Omaha Daily Bee Newspaper, May 19, 1895, Page 20

CHAPTE DVER THE MUIR, AMANG THE HFATHER When I came to myself my cousin Walter Gordon was standing over me, He was dressed in countryman's apparel, and seemed *lké"a chapnian with a small pack of g urom hig back for sale in the farm t cottars' houses. It was gray day. “‘Where is the beast?” I asked, greatly bewildered by my wound What beast? There is no beast phéd, thinking that I dreamed. Then 1 told him of what T had seen; but, as I might have expected, he took little heel thinking that I did but dream In that un couth place. And in the gray light he forward with a fair cloth in his hand where- with to wrap his f. r's head for burial But when he came to the corner of the vault, lo! there was naught there, even as I hai said; and, saving that the earth med newly stirred. no trace of the horror I had whiieh staggered him no little. Yet me it did not surprise, for I knew what I had seen. Yet in a little he said hat is all folly Willlam; you and your beasts. Ye burfed it yourself in your eleep. How any times have ristoun in your most e for 1 was le re n . you walked the ramparts of » sark?” This, indeed, maintain that ‘Wat Gordos seemed likely, but I 1 saw the mowdiewort. had warned my men as well his own. So at the ouiside of the town toward the back of the Boroughmuir, Hugh Kerr met us with the beasts. Here we took horse and rode, having happily seen nothing of the guard. It was judged best that my cousin and I should ride alone. This we wished, because we knew not whom to trus in the strange case in which we found our selves, S0 we steadily rode southward toward Gal- loway, our own country, for there alone could we look for some e; from the long arm of the privy council. Not that Gallo- way was safe. The dragoons paraded up and down it from end to end, and searched every nook and crevice for the intercom- muned fugutives. But Galloway s a wide, wild place, where the raw edges of creation have not been rubbed down And on one hillside in the Dungeon of Buchan there were as many lurking places Robert Grier of Lag has sins cn his soul—which is sayimg no light thing, the Lord knows Once, as we went by night, wé came u a company of muirland men, who kept conventicie in the hollows of the hills when they heard us coming they scatered and ran like hares. 1 cried out to them that we were of their own folk; yet they answered not, but only ran the faster, for we might have been informers, and it ‘was a_common custom of such like to claim to be of the hill people. BEven dragoons did so, and had been received among them to the hurt of many '“Cousin Wat,” I said to him, *“‘tis a strange sight to see your mother's son so Boon of the strict opinions. To be converted at the instanc> of her grace of Wellwood is no common thing. Wat, I tell thee, thou wilt lead the psalm singing at a conventicle yet!” Whereat he would break out on me, calling me “‘crop ear” and other names. Buf at this word play I had, I think, as much the mas- lery as he at the play of sword blades. “Rather it is you who shall be the ‘crop head’—of the same sort as his late majesty!” [ sald; for it is a strange thing that as soon s men are at peril of their lives, if they be logether, they will bigin to jest about it— young men, at least. To get out of the country was now our aim. It pleased Wat not at all to have him- telf numbered among the hill folk and be sharged with religion. For me, I had often & Rore heart and a bad conscience that 1 had made so little of all my home opportunities. My misspent Sabbaths stuck in my throat and T had no stomach for running and hiding with the intercommuned. Perhaps it 1 had loved my brother Sandy better it had not been so hard a matter. But that, God for- give me, I never did, though I knew that he was a good Covenant man and true to his principles. Yet there is no mistake but that e gave us all a disCaste at his way i think- . At last we came to the white house of Gordonstoun, which stands on the hill above the clachan of Saint John. It was a lodge of my cousin's, and the Keeper of it was a_true man, Matthew of the Dub by name. From Mm ‘we learned that there were soldiers both at Lochinvar and at Earlstoun. Moreover, the news had come that very day with the riding post from Edinburgh of the wounding of the duke of Wellwood, and that both of us were put to the horn and declared outlaw, I do not think that this affected us much, for almost every man in Galloway, even those that trooped with Graham and Lag, half a dozen in all, had been time and again At the horn. One might be at the horn ~—this {8, outlawed—for forgetting to pay a gess or tax, or for a private little tulzie that toricernéd nobady, or for getting one's lum on fire almost. It was told that once Lauder- dale himselt was put to the horn in the matter of a reckoning he had been slack in paying, for Seekin' Johnnie was even better at_drawing in «han paying out. But to think of my mother being harassed with a garrison, and to know that rough blages clattered in and out of our bien house of Barlstoun, pleased me not at all. Yet it wag, far. out of my hap to help it. And I comforted me with the thought that it had been as bad as it could be with us, even before our affray with the Wellwood. So there was nothing for it but to turn out sur,_horses at Gordonstoun and take to the Is Tike the rest. Matthew of the Dub gave us to understand that he could put us into a safe hold if we would trust