Tales of the Scottish Peasantry

How vainly seek
The selfish for that happiness denied
To aught but virtue!
Madly they fruetrate still their own designs.

Shelley

Chapter I.

In the parish of Abdie, and almost immediately under the churchyard wall, lies the little loch of Lindores, which, in the calm twilight of a summer's evening, appears like the eye of Nature looking up to its Maker, in the spirit of meek and quiet devotion. This loch is studded with two small islands, both of which were, at a former period, covered with willows so thickly, that, seen from a distance, the dark foliage of the trees seemed a solid mass of green. Overlooking the loch, on the abrupt acclivity which forms its southern bank, stand the ruined walls of what was once a shepherd's cot, known, by the name of "Sitmalane." On its eastern shore rises a hill of considerable height, the ridge of which is surmounted by a peak, called " The Black Cairn." On this peak, at some forgotten period of the country's history, a small tumulus had been formed, from which human bones have been dug, and over the stones of which the annual deposits of the moss and lichens of ages had formed a sort of soil, which at last produced vegetation of another description; so that the circular area of which it is composed, has long been covered with grass, while all is heath and barrenness around.

Descending from this bleak region—the haunt of unsocial birds, and the borne of the mist—to the cultivated slope, and the dwellings of men, on the western shoulder of the mountain, and near to where it verges to its northern extremity, stand five or six trees of moderate size, with rough gnarled trunks and drooping branches. These mark the place where once stood a humble dwelling called "The North Cotton," which, at the time of our story, was tenanted by a shepherd of the name of William Turner. A little way to the southward of this tenement may still be seen three ashes bearing all the symptoms of sickly age: these once overshadowed a human habitation called Waaltower, and they still preserve its name. It was formerly a small pendicle, which, with its low thatched house, overshadowing trees, and crystal spring bubbling out from the veins of a decayed rock immediately above the premises, had long been the dwelling of contented and peaceful industry! There the family of the Stewarts had resided for several generations, without much either of improvement or deterioration in the manners and circumstances of the race. They were poor, hardy, hospitable, and industrious, as all poor people must be, who wish to be honest. About a quarter of a mile farther onward, in the same direction, a few hoary sycamores mark the site of Lookhame. The place was what, in the language of those days, was called a farm. It was little superior in appearance to the other two, only it had more land attached to it; and, at the time to which the reader's attention is about to be directed, it was managed by David Banster, assisted by his son Richard; the latter of whom was more commonly known by the name of Black Ritchie, a cognomen which, it is supposed, he had acquired from the darkness of his hair, or some other personal quality. Such is a brief sketch of those dwellings of our forefathers. But the plough has passed over their foundations ; the last fragment of their walls has long since disappeared ; and the crops of many years have been reaped from the place where their hearthstones once were lying.

William Turner had a daughter, whose beauty made her the admiration of the neighbourhood. Jane was one of those beings of uncommon loveliness, who sometimes spring up in the least cultivated districts, and among the rudest people, to enliven with their sweetness "the desert air," and raise a feeling of wonder in the bosom of the traveller, why such flowers should bloom in the midst of what he deems a waste. Her affections had been sought, and her smiles courted, by many youths of her own rank. Nor among those whose expectations might have justified them in looking a little higher, were there wanting some who felt a secret satisfaction if they could only succeed in being near her, or in attracting her attention for a few minutes. This, however, was no easy matter; for beset as she was with lovers, and eagerly as her heart and hand had been sought, she appeared to be in no hurry to give either of them away. Though she might be partially impressed by the novelty of a first sight, or the respectful deference of a first conversation, it is probable, upon better acquaintance, that she discovered most of her admirers to be actuated by motives which did not accord with the pure and warm aspirations of her heart.

Be this as it may, she still continued the object of general admiration; but that admiration was now offered at a more respectful distance. Though every peasant still persisted in putting on his best dress, and his best looks, wherever she was expected to be present, there were only two who could be said to aspire to her hand. These were Alan Stewart, and Richard Banster, alias Black Ritchie. The last, it was supposed, owed his favourable reception at the North Cotton principally to his skill in rural economy, and the fluency with which he talked of rural affairs to the old shepherd. Sometimes he would exhibit his own knowledge with good effect; at others, he would listen with apparent deference to the maxims of his host; occasionally, he would dispute a point with considerable ability, then yield as if overcome by superior argument. By these, and similar means, he succeeded in making himself a welcome guest with the father, whatever he might be with the daughter.

His person, moreover, would have rendered him no despicable wooer in the eyes of many a maiden. He was ahont the middle size, well made, and had a set of features upon the whole rather pleasing than otherwise, which were set off by small black eyes, possessing that peculiar twinkle which is sometimes expressive of humour, but much oftener indicates that species of cunning by which the man of the world can turn almost every circumstance in the lot of others to his own advantage. His physiognomy exhibited traits of a passionate disposition; but so carefully subdued, and concealed under an insinuating address, as to be scarcely noticeable. Both he and his father bore what is generally styled a respectable character in the neighbourhood, though obscure hints were sometimes given of undue advantages having been taken, and bargains pushed to the very verge of honesty. In short, such was the policy of the Bansters, that perseverance in the process of accumulation might have been their motto; and the result was, that, considering their station in society, and the poverty of the country in which they lived, they were, uncommonly wealthy.

Alan Stewart, on the other hand, it was whispered, was induced to continue his attentions by encouragements of a less equivocal nature with which he was sometimes favoured by the maiden herself. He was taller than his rival, and equally well formed, nor were his features less regular, though they wore a very different expression. Taken altogether, he might be said to belong to a quite different caste. The distinguishing characteristics of the Stewarts had long been a high-minded honesty, which scorned alike to take advantage of the rich, or to oppress the poor. It was the internal self-rewarding principle, not the assumed and hollow show, upon which they acted. Alan might have been taken as a good specimen of the family character. He avoided the tricks of the bargain-maker, not because they might be discovered and subject him to contempt, but because he reckoned them in themselves mean and unworthy of a man. He sought no cover for his actions, and he never stooped to seek by art or intrigue what he could not obtain by plain dealing. The consequence of these principles, and this line of conduct, was that the Stewarts had never attained to anything like worldly wealth. But though they were not rich, their labour made them independent; and the strict integrity of their character commanded the respect of all who knew them.

William Turner was aware of all this. He acknowledged the high minded honesty and upright intentions of Alan, and he admired them ; hut he would have admired them still more had they been recommended by a little of that wealth, and a few of those worldly possessions, which would fall to the share of Black Ritchie at his father's death. The union, however, of such a character with a prosperous fortune, he knew, was a thing but rarely attainable. Experience had taught him to believe, that though the rich may preserve, and even augment their wealth, without any dereliction from duty, the poor, unless placed in very favourable circumstances, must be content to remain in their poverty, and look for the reward of their integrity, not to those wonderful and unexpected overflowings of wealth, which the poetical justice of story tellers sometimes bestows upon humble merit—but in that secret satisfaction which a consciousness of rectitude never fails to confer.

On the other hand, he could not conceal from himself several things, which he did not consider altogether commendable, in the conduct of Black Ritchie, although his expectations prevented him from looking upon them with that abhorrence which otherwise he would have done. Like most fathers, he would have preferred one who did not want for the good things of this world as a husband for his daughter. But, unlike some fathers, he could both appreciate the virtues of the poor and estimate the errors of the rich; and in this dilemma he determined to leave his daughter to choose for herself. But in taking this step she did not appear to be in any haste.

Though the spirit of persecution had been raging in the west for a considerable time previous to that of which we speak, hitherto Fife had remained tolerably quiet; and though the Covenanters in this quarter were both numerous and influential, as the agents of government had their hands full elsewhere, they had hitherto received but little molestation. But the successful attempt made upon the life of Archbishop Sharp was now destined to give a new impulse both to the persecutors and the persecuted,— the former becoming more zealous in their endeavours to root out and destroy, and the latter more determined in their resistance. Hackston, Balfour, and several others who had been present at that tragic affair, fled westward; and, as these were the principal leaders of the Covenanters in Fife, they were followed by many of the best and bravest men of the county, who deemed that they might be of more service to the cause for which they contended, by joining the great body of their distressed brethren in the west, than they could possibly be by their most strenuous efforts for its advancement in their scattered state at home.

Among those who thus went forth to succour their oppressed fellow-worshippers, and peril their lives for their religion, was Alan Stewart. Besides those considerations of duty, which were sufficient to justify him in taking this step, he had other motives for so doing, the source of which must be sought in human weakness. Though he had good reasons for believing that Jane secretly preferred him to every other, yet she was far from returning his affection with that tenderness which he imagined it deserved. Her manner was often capricious, and at times, as he thought, even unaccountable. "With his head full of these reflections, he chanced one day to come suddenly upon her in a rural spot. He accosted her with all his wonted tenderness, and inquired after her health in the kindest manner. These inquiries she answered rather carelessly, and without lifting her eyes. This might be the effect of mere thoughtlessness, or it might be that she wished to enjoy his efforts again to establish himself in her favour.

There are times, however, when the mind is more prone to take offence at a supposed affront than it would be at others to resent a real injury. For this apparently cold reception, Alan was not prepared; and instead of pausing to ask an explanation, or to continue the conversation, he unconsciously assumed a haughty stride, and passed on.

"Is it thus," thought he to himself, after passing her, "that my affection is to be rewarded! does she answer my inquiries without turning on me a single look, as if I were an object of disgust?" And with these thoughts he walked off to chafe himself into a temporary fever of resentment.

