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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77324 ***
+
+[Illustration: THE DARK YEAR OF DUNDEE.]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                  THE
+                          DARK YEAR OF DUNDEE:
+                 =A Tale of the Scottish Reformation.=
+
+
+                           _BY THE AUTHOR OF
+      “Sunset in Provence, and other Tales of Martyr Times,” &c._
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                LONDON:
+
+                  T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
+                        EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
+
+                                 1867.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                PREFACE
+
+
+The Dark Year of Dundee may be called a tale of Fact, since Fiction has
+only been employed in it as the handmaid of Truth, and for the purpose
+of throwing a more vivid light upon scenes and events that actually
+occurred. The “story,” slight as it is, may not inaptly be likened to
+the sheath or calyx that encloses and protects the yet unopened bud.
+When the flower unfolds its petals, the calyx has fulfilled its work,
+and, hidden from the eye, no longer attracts the thoughts and attention
+of the spectator. Thus it has been intended only to leave upon the
+reader’s mind the impression of one grand and simple character;—only to
+tell, plainly and briefly, the story of one who, long ago, laboured
+abundantly and endured nobly for Christ’s sake, “strengthened with all
+might according to his glorious power.” And no alloy of fiction has been
+admitted into what is here recorded of George Wishart; for, apart from
+any other consideration, such a character as his is “God’s workmanship,”
+and it would seem impossible to add anything to the great Artist’s
+design without marring its beauty and completeness.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                CONTENTS
+
+
+                       THE DARK YEAR OF DUNDEE.
+                                                         Page
+             I. Fanaticism                                  9
+            II. Clouded Death                              21
+           III. God’s Messenger                            31
+            IV. Fruits of the Message                      45
+             V. More Fruits of the Message                 57
+            VI. The Darkest Hour                           69
+           VII. New Friends and Old                        83
+          VIII. The Cardinal’s Missionary                  99
+            IX. How the Mission Sped                      111
+             X. What became of the Cardinal’s Missionary  129
+            XI. Clear shining after Rain                  147
+           XII. The Reward of God’s Messenger             169
+          XIII. He giveth his beloved Sleep               189
+          ───────────────────────────────────────────────────
+                          THE PRIOR’S TITHE.
+             I. Tithing the Fish                          219
+            II. The Excommunication                       231
+           III. The First Prayer                          243
+            IV. Dawnings of Light                         257
+             V. The Great Change                          271
+            VI. Entering into the Cloud                   287
+           VII. Voices in the Cloud                       301
+          VIII. The Cloud Breaks                          315
+            IX. Left Alone                                329
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                   I.
+                             =Fanaticism.=
+
+
+           “I know the dim haunts of fever,
+             Where the blossoms of youth decay:
+           I know where your free broad river
+             Sweeps disease on its breast away.
+
+           “Yet despite your earnest pity,
+             And despite its own smoke and din,
+           I cling to yon crowded city,
+             Though I shrink from its woe and sin.”
+                                   _Hymns of Faith and Hope._
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                   I.
+                             =Fanaticism.=
+
+
+It was the early summer of the year 1544, and the shadow of a dark cloud
+was already looming over every home in Dundee. God’s terrible angel of
+the pestilence stood with his sword outstretched, as of old over guilty
+Jerusalem; but no eye was opened to behold him; as yet no one suspected
+the danger and the anguish at hand.
+
+In a small room of one of the high dark houses of the old town, a
+pretty, modest-looking young girl sat spinning, and singing as she span,
+in a sweet though rather listless voice. Now and then she glanced
+anxiously at the door, or rose to pay some little attention to the
+“kail” for the mid-day repast. Although the meal could scarcely have
+been intended for more than two persons, the fire necessary for its
+preparation increased uncomfortably the heat of the narrow room.
+
+“Guid day, Mary,” said a girl about her own age, or a little older,
+entering without ceremony.
+
+The new comer was tall and strongly made; and, without the smallest
+pretensions to beauty, had an honest, open countenance. She held in her
+hand a large bunch of the pretty field-flowers so well known in Scotland
+as blue-bells.
+
+“Look what I hae brocht ye, sin’ ye tell me ye come frae the hills. I
+thocht ye’d like them, maybe, to mind ye of yer auld hame.”
+
+Mary Wigton eagerly took the flowers, thanked her friend with many
+expressions of delight, and a moment or two afterwards burst into tears.
+
+Honest Janet Duncan was considerably disconcerted by the effect produced
+by her gift. “Weel, to be sure,” she ejaculated, “gin I didna think
+they’d hae pleasured ye!”
+
+“Sae they hae,” said Mary, recovering herself quickly. “It was naebut a
+wee thocht of the auld hame and the auld times, and the heather and
+gowans on the bonnie Sidlaw hills. But it’s nae use thinking lang. Noo
+father’s farm is sold, it’s no like we’ll ever gae back again. Where did
+ye get thae blue-bells, Janet?”
+
+“Archie, the ne’er-do-weel, played the truant frae his schule wi’ a
+wheen idle callants like himsel, and gaed out owre the Law and Balgay
+Hill. I’m afeard when Jamie comes ben and hears it he’ll be sair
+angered. An’ it’s no wonnerfu’, when he’s focht as he has to keep the
+lad to his schuling, and he nae mair himsel but a puir journeyman
+baxter.”[1]
+
+“He’s a guid brither to ye, Janet.”