ourselves to him. “But it Is among the hill-folk o' Balm- ! h&e. he said, looking doubtfully at his Ah, Gordieston," still pon sald Lochinvar, making & wry face and speaking reproachfully, ‘needs. must when the devil drives! But what for did you sign all the papers and take all the oaths against intercommuning, and yet all the time be having to do with the Tebels?” For Matthew was a cunning man and had taken all the king's oaths as they came along, holding the parritch and feather beds: of -Gordieston on the hill worth any form of words—which indeed could be swal- lowed down like an apotbecary’s bolus, and no more ado about it. *Deed, your honor," said Matthew of the Dub, slowly, “It's a wersh breakfast to streek your neck in a tow, an' I hae sma’ stammack for the whig's ride to the Grassmarket. But @ man canna juist turn informer an’ gi'e the gang-by to a’ his auld acquaintances. Wha in Gallowa’ wants to ride an’ mell wi' Clavers an’ the lads on the Grey Horses, save ticcan loons as red-wud Lag, roaring Baldoun, and Lidderdale, the Hullion o' the Isle?" “J would have you remember, Matthew,” id my cousin, speaking in Scots, “that T rode we' them no lang syne mysel’.” ‘Ou, ay, I ken," said independent Matthew, dourly, “there was my leddy to thank for that, ‘The women fowk are &' great gomerils when they meddle wi' the affairs o' the state. But ' the Glen jaloosed that ye wad come oot, llke the daddy o' ye, whan ye tired o' leading-string, an' gang to the horn like an honest man, e'en as ye hae dune the day.” It was ohe wintry-like morning In the later spring when at last we got out of hid- ing In the house of Gordonstoun. During our tay there I had often gone to see my mother usl ovér the hill at Maristoun, to §ive ber confort 1 could, and in especial to ad- about Sandy, who was then on his trav- els in the Low Countries. That morning Matthew of the Dub came with us, and took our legs to It, despising horse new quality of hilifolk. The wind blew bit- suell from the May—the bleakest of spring months, that ought to be the bonnlest—was doing her worst to strengthen the cold In proportion she lengthened her unkindly day | Matthew told us not whither we were going, and as for me, I had no thought or suspiclon Yet the tear was in my eye as we aw the bonny woods of Earlstoun lying behind us with the gray head of the oll tower setting its chin over the tree tops and looking wist- fully at us, But we march New Galloway, and iir, whero there Clavers himself in as south along the Ken, by o seat of my Lord Ken- ay now a garrison with hold. We saw the loch cneath us we had to keep high on of Bennan. It ruflled its breast as 1 dove's feathers are blown awry by a sudden gusty wind. It was a cheerless day, and the gloom on our faces was of the deepest. For we were in the wild cass of suffering for con- sclence sake, and with no great raft either of conseience or of religion to comfort us. Not that cur case was uncommon, for all were not saints who hated tyran ‘Wat,” I sai), “the thing gangs in the husk o' a hazel. I wear a paticular make of glove chevron. It likes me well, but I am not deadly set on it. Comes the Baronbailie or my lord provost, and saith he: ‘Ye shall ot henceforth wear that plove of thine, but cone of my color and of the fashion official! Then 1 to the Baronbailie: ‘To the il thief wi* you and your pattern gauntlet!’ And [ tak’ him naturally across the cheek with it and out with my whinger “Even sald cousin, who saw not whither I was leading him, “let no man drive you as to the fashion of your gloves. Out with your whinger, and see what might be the color of his blooa!” “And what else are the covenant men Joing?" ¢ I, quick to take advantage. “"We were none #o0 fond o' the kirk that I ken of—we that are the lairds o' Galloway, when we could please ourselves when and wh | we would go. Was there one of us, savi maybo your Tuther and mine, that hai not been sessioned and again? Many an ill | word ¢id we speak o' the kirk, and many a glint did we cast at the sandglass in the pul- pit as the pree er gied her another turn But after a' the kirtk was oor ain mither and what for should the king misca’ or up turn her? Gin she whummelt us and peyed us soondly till we c d where we werena yeuky, wha's business was that but cor ain? But comes King Charlie, and says he, ‘Put away pur old mither, that's overly sore on you, an’ tak’ this braw casy step-minnie, that will never stecr ye a hair or gar ye claw yaur hinlerlands!?’” What wad ye say, Wat? What say ye, Wat? Wad ye gle your mither up for the king's word?" “No,” said Wat, sullenly, for now he saw where he was being taken, and liked it little. “I wadna,” 1 thought I had him, and so, logically, 1 bad. But he was nothing but a dour sol dier and valued good logic not a docken. “Hear me,” he said, after a moment's si- lence, “this is my way of it. I am no preacher, and but poor at the practice, But | I learned, no matter where, to be true to | the king—and, mind you, even now I stand by Charles Stuart, though at the horn I be. Even now 1 have no quarrel with him, though for the dirty sake of the duke of Wellwood he has one with me.” “That’s as may be,’ I returned, ‘“but mind where you are going. Ye will be eat- ing the bread of them that think differently, and surely ye'll hae the sense and the mense to keep a calm sough, an’' your tongue for ben_ within your teeth.” We were passing the ford of the Black water as I was speaking, and soon we came to the steading of the little duchrae in the light of the morning. It was a long, low house, well thatched, like all the houses in the neighborhood, and sending up a heartk.