"What I intended to have said, but my blundering speech may not have reached your Highness's mind, is that if a Prince makes a promise of reward to another man who has saved his life at the risk of his own, that Prince is bound to keep his word or to make some reparation. And there is a debt due by your Highness to a certain Scots officer which has not been paid. Is a Prince alone privileged to break his word?"

"You desire reparation," answered the Prince more swiftly than usual, and with a certain haughty gesture, "and you shall have it before you leave my presence. For brawling and striking within our grounds, you are in danger of losing your right arm, and other men have been so punished for more excusable doings. You have been complaining in a public place that you have not obtained a regiment, as if it were your due, and you have charged your general with the worst of military sins after cowardice, of being a favorer. I bestow upon you what will be more valuable to you than a regiment which you have not the capacity to command. I give you back your right arm, and I release you from the service of my army."

"May I ask your Highness to accept my most humble and profound gratitude for sparing my arm, which has fought for your Highness, and if it be possible, yet deeper gratitude for releasing me from the service of a Prince who does not know how to keep his word. Have I your Highness's permission to leave your presence, and to make arrangements for my departure from The Hague?"

Claverhouse spoke with an exaggerated accent of respect, but the words were so stinging that William's eyes, for an instant only, flashed fire, and the aide-de-camp in the room made a step forward as if to arrest the Scots officer. There was a pause, say, of fifteen seconds, which seemed an hour, and then the Prince ordered his aide-de-camp to leave the chamber, and William and Claverhouse stood alone.

"You are a bold man, Mr. Graham," said the Prince icily, "and I should not judge you to be a wise one. It is not likely that you will ever be as prudent as you are daring, and I foresee a troubled career, whether it be long or short, for you.

"No man, royal or otherwise, has ever spoken to me as you have done; mayhap in the years before me, whether they be few or many, no one will ever do so. As you know, for what you have said any other Prince in my place would have you punished for the gravest of crimes on the part of an officer against his commander."

Claverhouse bowed, and looked curiously at the Prince, wondering within himself what would follow. Was it possible that his Highness would lay aside for an hour the privilege of royalty and give him satisfaction? Or was he merely to lecture him like the Calvinistic preachers to whom his Highness listened, and then let him go with contempt? Claverhouse's indignation had now given way to intellectual interest, and he waited for the decision of this strong, calm man, who, though only a little more than a lad, had already the coolness and dignity of old age.

"Were I not a Prince, and if my creed of honor were different from what it is, I should lay aside my Princedom, and meet you sword in hand, for I also, though you may not believe it, have the pride of a soldier, and it has been outraged by your deliberate insolence. Whether it was worthy of your courtesy to offer an insult to one who cannot defend himself, I shall leave to your own arbitrament, when you bethink yourself in other hours of this situation. I pray you be silent, I have not finished. My intention is to treat your words as if they had never been spoken. The officer in attendance has learned better than to blaze abroad anything that happens in this place, and you will do as it pleases yourself, and is becoming to your honor as a gentleman. I have no fear of you. You are a brave man whatever else you be; you will do me the justice of believing I am another." Claverhouse remembered this was the first moment that he had felt any kindness to the Prince of Orange.

"My reason for dealing with you after this fashion is that you have some cause to complain of injustice, and to think that the good help you gave has been forgotten, because I have not said anything nor done anything. This is not so, for I have not been certain how I could best recompense you. When a moment ago I spoke of you as not fit for promotion, I did you injustice, for, though there be some heat in you, there is far more capacity, and I take it you will have high command some day." The last few words were spoken with a slight effort, and Graham, when in his better mood the most magnanimous of men, was suddenly touched by the remembrance of the Prince's station and ability, his courage and severity, and his grace in making this amend to one who had spoken rudely to him. Claverhouse would have responded, but was again silent in obedience to a sign from the Prince.

"Let me say plainly, Mr. Graham, that you are a soldier whom any commander will be glad to enroll for life service in his army, but"—and here his Highness looked searchingly at Graham as he had once done before—"I doubt whether your calling be in the Dutch army or in any army that is of our mind or is likely to fight for our cause.

"It is not given to man to lift the veil that hides the future, but we can reason with ourselves as to what is likely, and guide our course by this faint light. I have advices from Scotland, and I know that the day will come, though it may not be yet, when there will be a great division in that land and the shedding of blood. Were you and I both in your country when that day comes, you, Mr. Graham, would draw your sword on one side and I on the other.

"We may never cross one another in the unknown days, but each man must be true to the light which God has given him. Colonel MacKay will fulfil his calling in our army and on our side; in some other army and for another side you will follow your destiny. It is seldom I speak at such length; now I have only one other word to say before I give you for the day farewell.

"Mr. Graham, I know what you think of me as clearly as if you had spoken. Let me say what I think of you. You are a gallant gentleman, full of the ideas of the past, and incapable of changing; you will be a loyal servant to your own cause, and it will be beaten. To you I owe my life. Possibly it might have been better for you to have let me fall by the sword of one of Conde's dragoons, but we are all in the hands of the Eternal, Who doeth what He wills with each man. You will receive to-day a captain's commission in the cavalry, and in some day to come, I do not know how soon, and in a way I may not at present reveal to you, I will, if God please, do a kindness to you which will be after your own heart, and enable you to rise to your own height in the great affair of life. I bid you good-morning."

Few men were ever to hear the Prince of Orange use as many words or give as much of his mind. As Claverhouse realized his fairness and understood, although only a little, then, of his foresight, and as he came to appreciate the fact that the Prince was trying to do something more lasting for him than merely conferring a commission, he was overwhelmed with a sense of the injustice he had done his Highness. He also realized his own petulance with intense shame.

"Will your Highness forgive my wild words, for which I might have been justly punished"—Graham, with an impulse of emotion, stepped forward, knelt down, and kissed the Prince's hand—"and the shame I put upon a Scots gentleman, for which I shall apologize this very day. My sword is at your Highness's disposal while I am in your service and this arm is able to use it. If in any day to come it be my fate to stand on some other side, I shall not forget I once served under a great commander and a most honorable gentleman, who dealt graciously with me."

Two years passed during which Captain Graham saw much fighting and many of his fellow-officers fall, and it was in keeping with the character of the Prince that during all that time he took no special notice of Claverhouse, and gave no indication that he had that interview in mind. Claverhouse had learned one lesson, however—patience—and he would have many more to learn; he had also been taught not to take hasty views, but to wait for the long result. And his heart lifted when, after the abortive siege of Charleroi, he was summoned for a second time to the Prince's presence. On this occasion the Prince said little, but it was to the point; it was the crisis in Claverhouse's life.

"Within a few days, Captain Graham," said the Prince, with the same frozen face, "I leave for London. I may not speak about my errand nor other things which may happen, but if it be your will, I shall take you in attendance upon me. At the English court I may be able to give you an introduction which will place you in the way of service such as you desire, and if it be the will of God, high honor. For this opportunity, which I thought might come some day, I have been waiting, and if it be as I expect, you will have some poor reward for saving the life of the Prince of Orange."

It was known by this time in the army, and, indeed, throughout Europe, that William of Orange was going to wed the Princess Mary, who was the daughter of the Duke of York, the King of England's brother, and likely to be herself the daughter of an English sovereign. For certain reasons it seemed an unlikely and incongruous alliance, for even in the end of 1677, when the marriage took place, anyone with prescience could foresee that there would be a wide rift between the politics of the Duke of York when he became King and those of William, and even then there must have been some who saw afar off the conflict which ended in William and Mary succeeding James upon the throne of England. There were many envied Claverhouse when it came out that he was to be a member of the Prince's suite, and be associated with the Prince's most distinguished courtiers. But he carried himself, upon the whole, with such graciousness and gallantry that his brother officers congratulated him on every hand, and feasted him so lavishly before he left that certain of his own comrades of the Prince's guard were laid aside from duty for several days. It was to the credit of both men that on the morning of his departure one of his last visitors was Colonel MacKay, who wished him success, and prophesied that they would hear great things of him in days to come, since it was understood that Claverhouse would not return to the Dutch service.

For some time after the arrival of the Prince and his staff in London, William gave no sign of the good he was going to do Claverhouse. Indeed, he was busy with the work of his wooing and the arrangements for his marriage. Claverhouse by this time had learned, however, that William forgot nothing and never failed to carry out his plans, and his pulse beat quicker when the Prince requested him to be in attendance one afternoon, and to accompany him alone to Whitehall, where the Duke of York was in residence. There was a certain superficial likeness in character between the Prince and his father-in-law, for both appeared unfeeling and unsympathetic men, but what in James was obstinacy, in William was power, and what in James was superstitious, in William was religion, and what in James was pride, in William was dignity. His friends could trust William, but no one could trust James; while William could make immense sacrifices for his cause, James could wreck his cause by an amazing blindness and a foolish grasping at the shadow of power. If anyone desired a master under whom he would be led to victory, and by whom he would never be put to shame, a master who might not praise him effusively but would never betray him, then let him, as he valued his life and his career, refuse James and cleave to William. But it is not given to a man to choose his creed, far less his destiny, and Claverhouse was never to have fortune on his side. It was to be his lot rather to be hindered at every turn where he should have been helped, and to run his race alone with many weights and over the roughest ground.

"Your Highness has of your courtesy allowed me to present in public audience the officers who have come with me from The Hague," said the Prince of Orange to James, "and now I have the pleasure to specially introduce this gentleman who was lately a captain in my cavalry, and who some while ago rendered me the last service one man can do for another. Had it not been for his presence of mind and bravery of action, I had not the supreme honor of waiting to-day upon your Highness, and the prospect of felicity before me. May I, with the utmost zeal towards him and the most profound respect towards your Highness, recommend to your service Mr. Graham of Claverhouse, who distinguished himself on many fields of battle, and who is a fine gentleman and a brave officer fit for any post, civil or military. I will only say one thing more: he belongs to the same house as the Marquis of Montrose, and has in him the same spirit of loyalty."