This was a result perfectly unexpected by the other party. She felt as if she had done something wrong; and when she saw he did not stop, she gazed after him more wistfully, perhaps, than she had ever done before. Had he looked about at that moment, gladly would she have welcomed him back, and rallied him on his hastiness. But he cast no retrospective glance, and was soon out of sight.

"He disregards me," thought she to herself, when he had disappeared; "ay, he disregards me ! and this is my reward for having preferred him to every other man on earth! Well, if he cares so little for me, he may yet learn that I care as little for him."

After this rencontre, they did not see each other for several days; and when they again met, his salutation was measured and distant, and her reply, if possible, more cold than before. This tended to make matters worse. Both wished for a reconciliation, but pride fairly forbade either to make the attempt.

--------How wayward is this foolish love,
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse,
And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod?

How angerly they taught their brows to frown,
When inward joy enforced their hearts to smile!

In this state of mind, absence, which under any other circumstances would have been reckoned a severe misfortune, appeared the only alternative. Accordingly, after having obtained his father's full consent, Alan set off to join the Western Covenanters, in the anticipation that distance might soften the poignancy of his reflections; and not without the hope that a temporary separation might work a favourable change on the object of his affections.

Hitherto, Jane Turner had never directly discountenanced the attentions of Black Ritchie. She had given him, indeed, but little encouragement, though, from deference to her father, she always treated him civilly, and never showed any marked dislike to his presence. This served to keep his hopes alive; and, now that his rival was out of the way, he grasped eagerly at Hae opportunity which thus presented itself for pressing his own suit more closely. He became unceasing in his attendance upon Jane—vilified Alan upon all occasions—misrepresented his motives, and decried his actions—boasted of his own wealth and expectations, and finally urged her, in the most pressing terms, to marry him.

To this proposal Jane "was far from listening with a favourable ear. She had now become better acquainted with the true state of her own feelings; and his addresses, which she had before endured, rather than encouraged, became almost intolerable. Still, with that sensibility which is peculiar to females, she shrank from the idea, of giving him pain, till the upbraidings of her own conscience forced her to the disagreeable alternative.

"No," said she, "it cannot be. I cannot love you. Why, then, should you urge me into a union, which, without affection, must prove a snare and a curse, instead of a blessing, to us both? In moments of light-heartedness and vanity, I may have tampered with your affections—I may have given you reason to think that I had no aversion to you. The recollection of this is bitter to me. Pardon the frailty which permitted it, if it has caused you pain; and let us cut off all occasion for such weaknesses in future; for, to do otherwise, would only be to add perjury to folly, and from this may God preserve us both!"

These words she pronounced in such a tone, and in such a manner, as to leave no doubt of her sincerity; and she firmly persisted in never afterwards giving him an opportunity of speaking to her in private.

But, as often happens in such cases, rejection, instead of allaying, served rather to increase his passion. Richard had long been accustomed to have everything his own way; and he could not submit to the idea of being baffled here, where his heart, naturally strong, though perverted by selfishness, was chiefly concerned. Hopeless as his suit now was with the maiden herself, he still imagined that he might be able to work upon her father, and, by fair speeches, induce him to interpose in his behalf. Minds more delicately formed would have hesitated before entering upon such a task; but an excess of delicacy was not among his faults. After duly prefacing his discourse with all necessary civility, he took advantage of every circumstance with which fortune seemed to favour him—his rival's poverty, and his abandoning his own friends, in a time of danger and alarm, to fight for strangers, as he termed them. And after expatiating on his own prospects, the extent of his abilities, and the unchangeableness of his affection, "I hope," said he, "that you will intercede with your daughter to prevent her from throwing herself away on one so utterly undeserving, and use that authority which every parent should possess over his own children, in bestowing her where she may have better things to expect."

Here, however, he had overshot his mark. He forgot that the person whom he addressed had himself never been rich. His attack upon the character of Alan Stewart was also inconsiderately made; and the worthy shepherd did not fail to discountenance it.

"Poverty," said he, "unless it should proceed from idleness or evil habits, is no disgrace. The poor man, who preserves his integrity, may be more honourable in the eyes of his Maker than the rich man who has no temptation to dishonesty; and why should he be less respected by his fellow creatures? Riches in this world, unless used for the purposes of benevolence and charity, form no passport to the next. The people of God have often been poor and persecuted, as at this day and for those who stand back, when the lives of their fellow worshippers are in danger, and when tyrannical power would fetter, not only the hands and the feet, but the very thoughts of free-born men, were they called upon to make any great exertion for their friends, it is to be feared that selfishness, which makes them renounce their public duties, would also induce them to abandon their private ones. I am now old and unfit for journeying far; but had I been, as in the years of my youth------"

"Pardon me!" interrupted the other—and as he spoke his wonted coolness seemed to have forsaken him. He appeared fluttered, and his voice gave signs of perturbation—"pardon me, I should have taken up arms myself, but that I could not think of being separated from the object of my affection. And when you have considered the comforts she will enjoy with me —comforts which she can scarcely expect with any other—I hope you will, at least, use your influence in my behalf."

"I will not stop," said the old man firmly, and drawing himself up to his full height as he spoke,—"I will not stop to rebuke your inconsistency. But for my daughter, had she, indeed, been throwing herself away, as you would insinuate, I should have deemed it my duty, as a father, to interfere; but I will neither compel nor advise her to marry any one contrary to her own inclination !"

"But were any thing to occur to prevent Alan from return-surely I should be preferred to every other?"

"My daughter should still be free," was the reply; "free to choose for herself; nor would I interfere with her choice, unless it were a bad one."

"But still," said the other, in a voice in which rage and disappointment were strongly blended with an effort to appear calm—"but still------" here he stopped, and after a short pause resumed, his passion getting the better of his assumed calmness —"I will argue no more with you! I must contrive other means of procuring happiness than reasoning with one who is alike deaf to remonstrance and pity."

After this interview, to the great astonishment of his relations, he wandered about for two days moody and silent, and sometimes muttering to himself. On the evening of the third, he had in a great measure resumed his former manner; but before morning he had gone no one could tell whither.

Revolutionary struggles, and periods of civil commotion, never fail to bring to light talents and abilities which otherwise would have slumbered in obscurity. This, to a certain extent, was the case with Alan Stewart. He had joined the Covenanters previous to the affair at Drumclog; and his conduct in that short but desperate conflict attracted the notice of those who acted as leaders of the party. He was introduced to his countryman, David Hackston, and, through the agency of that gentleman, promoted to the post of training and disciplining such of the Fife men as from time to time joined their body. This was an arduous task. The art, which he had to teach others, he had himself to learn. But his heart was in the cause. He had caught the enthusiasm of the period, and, by perseverance and industry, he overcame every difficulty. Though dissensions, and a blind trust in Providence, rendered the west country army less formidable than it might have been, there were soldiers and brave men among them. From these he took lessons in military tactics—familiarising his mind with the art of war; and while he taught this to others, he became himself skilful in the use of his weapons.

The intervening period between the battle of Drumclog and that of Bothwell Brig, may be briefly passed over, as it imports but little to the present story. The spirit of fanaticism—the schisms and discordant feelings which pervaded the camp of the Covenanters are well known; but in these Alan took no part. On the contrary, he strove, though in vain, along with the more disinterested spirits of the time, to remove the causes of discontent and animosity.

On the fatal day of Bothwell, while by far the greater portion of the army, misled by their own feelings and the fanaticism df their preachers, were listening to a ill-timed discourse, the Fife company were among those who, for a time, successfully disputed the passage of the bridge. Headed by David Hackston of Rathillet, under whom Alan acted as a subordinate, they kept the enemy in check till their means of farther resistance were nearly exhausted. And when, in answer to their demand for a supply of ammunition, their infatuated brethren on the height had, sent a barrel of raisins instead of gunpowder —when, the hopelessness of their situation was discovered, and each one looked in the face of his fellow in the blackness of despair,—Alan, and the Fife men who were under his command, determined still to do everything in their power to cover the retreat, and save the lives of those who were now about to pay dearly for their inactivity.

With this intention, while many fled for their lives in every direction, Alan's little band retired slowly, and in good order, to a place where some vantage ground afforded a prospect of enabling them to offer a more protracted, though now hopeless, resistance. In this position they remained while the enemy's advanced guard were employed in cutting down the loiterers, and despatching those whose wounds prevented them from following the main body. But having now brought their cannon across the bridge, the unbroken front of the Fife company soon attracted notice. They began to play upon them with grape shot; and a portion of their ranks having been swept down by this terrible species of missile, a troop of horse, who, falcon-like, had watched the opportunity, dashed at them in full career. But ere they could reach the destined prey, the ranks of this gallant band were re-united ; and desperate was the struggle which followed. The discharge of pistols—the clash of swords—the curvetting of wounded horses, and the shouts of the soldiers, mingled with the shrill notes of the bugle, and the groans of those who were every moment falling mortally wounded, formed a scene which no language can describe. The dragoons had incurred some disgrace in a former affair with the Covenanters, and were eager to wipe it off, while those with whom they were engaged, as they neither asked nor expected quarter, and could not fly from such enemies, fought with a ferocity unknown in regular warfare. In this short, but desperate mele'e, there was one horseman who acted a conspicuous part. He seemed to he inspired with something more than the soldier's wish for fame. His brow was knit, and his dark eyes appeared to be lighted up by some deep-rooted feeling of hatred. His countenance seemed, expressive of the savage ferocity of the secret assassin rather than the generous daring of the gallant soldier. In that desperate conflict, oftener than once had he singled out Alan Stewart as his victim, and as often had he been balked in his purpose by interposing foes. At last they met in what might have been" deemed mortal strife^ and for a few seconds success was doubtful. But the trooper, in hip fiery zeal to destroy, soon gave his cooler opponent an opportunity of making a cut at his bridle. It succeeded; and the horse, missing the rein on one side, wheeled round: a second stroke, and the hamstrung animal rolled on the ground with his rider. This, however, would have availed little; for the ranks of the Fife company were now waxing thin, and those who remained fought with fearful odds. But just as they were on the point of being borne down by superior numbers, the adverse party were charged in flank by Hackston (now on horseback) and Balfour, who, at the head of a small squadron of cavalry, were doing all that men could to save the lives of their infatuated countrymen. This charge took the enemy by surprise, and, unable to stand the attack of this little band of heroes, most of whom were the veterans of many fights, they wheeled round and fled, leaving behind them many whose last fight was over. But they left, also one still living, and unwounded, who had been disarmed ere he could extricate himself from His fallen horse, and who now stood, in the midst of his enemies, in sullen expectation of his fate. The same expression of deadly hatred was upon his countenance, but the fire-of his eye was quenched in the fear of death. Still, he showed no sign of remorse, nor did he seem to shrink from that which he could not avert.

