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Title: Sir Quixote of the Moors.
   Being Some Account of an Episode
   in the Life of the Sieur de Rohaine.
Author: Buchan, John (1875-1940)
Illustrator: Greenough, Walter Conant (d. 1898)
Date of first publication: 1895
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Henry Holt, 1895
   [first U.S. edition]
Date first posted: 1 March 2013
Date last updated: 1 March 2013
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1049

This ebook was produced by:
David T. Jones, woodie4, Al Haines
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






  SIR QUIXOTE OF THE
  MOORS



  BUCKRAM SERIES. 75c.
  each.

  SIR QUIXOTE OF THE MOORS.
  A Scotch Romance. By JOHN BUCHAN.

  LADY BONNIE'S EXPERIMENT.
  A quaint pastoral. By TIGHE HOPKINS.

  KAFIR STORIES.
  Tales of adventure. By WM. CHAS. SCULLY.

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  The Story of an Invention. By H. G. WELLS.

  THE PRISONER OF ZENDA. (_21st Ed_.)
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  THE INDISCRETION OF THE DUCHESS.
  By ANTHONY HOPE. (_8th Edition_.)

  TENEMENT TALES OF NEW YORK.
  By J. W. SULLIVAN.

  SLUM STORIES OF LONDON.
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  THE WAYS OF YALE. (5th Edition.)
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  And Other Stories. By ANTHONY HOPE.

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  By ANTHONY HOPE.

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  By ANTHONY HOPE. With portrait.

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  A love tragedy. By JEROME K. JEROME.

  HENRY HOLT & CO., NEW YORK.



  [Illustration: "_He came at me with his
        sword in a great heat._"--P. 131.]



  SIR QUIXOTE

  OF THE MOORS


  _BEING SOME ACCOUNT OF AN
  EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF
  THE SIEUR DE ROHAINE_

  BY

  JOHN BUCHAN

  NEW YORK
  HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
  1895



  COPYRIGHT, 1895,

  BY

  HENRY HOLT & CO.

  THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS,
  RAHWAY, N. J.



  TO
  GILBERT MURRAY

  WHATSOEVER IN THIS BOOK IS NOT
  WORTHLESS IS DEDICATED
  BY HIS FRIEND.



PREFACE.


The narrative, now for the first time presented to the world, was
written by the Sieur de Rohaine to while away the time during the long
period and painful captivity, borne with heroic resolution, which
preceded his death. He chose the English tongue, in which he was
extraordinarily proficient, for two reasons: first, as an exercise in
the language; second, because he desired to keep the passages here
recorded from the knowledge of certain of his kinsfolk in France. Few
changes have been made in his work. Now and then an English idiom has
been substituted for a French; certain tortuous expressions have been
emended; and in general the portions in the Scots dialect have been
rewritten, since the author's knowledge of this manner of speech seems
scarcely to have been so great as he himself thought.





              CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER                          PAGE

     I. ON THE HIGH MOORS,            1

    II. I FARE BADLY INDOORS,        27

   III. I FARE BADLY ABROAD,         58

    IV. OF MY COMING TO LINDEAN,     76

     V. I PLEDGE MY WORD,           100

    VI. IDLE DAYS,                  134

   VII. A DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS,     155

  VIII. HOW I SET THE SIGNAL,       174

    IX. I COMMUNE WITH MYSELF,      202

     X. OF MY DEPARTURE,            222





SIR QUIXOTE OF THE MOORS.




CHAPTER I.

ON THE HIGH MOORS.


Before me stretched a black heath, over which the mist blew in gusts,
and through whose midst the road crept like an adder. Great storm-marked
hills flanked me on either side, and since I set out I had seen their
harsh outline against a thick sky, until I longed for flat ground to
rest my sight upon. The way was damp, and the soft mountain gravel sank
under my horse's feet; and ever and anon my legs were splashed by the
water from some pool which the rain had left. Shrill mountain birds flew
around, and sent their cries through the cold air. Sometimes the fog
would lift for a moment from the face of the land and show me a hilltop
or the leaden glimmer of a loch, but nothing more--no green field or
homestead; only a barren and accursed desert.

Neither horse nor man was in any spirit. My back ached, and I shivered
in my sodden garments, while my eyes were dim from gazing on flying
clouds. The poor beast stumbled often, for he had traveled far on
little fodder, and a hill-road was a new thing in his experience.
Saladin I called him--for I had fancied that there was something Turkish
about his black face, with the heavy turban-like band above his
forehead--in my old fortunate days when I bought him. He was a fine
horse of the Normandy breed, and had carried me on many a wild journey,
though on none so forlorn as this.

But to speak of myself. I am Jean de Rohaine, at your service; Sieur de
Rohaine in the province of Touraine--a gentleman, I trust, though one in
a sorry plight. And how I came to be in the wild highlands of the place
called Galloway, in the bare kingdom of Scotland, I must haste to tell.
In the old days, when I had lived as became my rank in my native land, I
had met a Scot,--one Kennedy by name,--a great man in his own country,
with whom I struck up an intimate friendship. He and I were as brothers,
and he swore that if I came to visit him in his own home he would see to
it that I should have the best. I thanked him at the time for his
bidding, but thought little more of it.

Now, by ill fortune, the time came when, what with gaming and
pleasuring, I was a beggared man, and I bethought me of the Scot's
offer. I had liked the man well, and I considered how it would be no
ill thing to abide in that country till I should find some means of
bettering my affairs. So I took ship and came to the town of Ayr, from
which 'twas but a day's ride to the house of my friend. 'Twas in
midsummer when I landed, and the place looked not so bare as I had
feared, as I rode along between green meadows to my destination. There I
found Quentin Kennedy, somewhat grown old and more full in flesh than I
remembered him in the past. He had been a tall, black-avised man when I
first knew him; now he was grizzled,--whether from hard living or the
harshness of northern weather I know not,--and heavier than a man of
action is wont to be. He greeted me most hospitably, putting his house
at my bidding, and swearing that I should abide and keep him company and
go no more back to the South.

So for near a month I stayed there, and such a time of riot and hilarity
I scarce remember. _Mon Dieu_, but the feasting and the sporting would
have rejoiced the hearts of my comrades of the Rue Margot! I had already
learned much of the Scots tongue at the college in Paris, where every
second man hails from this land, and now I was soon perfect in it,
speaking it all but as well as my host. 'Tis a gift I have, for I well
remember how, when I consorted for some months in the low countries with
an Italian of Milan, I picked up a fair knowledge of his speech. So now
I found myself in the midst of men of spirit, and a rare life we led.
The gentlemen of the place would come much about the house, and I
promise you 'twas not seldom we saw the morning in as we sat at wine.
There was, too, the greatest sport at coursing and hunting the deer in
Kennedy's lands by the Water of Doon.

Yet there was that I liked not among the fellows who came thither, nay,
even in my friend himself. We have a proverb in France that the devil
when he spoils a German in the making turns him into a Scot, and for
certain there was much boorishness among them, which to my mind sits ill
on gentlemen. They would jest at one another till I thought that in a
twinkling swords would be out, and lo! I soon found that 'twas but done
for sport, and with no evil intent. They were clownish in their
understanding, little recking of the feelings of a man of honor, but
quick to grow fierce on some tittle of provocation which another would
scarce notice. Indeed, 'tis my belief that one of this nation is best in
his youth, for Kennedy, whom I well remembered as a man of courage and
breeding, had grown grosser and more sottish with his years, till I was
fain to ask where was my friend of the past.

And now I come to that which brought on my departure and my misfortunes.
'Twas one night as I returned weary from riding after a stag in the
haugh by the river, that Quentin cried hastily, as I entered, that now
he had found something worthy of my attention.

"To-morrow, Jock," says he, "you will see sport. There has been some
cursed commotion among the folk of the hills, and I am out the morrow to
redd the marches. You shall have a troop of horse and ride with me,
and, God's death, we will have a taste of better work!"

I cried out that I could have asked for naught better, and, indeed, I
was overjoyed that the hard drinking and idleness were at an end, and
that the rigors of warfare lay before me. For I am a soldier by birth
and by profession, and I love the jingle of steel and the rush of
battle.

So, on the morrow, I rode to the mountains with a score of dragoons
behind me, glad and hopeful. _Diable!_ How shall I tell my
disappointment? The first day I had seen all--and more than I wished. We
fought, not with men like ourselves, but with women and children and
unarmed yokels, and butchered like Cossacks more than Christians. I grew
sick of the work, and would have none of it, but led my men to the
rendezvous sullenly, and hot at heart. 'Twas well the night was late
when we arrived, else I should have met with Kennedy there and then, and
God knows what might have happened.

The next day, in a great fit of loathing, I followed my host again,
hoping that the worst was over, and that henceforth I should have
something more to my stomach. But little I knew of the men with whom I
journeyed. There was a cottage there, a shepherd's house, and God! they
burned it down, and the man they shot before his wife and children,
speaking naught to him but foul-mouthed reproaches and jabber about some
creed which was strange to me. I could not prevent it, though 'twas all
that I could do to keep myself from a mad attack.

I rode up to Quentin Kennedy.

"Sir," I said, "I have had great kindness at your hands, but you and I
must part. I see that we are made of different stuff. I can endure war,
but not massacre."

He laughed at my scruples, incredulous of my purpose, until at last he
saw that I was fixed in my determination. Then he spoke half kindly:

"This is a small matter to stand between me and thee. I am a servant of
the king, and but do my duty. I little thought to have disloyalty
preached from your lips; but bide with me, and I promise that you shall
see no more of it."

But my anger was too great, and I would have none of him. Then--and now
I marvel at the man's forbearance--he offered me money to recompense me
for my trouble. 'Twas honestly meant, and oft have I regretted my
action, but to me in my fury it seemed but an added insult.

"Nay," said I angrily; "I take no payment from butchers. I am a
gentleman, if a poor one."

At this he flushed wrathfully, and I thought for an instant that he
would have drawn on me; but he refrained, and I rode off alone among the
moors. I knew naught of the land, and I must have taken the wrong way,
for noon found me hopelessly mazed among a tangle of rocks and hills and
peat-mosses. Verily, Quentin Kennedy had taken the best revenge by
suffering me to follow my own leading.

In the early hours of my journey my head was in such a whirl of wrath
and dismay, that I had little power to think settled thoughts. I was in
a desperate confusion, half angry at my own haste, and half bitter at
the coldness of a friend who would permit a stranger to ride off alone
with scarce a word of regret. When I have thought the matter out in
after days, I have been as perplexed as ever; yet it still seems to me,
though I know not how, that I acted as any man of honor and heart would
approve. Still this thought was little present to me in my discomfort,
as I plashed through the sodden turf.

I had breakfasted at Kennedy's house of Dunpeel in the early morning,
and since I had no provision of any sort with me, 'twas not long ere
the biting of hunger began to set in. My race is a hardy stock, used to
much hardships and rough fare, but in this inclement land my heart
failed me wholly, and I grew sick and giddy, what with the famishing and
the cold rain. For, though 'twas late August, the month of harvest and
fruit-time in my own fair land, it seemed more like winter. The gusts of
sharp wind came driving out of the mist and pierced me to the very
marrow. So chill were they that my garments were of no avail to avert
them; being, indeed, of the thinnest, and cut according to the fashion
of fine cloth for summer wear at the shows and gallantries of the town.
A pretty change, thought I, from the gardens of Versailles and the trim
streets of Paris to this surly land; and sad it was to see my cloak,
meant for no rougher breeze than the gentle south, tossed and scattered
by a grim wind.

I have marked it often, and here I proved its truth, that man's thoughts
turn always to the opposites of his present state. Here was I, set in
the most uncharitable land on earth; and yet ever before my eyes would
come brief visions of the gay country which I had forsaken. In a gap of
hill I fancied that I descried a level distance with sunny vineyards
and rich orchards, to which I must surely come if I but hastened. When I
stooped to drink at a stream, I fancied ere I drank it that the water
would taste like the Bordeaux I was wont to drink at the little hostelry
in the Rue Margot; and when the tasteless liquid once entered my mouth,
the disenchantment was severe. I met one peasant, an old man bent with
toil, coarse-featured, yet not without some gleams of kindness, and I
could not refrain from addressing him in my native tongue. For though I
could make some shape at his barbarous patois, in my present distress it
came but uneasily from my lips. He stared at me stupidly, and when I
repeated the question in the English, he made some unintelligible reply,
and stumbled onward in his way. I watched his poor figure as he walked.
Such, thought I, are the _canaille_ of the land, and 'tis little wonder
if their bodies be misshapen, and their minds dull, for an archangel
would become a boor if he dwelt here for any space of time.

But enough of such dreams, and God knows no man had ever less cause for
dreaming. Where was I to go, and what might my purpose be in this
wilderness which men call the world? An empty belly and a wet skin do
not tend to sedate thinking, so small wonder if I saw little ahead. I
was making for the end of the earth, caring little in what direction,
weary and sick of heart, with sharp anger at the past, and never a hope
for the morrow.

Yet, even in my direst days, I have ever found some grain of expectation
to console me. I had five crowns in my purse; little enough, but
sufficient to win me a dinner and a bed at some cheap hostelry. So all
through the gray afternoon I looked sharply for a house, mistaking every
monstrous bowlder for a gable-end. I cheered my heart with thinking of
dainties to be looked for; a dish of boiled fish, or a piece of mutton
from one of the wild-faced sheep which bounded ever and anon across my
path. Nay, I was in no mood to be fastidious. I would e'en be content
with a poor fare, provided always I could succeed in swallowing it, for
my desire soon became less for the attainment of a pleasure than for the
alleviation of a discomfort. For I was ravenous as a hawk, and had it in
my heart more than once to dismount, and seek for the sparse
hill-berries.

And, indeed, this was like to have been my predicament, for the day grew
late and I came no nearer a human dwelling. The valley in which I rode
grew wider, about to open, as I thought, into the dale of a river. The
hills, from rising steeply by the wayside, were withdrawn to the
distance of maybe a mile, where they lifted their faces through the
network of the mist. All the land between them, save a strip where the
road lay, was filled with a black marsh, where moor birds made a most
dreary wailing. It minded me of the cries of the innocents whom King
Herod slew, as I had seen the dead represented outside the village
church of Rohaine in my far-away homeland. My heart grew sore with
longing. I had bartered my native country for the most dismal on earth,
and all for nothing. Madman that I was, were it not better to be a
beggar in France than a horse-captain in any other place? I cursed my
folly sorely, as each fresh blast sent a shiver through my body. Nor was
my horse in any better state--Saladin, whom I had seen gayly decked at a
procession with ribbons and pretty favors, who had carried me so often
and so far, who had always fared on the best. The poor beast was in a
woeful plight, with his pasterns bleeding from the rough stones and his
head bent with weariness. Verily, I pitied him more than myself, and if
I had had a crust we should have shared it.