- some pew of wreck into the air that told of the stir of breakfast. The tangel of the wood grew right up to the windows of th back, and immediately behind the house | there was a liftle morass with the great | willow trees growing, and many hiding places about it—as well I kenned, for there Maisie Lennox and I had played the day by the length. Now “Auld Anton” of the duchrae was n kenned man all over the countryside. The name of Anthony Lennox of Duchrae was often on my father's lips, and not seldom he would ride off to the south in the high days of presbytery to have fellowship with him whenever he was low in the spirit, and also before our stated seasons of com- munion. Thither also I had often ridden in later years on other errands, as has already been said, Never had I been able to understand by what extraordinary favor it was that Anthony Lennox had not only been able to escape so far himself, but could afford a house of refuge to others in even more perilous plight. Upon the cause of this immunity there is no need "at present to condescend, but certain it is that the house of the Duchrae had bzen favored above most, owing to an Influsnce at that time hidden from me. For Auld Anton was never the man to hide his thoughts or to set a curb upon his actions. With a light hand Matthew of the Dub knocked at the door, which was carefuily und immediately opened. A woman of a watcnful and rather severe countenance presented her- self there—a serving woman, but evidently one accustom:d to privilege and quality, as comon in Galloway In that day. “Matthew Welsh,” she said, “what brings you so far from hame so early in the morning?" “I com wi' thea twa callants—young Gor- don o' Earlstoun and a young man that is near kin to him. It may be better to gi'e the particulars the go-by till T see you more privately. Is the good man about the doors?" or answer the woman went to the window at the back and cried thrice. Instantly we saw W little cloud of men disengage them- selves frregularly from the bushes and come toward the door. Then began a curious scene. The woman ran to various hiding places under the eaves, behind dressers, In aumries and presses, and set a large number of bowls of porridge on the deal table. Soon the house was filled with the stir of men and the volces of folk In earnest conversation. Among them all I was chiefly aware of one young man of very striking appearance, whose dark hair flowed back from a broad brow, white as a lady's, and who looked like one born to command. On the faces of many of the men who entered and overflowed the little kitchen of the Duchrae was the hunted look of them who look this way and that for a way of escape. But on the face of this man was only a free indifference to danger, as of one who had passed through many perils and come forth scathless, Last of all the master of the house entered with the familiarity of the well accustomed. He was alert and active, a man of great helght, yet holding himself like a soldler. Three countries knew him by his long, gray beard and bushy eyebrows for Anthony Lennox, one of the most famous leaders of the original United Socleties. To we he was but Maisle Lennox's father, and indeed he never wasted many words on a boy such as I seemed to him. Byt now he came and took us by the haud in token of welcome, and to me in especial he was full of warm feelin You are welcome, young sir,” he sald. Many an hour at the dyke-back have we | had, your father and I, praying for our bairns and for poor Scotland. Alack that I left him on the way to Bothwell last year and rode forward to tulzle wi' Robis Hamil- ton—and now he lies in bis quiet, resting grave, an' Auld Anton is still here among the contenders.” Vith Walter also he sbook hands and 1 THE OMAHA DAILY BEE: SUNDAY, MAY 19, 1895. him the welcome that one true man gives to another. Lochinvar sat silent and watch- ful In the strange scene. For me I seemed to be In a familiar place, for Earlstoun was | on every tongue. And it was not for a little that I came to know that they meant my brother Sandy, who was 4 great man among them, greater than ever my father had been, | though he had “‘sealed his testimony with | his blood,” as thelr phrase ran. 1 thought It best not to give my cousin’s name, excusing myself in the meantime by vouching that his father had suffered to the death, even as mine had done, for the cause | of Scolland’s covenant. CHAPTER XIII THE HOME OF MAISIE LENNOX. Anthony Lennox presently took me by the | hand and led me over to where the dark young man sat, whose noble head and car- riage 1 had remarked fr. Cameron,” he ®ald, grave ect, “this {8 the eon of a brave man and nee ntender with his master, Willlam | Gordon of Earlstoun, lately gone from us, And I gave my hand to Richard Cameron, whom men called the Lion of the Covenant, a great hill preacher, who, strangely enough like some others of the prominent disaffected to the government, had been bred of the party ot prelacy. As 1 looked upon him I saw that he was girt with a sword, and that he had a habit of gripping the hilt when he spoke, as though at the pinch he had yet another argument which all might understand. And being a soldier's son T own that 1 liked him the bet- ter for it. Then I remembered what it was reported he had said on the Holms of Kirk- mahoe when he preached there. T am no reed be shaken with wind, as Charles Stuart shall one day know And it was here that I got my first waft of the new tongue which these hill folk spake among themselves. 