+
+“Ye may say just that.” Then, as a new thought struck her, she
+contradicted herself energetically. “Na, he’s nae guid brither, but the
+best brither in a’ Dundee. Left but[2] father, or mither, or friend in
+the wide warld, wha wad hae thocht he could hae keepit us thegither, and
+fended for us sae weel. I can turn my hand to mony a thing, thank the
+saints, but there’s Archie and Effie, puir bairns; Archie naebut gaun
+threteen, and unco witless, and Effie a wee bit lassie. Eh, but we’ve
+seen hard times, Mary.”
+
+Mary probably thought her own troubles had been greater than those of
+her friend; but she only said in a sympathizing tone, “Sit ye down,
+Janet, ye’re no hurried the day?”
+
+Janet replied in the negative, for she dearly loved half an hour’s chat
+with a friend, when it could be obtained without neglecting her duties
+to her paragon brother Jamie, or her youthful charges, Archie and Effie.
+
+“Ye’re watching for your father?”
+
+“Ay; but I’m in hopes he’s got a lift o’ wark, he’s sae late. It’s unco
+little he brings hame,” she said sadly.
+
+“It’s ill speiring after wark in this muckle town,” answered Janet. “Why
+did ye no bide in the country pairts, whaur a’body kenned ye?”
+
+“I tell ye. There’s a man here that owes father a matter o’ twa hundert
+merk—that Maister Wilson wha has the muckle shop in the Nethergate, and
+sells silks and ribbons and sic’. He’s a rich man, but he’s no an
+_honest_ man, Janet. When father loaned him the siller he was naebut a
+puir laddie, and father helped him sin’ he was sib to his wife’s mither.
+Weel, father’s that careless he never took tent to get a bit writing,
+forbye his word o’ mouth, ye ken. Sae when the warld gaed by-ordinar ill
+wi’ him, and the oats failed, and the sheep dee’d, and he maun sell the
+bonnie farm his forbears held before him, he thocht o’ Maister Wilson
+and his twa hundert merk, and came here to look after the siller. But
+Maister Wilson, he says there’s nae debt ava’, and that father canna
+prove it. Whilk last is owre true, wae’s me! Gin John, that’s my
+brither, wad hae bided wi’ us, he’d hae been a braw lawyer the noo, and
+richted us.”
+
+“I didna ken ye had a brither, Mary.”
+
+“Oh, ay; there were five o’ us, and a’ dee’d bairns but John and mysel.
+He was the eldest, an’ I the youngest. He was twal year aulder than I.
+He was a clever bairn, _vera_. Father had siller to spare in thae days,
+sae he thocht to make a man of him, and sent him to St. Andrews to study
+the law. And he was sae guid and kind-like, and loved his book sae weel.
+A’ the maisters set muckle store by him, and as for father and mither,
+he was just the licht o’ their een. But he gaed clean daft.”
+
+“Gaed daft, Mary?”
+
+“I canna mind mysel, for I was a wee lassie the time; but father told me
+he wasna seventeen year auld full when sic’ a change came owre him. He
+grew dour and hard, and wad hae nocht to do wi’ archery, and goff, and
+putting the stane, and a’ thae ploys that young men use. He wad gang by
+himsel, and greet and talk of his sins. It was aye and aye his sins wi’
+him. Gin he had been a thief or a murderer he couldna hae made mair to
+do on’t. Yet he was aye a guid lad, and what he could hae done to gar
+him tak’ on sae, nae mortal could speir. Let father say what he might,
+naething would serve him but to gie the law up, and tak’ the priest’s
+frock. Sae that was the end on’t.”
+
+“And do ye no see him whiles?”
+
+“Na; we couldna gang to him, and he wouldna come to us. Father thinks he
+has clean forgot us. Thae holy men grow unco hard to their ain folk
+whiles. He’s no John Wigton ony mair, he’s Sir John Wigton the priest. I
+dinna ken whaur he is the noo, and gin we met in the street ane ’id pass
+the ither by.”
+
+“When yer mither dee’d did ye no tell him?”
+
+“How could we? We’re nae scholars, father nor I. But I trow he helped
+mither to her grave.”
+
+“Weel, our Jamie’s no _that_ religious; but he gaes to his kirk regular,
+and says his _aves_ and minds his puir soul as he can.”
+
+“Seems to me,” said Mary, “it’s a hard case gin puir folks canna save
+their souls but they break their parents’ hearts. But here’s father!”
+
+Janet stayed to exchange greetings with an elderly man of respectable
+appearance, but with something in his step, voice, and manner, that
+betrayed a certain weakness and indecision of character. Having answered
+his remark, “It’s by-ordinar hot and heavy for the time o’ year,” with a
+heartfelt, “Ye may weel say that,” she bade Mary good-bye, and hastened
+upstairs to the rooms in the same “land” which the Duncan family
+occupied.