Claverhouse, overcome by the remembrance of the past, is stirred to the heart, and can hardly make his reverence for emotion. As he kisses James's hand he registers a vow which he was to keep with his life. And when he has left the presence of the Duke, the Prince of Orange said to Claverhouse's new master: "You have, sir, obtained a servant who will be faithful unto death; I make him over to you with confidence and with regret. This day, I believe, he will begin the work to which he has been called, and so far as a man can, he will finish it."



BOOK II

CHAPTER I

A COVENANTING HOUSE

The glory of Paisley Castle has long departed, but it was a brave and well-furnished house in the late spring of 1684, to which this story now moves. The primroses were blooming in sheltered nooks, where the keen east wind—the curse and the strength of Scotland—could not blight them, and the sun had them for his wooing; there were signs of foliage on the trees as the buds began to burgeon, and send a shimmer of green along the branches; the grass, reviving after winter, was showing its first freshness, and the bare earth took a softer color in the caressing sunlight. The birds had taken heart again and were seeking for their mates, some were already building their summer homes. Life is one throughout the world, and the stirring of spring in the roots of the grass and in the trunks of the trees touches also human hearts and wakes them from their winter. The season of hope, which was softening the clods of the field, and gentling the rough massive walls of the castle, were also making tender the austere face of a Covenanting minister standing in one of the deep window recesses of what was called in Scots houses of that day the gallery, and what was a long and magnificent upper hall, adorned with arms and tapestry. He was looking out upon the woods that stretched to the silver water of the Clyde, then a narrow and undeveloped river, and to the far-away hills of Argyleshire, within which lay the mystery of the Highlands. Henry Pollock had been born of a Cavalier and Episcopalian family, with blood as loyal as that of Claverhouse; he had been brought up amid what the Covenanters called malignant surroundings, and had been taught to regard the Marquis of Montrose as the first of Scotsmen and the most heroic of martyrs. Although the senior of Claverhouse by two years, he had been with him at St. Andrew's University, and knew him well, but in spite of his heredity Pollock had ever carried a more open mind than Graham. During his university days he had heard the saint and scholar of the Covenant, Samuel Rutherford, who was principal and professor in the university and a most distinguished preacher of his day in Scotland. No doubt Rutherford raged furiously against prelacy as a work of the devil, and the enemy of Scots freedom; no doubt he also wrote books which struck hard at the authority of the King, and made for the cause of the people. His name was a reproach among Pollock's friends, and Pollock began with no sympathy towards Rutherford's opinions, but the lad's soul was stirred when, in the college chapel of St. Andrew's and also in the parish kirk where Rutherford was colleague with that servant of the Lord Mr. Blair, he listened to Rutherford upon the love of God and the loveliness of Christ. One day he was present, standing obscure among a mass of townsfolk, when Rutherford, after making a tedious argument on the controversies of the day which had almost driven Pollock from the Kirk, came across the name of Christ and then, carried away out of his course as by a magnet, began to rehearse the titles of the Lord Jesus till a Scots noble seated in the kirk cried out, "Hold you there, Rutherford." And Pollock was tempted to say "Amen." With his side he resented the Covenanting regime, because it frowned on gayety and enforced the hateful Covenant, but even then the lad wished that his side had preachers to be compared with Rutherford and Blair, and the words of Rutherford lay hidden in his heart. When the Restoration came he flung up his cap with the rest of them, and drank only too many healths to King Charles. For a while he was intoxicated with the triumph of the Restoration, but there was a vein of seriousness in him as well as candor, and as the years passed and the people were still drinking, and as the tyranny of Cromwell gave place to the brutality of the infamous crew, Lauderdale, the renegade, and others, who misruled Scotland in the name of the King, Pollock was much shaken, and began to wonder within himself whether the Presbyterians, with all their bigotry, may not have had the right of it. If they did not dance and drink they prayed and led God-fearing lives, and if they would not be driven to hear the curates preach, there was not too much to hear if they had gone. When the Covenant was the symbol of oppression, Pollock hated it, when it became the symbol for suffering he was drawn to it, till at last, to the horror of his family, he threw in his lot with the Covenanters of the west of Scotland. Being a lad of parts with competent scholarship, and having given every pledge of sincerity, he was studying theology in Holland, while Claverhouse was fighting in the army of the Prince, and he was there ordained to the ministry of the kirk. When one has passed through so thorough a change, and sacrificed everything which is most dear for his convictions, he is certain to be a root and branch man, and to fling himself without reserve, perhaps also, alas, without moderation, into the service of his new cause. Pollock was not of that party in the kirk which was willing to take an indulgence at the hands of the government and minister quietly in their parishes, on condition that they gave no trouble to the bishops. He would take no oaths and sign no agreements, nor make any compromise, nor bow down to any persecutor. He threw in his lot with the wild hillmen, who were being hunted like wild birds upon the mountains by Claverhouse's cavalry, and as he wandered from one hiding place to another, he preached to them in picturesque conventicles, which gathered in the cathedral of the Ayrshire hills, and built them up in the faith of God and of the Covenant. Like Rutherford, who had been to him what St. Stephen was to St. Paul, he was that strange mixture of fierceness and of tenderness which Scots piety has often bred and chiefly in its dark days. He was not afraid to pursue the doctrine of Calvin to its furthest extreme, and would glorify God in the death of sinners till even the stern souls of his congregation trembled. Nor was he afraid to defend resistance to an unjust and ungodly government, and he was willing to fight himself almost as much, though not quite, as to pray.

But even the gloomiest and bitterest bigots that heard him, huddled in some deep morass and encircled by the cold mist, testified that Henry Pollock was greatest when he declared the evangel of Jesus, and besought his hearers, who might before nightfall be sent by a bloody death into eternity, to accept Christ as their Saviour. When he celebrated the sacrament amid the hills, and lifted up the emblems of the Lord's body and blood, his voice broken with passion, and the tears rolling down his cheeks, they said that his face was like that of an angel. Times without number he had been chased on the moors; often he had been hidden cunningly in shepherd's cottages, twice he had eluded the dragoons by immersing himself in peat-bogs, and once he had been wounded. His face could never at any time have been otherwise than refined and spiritual, but now it was that of an ascetic, worn by prayer and fasting, while his dark blue eyes glowed when he was moved like coals of fire, and the golden hair upon his head, as the sun touched it, was like unto an aureole. Standing in the embrasure of that gallery, which had so many signs of the world which is, in the pictures of sport upon the walls and the stands of arms, he seemed to be rather the messenger and forerunner of the world which is to come. As he looks out upon the fair spring view, he is settling something with his conscience, and is half praying, half meditating, for, in his lonely vigils, with no company but the curlew and the sheep, he has fallen upon the way of speaking aloud.

"There be those who are called to live alone and to serve the Lord night and day in the high places of the field, like Elijah, who was that prophet, and John the Baptist, who ran before the face of the Lord. If this be Thy will for me, oh, God, I am also willing, and Thou knowest that mine is a lonely life, and that I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus. If this be my calling, make Thy way plain before Thy servant, and give me grace to walk therein with a steadfast heart. He that forsaketh not father and mother ... and wife for His name's sake, is not worthy." And then a change came over his mood.

"But the Master came not like the Baptist; He came eating and drinking; yea, He went unto the marriage of Cana in Galilee, and He blessed little children and said, 'For of such is the Kingdom of God.' Thou knowest, Lord, that I have loved Thy children, and when a bairn has smiled in my face as I baptized it into Thy name, that I have longed for one that would call me father. When I have seen a man and his wife together by the fireside, and I have gone out to my hiding-place on the moor, like a wild beast to its den, I confess, oh, Lord, I have watched that square of light so long as I could see it, and have wondered whether there would ever be a home for me, and any woman would call me husband. Is this the weakness of the flesh; is this the longing of the creature for comfort; is this the refusing of the cross; is this my sin? Search me, oh, God, and try me." And again the gentler mood returned. "Didst Thou not set the woman beside the man in the Garden? Has not the love of Jacob for Rachel been glorified in Thy word? Art not Thou Thyself the bridegroom, and is not the kirk Thy bride? Are we not called to the marriage supper of the Lamb? Is not marriage Thine own ordinance, and shall I count that unclean, as certain vain persons have imagined, which Thou hast established? Oh, my Saviour, wast Thou not born of a woman? My soul is torn within me, and unto Thee, therefore, do I look for light; give me this day a sign that I may know what Thou wouldst have me to do, that it may be well for Thy cause in the land, and the souls of Thy servants committed to my charge."

He is unconscious of everything except the agony of duty through which he is passing, and his words, though spoken low, have a sweet and penetrating note, which arrest the attention of one who has come down the gallery, and is now standing at the opening of the alcove where Pollock is hidden. It is his hostess, the widow of Lord Cochrane, the eldest son of the Earl of Dundonald, who was still living, though old and feeble, and who left the management of affairs very much to Lady Cochrane. Like many other families in the days of the "Troubles," the Cochranes was a house divided against itself, although till now the strength had been all on one side. Lord Dundonald had been a loyal adherent of the Stuarts, and had rendered them service in earlier days, for which it was understood he had received his earldom; but he was a broken man now, and had no strength in him to resist his masterful daughter-in-law. She was a child of the Earl of Cassillis, one of the stoutest and most thoroughgoing of Covenanters; her husband had died in the year when the Battle of Bothwell-Brig had been fought, and his last prayers were for the success of the Covenanters. His younger brother had been one of the Rye House Plot men, and was now an exile for the safety of his life in Holland. By her blood and by her sympathy, by everything she thought and felt, Lady Cochrane was a Covenanter, and in her face and figure, as she stands with the light from the window falling upon her, she symbolizes her cause and party. Tall and strong-boned, with a lean, powerful face, and clear, unrelenting eyes, yet with a latent suggestion of enthusiasm which would move her to any sacrifice for what she judged to be righteousness, and with an honest belief in her religious creed, Lady Cochrane was one of the godly women of the Covenant. The old Earl had no chance against her resolute will, and contented himself with a quavering protest against her ideas, and bleating disapproval of her actions. When she denounced the Council as a set of Herods, and filled the house with Covenanting ministers and outlawed persons, his only comfort and sympathizer was Lady Cochrane's daughter Jean. This young woman had of late taken on herself the office of protector, and had shown a tendency to criticise both her mother's words and ways, which led to one or two domestic scenes. For though her ladyship was loud against the tyranny of the government, she was an absolute ruler in her own home. And that day she was going to assert herself and put down an incipient rebellion.