"Renegade and apostate!" said Alan Stewart, addressing himself to the disarmed trooper, "I spare thee for the name which thou bearest, and the home where thou wast nursed. Back to thy blood-thirsty crew ! but when thou seest the defenceless before thee, spare them as thou hast thyself been spared!"

This was the last attempt at resistance on the part of the Covenanters. The flight and carnage had now become general, and the shattered remains of the Fife company took advantage of the momentary respite which was thus afforded them to make their escape.

Alan Stewart was among the few who escaped from the fatal field of Bothwell; and, after skulking for a few days till the heat of the pursuit was over, he deemed it best to return home. This, after innumerable escapes and hardships, he accomplished, and had the satisfaction to find his native parish still in a state of comparative tranquillity. The Presbyterian form of worship had been kept alive and fostered by Mr. Adamson, a zealous native preacher, without interruption. Alan's reeeption, too, at the North Cotton, was all he could have wished it. The smile with which Jane welcomed his return—the tear which trembled in her eye, and all but flowed down her cheek —and the tremour of her voice, which she in vain strove to overcome, as she answered his first questions,—these spoke a language which her lover well knew how to interpret. Separation and absence had taught her "a deep lesson." Time passed on. They were as happy in each other's affections as the troublous times in which they lived admitted of, and there appeared no obstacle to their speedy union.

Chapter II.

It was now the month of September, but agriculture was then in a very indifferent state in the country, and harvest was not yet begun. Jane had gone to Sitmalane, a, distance of little more than a mile, to visit an uncle, who was then lying ill, and Alan had gone thither in the evening to escort her home. The two had tarried till it was dark, that they might have the satisfaction of each other's company, unobserved, on their return. The night was cloudy, and fitful gusts of wind came rushing from the hills; but this to them was nothing. Arm in arm they descended the steep bank to the margin of the lake; and as they tracked its winding shore, they conversed in the low and earnest tones of confidential affection. But even when they spoke not, their souls seemed to hold converse, and their pace became gradually slower and slower.

After a pause, in which Alan felt half ashamed of keeping silence so long,—"This night," said he, "with its fitful breezes and threatening clouds, reminds me of one which I passed among some bushes, under the shelter of a rock, after the battle of Bothwell."

"Bothwell!—Oh, that is a terrible word!" said she to whom he addressed himself; "I shudder whenever I think of it," and she did shudder as she spoke. "The heaps of slaughter!—the hopes of many a hearth lying cold on that field! Oh, had you fallen!"

"But tell me, Alan," continued she, after a lapse of some minutes, "how could you, averse from cruelty—gentle and unoffending, as you have always been—deal the death-stroke, and shed the blood of your fellow-creatures!"

"I can scarce tell you," was the reply. "I have often turned away, with a sensation of horror not to be described, from seeing the deadly stab inflicted, by the hand of the butcher, on an inferior animal. And at Druinclog, after an engagement had become inevitable, a strange feeling shook my frame, as I looked on those around me, full of life, and strong in health, and thought how soon they might be weltering in their gore, or lying cold and mangled corpses; and in this feeling I almost forgot that the same fate might be awaiting myself. This agitation of mind continued, in all its force, till the foe were almost on us; and, when the word was given, my hand trembled as I raised my firelock to take aim; but, to my surprise, in a few seconds I became cool and collected, and a thousand lives appeared as nothing, when sacrificed in such a cause."

"But to die!" said Jane, "Oh! it must be terrible to think of that. I cannot yet comprehend those feelings of which you speak. To leave friends and kindred—all who love you, and all whom you loved! And then such a death!" she continued,

her imagination portraying the horrors which her lover had escaped, "no friendly hand near to help—no pitying eye to shed a tear ahove you—no affectionate voice to speak the last farewell—but all around heaps of slain, and the dying groans of mangled wretches writhing in their last agonies! What can support the spirit in the prospect of such a scene!"

"My love," said he, "death on the field of battle is not, I think, so terrible as you have painted it; but even if it were, to the Christian, whose belief is in accordance with his profession, there is one great source of courage and. consolation. It is this which supports the poor persecuted wanderer, under all his sufferings; and it is this which enables the martyr to meet death triumphantly at the stake or on the scaffold."

"Yes, yes," interrupted Jane, "I understand it now—the approbation of One."

"There is, moreover," continued he, "a something in the consciousness of being engaged in a just cause, which exalts the spirit above the fear of mere bodily suffering. There is a secret satisfaction in believing that the sacrifice of property, liberty, and even life itself, is made for the general weal, and that posterity may reap a harvest of happiness from the blood that is shed on a battle field, which inspires fortitude, and makes endurance its own reward. There is a sympathy extending itself to the humblest being who bears the human shape, and to the remotest futurity, which merges every selfish consideration, and all feelings of fear, in its own abyss, as the ocean drinks up the rivers—it is this sympathy, acting upon a powerful mind, which makes the patriot of humanity contemn the favour of kings and mighty men, wealth, idleness, and ease, and brave danger and death in their most terrible forms; accounting the life which he sacrifices in the cause of truth as a thing of no value."

As he concluded, his voice rose to a pitch of enthusiasm, and his eyes sparkled with deep feeling. Jane looked on her animated lover in silent admiration. After a pause, she spoke. "I wish I could emulate such glorious examples also. But I am only a woman; and my feelings have been doomed, by the weakness of my nature, to act in a narrower sphere."

"Why do you say so?" broke in her companion. "The nature of woman is susceptible of the noblest feelings that ever animated the heart of man."

"I will tell you why," was the answer. "I have often fancied that I could meet hardships, and endure torture, with patience; but it would have been only to save some dear friend from pain. I have imagined that I could encounter death; but it would have been to save the life of one,"—here she hesitated a moment, as if she had been about to utter something wrong, and then, with a strong effort, she proceeded,—"Yes, to save the life of one dearer than life. I have thought all this; but, among these, my heroic musings, the idea of enduring ought for others never came. It was only the belief, that you would cherish my memory, and love me when I was no more, that could have enabled me to suffer and to die without shrinking! But perhaps," she added, sinking her voice, "were I called upon to suffer in a common cause, or to die for conscience sake, God might give me strength to endure that also."

"He would! he would!" said the other, glad in this exclamation to find a vent for those feelings with which her confession had almost overpowered him. "Fear not for your fortitude: 'as thy day is, so shall thy strength be;' as the sympathies of women are ever more active, and their selfishness less strongly marked, so their patience in suffering is often greater than that of men."

"I know not that," said she, with a deep sigh; "but I have more to tell. In those musings of which I spoke, I have fancied, that when I was gone, were Alan to love and marry another—pardon my weakness—the thought would diminish my happiness even in another world !"

"Alan will never love or marry another," said he to whom she spoke, and clasped the speaker to his bosom; "we will live and die together!"

As he concluded, there was a deep and solemn pathos in his voice. He would have continued, but their farther conversation was here interrupted.

The foot-path was on the side of a deep trench, which separated the arable land from the marsh. The space between this and the clear water was occupied hy a boggy surface, covered with high grass and sedges, which were cut every year by the peasantry for fodder to their Cattle in winter. Here our travellers were alarmed by the violent barking of a little dog which accompanied them; and on looking, they thought they could perceive men on the path before them. "They are soldiers," said Jane, in a whisper, while she almost trembled with apprehension; "I see the glitter of their weapons." At the same moment, a harsh voice commanded them to "stand, if they were his Majesty's loyal subjects." This left no doubt; and as Alan was unarmed, their only chance of safety seemed to be in flight. Close to where they stood, a plank had been thrown over the ditch by the cottars, for the purpose of carrying out grass from the bog; over this they instantly crossed, and made their way, as silently as possible, among the sedges on the other side; while their pursuers—for they were now pursued—missed the narrow bridge, and fell into the trench. The bog, from the season of the year, was tolerably firm, so that the lovers found little difficulty in passing over it; while the sedges, in this place higher than a man's head, and the darkness, left no trace by which they could be followed, except the noise of their feet.