+
+While the father and daughter partake of their simple meal, a few words
+may be added in explanation of the religious history which Mary had
+recounted to her friend, much as an ignorant person might describe the
+appearance of some curious piece of mechanism, the construction and uses
+of which he was alike unable to comprehend.
+
+John Wigton was no very unusual character. There have been obscure
+Dominics and Loyolas, as well as village Hampdens and mute inglorious
+Miltons. Naturally of a thoughtful temperament, as he passed from
+boyhood into youth he began to ask himself some of those solemn
+questions which are the birthright of every human soul. He knew but
+little of the great realities of the eternal world, but that little
+sufficed to make him first anxious and then miserable. He knew that sin
+was hateful to God, and he felt himself a sinner. His convictions
+partook of the ardour and intensity of his character, he was willing to
+do or suffer anything so that he might escape from the wrath to come. At
+this time perhaps John Wigton was not very far from the kingdom of
+heaven. Had a copy of Tyndale’s New Testament fallen into his hands, had
+he heard some enlightened reformer preaching Christ and him crucified,
+his character, humanly speaking, might have differed from what it
+actually became as light differs from darkness. But Rome had him in her
+hands to mould, and out of such materials Rome moulds fanatics—from this
+wine she distils her sourest vinegar. She did not seek to obliterate his
+convictions; she rather strengthened, though she did not, properly
+speaking, deepen them. She told him little of the holiness of God’s
+character and of the true nature of sin; but she told him much of the
+sinner’s awful doom, of the fire and brimstone and the never-dying worm.
+She employed almost exclusively images of physical suffering, and
+employed them to terrify the imagination and to shake the nerves, rather
+than to touch the heart or the conscience. And when he sought for a way
+of escape from all these horrors, the path of penance and
+self-mortification was opened before him. He was taught to torture
+himself here that God might not torture him for ever hereafter; for it
+was in such an aspect that the Lord merciful and gracious, slow to anger
+and plenteous in goodness and truth, was presented to his mind. Being
+sincere and earnest, he did all, and more than all, that was required of
+him. He scourged himself, he starved himself, he deprived himself of
+necessary sleep, and in many other ways, which it would be neither
+pleasant nor profitable to enumerate, he practised “will-worship and
+neglecting of the body.” But it would not do. If the blood of bulls and
+goats cannot take away sin, neither could a man’s own blood, though he
+were to pour it forth drop by drop, and in the most painful way that
+even the depraved imagination of monkish inquisitors could devise. John
+Wigton’s conscience, like that of many another miserable victim of Rome,
+bore sad witness to this truth. He was not at peace, he was not
+forgiven. On he went, further and further, upon the painful path
+prescribed to him, still pursuing a phantom that, like the mirage of the
+desert, always eluded his grasp. He did not find what he sought, but
+something he did find which, in the abnegation of all possible
+enjoyment, and the endurance of almost all possible suffering, still
+made life tolerable to him—he found excitement, he found employment for
+his powers, and food for his pride. Even apart from the praise it
+brought him (and he who _knew_ himself a miserable unpardoned sinner
+liked to hear himself called a saint), he began to take a morbid but
+real pleasure in self-infliction.
+
+But there is an old and wise saying, “When water ceases to quench
+thirst, what will you drink after it?” It is the character of every
+unnatural excitement to pall with indulgence; and thus John Wigton found
+at length that his bodily austerities ceased to afford him even
+temporary relief and satisfaction. A stronger stimulant was required,
+and he found it. He set himself to mortify, not the nerves and muscles
+of his body, but the desires of his mind and the feelings of his heart.
+Family affection, friendship, the love of study, the free exercise of
+reason and judgment, all were ruthlessly sacrificed on the altar of his
+faith. In process of time he came to regard an impulse of tenderness
+towards his parents or his little sister as a kind of sinful
+self-indulgence, only greater than a soft bed or a luxurious meal. And
+there is this difference between the grosser and the more subtle forms
+of self-torture, that while a man may perhaps educate himself into an
+unnatural insensibility to bodily pain without injury to the rest of his
+character, the process of hardening his soul is equivalent to a moral
+self-murder. John Wigton dared not allow himself to love or to pity, and
+he succeeded (or _thought_ he did) in conquering these weaknesses of
+human nature; but he paid a heavy price for his success. He soon learned
+to regard the sufferings of others with indifference, nay, with joy and
+triumph, when they advanced the interests of the Church. In her service
+he was willing (or thought he was) to give his own body to be burned,
+and it was quite as meritorious, and on the whole rather more
+convenient, to burn the bodies of other men. At this point his education
+may be considered finished. At thirty years of age he was a thorough
+fanatic, with conscience and feeling both absorbed in one master
+passion. And then cooler heads began to take note of him as a man who
+might make a useful tool when there was work to be done from which
+ordinary men would shrink in horror.
+
+Is this a fancy sketch? Alas! history answers, No; and from amongst the
+dim and shadowy forms of that multitude whom Rome has crowned with her
+doubtful honours there rises before the memory more than one so-called
+“saint” who might have sat for the portrait.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  II.
+                            =Clouded Death.=
+
+
+              “O God! to clasp those fingers close,
+                And yet to feel so lonely:
+              To see a light on dearest brows,
+                That is the sunlight only!