"I give you good-morning, Mr. Pollock," said Lady Cochrane, "and I crave your pardon if I have done amiss, but since you were, as I take it, wrestling in prayer I had not the mind to break in upon you; I have therefore heard some portion of your petitions. It seems to me, though in such matters I am but blind of eye and dull of hearing, that God indeed is giving a sign of approval when He seems to have been turning your heart unto the thought of the marriage between the bridegroom and the bride in the Holy Scriptures, of which other marriages are, I take it, a shadow and a foretaste."

"It may be your ladyship is right," said Pollock after he had returned his hostess's greeting, "but we shall soon know, for God hath promised that light shall arise unto the righteous. For myself, I declare that as it has happened on the hills when I was fleeing from Claverhouse, so it is now in my affairs. I am moving in a mist which folds me round like a thin garment; here and there I see the light struggling through, and it seems to me most beautiful even in its dimness; by and by the mist shall altogether pass, and I shall stand in the light, which is the shining of His face. But whether I shall then find myself at Cana of Galilee or in the Garden of Gethsemane, I know not."

"If it were in my handling," said Lady Cochrane, regarding her guest with a mixed expression of admiration and pity, "ye would find yourself, and that without overmuch delay, at a marriage feast. The dispensation of John Baptist is done with in my humble judgment, and I count the refusing to marry to be pure will-worship and a soul-destroying snare of the Papists. Ye are a good man, Mr. Henry, and a faithful minister of the Word, but ye would be a better, with fewer dreams and more sense for daily duty, besides being more comfortable, if you had a wife. Doubtless the days are evil, and there be those who would say that this is not a time to marry, but if you had the right wife it is no unlikely ye might be safer than ye are to-day. For there would be a big house to hide you, and, at the worst, you and she could make your ways to Holland, and get shelter from the Prince till those calamities be overpast."

"My fear," continued her ladyship, "is not that ye will do wrong in marrying, but that ye may fail to win the wife ye told me yesterday was your desire. No, Mr. Henry, it is not that I am not with you, for I am a favorer of your suit. In those days when the call is for everyone to say whether he be for God or Baal, I would rather see my daughter married to a faithful minister of the kirk, than to the proudest noble in Scotland, who was a persecutor of the Lord's people. As regards blood, I mind me also that ye belong to an ancient house, and as regards titles, it was from King Charles the earldom came to the Cochranes, and the most of the nobles he has made have been the sons of his mistresses. There will soon be more disgrace than honor in being called a lord in the land of England."

"It may be," hazarded Pollock anxiously, "that the Earl then does not look on me with pleasure, and as the head of the house——"

"As what?" said Lady Cochrane. "It is not much his lordship has to say on anything, for his mind is failing fast, and it never, to my seeing, was very strong. He says little, and it's a mercy he has less power, or rather, I should say, a dispensation of Providence, for if the misguided man had his way of it, Jean would be married to-morrow to some drinking, swearing officer in Claverhouse's Horse, or, for that matter, to that son of Satan, Claverhouse himself."

"While I am here," continued this Covenanting heroine, "you need not trouble yourself about the Earl of Dundonald, but I cannot speak so surely for my daughter. Jean's name was inserted in the Covenant, and she has been taught the truth by my own lips, besides hearing many godly ministers, but I sorely doubt whether she be steadfast and single-hearted. It was only two days ago she lent her aid to her grandfather when he was havering about toleration, and before all was done she spoke lightly of the contendings of God's remnant in this land, and said that if they had the upper hand Scotland would not be fit to live in. So far as I can see she has no ill-will to you, Mr. Henry, and has never said aught against you. Nay, more, I recall her speaking well of your goodness, but whether she will consent unto your plea I cannot prophesy. Where she got her proud temper and her stubborn self-will passes my mind, for her father was an exercised Christian and a douce man, and there never was a word of contradiction from him all the days of our married life. It may be the judgment of the Lord for the sins of the land, that the children are raising themselves against their parents. Be that as it may, I have done my best for you, and now I will send her to the gallery and ye must make your own suit. I pray God her heart may be turned unto you."

When the daughter came down the middle of the gallery, with an easy and graceful carriage, for she was a good goer, it would seem as if the mother had returned, more beautiful and more gentle, yet quite as strong and determined. Jean Cochrane—whose proper style as a lord's daughter would be the Honorable Jean, but who, partly because she was an earl's granddaughter, partly in keeping with the usage of the day, was known as Lady Jean—was like her mother, tall and well built, straight as a young tree, with her head set on a long, slender neck, and in conversation thrown back. Her complexion was perfect in its healthy tone and fine coloring; she had a wealth of the most rich and radiant auburn hair, somewhat like that of Pollock, but redder and more commanding to the eye; her eyes were sometimes gray and sometimes blue, according to their expression, which was ever changing with her varying moods. This is no girl of timid or yielding nature who can be coaxed or driven, or of clinging and meek affection. This is a woman full grown, not in stature only, but in character, of high ambition, of warm passion, of resolute will and clear mind, who is fit to be the mate for a patriot, in which case she would be ready to accompany him to the scaffold, or for a soldier, in which case she would send him to his death with a proud heart. Her mobile face, as flexible as that of a supreme actress, is set and hard when she enters the gallery, for she and her mother had just crossed swords, and Lady Jean knew for what end she had been asked to meet the Covenanter. Lady Cochrane was an unhappy advocate for such a plea, and with such a daughter, although she might have been successful with a helpless and submissive girl. With that look in her eyes, which are as cold as steel and have its glitter, one could not augur success for any wooer. It was a tribute not so much to the appearance of Pollock as to the soul of the man shining through his face in most persuasive purity and sincerity, that when they met and turned aside into that window space and stood in the spring sunlight, her face softened towards him. The pride of her carriage seemed to relax, and the offence went out of her eyes, and she gave him a gracious greeting, and no woman, if she had a mind, could be more ingratiating. Then, still standing, which suited her best, and looking at him with not unfriendly gravity, she waited for what he had to say.

"Lady Jean," he began, "your honorable mother has told you for what end I desired speech with you this day, and I ask you to give me a fair hearing of your kindness, for though I have been called of God to declare His word before many people, I have no skill in the business to which I now address myself. In this matter of love between a man and a maid I have never before spoken, and if I succeed not to-day, shall never speak again. Bear with me when I explain for your better understanding of my case, that I began my life in the faith of my family, and that I came into the Covenant after I was a man. I was called, as I trust of God, unto the ministry of the Evangel, and I have exercised it not in quiet places, but in the service of God's people who are scattered and peeled among the hills. It seemed therefore of my calling that I should live as a Nazarite and die alone, having known neither wife nor child, and indeed this may be my lot." Having said so much, as he looked not at the girl but out of the window, he now turned his face upon her, which, always pale, began now to be ashen white, through rising emotion and intensity of heart.

"Two years ago I first came to this castle and saw you; from time to time upon the errands of my master or sheltering from my pursuers I have lived here, and before I knew it I found my heart go out to you, Lady Jean, so that on the moors I heard your voice in the singing of the mountain birds, and saw your face with your burning hair in the glory of the setting sun. The thought of you was never far from me, and the turn of your head and your step as you have walked before me came ever to my sight. Was not this, I said to myself, the guidance of the Lord in Whose hands are the hearts of men, and Who did cause Isaac to cleave to Rebecca? But, again, might it not be that I was turning from the way of the cross and following the desires of my own heart? I prayed for some token, and fourteen days ago this word in the Song of Solomon came unto me, and was laid upon my heart. 'Behold thou art fair, my love, behold thou art fair, thou hast dove's eyes within thy locks, thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead.' Wherefore I make bold to speak to you to-day, and on your reply will hang the issue of my after life." His eyes had begun to shine with mystic tenderness and yearning appeal, so that she, who had been looking away from him, could not now withdraw her gaze.

"Is there in your heart any kindness and confidence towards me, and have you been moved to think of me as one whom you could wed and whose life you could share? It is not to wealth nor to honor, it is not to ease and safety that I invite you, Lady Jean; you must be prepared to see me suffer, and you must be willing that I should die. What I could do to protect and cherish you, if God gave you to me, I should, and next to the Lord who redeemed me, you would be the love of my heart in time and also in eternity, where we should follow the Lord together, unto living fountains of waters."

It was not the wooing of quieter days or gentler lives; it was not after this fashion that a Cavalier would have spoken to his ladylove, but his words were in keeping with the man, and streamed from the light of his eyes rather than from his lips. And the girl, who had come to say no as briefly and firmly as might be consistent with courtesy, was touched in the deepest part of her being, and for the moment almost hesitated.