1 heard of ‘“singular Christians,” and concerning the evils of pa ing the “cess” or king's tax—things of which I had never hearl in my father's house, the necessity not having arisen before Bothwell to discuss these questions W and with | to the n all the men were gathered into the wide house-place, some sitting, some stand- ing, the grave-faced woman knocked with her kuuckles gently on a door, which opened into an inner room. Instantly Maisie Lennox and two other malds came out bearing refresh ments, which they handed round to all that were in the house. The carriage of one of the three surprised me much, and I observed that my cousin Wat did not take his eyes trom Who may these mails be?" he whispered in my ear. ay, swered. del W but I ken mot them all,” I an- “Bide, and we &hall hear.”” For, in- knew only one of them, but her very And when they cams to us in our turn Maisie Lennox nodded to me as to a friend of tamiliar discourse, to whom noth'ng ne:ds looked the narrow paek ¥oad by the water's edge. As we went Kate McGhie walked by my side, and we talked together. She told me that she came agaiast her parents' will, though not without her father's knowledge, and that it was her:geeat love for Maisie Lennox, who was her. friend and gossip, which had first drawn her to a belief in the | faith of the hill-folk. “But there s one thing," said she, “that I cannot hold with them in. 1 am no rebel, and 1 care not to dfsown the authority of the king!" “Yet you look not like a sufferer iIn si- lence!” 1 sald, smiling at her. ‘“Are you a maid of the Quaker folk?" At which she was fain to laugh and deny it. “But,” 1 said, “if you are a Kin you will surely find company today. Yet even the same mind a: Then she intre. might be. 0, not 1" 1 replied of Charles Stuart s woman yourself in a strange there & one here of yourself.” | d me to tell her who that “I have had enough 1 could eat with ease all 1 like of him, or his brother, either! It is my cousin of Lochinvar who has been | lately put to the horn and outlawed.” \ At he name she seemed much surprised. | “It wero well not to name him here,” she said, “for the chief men know of his past | companying with Claverhouse and other ma- lignants, and they might distrust his hon- | esty.” We had other pleasant tallk by the way, | and she told me of all her house, of her | uncle that was at Kirkeudbright with Cap tain Windram and the garrison there, and | | of her father that had forbidden her to go | to the fleld meetings, “Which Is perhaps why sald, glancing at me with eyes. As T went T could hear behind us the oft words and low speech of Masie Lennox, who | came with my cousin Wat and Margaret of Glen Vernock. What was the matter of their speech T could not hear, though 1 own | I was eager to learn. But they seemed to | agree well together, which seemed strange | to me, for I was a much older acquaintance than he Now, especially when In the wilder places, we came to walk all four togother, it seemed a very pleasant thing to me to go thus to the worship of God in company. And I began from_that hour to think kindlier of the field folks' way of hearing a preacher in the open | | country. ~ This, as 1 well know, but | little for me; et I will be plain and conceal nothing of the way by which 1 was led from belng a careless and formal homekeeper, to cast my lot with the remnant who abode in the flelds and_were persecuted. CHAPTER XIV. SINGERS OF SLUNK father had drilled here!" she | black | I am her bold, | THE SWEET THE DEER'S ow, it into me that THEY BOWED TO ONE ANOTHER. to be sald, and she that was th tallest of the maid handed Wat the well-curied caten cake on a trencher. Then he rose and bowed courteously to her whercat there was first a silence and then a wonder among the men in the house. But Anthony Lennox stiiled them, telling of the introduction which he had gott:n concerning Walter, and that our fathers had mide a good end for the faith, s0 that we were presently made wholly free of the meeting. We heard that there was to be a fleld con- venticle near by, at which Mr. Cameron was to preach. This was the re.son of so great a_gathering, many having come out of Ayr- shire, and even o far as Leshmahago In the Upper Ward of Lanark, where there are very many zealous for the truth. Then they fell again to the talking, while 1 noted how the mails comforted themszlves. The eldest of them and the tallsst was a lass of mettle, with dark, bent brows. She h:ld her head high and seemed, by her attirng and dignity, accustomed to other places than this moorland farm town. Yet here she was, handing victual bfore a field-presching. And this 1 was soon to learn was a c:mmon thing in Galloway, where nearly the whole of the gentry, and still more of their wives and daughters, were on the side of the Cov.nant. It was no uncommon th'ng for a King's min, when he was disturbing a conventicle, “‘skail- ing a bees' byke,” as it was called, to come on his wife's or his daughter's palfrey, tethered in waiting. “Keep your black-tail coats closer in by!" sald Luke Rothes once to his lady, “or I shall have to do some of them a hurt! Ca’ your messans to your foot, else I'll hae to kennel them fer ye! '1.