by John Buchan
It was early dawning when I crossed the last ridge and entered the Cor Water valley. There was no sign of life in that quiet green glen, a thing that seemed eerie when one thought that somewhere in the hill in front men were dwelling. I found that short as had been my absence I had almost forgotten the entrance to the cave, and it was not without difficulty that I made out the narrow aperture in the slate-grey rock, and entered.
In the first chamber all was dark, which struck me with astonishment, since at five o’clock on a good spring day folk should be stirring. But all was still, and it was not till I had come into the second chamber, which, as I have told, was the largest in the place, that there were any signs of life. This was illumined in the first instance by a narrow crevice in the rock which opened into a small ravine. The faint struggling light was yet sufficient to see with, and by its aid I made out the old man who had spoken with me on that first night of my journey.
He was sitting alone, staring before him as is the way with the blind, but at the sound of my steps he rose slowly to his feet. One could see that the natural acuteness of his hearing was little impaired by years. I paused at the threshold and he stood listening; then he sank back in his seat as if convinced it was no enemy.
“Come in, John Burnet,” he said, “I ken you well. How have you fared since you left us — I trust you have placed the maid in safe keeping.”
I had heard before of that marvellous quickness of perception which they possess who have lost some other faculty; but I had never yet had illustration of it. So I was somewhat surprised, as I told him that all as yet was well, and that my lady was in good hands.
“It is well,” said he; “and. Master Burnet, I fear you have come back to a desolate lodging. As ye see, all are gone and only I am left. Yestreen word came that that had happened which we had long expected. There was once a man among us whom we cast out for evil living. He has proved the traitor and there is no more safety here. They scattered last night, the puir feckless folk, to do for themselves among the moors and mosses, and I am left here to wait for the coming of the enemy.”
“Do you hold your life so cheap,” I cried, “that you would cast it away thus — I dare not suffer you to bide here. I would be a coward indeed if I did not take care of you.”
A gleam of something like pleasure passed over his worn face. But he spoke gravely. “No, you are too young and proud and hot in blood. You think that a strong arm and a stout heart can do all. But I have a work to do in which none can hinder me. My life is dear to me, and I would use it for the best. But you, too, are in danger here; the soldiers may come at any moment. If you go far to the back you’ll find a narrow way up which you can crawl. It’ll bring ye out on the back side of the hill. Keep it well in mind, lad, when the time comes. But now, sit ye down, and give us your crack. There’s a heap o’ things I want to speir at ye. And first, how is auld Veitch at Smitwood — I once kenned him well, when he was a young, ‘prising lad; but now I hear he’s sair fallen in years and gien ower to the pleasures of eating and drinking.”
I told him all of the laird of Smitwood that I could remember.
“It would be bonny on the muirs o’ Clyde in this weather. I havena been out o’ doors for mony a day, but I would like fine to feel the hill-wind and the sun on my cheek. I was aye used wi’ the open air,” and his voice had a note of sorrow.
To me it seemed a strange thing that in the presence of the most deadly danger this man should be so easy and undisturbed. I confess that I myself had many misgivings and something almost approaching fear. There was no possibility of escape now, for though one made his way out of the cave when the soldiers came, there was little hiding on the bare hillside. This, of course, was what the old man meant when he bade me stay and refused to go out of doors. It was more than I could do to leave him, but yet I ever feared the very thought of dying like a rat in a hole. My forebodings of my death had always been of an open, windy place, with a drawn sword and more than one man stark before me. It was with downcast eyes that I waited for the inevitable end, striving to commend my soul to God and repent of my past follies.
Suddenly some noise came to the quick ear of the old man, and he stood up quivering.
“John,” he cried, “John, my lad, gang to the place I told ye. Ye’ll find the hole where I said it was, and once there ye needna fear.”