They were now at the south-eastern angle of the lake, where the deposits of a burn had covered the marsh with a firm crust of gravel and sand, brought down from the hills by its wintry torrents. Upon this bank they emerged from their sedgy cover, and in the darkness stumbled upon the moorings of a little shallop, which had been drawn up there as a place of safety. The circumstance appeared providential; and embarking as quietly as possible, they pushed from the shore. At that moment, the shadow of a dark cloud rested upon the bosom of the lake, rendering all objects alike invisible; and a hollow breeze, whistling through the reeds, chafed its surface, and made the waves fret against the shore, so that it was impossible to distinguish the dip of oars from the other sounds which prevailed.

"They must have been ghosts," said one of the foiled pursuers, who, to the number of ten or twelve, had now reached the place where they had just departed; "or, if they were human beings, the devil hath carried them off bodily; for it was here that i heard the last sound of their tread, and now, here is nothing save darkness; these confounded winds and waters seem to be laughing at our disappointment"

"They were no ghosts," said another of the party, in a voice which Jane distinctly heard, and which seemed not altogether that of a stranger, though so altered that she could not recollect when or where she had met the speaker; "it was no ghost. I could swear to the voice of one of them at least. Curse on the day I first saw her!—and to escape me thus ! But no matter, say I, for the present. Come, my lads, we have other game afoot, which will better pay us for the hunting down; you know what the Curate hath promised if we succeed."

These words contained a mystery which Jane could not unravel. She did not dare to speak for fear of a discovery; and Alan, who was now propelling their little vessel with a full stroke, heard them not. He made directly for the easternmost of the willow-covered islands, as a temporary resting-place, where they might consider what were hest to be done. Having found it, and drawn in the hoat, he proposed to leave it and Jane at the island, and swimming quietly ashore by himself, try to procure some of their friends to assist in escorting her home. "Anderson," said he, "or Galloway,.or any of the Bothwell men at Lindores, will be ready at a word."

To this Jane strongly objected. Peril only served to strengthen the tie which bound her to Alan; and to quit his side when his freedom, or even his life, might be more in danger than her own, appeared worse than death. Yet she felt her spirit rise superior to fear; and though she spoke with emphasis there was neither tremor nor hesitation in her voice. "No," said she, "why should they seek me t I have been guilty of no crime, and you have been at Bothwell; this they may construe into a crime. But if there is danger before you I will share it, and if it he death let me die by your side; if we stay, let us stay together; and if you go I will accompany you."

This island is not far from the shore. The bank jutting into the lake diminishes the watery distance; and, while the lovers thus conversed, their notice was attracted by human voices almost opposite to where they were. "Alan was a fool," said one, "for sparing the life of an enemy who would not have spared him."

"Fool or wise man," said another, "with sixty such as Alan, to the hundred of our foes, they would have fled before us like sheep before the shepherd's dog."

In the voice of the speakers Alan immediately recognised Anderson and Galloway, the individuals of whom he had formerly spoken. "My love," said he, "these are our friends; we may both go with safety now." And in a minute more the white foam was flashing from the prow of the little boat as she cleft the waters for the shore.

Anderson and Galloway were accompanied by five others, all of whom had been at Bothwell. One of their number had seen soldiers arrive at the Grange in the forenoon, and, after alarming his companions, they had kept concealed till nightfall. Believing themselves to be the principal object of this mission, they had determined to seek some place of security farther off for a season, but not till they apprised Alan of their intentions, and invited him to join them. This was their present errand, and they travelled armed.

Alan narrated the escape which they had just made. And on Jane's mentioning what she had heard about the "game" to be hunted,—"Well," said Anderson, "should we chance to meet them to-night, if they are not too many, we may give them hunting till they are tired of it. But when you speak of the Curate," he added, addressing Jane, "I guess their game must be Mr. Adamson."

"If such should be the case,'' said Alan, "God grant we may be able to defeat their purpose!"

Ruminating upon these circumstances, they began to track the shores of the loch in the direction of Waaltower, without any fixed purpose, but not without the hope that they might he of some service to their pastor, who, they had heard, was to attend a dying man at a cottar town upon their road.

For some time past the east had given signs of the approaching moon. She now rose above the horizon, and her light made distant objects visible. The northern sky was covered -with a dense body of dark vapour, from which ever and anon large masses of cloud were detached, and, being driven upward, pursued their way to the zenith in sublime confusion. The wind, which before had only breathed occasionally with a sort of whistling cadence, now sounded, among the distant woods, like the fall of waters rising at uncertain intervals and then floating away upon the wings of silence. The whole seemed to indicate the approach of one of those nights in which terrible gales, accompanied by hail and rain, alternate with seasons of the deepest calm.

The party proceeded quietly along the margin of the lake till they came to where the path diverges from the level shore to climb the ascent to the houses on the hill. But, before quitting the water's edge, their attention was arrested by a confused noise of voices. They had scarcely concealed themselves among the bushes and brushwood when they heard the deep and sonorous voice of a man earnestly expostulating with some others who appeared to be dragging him away contrary to his inclination.

"Listen to me for a moment," said the pastor, for it was he. "Here are none to oppose you. Suffer me to return and speak a word of comfort to that dying man, from whose bed-side ye took me, and to offer up a prayer for the welfare of his immortal soul ere it depart and be no more!—then will I accompany you cheerfully and in peace."

"Accompany us cheerfully and in peace as it is, reverend father," said one of the party whom he addressed; "and try to move your feet a little faster, or we may find means to quicken your pace for you.' Take his arm, Gilbert," he continued, addressing one of his companions, "and we will assist the good man on his journey heavenward."

While this discourse was going on Alan and his friends lay quiet in their place of concealment; and after listening for a time,—"Our conjectures were right," said Galloway, in a whisper. "It is our faithful pastor in. the hands of his enemies!"

"It is too sure," said Anderson, in the same under tone. "But if they compass his captivity it shall be with a redder price than their victory at Bothwell cost them!"

"Let us on them, then," exclaimed the other; "the sooner the better."

"Nay, nay," rejoined Anderson, "that were a foolhardy step. Hear ye not the moaning of the winds behind us? It has been steady for the last five minutes. And see ye not the heavens how they darken? I am mistaken for once if the elements come not to assist us. Let us bide their time. Our feet are not tied : we may hunt the hunters a little. Nor will our courage, I trust, evaporate for our keeping it a few minutes. And mark me: this squall once come, the prey is in our hands, and they, at least, shall set the snare no more for the innocent, nor seek the slaughter of the unoffending !"

Alan, meantime, was endeavouring to calm what he conceived would be the fears of Jane; but of his efforts she stood less in need than he had imagined. The near approach of danger, the distant growl of the coming storm, and the fate which too surely awaited the prisoner—were he allowed to remain in the hands of his enemies,—in the excitement of the moment, tended to awaken a sentiment within her to which she had hitherto been a perfect stranger.

Alan, on the other hand, felt that he wanted that alacrity which animated him to rush into danger and defy death at Drumclog and Bothwell. He had now a new tie to bind him to the world; and, for the sake of protecting her, he felt as if he could have almost played the coward, and remained behind in the projected attack. She, however, seemed to read his thoughts in the embarrassment of his manner; for, laying her hand gently on his arm, with a voice in which a slight tremor bespoke her affection for him rather than fear for herself,— "Go," said she; fear not for me: I will call on the God of battles, that he may give you success, and spare the effusion of blood. I would I were a man, that I might fight by your side, and restrain your hand in the moment of triumph. But I forget------''

The wind blew louder every minute. The first drop of rain now began to rattle to the ground, and she was interrupted in what she would have said by Anderson inquiring if Alan was armed.

"No," was the reply.

"Here, then, is my gun," said he, as he put his heavy firelock into his hand. "I have a sword which will stand me in better stead. She carries exactly six inches and a half on the fire at a hundred yards distance; at thirty you may take dead aim—mark that, and her ball whistles true."

The blast came, as had been anticipated. The wind blew a perfect hurricane; and the rain mingled with hail, poured down in such torrents that the earth seemed to smoke beneath its violence like a smouldering furnace. The soldiers, with their prisoner, were now two hundred yards distant, and the whole party started at a brisk pace in the pursuit.

"Oh, take not life if ye can help it!" they could hear Jane say, as they departed.

The storm, which raged with terrible violence, beat directly on their backs; and the moon, breaking from an unclouded part of the southern sky, gave them a distinct view of their enemies. To overtake them was only the work of a few minutes; but such was the fall of rain, that, before they reached them, fire-arms were of no use. The soldiers had no idea of being pursued till they were commanded to "Let go" their prisoner. At this hasty summons they faced suddenly about, and made an effort to fire upon those who gave it. Not a gun, however, went off; and, before they could recover from their surprise, the others rushed upon them with their swords, while they, blinded by the storm, which beat furiously in their faces, could neither see the number nor appearance of those by whom they were attacked; and, after making a few random strokes, they turned, and fled before the elements, rather than from the power of their enemies. The whole was but the work of a moment; and Mr. Adamson was again free. But, in the first onset, there was one among the soldiers who appeared more loth to fly than his fellows. Anderson had rushed on him, and knocked him to the earth without wounding him, and he now stood over his fallen foe with his sword lifted high to sever his head from his body. A moment more, and the deed had been done; but Alan, who saw his purpose, took the blow upon the barrel of his gun.

" What do you mean?" asked Anderson, -with some warmth.

" Don't you know him ?" said the other.

" I do," was the reply; "but what of that?"

"We must not trample on the fallen," said Alan. "To do so were to degrade ourselves beneath our persecutors."