+                      Be pitiful, O God!”
+                                          E. B. BROWNING.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  II.
+                            =Clouded Death.=
+
+
+When we look from a distance upon some great mountain, we are apt to
+form rather mistaken ideas, not only of its dimensions, but of its
+relation to the surrounding landscape. It seems to stand before us alone
+in its majesty, rising like an altar to heaven, and sundered by some
+sharp dividing line from the plain beneath. But usually it is not so. A
+nearer approach brings us to gentle slopes, green with pasture or waving
+with corn, rising higher and higher, sometimes almost imperceptibly,
+till at last, by slow gradations, we arrive at the region of jagged rock
+and frowning precipice. Something like this we may find in the moral
+world. To the distant observer, a time of terror and anguish stands out
+in bold relief from the ordinary level of common life; and he forgets
+the subtle gradations, the diversified incidents, some of them trivial
+enough, through which men usually pass from one kind of life to another.
+
+So passed the men of Dundee, in the summer months of that terrible year,
+step by step from vague apprehension to vivid, actual terror; as the
+pestilence that walketh in darkness first struck down one, and another,
+and another; then gradually multiplied its victims until the voice of
+lamentation filled the city, and no man felt his own life safe from the
+destroyer for a single hour.
+
+Not very long after the first appearance of the pestilence, Archie
+Duncan came back one morning in high glee from the grammar-school,
+whither he had been despatched by the careful Janet only half an hour
+before.
+
+“Nae mair schule,” he cried, flinging his book on the table; “maister’s
+awa’, for fear o’ the sickness;—and may guid gang wi’ him!”
+
+Jamie, who happened to be in the room, brought his brother’s ill-timed
+hilarity to a close by a smart box on the ear. “Hae ye no feeling,
+callant?” he asked angrily. “Ye suld be on yer twa knees, praying the
+blessed saints to pity us, instead of jesting and daffing.”
+
+There was justice in the reproof, and Archie was abashed. He withdrew
+quietly to the window where his little sister was standing, and Jamie
+presently resumed: “A’ the rich folk’ll soon be awa’, and naebody left
+in the toun but puir bodies, wha maun just bide because they canna
+quit.”
+
+“There’s a hantle shops shut up alang by the High Street and the
+Nethergate,” remarked Janet.
+
+“Folk dinna care to buy, these times,” responded Jamie. “I hae thocht it
+an ill trade enoo’ to be naething but a puir baxter lad, Janet; but noo
+I thank Saint Andrew for the same, for folk maun _eat_, so lang’s
+they’re alive.”
+
+At this moment the door was partly opened, and a low, startled voice
+called, “Janet!”
+
+“Come ben, Mary,” said Jamie, at once recognising that of Mary Wigton.
+
+Mary did not come in, however, and Janet went outside the door to speak
+to her. The poor girl’s face was deadly pale, and her eyes were large
+and wild with terror. “What’s wrang wi’ ye?” asked Janet, in alarm.
+
+“Na sae muckle,” said Mary, trying to hide her fears, not so much from
+her friend as from herself. “Father’s head’s licht the day, and he’s no
+himsel a’ thegither,—but—but—he’s no _that_ ill, Janet.” She was
+trembling violently and clinging to the handle of the door for support.
+
+“Puir lassie,” said Janet, compassionately.
+
+“Will ye come and see him the noo? Do, Janet, _do_—for mercy’s sake!”
+
+Janet was a brave girl, and she loved Mary Wigton dearly. But for the
+sake of the other members of her family she felt she durst not enter the
+infected room. She answered, therefore, after a moment’s hard struggle
+with herself, “Wae’s me! I daurna, for Jamie and the bairns.”
+
+Mary did not remonstrate, but the sorrowful expression of her face
+touched Janet deeply. She said, “I’ll gang in and gar Jamie fetch ye a
+leech.[3] He’ll ken what’s wrang wi’ yer father. Aiblins it’s no the
+sickness.”
+
+Mary thanked her, and returned sadly to her watch beside her father’s
+bed; still hoping against hope that this might prove some passing
+ailment, and not the dreaded “sickness.”
+
+James Duncan found it difficult to procure a physician; as some, who
+thought their own lives of more value than those of their patients, had
+quitted the town, and of course those who remained had their hands full
+of work.
+
+At length, however, he succeeded; though at the heavy price of
+presenting himself late at his master’s shop, and being obliged to admit
+that the sickness had made its appearance in the house where he lodged.
+
+The physician, a compassionate man, reluctantly pronounced the verdict
+poor Mary most dreaded. He then prescribed some remedies, which were
+probably calculated to do neither good nor harm to the sufferer; and
+left, promising to send a hired nurse, and to return himself on the
+morrow.
+
+The presence of the nurse probably saved Mary’s reason, if not her life.
+All that day, and the night that followed it, they two kept their awful
+watch beside the suffering and delirious patient. When the morning
+broke, and all things looked weird and strange in the faint gray light,
+then there came a change. Mary had risen to extinguish the useless lamp,
+when to her great joy her father quietly asked her to leave it burning
+still. Reason had returned, but alas! it was only the last look cast
+upon earth by the parting soul ere its dread flight to the unknown
+world.