The night came in, black as a draw-well and stormy as the Day of Doom. I
had now no little trouble in picking out the way from among the
treacherous morasses. Of a sudden my horse would have a forefoot in a
pool of black peat-water, from which I would scarce, by much pulling,
recover him. A sharp jag of stone in the way would all but bring him to
his knees. So we dragged wearifully along, scarce fearing, caring,
hoping for anything in this world or another.

It was, I judge, an hour after nightfall, about nine of the clock, when
I fancied that some glimmer shot through the thick darkness. I could
have clapped my hands for joy had I been able; but alas! these were so
stiff, that clapping was as far from me as from a man with the palsy.

"Courage!" said I, "courage, Saladin! There is yet hope for us!"

The poor animal seemed to share in my expectations. He carried me
quicker forward, so that soon the feeble gleam had grown to a broad
light. Inn or dwelling, thought I, there I stay, for I will go not a
foot further for man or devil. My sword must e'en be my _fourrier_ to
get me a night's lodging. Then I saw the house, a low, dark place,
unillumined save for that front window which shone as an invitation to
travelers. In a minute I was at the threshold. There, in truth, was the
sign flapping above the lintel. 'Twas an inn at length, and my heart
leaped out in gratitude.




CHAPTER II.

I FARE BADLY INDOORS.


I dropped wearily from my horse and stumbled forward to the door. 'Twas
close shut, but rays of light came through the chinks at the foot, and
the great light in the further window lit up the ground for some yards.
I knocked loudly with my sword-hilt. Stillness seemed to reign within,
save that from some distant room a faint sound of men's voices was
brought. A most savory smell stole out to the raw air and revived my
hunger with hopes of supper.

Again I knocked, this time rudely, and the door rattled on its hinges.
This brought some signs of life from within. I could hear a foot on the
stone floor of a passage, a bustling as of many folk running hither and
thither, and a great barking of a sheep-dog. Of a sudden the door was
flung open, a warm blaze of light rushed forth, and I stood blinking
before the master of the house.

He was a tall, grizzled man of maybe fifty years, thin, with a stoop in
his back that all hill-folk have, and a face brown with sun and wind. I
judged him fifty, but he may have been younger by ten years, for in
that desert men age the speedier. His dress was dirty and ragged in many
places, and in one hand he carried a pistol, which he held before him as
if for protection. He stared at me for a second.

"Wha are ye that comes dirlin' here on sic a nicht?" said he, and I give
his speech as I remember it. As he uttered the words, he looked me
keenly in the face, and I felt his thin, cold glance piercing to the
roots of my thoughts. I liked the man ill, for, what with his lean
figure and sour countenance, he was far different from the jovial,
well-groomed fellows who will give you greeting at any wayside inn from
Calais to Bordeaux.

"You ask a strange question, and one little needing answer. If a man has
wandered for hours in bog-holes, he will be in no mind to stand
chaffering at inn doors. I seek a night's lodging for my horse and
myself."

"It's little we can give you, for it's a bare, sinfu' land," said he,
"but such as I ha'e ye're welcome to. Bide a minute, and I'll bring a
licht to tak' ye to the stable."

He was gone down the passage for a few seconds, and returned with a
rushlight encased against the wind in a wicker covering. The storm made
it flicker and flare till it sent dancing shadows over the dark walls
of the house. The stable lay round by the back end, and thither poor
Saladin and his master stumbled over a most villainous rough ground. The
place, when found, was no great thing to boast of--a cold shed, damp
with rain, with blaffs of wind wheezing through it; and I was grieved to
think of my horse's nightly comfort. The host snatched from a rack a
truss of hay, which by its smell was old enough, and tossed it into the
manger. "There ye are, and it's mair than mony a Christian gets in thae
weary days."

Then he led the way back into the house. We entered a draughty passage
with a window at one end, broken in part, through which streamed the
cold air. A turn brought me into a little square room, where a fire
flickered and a low lamp burned on the table. 'Twas so home-like and
peaceful that my heart went out to it, and I thanked my fate for the
comfortable lodging I had chanced on. Mine host stirred the blaze and
bade me strip off my wet garments. He fetched me an armful of rough
homespuns, but I cared little to put them on, so I e'en sat in my shirt
and waited on the drying of my coat. My mother's portrait, the one by
Grizot, which I have had set in gold and wear always near my heart,
dangled to my lap, and I took this for an evil omen. I returned it quick
to its place, the more so because I saw the landlord's lantern-jaw close
at the sight, and his cold eyes twinkle. Had I been wise, too, I would
have stripped my rings from my fingers ere I began this ill-boding
travel, for it does not behoove a gentleman to be sojourning among
beggars with gold about him.

"Have ye come far the day?" the man asked, in his harsh voice. "Ye're
gey-like splashed wi' dirt, so I jalouse ye cam ower the _Angel's
Ladder_."

"Angel's ladder!" quoth I, "devil's ladder I call it! for a more
blackguardly place I have not clapped eyes on since I first mounted
horse."

"_Angel's Ladder_ they call it," said the man, to all appearance never
heeding my words, "for there, mony a year syne, an holy man of God, one
Ebenezer Clavershaws, preached to a goodly gathering on the shining
ladder seen by the patriarch Jacob at Bethel, which extended from earth
to heaven. 'Twas a rich discourse, and I have it still in my mind."

"'Twas more likely to have been a way to the Evil One for me. Had I but
gone a further step many a time, I should have been giving my account
ere this to my Maker. But a truce to this talk. 'Twas not to listen to
such that I came here; let me have supper, the best you have, and a
bottle of whatever wine you keep in this accursed place. Burgundy is my
choice."

"Young man," the fellow said gravely, looking at me with his unpleasing
eyes, "you are one who loves the meat that perisheth rather than the
unsearchable riches of God's grace. Oh, be warned while yet there is
time. You know not the delights of gladsome communion wi' Him, which
makes the moss-hags and heather-busses more fair than the roses of
Sharon or the balmy plains of Gilead. Oh, be wise and turn, for now is
the accepted time, now is the day of salvation!"

_Sacr!_ what madman have I fallen in with, thought I, who talks in this
fashion. I had heard of the wild deeds of those in our own land who call
themselves Huguenots, and I was not altogether without fear. But my
appetite was keen, and my blood was never of the coolest.

"Peace with your nonsense, sirrah," I said sternly; "what man are you
who come and prate before your guests, instead of fetching their supper?
Let me have mine at once, and no more of your Scripture."

As I spoke, I looked him angrily in the face, and my bearing must have
had some effect upon him, for he turned suddenly and passed out.

A wench appeared, a comely slip of a girl, with eyes somewhat dazed and
timorous, and set the table with viands. There was a moor-fowl,
well-roasted and tasty to the palate, a cut of salted beef, and for
wine, a bottle of French claret of excellent quality. 'Twas so much in
excess of my expectation, that I straightway fell into a good humor, and
the black cloud of dismay lifted in some degree from my wits. I filled
my glass and looked at it against the fire-glow, and dreamed that 'twas
an emblem of the after course of my life. Who knew what fine things I
might come to yet, though now I was solitary in a strange land?

The landlord came in and took away the remnants himself. He looked at me
fixedly more than once, and in his glance I read madness, greed, and
hatred. I feared his look, and was glad to see him leave, for he made me
feel angry and a little awed. However, thought I, 'tis not the first
time I have met a churlish host, and I filled my glass again.

The fire bickered cheerily, lighting up the room and comforting my cold
skin. I drew my chair close and stretched out my legs to the blaze, till
in a little, betwixt heat and weariness, I was pleasantly drowsy. I fell
to thinking of the events of the day and the weary road I had traveled;
then to an earlier time, when I first came to Scotland, and my hopes
were still unbroken. After all this I began to mind me of the pleasant
days in France; for, though I had often fared ill enough there, all was
forgotten but the good fortune; and I had soon built out of my brain a
France which was liker Paradise than anywhere on earth. Every now and
then a log would crackle or fall, and so wake me with a start, for the
fire was of that sort which is common in hilly places--a great bank of
peat with wood laid athwart. Blue, pungent smoke came out in rings and
clouds, which smelt gratefully in my nostrils after the black
out-of-doors.

By and by, what with thinking of the past, what with my present comfort,
and what with an ever hopeful imagination, my prospects came to look
less dismal. 'Twas true that I was here in a most unfriendly land with
little money and no skill of the country. But Scotland was but a little
place, after all. I must come to Leith in time, where I could surely
meet a French skipper who would take me over, money or no. You will ask,
whoever may chance to read this narrative, why, in Heaven's name, I did
not turn and go back to Ayr, the port from which I had come? The reason
is not far to seek. The whole land behind me stank in my nostrils, for
there dwelt Quentin Kennedy, and there lay the scene of my discomfiture
and my sufferings. Faugh! the smell of that wretched moor-road is with
me yet. So, with thinking one way and another, I came to a decision to
go forward in any case, and trust to God and my own good fortune. After
this I must have ceased to have any thoughts, and dropped off snugly to
sleep.

I wakened, at what time I know not, shivering, with a black fire before
my knees. The room was black with darkness, save where through a chink
in the window-shutter there came a gleam of pale moonlight. I sprang up
in haste and called for a servant to show me to my sleeping room, but
the next second I could have wished the word back, for I feared that no
servant would be awake and at hand. To my mind there seemed something
passing strange in thus leaving a guest to slumber by the fire.

To my amazement, the landlord himself came to my call, bearing a light
in his hand. I was reasonably surprised, for though I knew not the hour
of the night, I judged from the state of the fire that it must have been
far advanced.

"I had fallen asleep," I said, in apology, "and now would finish what I
have begun. Show me my bed."

"It'll be a dark nicht and a coorse, out-bye," said the man, as he led
the way solemnly from the room, up a rickety stair, down a mirk passage
to a chamber which, from the turnings of the house, I guessed to be
facing the east. 'Twas a comfortless place, and ere I could add a word I
found the man leaving the room with the light. "You'll find your way
to bed in the dark," quoth he, and I was left in blackness.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, half-stupid with sleep, my teeth
chattering with the cold, listening to the gusts of wind battering
against the little window. 'Faith! thought I, this is the worst
entertainment I ever had, and I have made trial of many. Yet I need not
complain, for I have had a good fire and a royal supper, and my present
discomfort is due in great part to my own ill habit of drowsiness. I
rose to undress, for my bones were sore after the long day's riding,
when, by some chance, I moved forward to the window and opened it to
look on the night.

'Twas wintry weather outside, though but the month of August. The face
of the hills fronting me were swathed in white mist, which hung low
even to the banks of the stream. There was a great muttering in the air
of swollen water, for the rain had ceased, and the red waves were left
to roll down the channel to the lowlands and make havoc of meadow and
steading. The sky was cumbered with clouds, and no clear light of the
moon came through; but since 'twas nigh the time of the full moon the
night was not utterly dark.

I lingered for maybe five minutes in this posture, and then I heard that
which made me draw in my head and listen the more intently. A thud of
horses' hoofs on the wet ground came to my ear. A second, and it was
plainer, the noise of some half-dozen riders clearly approaching the
inn. 'Twas a lonesome place, and I judged it strange that company should
come so late.

I flung myself on the bed in my clothes, and could almost have fallen
asleep as I was, so weary was my body. But there was that in my mind
which forbade slumber, a vague uneasiness as of some ill approaching,
which it behooved me to combat. Again and again I tried to drive it from
me as mere cowardice, but again it returned to vex me. There was nothing
for it but that I should lie on my back and bide what might come.

Then again I heard a sound, this time from a room beneath. 'Twas as if
men were talking softly, and moving to and fro. My curiosity was
completely aroused, and I thought it no shame to my soldierly honor to
slip from my room and gather what was the purport of their talk. At such
a time, and in such a place, it boded no good for me, and the evil face
of the landlord was ever in my memory. The staircase creaked a little as
it felt my weight, but it had been built for heavier men, and I passed
it in safety. Clearly the visitors were in the room where I had supped.

"Will we ha'e muckle wark wi' him, think ye?" I heard one man ask.

"Na, na," said another, whom I knew for mine host, "he's a foreigner, a
man frae a fremt land, and a' folk ken they're little use. Forbye, I had
stock o' him mysel', and I think I could mak' his bit ribs crack
thegither. He'll no' be an ill customer to deal wi'."

"But will he no' be a guid hand at the swird? There's no yin o' us here
muckle at that."

"Toots," said another, "we'll e'en get him intil a corner, where he'll
no git leave to stir an airm."

I had no stomach for more. With a dull sense of fear I crept back to my
room, scarce heeding in my anger whether I made noise or not. Good God!
thought I, I have traveled by land and sea to die in a moorland alehouse
by the hand of common robbers! My heart grew hot at the thought of the
landlord, for I made no doubt but it was my jewels that had first set
his teeth. I loosened my sword in its scabbard; and now I come to think
of it, 'twas a great wonder that it had not been taken away from me
while I slept. I could only guess that the man had been afraid to
approach me before the arrival of his confederates. I gripped my
sword-hilt; ah, how often had I felt its touch under kindlier
circumstances--when I slew the boar in the woods at Belmont, when I made
the Sieur de Biran crave pardon before my feet, when I---- But peace
with such memories! At all events, if Jean de Rohaine must die among
ruffians, unknown and forgotten, he would finish his days like a
gentleman of courage. I prayed to God that I might only have the life of
the leader.

But this world is sweet to all men, and as I awaited death in that dark
room, it seemed especially fair to live. I was but in the prime of my
age, on the near side of forty, hale in body, a master of the arts and
graces. Were it not passing hard that I should perish in this wise? I
looked every way for a means of escape. There was but one--the little
window which looked upon the ground east of the inn. 'Twas just
conceivable that a man might leap it and make his way to the hills, and
so baffle his pursuers. Two thoughts deterred me; first, that I had no
horse and could not continue my journey; second, that in all likelihood
there would be a watch set below. My heart sank within me, and I ceased
to think.

For, just at that moment, I heard a noise below as of men leaving the
room. I shut my lips and waited. Here, I concluded, is death coming to
meet me. But the next moment the noise had stopped, and 'twas evident
that the conclave was not yet closed. 'Tis a strange thing, the mind of
man, for I, who had looked with despair at my chances a minute agone,
now, at the passing of this immediate danger, plucked up heart, clapped
my hat on my head, and opened the window.

The night air blew chill, but all seemed silent below. So, very
carefully I hung over the ledge, gripped the sill with my hands, swung
my legs into the air, and dropped. I lighted on a tussock of grass and
rolled over on my side, only to recover myself in an instant and rise
to my feet, and, behold, at my side, a tall man keeping sentinel on
horseback.