"As you will, then," rejoined the other; while the soldier, getting upon his feet, took the opportunity to follow his companions with what speed he might. "But, confound it!" he continued, "I believe you have made me hack the barrel of my own good gun in two, instead of cleaving that recreant's skull; for, in truth, I had given both heart and hand to the job—and to strike an old friend instead of an ass's head ! My good Ferara, too!" he continued, examining the gun and his sword at the same time—"better steel was never hardened by fire and water. But I fear it has met with more misfortune here than a! the hard hacks of Mary's popish hallions ever brought it." The barrel of the gun was indeed deeply notched; but the edge of the trusty blade was uninjured.

This conversation was interrupted by Mr. Adamson, who, raising his voice with solemn emphasis amid the storm, said, "My friends, lot us thank God, who hath given us a bloodless victory. It was in him I did put my trust, and lo! he hath sent you to my deliverance] and, that ye might speed in your errand, he hath summoned forth the storm to fight for us. To his name be the honour and the glory."

Jane's happiness at the accomplishment of their purpose without the shedding of blood, was felt rather than expressed; and as Alan again took her hand, her eye beamed in that uncertain light with those feelings for which she found no Words.

Though the storm still continued to rage, and though they were still in danger from the rallying of their enemies, the next care of the watchful pastor was to return to the bedside from which he had been taken. But the sight of the soldiers, and the confusion and terror which they had occasioned, had quenched the last feeble flickerings of life in the bosom of the dying man, and the scene was changed from that painful suspense and suppressed sorrow which precede the last moments of human life, to wailing and lamentation for the dead. Here, therefore, they made no tarry, but pursued their journey in a body to the North Cotton, where they hoped to rest safe for the night, it being a place difficult of access, except in the day-time, and otherwise not likely to he suspected.

Here they arrived, drenched with the rain; and, having satisfied the good old shepherd as to what had occasioned his daughter's stay, and dried their clothes before a blazing fire, with which his hospitality soon provided them, it became necessary that they should determine on what course they were to follow. On this subject the opinions were various, and the debate was warm. Some were for going into concealment, or fleeing to distant parts of the country; others were for quitting it altogether, and seeking in America that freedom which, they said, was denied them in their native land; while Anderson, with characteristic hardihood, proposed that they should embody themselves, and brave their enemies to the teeth while a man remained. "Who knows," said he, "but we may make the Sheels Brig retrieve the disgrace of Bothwell, and send our own Black Cairn down to posterity associated with the heights of Drumclog. What say ye to fighting for our rights, instead of fleeing for our lives ?"

With this proposition Alan would have coincided. He felt strongly inclined to do so; but he knew the licentious brutality of the soldiery, and there was one, now deservedly dear to him, who, he feared, might be exposed to all its consequences by such a course. He therefore was silent. Not so their venerable pastor.

He said, he doubted not but that it was the intention of the Prelatical party to annoy the Presbyterians of the neighbourhood in general, and himself in particular, to the extent of their power; and that for this purpose the soldiers had been brought from the West. "But why should we fear?" he added: "let us not shrink from our duty, though it may be attended with danger; the reward is only promised to those who strive. Let us raise up our voices against our oppressors even in the day of their power, and assert, as God shall give us strength, that freedom which he hath conferred on all his rational creatures, though wicked rulers, for the present, have wrun" it away. Self-preservation might prompt us to flee from this unhappy country; but let us remember, that to flee is not always to escape danger; and moreover, were no one to act from higher principles, tyranny and injustice might become coexistent with time. This cannot be! Justice shall yet flow down our streets as a stream, and judgment as the mighty waters! Yes, justice must ultimately triumph over oppression, and truth scatter error, as the coming of the morning scattereth the shadows of. night. We know not what are the purposes of Providence concerning us—whether we may be honoured, as the small beginnings of a great and glorious consummation; or whether darkness must still rest upon us for a season. But let us obey the still small voice of conscience, which biddefch us be bold in the cause of freedom and of truth—-for your own rights, and for those of your children; and though ye should fall by the sword, and your flesh become food for the ravens, and your bones whiten the fields like the snows of winter, yet it may he that Providence will raise up a seed from your ashes, who may put to flight the oppressors of conscience, and triumph over the enemies of religious liberty. My brethren, is it not so?"

This short address produced a decisive effect; for in those days the teachers and the taught were mingled : they were knit in the bonds of friendship, and their cause was a common one.

In accordance with these sentiments, a day was appointed for a general meeting in the fields to worship God. The place of meeting was to be the hollow on the hill, to the southward of the Cairn, where, from the nature of the ground, they could not be discovered at any great distance. It was agreed that they should assemble early; that as many as could procure ams should wear them for the defence of themselves and their fellow-worshippers; and that watches, or sentinels, should be placed on the most commanding points of their station, to present them from being surprised by any sudden attack. With this agreement, and the understanding that those present were to give notice of the meeting, as quietly and as extensively as possible, among their friends, they parted.

But let us now follow Black Ritchie. This individual, on his suit being rejected, sank into a sort of moody despondency, which soon terminated in the most implacable hatred, not only to his rival, but even to the object of his former affection, and a determination, if possible, to ruin both. To effect this the civil and religious discords of the time offered the readiest means. He never doubted that the Government party would prove the strongest, and, procuring secretly a recommendation from the Curate of the parish to Claverhouse, he set off to join them in the West, without acquainting any one with his purpose. But Claverhouse's troop being at the time full he found a place in another regiment, where his animal courage, and abhorrence of the Covenanters—qualities at that time held in high estimation—procured him speedy promotion. The licentious life of a soldier, and the rapine and cruelty in which he was daily engaged, soon extirpated the last remnants of humanity, and gave the worst passions a perfect predominance over him. The victory at Bothwell accelerated the time for gratifying his private revenge; and by his representations in private letters to the Curate of the ease with which a military force might be procured, and the solicitations of the Curate, in the proper quarter, a party of a hundred horse were sent to propagate the tenets of those in power at the sword's point. Among these he held a commission, and, as he was a great favourite with the officers who commanded them, he had a principal share in directing their operations. On the day of their arrival he learned by accident the place where Mr. Adamson might be found; and, after night-fall, taking along with him a dozen of his followers, he determined to try the experiment of making him prisoner before it should be known that they were in the neighbourhood. In this expedition they encountered Alan and Jane. Though both of these escaped, is has been already narrated, he was near enough to hear that voice, the tones of which had once made his heart thrill. His ideas pf love, which had never been of the purest kind, were now much changed for the worse. The sound of her voice, and the idea of being so near her, brought her charms forcibly before his polluted imagination; and, by obtaining possession of her person, an opportunity now seemed to present itself of gratifying his passion, and satisfying his revenge at the same time. That the accomplishment of these foul projects might be more complete, he wished, if possible, to effect her ruin with her own consent, which, he doubted not, some favourable opportunity would enable him to obtain. And if this should fail him, it mattered little, as the means of snatching success were now, he supposed, within his reach.

Chapter III.

On the appointed morning the family of William Turner were early astir. Alan Stewart was also with them; and, after their morning devotions had been duly performed, and an early breakfast hastily despatched, they armed themselves and prepared to depart. The place of meeting, though out of sight, was only at a short distance; and, for some hours previous, numbers of country people had been seen flocking to it, in the dusk of the morning, by the most unfrequented paths.

"Jane," said Alan, as they were on the point of setting off, "I am sorry you cannot accompany us."

She did not speak, but held out her hand to him. He clasped it in his, and both seemed to labour under some strange feeling for which neither could account; but it was only momentary, and she bade him adieu with a smile.

Jane was left behind to notice her father's flock, and attend to the wants of her mother, who was then infirm and old. And when her father, lover, and brothers were gone she busied herself in the performance of-these duties—now in the house attending the wants of her mother,—now gathering the sheep, with her father's dog, when they attempted to scatter; and, when neither of these required her attention, leaning over her Bible by one of those gnarled trees which stood beside the dwelling, and reading from its pages. But, in spite of her assiduity, a heaviness was at her heart—a lowness of spirits hung over her, and something like those forebodings of approaching calamity, for which no one can account, seemed to oppress her mind. The train of her thoughts became solemn, and she turned to the Lamentations of Jeremiah. The pathetic waitings of the prophet over the desolate temple, ruined cities, and fallen glory of his people, were in unison with the tone of her thoughts, and she became deeply interested in that strain of mourning and woe. While thus engaged she was startled by a step stealing towards her, and, on looking up, a man stood before her without the dress, but with the arms of a soldier. Her surprise was yet increased when in the features of the intruder she discovered those of her former lover, Black Ritchie.

"Jane," said he, with a voice in which an attempt at tenderness struggled with the insolent tones of authority, "can you forgive me for leaving you? If you only knew what I have sacrificed to see you again------"

The sight of a disagreeable object recalled her wandering thoughts, and she interrupted him by boldly demanding, " What injury have you done me that you should ask forgiveness? I never wished your stay."

"I know you did not," said he; "but if you only knew the aflfection which I had for you, and have still, you would not treat me thus."

At this appeal she felt touched. She felt as if she could have pitied him; but she felt also that, firmness was indispensable. "My heart is already given to another," said she, "and my hand is promised. If you loved me, as you say, you would cease to urge a suit to which I cannot listen."

"But are you aware," said he, "what you have to expect with him to whom you have rashly given your heart, and promised your hand? Do you know that he has carried arms against his king, and that his life is forfeited to the laws of his country?"

"I know that he was in arms," she replied; "and I only esteem him the more for perilling his life in the cause of those who could offer him no reward. He did not forsake the faith of his fathers."

The sarcasm, which these words implied, was not without its effect on him to whom they were addressed. He felt that to consideration of this sort he could lay no claim. He, too, had perilled his life, but for what? The comparison would have thrust itself upon him, but he was a man of the world.