‘¢:-rv was no such safe hiding as in some of the greater hous's of the strict persecutors, So in a little while, the mcst part of the company going out, this tall, dark-browed maid was made known to us by Matthew of the Dub as Mistress Kate McGhie, daughter of the Laird of Balmaghle, within which parish we were Then Maisle Lennox beckoned to the third maid, and she came forward with shyness and grace. She was younger than the cther two and scemed to be a well-grown lass of 13 or 14, “This,” sald Maisle Lennox, “is my cousin argaret of Glen Vernock." The mald whom she so named blushed and spoke to us in the broader accent of the shire, yet pleasantly and frankly as one well reared. , Presently there came to us the taller maid —she who was called Kate, the Laird's daughter. She held out her hand to me. “Ah! WIill of Earlstoun, I have heard of you!' 1 answered that T hoped it was for good. “It was from Maisie here that I heard it," she said, which, indeed, told me nothing. But Kate McGhle shook her head at us, which tempted me to think her a flighty mald. However, I remembered her words often afterward when I was in hiding. Thereupon 1 presented my cousin Wat to her, and they bowed to one another with a courtly grace. I declare it was pretty to see them, and also most strange in a house where the hill-folk were gathered together. But for the sake of my father and brother we were never 5o much as questioned. Presently there was one came to the door and cried that the preaching was called and about to begin. So we took our bonnets and the maids thelr shawls about them, and set forth, [t was a gray, unkindly, day and the clouds hung about the helght: There are many woods of pine and oak about the Duchrae; and we went through one of them to an anclent moat hill or place of defense, on a hiMlside, with a ditch abous it of three pr four yards wideness, which over- Anton Lennox, called the Covenanter, was a gcod and sound-hearted man, even as he was doubtless a manifest and notable Chriz- tian. But the tale that most impressed me and touched my spirit nearest, was the tale of how he served Muckle John Gib and his crew, after godly Mr. Cargill had given them over to Satan It was Sandy, my brother, that was the eye-witness of the affair. He was ever of the cxtreme opinion—as my mother used often to say: “Our Sandy was either in the moon or the midden,” but in my judgment, often- est in the latter. Yet 1 will never deny that he has had a great deal of experience, though I would rather want than have some of it. Now at this time, Sandy, perhaps by means of his wife, Jean Hamiiton (who, like her brother Robert, was just inordinate for preachings and prophesyings), was much inclined to kick over the traces, and betake himself to the wilder extremes that were much handled by our enemles for the purpose of bringing discredit on the good rame of the (ove- nanters. There was one great hulking sailor of Bor- rowstounness that was speclally aficted with these visions and maunderings. Nothing but his own will in all things could satisfy him. He withdrew himself into the waste with two or three men and a great company of feeble- minded women, and there they renounced all authority and issued proclamations of the wildest and maddest kinds. The godly and devout Mr. Donald Cargill (as he was called, for his real name was Duncan) was much exercised about the mat- ter, and, finding himself in the neighborhood to 'which these people’ had betaken them- selves, he spared no pains, but with much anl sore foot travelshe found them. But John Gib, who could e upon occasion & face- able and plausible persom, persuaded him to abide with them for a might, which accord- ingly he did, but, having wrestled with them in prayer and communing:half the night, and making not anything bf them, he rose and went out Into the flelds most unhappy. So after long wandering he came homeward, having failed in his mission. Then it was that he told old Anton Lennox, who had come from Galloway'to attend the great so- cieties’ meeting at Lesmahagow. With him at tho time was my brother Sandy, and here it is that Sandy's story used to commence, And of all Sandy's ptortes it was the one I Iiked the best, because there was the least chance of his having anything about himself to tell. “I mind the day"—so+he began—"a great heartsome harvest day in mid-September. We had our crop in early that year, and Anton my father and I, hadigatten awa' to the so- cieties' meeting ‘at Lesmahagow. It was in the earliest days of them, for ye maun mind that I am one o' the few surviving original members. We were a' sitting at our duty when in there came Into the farm kitchen where we abode Donald Cargill himself, He leaning upon his Staff, and his head was hanging down. We desisted from our worship and looked at him steadfastly, for we saw that the hand of the Lord had been upon him and that for grief. So we waited for the de- livery of his testimony. * ‘My heart is heavy,' he said at long and leat, ‘for the people of the wilderness are de- livered over to the gainsayer, and that by reason of John Gib, called 'Muckle John sallor in Borrowstounness, and presently lead. ing the silly folk astray.’” Then he told them how he had wrestied with the Gibbites mightily in the spirit, and been overthrown. Whereat he was notified that the hearts of all those that hated the Way would be lifted up. “He also brought a copy of the foolish sheet called the ‘Proclamation of the Sweet Sing- ers,! which was much handed