John Burnet of Barns Part 23

I fell and scrambled to my feet.

"Lockhart," I cried, "here man, here. Run."

He had the sense to see my meaning. Exhausted though he was, he broke from his astonished captors, and in a moment was beside me and the weapons.

As I looked on them I saw at a glance where our salvation lay.

"Take these two," I said, pointing to the muskets. "I will take the others."

I cleared my throat and addressed the soldiers. "Now, gentlemen," said I, "once more the fortune of war has delivered you into my hands. We, as you perceive, command the weapons. I beg your permission to tell you that I am by no means a poor shot with the musket, and likewise that I do not stick at trifles, as doubtless my gallant friend Master Hamman will tell you."

The men were struck dumb with surprise to find themselves thus taken at a disadvantage. They whispered for a little among themselves.

Doubtless the terrors of my prowess had been so magnified by the victims in the last escapade to cover their shame that I was regarded as a veritable Hector.

"Are you the Laird of Barns?" said the leader at last, very politely.

I bowed.

"Then give us leave to tell you that we are nane sae fond o' the Captain, your cousin," said he, thinking to soothe me.

"So much the worse for my cousin," said I.

"Therefore we are disposed to let you gang free."

"I am obliged," said I, "but my cousin is my cousin, and I tolerate no rebellion toward one so near of blood. I am therefore justified, gentlemen, in using your own arms against you, since I have always believed that traitors were shot."

At this they looked very glum. At last one of them spoke up-for after all they were men.

"If ye'll tak the pick o' ony yin o' us and stand up to him wi' the sma'-sword, we'll agree to bide by the result."

"I thank you," I said, "but I am not in the mood for sword exercise.

However, I shall be merciful, though that is a quality you have shown little of. You shall have your horses to ride home on, but your arms you shall leave with me as a pledge of your good conduct. Strip, gentlemen."

And strip they did, belt and buckler, pistol and sword. Then I bade them go, not without sundry compliments as one by one they pa.s.sed by me.

There were but four of them, and we had all the arms, so the contest was scarcely equal. Indeed my heart smote me more than once that I had not accepted the fellow's offer to fight. The leader spoke up boldly to my face.

"You've gotten the better o' us the noo, but it'll no be long afore you're gettin' your kail through the reek, Master John Burnet."

At which I laughed and said 'twas a truth I could not deny.

CHAPTER XII

I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING

They had scarce been five minutes gone when the full folly of my action dawned upon me. To be sure I had saved the miller from death, but I had now put my own neck in the noose. I had given them a clue to my whereabouts: more, I had brought the hunt down on lower Tweeddale, which before had been left all but unmolested. It was war to the knife. I could look for no quarter, and my only chance lay in outstripping my pursuers. The dragoons dared not return immediately, for four unarmed soldiers would scarcely face two resolute men, fully armed and strongly posted. They could only ride to Abington, and bring the whole hornets'

nest down on my head.

Another reflection had been given to me by the sight of these men. In all likelihood Gilbert had now returned and resumed the chief command of the troop, for otherwise there would have been no meaning in the journey to Dawyck and lower Tweeddale which these fellows had taken. And now that my dear cousin had come back I might look for action. There was now no more any question of foolish and sluggish soldiery to elude, but a man of experience and, as I knew well, of unmatched subtlety.

The miller was for thanking me on his knees for my timely succour, but I cut him short. "There is no time," said I, "for long thanks. You must take to the hills, and if you follow my advice you will hold over to the westlands where your friends are, and so keep the pursuit from Tweeddale, which little deserves it. As for myself, I will go up the Wormel, and hide among the scrogs of birk till evening. For the hills are too bare and the light too clear to travel by day. To be kenspeckle in these times is a doubtful advantage."

So without more ado I took myself off, crossed the fields with great caution, and going up a little glen in the side of the big hill, found a very secure hiding-place in the lee of a craig among a tangle of hazel bushes. I had taken some food with me from the mill to provision me during my night journey, and now I used a little of it for my afternoon meal. In this place I lay all the pleasant hours after midday till I saw the shadows lengthen and the sun flaming to its setting over the back of Caerdon. Then the cool spring darkness came down on the earth, and I rose and shook myself and set out on my way.

I shall ever remember that long night walk over hill and dale to the Cor Water for many reasons. First, from the exceeding beauty of the night, which was sharp and yet not cold, with a sky glittering with stars, and thin trails of mist on the uplands. Second, from the exceeding roughness of the way, which at this season of the year makes the hills hard for walking on. The frost and snow loosen the rocks, and there are wide stretches of loose s.h.i.+ngle, which is an accursed thing to pa.s.s over.

Third, and above all, for the utter fatigue into which I fell just past the crossing of Talla. The way was over the Wormel and the Logan Burn hills as far as Kingledoors. There I forded Tweed and struck over the low ridge to Talla Water. Thence the way was straight, and much the same as that which I had come with Marjory. But now I had no such dear escort, and I give my word that my limbs ached and my head swam oftentimes ere I reached my journey's end.