"Ye have done me the chief honor a man can offer to a woman, Mr. Pollock, and Jean Cochrane will never forget that ye asked her in marriage. It cannot be, and it is better that I should say this without delay or uncertain speech, but I pray you, Mr. Henry, understand why, and think me not a proud or foolish girl. It is not that I do not know that you are a holy and a brave man, whom the folk rightly consider to be a saint, and whom others say would have made a gallant soldier. It is not that I doubt the woman ye wedded would be well and tenderly loved, for, I confess to you, ye seem to me to have the making of a perfect husband. And it is not that I"—and here she straightened herself—"would be afraid of any danger, or any suffering either, for myself or you. I should bid it welcome, and if I saw you laid dead for the cause ye love, I should take you in my arms and kiss you on the mouth, though you were red with blood, as I never kissed you living on our marriage day." And she carried her head as a queen at the moment of her coronation.

"No," she went on, while the glow faded and her voice grew gentle; "it is for two reasons, but one of them I tell you only to yourself, in the secrecy of your honor. I admire and I—reverence you as one lifted above me like a saint, but this is not the feeling of a woman for the man that is to be her husband. I do not love you as I know I shall in an instant love the man who is to be my man when I first see him, and for whom I shall forsake without any pang my father's house, or else, if he appear not, I shall never wed. That mayhap is reason enough, but I am dealing with you as a friend this day. Though my name be in the Covenant, I am not sure—oh, those are dark times—whether I would write it to-day with my own hand. I might be able to do so when I was your wife, but that I may not be. Yet it is left to me, Mr. Henry, to have your name in my prayers, that God may keep you in the hard road ye have chosen, and give you in the end a glorious crown. And I will ask of you to mention at a time Jean Cochrane before the throne of grace. For surely ye will be heard, and blessed shall she be for whom ye pray."

For an instant there was silence, and then, before she left, Lady Jean, as Pollock stood with head sunk on his breast and lips moving in prayer, bent forward and kissed him on the forehead. When an hour later the minister descended to Lady Cochrane's room, he told her that his suit was hopeless, but that he was thankful unto God that he had spoken with Lady Jean.



CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF THE AMALEKITE

It would have been hard to find within the civilized world a more miserable and distracted country than Scotland at the date of our history, and the West Country was worst of all. The Covenanters, who were never averse to fighting, had turned upon Claverhouse and his dragoons when they came to disperse a field-meeting at Drumclog, and had soundly beaten the King's Horse. Then, gathering themselves to a head and meeting the royal forces under the Duke of Monmouth at Bothwell Bridge, they had in turn been hopelessly crushed. What remained of their army was scattered by the cavalry, and since that day, with some interludes, Claverhouse had been engaged in the inglorious work of dispersing Presbyterian Conventicles gathered in remote places among the hills, or searching the moss-hags for outlawed preachers. It was a poor business for one who had seen war on the grand scale under the Prince of Orange, and had fought in battles where eighteen thousand men were left on the field. War was not the name for those operations, they were simply police work of an irksome and degrading kind. There were some who said that Claverhouse gloried in it, and that the inherent cruelty of his nature was gratified in causing obstinate Covenanters, who had not taken the oath, to be shot on the spot, and haling others to prison, where they were treated with extreme barbarity. Others believed that being a man of broad mind and chivalrous temper, he absolutely disapproved of the government policy and loathed the butcher work to which he and his troopers were set.

Upon one way of it he was a bloodthirsty tyrant, and upon the other he was an obedient soldier, but the truth was with neither view. There is no doubt that, like any other ambitious commander, he would much rather have been engaged in a proper campaign, and it may be granted that as a brave man he did not hanker to be the executioner of peasants; but he absolutely approved of the policy of his rulers, and had no scruple in carrying it out. It was the only thing that could be done, and it had better be done thoroughly; the sooner the turbulent and irreconcilable Covenanters were crushed and the country reduced to peace the better for Scotland. And it must be remembered that, though they were only a fraction of the nation, the hillmen were a very resolute and harassing fraction, and kept the western counties in a state of turmoil. No week passed without some picturesque incident being added to the annals of this lamentable religious war, and whether it was an escape or an arrest, an attack or a defeat, the name of Claverhouse was always in the story. The air was thick with rumors of his doings, and in every cottage enraged Covenanters spoke of his atrocities. No doubt the king had other officers quite as merciless and almost as active, and the names of men like Grierson of Lag and Bruce of Earleshall and that fierce old Muscovite fighter, General Dalziel, were engraved for everlasting reprobation upon the memory of the Scots people. But there was no superstition so mad that it was not credited to Claverhouse, and no act so wicked that it was not believed of him. During the hours of day he ranged the country, a monster thirsting for the blood of innocent men, and the hours of the evening he spent with his associates in orgies worthy of hell. His horse, famous for its fleetness and beauty, was supposed to be an evil spirit, and as for himself, everyone knew that Claverhouse could not be shot except by a silver bullet, because he was under the protection of the devil. Perhaps it is not too much to say that during those black years—black for both sides, and very much so for Claverhouse—he was, in the imagination of the country folk, little else than a devil himself, and it was then he earned the title which has clung to him unto this day and been the sentence of his infamy, "Bloody Claverse."

Although there were not many houses of importance in the west which Graham had not visited during those years, it happened that he had never been within Paisley Castle, and that he had never met any of the family except the earl and his aged countess. Lady Cochrane and the Covenanting servants could have given a thumb-nail sketch of him which would have done for a mediaeval picture of Satan, and an accompanying letter-press of his character which would have been a slander upon Judas Iscariot. Her heroic ladyship had, however, never met Claverhouse, and she prayed God she never would, not because she was afraid of him or of the devil himself, but because she knew it would not be a pleasant interview on either side. But it was not likely in those times that the Dundonalds should altogether escape the notice of the government, or that Graham, ranging through the country seeking whom he might devour, as the Covenanters said, should not find himself some day under their roof. The earl himself was known to be well affected, and in any case did not count, but Lady Cochrane was a dangerous woman, and her brother-in-law, Sir John, had been plotting against the government and was an exile. No one was much surprised when tidings came to the castle early one morning that Claverhouse with two troops of his regiment, his own and the one commanded by Lord Ross, Jean Cochrane's cousin, was near Paisley, and that Claverhouse with Lord Ross craved the hospitality of the castle. It was natural that he should stay in the chief house of the neighborhood, and all the more as Lord Dundonald was himself notoriously loyal, but it was suspected that he came to gather what information he could about Sir John Cochrane, and to warn Lady Cochrane, the real ruler of the castle, to give heed to her ways.

"The day of trial which separates the wheat from the chaff has come at last, as I expected it would," said Lady Cochrane, with pride triumphing over concern; "it would have been strange and a cause for searching of hearts if the enemy had visited so many of God's people and had passed us by as if we were a thing of naught, or indeed were like unto Judas, who had made his peace with the persecutors. Have ye considered what ye will do, my lord?" she said to the earl, who was wandering helplessly up and down the dining-hall.

"Do, my lady?" It was curious to notice how they all called her my lady. "I judge that Claverhouse and any servants he brings must be our guests, and of course Ross. But you know more about what we can do than I. Do you think we could invite the other officers of his troop? There will be Bruce of Earleshall and—" Then, catching Lady Cochrane's eye, he brought his maundering plans of hospitality to a close. "Doubtless you will send a letter and invite such as the castle may accommodate. I leave everything, Margaret, in your hands."

"I invite John Graham of Claverhouse and his bloody crew, officers or men it matters not, to cross our threshold and break bread within our walls—I, a daughter of the house of Cassillis and the widow of your faithful son? May my hand be smitten helpless forever if I write such a word, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth if I welcome this slayer of the saints to my home!" And Lady Cochrane rose from her place and stood like a lioness at bay. "Receive that servant of the Evil One into Paisley Castle? Yea, I would receive him if I could. If early word had been sent of his approach and it were in my power, I would call together every man in this region who is true unto God and the Covenant, and I would close the gates of the castle and bid the persecutor take it by force. I should count it an honor before the Lord to shed my own blood in its defence. But I doubt that may not be."

"What shall I do, then?" in answer to a quavering question from the earl, who was now huddled in a chair before the huge open fireplace. "I would leave the castle if it were not too late, and seek some lodging till Claverhouse be gone, for I fear to dwell beneath the same roof with this man of blood lest the Lord smite us with a common destruction. See him or speak with him I will not; I will to my own rooms, and there I will seclude myself, praying that God may speedily judge this man, and cast him from his place. Lord Dundonald, I will leave it to you to play the host: very likely ye will not have much sorrow over it, for ye have more than a friendly heart to the Malignants."

"It seems to me, if I be not too bold in saying it, that ye are taking a wise course, my lady, for there might arise some slight debate between you and Claverhouse, and that in the present circumstances would not be convenient. Not quite, as I said, convenient. You are a brave woman, Margaret, and worthy of your honorable house, but Claverhouse is the king's officer, and I forget—my memory is not what it was—the number of men in a troop, but he has two troops with him. Apart from that," rambled on the earl, "we must remember John, who is in danger, and we may not give offence if we can speak a canny word which will get the right side of Claverhouse."

"Ye have learned your lesson well, my lord, and ye will do your part in this day of expediency when men are more concerned about their safety and that of their children than that of the kirk of God and the cause of righteousness. I make sure that there will be much fair talk between you and your guests, but I cannot breathe this air, and so you will excuse me from your company. Jean, you will come with your mother and stay with me till this plague has left the house, for I count a visit of Claverhouse worse than leprosy or the black death."

"Craving your pardon, mother," said Jean, who had been listening to this conversation with intense sympathy, and entering keenly into the contrast between the earl and Lady Cochrane, "I will not go with you and hide myself till Colonel Graham be gone. There should, it seems to me, be some woman by the side of the head of the house, especially when he is no longer young, to receive Claverhouse, for whether we hate or love him he is our guest while underneath this roof. I am not afraid of him, and I will make free to confess that I desire to see this man of whom we have heard so much ill. It may be, after all, that he is not what those foolish people think. At any rate, by your leave, I shall stand by the earl's side if he will have me."