+
+“I hae been vera ill, Mary!” said the dying man. “I maun hae a priest.
+Where’s our John?”
+
+Mary started. Up to this moment, terror and anguish had so bewildered
+her, that, as she afterwards thought, with bitter self-reproach, she had
+forgotten her dear father’s soul in ministering to his body. “John’s no
+here,” she said, “but I’ll fetch ye a priest.”
+
+“Na, na,” said Wigton, holding her hand in his; “ye maunna leave me, my
+lassie.”
+
+Nor could she part with the nurse, so she again had recourse to the
+Duncans. Standing this time at the foot of the stairs, she called Janet,
+and in a few agitated words made her request.
+
+Jamie was out, his business requiring his attendance at an early hour,
+but Janet herself readily undertook the mission; while Mary returned to
+her place, and heard the nurse whisper as she passed her, “He’s sinking
+fast.”
+
+Two long slow hours wore away, and then Janet returned. Mary met her in
+the passage. “He’s amaist gone!” she gasped.
+
+“Wae’s me! I hae travelled the hail toun, and the never a priest could I
+get!” said Janet, in much distress. “The mair part hae gone awa’ like
+ither folk, and the lave willna come when it’s the sickness. There’s ane
+frae St. Mary’s Kirk might hae come, but he’s ill himsel the day.
+Anither—”
+
+But Mary did not stay to hear the detailed account of her failures. With
+a look of anguish she put her hand to her head, murmuring, “Too late!
+Too late!” then hurried back to her father, and knelt down beside his
+bed.
+
+She took his cold hand in hers, and said, as calmly as she could,
+“Father dear, we canna get a priest. We maun trust in the guid God
+aboon, and in the blessed Virgin.”
+
+“Nae priest—nae priest!” said the dying man, with a bewildered look.
+“But where’s our John?”
+
+“We maun try to pray,” answered Mary, and she began in faltering tones
+to repeat a Paternoster. But the Latin words, which she could not
+understand, were soon exchanged for a wild agonized cry for mercy in her
+native tongue. And almost before she had finished, the spirit of Hugh
+Wigton passed away.
+
+It is painful to linger over scenes like this, and the heart yearns to
+escape from the thoughts they suggest. But for once, at least, let us
+dare to face the bitter, bitter truth; it may have its lessons for us.
+Were there not many deathbeds in the plague-stricken town no brighter
+than that of Hugh Wigton? We have every reason to suppose it. For it
+must be remembered, that even had Janet Duncan succeeded in procuring a
+priest, the rites he would have administered might have made the dying
+man more comfortable, but could not have made him safer. Not having
+Christ, what had he in which to trust?
+
+Are not the same awful tragedies still enacted before us day by day?
+Dare we ask ourselves how many, even from the midst of a nominally
+Christian land, “go to the generation of their fathers, and never see
+light?” And meanwhile _we_—even we who have tasted the good Word of God
+and the powers of the world to come—do we not too often eat and drink,
+buy and sell and get gain, and pursue our various schemes of business
+and pleasure, all too heedless of “the exceeding great and bitter cry,
+which seems as it were to go up from the waste places of the earth,
+Bless us, even us also, O our Father?”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  III.
+                           =God’s Messenger.=
+
+
+           “Across the fever’s fiery path he trod,
+           And one went with him like the Son of God.”
+                                           REV. W. ALEXANDER.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  III.
+                           =God’s Messenger.=
+
+
+After the death of Hugh Wigton, the Duncans took his desolate and
+broken-hearted orphan to their own home. Mary’s grief was not wild—that
+was not in her character—but it was intense and crushing. Except the
+absent brother, her father had been her only surviving relative, and all
+the tendrils of her loving nature had entwined themselves around him. He
+was snatched from her in a single day; and that in a manner so bitter
+and heart-rending that horror was at first almost stronger than sorrow.
+One thought, above all others, cruelly aggravated her distress, and it
+was rarely absent from her. He died without the sacraments of the
+Church—what then would become of his soul? This anguish was too deep for
+words, and almost for tears; it was only upon one occasion that she even
+alluded to it.
+
+“I wonner,” she said to Janet one day, while she helped her in some
+humble household work, “I wonner gin the kirkmen be richt sure themsels
+that a’ they tell us is true,”
+
+“Oh, Mary!” exclaimed Janet, whose mind was the reverse of speculative
+in its tendencies, “what gars ye speir sic’ a thing?”
+
+But Mary answered intelligently, for sorrow is a good master in the art
+of thinking, “Did they no care for their ain lives, and let my dear
+father dee like a puir dumb beast, that has nae soul ava’?”
+
+“Tut, lassie, a’body cares for his life,” said Janet, going on
+vigorously with her work.
+
+Mary shook her head. “But they suld hae mair pity. They suld hae a
+thocht o’ the puir souls that are deeing around them. God forgie me, I
+canna bide the thocht of it! My puir, puir father! An’ there’s mony sic’
+as he, Janet; mony sic’!”