"You may esteem him still," said he, "but take the advice of a friend, and leave him to his fate. He has been guilty of high treason, and he must soon pay the ransom with his life. Think what you could do then."

"I could die with him," was the brief but energetic reply. "Selfishness is the bane of this world's attachments; but where true affection exists, it is a stranger."

"Jane," said he, emphatically, "you do not know your own heart when you talk thus. His feet are already in the snare. His enemies have concerted their measures so as to render escape impossible. If you knew the certainty of his fate, you would not speak of dying with him; but try, by every means in your power, to cultivate the affections of those who may be able to afford some protection to you and your relations in times like the present."

"Were my heart again free, I would only cultivate the affections of those whom I deemed worthy of my esteem and love," replied Jane, warmly. "But who has set the snare of which you speak, and who is it has brought his enemies hither? Is this your doing?" Though these were questions which he might have expected, he felt his cunning at a loss to answer them. After a moment's pause, "Ritchie," she continued, "they say you are among those who have denied the faith which you once pretended to profess; and that you took an active share in the massacre at Bothwell. Is this true?"

At a loss what to say, "Has he told you that too?" he stammered out.

"No," was the reply. "But I have been told by those who saw you there."

"Well, Jane," said ne, "I will not attempt to deny it; nor can I regret it deeply when I reflect on the protection which this circumstance may enable me to extend to you and yours, if you only accept my offer, and say that you will love me."

"Ritchie," said she, drawing herself up and speaking with emphasis, "I never could bring myself to despise you till now ! You have become an apostate from the faith of your fathers; you have united yourself to the enemies of your country, and imbrued your hands in the blood of its best friends; and now you have brought these enemies here to hunt, like blood-hounds, for their prey; and for this you ask my love, and promise me protection on condition that I should basely abandon those who are deservedly dear to me, and sell myself to you for the sordid prospect of a wretched life with one so worthless!"

The energy with which she spoke went far to convince Black Ritchie that the first part of his game was already played, and without success; but he determined to make one other cast and see what luck awaited him. "No," said he, "it is not you alone whom I would protect: I may be able to save your friends also. Think of your father and brothers, and the treatment they have to expect from merciless soldiers! The place of their meeting on the hill is known to their enemies. A party of dragoons, strong enough to cut every man of them to pieces, are already on their way to attack them; and, unless I interpose, no power on earth can save them from their fate. Think of this, and tamper with me no longer."

"I will not tamper with you," said she, fixing on him a look which, abandoned as he was, he knew not well how to abide. "You have brought the wolves of your party on the sheep of another's fold. But their Shepherd, if He will, can protect them from the rage of their foes; nor think that He will long suffer the wicked to pass unpunished, or that you can long prosper with innocent blood on your hands, and the blackest perfidy in your heart. Yet, for yourself, save them if you can. It may wash a stain from your guilty conscience, and avert a pang from your dying bed ! Do this, and you will have from me that regard which a generous action always deserves. For the lives of those who are dear to me I will respect and------" love you, she would have said; but she shrank from uttering the word to which her sincerity was a stranger.

His hopes of success from the means to which he had hitherto trusted were now at an end. The hour when his presence would be required elsewhere was, moreover, approaching. "I see," said he, and as he spoke he looked at his watch, "it is in vain to argue longer with you; but I now bitterly repent me of my former conduct"—this he said in a whining tone—" and, to convince you that I am not so bad as you suppose, if you will only lead me the nearest way to the place where your friends are assembled on the hill I will warn them of their danger, and point out to them the only way which remains of escaping from certain destruction. But make haste ; for I see there is no time to lose." As he concluded he put up his watch, which hitherto he had held in his hand as if to note the hour exactly, though, it may be supposed, he kept it only as something at which to look while palming what he knew to be a deception on the innocent girl who stood before him.

Gladly, and without a moment's hesitation, did Jane embrace this proposal, and with a hasty step she led the way to the hill. At another time the circumstances might have caused her to hesitate and suspect; but the words "certain destruction," and "no time to lose," left neither room for suspicion, nor time for delay.

The sun was now high in heaven, and the sky without a cloud. The landscape around presented a scene of calm and tranquil beauty. The fields of grain, almost ready for the sickle, nodded in the vales below, and adorned the slopes of the receding mountains with a rich yellow. Farther off, the Tay, now bright in the sunshine, and the dark masses of Clat-cher-craig, frowning over it, gave relief to the eye. Immediately beneath them, the lake lay expanded in sleeping beauty, reflecting all the gorgeous hues on its banks, and the varied scenery of hill and corn-field on its unruffled bosom, while the Grampians, in the extreme distance, already crested with snow, shut in the prospect. But neither of them paused to look upon the scenery. Jane was too anxious for the safety of those who were dear to her, to think of aught save the means of facilitating their, escape; and the mind of Black Ritchie was too much occupied with that infamous scheme, to the completion of which he now looked forward, to enjoy the charms of inanimate nature.

In a few minutes they readied those regions where the process of cultivation had never come, and threaded their way among the long broom, and furze bushes, pruned into conical shapes by the sheep that browsed their tender shoots in winter, —Jane, to whom the way was familiar, always going before. Oftener than once had he come close up to her with the intention of speaking; but upon these occasions she always quickened her pace, and he drew back as if he either wanted words to express his purpose, or was awed into silence by her extreme beauty, and the firmness which she had already displayed. A struggle between his lawless passion, and the remains of shame, or some other feeling which he had not been able entirely to banish, was evidently taking place in his bosom; but his brute propensities having of late been accustomed to unbridled scope, he soon appeared to master this sentiment, whatever it was, and only waited for a fitting opportunity.

The path on which they were—formed partly by sheep, and partly by foot-passengers—led over the very summit of the Cairn. They bad reached a small hollow, or rather open space, immediately below it on the north side; and here, pushing suddenly past her, he turned round, and looking her full in the face, "Jane," said he, "you must stop till I speak to you. The violence of my passion has made me deceive you; I cannot save either yourself or your friends, unless you yield to my wishes even here—you understand me!"

There was a fire in his eye, and an indescribable something in his manner, as he uttered these words, which seemed to suspend alike the powers of speech and motion in the maid whom he addressed; and she stood, for a moment, petrified as it were before him, as his guilty purpose, of which she had not even dreamed, flashed upon her. Her situation was indeed terrible. A dreary silence reigned around them, and no living creature was in view to whom she could apply for help.

"You have nothing to hope from resistance," he continued, after a pause. "Your friends are too far away to hear your cries, or render you any assistance. I know the very spot where they are assembled, and every thing connected with their proceedings. I even knew that I would find you alone to-day."

Hopeless as was her situation, she had yet one resource— that trust in a Supreme Being which conscious rectitude of purpose, and previous freedom from great offences, in connection with religious habits, alone can bestow—a trust which, though it does not, and cannot always ward off evil, never fails to exercise a sublime influence on the mind, and to support it under adversity, when mere worldly motives might prove too weak. It was this which prevented her from sinking into despair, and giving up all for lost. The short interval which elapsed while he was speaking, had enabled her to collect fortitude for the occasion; and when she spoke, it was with a firmness which could hardly have been expected.

"There is a God above!" said she, "whose eye is now upon us. In his hands I trust my innocence. He can preserve it."

"Ay," said the other, in whose face his own tumultuous and guilty passion now flushed with a fevered redness, "but without a miracle that God, of which you speak, cannot rescue you out of my hands; and do you think he will work one for such as you? But I have no more time to waste."

With these words he advanced a few steps towards her, while she retreated so as to preserve the distance between them still undiminished ; but some unseen power arrested him in his purpose for a moment, and both again stood still. The extremity of her fate now seemed to be approaching. She breathed a silent prayer; and as her eye turned upward, in the act of devotion, she caught a glimpse of a well-known figure on the height above them.

"Yonder," said she, "is a man on the Cairn."

"Where?" said the savage, in a tone of surprise and disappointment, as he turned to look for the object of which she had spoken; but observing nothing, he again turned toward her -with increased insolence, like one who expects to drive a better bargain from having discovered a deception in the article he was about to purchase—"where is this deliverer of yours? Has he hid himself, like an owl who is ashamed to show its face in daylight, or melted into air, like a ghost at the crowing of the cock?"

"He disappeared but just now behind the bushes," was the reply.

"Come, come," said he, "this is a mere scheme to gain time, but it is found out, and can avail you nothing." As he spoke, he advanced close up to her, and as she did not now retreat, he stretched out his right hand to lay hold of hers, still holding his carbine in the other; but before he could touch her, he was grasped by a powerful arm from behind. In a moment the carbine was wrenched from his grasp, and thrown to a distance, and Alan Stewart stood before him.

As one of the watchmen, Alan had been stationed on the Cairn. He had marked the approach of Black Ritchie; and guessing that his intentions could not be good, but loth to alarm the meeting for a single individual, he determined, if possible, to make him his prisoner for the time, and succeeded in surprising him at the very moment when he fancied he was about to achieve his guilty purpose.

This was no meeting for explanation. The eyes of Black Ritchie shot forth "living fire!" Once he had been foiled in fight by Alan—self-love made him attribute it to accident—and twice had he owed his life to him. To be under such obligations to the man he hated served but to stimulate his hatred. With frantic haste he unsheathed his sword, and, uttering an awful imprecation, dashed at the individual who but a moment before might have shot him dead, or stabbed him to the heart, with far less trouble than it cost to take his carbine.

