Hunted and Harried

“Here, Melville,” said the first trooper, “hold my horse while I ease this ‘honest shepherd’ of his purse.”

Sheathing his sword, he drew a pistol from its holster, and, handing the reins to his companion, dismounted.

“Noo!” exclaimed Quentin, bringing his staff down on the trooper’s iron headpiece with a terrific thwack. Like a flash of lightning the club of Wallace rang and split upon that of the other horseman, who fell headlong to the ground.

Strong arms have seldom occasion to repeat a well-delivered blow. While the soldiers lay prone upon the road their startled horses galloped back the way they had come.

“That’s unfort’nit,” said Quentin. “Thae twa look like an advance-gaird, an’ if so, the main body’ll no be lang o’ gallopin’ up to see what’s the maitter. It behoves us to rin!”

The only port of refuge that appeared to them as they looked quickly round was a clump of trees on a ridge out of which rose the spire of a church.

“The kirk’s but a puir sanctuary nooadays,” remarked the shepherd, as he set off across the fields at a quick run, “but it’s oor only chance.”

They had not quite gained the ridge referred to when the danger that Quentin feared overtook them. A small company of dragoons was seen galloping along the road.

“We may gain the wood before they see us,” suggested Will Wallace.

“If it was a wud I wadna care for the sodgers,” replied his comrade, “but it’s only a bit plantation. We’ll jist mak’ for the manse an’ hide if we can i’ the coal-hole or some place.”

As he spoke a shout from the troopers told that they had been seen, and several of them leaving the road dashed across the field in pursuit.

Now, it chanced that at that quiet evening hour the young curate of the district, the Reverend Frank Selby, was enjoying a game of quoits with a neighbouring curate, the Reverend George Lawless, on a piece of ground at the rear of the manse. The Reverend Frank was a genial Lowlander of the muscular type. The Reverend George was a renegade Highland-man of the cadaverous order. The first was a harum-scarum young pastor with a be-as-jolly-as-you-can spirit, and had accepted his office at the recommendation of a relative in power. The second was a mean-spirited wolf in sheep’s clothing, who, like his compatriot Archbishop Sharp, had sold his kirk and country as well as his soul for what he deemed some personal advantage. As may well be supposed, neither of those curates was a shining light in the ministry.

“Missed again! I find it as hard to beat you, Lawless, as I do to get my parishioners to come to church,” exclaimed the Reverend Frank with a good-humoured laugh as his quoit struck the ground and, having been badly thrown, rolled away.

“That’s because you treat your quoits carelessly, as you treat your parishioners,” returned the Reverend George, as he made a magnificent throw and ringed the tee.

“Bravo! that’s splendid!” exclaimed Selby.

“Not bad,” returned Lawless. “You see, you want more decision with the throw—as with the congregation. If you will persist in refusing to report delinquents and have them heavily fined or intercommuned, you must expect an empty church. Mine is fairly full just now, and I have weeded out most of the incorrigibles.”

“I will never increase my congregation by such means, and I have no wish to weed out the incorrigibles,” rejoined Selby, becoming grave as he made another and a better throw.

At that moment our fugitive shepherds, dashing round the corner of the manse, almost plunged into the arms of the Reverend Frank Selby. They pulled up, panting and uncertain how to act.

“You seem in haste, friends,” said the curate, with an urbane smile.

“Oot o’ the fryin’-pan into the fire!” growled Quentin, grasping his staff and setting his teeth.

“If you will condescend to explain the frying-pan I may perhaps relieve you from the fire,” said Selby with emphasis.

Wallace observed the tone and grasped at the forlorn hope.

“The dragoons are after us, sir,” he said eagerly; “unless you can hide us we are lost!”

“If you are honest men,” interrupted the Reverend George Lawless, with extreme severity of tone and look, “you have no occasion to hide—”

“Bub we’re not honest men,” interrupted Quentin in a spirit of almost hilarious desperation, “we’re fannyteeks,—rebels,—Covenanters,—born eediots—”

“Then,” observed Lawless, with increasing austerity, “you richly deserve—”

“George!” said the Reverend Frank sharply, “you are in my parish just now, and I expect you to respect my wishes. Throw your plaids, sticks, and bonnets behind that bush, my lads—well out of sight—so. Now, cast your coats, and join us in our game.”