about among all the perseculors al thls time, and made other land. do ye were for thrusting him out. GET OUT OF BED! COME TO THE 'UNERAL OF PROFITS. There's the busiest kind of a Clearance Sale in We are getting rid of our big stock of Summer Woolens before the real hot weather sets in. our store. motion at So don't sit on life's curbstone thinking over how you can make your last year’s clothes do you, We will give you a Suit, Overcoat or Pants to order at practically your own prices, for this is the Greatest Price Reducing Merchant-Tailors’ Sale Ever Held. = ${0 8 Not an inch of the work on any garment we make during this sale will be slighted, Inside and outside will be given the same grace and tone as when we charged regular prices. ED. HART, THE TAILOR Y. M. C. A. Bldg,, 210 and 212 S. 16th St. to bring terrible dizcredit on the scb.r anl God-f aring folk of the south and west, who had nothing to do with the matter, Let me see it,’ e1id Anton Lennox, hold- ing out his hand for it. “Mr. Carglll gave it to him, saying sadly “The Spirit will not always s.r.v2 with them! “‘Na, sald Auld Anton, ‘but I'll e'en str.v2 wi them mysel,! Reek me doon Clickie!’ “He spoke of his great herd's stave that had a shank of a yard and a half long was as thick as my wrist. “Come you, Sandy’ he cried over shoulder as he strcde out, ‘and ye will your bellyful of Sweet Singing this da “Now I did not want to move, for gexercise was pleasant, but my father bade me go with Auld Anton, and, as know, It is Dot easy to say nay to father. “It ‘was over a wild moor that we took our way—silent b-cause all the wild birds hid by with their nesting, and the place where Mr, Cargill had left the company of John Gib was in a very desert place where two countries met. But Auld Anton went stegging® ov.r the hills till I was fair driven cut of my breath. And ever as he went he drove his staff deeper into the sod. “It was a long season before we arrived at the place, but at last we came to the top of a little brow face, and stood looking at the strange company gathered beneath us. “There was a kind of moss hag or dry peat, wide and deep, yet level along the bottom. Down upon the black coom was a large company of women, all standing close together and joining their hands. A little way apart on a little mound of peat in the midst stood a great hulk of a fellow, with a white gown upon him, like a woman's smock, of white linen, felled with purple at the edges. But whenever it blew aside with the wind one saw underncath the sailor's jer- kin of rough cloth, with the bare tanned skin of the neck showing through. “‘Certes, Master Anson,’' said I, ‘but yon is a braw chiel, him wi' the broad hat and the white cock ontil the bob o't!’ “And indeed a brave, braw, heartsome- like man he was, for all the trashery of his attire. He kept good order among the men and women that accompanied with him in the Deer Slunk. There were thirty of them —twenty-six of them being women—many of them very respectable of famlly, that had been led away from thelr duty by the per- suading tongue of John Gib. But Auld Anton looked very grim as he stood a moment on the knowe-top and watched them, and he took a shorter grip of the cudgel he carried in his hand. It was of black crab tree and knotted, very grievous. “+John GIbY' cried Anton Lennox from Rilltop suddenly in a loud voice. “The great sea slug of a man in the white petticoat turned siowly round, and looked at us standing on the parched brae-face With no friendly eye. « ‘Begone—ye are the children of the devil —begone to your father!” he cried back. “ ‘Bellke—John Gib—Dbelike, but bide a wee 1 am coming down to have a word or two with you as to that!' replied Auld Anton, and his look had a smile in it that was sour as the crab apples which his cudgel would have borne bad it bidden in the hedge root. “I have come,’ he said, slowly and tartly, “that 1 might converse seriously with you John Gib, and that”concerning the way that you have treated Mr. Donald Cargill, an hon- ored servant of the Lord! ‘Poof!” cried John Gib, standing up to look at us, while the women drew themselves together angrily to whisper together; ‘speak not to us of ministers. We deny them every one. We bave had more comfort to our souls since we had done with ministers and elders, with week days and fast days, and bibles and Sabbaths, and came our ways here by ourselves to the deeps of the Deer's Slunk!" ay,’ sald Auld Anton, ‘ministers, indeed, are not all they might be, but without them ye have proved yourself but a blind guide jeading the blind, John Glb! Ye shall not long continue sound in the faith or straight in the way if ye want faithful guides! But chiefly for the fashion in which ye have used Mr. Cargill am I come to wrestle with you, cried Anton, e ls but an_ hirelng, stouted Muckle John Gib, making his white gown flutter. “Yea, yea, and amen!’ cried the women that were at his back. But David Jamie, Walter Ker and John Young, the other three men who were with him, looked very greatly ashamed and turned away their faces—as, in- deed, they had great need. X “Stand up like men, David Jamie, Walter Ker and John Young!' cried Anton to them, ‘do ye bide to take part with these silly women and this hulker from the bilboes, or will ye return with me to good doctrine and wholesome correction?” But the three men answered not & word, looking llke men surprised in a shameful thing and without their needful garments. “'Cargill me no Cargllls!’ said John Gib; ‘he Is & traitor, a led captain, and a hireling. He deserted the poor folk and went to an- He came hither to us, yet neither preached to us nor prayed with or for us.’ “John Young looked about him as John Gib sald this as though he would have contra- dicted him if he dared. But he was silent again and looked at the ground. “'Nay,' sald Auld Anton, ‘that Is a lie, John Gib; for I know that he offered to preach to you, standing with his Bible betweeen his open hands as his ordinary. But ye wanted him to promise to confine his preaching te you, which when he would not consent to And be the came home, wet and weary, with the cold | easterly wet fog all night upon the muir, very melancholy, with great griet for you all upon his spiritt’ Then at this John Gib became suddenly very furious and drew a pistol upon us. This madc Anton Lennox laugh. T shall come down and wrestle with your pistol in a wee, John Gib. But I have a word to gay to you all first.’ fe stood a while and looked at them with empt, as if they were the meanest wretches under heaven, as, indeed, they were. *“You, John Gib. that lay claim to_being & wizard, I have little to say to you. Ye have drawn away these silly folk with your blas- phemous devices. Your name is legion, for there are many devils within you. You are the herd of swine after the devils had en- tered into them. Hath your master given you any word to speak b:fore I come down to you?" g “‘Ay,’ sald John Gib, leaping up in the alr | and_clapping his hands together as if he | would agaln begin the dance, which accom- | panied by a_horrid yowling like that of a | beaten dog, they called sweet singing. Ay, that T have! Out upon you, Anton Lennox, that set you up for a man of God and a reprover of others. I alone am pure, and God dwells in me. T 1ift up my testi- mony again all the months of the year, for their names are heathen. I alone testify | against January and February, against Sun- | day, Monday and Tuesday; against Martin- | mas and holidays, against Lammas day, | Whitsunday, Candelmas, B:ltan, stone crass saints' images, Kelton Hill falr and Stony. Kirk sacrament. Against Yule and Christ- mas, old wife's fables, Palm Sunday, Carlin Sunday, Pasch, Hallow and Hogmanay; against the cracking of nits and the singing of sangs; against all romances and story- bulks; against Handsel Monday, kirks, kirk- yards and ministers, and especially against the cockups in the front o' the Sabbath bon- net o' ministers’ wives; against registers, law- vers and all law books — “He cried out this rigmarcle at the top of his voice, speaking trippingly by rote, as one that says his lesson In sohool and has learned it often and well. He rolled his eyes as he recited, and all the women clapped their hands and made a kind of moaning howl, like a dog when it bays the moon. ea, yea, and amen!' they cried after like ‘children singing the chorus. ‘Peace, devil's brats all? cried Anton Lennox, like a tower above them. “And they hushed at his word, for he stood above them all, like one greater than man, till even Muckle John Gib seemed puny beside the old man. “‘David_Jamie, hearken to me, you that has your hand on your bit ehable.® Better put up your feckless iron spit. It will do you no good. You are a good scholar lost, and a decent minister spotled. I wonder at you lad of some lear—companying with this hairy- throated, tarry-fisted decelver.’ “This ‘David Jamle was a young limber lad, that looked paler and more delicate than the others. What brought him into the com- pany of mad men and misguided women it is perhaps better only guessing. “He looked sufficiently ashamed now at all events “‘Walter Ker and John Young, hearken ye to me; I bave more hope of you. You are but thoughtless landward men, end the Lord may be pleased to reclaim you from this dangerous and horrible delusion.’ “Anton Lennox looked about him, There was a fire smouldering at no great distance from him. _Something black and square lay upon it. He took three great strides to the place. Lifting the dark, smouldering object up from off the fire, he cried aloud in horror, and began rubbing with his hands. It was a fine, large-print bible, with more than half of it burned away. There were also several little ones upon the fire underneath. I never saw a man's anger fire up more quickly. For me, I was both amazed and afrald at the awful and unthinkable blasphemy. ““John Gib' cried Anton Lennox, up before the Lord and answer—s done this?" “I, that am the head of the sweet singers and the Lord’s annoimted!’ said he. ‘I have done it!" ‘Then, by the Lord's great name, I will make you sing right sweetly for this? cried Anton, taking a vow, “Then one of the women took up the par- able. ‘We heard a volce in the Frost Moss,’ she sald, ‘and a light shone about us there; and John Gib bade us burn our bibles, for that the Psalms in Metre, the chapter head- ings, and the tables of contents were but human inventions.' “‘And I did it out of despite against God!' cried John Gib. “Then Anton Lennox sald not a word more, but cast away his plaid, spat upon his cud gel-palm, and called over his shoulder to me ‘stand ho has Come, Sandy, and help me to wrestle in the Spirit with these Sweet Singers.' s he ran down the brae David Jamie, the student youth, came at him with a little spit-stick of & sword and cried that if he came nearer he would run him through “‘The Lord forgie ye for leein’, callant, cried Anton, catching