Alan had only time to unsheathe his own weapon when he was attacked; and for a few seconds the combat was kept up by the one party with a fury which resembled that of inspired madness, while the other satisfied himself with parrying the thrusts, and warding the blows which were aimed at him, till the rage of his opponent should exhaust itself. This task a consciousness of superior strength and skill enabled him to perform without any great exertion. "With admirable dexterity did he defend himself from the most reckless thrusts and desperate blows, foiling every attempt made at his life by his opponent. The contest was by no means equal. Ritchie soon began to suffer from the violent efforts, which he had been making. In a short time he was almost wholly at the mercy of his antagonist, who, with a sweeping stroke, carried his sword out of his hand, leaving him apparently defenceless. The habitual benevolence of Alan would have probably prevailed once more, but he was not allowed time for its exercise; for no sooner was Ritchie deprived of his sword than he drew a pistol, which he had concealed about his dress, and holding it close to the other's head, fired. Alan succeeded in turning up the muzzle of the weapon so far as to save his life, and the flash only scorched his face.

Jane's feelings during the conflict it would be difficult to describe. The sight of two men engaged in desperate strife was what she could ill endure to behold; yet the interest which she took in one of them riveted her to the spot. The glancing of the weapons in the sun—the ringing sound which they emitted, is they repeatedly clashed against each other, and the uncertainty that death might be in every blow which descended— kept her in an agony of feeling; and while the combat lasted, she trembled in every nerve for the safety of one who was but too dear to her. But when she saw the sword fly from the hand of his enemy, the woman in her heart prevailed, and for a moment she shared the triumph of her lover. The sight of the pistol again struck her with deadly horror; and when she saw it fired, it seemed as if all the lightnings of heaven had scorched her heart. She closed her eyes on what she conceived the death scene of her lover; and, as the lids were drawn downward by an unnatural action of the nerves, she only found power to open them again when she heard Alan, with a stern voice, address his enemy in these words: "Call on God to forgive your sins, and prepare to die!"

To this Black Ritchie made no answer. His only regret was that he had not succeeded according to his intention; and to have asked pardon from Heaven would have been to acknowledge guilt, and give the conqueror cause to triumph. He was silent, and his days had then been numbered. But Jane no sooner saw Alan look at his sword's point, and read his stern purpose in his eye—that eye in which she had so often looked with the stealthy fondness of a first affection—than pity took possession of her heart, and, forgetting the doom which he had decreed her, and the agony of terror from which she had so lately suffered, she rushed forward to intercede for the life of the vanquished.

"Women are ever ready to overlook misdeeds in misfortune. Sympathy is the source of their "weakness and their strength." "Alan," said Jane, "spare him, I beseech you, that he may have time to repent of his crimes. To me he would have proved—" She checked herself, conscious that the disclosure would operate the wrong way, and concluded with—"If you could see his heart you would let him go!"

"If his guilt has been great," said Alan, "he has the less reason to expect mercy.",

"I neither ask nor expect it," said Ritchie, sullenly.

"Eternity is an awful word!" said Jane, without noticing him, "and he is not prepared for it. But haste," she added, the recollection of what he had told her at that instant re-curring,—"Leave him in the hands of his maker, and let us hasten to the meeting. He told me, before we left the house, that a party of dragoons were on their way to cut these unoffending worshippers to pieces. Haste, haste, and let us give them warning!"

This was indeed no reason for allowing him to live—rather the contrary. But, with Alan, that gentle voice had never pleaded in vain. He could, it is true, take the life of an enemy in a battlefield, and in the heat of an engagement, without much remorse; but coolly and deliberately to inflict a mortal wound on one who lay weaponless before him—his heart revolted at the idea. He abandoned his purpose; and casting on his vanquished enemy a look of mingled pity and contempt, "Come," said he to Jane, as he took her hand, "let us go" and with these words they hurried off on their monitory errand, leaving Ritchie to his own meditations.

Black Ritchie followed them with his eyes as they ascended the Cairn, and while thus employed the very demon of madness seemed to revel in his heart. After a world of cunning and sophistry to find that his diabolical scheme was cut short at the very moment when, success seemed certain, and to see the object of his selfish solicitude led off in triumph by his rival— himself, too, mastered in fight before her eyes, and then left as one whose life was not worth taking. These thoughts stung him like a thousand furies, and he walked to and fro, almost bursting with rage, till his eye fell on the spot where his own loaded carbine was lying.

Jane and Alan were soon over the height. They shot down the declivity on its farther side, and crossed the narrow hollow where the broom- and brushwood, on either hand, rose higher than their heads. But as they were pressing up the short ascent, which now lay before them, to reach the table-land above, the report of a gun awoke the mountain echoes—a ball whizzed through the air—a quick shiver of the hand he held in his alarmed Alan—a lightning thought of the cause shot through his heart, and he turned his head with eager haste. But, while in the act, the maiden at his side bent forward, staggered, and, despite of his efforts to support her, fell to the earth. To his inquiries she made no answer, and he could not repeat them ; nor was it necessary—all was already explained. Her eyes were still raised to his; but there was a deep languor in their expression, and in her bosom he saw blood. He gazed on her for a moment as she lay there, and that moment was in itself an eternity. It was one of those moments which stamp impressions on the hearts of men which future years have no power to wear away—a moment never to be forgotten.

The shot had not been intended for her, but the half frantic miscreant had either mistaken his aim or the ball had not proved true to the direction he gave it,

She was not dead: and after breathing for the space of a minute she found strength to speak. "Alan," said she, in a voice scarcely audible, but which was heard distinctly by her lover, who bent over her in that indescribable state of feeling when the ear is stretched to catch even the faintest breathing, "Alan—dearest—I cannot tell yon now how dear to me—you have been—The day of our earthly love, I feel,—is nearly done—The happiness—the endearing tenderness, in the prospect of which—my spirit lived, these were not reserved for me,—I—had made you my idol!—But'—the—drrigoons ------."

Here her voice failed her.

Alan could only press her hand in reply. But, mastering the weakness of his sorrow, and gathering strength for the terrible emergency in which he was placed, with the utmost tenderness he raised her in his arms, and with a speed resembling that of the hunted deer—a speed which no common motive could have supplied—he bore her lightly over heathery knoll and furze-covered bank to the meeting of the Covenanters. The alarm had been already given. Their other sentinels had apprized them of the approach of cavalry; and the service was hastily concluding as he laid down his lovely, but more than half-lifeless burden.

The sympathy of those present for the beautiful sufferer was sincerely felt, though little was said. Even her father and brothers suppressed their grief, not knowing but that ere an hour was ended, they might be with her in another world. Escape was considered impracticable, as their enemies were mounted, and the country around was open. It was, therefore, determined to retire to the sheep-fold as a place where they might better defend themselves against an attack, and for this rude fortification they instantly departed. In the short but hasty march which followed, there were numbers who would have lent their assistance in removing the wounded maiden, but Alan would accept of none: as he brought her there, he bore her thence.

The sheep-fold was no other than a narrow space, enclosed with a turf wall. And in one place, where the wall had been carried a little higher for the purpose of supporting a roof, the other materials had been strengthened by alternate layers of stones, in the same way as the houses of the Scottish peasantry were built about half a century ago. The walls, though no more than breast high, promised them considerable protection against a distant fire—the circumstance which, ,of all others, they most dreaded; they also offered a manifest advantage in case they should be forced to dispute it hand to hand. Here, having taken up their position, and hastily barricaded the gap which served as an entrance, they determined to make a desperate resistance.

The attack, however, with which they were threatened, was delayed a short time in consequence of the nature of the ground. It was found that cavalry could not act, with any prospect of success, in such a situation; but dismounting, the troopers advanced in small parties with open spaces between them, their object being not to present anything like a close front to the fire which they expected from the fold, till they should get as near to it as possible, and then, concentrating their force, beat down a portion of the wall and rush in.

On the part of the country people there was a backwardness to take away life, which might have proved ruinous to their cause, had it not been for some veteran spirits among them. As soon as the enemy were within proper distance, Anderson and his fellows of Both well-field fired with good effect. This acted as a stimulus to the others, and as many of them as had firearms followed their example, and gave their foes a warm reception. But, nothing daunted, they pressed forward, while the shouts with which they cheered each other, the volleys they discharged in their advance, and the irregular fire from the fold, made altogether a scene of noise and confusion, such as that peaceful solitude had never before witnessed. The birds of prey, startled by the unwonted intrusion, rose from their places of concealment, and circling high in air mingled their shrill screams with the discordant sounds below. The volumed smoke, part of which slowly climbed the sides of the narrow gorge, while part stagnated in the hollow, obscured the combatants ; and from its dense masses, piercing groans were heard to issue when the other sounds intermitted.

But Alan neither saw nor heard what was passing around him, so intently were his eyes fixed on that form of perishing beauty which he still continued to support. What his feelings were, words may not express. He staunched the bleeding wound that disfigured her fair bosom, and watched the changes which came over her face as the stream of life ebbed to its last feeble tricklings. When the shades of death began to gather thicker, strange to say, he felt his spirit more composed. At last her head dropped yet more heavily on his arm—he raised it tenderly. She turned her eyes, which still beamed with a faint lustre, upon him once more; then, as if oppressed hy sleep, they gently closed, and all was still. He felt her arm, and pressed his hand against her bosom, but there was no pulse in her veins, and the flutter of her heart had ceased for ever—she was dead !

With as much care as if she had been his living bride, and only in a gentle sleep, from which he feared to wake her, did he deposit her lifeless remains upon the matted grass which grew within the fold; and, after covering her face with his handkerchief, he arose from the turf, still wet with the warm blood, with as much apparent calmness as if it had been from a repast. "Thou, who art the God of armies!" said he, in a voice of prayer, low but audible, "Thou, who permittest thy people to be thus tried, grant me strength, I pray thee, and make me instrumental in saving the lives of those who are yet to serve thee."