At this the last flicker of hope died in my bosom. The man never moved
or spake, but only stared fixedly at me. Yet there was that in his face
and bearing which led me to act as I did.

"If you are a man of honor," I burst out, "though you are engaged in an
accursed trade, dismount and meet me in combat. Your spawn will not be
out for a little time, and the night is none so dark. If I must die, I
would die at least in the open air, with my foe before me."

My words must have found some answering chord in the man's breast, for
he presently spoke, and asked me my name and errand in the countryside.
I told him in a dozen words, and at my tale he shrugged his shoulders.

"I am in a great mind," says he, "to let you go. I am all but sick of
this butcher work, and would fling it to the winds at a word. 'Tis well
enough for the others, who are mongrel bred, but it ill becomes a man of
birth like me, who am own cousin to the Maxwells o' Drurie."

He fell for a very little time into a sort of musing, tugging at his
beard like a man in perplexity. Then he spoke out suddenly:

"See you yon tuft of willows by the water? There's a space behind it
where a horse and man might stand well concealed. There is your horse,"
and he pointed to a group of horses standing tethered by the roadside;
"lead him to the place I speak of, and trust to God for the rest. I will
raise a scare that you're off the other airt, and, mind, that whenever
you see the tails o' us, you mount and ride for life in the way I tell
you. You should win to Drumlanrig by morning, where there are quieter
folk. Now, mind my bidding, and dae't before my good will changes."

"May God do so to you in your extremity! If ever I meet you on earth I
will repay you for your mercy. But a word with you. Who is that man?"
and I pointed to the house.

The fellow laughed dryly. "It's easy seen you're no acquaint here, or
you would ha'e heard o' Long Jock o' the Hirsel. There's mony a man
would face the devil wi' a regiment o' dragoons at his back, that would
flee at a glint from Jock's een. You're weel quit o' him. But be aff
afore the folk are stirring."

I needed no second bidding, but led Saladin with all speed to the
willows, where I made him stand knee-keep in the water within cover of
the trees, while I crouched by his side. 'Twas none too soon, for I was
scarce in hiding when I heard a great racket in the house, and the sound
of men swearing and mounting horse. There was a loud clattering of
hoofs, which shortly died away, and left the world quiet, save for the
broil of the stream and the loud screaming of moorbirds.




CHAPTER III.

I FARE BADLY ABROAD.


All this has taken a long time to set down, but there was little time in
the acting. Scarce half an hour had passed from my waking by the black
fire till I found myself up to the waist in the stream. I made no
further delay, but, as soon as the air was quiet, led Saladin out as
stilly as I could on the far side of the willows, clambered on his back
(for I was too sore in body to mount in any other fashion), and was
riding for dear life along the moor road in the contrary direction to
that from which I had come on the night before. The horse had plainly
been well fed, since, doubtless, the ruffians had marked him for their
own plunder. He covered the ground in gallant fashion, driving up jets
and splashes of rain water from the pools in the way. Mile after mile
was passed with no sound of pursuers; one hill gave place to another;
the stream grew wider and more orderly; but still I kept up the
breakneck pace, fearing to slacken rein. Fifteen miles were covered, as
I judged, before I saw the first light of dawn in the sky, a red streak
in a gray desert; and brought my horse down to a trot, thanking God that
at last I was beyond danger.

I was sore in body, with clammy garments sticking to my skin, aching in
back and neck, unslept, well-nigh as miserable as a man could be. But
great as was my bodily discomfort, 'twas not one tittle to compare with
the sickness of my heart. I had been driven to escape from a hostel by a
window like a common thief; compelled to ride,--nay, there was no use in
disguising it,--to flee, before a pack of ill-bred villains; I, a
gentleman of France, who had ruffled it with the best of them in my fit
of prosperity. Again and again I questioned with myself whether I had
not done better to die in that place, fighting as long as the breath was
in my body. Of this I am sure, at any rate, that it would have been the
way more soothing to my pride. I argued the matter with myself,
according to the most approved logic, but could come no nearer to the
solution. For while I thought the picture of myself dying with my back
to the wall the more heroical and gentleman-like, it yet went sore
against me to think of myself, with all my skill of the sword and the
polite arts, perishing in a desert place at the hand of common
cut-throats. 'Twas no fear of death, I give my word of honor; that was
a weakness never found in our race. Courage is a virtue I take no credit
for; 'tis but a matter of upbringing. But a man loves to make some noise
in the earth ere he leaves it, or at least to pass with blowings of the
trumpet and some manner of show. To this day I cannot think of any way
by which I could have mended my conduct. I can but set it down as a
mischance of Providence, which meets all men in their career, but of
which no man of spirit cares to think.

The sun rose clear, but had scarce shone for an hour, when, as is the
way in this land, a fresh deluge of rain came on, and the dawn, which
had begun in crimson, ended in a dull level of gray. I had never been
used with much foul weather of this sort, so I bore it ill. 'Twas about
nine of the morning when I rode into the village of Drumlanrig, a jumble
of houses in the lee of a great wood, which runs up to meet the
descending moorlands. Some ragged brats, heedless of the weather, played
in the street, if one may call it by so fine a name; but for the most
part the houses seemed quite deserted. A woman looked incuriously at me;
a man who was carrying sacks scarce raised his head to view me; the
whole place was like a dwelling of the dead. I have since learned the
reason, which was no other than the accursed butchery on which I had
quarreled with Quentin Kennedy, and so fallen upon misfortune. The young
and manly were all gone; some to the hills for hiding, some to the town
prisons, some across the seas to work in the plantations, and some on
that long journey from which no man returns. My heart boils within me to
this day to think of it--but there! it is long since past, and I have
little need to be groaning over it now.

There was no inn in the place, but I bought bread from the folk of a
little farm-steading at one end of the village street. They would
scarce give it to me at first, and 'twas not till they beheld my
woebegone plight that their hearts relented. Doubtless they took me for
one of the soldiers who had harried them and theirs, little guessing
that 'twas all for their sake that I was in such evil case. I did not
tarry to ask the road, for Leith was too far distant for the people in
that place to know it. Of this much I was sure, that it lay to the
northeast, so I took my way in that direction, shaping my course by the
sun. There was a little patch of green fields, a clump of trees, and a
quiet stream beside the village; but I had scarce ridden half a mile
beyond it when once more the moor swallowed me up in its desert of moss
and wet heather.

I was now doubly dispirited. My short exhilaration of escape had gone,
and all the pangs of wounded pride and despair seized upon me, mingled
with a sort of horror of the place I had come through. Whenever I saw a
turn of hill which brought the _Angel's Ladder_ to my mind, I shivered
in spite of myself, and could have found it in my heart to turn and
flee. In addition, I would have you remember, I was soaked to the very
skin, my eyes weary with lack of sleep, and my legs cramped with much
riding.

The place in the main was moorland, with steep, desolate hills on my
left. On the right to the south I had glimpses of a fairer country,
woods and distant fields, seen for an instant through the driving mist.
In a trice France was back in my mind, for I could not see an acre of
green land without coming nigh to tears. Yet, and perhaps 'twas
fortunate for me, such glimpses were all too rare. For the most part,
the way was a long succession of sloughs and mires, with here a piece of
dry, heathy ground, and there an impetuous water coming down from the
highlands. Saladin soon fell tired, and, indeed, small wonder, since he
had come many miles, and his fare had been of the scantiest. He would
put his foot in a bog-hole and stumble so sharply that I would all but
lose my seat. Then, poor beast, he would take shame to himself, and pick
his way as well as his weary legs would suffer him. 'Twas an evil plight
for man and steed, and I knew not which to pity the more.

At noon, I came to the skirts of a long hill, whose top was hidden with
fog, but which I judged to be high and lonesome. I met a man--the first
I had seen since Drumlanrig--and asked him my whereabouts. I learned
that the hill was called Queen's Berry, and that in some dozen miles I
would strike the high road to Edinburgh. I could get not another word
out of him, but must needs content myself with this crumb of knowledge.
The road in front was no road, nothing but a heathery moor, with walls
of broken stones seaming it like the lines of sewing in an old coat.
Gray broken hills came up for a minute, as a stray wind blew the mist
aside, only to disappear the next instant in a ruin of cloud.

From this place I mark the beginning of the most wretched journey in my
memory. Till now I had had some measure of bodily strength to support
me. Now it failed, and a cold shivering fit seized on my vitals, and
more than once I was like to have fallen from my horse. A great
stupidity came over my brain; I could call up no remembrance to cheer
me, but must plod on in a horror of darkness. The cause was not far
distant--cold, wet, and despair. I tried to swallow some of the
rain-soaked bread in my pouch, but my mouth was as dry as a skin. I
dismounted to drink at a stream, but the water could hardly trickle down
my throat so much did it ache. 'Twas as if I were on the eve of an ague,
and in such a place it were like to be the end of me.

Had there been a house, I should have craved shelter. But one effect of
my sickness was, that I soon strayed woefully from my path, such as it
was, and found myself in an evil case with bogs and steep hillsides. I
had much to do in keeping Saladin from danger; and had I not felt the
obligation to behave like a man, I should have flung the reins on his
neck and let him bear himself and his master to destruction. Again and
again I drove the wish from my mind--"As well die in a bog-hole or break
your neck over a crag as dwine away with ague in the cold heather, as
you are like to do," said the tempter. But I steeled my heart, and made
a great resolve to keep one thing, though I should lose all else--some
shreds of my manhood.

Toward evening I grew so ill that I was fain, when we came to a level
place, to lay my head on Saladin's neck, and let him stumble forward. My
head swam, and my back ached so terribly that I guessed feverishly that
someone had stabbed me unawares. The weather cleared just about even,
and the light of day flickered out in a watery sunset. 'Twas like the
close of my life, I thought, a gray ill day and a poor ending. The
notion depressed me miserably. I felt a kinship with that feeble
evening light, a kinship begotten of equality in weakness. However, all
would soon end; my day must presently have its evening; and then, if all
tales were true, and my prayers had any efficacy, I should be in a
better place.

But when once the night in its blackness had set in, I longed for the
light again, however dismal it might be. A ghoulish song, one which I
had heard long before, was ever coming to my memory:

                "La pluye nous a debuez et lavez,
                 Et le soleil dessechez et noirciz;
                 Pies, corbeaux----"

With a sort of horror I tried to drive it from my mind. A dreadful
heaviness oppressed me. Fears which I am ashamed to set down thronged
my brain. The way had grown easier, or I make no doubt my horse had
fallen. 'Twas a track we were on, I could tell by the greater freedom
with which Saladin stepped. God send, I prayed, that we be near to folk,
and that they be kindly; this prayer I said many times to the
accompaniment of the whistling of the doleful wind. Every gust pained
me. I was the sport of the weather, a broken puppet tossed about by
circumstance.

Now an answer was sent to me, and that a speedy one. I came of a sudden
to a clump of shrubbery beside a wall. Then at a turn of the way a
light shone through, as from a broad window among trees. A few steps
more and I stumbled on a gate, and turned Saladin's head up a pathway.
The rain dripped heavily from the bushes, a branch slashed me in the
face, and my weariness grew tenfold with every second. I dropped like a
log before the door, scarce looking to see whether the house was great
or little; and, ere I could knock or make any call, swooned away dead on
the threshold.




CHAPTER IV.

OF MY COMING TO LINDEAN.


When I came to myself I was lying in a pleasant room with a great flood
of sunlight drifting through the window. My brain was so confused that
it was many minutes ere I could guess in which part of the earth I was
laid. My first thought was that I was back in France, and I rejoiced
with a great gladness; but as my wits cleared the past came back by
degrees, till I had it plain before me, from my setting-out to my
fainting at the door. Clearly I was in the house where I had arrived on
the even of yesterday.

I stirred, and found my weakness gone, and my health, save for some
giddiness in the head, quite recovered. This was ever the way of our
family, who may be in the last desperation one day and all alive and
active the next. Our frames are like the old grape tendrils, slim, but
tough as whipcord.

At my first movement someone arose from another part of the room and
came forward. I looked with curiosity, and found that it was a girl, who
brought me some strengthening food-stuff in a bowl. The sunlight smote
her full in the face and set her hair all aglow, as if she were the
Madonna. I could not see her well, but, as she bent over me, she seemed
tall and lithe and pretty to look upon.

"How feel you?" she asked, in a strange, soft accent, speaking the pure
English, but with a curious turn in her voice. "I trust you are better
of your ailment."

"Yes, that I am," I said briskly, for I was ashamed to be lying there in
good health, "and I would thank you, mademoiselle, for your courtesy to
a stranger."

"Nay, nay," she cried, "'twas but common humanity. You were sore spent
last night, both man and horse. Had you traveled far? But no," she added
hastily, seeing me about to plunge into a narrative; "your tale will
keep. I cannot have you making yourself ill again. You had better bide
still a little longer." And with a deft hand she arranged the pillows
and was gone.

For some time I lay in a pleasing inaction. 'Twas plain I had fallen
among gentlefolk, and I blessed the good fortune which had led me to the
place. Here I might find one to hear my tale and help me in my ill-luck.
At any rate for the present I was in a good place, and when one has been
living in a nightmare, the present has the major part in his thoughts.
With this I fell asleep again, for I was still somewhat wearied in body.

When I awoke 'twas late afternoon. The evil weather seemed to have gone,
for the sun was bright and the sky clear with the mellowness of
approaching even. The girl came again and asked me how I fared. "For,"
said she, "perhaps you wish to rise, if you are stronger. Your clothes
were sadly wet and torn when we got you to bed last night, so my father
has bade me ask you to accept of another suit till your own may be in
better order. See, I have laid them out for you, if you will put them
on." And again, ere I could thank her, she was gone.

I was surprised and somewhat affected by this crowning kindness, and at
the sight of so much care for a stranger whose very name was unknown. I
longed to meet at once with the men of the house, so I sprung up and
drew the clothes toward me. They were of rough gray cloth, very strong
and warm, and fitting a man a little above the ordinary height, of such
stature as mine is. It did not take me many minutes to dress, and when
once more I found myself arrayed in wholesome garments I felt my spirit
returning, and with it came hope, and a kindlier outlook on the world.

No one appeared, so I opened my chamber door and found myself at the
head of a staircase, which turned steeply down almost from the
threshold. A great window illumined it, and many black-framed pictures
hung on the walls adown it. At the foot there was a hall, broad and low
in the roof, whence some two or three doors opened. Sounds of men in
conversation came from one, so I judged it wise to turn there. With much
curiosity I lifted the latch and entered unbidden.