"Ye speak boldly, girl. Though you have often debated with me more than was becoming, I do not recall till this day that ye have disobeyed me. But be it so, since this gives pleasure to his lordship" (who had crept over and was standing, as it were, under the shield of his bold granddaughter). "Only, one word of warning, if ye be not too proud and high-minded to take it. Albeit this man has the heart of Pontius Pilate, and will be the curse of everyone that has to do with him, yet the story goes that the master whom he serves has given him a fair face and beguiling words, and I bid you beware. But from what I hear outside it is time I left. Your guest is at your gate: I pray you may have comfort in him, and that he may not bring a shadow to this home." And Lady Cochrane swept her majestic way out of the dining-hall; and retired to her apartments in another wing.

As she left, the earl, with Jean, went to the public door of the hall to meet Lord Ross and Claverhouse, who, without waiting for any invitation to stay in the castle, had come to pay their respects to the earl. They were already ascending the narrow stone stairs by which visitors came from the courtyard to the hall, and almost as soon as the earl and Jean had taken their places, Lord Ross came through the doorway, and having bowed to the earl turned aside to present Claverhouse. Jean saw him for the first time framed in the arch of the door, and never while she lived, even after she was the loyal wife of another man, forgot the sight. Ten years had passed since Graham jested at the camp-fire with his comrades of the English Volunteers, on the night before the battle of Sineffe, but war, with many anxieties, had left only slight traces upon his face. He was no longer a soldier of fortune, but the commander of "His Majesty's Own Regiment of Horse," and a colonel in the king's army. By this time also he was a member of the Privy Council, and a favorite person at Court; he had held various offices and taken part in many public affairs. Yet he was the same gracious and engaging figure, carrying on his face the changeless bloom of youth, though now thirty-six years of age. He was in the handsome uniform of his regiment, completed by a polished and gleaming breastplate over which his neckerchief of white lace streamed, while his face looked out from the wealth of brown hair which fell over his shoulders. His left hand rested on his sword, and Jean marked the refinement and delicacy of his right hand, which was ungloved, as if for salutation. The day had been cloudy, and the hall, with its stone floor, high roof, oaken furniture, and walls covered by dark tapestry, was full of gloom, only partially relieved by the firelight from the wide, open hearth. While Claverhouse was coming up the stairs to the sound of his spurs and the striking of his sword against the wall, the sun came out from behind a cloud, and a ray of light streaming from an opposite window fell upon the doorway as he entered. It lingered but for a moment, and after touching his picturesque figure as with a caress, disappeared, and the eyes of John Graham and Jean Cochrane met.

They were the opposite of each other: he slight and graceful, she tall and strong; he dark and rich of complexion, with hazel eye, she fair and golden, with eyes of gray-blue; he a born and convinced Cavalier, and she a born and professed Covenanter; he a kinsman of the great marquis whom the Covenanters beheaded, and she on her mother's side the daughter of a house which hated Montrose and all his works. There was nothing common between them; they stood distant as the east from the west, and yet in that instant their hearts were drawn together. They might never confess their love—there would be a thousand hindrances to give it effect—it was in the last degree unlikely that they could ever marry, but it had come to pass with them as with innumerable lovers, that love was born in an instant.

"I thank you, my lord," said Claverhouse, bowing low to the earl, "for this friendly greeting, and for the invitation you now give to be your guest during my short stay in the district. It is strange that through some ordering of circumstances, to me very disappointing, I have never had the honor of offering to you an assurance of my respect as a good subject of the king, and one whom the king has greatly honored. As you know, my lord, I come and go hastily on the king's business. I only wish, and I judge his Majesty would join in the wish, that my visits to those parts were fewer. One is tempted, preachers tell us, to think well of himself, overmuch indeed, maybe, but I have been wonderfully delivered from the snare of imagining that I am a beloved person in the west of Scotland." As he spoke, a sudden and almost roguish look of humor sprang from his eyes and played across his face. And he smiled pleasantly to Lady Jean, to whom he was now introduced, and whose hand he kissed.

"You will give your indulgence to a poor soldier who must appear in this foolish trapping of war, and whose time in these parts is spent in the saddle rather than in a lady's rooms. I trust that it is well with the Lady Cochrane, of whom I have often heard, and whom I dared to hope I might have the privilege of meeting." And a second time the same smile flickered over Claverhouse's face, and he seemed to challenge Jean for an answer.

"My mother, Colonel Graham," responded Jean, with a careful choice of words, "does not find herself able to receive you to-day as we would have wished, and I fear she may be confined to her room during your visit. It will, I fear, be the greater loss to you that you have to accept me in her place, but we will try to give you such attention as we can, and my good cousin here knows the castle as if it were his own home."

"Yes, and he has often spoken of our fair hostess of to-day"—and Claverhouse led Lady Jean to the table, where a meal was spread—"and everyone has heard how wide is the hospitality of Paisley Castle. Am I too bold in asking whether Lord Ross and I are the only guests, or whether we may not expect to have a blessing on this generous board from some minister of the kirk, even perhaps from the worthy Mr. Henry Pollock? I think, my lord, he favors you sometimes with his company." Again the smile returned, but this time more searching and ironical.

"Pollock? Henry? That name sounds familiar. One of the leaders of the hillmen, isn't he, who were giving such trouble to the government? I am not sure but he was in this district not long ago, maybe a month since. Last Monday, was it? Well, you will know better than I do, Colonel. My Lady Cochrane and I don't perhaps quite agree in this, but I can't approve of any trafficking with persons disaffected to the government. Gone! what, did any man say that Pollock was here?" And the earl shuffled in his chair beneath Claverhouse's mocking eyes.

"If you desire to know the truth," Jean Cochrane said, with severe dignity, "it were better not to ask my lord, because many come and go, and he sometimes forgets their names. Mr. Henry Pollock was our guest three days ago, as you are ours to-day, but next day he left, and we know not where he is. If, as I judge, you have surrounded the castle, I think you might let your troopers go to their dinner."

"It is good advice," laughed Claverhouse, concealing his disappointment, and nodding to Lord Ross, who rose and left the table, to send off the soldiers. "For one thing, at any rate, I have come a day behind the fair, and I shall not have the pleasure this time of hearing some gracious words from that eminent saint, and introducing my unworthy self to his notice. We have met once or twice before, but at a distance, and he had no leisure to speak with me. Some day I hope to be more fortunate."

"When you do meet, Colonel Graham," retorted Jean, stung by this mockery, for she knew now that one of the ends of Claverhouse's visit was the arrest of Pollock, and if it had not been the accident of her refusal, Pollock would have been Claverhouse's prisoner, "you will be in the company of a good man and a brave, who may not be of your way, but who, I will say in any presence, is a gentleman of Christ."

"Whatever else befall him, Pollock is fortunate in his advocate." Claverhouse looked curiously at Jean. "God knows I do not desire to say aught against him. Had I found him in Paisley Castle I should have done my duty, and he would have done his. We were together in the old days at St. Andrew's, and he was a good Cavalier then; he is a man of family and of honor. Pardon me if I think he has chosen the wrong side, and is doing vast evil in stirring up ignorant people against the government and breeding lawlessness. But there, I desire not to debate, and none grieves more over the divisions of the day than an unhappy soldier who is sent to settle them by the rough medicine of the sword. Henry Pollock has chosen his side and taken his risk: I have chosen mine and taken my risk, too. If it be his lot when the time comes he will die as a brave man should, for there is no cowardice in Pollock, and when my time comes, may heaven give me the same grace. But I fear, Lady Jean, it is a struggle unto life or death." Claverhouse's face grew stern and sad, and he repeated, "Unto life or death."

Then suddenly his face relaxed into the old polite, mocking smile as he turned to Lord Dundonald. "The Lady Jean and I have fallen upon much too serious talk, and I take blame, my lord, that I have not been inquiring for the welfare of your family. I congratulate you on my Lord Cochrane, who well sustains the fame of your house on all its sides for turning out strong men and fair women. Some day I hope Cochrane will ask for a commission in his Majesty's Regiment of Horse and join his kinsman Ross under my command. But what news have you from Sir John? It came to my ears somehow that he was travelling abroad; is that so, my lord? Some one told me also that you had a letter from him a week ago."

"John! We have not seen him for a year. He was in London, but he is not there now. Yes, I seem to remember that he had some business which has taken him out of the country for a little. We hope he will soon return, and when he knows that you have done us the honor of coming beneath our roof he will be very sorry that he was not here to meet you." The earl havered to the end of his breath and his prevarications, like a clock which had run down.

"It would have been more good fortune than I expected from my information if I had found Sir John here, for unless rumor be a wilder liar than usual he is in Holland, where there is a considerable gathering of worthy Presbyterians at present, taking council together, no doubt, for the good of their country. When you are writing to Sir John, would you of your courtesy give him a message from me? Say that I know Holland well, and that the climate is excellent for Scotsmen—more healthy sometimes, indeed, than their native air—and that some of his well-wishers think that he might be happier there than even in Paisley Castle. If he wishes service in the army, I could recommend him to the notice of my old fellow-officer MacKay of Scourie, who is now, I hear, a general in the Prince's service. You will be pleased to know, my lord, that the Rye House Plot against his Majesty was a very poor failure, and that all engaged in it, who were caught, will be soundly trounced."

"If anyone says that my son had anything to do with that damnable proceeding, which all loyal subjects must detest, then he is slandering John, who is——"

"Your son, my lord, and the brother of my late Lord Cochrane cut off too soon. I am curious to get any gossip from the low country. Would it be too great a labor for you to let your eyes rest again on Sir John's letters, and to learn whether he has anything to tell about my old commander, his Highness of Orange, or anything else that would satisfy my poor curiosity. Burned them, have you? Strange. If I had a son instead of being a lonely man, I think his letters would be kept. But you are a wise man, my lord, no doubt, and I seem to be doomed to disappointment to-day in everything except the most gracious hospitality. Now, with your permission, Lady Jean, I must go to see that those rascals of mine are not making your good people in the town drink the king's health too deeply."