the poor thin blade on his great oak cudgel, for Anton was a great player with the single-sticks, and as a lad had been the cock of the countryside. The steel, being spindle-thin, shivered into twenty pleces, and the poor lad stood gaping at the sword hilt left in his hand, which had grown suddenly light. “+Bide you there and wrestle with him, Sandy! Auld Anton cried again over his and 0 sat up upen him very comfortable, til} his nose was pressed Into the moss, and all bis members sprawled and waggled beneath me like a puddock under a stone. “Then Auld Anton made straight for John Gib himself, who stood back among his circle of women, conspicuous in his white sark and with a pistol in his hand. When he saw Auld Anton coming so fiercely at him across the peat hags, ho shot off his pistol and turned to run. But his women caught bold of him by the flying white rcbe, thinking that he was about to soar upward out of thelr sight “‘Let me be,’ he cried, with a great sailor aath, and tearing away from them he left half the linen cloth in their hands, and bes tock him to his heels. “Anton Lennox went after him hot foot, and there they had It, like coursing dogs, upon the level moor, It was moble sport. 1 Jaughed tlll David Jamie was nearly choked in the moss with me rocking to and fra upon him. Anton Lennox was twlce the age of John Gib, but Muckle John, being a sailoz man, accustomed only to the short deck, and also having his running gear out of order, by his manner of life, did exceedingly pant and blow. Yet for a time ho managed tg keep aliead of the pursuer. But there was no ultimate city of refuge for him. “Anton Lennox followed after him a 1ittlq stifly, with a grim, determined countenance| and as he ran I saw him shorten his cudgel of orabtree in his hand. Presently he came up with the muckle man of Borrowstounness The great stick whistled through the air, soughing like a willow wand. Once, twice, thrice—it rose and fell. “And the sound that ensued was like the beating of a sack of meal. “Tll learn you to burn the bible?” cried Anton, as he still followed. His arm rose and fell, while John Gib continued to run as if the dogs were after him. The great hulk cried out with the intolerable pain of the blows, “'T'll mak' ye Sweet Singers a’, by my faith! Tll score fllka polnt o' your paper screed on your back, my man—Sunday, Mone day, Tuesday, Pasch, Beltan and Yulel’ At the Yule sroke John Gib fell into moss hole. We could not casily see what followed then. But the grievous cudgel rose and fell like the flall of & man that thrashes corn in a barn, and a howling and roaring that was aught but sweet singing came to us over the moor. “Presently Anton returned, striding back to where I sat upon David Jamie's back. “Rise!’ he said. And that was all he sald. “But he took his foot and turned him over, pulling him out of the moss with a cloop like the cork being drawn out of a brisk bottle of ale. “‘David, 1ad, do ye renounce John Gib and all his ways?' “The limber-limbed student looked doubt- ful, but the sight of the stick and the distant sound of the sweet singing of Muckle John declded him. “‘Aye,’ he sald, ‘T am content to renounce them and him.’ “‘See ye and stick to It then!" sald_Anton and wena after Walter Ker and John Young, Wwho stood together as though they had gotten a stroke. ““Ye saw vistons, did ye?' he said. if this be a vision?" “And he gave them certain dour strokes on their bodies, for they were strong carles and could bide the like—not like the poor feckless loon of a colleger. - ““Did ye see a light shining in the moss late yestreen?” he asked them. “ ‘It was but glow worms,' eald Walter Ker, It 'was, aiblins, Wull-o'-the-Wisp?' said John Young. “"Ay, that's mair like the thing, noo!’ sald Auld Anton, with something like 4 smile on nis face. “So saying he drove all the women (save two or three that had scattered over the moss) before him, till we came to the place of the ordinary societies' meeting at Lesmahas gow, from which we set out. Here were assembled sundry of the hus bands of the women—for the shame was that the most part of them were wives and mothers of families of an age when the faults of youth were no longer either temptation or excuse. “To them he delivered up the women, each to her own hasband, with certain advice, "] have wrestled with the men,’ he said, ‘and overcome them. Wrestle ye with the women, that are your own according to the flesh. And if ye think that my oaken stave is too sore, discharge your duty with a birch rod of the thicknese of your little finger—for it 1s the law of the realm of Scotland that every husband be allowed to give hie wife reasonable correction therewith. But gin ye need my staff, or gin your wives prefer it, It I8 at your service.' “So saying he threw his plald over his shoulder and made for the door. “Learn them a' the sweet singin, he sald, ‘John GIb was grand at it. He n| like & mavis oot by (here on the moor at the Deer's Slunk.' " This was the matter of Sandy" John Gib and Auld Anton Lennox. And this cured Sandy of some part of his extremes, though o my thinking at times he 1iad been none the worse of Auld Anton at hig elbow to give him a lesson or two In sweet singing. | might not in that case have had to buy all over ugain the bonny house of Barle stoun, and #o had more to spend upon Aftomy which {s mine own desirable residence, ‘See yo tale about shoulder. “go 1 took my, knee and tripped David uy;‘ (To be Continued,)