'Twas a little room, well furnished, and stocked to the very ceiling
with books. A fire burned on the hearth, by which sat two men talking.
They rose to their feet as I entered, and I marked them well. One was an
elderly man of maybe sixty years, with a bend in his back as if from
study. His face was narrow and kindly; blue eyes, like a Northman, a
thin, twitching lip, and hair well turned to silver. His companion was
scarce less notable--a big, comely man, dressed half in the fashion of a
soldier, yet with the air of one little versed in cities. I love to be
guessing a man's station from his looks, and ere I had glanced him over,
I had set him down in my mind as a country _laird_, as these folk call
it. Both greeted me courteously, and then, as I advanced, were silent,
as if waiting for me to give some account of myself.

"I have come to thank you for your kindness," said I awkwardly, "and to
let you know something of myself, for 'tis ill to be harboring folk
without names or dwelling."

"Tush!" said the younger; "'twere a barbarity to leave anyone without,
so travel-worn as you. The Levite in the Scriptures did no worse. But
how feel you now? I trust your fatigue is gone."

"I thank you a thousand times for your kindness. Would I knew how to
repay it!"

"Nay, young man," said the elder, "give thanks not to us, but to the
Lord who led you to this place. The moors are hard bedding, and right
glad I am that you fell in with us here. 'Tis seldom we have a stranger
with us, since my brother at Drumlanrig died in the spring o' last year.
But I trust you are better, and that Anne has looked after you well. A
maid is a blessing to sick folk, if a weariness to the hale."

"You speak truly," I said, "a maid is a blessing to the sick. 'Tis sweet
to be well tended when you have fared hardly for days. Your kindness has
set me at peace with the world again. Yesterday all was black before
me, and now, I bethink me, I see a little ray of light."

"'Twas a good work," said the old man, "to give you hope and set you
right with yourself, if so chance we have done it. What saith the wise
man, 'He that hath no rule over his own spirit is like a city that is
broken down and without walls'? But whence have you come? We would hear
your story."

So I told them the whole tale of my wanderings, from my coming to
Kennedy to my fainting fit at their own threshold. At the story of my
quarrel they listened eagerly, and I could mark their eyes flashing,
and as I spake of my sufferings in the desert I could see sympathy in
their faces. When I concluded, neither spake for a little, till the
elder man broke silence with:

"May God bless and protect you in all your goings! Well I see that you
are of the upright in heart. It makes me blithe to have you in my
house."

The younger said nothing but rose and came to me.

"M. de Rohaine," he said, speaking my name badly, "give me your hand. I
honor you for a gentleman and a man of feeling."

"And I am glad to give it you," said I, and we clasped hands and looked
into each other's eyes. Then we stepped back well satisfied. For myself
I love to meet a man, and in the great-limbed young fellow before me I
found one to my liking.

"And now I must tell you of ourselves," said the old man, "for 'tis
fitting that a guest should know his entertainers. This is the manse of
Lindean, and I am the unworthy man, Ephraim Lambert, whom God hath
appointed to watch over his flock in this place. Sore, sore are we
troubled by evil men, such as you have known; and my folk, from dwelling
in decent cots, have to hide in peat-hags and the caves of the hills.
The Lord's hand is heavy upon this country; 'tis a time of trial, a
passing through the furnace. God grant we be not found faithless! This
home is still left to us, and thankful we should be for it; and I demand
that you dwell with us till you have settled on your course. This man,"
he went on, laying his hand on the shoulder of the younger, "is Master
Henry Semple of Clachlands, a fine inheritance, all ridden and rieved by
these devils on earth, Captain Keith's dragoons. Henry is of our belief,
and a man of such mettle that the Privy Council was fain to send down a
quartering of soldiers to bide in his house and devour his substance.
'Twas a thing no decent man could thole, so off he comes here to keep us
company till the wind blows by. If you look out of the window over by
the side of yon rig of hill, ye'll get a glimmer of Clachlands chimneys,
reeking with the smoke of their evil preparations. Ay, ay, lads, burn
you your peats and fill up the fire with logs till the vent's choked,
but you'll burn brawly yourselves some fine day, when your master gives
you your wages."

He looked out as he spoke, and into his kindly eyes came a gleam of such
anger and decision as quite transfigured his face and made it seem more
like that of a troop captain than a peaceful minister.

And now Master Semple spoke up: "God send, sir, they suffer for no worse
a crime than burning my peats and fire-wood. I should count myself a
sorry fellow if I made any complaint about a little visitation, when the
hand of the Lord is smiting so sorely among my fellows. I could take
shame to myself every time I eat good food or sleep in a decent bed, to
think of better men creeping aneath the lang heather like etherts, or
shivering on the cauld hill-side. There'll be no such doings in your
land, M. de Rohaine? I've heard tell of folk there like us, dwelling in
the hills to escape the abominations of Rome. But perhaps," and he
hesitated, "you are not of them?"

"No," said I, "I am of your enemies by upbringing; but I dearly love a
brave man, whereever I meet him. 'Tis poor religion, say I, which would
lead one to see no virtue in those of another belief. There is one God
above all."

"Ay, you speak truly," said the old man. "He has made of one blood all
the nations of the earth. But I yearn to see you of a better way of
thinking. Mayhap I may yet show you your errors?"

"I thank you, but I hold by 'every man to his upbringing.' Each man to
the creed of his birth. 'Tis a poor thing to be changing on any pretext.
For, look you, God, who appointed a man his place of birth, set him his
religion with it, and I hold if he but stick to it he is not far in
error."

I spoke warmly, but in truth I had thought all too little about such
things. One who has to fight his way among men and live hardly, has, of
necessity, little time for his devotions, and if he but live cleanly,
his part is well done. _Mon Dieu!_ Who will gainsay me?

"I fear your logic is faulty," said Master Semple, "but it is mighty
inhospitable to be arguing with a guest. See, here Anne comes with the
lamp, and supper will soon be ready."

The girl came in as he spake, bearing a great lamp, which she placed on
a high shelf, and set about laying the table for supper. I had noticed
her little at first sight, for I was never given to staring at maids;
but now, as she moved about, I found myself ever watching her. The ruddy
firelight striving with the serene glow of the lamp met and flickered
about her face and hair. She was somewhat brown in skin, like a country
maiden; but there was no semblance of rusticity in her fair features and
deep brown eyes. Her hair hung over her neck as brown as the soft fur
of a squirrel, and the fire filled it with fantastic shadows. She was
singularly graceful in figure, moving through the room and bending over
the table with a grace which 'twas pretty to contemplate. 'Twas strange
to note that when her face was averted one might have guessed her to be
some village girl or burgher's daughter; but as soon as she had turned
her imperial eyes on you she looked like a queen in a play. Her face was
a curious one, serious and dignified beyond her years and sex, yet with
odd sparkles of gayety dancing in her eyes and the corners of her rosy
mouth.

Master Semple had set about helping her, and a pretty sight it was to
see her reproving and circumventing his clumsiness. 'Twas not hard to
see the relation between the two. The love-light shone in his eye
whenever he looked toward her; and she, for her part, seemed to thrill
at his chance touch. One strange thing I noted, that, whereas in France
two young folks could not have gone about the business of setting a
supper-table without much laughter and frolic, all was done here as if
'twere some solemn ceremonial.

To one who was still sick with the thought of the black uplands he had
traversed, of the cold, driving rain and the deadly bogs, the fare in
the manse was like the apple to Eve in the garden. 'Twas fine to be
eating crisp oaten cakes, and butter fresh from the churn, to be
drinking sweet, warm milk--for we lived on the plainest; and, above all,
to watch kindly faces around you in place of marauders and low ruffians.
The minister said a lengthy grace before and after the meal; and when
the table was cleared the servants were called in to evening prayer.
Again the sight pleased me--the two maids with their brown country faces
seated decently by the door; Anne, half in shadow, sitting demurely
with Master Semple not far off, and at the table-head the white hairs
of the old man bowed over the Bible. He read I know not what, for I am
not so familiar with the Scriptures as I should be, and, moreover,
Anne's grave face was a more entrancing study. Then we knelt, and he
prayed to God to watch over us in all our ways and bring us at last to
his prepared kingdom. Truly, when I arose from my knees, I felt more
tempted to be devout than I have any remembrance of before.

Then we sat and talked of this and that, and I must tell over all my
misfortunes again for mademoiselle's entertainment. She listened with
open wonder, and thanked me with her marvelous eyes. Then to bed with a
vile-smelling lamp, in a wide, low-ceilinged sleeping room, where the
sheets were odorous of bog-myrtle and fresh as snow. Sleep is a goddess
easy of conquest when wooed in such a fashion.




CHAPTER V.

I PLEDGE MY WORD.


Of my life at Lindean for the next three days I have no clear
remembrance. The weather was dry and languid, as often follows a spell
of rain, and the long hills which huddled around the house looked near
and imminent. The place was so still that if one shouted it seemed
almost a profanation. 'Twas so Sabbath-like that I almost came to
dislike it. Indeed, I doubt I should have found it irksome had there
not been a brawling stream in the glen, which kept up a continuous
dashing and chattering. It seemed the one link between me and that
far-away world in which not long agone I had been a dweller.

The life, too, was as regular as in the king's court. Sharp at six I was
awakened, and ere seven we were assembled for breakfast. Then to
prayers, and then to the occupations of the day. The minister would be
at his books or down among his people on some errand of mercy. The
church had been long closed, for the Privy Council, seeing that Master
Lambert was opposed to them, had commanded him to be silent; and yet,
mark you, so well was he loved in the place that they durst set no
successor in his stead. They tried it once and a second time, but the
unhappy man was so taken with fear of the people that he shook the dust
of Lindean off his feet, and departed in search of a more hospitable
dwelling. But the minister's mouth was shut, save when covertly, and
with the greatest peril to himself, he would preach at a meeting of the
hill-folk in the recesses of the surrounding uplands.

The library I found no bad one--I who in my day have been considered to
have something of a taste in books. To be sure there was much wearisome
stuff, the work of old divines, and huge commentaries on the Scriptures,
written in Latin and plentifully interspersed with Greek and Hebrew. But
there was good store of the Classics, both prose and poetry,--_Horace_,
who has ever been my favorite, and _Homer_, who, to my thinking, is the
finest of the ancients. Here, too, I found a _Plato_, and I swear I read
more of him in the manse than I have done since I went through him with
M. Clerselier, when we were students together in Paris.

The acquaintance which I had formed with Master Semple speedily ripened
into a fast friendship. I found it in my heart to like this great
serious man--a bumpkin if you will, but a man of courage and kindliness.
We were wont to take long walks, always in some lonely part of the
country, and we grew more intimate in our conversation than I should
ever have dreamed of. He would call me John, and this much I suffered
him, to save my name from the barbarity of his pronunciation; while in
turn I fell to calling him Henry, as if we had been born and bred
together. I found that he loved to hear of my own land and my past life,
which, now that I think of it, must have had no little interest to one
dwelling in such solitudes. From him I heard of his father, of his
brief term at the College of Edinburgh, which he left when the strife in
the country grew high, and of his sorrow and anger at the sufferings of
those who withstood the mandate of the king. Though I am of the true
faith, I think it no shame that my sympathy was all with these rebels,
for had I not seen something of their misery myself? But above all, he
would speak of _la belle Anne_ as one gentleman will tell another of his
love, when he found that I was a willing listener. I could scarce have
imagined such warmth of passion to exist in the man as he showed at the
very mention of her name.

"Oh!" he would cry out, "I would die for her; I would gang to the
world's end to pleasure her! I whiles think that I break the first
commandment every day of my life, for I canna keep her a moment out of
my thoughts, and I fear she's more to me than any earthly thing should
be. I think of her at nicht. I see her name in every page of the Book. I
thought I was bad when I was over at Clachlands, and had to ride five
miles to see her; but now I'm tenfold worse when I'm biding aside her.
God grant it be not counted to me for sin!"

"Amen to that," said I. 'Tis a fine thing to see the love of a maid;
but I hold 'tis a finer to witness the passion of a strong man.

Yet, withal, there was something sinister about the house and its folk
which to me was the fly in the ointment. They were kindness and charity
incarnate, but they were cold and gloomy to boot, lacking any grace or
sprightliness in their lives. I find it hard to write this, for their
goodness to me was beyond recompense; yet I must set it down, since in
some measure it has to do with my story. The old man would look at me at
times and sigh, nor did I think it otherwise than fitting, till I found
from his words that the sighs were on account of my own spiritual
darkness. I have no quarrel with any man for wishing to convert me, but
to sigh at one's approach seems a doleful way of setting about it. Then
he would break out from his wonted quietness at times to rail at his
foes, calling down the wrath of Heaven to blight them. Such a fit was
always followed by a painful exhaustion, which left him as weak as a
child, and shivering like a leaf. I bitterly cursed the state of a
country which could ruin the peace of mind of a man so sweet-tempered by
nature, and make him the sport of needless rage. 'Twas pitiful to see
him creep off to his devotions after any such outbreak, penitent and
ashamed. Even to his daughter he was often cruelly sharp, and would call
her to account for the merest trifle.

As for Master Henry, what shall I say of him? I grew to love him like my
own brother, yet I no more understood him than the Sultan of Turkey. He
had strange fits of gloom, begotten, I must suppose, of the harsh
country and his many anxieties, in which he was more surly than a bear,
speaking little, and that mainly from the Scriptures. I have one case in
my memory, when, had I not been in a sense his guest, I had scarce
refrained from quarreling. 'Twas in the afternoon of the second day,
when we returned weary from one of our long wanderings. Anne tripped
forth into the autumn sunlight singing a catch, a simple glee of the
village folk.

"Peace, Anne," says Master Henry savagely; "it little becomes you to be
singing in these days, unless it be a godly psalm. Keep your songs for
better times."

"What ails you?" I ventured to say. "You praised her this very morning
for singing the self-same verses."

"And peace, you," he says roughly, as he entered the house; "if the
lass hearkened to your accursed creed, I should have stronger words for
her."

My breath was fairly taken from me at this incredible rudeness. I had my
hand on my sword, and had I been in my own land we should soon have
settled it. As it was, I shut my lips firmly and choked down my choler.

Yet I cannot leave with this ill word of the man. That very night he
talked with me so pleasingly, and with so friendly a purport, that I
conceived he must have been scarce himself when he so insulted me.
Indeed, I discerned two natures in the man--one, hard, saturnine,
fanatically religious; the other, genial and kindly, like that of any
other gentleman of family. The former I attributed to the accident of
his fortune; the second I held to be the truer, and in my thoughts of
him still think of it as the only one.