The fugitives understood and swiftly obeyed him. While they were hastily stripping off their coats Selby took his brother curate aside, and, looking him sternly in the face, said— “Now, George Lawless, if you by word or look interfere with my plans, I will give you cause to repent it to the latest day of your life.”

If any one had seen the countenance of the Reverend George at that moment he would have observed that it became suddenly clothed with an air of meekness that was by no means attractive.

At the time we write of, any curate might, with the assistance of the soldiers, fine whom he pleased, and as much as he pleased, or he might, by reporting a parishioner an absentee from public worship, consign him or her to prison, or even to the gallows. But though all the curates were in an utterly false position they were not all equally depraved. Selby was one who felt more or less of shame at the contemptible part he was expected to play.

When the troopers came thundering round the corner of the manse a few minutes later, Quentin Dick, in his shirt sleeves, was in the act of making a beautiful throw, and Will Wallace was watching him with interest. Even the Reverend George seemed absorbed in the game, for he felt that the eyes of the Reverend Frank were upon him.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said the officer in command of the soldiers, “did you see two shepherds run past here?”

“No,” answered the Reverend Frank with a candid smile, “I saw no shepherds run past here.”

“Strange!” returned the officer, “they seemed to enter your shrubbery and to disappear near the house.”

“Did you see the path that diverges to the left and takes down to the thicket in the hollow?” asked Selby.

“Yes, I did, but they seemed to have passed that when we lost sight of them.”

“Let me advise you to try it now,” said Selby.

“I will,” replied the officer, wheeling his horse round and galloping off, followed by his men.

“Now, friends, I have relieved you from the fire, as I promised,” said the Reverend Frank, turning to the shepherds; “see that you don’t get into the frying-pan again. Whether you deserve hanging or not is best known to yourselves. To say truth, you don’t look like it, but, judging from appearance, I should think that in these times you’re not unlikely to get it. On with your coats and plaids and be off as fast as you can—over the ridge yonder. In less than half-an-hour you’ll be in Denman’s Dean, where a regiment of cavalry would fail to catch you.”

“We shall never forget you—”

“There, there,” interrupted the Reverend Frank, “be off. The troopers will soon return. I’ve seen more than enough of hanging, quartering, and shooting to convince me that Presbytery is not to be rooted out, nor Prelacy established, by such means. Be off, I say!”

Thus urged, the fugitives were not slow to avail themselves of the opportunity, and soon were safe in Denman’s Dean.

“Now, Lawless,” said the Reverend Frank in a cheerful tone, “my conscience, which has been depressed of late, feels easier this evening. Let us go in to supper; and remember that no one knows about this incident except you—and I. So, there’s no chance of its going further.”

“The two rebels know it,” suggested Lawless.

“No, they don’t!” replied the other airily. “They have quite forgotten it by this time, and even if it should recur to memory their own interest and gratitude would seal their lips—so we’re quite safe, you and I; quite safe—come along.”

Our travellers met with no further interruption until they reached Edinburgh. It was afternoon when they arrived, and, entering by the road that skirts the western base of the Castle rock, proceeded towards the Grassmarket.

Pushing through the crowd gathered in that celebrated locality, Quentin and Wallace ascended the steep street named Candlemaker Row, which led and still leads to the high ground that has since been connected with the High Street by George the Fourth Bridge. About half-way up the ascent they came to a semicircular projection which encroached somewhat on the footway. It contained a stair which led to the interior of one of the houses. Here was the residence of Mrs Black, the mother of our friend Andrew. The good woman was at home, busily engaged with her knitting needles, when her visitors entered.

A glance sufficed to show Wallace whence Andrew Black derived his grave, quiet, self-possessed character, as well as his powerful frame and courteous demeanour.

She received Quentin Dick, to whom she was well known, with a mixture of goodwill and quiet dignity.

“I’ve brought a freend o’ Mr Black’s to bide wi’ ye for a wee while, if ye can take him in,” said Quentin, introducing his young companion as “Wull Wallace.”