‘Twas true, I was afraid, but I had given no signs of fear, and he had little cause to speak of it. “Nay,” I said haughtily, “I will not move from your side. It were a dastardly thing to leave you, and the two of us together may account for some of the fiends. Besides there is as much chance of life here as out on the braeside, where a man can be seen for miles.”
He gripped me fiercely by the arm so that I almost cried out for pain, and his voice came shrill and strange. “Gang where I tell ye, ye puir fool. Is this a time for sinfu’ pride o’ honour or mettle — Ye know not what evil is coming upon these men. Gang quick lest ye share it also.”
Something in his voice, in his eye, overcame me, and I turned to obey him.
As I went he laid his hand on my head. “The blessing o’ man availeth little, but I pray God that He be ever near you and your house, and that ye may soon hae a happy deliverance from all your afflictions. God bless and keep ye ever, and bring ye at the end to His ain place.”
With a heart beating wildly between excitement and sorrow I found the narrow crevice, and crept upward till I came to the turning which led to the air. Here I might have safely hid for long, and I was just on the point of going back to the old man and forcing him to come with me to the same place of refuge, when I heard the sound of men.
From my vantage-ground I could see the whole cave clearly and well. I could hear the noise of soldiers fumbling about the entrance, and the voice of the informer telling the way. I could hear the feet stumbling along the passage, the clink of weapons, and the muttered words of annoyance; and then, as I peered warily forth, I saw the band file into the cave where sat the old man alone. It was as I expected: they were some twenty men of my cousin’s company, strangers to me for the most: but what most occupied my thoughts was that Gilbert was not with them.
“By God, they’re off,” said the foremost, “and nothing left but this auld dotterel. This is a puir haul. Look you here, you fellow,” turning to the guide, “you are a liar and a scoundrel, and if your thick hide doesna taste the flat o’ my sword ere you’re five hours aulder, my name’s no Peter Moriston. You,” this to the old man, “what’s your name, brother well-beloved in the Lord?”
At their first coming he had risen to his feet and taken his stand in the middle of the cave, by the two great stone shafts which kept up the roof, for all the word like the pillars in some mighty temple. There he stood looking over their heads at something beyond, with a strange, almost pitying smile, which grew by degrees into a frown of anger.
“Ye’ve come here to taunt me,” said he, “but the Lord has prepared for you a speedy visitation. Puir fools, ye shall go down quick to the bottomless pit like Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, and none shall be left to tell the tale of you. Ye have led braw lives. Ye have robbed the widow and the fatherless, ye have slain by your numbers men ye darena have come near singly, ye have been the devil’s own braw servants, and, lads, ye’ll very soon get your wages. Ye have made thae bonny lands o’ Tweedside fit to spew ye forth for your wickedness. And ye think that there is nae jealous God in Heaven watching ower you and your doings and biding His time to repay. But, lads, ye’re wrang for yince. The men ye thocht to take are by this time far from ye, and there is only one left, an auld feckless man, that will no bring muckle credit to ye. But God has ordained that ye shall never leave here, but mix your banes to a’ time wi’ the hillside stanes. God hae pity on your souls, ye that had nae pity on others in your lives.”
And even as I watched, the end came, sudden and awful. Stretching out his great arms, he caught the two stone shafts and with one mighty effort pushed them asunder. I held my breath wit
h horror. With a roar like a world falling the roof came down, and the great hillside sank among a ruin of rock. I was blinded by dust even in my secure seat, and driven half-mad with terror and grief. I know not how I got to the air, but by God’s good providence the passage where I lay was distinct from the cave, and a rift in the solid rock. As it was, I had to fight with falling splinters and choking dust all the way. At last — and it seemed ages — I felt free air and a glimmer of light, and with one fresh effort crawled out beneath a tuft of bracken.
And this is why at this day there is no cave at the Cor Water, nothing but the bare side of a hill strewn with stones.
When I gained breath to raise myself and look around, the sight was strange indeed. The vast cloud of dust was beginning to settle and the whole desolation lay clear. I know not how to tell of it. It was like some battlefield of giants of old time. Great rocks lay scattered amid the beds of earth and shingle, and high up toward the brow of the hill one single bald scarp showed where the fall had begun.