But I must pass to the events which befell on the even of the third day,
and wrought so momentous a change in the life at Lindean. 'Twas just at
the lighting of the lamp, when Anne and the minister and myself sat
talking in the little sitting room, that Master Henry entered with a
look of great concern on his face, and beckoned the elder man out.

"Andrew Gibb is here," said he.

"And what may Andrew Gibb be wanting?" asked the old man, glancing up
sharply.

"He brings nae guid news, I fear, but he'll tell them to none but you;
so hasten out, sir, to the back, for he's come far, and he's ill at the
waiting."

The twain were gone for some time, and in their absence I could hear
high voices in the back end of the house, conversing as on some matter
of deep import. Anne fetched the lamp from the kitchen and trimmed it
with elaborate care, lighting it and setting it in its place. Then, at
last, the minister returned alone.

I was shocked at the sight of him as he re-entered the room. His face
was ashen pale and tightly drawn about the lips. He crept to a chair and
leaned his head on the table, speaking no word. Then he burst out of a
sudden into a storm of pleading.

"O Lord God," he cried, "thou hast aye been good to us, thou has kept us
weel, and bielded us frae the wolves who have sought to devour us. Oh,
dinna leave us now. It's no' for mysel' or Henry that I care. We're men,
and can warstle through ills; but oh, what am I to dae wi' the bit
helpless lassie? It's awfu' to have to gang oot among hills and bogs to
bide, but it's ten times waur when ye dinna ken what's gaun to come to
your bairn. Hear me, O Lord, and grant me my request. I've no' been a'
that I micht have been, but oh, if I ha'e tried to serve thee at a',
dinna let this danger overwhelm us!"

He had scarcely finished, and was still sitting with bowed head, when
Master Henry also entered the room. His eyes were filled with an austere
frenzy, such as I had learned to look for.

"Ay, sir," said he, "'tis a time for us a' to be on our knees. But ha'e
courage, and dinna let us spoil the guid cause by our weak mortal
complaining. Is't no' better to be hunkering in a moss-hole and
communing with the Lord than waxing fat like Jeshurun in carnal
corruption? Call on God's name, but no' wi' sighing, but wi' exaltation,
for He hath bidden us to a mighty heritage."

"Ye speak brave and true, Henry, and I'm wi' your every word. But tell
me what's to become o' my bairn? What will Anne dae? I once thought
there was something atween you----" He stopped abruptly and searched the
face of the young man.

At his words Master Semple had started as under a lash. "Oh, my God," he
cried, "I had forgotten! Anne, Anne, my dearie, we canna leave ye, and
you to be my wife. This is a sore trial of faith, sir, and I misdoubt I
canna stand it. To leave ye to the tender mercies o' a' the hell-hounds
o' dragoons--oh, I canna dae't!"

He clapped his hand to his forehead and walked about the room like a man
distraught.

And now I put in my word. "What ails you, Henry? Tell me, for I am sore
grieved to see you in such perplexity."

"Ails me?" he repeated. "Aye, I will tell ye what ails me"; and he drew
his chair before me. "Andrew Gibb's come ower frae the Ruthen wi' shure
news that a warrant's oot against us baith, for being at the preaching
on Callowa' Muir. 'Twas an enemy did it, and now the soldiers are
coming at ony moment to lay hands on us and take us off to Embro'. Then
there'll be but a short lease of life for us; and unless we take to the
hills this very nicht we may be ower late in the morning. I'm wae to
tak' sae auld a man as Master Lambert to wet mosses, but there's nothing
else to be dune. But what's to become o' Anne? Whae's to see to her,
when the dragoons come riding and cursing about the toon? Oh, it's a
terrible time, John. Pray to God, if ye never prayed before, to let it
pass."

Mademoiselle had meantime spoken never a word, but had risen and gone to
her father's chair and put her arms around his neck. Her presence
seemed to cheer the old man, for he ceased mourning and looked up, while
she sat, still as a statue, with her grave, lovely face against his. But
Master Semple's grief was pitiful to witness. He rocked himself to and
fro in his chair, with his arms folded and a set, white face. Every now
and then he would break into a cry like a stricken animal. The elder man
was the first to counsel patience.

"Stop, Henry," says he; "it's ill-befitting Christian folk to set sic an
example. We've a' got our troubles, and if ours are heavier than some,
it's no' for us to complain. Think o' the many years o' grace we've
had. There's nae doubt the Lord will look after the bairn, for he's a
guid Shepherd for the feckless."

But now of a sudden a thought seemed to strike Henry, and he was on his
feet in a twinkling and by my side.

"John," he almost screamed in my ear, "John, I'm going to ask ye for the
greatest service that ever man asked. Ye'll no' say me nay?"

"Let me hear it," said I.

"Will _you_ bide wi' the lass? You're a man o' birth, and I'll swear to
it, a man o' honor. I can trust you as I would trust my ain brither. Oh,
man, dinna deny me! It's the last hope I ha'e, for if ye refuse, we
maun e'en gang to the hills and leave the puir thing alane. Oh, ye canna
say me nae! Tell me that ye'll do my asking."

I was so thunderstruck at the request that I scarce could think for some
minutes. Consider, was it not a strange thing to be asked to stay alone
in a wild moorland house with another man's betrothed, for Heaven knew
how many weary days? My life and prospects were none so cheerful for me
to despise anything, nor so varied that I might pick and choose; but yet
'twas dreary, if no worse, to look forward to any length of time in this
desolate place. I was grateful for the house as a shelter by the way,
yet I hoped to push on and get rid, as soon as might be, of this
accursed land.

But was I not bound by all the ties of gratitude to grant my host's
request? They had found me fainting at their door, they had taken me in,
and treated me to their best; I was bound in common honor to do
something to requite their kindness. And let me add, though not often a
man subject to any feelings of compassion, whatever natural bent I had
this way having been spoiled in the wars, I nevertheless could not
refrain from pitying the distress of that strong man before me. I felt
tenderly toward him, more so than I had felt to anyone for many a day.

All these thoughts raced through my head in the short time while Master
Henry stood before me. The look in his eyes, the pained face of the old
man, and the sight of Anne, so fair and helpless, fixed my
determination.

"I am bound to you in gratitude," said I, "and I would seek to repay
you. I will bide in the house, if so you will, and be the maid's
protector. God grant I may be faithful to my trust, and may he send a
speedy end to your exile?"

So 'twas all finished in a few minutes, and I was fairly embarked upon
the queerest enterprise of my life. For myself I sat dazed and
meditative; as for the minister and Master Semple, one-half of the
burden seemed to be lifted from their minds. I was amazed at the
trusting natures of these men, who had habited all their days with
honest folk till they conceived all to be as worthy as themselves. I
felt, I will own, a certain shrinking from the responsibility of the
task; but the Rubicon had been crossed and there was no retreat.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of the rest of that night how shall I tell? There was such a bustling
and pother as I had never seen in any house since the day that my
brother Denis left Rohaine for the Dutch wars. There was a running and
scurrying about, a packing of food, a seeking of clothes, for the
fugitives must be off before the first light. Anne went about with a
pale, tearful face; and 'twas a matter of no surprise, for to see a
father, a man frail and fallen in years, going out to the chill
moorlands in the early autumn till no man knew when, is a grievous thing
for a young maid. Her lover was scarce in so dire a case, for he was
young and strong, and well used to the life of the hills. For him there
was hope; for the old man but a shadow. My heart grew as bitter as gall
at the thought of the villains who brought it about.

How shall I tell of the morning, when the faint light was flushing the
limits of the sky, and the first call of a heath-bird broke the silence!
'Twas sad to see these twain with their bundles (the younger carrying
the elder's share) creep through the heather toward the hills. They
affected a cheerful resolution, assumed to comfort Anne's fears and
sorrow; but I could mark beneath it a settled despair. The old man
prayed at the threshold, and clasped his daughter many times, kissing
her and giving her his blessing. The younger, shaken with great sobs,
bade a still more tender farewell, and then started off abruptly to hide
his grief. Anne and I, from the door, watched their figures disappear
over the crest of the ridge, and then went in, sober and full of angry
counsels.

       *       *       *       *       *

The soldiers came about an hour before mid-day--a band from Clachlands,
disorderly ruffians, commanded by a mealy-faced captain. They were a
scurrilous set, their faces bloated with debauchery and their clothes in
no very decent order. As one might have expected, they were mightily
incensed at finding their bird flown, and fell to cursing each other
with great good-will. They poked their low-bred faces into every nook in
the house and outbuildings; and when at length they had satisfied
themselves that there was no hope from that quarter, they had all the
folk of the dwelling out on the green and questioned them one by one.
The two serving-lasses were stanch, and stoutly denied all knowledge of
their master's whereabouts--which was indeed no more than the truth. One
of the two, Jean Crichope by name, when threatened with ill-treatment if
she did not speak, replied valiantly that she would twist the neck of
the first scoundrelly soldier who dared to lay finger on her. This I
doubt not she could have performed, for she was a very daughter of Anak.

As for Anne and myself, we answered according to our agreement. They
were very curious to know my errand there and my name and birth; and
when I bade them keep their scurvy tongues from defiling a gentleman's
house, they were none so well pleased. I am not a vain man, and I do not
set down the thing I am going to relate as at all redounding to my
credit; I merely tell it as an incident in my tale.

The captain at last grew angry. He saw that the law was powerless to
touch us, and that nought remained for him but to ride to the hills in
pursuit of the fugitives. This he seemed to look upon as a hardship,
being a man to all appearance more fond of the bottle and pasty than a
hill gallop. At any rate he grew wroth, and addressed to Anne a speech
so full of gross rudeness that I felt it my duty to interfere.

"Look you here, sir," said I, "I am here, in the first place, to see
that no scoundrel maltreats this lady. I would ask you, therefore, to be
more civil in your talk or to get down and meet me in fair fight. These
gentlemen," and I made a mocking bow to his company, "will, I am
assured, see an honest encounter."

The man flushed under his coarse skin. His reputation was at stake.
There was no other course open but to take up my challenge.

"You, you bastard Frenchman," he cried, "would you dare to insult a
captain of the king's dragoons? I' faith, I will teach you better
manners;" and he came at me with his sword in a great heat. The soldiers
crowded round like children to see a cock-fight.

In an instant we crossed swords and fell to; I with the sun in my eyes
and on the lower ground. The combat was not of long duration. In a
trice I found that he was a mere child in my hands, a barbarian who used
his sword like a quarter-staff, not even putting strength into his
thrusts.

"Enough!" I cried; "this is mere fooling;" and with a movement which any
babe in arms might have checked, twirled his blade from his hands and
sent it spinning over the grass. "Follow your sword, and learn two
things before you come back--civility to maids and the rudiments of
sword-play. Bah! Begone with you!"

Some one of his men laughed, and I think they were secretly glad at
their tyrant's discomfiture. No more need be said. He picked up his
weapon and rode away, vowing vengeance upon me and swearing at every
trooper behind him. I cared not a straw for him, for despite his bravado
I knew that the fear of death was in his cowardly heart, and that we
should be troubled no more by his visitations.




CHAPTER VI.

IDLE DAYS.


I have heard it said by wise folk in France that the autumn is of all
seasons of the year the most trying to the health of a soldier; since,
for one accustomed to the heat of action and the fire and fury of swift
encounter, the decay of summer, the moist, rotting air, and the first
chill preludes of winter are hard to stand. This may be true of our own
autumn days, but in the north country 'twas otherwise. For there the
weather was as sharp and clear as spring, and the only signs of the
season were the red leaves and the brown desolate moors. Lindean was
built on the slope of the hills, with the steeps behind it, and a vista
of level land to the front: so one could watch from the window the red
woods of the low country, and see the stream, turgid with past rains,
tearing through the meadows. The sun rose in the morning in a blaze of
gold and crimson; the days were temperately warm, the afternoons bright,
and the evening another procession of colors. 'Twas all so beautiful
that I found it hard to keep my thoughts at all on the wanderers in the
hills and to think of the house as under a dark shadow.

And if 'twas hard to do this, 'twas still harder to look upon Anne as a
mourning daughter. For the first few days she had been pale and silent,
going about her household duties as was her wont, speaking rarely, and
then but to call me to meals. But now the pain of the departure seemed
to have gone, and though still quiet as ever, there was no melancholy in
her air; but with a certain cheerful gravity she passed in and out in my
sight. At first I had had many plans to console her; judge then of my
delight to find them needless. She was a brave maid, I thought, and
little like the common, who could see the folly of sighing, and set
herself to hope and work as best she could.

The days passed easily enough for me, for I could take Saladin and ride
through the countryside, keeping always far from Clachlands; or the
books in the house would stand me in good stead for entertainment. With
the evenings 'twas different. When the lamp was lit, and the fire
burned, 'twas hard to find some method to make the hours go by. I am not
a man easily moved, as I have said; and yet I took shame to myself to
think of the minister and Master Henry in the cold bogs, and Anne and
myself before a great blaze. Again and again I could have kicked the
logs off to ease my conscience, and was only held back by respect for
the girl. But, of a surety, if she had but given me the word, I would
have been content to sit in the fireless room and enjoy the approval of
my heart.

She played no chess; indeed, I do not believe there was a board in the
house; nor was there any other sport wherewith to beguile the long
evenings. Reading she cared little for, and but for her embroidery work
I know not what she would have set her hand to. So, as she worked with
her threads I tried to enliven the time with some account of my
adventures in past days, and some of the old gallant tales with which I
was familiar. She heard me gladly, listening as no comrade by the
tavern-board ever listened; and though, for the sake of decency, I was
obliged to leave out many of the more diverting, yet I flatter myself I
won her interest and made the time less dreary. I ranged over all my own
experience and the memory of those tales which I had heard from
others--and those who know anything of me know that that is not small. I
told her of exploits in the Indies and Spain, in Germany and the Low
Countries, and in far Muscovy, and 'twas no little pleasure to see her
eager eyes dance and sparkle at a jest, or grow sad at a sorrowful
episode. _Ma vie!_ She had wonderful eyes--the most wonderful I have
ever seen. They were gray in the morning and brown at noonday; now
sparkling, but for the most part fixedly grave and serene. 'Twas for
such eyes, I fancy, that men have done all the temerarious deeds
concerning womankind which history records.

It must not be supposed that our life was a lively one, or aught
approaching gayety. The talking fell mostly to my lot, for she had a
great habit of silence, acquired from her lonely dwelling-place. Yet I
moved her more than once to talk about herself.

I heard of her mother, a distant cousin of Master Semple's father; of
her death when Anne was but a child of seven; and of the solitary years
since, spent in study under her father's direction, in household work,
or in acts of mercy to the poor. She spoke of her father often, and
always in such a way that I could judge of a great affection between
them. Of her lover I never heard, and, now that I think the matter over,
'twas no more than fitting. Once, indeed, I stumbled upon his name by
chance in the course of talk, but as she blushed and started, I vowed
to fight shy of it ever after.