+
+“Weel, it’s no for the like of us to be deaving our heads wi’ sic’
+things;—gie us a hand wi’ the spurtle, Mary; Jamie’ll come ben keen for
+his parritch,—tho’ there’s unco little meal left in the kist.”
+
+Mary was silenced, but not comforted. Soon, however, other troubles
+came. The victims of the pestilence were every day more numerous; and
+although Mary cared but little just then for her own life, she took part
+in the fears of the Duncan family for each other; nor could any of them
+remain unmoved by the universal terror and distress. To their trials
+that of want was now added; for James Duncan’s master had dismissed him
+from his employment on hearing that a person had died of the plague in
+the “land” where he lived; and although the girls could spin and sew,
+they found it, for the same reason, impossible to dispose of their work.
+
+Knowing it would be useless to seek another situation at present, Jamie
+had no alternative but to sit at home, idle, hungry, and miserable.
+Naturally, these circumstances did not tend to improve his temper, which
+was further soured by various collisions with Archie. It was not to be
+expected that a bright active boy would be content to stay indoors all
+day without occupation or amusement; and yet it seemed little less than
+madness to allow him to wander about the streets at his will. Janet’s
+good sense fortunately led her to compromise matters by sending him,
+whenever she could, upon necessary errands, cautioning him to “gang
+hoolie,”[4] to keep the middle of the street, and above all not to
+linger with idle boys, “wha might gie him the sickness.”
+
+On one of these occasions he delayed such an unreasonable time that
+Jamie vowed summary vengeance on his return. His absence being still
+further prolonged, annoyance changed to serious anxiety, as instances
+had occurred of persons being suddenly seized with the pestilence in the
+streets, and unable ever to regain their homes. But towards the end of
+the second hour, Archie reappeared, and with a countenance and manner
+which showed there was nothing amiss.
+
+Laying down the loaf he had been sent to purchase, he exclaimed, “Eh,
+but there’s braw news the day! A’ the tounfolk are weel nigh daft wi’
+joy, sae that a body wad think the sickness was awa’. Maister Wishart’s
+come back again.”
+
+“Wha’s he?” asked Effie, who thought that what pleased Archie ought to
+interest her.
+
+“Hoot! a’body kens Maister George Wishart. He’s a guid priest (but they
+ca’ him the minister), and nae common priest either; he’s a braw
+gentleman, and sae guid to the puir folk, forbye preaching like an
+angel.”
+
+“He’s nae priest ava’,” said Jamie. “He’s naebut a preacher; and he’s a
+muckle heretic. Do ye no mind when he was here before, how the lord
+cardinal put the tounfolk in fear, and they bade him gang his ways?”
+
+“He’s nae heretic!” returned Archie, who was not sorry to contradict his
+elder brother, and who besides had spent the greater part of the last
+two hours taking lessons in “heresy” at the street corners and in the
+shops. “He’s nae heretic. It’s naebut the bishops ca’ him that, because
+they canna preach like him theirsels, the doited loons!”
+
+“Whist, laddie! ye suldna misca’ yer betters.”
+
+“But what gars him come back the noo, when a’body wha could do it has
+just rin awa’? Is he no fear’t o’ the sickness?” asked Janet.
+
+“He’s no fear’t of _onything_,” said Archie, with genuine admiration,
+for courage is perhaps the only virtue a boy can thoroughly appreciate.
+But at these words Mary dropped her thread (she had been spinning), and
+fixed her eyes on his face with a sudden look of interest. “And he’s
+gaun to preach the morn frae the Cowgate.”
+
+“Frae the Cowgate!”
+
+“Frae the top o’ the Cowgate. And the folk wha hae had the sickness
+amang them maun gang outside; and the _free_ folk maun bide inside.”
+
+“Then we maun gang out,” said Janet.
+
+“Ye’ll gang neither out nor in wi’ my guid will,” Jamie interposed.
+
+“Gin our puir souls havena enoo’ upon them, these ill times, without
+fashing oursels wi’ his heresies. He was weel awa’. What gars him come
+back to set the town in a bleeze wi’ sic’ fooleries?” An ungenerous
+speech, which James Duncan afterwards repented.
+
+“He maun hae a guid heart to Dundee,” Janet ventured to remark, “or he
+wadna come here sic’ a time. Mair pity gin he is a heretic.”
+
+“Gin!” repeated Jamie ironically; “gin my lord cardinal had him in his
+grip, nae doot but he’d burn him quick, and gie the silly folk wha gang
+to hear him something to remember.”
+
+“Atweel,” said Archly smartly, “let my lord cardinal come and gie us a
+sermon himsel, and we’ll a’ leave Maister Wishart and gang to hear
+_him_. But I wad ye a plack, he’ll put mair than the length of his
+muckle cross between us and him the noo!”
+
+“Ye may hand yer clavers,” said Jamie, who did not feel himself equal to
+a discussion of the subject “Ye’re nane gaun to the Cowgate the morn.”
+
+Archie vigorously remonstrated against this decision. “It’s no for the
+heresy,” he said in self-vindication, “but I want to see a man preach
+frae the top o’ the gate.”