CHAPTER III

BETWEEN MOTHER AND LOVER

For no less a time than fourteen days did Claverhouse and his men remain in Paisley, to the amazement of the district and the fierce indignation of Lady Cochrane. During that time the soldiers made sudden journeys in various directions, but if they arrested any Covenanters they were never brought to Paisley, and although Lady Cochrane prophesied the murder of the saints every day, no new atrocity was laid to her guest's charge. Once or twice he went out with his men himself, but he mostly contented himself with directing their operations, and he occupied his time with writing long despatches on the case of Sir John Cochrane and the state of affairs in Scotland. He was not so busy, however, that he had no leisure for the duties of a guest, and now that he had missed Pollock and had found out all he wanted about Sir John, he never came a thousand miles within controversy. He was studiously courteous to the servants at the castle, who had regarded his coming with absolute terror; he calmed and gentled the timid old earl, and drew him out to tell stories of the days of the Commonwealth, when one of Cromwell's troopers pulled the minister out of the pulpit of the Abbey kirk, and held forth himself on the sins both of Prelacy and Presbytery, declaring that he was as good a priest as any man. Claverhouse made no objection when the minister of the Abbey, who had taken the indulgence and was on good terms with the government, but whom Lady Cochrane detested and considered to be a mere Gallio, came up to hold family worship in the castle. He attended the service himself, and explained that he always had prayers when he was at home, and that he generally had a chaplain with him. When he was not shut up in his room reading or writing despatches, he mingled freely with the family and suited himself to each one's taste with great tact and good nature. It was not long since he had returned from Court at London, where he was now a popular and influential person, and he had many good tales for young Lord Cochrane, about hunting with the Duke of York, cock-fighting and other sports in vogue, and all the doings of the royal circle. For Jean he had endless interesting gossip from the capital about the great ladies and famous men, and the amusements of the Court and the varied life of London. But he was careful never to tell any of those tales which buzzed through the land about the ways of Charles, but which were not fit for a maiden's ears. From time to time, also, as they walked together in the pleasaunce of the castle, they touched on deeper things, and Jean marked that, although this man had lived a soldier's life, and had been much with people who were far removed from Puritanism, he was free from the coarseness of the day, and that, although he might be capable of severity and even cruelty, he was of more fastidious and chivalrous temper than anyone else she had met among the Covenanters except Henry Pollock. Unconsciously Jean began to compare the two men, and to weigh their types of character. There was nothing to choose between them in honor or in manliness, though the one was a minister of the Evangel and the other a colonel of his Majesty's Horse, but they were different. Pollock, with all his narrowness of faith and extravagance of action, was a saint, and no one could say that of Claverhouse, even though they might admit he was not the devil of the Covenanting imagination. But John Graham was more human: he might not see visions, and there never came into his face that light of the other world which she had seen on Pollock's, but he knew when a woman was walking by his side, and his eyes caressed her. His voice never had that indescribable accent of eternity which thrilled Henry Pollock's hearers, and was to them as a message from God, but Graham's speech could turn from grave and courteous mockery, which was very taking in its way, to a gentle deference and respectful appeal, which, from a strong man with so dazzling a reputation, was irresistible to a woman's heart. Then, no one could deny that his person was beautiful—a rare thing to say of a man—or that his manner was gracious, and Jean began to admit to herself that if he set himself he would be a successful lover. The very contradiction of the man—with so graceful a form and so high a spirit, with so evil a name for persecution and so engaging a presence, with such a high tone of authority among the men in power and so modest a carriage towards maidens—made him a captivating guest and dangerous to women's hearts. There was also a natural sympathy between John Graham and Jean Cochrane, because, though they had been brought up under different traditions and were on opposite sides, they were both resolute, honest, independent, and loyal. No word or hint of love passed between them during those days, but Jean knew that for the first time her heart had been touched, and Claverhouse, who had seen all kinds of women and had been indifferent to them all, and who for the beauty of him had been tempted at Court quite shamelessly and had remained cold as ice, understood at last the attraction of a maid for a man, and also realized that Jean Cochrane was a fit mate for him because her spirit was as high as his own.

They were trying days for Lady Cochrane in her self-enforced seclusion, and her temper was not improved by the news, brought diligently to her by her waiting-maid, that her daughter was doing her utmost to make the persecutor's time pass pleasantly. Her mother had no suspicion at this point that Jean was really wavering in loyalty to the good cause, but as a woman with insight and discernment she knew the danger to which Jean was exposed, and blamed herself for her own inconvenient pride. What if by way of putting a slight on this arch enemy she were to sacrifice her own child? It was impossible, of course, that any daughter of hers should ever allow her affections to be entangled by the murderer of the saints, and Claverhouse dared not, if he would, marry a Cochrane, for he might as well throw up his commission and join Henry Pollock at the next preaching on the moors. But foolish ideas might come into the girl's head, and it was said that Claverhouse could appear as an angel of light. It might be as well to strengthen and safeguard her daughter against the wiles of the wicked one, so she summoned her to her room, and, as her manner was, dealt with Jean in a straightforward and faithful fashion. Lady Cochrane had, however, learned that her daughter could not be browbeaten or captured by direct assault, but that, however thorough might be her own mind and uncompromising her will, she would have to walk warily with Jean.

"It was an ill wind that blew that evil man to this castle, and an ill work, I make no doubt, he has been after in this district. He came like a bloodhound to catch Henry Pollock, and like a fox to get what news he could about Sir John. What he lingers for his master only knows, but it grieves me, lassie, that ye have had the burden of him on your shoulders. They are too light, though they may be stronger than most, for such a weight; I will not deny your spirit, but he, as the Proverb goes, must have a lang spoon to sup wi' the deil. Has he spoken civilly"—and Lady Cochrane eyed her daughter keenly—"or has he been saying evil of our house and the cause?"

"Claverhouse has said no evil of any man that I can mind of, mother," replied Jean coldly; "and what he did say about Mr. Henry Pollock would have rather pleased than angered you. He does not discourse without ceasing, as certain do when they come to the castle, about the times and all the black troubles; he seems to me rather to avoid matters of debate, I suppose because they would give offence. I doubt whether you could quarrel with him if you met him."

"What, then, is the substance of his talk—for, if all stories be true, it is not much he knows of anything but war and wicked people? What has he for a godly maiden to hear?"

"Nothing worth mentioning, mayhap"—and Jean spoke with almost studied indifference—"what is going on in London, and how the great ladies of the Court are dressed, and the clever things the king says, and how the Duke of York loves sport, and suchlike. It would please you to hear him, for ye have seen the Court."

"Once, Jean, and never again by God's mercy, for it is a spring of corruption from which pours every evil work, where no man can live clean, and no chaste woman should ever go. The like of it has not been seen for wickedness since the daughter of Herodias danced before Herod and his lewd courtiers, and obtained the head of John the Baptist on a charger for her reward. Black shame upon John Graham! Cruel he is, but I thought he would not pollute any girl's ears with such immodest tales." And Lady Cochrane was beginning to lose control of herself.

"Colonel Graham said never a word which it were unbecoming a maiden to hear, and especially a daughter of Lady Cochrane." And Jean grew hot with indignation. "His talk was about the ceremonies and the dresses; there was no mention of any wrongdoings. Nor was his speech always of London, for he touched on many other things, and seemed to me to have right thoughts, both of how men should live and die. For example, he said, that though Mr. Henry Pollock and he differ, Mr. Henry was a good and brave gentleman."

"Did he, indeed?" and Lady Cochrane was very scornful. "Doubtless that was very cunning on his part, and meant to tickle your ears. But ye know, Jean, that if by evil chance, or rather, let us say, a dark ordering of the Lord, he had caught Mr. Henry here, like a bird in the snare of the fowler, he would have given him a short trial. If ye had cared to look ye would have seen that godly man shot in our own courtyard by six of Claverhouse's dragoons. Aye, and he would have given the order in words as smooth as butter, and come back to tell you brave tales of the court ladies with a smile upon his bonnie face. May God smite his beauty with wasting and destruction!"

"Mother," said Jean, flushing and throwing back her head, "ye speak what ye believe to be true, and many hard things are done in these black days on both sides; but after I have spoken with Claverhouse, I cannot think that he would have any good man killed in cold blood."

"What does it matter, Jean, what you think, for it is weel kent that a young lassie's eye is caught in the snare of a glancing eye and a gallant's lovelocks. Listen to me, and I will tell you what three weeks ago this fair-spoken and sweet-smiling cavalier did. He was hunting for the hidden servants of the Lord in the wild places of Ayrshire, and he caught near his own house a faithful professor of religion, on whose head a price was set, and for whose blood those sons of Belial were thirsting. Claverhouse demanded that he should take the oath, which no honest man can swear, and of which ye have often heard. And when that brave heart would not, because he counted his life not dear to him for the Lord's sake, Claverhouse gave him three minutes to pray before he died. You are hearing me, Jean, for I have not done?

"The martyr of the Lord prayed so earnestly for his wife and children, for the downtrodden Kirk of Scotland, and for his murderer, that Graham ordered him to rise from his knees, because his time was come. When he rose he was made to stand upon the green before his own house, with his wife and bairns at the door, and Claverhouse commanded so many of his men to fire upon him. Ah! ye would have seen another Claverhouse than ye know in that hour. But that is not all.