As we knew well before, no message from the hills could be sent, since
the moors were watched as closely as the gateway of a prison. This added
to the unpleasantness of the position of each of us. In Anne's case
there was the harassing doubt about the safety of her kinsfolk, that
sickening anxiety which saps the courage even of strong men. Also, it
rendered my duties ten times harder. For, had there been any
communication between the father or the lover and the maid, I should
have felt less like a St. Anthony in the desert. As it was, I had to
fight with a terrible sense of responsibility and unlimited power for
evil, and God knows how hard that is for any Christian to strive with.
'Twould have been no very hard thing to shut myself in a room, or bide
outside all day, and never utter a word to Anne save only the most
necessary; but I was touched by the girl's loneliness and sorrows, and,
moreover, I conceived it to be a strange way of executing a duty, to
flee from it altogether. I was there to watch over her, and I swore by
the Holy Mother to keep the very letter of my oath.

And so the days dragged by till September was all but gone. I have
always loved the sky and the vicissitudes of weather, and to this hour
the impression of these autumn evenings is clear fixed on my mind.
Strangely enough for that north country, they were not cold, but mild,
with a sort of acrid mildness; a late summer, with the rigors of winter
underlying, like a silken glove over a steel gauntlet.

One such afternoon I remember, when Anne sat busy at some needlework on
the low bench by the door, and I came and joined her. She had wonderful
grace of body, and 'twas a pleasure to watch every movement of her arm
as she stitched. I sat silently regarding the landscape, the woods
streaking the bare fields, the thin outline of hills beyond, the smoke
rising from Clachlands' chimneys, and above all, the sun firing the
great pool in the river, and flaming among clouds in the west. Something
of the spirit of the place seemed to have entered into the girl, for she
laid aside her needlework after a while and gazed with brimming eyes on
the scene. So we sat, feasting our eyes on the picture, each thinking
strange thoughts, I doubt not. By and by she spoke.

"Is France, that you love so well, more beautiful than this, M. de
Rohaine?" she asked timidly.

"Ay, more beautiful, but not like this; no, not like this."

"And what is it like? I have never seen any place other than this."

"Oh, how shall I tell of it?" I cried. "'Tis more fair than words. We
have no rough hills like these, nor torrents like the Lin there; but
there is a great broad stream by Rohaine, as smooth as a mill-pond,
where you can row in the evenings, and hear the lads and lasses singing
love songs. Then there are great quiet meadows, where the kine browse,
where the air is so still that one can sleep at a thought. There are
woods, too--ah! such woods--stretching up hill, and down dale, as green
as spring can make them, with long avenues where men may ride; and,
perhaps, at the heart of all, some old chateau, all hung with vines and
creepers, where the peaches ripen on the walls and the fountain plashes
all the summer's day. Bah! I can hardly bear to think on it, 'tis so
dear and home-like;" and I turned away suddenly, for I felt my voice
catch in my throat.

"What hills are yonder?" I asked abruptly, to hide my feelings.

Anne looked up.

"The hills beyond the little green ridge you mean?" she says. "That will
be over by Eskdalemuir and the top of the Ettrick Water. I have heard
my father speak often of them, for they say that many of the godly find
shelter there."

"Many of the godly!"

I turned round sharply, though what there was in the phrase to cause
wonder I cannot see. She spoke but as she had heard the men of her house
speak; yet the words fell strangely on my ears, for by a curious process
of thinking I had already begun to separate the girl from the rest of
the folk in the place, and look on her as something nearer in sympathy
to myself. Faugh? that is not the way to put it. I mean that she had
listened so much to my tales that I had all but come to look upon her
as a countrywoman of mine.

"Are you dull here, Anne?" I asked, for I had come to use the familiar
name, and she in turn would sometimes call me Jean--and very prettily it
sat on her tongue. "Do you never wish to go elsewhere and see the
world?"

"Nay," she said. "I had scarce thought about the world at all. 'Tis a
place I have little to do with, and I am content to dwell here forever,
if it be God's will. But I should love to see your France, that you
speak of."

This seemed truly a desire for gratifying which there was little
chance; so I changed the subject of our converse, and asked her if she
ever sang.

"Ay, I have learned to sing two or three songs, old ballads of the
countryside, for though my father like it little, Henry takes a pleasure
in hearing them. I will sing you one if you wish it." And when I bade
her do so, she laid down her work, which she had taken up again, and
broke into a curious plaintive melody. I cannot describe it. 'Twould be
as easy to describe the singing of the wind in the tree-tops. It minded
me, I cannot tell how, of a mountain burn, falling into pools and
rippling over little shoals of gravel. Now 'twas full and strong, and
now 'twas so eerie and wild that it was more like a curlew's note than
any human thing. The story was about a knight who sailed to Norway on
some king's errand and never returned, and of his lady who waited long
days at home, weeping for him who should never come back to her. I did
not understand it fully, for 'twas in an old patois of the country, but
I could feel its beauty. When she had finished the tears stood in my
eyes, and I thought of the friends I had left, whom I might see no more.

But when I looked at her, to my amazement, there was no sign of feeling
in her face.

"'Tis a song I have sung often," she said, "but I do not like it. 'Tis
no better than the ringing of a bell at a funeral."

"Then," said I, wishing to make her cheerful, "I will sing you a gay
song of my own country. The folk dance to it on the Sunday nights at
Rohaine, when blind Ren plays the fiddle." So I broke into the "May
song," with its lilting refrain.

Anne listened intently, her face full of pleasure, and at the second
verse she began to beat the tune with her foot. She, poor thing, had
never danced, had never felt the ecstasy of motion; but since all
mankind is alike in nature, her blood stirred at the tune. So I sang
her another chanson, this time an old love ballad, and then again a war
song. But by this time the darkness was growing around us, so we must
needs re-enter the house; and as I followed I could hear her humming the
choruses with a curious delight.

"So ho, Mistress Anne," thought I, "you are not the little country mouse
that I had thought you, but as full of spirit as a caged hawk. Faith,
the town would make a brave lass of you, were you but there!"

From this hour I may date the beginning of the better understanding--I
might almost call it friendship--between the two of us. She had been
bred among moorland solitudes, and her sole companions had been solemn
praying folk; yet, to my wonder, I found in her a nature loving gayety
and mirth, songs and bright colors--a grace which her grave deportment
did but the more set off. So she came soon to look at me with a kindly
face, doing little acts of kindness every now and then in some way or
other, which I took to be the return which she desired to make for my
clumsy efforts to please her.




CHAPTER VII.

A DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.


The days at Lindean dragged past, and the last traces of summer began to
disappear from the face of the hills. The bent grew browner, the trees
more ragged, and the torrent below more turgid and boisterous. Yet no
word came from the hills, and, sooth to tell, we almost ceased to look
for it. 'Twas not that we had forgotten the minister and Master Semple
in their hiding, for the thought of them was often at hand to sadden
me, and Anne, I must suppose, had many anxious meditations; but our life
at Lindean was so peaceful and removed from any hint of violence that
danger did not come before our minds in terrible colors. When the rain
beat at night on the window, and the wind howled round the house, then
our hearts would smite us for living in comfort when our friends were
suffering the furious weather. But when the glorious sun-lit morning had
come, and we looked over the landscape, scarce free from the magic of
dawn, then we counted it no hardship to be on the hills. And rain came
so seldom during that time, and the sun so often, that the rigor of the
hill-life did not appal us.

This may account for the way in which the exiles slipped from our
memories for the greater part of the day. For myself I say
nothing--'twas but natural; but from Anne I must confess that I expected
a greater show of sorrow. To look at her you would say that she was
burdened with an old grief, so serious was her face; but when she would
talk, then you might see how little her heart was taken up with the
troubles of her house and the care for her father and lover. The girl to
me was a puzzle, which I gave up all attempting to solve. When I had
first come to Lindean, lo! she was demure and full of filial affection,
and tender to her lover. Now, when I expected to find her sorrowful and
tearful at all times, I found her quiet indeed, but instinct with a
passion for beauty and pleasure and all the joys of life. Yet ever and
anon she would take a fit of solemnity, and muse with her chin poised on
her hand; and I doubt not that at such times she was thinking of her
father and her lover in their manifold perils.

One day the rain came again and made the turf plashy and sodden, and set
the Lin roaring in his gorge. I had beguiled the morning by showing
Anne the steps of dancing, and she had proved herself a ready pupil. To
pleasure her I danced the sword-dance, which can only be done by those
who have great dexterity of motion; and I think I may say that I
acquitted myself well. The girl stood by in wonderment, looking at me
with a pleasing mixture of surprise and delight. She had begun to look
strangely at me of late. Every now and then when I lifted my head I
would find her great eyes resting on me, and at my first glance she
would withdraw them. They were strange eyes--a mingling of the fawn and
the tiger.

As I have said, in a little time she had acquired some considerable
skill, and moved as gracefully as though she had learned it from her
childhood, while I whistled bars of an old dancing tune. She had a
little maid who attended her,--Eff she called her,--and the girl stood
by to watch while Anne did my bidding. Then when we were all wearied of
the sport, I fell to thinking of some other play, and could find none.
'Twas as dull as ditch-water, till the child Eff, by a good chance,
spoke of fishing. She could get her father's rod and hooks, she said,
for he never used them now; and I might try my luck in the Lin Water.
There were good trout there, it seemed, and the choice time of taking
them was in the autumn floods.

Now I have ever been something of a fisherman, for many an hour have I
spent by the big fish pond at Rohaine. So I got the tackle of Eff's
father--rude enough it was in all conscience--and in the early afternoon
I set out to the sport. Below the house and beyond the wood the Lin
foams in a deep gully, falling over horrid cascades into great churning
pools, or diving beneath the narrow rocks. But above the ravine there is
a sudden change. The stream flows equably through a flat moor in sedgy
deeps and bright shimmering streams. Thither I purposed to go, for I am
no lover of the awesome black caldrons, which call to a man's mind
visions of drowned bodies and pits which have no ending. On the moor
with the wind blowing about one 'twas a pleasure to be, but faugh! no
multitude of fish was worth an hour in that dismal chasm.

I had not great success, and little wonder, for my leisurely ways were
ill suited for the alert mountain fish. My time was spent in meditating
on many things, but most of all on the strange case in which I found
myself. For in truth my position was an odd one as ever man was in.

Here was I bound by my word of honor to bide in the house and protect
its inmates till that indefinite time when its master might return.
There was no fear of money, for the minister had come of a good stock,
and had more gear than is usual with one of his class. But 'twas an evil
thing to look forward to--to spend my days in a lonely manse, and wait
the end of a persecution which showed no signs of ending.

But the mere discomfort was nothing had it not been for two delicate
scruples which came to torment me. _Imprimis_, 'twas more than any man
of honor could do to dwell in warmth and plenty, while his entertainers
were languishing for lack of food or shivering with cold in the hags
and holes of the mountains. I am a man tolerably hardened by war and
travel, yet I could never abide to lie in bed on a stormy night or to
eat my food of a sharp morning when I thought of the old man dying, it
might be, unsheltered and forlorn. _Item_, there was the matter of the
girl; and I cannot tell how heavy the task had come to lie on my
shoulders. I had taken the trust of one whom I thought to be a staid
country lass, and lo! I had found her as full of human passion as any
lady of the court. 'Twas like some groom who offers to break a horse,
and finds it too stiff in temper. I had striven to do my duty toward
her and make her life less wearisome, and I had succeeded all too well.
For I marked that in the days just past she had come to regard me with
eyes too kindly by half. When I caught her unawares, and saw the curious
look on her face, I could have bitten my tongue out with regret, for I
saw the chasm to whose brink I had led her. I will take my oath there
was no thought of guile in the maid, for she was as innocent as a child;
but 'tis such who are oftentimes the very devil, since their
inexperience adds an edge to their folly.

Thinking such thoughts, I fished up the Lin Water till the afternoon
was all but past, and the sunset began to glimmer in the bog-pools. My
mind was a whirl of emotions, and no plan or order could I conceive.
But--and this one thing I have often marked, that the weather curiously
affected my temper--the soft evening light brought with it a calm which
eased me in the conflict. 'Tis hard to wrangle in spirit when the west
is a flare of crimson, and later when each blue hill stands out sharp
against the yellow sky. My way led through the great pine wood above the
Lin gorge, thence over a short spit of heath to the hill path and the
ordered shrubbery of the manse. 'Twas fine to see the tree stems stand
out red against the gathering darkness, while their thick evergreen
heads were blazing like flambeaux. A startled owl drove past, wavering
among the trunks. The air was so still that the light and color seemed
all but audible, and indeed the distant rumble of the falling stream
seemed the interpretation to the ears of the vision which the eyes
beheld. I love such sights, and 'tis rarely enough that we see them in
France, for it takes a stormy upland country to show to its full the
sinking of the sun. The heath with its dead heather, when I came on it,
seemed alight, as happens in March, so I have heard, when the shepherds
burn the mountain grass. But in the manse garden was the choicest
sight, for there the fading light seemed drawn to a point and blazing on
the low bushes and coarse lawns. Each window in the house glowed like a
jewel, but--mark the wonder--when I gazed over the country there was no
view to be seen, but only a slowly creeping darkness.

'Twas an eerie sight, and beautiful beyond telling. It awed me, and yet
filled me with a great desire to see it to the full. So I did not enter
the house, but turned my steps round by the back to gain the higher
ground, for the manse was built on a slope. I loitered past the side
window, and gained the place I had chosen; but I did not bide long, for
soon the show was gone, and only a chill autumn dusk left behind. So I
made to enter the house, when I noticed a light as of firelight dancing
in the back window. Now, I had never been in that room before, so what
must I do in my idle curiosity but go peeping there.

The room was wide and unfurnished, with a fire blazing on the hearth.
But what held me amazed were the figures on the floor. Anne, with her
skirts kilted, stood erect and agile as if about to dance. The girl Eff
sat by the fireplace, humming some light measure. The ruddy light bathed
the floor and walls and made all distinct as noonday.