A hundred yards away, by his horse’s side, gazing with wild eyes at the scene, stood a dragoon, doubtless the one whom the ill- fated company had set for guard. I hastened toward him as fast as my weak knees would carry me, and I saw without suprise that he was the Dutchman, Jan Hamman, whom I had already met thrice before. He scarce was aware of my presence, but stood weeping with weakness and terror, and whimpering like a child. I took him by the shoulder and shook him, until at last I had brought him back to his senses, and he knew me.
“Where are they gone?” and he pointed feebly with his finger to the downfall.
“To their own place,” I said, shortly. “But tell me one word. Where is your captain, Gilbert Burnet, that he is not with you to-day?”
The man looked at me curiously.
“He is gone on another errand, down Tweed toward Peebles.”
Then I knew he was seeking for Marjory high and low and would never rest till he found her.
“I will let you go,” said I to the man, “that you may carry the tidings to the rest. Begone with you quick. I am in no mood to look on such as you this day.”
The man turned and was riding off, when he stopped for one word. “You think,” he said, “that I am your enemy and your cousin’s friend, and that I serve under the captain for his own sweet sake. I will tell you my tale. Three years ago this Captain Gilbert Burnet was in Leyden, and there also was I, a happy, reputable man, prosperous and contented, with the prettiest sweetheart in all the town. Then came this man. I need not tell what he did. In a year he had won over the silly girl to his own desires, and I was a ruined man for evermore. I am a servant in his company who worked my fall. Remember then that the nearer I am to Gilbert Burnet the worse it will fare with him.” And he rode off, still pale and shivering with terror.
I mused for some time with myself. Truly, thought I, Gilbert has his own troubles, and it will go hard with him if his own men turn against him. And I set it down in my mind that I would do my best to warn him of the schemes of the foreigner. For though it was my cousin’s own ill-doing that had brought him to this, and my heart burned against him for his villainy, it was yet right that a kinsman should protect one of the house against the plots of a common soldier.
XIII. — I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE
THIS was in April, and now the summer began to grow over the land. The days grew longer and the air more mild, the flowers came out on the hills, little mountain pansies and eyebright and whortleberry, and the first early bells of the heath; the birds reared their young and the air was all filled with the cries of them; and in the streams the trout grew full-fleshed and strong.
And all through these days I lay close hid in the wilds, now in one place, now in another, never wandering far from Tweeddale. My first hiding was in a narrow glen at the head of the Polmood Burn in a place called Glenhurn. It was dark and lonesome, but at first the pursuit was hot after me and I had no choice in the matter. I lived ill on the fish of the burn and the eggs of wildfowl, with what meal I got from a shepherd’s house at the burn-foot. These were days of great contemplation, of long hours spent on my back in the little glen of heather, looking up to the summer sky and watching the great clouds fleeting athwart it. No sound came to disturb me, I had few cares to vex me; it was like that highest state of being which Plotinus spoke of, when one is cumbered not with the toils of living. Here I had much grave communing with myself on the course of my life, now thinking upon it with approval, now much concerned at its futility. I had three very warring moods of mind. One was that of the scholar, who would flee from the roughness of life. This came upon me when I thought of the degradation of living thus in hiding, of sorting with unlettered men, of having no thoughts above keeping body and soul together. The second was that of my father’s son, whose pride abhorred to flee before any man and hide in waste places from low-born soldiers and suffer others to devour my patrimony. But the third was the best, and that which I ever sought to keep with me. It was that of the gentleman and cavalier who had a wide, good-humoured outlook upon the world, who cared not for houses and lands, but sought above all things to guard his honour and love. When this was on me I laughed loud at all my misfortunes, and felt brave to meet whatever might come with a light heart.