+
+Janet however, as in duty bound, threw her weight into the scale of
+Jamie’s lawful authority. “Ye’ll be a guid lad and mind yer brither,”
+she said to Archie; “and forbye the heresy, wha kens but we micht tak’
+the sickness, gaun promiscuous into sic’ a muckle crowd.”
+
+Here the matter might have ended, but for Mary Wigton, who looked up and
+said very quietly, “I hope ye’ll no be fashed or think hard o’ me, but I
+maun gang to hear Maister Wishart.”
+
+This took them all by surprise, for since her father’s death Mary had
+been as it were quite passive, not seeming to have any will or purpose
+of her own.
+
+“An’ what for, Mary, lass?” Jamie asked, in the softened tone he always
+used when speaking to her.
+
+“Because he hae ta’en thocht o’ the puir folks’ souls, and doesna think
+muckle to set his ain life i’ the bawk. God bless him for it! Gin he had
+been here, father needna hae dee’d like—like—”
+
+“Atweel, he maun hae the love o’ God in his heart, and the Word o’ God
+on his lips, let them ca’ him heretic as they may.”
+
+When James Duncan gave himself time to reflect, he began to modify the
+opinions he had expressed. Granted that Wishart was a heretic, he was
+still a man of rank and talent, admired and beloved not only by
+thousands of the people, but by many of the nobles of the land. That
+such a man should put his life in his hand, and voluntarily hasten to
+the city where death was raging, and whence all who could do it had fled
+in terror, served at least to impress one lesson on his mind. The men of
+Dundee were not, as in his dejection he had begun to think, quite
+forsaken both of heaven and earth. One man at least there was who had
+found it in his heart to come to them in this time of trouble, for the
+express purpose of giving them all the help and comfort he could. Might
+not his courageous charity be a sign that God’s mercy was not so far
+away as they were tempted to imagine? Thus, at last, Wishart’s coming
+began to look very like a single ray of light in their clouded sky, and
+in his heart he “blessed him unawares.”
+
+Janet having ascertained next morning that Mary still persisted in her
+intention of going to the preaching, was considerably surprised to see
+her brother take from the “kist” in which it was deposited, a gown which
+had belonged to his father, and which he carefully reserved for
+important occasions.
+
+“Ye’re no gaun out the morn?” she asked.
+
+“Do ye think, woman, I could let the lassie gang her lane to the
+Cowgate?” was the answer.
+
+“An’ _you_ maun gang, _I’ll_ not be left behind,” said Janet.
+
+“Please yersel,” was Jamie’s laconic reply.
+
+“But we daurna leave the bairns,” suggested Janet.
+
+The “bairns” overhearing this, entreated to be of the party; and after a
+little more discussion it was decided that all were to go, Jamie
+quieting his conscience with the reflection, “Ane sermon willna dae us
+muckle harm, an’ it were as full of heresies as Glasgow is of bells.”
+
+They were soon a part of the crowd that thronged about the east gate of
+the town. Janet and Mary stood together; Jamie took little Effie in his
+arms; while Archie, to his great joy, succeeded in dislodging a taller
+boy than himself from the top of a particularly eligible heap of stones.
+Mary could not help remarking the mournful expression of all the faces
+that surrounded them. Pallid, sickly, worn-out faces they were, for the
+most part; many of them bearing the traces of just such agonies as she
+had passed through when she watched by her father’s death-bed. And not a
+few had a wild and reckless look, as if, in the effort to escape from
+anguish, they were hardening themselves into despair.
+
+Suddenly every eye was raised upwards with a look of eager interest and
+expectation. Very touching was the gaze of that great multitude, in its
+wistful, silent appeal to the heart of him who had come among them,
+promising to tell them something which could make life more tolerable,
+and death less bitter. Mary looked where others did, and her eye rested
+with involuntary admiration on the stately figure of the preacher, a
+tall man, dark-haired, and of dark complexion, with a noble countenance,
+and singularly graceful manner. Something else there was, not so easy to
+describe or to analyze, which insensibly attracted her. It may have been
+the love and pity that beamed from his face as he looked on those
+sorrowing thousands—the love that winged his footsteps to that scene of
+death, because, as he said, “They are now in trouble, and need comfort;
+and perhaps the hand of God will make them now to magnify and reverence
+that Word which before, for fear of men, they set at light part.”
+
+But besides this, a man could scarcely live as George Wishart did—so
+very near to Christ that he loved to spend whole days and nights in
+direct communion with him, or follow so closely in the footsteps of his
+self-denying charity—without reflecting, even in outward appearance,
+some little of the glory of that land in which his spirit dwelt. For
+there is a calm and an elevation which nothing but the peace and the
+presence of God can impart to the countenance of man.
+
+Amidst a deep silence he read aloud the text he had chosen: “He sent his
+Word, and healed them.” “It is neither herb nor plaster, O Lord,” he
+said, “but thy Word that heals all.” And then, for the first time, Mary
+Wigton heard Christ preached. She heard that there was a disease more
+deadly than the dreaded pestilence; that she herself had breathed its
+poison; that it had entered her being and become a part of it; and her
+heart and her conscience answered “yes” to the charge. Then she heard of
+the Deliverer, the “Word” of God, who, because he loved mankind, because
+he loved _her_, had left his home which was the Heaven of Heavens, to
+suffer and die upon earth, that all who believed on him might be healed
+of their deadly sickness, forgiven their transgressions, renewed in the
+spirit of their minds, and made the sons and daughters of the Lord
+Almighty.