'Twas as I had guessed. In a trice her feet began to move, and soon she
was in the middle of the first dance I had taught her, while _la petite_
Eff sang the tune in her clear, low voice. I have seen many dancers,
great ladies and country dames, village lasses and burgher wives,
gypsies and wantons, but, by my honor, I never saw one dance like Anne.
Her body moved as if by one impulse with her feet. Now she would bend
like a willow, and now whirl like the leaves of the wood in an autumn
gale. She was dressed, as was her wont, in sober brown, but sackcloth
could not have concealed the grace of her form. The firelight danced and
leaped in her hair, for her face was turned from me; and 'twas fine to
see the snow of her neck islanded among the waves of brown tresses. With
a sudden swift dart she turned her face to the window, and had I not
been well screened by the shadows, I fear I should have been observed.
But such a sight as her face I never hope to see again. The solemnity
was gone, and 'twas all radiant with youth and life. Her eyes shone like
twin stars, the even brown of her cheeks was flushed with firelight, and
her throat and bosom heaved with the excitement of the dance. Then she
stopped exhausted, smiled on Eff, who sat like a cinder-witch all the
while, and smoothed the hair from her brow.

"Have I done it well?" she asked.

"As weel as he did it himsel'," the child answered. "Eh, but you twae
would make a bonny pair."

I turned away abruptly and crept back to the garden path, my heart
sinking within me, and a feeling of guilt in my soul. I was angry at
myself for eavesdropping, angry and ashamed. But a great dread came on
me as I thought of the girl, this firebrand, who had been trusted to my
keeping. Lackaday for the peace of mind of a man who has to see to a
maid who could dance in this fashion, with her father and lover in the
cold hills! And always I called to mind that I had been her teacher, and
that my lessons, begun as a harmless sport to pass the time, were like
to breed an overmastering passion. _Mon Dieu!_ I was like the man in the
Eastern tale who had raised a spirit which he was powerless to control.

And just then, as if to point my meditations, I heard the cry of a
plover from the moor behind, and a plaff of the chill night-wind blew in
my face.




CHAPTER VIII.

HOW I SET THE SIGNAL.


When I set out to write this history in the English tongue, that none of
my own house might read it, I did not know the hard task that lay before
me. For if I were writing it in my own language, I could tell the
niceties of my feelings in a way which is impossible for me in any
other. And, indeed, to make my conduct intelligible, I should forthwith
fall to telling each shade of motive and impulse which came to harass
my mind. But I am little skilled in this work, so I must needs recount
only the landmarks of my life, or I should never reach the end.

I slept ill that night, and at earliest daylight was awake and dressing.
The full gravity of the case was open to me now, and you may guess that
my mind was no easy one. I went down to the sitting room, where the
remains of the last night's supper still lay on the table. The white
morning light made all things clear and obtrusive, and I remember
wishing that the lamp was lit again and the shutters closed. But in a
trice all meditations were cast to the winds, for I heard the door at
the back of the house flung violently open and the sound of a man's feet
on the kitchen floor.

I knew that I was the only one awake in the house, so with much haste I
passed out of the room to ascertain who the visitor might be. In the
center of the back room stood a great swart man, shaking the rain from
his clothes and hair, and waiting like one about to give some message.
When he saw me he took a step forward, scanned me closely, and then
waited my question.

"Who in the devil's name are you?" I asked angrily, for I was half
amazed and half startled by his sudden advent.

"In the Lord's name I am Andrew Gibb," he responded solemnly.

"And what's your errand?" I asked further.

"Bide a wee and you'll hear. You'll be the foreigner whae stops at the
manse the noo?"

"Go on," I said shortly.

"Thae twae sants, Maister Lambert and Maister Semple, 'ill ha'e made
some kind o' covenant wi' you? At ony rate, hear my news and dae your
best. Their hidy-hole at the heid o' the Stark Water's been betrayed,
and unless they get warning it'll be little you'll hear mair o' them.
I've aye been their freend, so I cam' here to do my pairt by them."

"Are you one of the hill-men?"

"Na, na! God forbid! I'm a douce, quiet-leevin' man, and I'd see the
Kirk rummle aboot their lugs ere I'd stir my shanks frae my ain
fireside. But I'm behauden to the minister for the life o' my bairn,
whilk is ower lang a story for ye to hear; and to help him I would rin
frae Maidenkirk to Berwick. So I've aye made it my wark to pick up ony
word o' scaith that was comin' to him, and that's why I'm here the day.
Ye've heard my news richt, ye're shure?"

"I've heard your news. Will you take any food before you leave?"

"Na; I maun be off to be back in time for the kye."

"Well, good-day to you, Andrew Gibb," I said, and in a minute the man
was gone.

Now, here I must tell what I omitted to tell in a former place--that
when the exiles took to the hills they bade me, if I heard any word of
danger to their hiding-place, to go by a certain path, which they
pointed out, to a certain place, and there overturn a little cairn of
stones. This was to be a signal to them for instant movement. I knew
nothing of the place of their retreat, and for this reason could swear
on my oath with an easy conscience; but this scrap of enlightenment I
had, a scrap of momentous import for both life and death.

I turned back to the parlor in a fine confusion of mind. By some means
or other the task which was now before me had come to seem singularly
disagreeable. The thought of my entertainers--I am ashamed to write
it--was a bitter thought. I had acquired a reasonless dislike to them.
What cause had they, I asked, to be crouching in hill-caves and first
getting honest gentlemen into delicate and difficult positions, and then
troubling them with dangerous errands. Then there was the constant
vision of the maid to vex me. This was the sorest point of all. For,
though I blush to own it, the sight of her was not altogether
unpleasing to me; nay, to put it positively, I had come almost to feel
an affection for her. She was so white and red and golden, all light and
gravity, with the shape of a princess, the mien of a goddess, and, for
all I knew the heart of a dancing-girl. She carried with her the air of
comfort and gayety, and the very thought of her made me shrink from the
dark moors and ill-boding errand as from the leprosy.

There is in every man a latent will, apart altogether from that which he
uses in common life, which is apt at times to assert itself when he
least expects it. Such was my honor, for lo! I found myself compelled
by an inexorable force to set about the performance of my duty. I take
no credit for it, since I was only half willing, my grosser inclination
being all against it. But something bade me do it, calling me poltroon,
coward, traitor, if I refused; so ere I left the kitchen I had come to a
fixed decision.

To my wonder, at the staircase foot I met Anne, dressed, but with her
hair all in disorder. I stood booted and cloaked and equipped for the
journey, and at the sight of me her face filled with surprise.

"Where away so early, John?" says she.

"Where away so early, Mistress Anne?" said I.

"Ah, I slept ill, and came down to get the morning air." I noted that
her eyes were dull and restless, and I do believe that the poor maid had
had a sorry night of it. A sharp fear at my heart told me the cause.

"Anne," I said sullenly, "I am going on a hard errand, and I entreat you
to keep out of harm's way till I return."

"And what is your errand, pray?" she asked.

"Nothing less than to save the lives of your father and your lover. I
have had word from a secret source of a great danger which overhangs
them, and by God's help I would remove it."

At my word a light, half angry and half pathetic, came to her eyes. It
passed like a sungleam, and in its place was left an expression of cold
distaste.

"Then God prosper you," she said, in a formal tone, and with a whisk of
her skirts she was gone.

I strode out into the open with my heart the battlefield of a myriad
contending passions.

I reached the hill, overturned the cairn, and set out on my homeward
way, hardly giving but one thought to the purport of my errand or the
two fugitives whom it was my mission to save, so filled was my mind with
my own trouble. The road home was long and arduous; and more, I had to
creep often like an adder lest I should be spied and traced by some
chance dragoon. The weather was dull and cold, and a slight snow, the
first token of winter, sprinkled the moor. The heather was wet, the long
rushes dripped and shivered, and in the little trenches the peat-water
lay black as ink. A smell of damp hung over all things, an odor of
rotten-leaves and soaked earth. The heavy mist rolled in volumes close
to the ground and choked me as I bent low. Every little while I
stumbled into a bog, and foully bedaubed my clothes. I think that I must
have strayed a little from the straight path, for I took near twice as
long to return as to go. A swollen stream delayed me, for I had to
traverse its bank for a mile ere I could cross.

In truth, I cannot put down on paper my full loathing of the place. I
had hated the moors on my first day's journey, but now I hated them with
a tenfold hatred. For each whiff of sodden air, each spit of chill rain
brought back to my mind all the difficulty of my present state. Then I
had always the vision of Anne sitting at home by the fire, warm, clean,
and dainty, the very counter of the foul morasses in which I labored,
and where the men I had striven to rescue were thought to lie hidden. My
loathing was so great that I could scarce find it in my heart to travel
the weary miles to the manse, every step being taken solely on the fear
of remaining behind. To make it worse, there would come to vex me old
airs of France, airs of childhood and my adventurous youth, fraught for
me with memories of gay nights and brave friends. I own that I could
have wept to think of them and find myself all the while in this
inhospitable desert.

'Twould be near mid-day, I think, when I came to the manse door, glad
that my journey was ended. Anne let me in, and in a moment all was
changed. The fire crackled in the room, and the light danced on the
great volumes on the shelves. The gray winter was shut out and a
tranquil summer reigned within. Anne, like a Lent lily, so fair was she,
sat sewing by the hearth.

"You are returned," she said coldly.

"I am returned," I said severely, for her callousness to the danger of
her father was awful to witness, though in my heart of hearts I could
not have wished it otherwise. As she sat there, with her white arms
moving athwart her lap, and her hair tossed over her shoulders, I could
have clasped her to my heart. Nay, I had almost done so, had I not
gripped my chair, and sat with pale face and dazed eyes till the fit had
passed. I have told you ere now how my feelings toward Anne had changed
from interest to something not unlike a passionate love. It had been a
thing of secret growth, and I scarcely knew it till I found myself in
the midst of it. I tried to smother it hourly, when my better nature was
in the ascendant, and hourly I was overthrown in the contest I fought
against terrible odds. 'Twas not hard to see from her longing eyes and
timorous conduct that to her I was the greater half of the world. I had
but to call to her and she would come. And yet--God knows how I stifled
that cry.

At length I rose and strode out into the garden to cool my burning head.
The sleet was even grateful to me, and I bared my brow till hair and
skin were wet with the rain. Down by the rows of birch trees I walked,
past the rough ground where the pot-herbs were grown, till I came to the
shady green lawn. Up and down it I passed, striving hard with my honor
and my love, fighting that battle which all must fight some time or
other in their lives and be victorious or vanquished forever.

Suddenly, to my wonder, I saw a face looking at me from beneath a tuft
of elderberry.

I drew back, looked again, and at the second glance I recognized it.
'Twas the face of Master Henry Semple of Clachlands--and the hills.

'Twas liker the face of a wild goat than a man. The thin features stood
out so strongly that all the rest seemed to fall back from them. The
long, ragged growth of hair on lip and chin, and the dirt on his cheeks,
made him unlike my friend of the past. But the memorable change was in
his eyes, which glowed large and lustrous, with the whites greatly
extended, and all tinged with a yellow hue. Fear and privation had done
their work, and before me stood their finished product.

"Good Heavens, Henry! What brings you here, and how have you fared?"

He stared at me without replying, which I noted as curious.

"Where is Anne?" he asked huskily.

"She is in the house, well and unscathed. Shall I call her to you?"

"Nay, for God's sake, nay! I am no pretty sight for a young maid. You
say she is well?"

"Ay, very well. But how is the minister?"

"Alas, he is all but gone. The chill has entered his bones, and even now
he may be passing. The child will soon be an orphan."

"And you?"

"Oh, I am no worse than the others on whom the Lord's hand is laid.
There is a ringing in my head and a pain at my heart, but I am still
hale and fit to testify to the truth. Oh, man, 'twill ill befa' those in
the day of judgment who eat the bread of idleness and dwell in peace in
thae weary times."

"Come into the house; or nay, I will fetch you food and clothing."

"Nay, bring nought for me. I would rather live in rags and sup on a
crust than be habited in purple and fare sumptuously. I ask ye but one
thing: let the maid walk in the garden that I may see her. And, oh, man!
I thank ye for your kindness to me and mine. I pray the Lord ilka night
to think on ye here."

I could not trust myself to speak.

"I will do as you wish," I said, and without another word set off
sharply for the house.

I entered the sitting room wearily, and flung myself on a chair. Anne
sat sewing as before. She started as I entered, and I saw the color rise
to her cheeks and brow.

"You are pale, my dear," I said; "the day is none so bad, and 'twould
do you no ill to walk round the garden to the gate. I have just been
there, and, would you believe it, the grass is still wondrous green."

She rose demurely and obediently as if my word were the law of her life.

"Pray bring me a sprig of ivy from the gate-side," I cried after her,
laughing, "to show me that you have been there."

I sat and kicked my heels till her return in a miserable state of
impatience. I could not have refused to let the man see his own
betrothed, but God only knew what desperate act he might do. He might
spring out and clasp her in his arms; she, I knew, had not a shred of
affection left for him; she would be cold and resentful; he would
suspect, and then--what an end there might be to it all! I longed to
hear the sound of her returning footsteps.

She came in soon, and sat down in her wonted chair by the fire.

"There's your ivy, John," said she; "'tis raw and chilly in the garden,
and I love the fireside better."

"'Tis well," I thought, "she has not seen Master Semple." Now I could
not suffer him to depart without meeting him again, partly out of pity
for the man, partly to assure my own mind that no harm would come of it.
So I feigned an errand and went out.

I found him, as I guessed, still in the elder-bush, a tenfold stranger
sight than before. His eyes burned uncannily. His thin cheeks seemed
almost transparent with the tension of the bones, and he chewed his lips
unceasingly. At the sight of me he came out and stood before me, as wild
a figure as I ever hope to see--clothes in tatters, hair unkempt, and
skin all foul with the dirt of the moors. His back was bowed, and his
knees seemed to have lost all strength, for they tottered against one
another. I prayed that his sufferings might not have turned him mad.

At the first word he spake I was convinced of it.

"I have seen her, I have seen her!" he cried. "She is more fair than a
fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon.
Oh, I have dreamed of her by night among the hills, and seen her face
close to me and tried to catch it, but 'twas gone. Oh, man, John, get
down on your knees, and pray to God to make you worthy to have the
charge of such a treasure. Had the Lord not foreordained that she should
me mine, I should ne'er have lifted up my eyes to her, for who am I?"

"For God's sake, man," I broke in, "tell me where you are going, and be
about it quick, for you may be in instant danger."

"Ay," says he, "you are right. I must be gone. I have seen enough. I
maun away to the deserts and caves of the rocks, and it may be lang,
lang ere I come back. But my love winna forget me. Na, na; the Lord hath
appointed unto me that I shall sit at his right hand on the last, the
great day, and she shall be by my side. For oh, she is the only one of
her mother; she is the choice one of her that bare her; the daughters
saw her and blessed her; yea, the queens and concubines, and they
praised her." And with some like gibberish from the Scriptures he
disappeared through the bushes, and next minute I saw him running along
the moor toward the hills.