It was early dawning when I crossed the last ridge and entered the Cor Water valley. There was no sign of life in that quiet green glen, a thing that seemed eerie when one thought that somewhere in the hill in front men were dwelling. I found that short as had been my absence I had almost forgotten the entrance to the cave, and it was not without difficulty that I made out the narrow aperture in the slate-grey rock, and entered.

In the first chamber all was dark, which struck me with astonishment, since at five o'clock on a good spring day folk should be stirring. But all was still, and it was not till I had come into the second chamber, which, as I have told, was the largest in the place, that there were any signs of life. This was illumined in the first instance by a narrow crevice in the rock which opened into a small ravine. The faint struggling light was yet sufficient to see with, and by its aid I made out the old man who had spoken with me on that first night of my journey.

He was sitting alone, staring before him as is the way with the blind, but at the sound of my steps he rose slowly to his feet. One could see that the natural acuteness of his hearing was little impaired by years.

I paused at the threshold and he stood listening; then he sank back in his seat as if convinced it was no enemy.

"Come in, John Burnet," he said, "I ken you well. How have you fared since you left us? I trust you have placed the maid in safe keeping."

I had heard before of that marvellous quickness of perception which they possess who have lost some other faculty; but I had never yet had ill.u.s.tration of it. So I was somewhat surprised, as I told him that all as yet was well, and that my lady was in good hands.

"It is well," said he; "and, Master Burnet, I fear you have come back to a desolate lodging. As ye see, all are gone and only I am left.

Yestreen word came that that had happened which we had long expected.

There was once a man among us whom we cast out for evil living. He has proved the traitor and there is no more safety here. They scattered last night, the puir f.e.c.kless folk, to do for themselves among the moors and mosses, and I am left here to wait for the coming of the enemy."

"Do you hold your life so cheap," I cried, "that you would cast it away thus? I dare not suffer you to bide here. I would be a coward indeed if I did not take care of you."

A gleam of something like pleasure pa.s.sed over his worn face. But he spoke gravely. "No, you are too young and proud and hot in blood. You think that a strong arm and a stout heart can do all. But I have a work to do in which none can hinder me. My life is dear to me, and I would use it for the best. But you, too, are in danger here; the soldiers may come at any moment. If you go far to the back you'll find a narrow way up which you can crawl. It'll bring ye out on the back side of the hill.

Keep it well in mind, lad, when the time comes. But now, sit ye down, and give us your crack. There's a heap o' things I want to speir at ye.

And first, how is auld Veitch at Smitwood? I once kenned him well, when he was a young, 'prising lad; but now I hear he's sair fallen in years and gien ower to the pleasures of eating and drinking."

I told him all of the laird of Smitwood that I could remember.

"It would be bonny on the muirs o' Clyde in this weather. I havena been out o' doors for mony a day, but I would like fine to feel the hill-wind and the sun on my cheek. I was aye used wi' the open air," and his voice had a note of sorrow.

To me it seemed a strange thing that in the presence of the most deadly danger this man should be so easy and undisturbed. I confess that I myself had many misgivings and something almost approaching fear. There was no possibility of escape now, for though one made his way out of the cave when the soldiers came, there was little hiding on the bare hillside. This, of course, was what the old man meant when he bade me stay and refused to go out of doors. It was more than I could do to leave him, but yet I ever feared the very thought of dying like a rat in a hole. My forebodings of my death had always been of an open, windy place, with a drawn sword and more than one man stark before me. It was with downcast eyes that I waited for the inevitable end, striving to commend my soul to G.o.d and repent of my past follies.

Suddenly some noise came to the quick ear of the old man, and he stood up quivering.

"John," he cried, "John, my lad, gang to the place I told ye. Ye'll find the hole where I said it was, and once there ye needna fear."

'Twas true, I was afraid, but I had given no signs of fear, and he had little cause to speak of it. "Nay," I said haughtily, "I will not move from your side. It were a dastardly thing to leave you, and the two of us together may account for some of the fiends. Besides there is as much chance of life here as out on the braeside, where a man can be seen for miles."

He gripped me fiercely by the arm so that I almost cried out for pain, and his voice came shrill and strange. "Gang where I tell ye, ye puir fool. Is this a time for sinfu' pride o' honour or mettle? Ye know not what evil is coming upon these men. Gang quick lest ye share it also."

Something in his voice, in his eye, overcame me, and I turned to obey him.

As I went he laid his hand on my head. "The blessing o' man availeth little, but I pray G.o.d that He be ever near you and your house, and that ye may soon hae a happy deliverance from all your afflictions. G.o.d bless and keep ye ever, and bring ye at the end to His ain place."