In this place I abode till near the middle of the month of June. Twice I had gone to the cairn on Caerdon and left a letter, which I wrote with vast difficulty on fragments of paper which I had brought with me, and received in turn Marjory’s news. She was well and in cheerful spirits, though always longing for my return. The days passed easily in Smitwood, and as none came there she was the better hidden. I wrote my answers to these letters with great delight of mind, albeit much hardship. The ink in the inkhorn which I had always carried with me soon became dry, and my pen, which I shaped from a curlew’s feather, was never of the best. Then after the writing came the long journey, crouching in thickets, creeping timorously across the open spaces, running for dear life down the hill-slopes, until I came at length to the cairn on Caerdon, and hid the letter ‘neath the grey stones.
But about mid June I bethought me that I had stayed long enough in that lonely place and resolved to move my camp. For one thing I wished to get nearer Barns, that I might be within reach of my house for such provisions as I required. Also there were signs that the place was no longer safe. Several times of late I had heard the voice of soldiers on the moors above my hiding, and at any moment a chance dragoon might stray down the ravine. So late one evening about midsummer I bade adieu to the dark Glenhurn, and took off across the wild hills to the lower vale of Tweed.
The place I chose was just at the back of Scrape, between that mountain and a wild height called the Pyke-stone hill. It was a stretch of moss-hags and rough heather, dry as tinder at this time, but, as I well knew, in late autumn and winter a treacherous flow. Thither I had been wont to go to the duck-shooting in the months of November and February, when great flocks of mallard and teal settled among the pools. Then one has to look well to his feet, for if he press on eager and unthinking, he is like to find himself up to the armpits. But if he know the way of the thing, and walk only on the tufted rushes and strips of black peat, he may take the finest sport that I know of. Here then I came, for the place was high and lonesome, and with a few paces I could come to the top of the Little Scrape and see the whole vale of Tweed from Drummelzier to Neidpath, I had the less fear of capture, for the place was almost impassable for horses; also it was too near the house of Barns to be directly suspected, and the country below it was still loyal and with no taint of whiggery. Here then I settled myself, and made a comfortable abode in a dry burn-channel, overarched with long heather. The weather was unusually warm and dry, the streams were worn to a narrow thread of silver trickling among grey stones, and the hot sun blazed from morn to night in a cloudless sky. The life, on the whole, was very pleasing. There was cold water from a mossy well hard by when I was thirsty. As for food, I made at once an expedition to the nearest cotta
ge on my lands, where dwelt one Robin Sandilands, who straightway supplied all my needs and gave me much useful information to boot. Afterwards he came every second day to a certain part of the hill with food, which he left there for me to take at my convenience. Hence the fare was something better than I had had in my previous hiding-place. Also it was a cheerful life. Up there on the great flat hilltop, with nothing around me but the sky and the measureless air, with no noises in my ear but the whistle of hill-birds, with no view save great shoulders of mountain, the mind was raised to something higher and freer than of old. Earthly troubles and little squabbles and jealousies seemed of less account. The more than Catonian gravity of these solemn uplands put to flight all pettiness and small ambition. It has been an immemorial practice in our borderland that those of ruined fortunes, broken men, should take to the hills for concealment, if need be, and in any case for satisfaction. Verily twelve months of that pure air would make a gentleman of a knave, and a hero of the most sordid trader.
However, ere June had merged in July, I found myself in want of some companion to cheer my solitude. I would have given much for some like-minded fellow- wayfarer, but since that might not be had I was fain to content myself with a copy of Plotinus, which I had got with all the difficulty in the world from the house of Barns. It happened on a warm afternoon, when, as I lay meditating as was my wont in the heather, a great desire came upon me for some book to read in. Nothing would do but that I must straightway set out for Barns at the imminent peril of my own worthless life. It was broad daylight; men were working in the fields at the hay; travellers were passing on the highway; and for all I knew soldiers were in the house. But with a mad recklessness I ventured on the quest, and, entering the house boldly, made my way to the library and was choosing books.