"His dragoons are ignorant and ungodly men, accustomed to blood, but after hearing that prayer their hearts were softened within them and they refused to fire. So Graham took a pistol from his saddle, and with his own hands slew the martyr. Ye are hearing, Jean, but there is more to follow. With her husband lying dead before her eyes, Claverhouse asked his wife what she thought of her man now. That brave woman, made strong in the hour of trial, wrapt her husband's head in a white cloth and took it on her lap, and answered: 'I have always honored him, but I have never been so proud of him as this day. Ye will have to answer to man and God for this.' This is what he gave back to her: 'I am not afraid of man, and God I will take into my own hands.' That is how he can deal with women, Jean, when he is on his errands of blood, and that is what he thinks of God. But his day is coming, and the judgment of the Lord will not tarry."



"My lady," said Jean, who had grown very pale, and whose face had hardened through this ghastly story, "that, I am certain as I live, is a lie. Colonel Graham might order the Covenanter to be shot, and that were dreadful enough. He would never have insulted his wife after such a base manner—none but a churl would do that, and Claverhouse is not base-born."

"He is base, girl, who does basely, it matters not how fair he be or how pleasing in a lady's room. And I am not sure about his respect for ladies and the high ways of what ye would call his chivalry. Mayhap ye have not heard the story of his courting—then I have something else, and a lighter tale for your ears, but whether it please you better I know not. Though I begin to believe ye are easily satisfied." At the mention of courting Lady Cochrane searched the face of her daughter, but though Jean was startled she gave no sign.

"There be many tales which fly up and down the land, and are passed from mouth to mouth among the children of this world, and some of them are not for a godly maiden's ears, since they are maistly concerned wi' chambering and wantonness. But this thing ye had better hear, and then ye will understand what manner of man in his walk and conversation we are harboring beneath our roof. For a' he look so grand and carries his head so high, he has little gold in his purse, but the black devil of greed is in his heart. So, like the lave of the gallants that drink and gamble and do waur things at the king's court, he has been hunting for some lass that will bring him a tocher (dowry) and a title. For this is what the men of his generation are ever needing. Ye follow me, Jean? This may be news to a country lass wha has not been corrupted among the king's ladies.

"Weel, it's mair than three years ago our brave gentleman scented his game, and ever since has been trying to trap this misguided lass, for like the rest o' them, when he is not persecuting the saints, he is ruining innocent women soul and body. I would have you understand that, daughter, and maybe ye will walk with him less in the pleasaunce." Both women were standing, and Lady Cochrane was watching Jean to see whether she had touched her. Her daughter gave no sign except that her face was hardening, and she tapped the floor with her foot.

"Ye may not have heard of Helen Graham, for she belongs to another world from ours, and one I pray God ye may never see the inside of, for a black clan to Scotland have been the Grahams from the Marquis himself, who was a traitor to the Covenant and a scourge to Israel, to this bonnie kinsman of his, who has the face of a woman and the dress of a popinjay and the heart of a fiend. Now, it happens that this fair lass, whom I pity both for her blood and for her company, for indeed she is a daughter of Heth and hath the portion of her people, is heiress to the Earl of Monteith, and whaso-ever marries her will succeed to what money there is and will be an earl in his own richt. A fine prize for an avaricious and ambitious worldling.

"For years, then, as I was saying, Claverhouse has been scheming and plotting to capture Helen Graham and to make himself Earl o' Monteith. It wasna sic easy work as shootin' God's people on the hillside, and for a while the sun didna shine on his game. Some say the Marquis wanted her for himself, and then John Graham of Claverhouse would have to go behind like a little dog to his master's heel. Some say that her father had some compunction in handing over his daughter into sic cruel hands. Some say that the lass had a lover of her own, though that is neither here nor there with her folk. But it's no easy throwing a bloodhound off the track, and now I hear he has gained his purpose, and afore he left the Court and came back to his evil trade in Scotland the contract of marriage was settled, and ane o' these days we will be hearing that a Graham has married a Graham, and that both o' them have gotten the portion that belongeth to the unrighteous. Ye ken, Jean, that I have never loved the foolish gossip which fills the minds o' idle folk when they had better be readin' their Bibles and praying for their souls, but I judged it expedient that ye should know that Claverhouse is as gude as a married man."

"If he were not," said Jean, looking steadily at her mother, and drawing herself up to her full height, "there is little danger he would come to Paisley Castle for his love, or find a bride in my Lady Cochrane's daughter. Ye have given me fair warning and have used very plain speech, but I was wondering with myself all the time"—and then as her mother waited and questioned her by a look—"whether miscalling a man black with the shameful lies of his enemies is not the surest way to turn the heart of a woman towards him. But doubtless ye ken best." Without further speech Jean left her mother's room, who felt that she would have succeeded better if her daughter had been less like herself.

Jean gave, truth to tell, little heed to the stories of Claverhouse's savagery, partly because rough deeds were being done on both sides, and they were not so much horrified in the West Country of that time at the shooting of a man as we are in our delicate days; partly, also, because she had been fed on those horrors for years, and had learned to regard Claverhouse and the other Royalist officers as men capable of any atrocity. Gradually the dramatic stories had grown stale and lost their bite, and when she noticed that with every new telling it was necessary to strengthen the horrors, Jean had begun to regard them as works of political fiction. But this was another story about Claverhouse's engagement to Helen Graham. Jean would not admit to herself, even in her own room or in her own heart, that she was in love with Graham, and she was ready to say to herself that no marriage could be more preposterous than between a Cochrane and a Graham. It did not really matter to her whether he had been engaged or was going to be engaged to one Graham or twenty Grahams. She had never seen him till a few days ago, and very likely, having done all he wanted, he would never come to Paisley Castle again. Their lives had touched just for a space, and then would run forever afterwards apart. They had passed some pleasant hours together, and she would ever remember his face; perhaps he might sometimes recall hers. So the little play would end without ill being done to her or him. Still, as she knew her mother was not overscrupulous, and any stick was good enough wherewith to beat Claverhouse, she would like to know, if only to gratify a woman's curiosity, whether Claverhouse was really going to marry this kinswoman of his, and, in passing, whether he was the mercenary adventurer of her mother's description.

This was the reason of a friendly duel between that vivacious woman Kirsty Howieson, Jean Cochrane's maid and humble friend, and that hard-headed and far-seeing man of Angus, Jock Grimond, Claverhouse's servant and only too loyal clansman.

"It's no true every time 'Like master like man'"—and Kirsty made a bold opening, as was the way of her class—"for I never saw a woman wi' a bonnier face than Claverhouse, and, my certes, mony a lass would give ten years o' her life, aye, and mair, for his brown curls and his glancing een. I'm judgin' there have been sair hearts for him amang the fair Court ladies."

"Ye may weel say that, Kirsty," answered Jock; "if Providence had been pleased to give ye a coontinance half as winsome, nae doot ye would have been married afore this, my lass. As for him, the women just rin after Claverhouse in flooks. It doesna matter whether it be Holland or whether it be London, whether it be duchesses at Whitehall or merchants' daughters at Dundee, he could have married a hundred times over wi' money and rank and beauty and power. Lord's sake! the opportunities he has had, and the risks he has run, it's been a merciful thing he had me by his side to be, if I may say it, a guide and a protector."

"If the Almichty hasna done muckle for your face, Jock, He's given you a grand conceit o' yoursel', and that must be a rael comfort. I wish I'd a share o' it. So you have preserved your maister safe till this day, and he's still gaeing aboot heart-free and hand-free."

"Na, Kirsty"—and Grimond looked shrewdly at her—"I'll no say that Claverhouse isna bound to marry some day or ither, and, of course, in his posseetion it behove him to find a lady of his ain rank and his ain creed. Noo, what I'm tellin' ye is strictly between oorsel's, and ye're no to mention it even to your ain mistress. Claverhouse is contracted in marriage to Miss Helen Graham, the daughter of Sir James Graham, his own uncle, and the heiress to the Earl of Monteith. Ye see, Miss Helen is his kinswoman, and she brings him an earldom in her lap. Besides that she's verra takin' in her appearance and manner, and I needna say just hates a Covenanter as she would a brock (badger). It's a maist suitable match every way ye look at it, and it has my entire approbation. But no a word aboot this, mind ye, Kirsty—though I was juist thinkin' this afternoon of recommendin' Claverhouse to let this contract be known. He's an honorable man, is the laird, and, by ordinary, weel-livin'; but there's nae doot he is awfu' temptit by women, and I wouldna like to see their hearts broken."

"A word in season to my Lady Jean, if I'm no sair mistaken"—and Jock chuckled to himself when Kirsty had gone—"and a warning to the laird micht no be amiss. It would be fine business for a Graham o' Claverhouse to marry a Covenantin' fanatic and the daughter o' sic a mither. Dod! it would be fair ruin for his career, and misery for himsel'. I'll no deny her looks, but I'll guarantee she has her mither's temper. What would Claverhouse have done without me—though I wouldna say that to onybody except mysel'—he would have been just an object—aye, aye, just a fair object."

As Grimond had communicated the engagement of Claverhouse to Helen Graham under the form of a secret, he was perfectly certain that Kirsty would tell it that evening to her mistress and in the end to the whole castle. But he thought it wise to reinforce the resolution of the other side, and when he waited on his master that evening he laid himself out for instruction.

"Ye would have laughed hearty, Mr. John, if you had heard the officers over their wine this afternoon in the town. Lord Ross wasna there, and so they had the freedom o' their tongues, and if Sir Adam Blair wasna holdin' out that you had fallen in love wi' Lady Jean, and the next thing they would hear would be a marriage that would astonish Scotland. Earleshall nearly went mad, and said that if ye did that you would be fairly bewitched, and that you might as well join the Covenanters. I tell ye, laird, they nearly quarrelled over it, and I am telt they got so thirsty that they drank fourteen bottles o' claret to five o' them besides what they had before. Ye will excuse me mentionin' this, for it's no for me to tell you what the gentlemen speak aboot, but I thought a bit o' daffin' (amusement) micht lichten ye after the day's work."