These were no love-sick ravings, but the wild cries of a madman, one
whose reason had gone forever. I walked back slowly to the house. It
seemed almost profane to think of Anne, so wholesome and sane, in the
same thought as this foul idiot; and yet this man had been once as whole
in mind and body as myself; he had suffered in a valiant cause; and I
was bound to him by the strongest of all bonds--my plighted word. I
groaned inwardly as I shut the house-door behind me and entered into the
arena of my struggles.




CHAPTER IX.

I COMMUNE WITH MYSELF.


Twas late afternoon when I re-entered, and ere supper was past 'twas
time to retire for the night. The tension of these hours I still look
back on as something altogether dreadful. Anne was quiet and gentle,
unconscious of what had happened, yet with the fire of passion, I knew
too well, burning in her heart. I was ill, restless, and abrupt, scarce
able to speak lest I should betray my thoughts and show the war that
raged in my breast.

I made some excuse for retiring early, bidding her good-night with as
nonchalant an air as I could muster. The door of my bedroom I locked
behind me, and I was alone in the darkened room to fight out my battles
with myself.

I ask you if you can conceive any gentleman and man of honor in a more
hazardous case. Whenever I tried to think on it, a mist came over my
brain, and I could get little but unmeaning fantasies. I must either go
or stay. So much was clear.

If I stayed--well, 'twas the Devil's own work that was cut for me.
There was no sign of the violence of the persecution abating. It might
be many months, nay years, before the minister and Master Semple might
return. If they came back no more, and I had sure tidings of their
death, then indeed I might marry Anne. But 'twas so hazardous an
uncertainty that I rejected it at once. No man could dwell with one whom
he loved heart and soul so long a time on such uncertain chances and yet
keep his honor. Had the maid been dull and passive, or had I been
sluggish in blood, then there might have been hope. But we were both
quick as the summer's lightning.

If they came back, was not the fate of the girl more hard than words
could tell? The minister in all likelihood would already have gone the
way of all the earth; and she, poor lass, would be left to the care of a
madman for whom she had no spark of liking. I pictured her melancholy
future. Her pure body subject to the embraces of a loathsome fanatic,
her delicate love of the joys of life all subdued to his harsh creed.
Oh, God! I swore that I could not endure it. Her face, so rounded and
lovely, would grow pinched and white, her eyes would lose all their
luster, her hair would not cluster lovingly about her neck, her lithe
grace would be gone, her footsteps would be heavy and sad. He would rave
his unmeaning gibberish in her ears, would ill-treat her, it might be;
in any case would be a perpetual sorrow to her heart. "Oh, Anne," I
cried, "though I be damned for it, I will save you from this!"

If I left the place at once and forever, then indeed my honor would be
kept, but yet not all; for my plighted word--where would it be? I had
sworn that come what may I should stand by the maid and protect her
against what evil might come to the house. Now I was thinking of fleeing
from my post like a coward, and all because the girl's eyes were too
bright for my weak resolution. When her lover returned, if he ever
came, what story would she have to tell? This, without a doubt: "The man
whom you left has gone, fled like a thief in the night, for what reason
I know not." For though I knew well that she would divine the real cause
of my action, I could not suppose that she would tell it, for thereby
she would cast grave suspicion upon herself. So there would I be, a
perjured traitor, a false friend in the eyes of those who had trusted
me.

But more, the times were violent, Clachlands and its soldiery were not
far off, and once they learned that the girl was unprotected no man knew
what evil might follow. You may imagine how bitter this thought was to
me, the thought of leaving my love in the midst of terrible dangers.
Nay, more; a selfish consideration weighed not a little with me. The
winter had all but come; the storms of this black land I dreaded like
one born and bred in the South; I knew nothing of my future course; I
was poor, bare, and friendless. The manse was a haven of shelter.
Without it I should be even as the two exiles in the hills. The cold was
hard to endure; I dearly loved warmth and comfort; the moors were as
fearful to me as the deserts of Muscovy.

One course remained. Anne had money; this much I knew. She loved me,
and would obey my will in all things; of this I was certain. What
hindered me to take her to France, the land of mirth and all pleasant
things, and leave the North and its wild folk behind forever? With money
we could travel expeditiously. Once in my own land perchance I might
find some way to repair my fortunes, for a fair wife is a wonderous
incentive. There beneath soft skies, in the mellow sunshine, among a
cheerful people, she would find the life which she loved best. What
deterred me? Nothing but a meaningless vow and some antiquated scruples.
But I would be really keeping my word, I reasoned casuistically with
myself, for I had sworn to take care of Anne, and what way so good as to
take her to my own land where she would be far from the reach of fanatic
or dragoon? And this was my serious thought, _comprenez bien_! I set it
down as a sign of the state to which I had come, that I was convinced by
my own quibbling. I pictured to myself what I should do. I would find
her at breakfast in the morning. "Anne," I would say, "I love you
dearly; may I think that you love me likewise?" I could fancy her eager,
passionate reply, and then---- I almost felt the breath of her kisses
on my cheek and the touch of her soft arms on my neck.

Some impulse led me to open the casement and look forth into the windy,
inscrutable night. A thin rain distilled on the earth, and the coolness
was refreshing to my hot face. The garden was black, and the bushes were
marked by an increased depth of darkness. But on the grass to the left I
saw a long shaft of light, the reflection from some lit window of the
house. I passed rapidly in thought over the various rooms there, and
with a start came to an end. Without a doubt 'twas Anne's sleeping room.
What did the lass with a light, for 'twas near midnight? I did not
hesitate about the cause, and 'twas one which inflamed my love an
hundredfold. She was sleepless, love-sick maybe (such is the vanity of
man). Maybe even now my name was the one on her lips, and my image the
foremost in her mind. My finger-tips tingled, as the blood surged into
them; and I am not ashamed to say that my eyes were not tearless. Could
I ever leave my love for some tawdry honor? _Mille tonneres!_ the thing
was not to be dreamed of. I blamed myself for having once admitted the
thought.

My decision was taken, and, as was always my way, I felt somewhat
easier. I was weary, so I cast myself down upon the bed without
undressing, and fell into a profound sleep.

How long I slept I cannot tell, but in that brief period of
unconsciousness I seemed to be living ages. I saw my past life all
inverted as 'twere; for my first sight was the horror of the moors.
Quentin Kennedy, and the quarrel and the black desolation which I had
undergone. I went through it all again, vividly, acutely. Then it
passed, and I had my manhood in France before my eyes. And curiously
enough, 'twas not alone, but confused with my childhood and youth. I
was an experienced man of the world, versed in warfare and love, taverns
and brawls, and yet not one whit jaded, but fresh and hopeful and
boylike. 'Twas a very pleasing feeling. I was master of myself. I had
all my self-respect. I was a man of unblemished honor, undoubted valor.
Then by an odd trick of memory all kinds of associations became linked
with it. The old sights and sounds of Rohaine: cocks crowing in the
morning; the smell of hay and almond-blossom, roses and summer lilies;
the sight of green leaves, of the fish leaping in the river; the plash
of the boat's oars among the water-weeds--all the sensations of
childhood came back with extraordinary clarity. I heard my mother's
grave, tender speech bidding us children back from play, or soothing one
when he hurt himself. I could almost believe that my father's strong
voice was ringing in my ear, when he would tell stories of the chase and
battle, or sing ballads of long ago, or bid us go to the devil if we
pleased, but go like gentlemen. 'Twas a piece of sound philosophy, and
often had it been before me in Paris, when I shrank from nothing save
where my honor as a gentleman was threatened. In that dream the old
saying came on me with curious force. I felt it to be a fine motto for
life, and I was exulting in my heart that 'twas mine, and that I had
never stained the fair fame of my house.

Suddenly, with a start I seemed to wake to the consciousness that 'twas
mine no more. Still dreaming, I was aware that I had deceived a lover,
and stolen his mistress and made her my bride. I have never felt such
acute anguish as I did in that sleep when the thought came upon me. I
felt nothing more of pride. All things had left me. My self-respect was
gone like a ragged cloak. All the old, dear life was shut out from me
by a huge barrier. Comfortable, rich, loving, and beloved, I was yet in
the very jaws of Hell. I felt myself biting out my tongue in my despair.
My brain was on fire with sheer and awful regret. I cursed the day when
I had been tempted and fallen.

And then, even while I dreamed, another sight came to my eyes--the face
of a lady, young, noble, with eyes like the Blessed Mother. In my youth
I had laid my life at the feet of a girl, and I was in hopes of making
her my wife. But Cecilia was too fair for this earth, and I scarcely
dared to look upon her she seemed so saint-like. When she died in the
Forest of Arnay, killed by a fall from her horse, 'twas I who carried
her to her home, and since that day her face was never far distant from
my memory. I cherished the image as my dearest possession, and
oftentimes when I would have embarked upon some madness I refrained,
fearing the reproof of those grave eyes. But now this was all gone. My
earthy passion had driven out my old love; all memories were rapt from
me save that of the sordid present.

The very violence of my feeling awoke me, and I found myself sitting up
in bed with a mouthful of blood. Sure enough, I had gnawed my tongue
till a red froth was over my lips. My heart was beating like a windmill
in a high gale, and a deadly sickness of mind oppressed me. 'Twas some
minutes before I could think; and then--oh, joy! the relief! I had not
yet taken the step irremediable. The revulsion, the sudden ecstasy drove
in a trice my former resolution into thinnest air.

I looked out of the window. 'Twas dawn, misty and wet. Thank God, I was
still in the land of the living, still free to make my life. The
tangible room, half lit by morning, gave me a promise of reality after
the pageant of the dream. My path was clear before me, clear and
straight as an arrow; and yet even now I felt a dread of my passion
overcoming my resolve, and was in a great haste to have done with it
all. My scruples about my course were all gone. I would be breaking my
oath, 'twas true, in leaving the maid, but keeping it in the better way.
The thought of the dangers to which she would be exposed stabbed me like
a dart. It had almost overcome me. "But honor is more than life or
love," I said, as I set my teeth with stern purpose.

Yet, though all my soul was steeled into resolution, there was no ray of
hope in my heart--nothing but a dead, bleak outlook, a land of moors
and rain, an empty purse and an aimless journey.

I had come to the house a beggar scarce two months before. I must now go
as I had come, not free and careless as then, but bursting shackles of
triple brass. My old ragged garments, which I had discarded on the day
after my arrival, lay on a chair, neatly folded by Anne's deft hand. It
behooved me to take no more away than that which I had brought, so I
must needs clothe myself in these poor remnants of finery, thin and
mud-stained, and filled with many rents.




CHAPTER X.

OF MY DEPARTURE.


I passed through the kitchen out to the stable, marking as I went that
the breakfast was ready laid in the sitting room. There I saddled
Saladin, grown sleek by fat living, and rolling his great eyes at me
wonderingly. I tested the joinings, buckled the girth tight, and led him
round to the front of the house, where I tethered him to a tree and
entered the door.

A savory smell of hot meats came from the room and a bright wood fire
drove away the grayness of the morning. Anne stood by the table, slicing
a loaf and looking ever and anon to the entrance. Her face was pale as
if with sleeplessness and weeping. Her hair was not so daintily arranged
as was her wont. It seemed almost as if she had augured the future. A
strange catch--coming as such songs do from nowhere and meaning
nothing--ran constantly in my head. 'Twas one of Philippe Desportes',
that very song which the Duke de Guise sang just before his death. So,
as I entered, I found myself humming half unwittingly:

                  "Nous verrons, bergre Rosette,
                    Qui premier s'en repentira."

Anne looked up as if startled at my coming, and when she saw my dress
glanced fearfully at my face. It must have told her some tale, for a red
flush mounted to her brow and abode there.

I picked up a loaf from the table. 'Twas my one sacrifice to the gods of
hospitality. 'Twould serve, I thought, for the first stage in my
journey.

Anne looked up at me with a kind of confused wonder. She laughed, but
there was little mirth in her laughter.

"Why, what would you do with the loaf?" said she. "Do you seek to visit
the widows and fatherless in their affliction?"

"Nay," said I gravely. "I would but keep myself unspotted from the
world."

All merriment died out of her face.

"And what would you do?" she stammered.

"The time has come for me to leave, Mistress Anne. My horse is saddled
at the door. I have been here long enough; ay, and too long. I thank you
with all my heart for your kindness, and I would seek to repay it by
ridding you of my company."

I fear I spoke harshly, but 'twas to hide my emotion, which bade fair to
overpower me and ruin all.

"Oh, and why will you go?" she cried.

"Farewell, Anne," I said, looking at her fixedly, and I saw that she
divined the reason.

I turned on my heel, and went out from the room.

"Oh, my love," she cried passionately, "stay with me; stay, oh, stay!"

Her voice rang in my ear with honeyed sweetness, like that of the Sirens
to Ulysses of old.

"Stay!" she cried, as I flung open the house-door.

I turned me round for one last look at her whom I loved better than
life. She stood at the entrance to the room, with her arms outstretched
and her white bosom heaving. Her eyes were filled with an utterable
longing, which a man may see but once in his life--and well for him if
he never sees it. Her lips were parted as if to call me back once more.
But no word came; her presence was more powerful than any cry.

I turned to the weather. A gray sky, a driving mist, and a chill
piercing blast. The contrast was almost more than my resolution. An
irresistible impulse seized me to fly to her arms, to enter the bright
room again with her, and sell myself, body and soul, to the lady of my
heart.

My foot trembled to the step backward, my arms all but felt her weight,
when that blind Fate which orders the ways of men intervened. Against
my inclination and desire, bitterly, unwilling, I strode to my horse and
flung myself on his back. I dared not look behind, but struck spurs into
Saladin and rode out among the trees.

A fierce north wind met me in the teeth, and piercing through my
tatters, sent a shiver to my very heart.

I cannot recall my thoughts during that ride: I seem not to have thought
at all. All I know is that in about an hour there came into my mind, as
from a voice, the words: "Recreant! Fool!" and I turned back.


                                 THE END.





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    +--------------------------------------------------------------+
    |                                                              |
    | Transcriber's Note:--                                        |
    |                                                              |
    | Punctuation errors have been corrected.                      |
    |                                                              |
    | The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed.|
    |                                                              |
    | Page 13. in changed to it.                                   |
    | (in my fury it seemed)                                       |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 43. duplicate the removed.                              |
    | (found the man)                                              |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 140. sorsowful changed to sorrowful.                    |
    | (at a sorrowful episode)                                     |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 191. Temple changed to Semple.                          |
    | (Master Henry Semple)                                        |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 198. migh changed to might.                             |
    | (might not have turned)                                      |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 207. nor changed to not.                                |
    | (were not far off)                                           |
    |                                                              |
    +--------------------------------------------------------------+




[End of Sir Quixote of the Moors, by John Buchan]