By this time the firing on both sides had ceased, and the work of death was carried on foot to foot and hand to hand. The assailants had succeeded in demolishing a part of the enclosure, and they now pressed hard upon those who defended it. A number of the more active, and among the rest several of the Bothwell men, were already dead, or lying mortally wounded; and the country people, though they fought with enthusiasm at the commencement, like all undisciplined troops, soon evinced by their conduct that they were unfit for protracted strife. Appalled by the carnage which now swelled around them, and the piercing groans which ever and anon rose above the din of battle, many of them stood almost wholly inactive. Nor were there wanting some who would have actually fled from the horrid spectacle, had it not been that they were hemmed in on every side. Only Anderson, and a few of the more determined spirits, animated by the voice and pressence of their reverend guide, still continued to defend the place with desperate bravery. But of those the numbers were diminishing every minute, and it was evident they could not hold out much longer against the superior force with which they had to cope. Already they appeared to be giving way, and terror was fast seizing on the undisciplined mass. But, at this critical juncture, Alan threw himself into the breach with a desperation which nothing could withstand. In an instant the foremost of the foe had sunk beneath the blows, which appeared to be dealt with more than mortal strength; and the bravest, seeing the fate of their companions, recoiled before him. He pressed into the thickest of their numbers, which formed a sort of avenue to receive him, while those on either side, instead of rushing into the folS, turned after him, as though it were his destruction alone which they had determined to compass. This gave a momentary respite to the defenders of the place.

"Out, and let us attack them in the plain field!" cried Anderson; and, gathering fresh strength from the favourable change which a single arm had wrought, he rushed forth with his hardy followers at his back.

There was a simultaneous movement within the fold: a new spirit seemed to reanimate them; and the whole body, indifferently armed as many of them were, fell on at once, with such ardour, that in a few minutes those who remained of the dragoons were compelled to fly to their horses, and abandon the field at full gallop.

It was high noon when the last sounds of strife ceased, and the trample of the last horse's hoofs died away on that solitude; and glad were those of the combatants who remained at these indications of victory. But of those who had accompanied them thither only an hour before, there were many who had ceased to share their feelings—many whose ears could never again be greeted by these nor any other sounds till the archangel's trump shall summon them to doom. There they lay, heaped where they had fallen, with ghastly wounds gaping to the sun, while the crimson tide, the last drops of which had already flowed, dyed with a still deeper red the purple bloom of the isolated tufts of heath which grew around.

Among those who were mortally wounded, but not yet dead, was Alan Stewart; and near him, in the same state, lay Black Ritchie, whose fate at last had found him. Both were carried to the nearest house—a house which, like the others, has long since disappeared, leaving, to mark its site, only one tall ash, and two or three others of more stunted growth, known by the name of "Gulie's Tree."

In this lonely cottage, the last moments of Black Ritchie were such as to terrify all who were near. That retrospection of the past which a near prospect of death seldom fails to bring along with it, to him afforded no foundation on which to rest a single satisfying thought. The events of his past life, which had been one continued scene of selfishness, now crowded upon his imagination, and filled him with fearful fantasies. A vivid .remembrance of all his evil deeds seemed to have disordered his brain; and, after a fit of moody silence, during which he repeatedly wiped the cold sweat from his brow, his words broke forth in raving.

Those whom he had over-reached by his cunning, and those whose blood he had causelessly shed, all stood before him, he said—him, the accursed of God, and the hated of man!—ready to tear him limb from limb while living, and to torment his soul eternally when dead. " Jane! Jane!" he would cry, "what do you there among that cursed crew? and that ghastly wound!—who gave it? I swear it was not me! I would have sent a ball through the villain's brains, had I known him." Then, turning his starting eyes on some one by his bed-side, he would continue: "Take away that female spectre—her beauty is loathsome, and her charms are an abomination in my sight; yet it was that beauty, and those charms, which urged me to the deed! Yes, it was these which made my eyes dazzle as I pointed the carbine, and my hand tremble as it pressed the lock. And now her black eyes are staring at me as if I were her murderer! O the curse!—the curse!—they are worse than burning coals" Thus he continued to rave and writhe in the agonies of mortal pain, augmented by the madness of his despair.

These fits of frenzy soon exhausted his remaining strength; but still life seemed loth to loose its hold. His voice became weaker; and, when the films of death began to obscure his sight, he cried out that the fiends of hell, in the form of spiders, were weaving fiery webs in his eyes, and called on those around him to tear them away! They tried to convince him that it was a mere delusion; but his frenzy was not of the kind which admits of conviction. He imprecated the most terrible curses on their heads, crying out, that they too were his enemies; and, in his frantic efforts to rid himself of these imaginary tormentors, he would have torn his own eyes from their sockets had he not been restrained. To prevent him from destroying himself, it now became necessary to hold his hands. The struggle which this occasioned increased his agony. He gnashed his teeth and foamed; while the breath issuing from his nostrils resembled smoke more than the respiration of a human being. In this state he continued till death terminated his earthly sufferings.

Alan Stewart was laid on a bed in another apartment of the same cottage; and, at his request, the body of Jane was brought and placed beside him. When this was done, and her cold hand clasped in his, he seemed to have no farther care, nor any earthly wish unsatisfied. "With the assistance of those who watched him, he gently parted the raven locks on her forehead, now cold and pure as marble; and, while he pressed his lips, already growing pale from the loss of blood he had sustained, to its snowy whiteness, he expressed an unfeigned acquiescence to the decree which awarded them the same fate, and acknowledged its mercy. He was not made for the weakness of sorrow, and the near prospect of his own dissolution calmed his spirit; yet the tears tracked each other down his cheeks, and his voice was partially broken, as he said: "Yes, in mercy was it sent—that fate which will soon reunite us. To thee my spirit turned amid the din of battle; and during the solitary march by night, when I knew not but I might encounter foes at every step, and when no friend was near, it was the thought of thee which made me superior to suffering, and enabled me to travel in darkness, and cold, and hunger, without weariness; and now, had I been left behind thee, the world could have been but a dreary void—a wilderness, in which I should have sought in vain for repose."

His life had been one of high-minded honesty, softened by the purest benevolence, and an unceasing wish to promote the happiness of all. But though a stanch supporter of what he conceived to be the cause of truth, mercy was ever uppermost in his heart, and his end was such as might have been expected.

As death approached, he fancied he saw Jane, clad in flowing robes, and looking inexpressibly more beautiful than she had ever done before. He spoke of the seraph-purity of her eyes, and the brightness of her form; and said that she beckoned him to come away. A smile of ineffable happiness overspread his countenance, and in that smile his spirit passed from its earthly tabernacle, while death fixed the expression, in unchangeable serenity, on his lifeless features. These fancies, doubtless occasioned by the weakness of his last moments, and a gentle delirium which came on before death, were, at that period, attributed to a supernatural opening of his eyes— a vision vouchsafed to him of the things which pertain to another world. The days of miraculous intervention are long since past, and philosophy accords not its sanction to the idea; but even philosophy might well be loth to rend away those sublime emotions which such an illusion has a tendency to raise in the minds of surviving relatives.

Influenced by this circumstance, the friends of the unfortunate lovers looked upon their remains as hallowed dust; and as the common burial-place of the parish was in the hands of their enemies, they did not inter their bodies there, but bore them to the brow of a hill, on the estate of a laird who was friendly to the Presbyterian form of worship, and, having dug a grave sufficiently large, at the still hour of midnight they placed them side by side—heaped up the mould—replaced the turf—and left them to that union and repose in death, which they had been denied in life.

As long as their story was remembered, the veneration of the peasantry around protected the place from violation; and when Time and Death had done their work upon those in whose memories it was chronicled, the mystery which brooded over the whole affair, and the strange circumstance of bodies being interred in a place s*o lonely, encircled with a sort of superstitious awe the grassy mound which still continued to be called The Covenanter's Grave. Thus it remained, with little alteration, till the beginning of the present century; and in the memory of many still living, it stood high, and distinctly marked. But the improvements of later times have levelled it with the surrounding field. The last mark of its having been once used as a place of sepulture is obliterated; and unless this frail record should, for a time, rescue it from oblivion, its very name may soon pass away.

Little more remains to be said. Mr. Adamson, though threatened with the punishment which was awarded to many of his brethren, continued to preach and teach till after the Revolution, when he died in peace, and was buried in the churchyard of his native parish. But the fears of those among the country people whose friends had been engaged in this affray were awakened; and being anxious to see them out of danger, it was resolved that as many of them as possibly could should quit the country privately. To assist them in this plan, a Mr. Turner, who was related to the North Cotton family, and who had then the command of a trading vessel, after leaving his ship's cargo at Dundee, sailed up the river Tay, under pretence of taking in some articles for another voyage, at the village of Newburgh. They had reached a place midway between Balmerino and the Castle of Balenbriech about sunset. Here they came to an anchor; and after it was dark, on an appointed signal being made, their boats, which were already manned, put off for the shore, and in less than half-an-hour the articles came on board in the shape of between forty and fifty men. They fell down the river with the night tide, and ere morning they had crossed the bar at the entrance of the Frith, and were in the German Ocean, on their way round the eastern coast of the island to America. In their adopted country they became prosperous and happy; and it was remarked, that from among their offspring arose some of the most zealous contenders for the freedom of the United States.