"It is no concern of mine what the officers say between themselves, and I've told you before, Grimond, that you are not to bring any idle tales you pick up to my ears. You've done this more than once, and I lay it on you not to do it again."

"Surely, Mr. John, surely. I ken it's no becoming and I'll no give ye cause to complain again. But as sure as death, when I heard them saying it as I took in your message to Earleshall I nearly dropped on the floor, I was that amused. Claverhouse married to a Covenanter! It was verra takin'.

"Na, na, Mr. John, I kent better than that, but I'm no just comfortable in my mind sae lang as ye are in Paisley Castle and in the company o' Lady Jean. Her mither is an able besom, and her young ladyship is verra deep. What I'm hearin' on the ither side o' the hedge is that she's trying to get round ye so as to get a pardon for Sir John, and to let him come home from Holland. No, Claverhouse, ye maunna be angry wi' me, for I've waited on ye longer than ye mind, and I canna help bein' anxious. Ye are a grand soldier, and ye've been a fine adviser to the government. There's no mony things ye're no fit for, Mr. John, but the women are cunning, and have aye made a fule o' the men since Eve led Adam aff the straicht and made sic a mishanter o' the hale race. They say doon stairs that Lady Jean is getting roond ye fine, and that if it wasna that her family wanted something from you, you would never have had a blink o' her, ony mair than her auld jade o' a mither. For a hypocrite give me a Covenanter, and, of course, the higher they are the cleverer.

"Just ae word more, Claverhouse, and I pray ye no to be angry, for there's naebody luves ye better than Jock Grimond. I hear things ye canna hear, and I see things ye canna see. Naebody would tell you that Lady Jean and Pollock, the Covenantin' minister, are as gude as man and wife. They may no be married yet, but they will be as sune as it's safe, and that's how he comes here so often. She has a good reason to speak ye fair, laird, and she has a souple tongue and a beguilin' way, juist a Delilah. Laird, as sure as I'm a livin' man this is a hoose o' deceit, and we are encompassed wi' fausehood as wi' a garment." And although Claverhouse's rebuke was hot, Grimond felt that he had not suffered in vain.



CHAPTER IV

"THY PEOPLE SHALL BE MY PEOPLE, THY GOD MY GOD"

A month had passed before Claverhouse returned to Paisley, and this time he made his headquarters in the town, and did not accept the hospitality of the castle, excusing himself on the ground of his many and sudden journeys. His real reason was that he thought it better to keep away, both for his own sake and that of Jean Cochrane. During his lonely rides he had time to examine the state of his feelings, and he found himself more deeply affected than he thought; indeed he confessed to himself that if he were to marry he should prefer Jean to any other woman he had ever met. But he remembered her ancestry, especially her mother, and her creed, which was the opposite of his, and he knew that either she would not marry him because he was the chief opponent of her cause, or if he succeeded in winning her, he would most likely be discredited at Court by this suspicious marriage. It was better not to see her, or to run any further risks. He had made many sacrifices—all his life was to be sacrificed for his cause—and this would only be one more. He tried also to think the matter out from her side, and although he hated to think that she was a traitress trying to ensnare him for her own ends, yet it might be that her family were making a tool of her to seduce him from the path of duty, and although he doubted whether she was betrothed to Pollock, yet it might be true, and he certainly was not going to be Pollock's unsuccessful rival. Altogether, it was expedient that they should not see one another, and Claverhouse contented himself with sending a courteous message by Lord Ross to the earl and Lady Jean, and busied himself with his public and by no means agreeable task of Covenanter-hunting. As, however, he had received the very thoughtful and generous hospitality of the castle on his last visit, and as Lord Ross was constantly saying that the earl would like to see him, he determined to call on the afternoon before his departure. Lady Cochrane, as usual, did not appear, and neither did her daughter, and after a futile conversation with Dundonald, who seemed feebler than ever, Claverhouse left, and had it not been for a sudden whim, as he was going through the courtyard, he had never seen Jean Cochrane again, and many things would not have happened. But there was a way of reaching the town through the pleasaunce, and under the attraction of past hours spent among its trees Claverhouse turned aside, and walking down one of its grass walks, and thinking of an evening in that place with Jean, he came suddenly upon her on her favorite seat beneath a spreading beech.

"I crave your pardon, my Lady Jean," said Claverhouse, recovering himself after an instant's discomposure, "for this intrusion upon your chosen place and your meditation. My excuse is the peace of the garden after the wildness of the moors, but I did not hope to find so good company. My success in Paisley Castle has been greater than among the moss-hags."

"It is a brave work, Colonel Graham, to hunt unarmed peasants"—and for the first time Claverhouse caught the ironical note in Jean's speech, and knew that for some reason she was nettled with him—"and it seems to bring little glory. Though, the story did come to our ears, it sometimes brought risk, and—perhaps it was a lie of the Covenanters—once ended in the defeat of his Majesty's Horse. I seem to forget the name of the place."

"Yes," replied Claverhouse with great good humor, "the rascals had the better of us at Drumclog. They might have the same to-morrow again, for the bogs are not good ground for cavalry, and fanatics are dour fighters."

"It was Henry Pollock ye were after this time, we hear, and ye followed him hard, but ye have not got him. It was a sair pity that you did not come a day sooner to the castle, and then you could have captured him without danger." And Lady Jean mocked him openly. "Ye would have tied his hands behind his back and his feet below the horse's belly, and taken him to Edinburgh with a hundred of his Majesty's Horse before him and a hundred behind to keep him safe; ye would have been a proud man, Colonel Graham, when ye came and presented the prisoner to your masters. May I crave of you the right word, for I am only a woman of the country? Would Mr. Henry Pollock have been a prisoner of war—of war?" she repeated with an accent and look of vast contempt.

Never had Claverhouse admired her more than at that moment, for the scorn on her face became her well, and he concluded that it must spring from one of two causes. Most likely, after all, Pollock was her lover.

"'Tis not possible, my Lady Jean," softening his accent till it was as smooth as velvet, and looking at the girl through half-closed eyes, "to please everyone to whom he owes duty in this poor world. If I had been successful for my master his Majesty the King—I cannot remember the name of any other master—then I would have arrested a rebel and a maker of strife in the land, and doubtless he would have suffered his just punishment. That would have been my part towards the king and towards Mr. Henry Pollock, too, and therein have I for the time failed. To-morrow, Lady Jean, I may succeed."

"Perhaps," she said, looking at him from a height, "and perhaps not. And to whom else do you owe a duty, and have you filled it better?"

"I owe a service to a most gracious hostess, and that is to please her in every way I can. Whether by my will or not, I have surely given you satisfaction by allowing Mr. Henry Pollock to escape, instead of bringing him tied with ropes to Paisley Castle. So far as my information goes you may sleep quietly to-night, for he is safe in some rebel's house. Yet I am sorry from my heart," said Claverhouse, "and I am sorry for your sake, since I make no doubt he will die some day soon, either on the hill or on the scaffold."

"For my sake?" said Jean, looking at him in amazement. "What have I to do with him more than other women?"

"If I have touched upon a secret thing which ought not to be spoken of, I ask your pardon upon my bended knees. But I was told, it seemed to me from a sure quarter, that there was some love passage between you and Henry Pollock, and that indeed you were betrothed for marriage."

As Claverhouse spoke the red blood flowed over Jean's face and ebbed as quickly. She looked at Claverhouse steadily, and answered him in a quiet and intense voice, which quivered with emotion.

"Ye were told wrong, then, Claverhouse, for I have never been betrothed to any man, and I shall never be the wife of Henry Pollock. I am not worthy, for he is a saint, and God knows I am not that nor ever likely to be, but only a woman. But I tell you, face to face, that I respect him, suffering for his religion more than those who pursue him unto his death. And when he dies, for his testimony, he will have greater honor than those who have murdered him. But they did me too much grace who betrothed me to Henry Pollock; if I am ever married it will be to more ordinary flesh and blood, and I doubt me"—here her mood changed, and the tension relaxing, she smiled on Claverhouse—"whether it will be to any Covenanter."

"Lady Jean," said Claverhouse, with a new light breaking on him, for he began to suspect another cause of her anger, "it concerns me to see you standing while there is this fair seat, and, with your leave, may I sit beside you? Can you give me a few minutes of your time before we part—I to go on my way and you on yours. I hope mine will not bring me again to Paisley Castle, where I am, as the hillmen would say, 'a stumbling-block and an offence.'" Jean, glancing quickly at him, saw that Claverhouse was not mocking, but speaking with a note of sad sincerity.

"When you said a brief while ago that mine was work without glory, ye said truly. But consider that in this confused and dark world, in which we grope our way like shepherds in a mist, we have to do what lies to our hand, and ask no questions—and the weariness of it is that in the darkness we strike ane another. We know not which be right, and shall not know till the day breaks: we maun just do our duty, and mine, by every drop of my blood, is to the king and the king's side. But mind ye, Lady Jean, it will not be always through the moss-hags—chasing shepherds, ploughmen and sic-like; by and by it will be on the battle-field, when this great quarrel is settled in Scotland. May the day not be far off, and may the richt side win."

As Claverhouse spoke he leaned back in the corner of the seat and looked into the far distance, while his face lost its changing expressions of cynicism, severity, gracious courtesy and keen scrutiny, and showed a nobility which Jean had never seen before. She noticed how it invested his somewhat effeminate beauty with manliness and dignity.

"That is true"—and Jean's voice grew gentler—"nane kens that better than myself, for nane has been more tossed in mind than I have been. Ilka man, and also woman, must walk the road as they see it before them, and do their part till the end comes; but the roads cross terribly on the muirs in the West Country. If I was uncivil a minute syne I crave your pardon, for that was not my mind. But if rumor be true it matters not to you what any man says, far less my Lady Cochrane's daughter, for ye were made to gang yir ain gait."