade them cast it in and be brisk; but the men were kindlier than he and very gently laid the poor har- ried corpse in earth. In a moment the men were filling the kindly soil, while Philip Standsfield stood silent, and the two women at head and foot cursed the dead without stop or oeasing even for a moment. ‘Then Umphray Spurway stepped forward and bade them stay and mind what they were doing. He declared that he would make such a mutiny as king and parlia- ment would hear about if they thus laid the body away without crowner-law or exam- ination, But Philip Standsfield flashed a paper before his eyes and said: “There, what say ye to that? There is an order to bury from Sir James Dalrymple of Stair, the king's advocate!" At which, much dashed in spirit and astonished, there re- mained nought for us to do but to betake ourselves homeward. It was upon the night of the Tuesday that I was again waked out of my sleep—for in these days there were nought but night alarms—by three of the officers of the gov- ernment from Edinburgh, who had brought two chirurgions of the most distinguished ES city, prectnee: oe ae from the privy council for the raising and examini: of _the body of Sir James. ea So, right gladly Mr. Spurway and I went our ways with them to be witnesses. The chirurgions and the officers would not per- mit us to come near when they set about to examine the body, but made us stand at the kirk entrance to keep all else out should any try the door. It was nigh the breaking of the morning when one of the surgeons suddenly held up his hand and an officer leaped down and out at the door like a shot. Then every one waited, with the candles burning low and the poor body of him that ha% been my friend again decently covered up. It Was dreary work waiting thus, and we heard nothing but the drip of large rain- drops on the roof where the damp had Seeped through the trees. Then we heard the tramp of feet and the rattle of arms without. Umphray Spurway opened the door, and we saw a company of his maj- esty’s foot-guards at the kirk yett. When they came to our stance they wheeled right and left with clash of accouterment, and there, fair between the open leaves of the door, stood Philip Standsfield with a king's officer on either side of him. A little pale-faced man in a ‘wig, who had been the keenest about the examination, then went into the precentor’s desk, and the guard brought the prisoner into the elders’ seat. There were a couple of can- dies, one on either end of the table, and the sharp-faced man had another set on the angle of the desk beside him. Philip Standsfield stood between his guards as pale as death. Said the little man to h¥n, “What have you to say, Philip Standsfie.\, why you should not be com- mitted to stand trial for the unnatural murder of your father “I charge John Bell, minister, with the fact,” said he, dowily holding to his for- mer folly. “John Bell?’ said the little man doubt- fully, sucking at a pen, for he was not accustomed, as I think, to hear a minister so spoken of, “ye mean Mr, John Bell, minister of Morton—take care how you speak of him.” And that was my first intimation that I was in fact a minister with a settled charge. It was my Lord Advocate Dal- rymple who spoke. I charge him with the murder!” said Philip Standsfield sullenly. “Enough of this,” said the advocate. “I charge you, Philip Standsfield, with cruel parricide, and these two women here.” With a wave of his hand he caused the guard to bring in the wretched women who had danced at the midnight burial. Now they stood weeping and wringing their hands, calling on heaven to witness their innocence. “I call you not guilty as this desperate man is guilty,” said the advocate, “but I will prove the extent of your guilt out of the mouth of your innocent children, and it re confess your punishment shall be ght.” Then in that kirk of Morham there was a scene to wring tears from hearts of stone. The candles burned dim and low. The light of morning came struggling in, making the white wrapping sheets and mort cloths very ghastly, the chirurgion’s horrid implements lying uncleansed upon them. The two womer never ceased to wail and cry, but in the black bitterness of his evil heart Philip Standsfield stood silent, with his hands gripped on every side by the armed men of the guard. I wondered greatly what they awaited as the light came clearer and clearer. For I was shivering and every one save the little hawk-nosed man in the precentoy’s desk was blue with cold. But as for him, he made himself a new point to his pen and did it carefuliy. Then after we had waited long there were brought into the kirk two children in their night habits, looking tearfully afraid. Nor could I imagine for what cause they were brought out of their warm beds at that time of night. But at the first gliff of them as they came through the doors, the women cast their hands upward and cried out as in an agony. ‘Cruel, cruel,’ they said, “to make our bairns bear witness against us!’ Then the shap-faced man took the bairns in hand, being a boy and a girl, questioning them none so unkindly, but rather as one that has suchlike of his own anf kenned the lilt of their talk. So the little James Thomson told how that his father and mother came home after being fone a long season. They went to bed and began to talk together, he lying mean- time cross the foot. They told how that Philip Standsfield had done the deed, de- claring that he should now be laird of all before the morrow’s morn, and that then he ride in their skirts that had been il! to him, and how he had promised them great rewards for helping him to cast the body into the water so that it might appear that his father had been drowned. So the lad spoke, and when his father and mother reproached him, he kneeled down in the kirk there and besought them with tears running down his face to confess, but, be- ing hardened, they would not for all his asking. It was still more piteous when little Anna Mark, that was daughter to the ill woman Janet Johnston, a bairn of but nine year or thereby, with yellow hair and much of it running every way dewn her back, came forward. Being so little they had, perforce, to give her a footstool to stand upon. But all she could say was ‘“Dinna hurt my minnie, braw man, dinna hurt my min- nie!” For it is a strange thing that though the woman was such an ill wretch, she had not been ill to the bairn. But the child loved her and that greatly. And Dalrymple looked upon Anna Mark and said, “No, no, little lass, your mother’s life shall not be hurt because of you. But if ye will tell what your mother said when she came home that night she was out late, you may help us muckle and your mother too.” “Are ye sure of that?” said the little one, ceasing her tears and looking up. “Then my minnie said when she cam’ home that it was all done and well done, but not by her. She would yet be a lady and ride in her carriage. And the braw man that gied me the pennies guarded the door with a drawn sword and a pistol in his hand.” At the word I minded that which I had seen at the latch hole of the door, and my demon was made plain to me. J was about to rise and tell my tale; but Umphray Spurway dragged me back by the coat tail. For one of the women suddenly lifted up her hands over her head and fell forward over the seat with the cry, “Oh, God! it is enough. It is true, all true; I confess.” And the other also suddenly gave way in like manzer, crying, “It is true, it is trua; but my sin is not unto death. Say that my sin is not unto death.” Then the little advocate in the desk took his pen between his teeth and bundled up his papers. As he rose, he said to Philip Standsfield where he stood as gray as a dead man in the light of the morning, “Have ye anything to say? Will ye touch your father for the test of blood?” \ said Philip, blackly, “chat I will no} Umphray Spurway came forward. “My lord advocate,” ‘said he, “runs {t with your will, if the parents of these chil- iren are long time confined or banished, that I should bind the lad apprentice to my trade, which is a good one, and adopt #2 little lass to be as my own child in my jome?"" It is well said, Umphray said the Ad- vocate Dalrymple, “and like your good heart. Ye are little likely to be troubled with your forbears, at least till they are marriage-mickle and settled in homes of their own.” . “And am I a free man and fully assoilize, my lord?" said I, making him a bow as he came out of his desk. He looked at me with a queer smile that I have never yet gotten to the bottom of, aoe made me an answer that was barely il ‘Aye, Mr. Bell, ye are a free man, I may say that; but not a man of great wisdom om sense, with your evil spirits and visions. If it had not been for your good friend, the Englishman here, ye had worn the hempen collar insteid of ministering to the good folks of Morton.” And this I still think to have been a dis- tinetly uncivil speech of Stair's, and when I told Drumlanrig, my patron, he laughed and swore that he thought so, too. But the eyes of the little advocate flashed wildfire as they were turned on Philip ndsfield. ‘But as for you, murderer of your father, ye shall die the death, as I am a true man ord the king’s advocate. At this Philip Stata: the gaze of @ fiend. field turned on him ‘The guard clashed out with him In an instant the kirk was clear and the king’s officers marching up the kirk road with the prisgners in their midst. At th> door stood Umphray Spurway, with the bairns in either hand, comforting them. And the sunshine came out and fell on the heads of us all as we stood bare- headed. And little Anna Mark stood and waved her hand prettily, as a child does to a pa- geant that passes by with music and ban- ners, when they marched her mother out of sight forever. Doubtless it was best for her. Nevertheless, it brought the water to the eyes of them that saw it, to see the mother SRes ever back and the young child smiling and becking and waving her little hand =