+
+Are “the words of this life” in our ears as an oft told tale? If so, let
+us thank God for it, while we ask him never to allow their familiarity
+to let them seem less precious. But to Mary, and to many who heard them
+with her, they were new and wonderful as the glory of the sunrise in the
+eyes of one who has dwelt all his life in a darksome cave. The love of
+the blessed Son of God, and of the Father who sent him, sank to the very
+depths of her heart. She believed that love was for her; she received
+and embraced it, without so much as staying to question whether this was
+indeed the faith upon which the preacher insisted. For her the fiat had
+gone forth, “Behold, I make all things new!” and peace and joy took the
+place of the deep dejection which before had threatened to overwhelm
+her. Lonely and sorrowful, an “orphan of the earthly love and heavenly,”
+had she come thither that morning; she returned home with a happy,
+thankful heart,—God’s forgiven and accepted child.
+
+Nor was hers the only heart to which George Wishart was made the
+messenger of peace that day. The great reformer Knox, who loved and
+reverenced him deeply, tells us that by this sermon “he raised up the
+hearts of all that heard him, that they regardit not death, but judgit
+thame mair happie that sould depairt, than sic as sould remain behind.”
+
+And was not the joy of bringing this joy to thousands, who otherwise
+would have lain in darkness and the shadow of death, worth all he braved
+and all he suffered for it? This was far more than the peril of
+infection; inasmuch as the wrath of wicked men is more deadly than the
+breath of disease, and as we have yet to learn, they gave him “cruel
+thanks” for his labours of self-devoted love. Yet it is true that “he
+that reapeth receiveth wages” here and now, as well as “gathereth fruit
+into life eternal.” It does not need the heart of a hero or a martyr, it
+only needs a little sense of the value of one human soul, and a little
+love to Him who died to redeem it, to enable the humblest Christian to
+comprehend what that wages is, and to esteem such a life as George
+Wishart’s, not only grander and nobler, but actually _happier_ than the
+most triumphant career the lofty ambition of youth ever pictured forth
+in the future.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  IV.
+                        =Fruits of the Message.=
+
+
+          “The shadow had passed from her heart and brow,
+            And a deep calm filled her breast;
+          For the peace of God was her portion now,
+            And her weary soul found rest.”
+                              _Lays of the Kirk and Covenant._
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  IV.
+                        =Fruits of the Message.=
+
+
+The Duncans walked home from the East Port in thoughtful silence, which
+Mary Wigton did not feel inclined to disturb. Her own heart was full of
+new strange feelings, which she could not as yet understand or arrange;
+but they filled her with joy, and with a love which seemed to pour
+itself forth on every one around. She could not join in Janet’s
+lamentations over the spare meal that awaited their return, for was it
+not provided by that heavenly Father of whose love she had just heard,
+and would he not send whatever they really needed? To her it was a
+feast; and she quietly enjoyed the luxury of a clandestine transfer of
+more than half her own portion to poor Archie, who, being a healthy,
+growing boy, suffered keenly from the want of sufficient food.
+
+At length they began to discuss the sermon; it was little Effie, the
+youngest of the party, who introduced the subject.
+
+“Didna yon man on the gate speak braw words o’ the guid Lord Jesus’?”
+she said, addressing Jamie, who was very fond of her.
+
+“I didna ken ye were minding him, bairnie.”
+
+“Ou ay, I minded every word. I never heard the like before.”
+
+“There’s mair than you can say that, Effie, dear,” added Mary, with a
+beaming face. “God be thankit for thae guid words. Mony’s the sair heart
+they’ll hae healed the day.”
+
+“Weel,” said Janet, “I dinna think sae muckle on’t. He seemed to jalouse
+we were a by-ordinar sinfu’ folk; and, sae far as I ken, we’re nae waur
+than the lave. What do you say, Jamie?”
+
+Thus directly appealed to, Jamie answered oracularly,—
+
+“He’s a braw preacher, Janet; but he’s a muckle heretic.”
+
+Nor could he be induced to commit himself to any more explicit opinion.
+
+He manifested, however, an extraordinary desire to hear the “muckle
+heretic” on every possible occasion. When, a short time afterwards, he
+was fortunate enough to be taken back by his former master, who set a
+high value on his uprightness and industry, he announced the fact to
+Janet with the following commentary—
+
+“It was no that easy to settle between maister and me; for he’s unco
+keen after the preaching himsel, and didna like to leave the shop; but I
+gared him promise to shut it up the while, though I hae tint[5] a trifle
+wages thereby.”
+
+“Oh, Jamie lad, wasna that a silly thing, wi’ sae mony mouths to fill,
+and the meal sae dear?”
+
+“Tut, lassie, wad ye no let a man pleasure himsel whiles?”
+
+And so not one of the very frequent preachings from the East Port was
+missed by any of the Duncan family, or by Mary Wigton. All loved to go,
+though from different motives. Mary, as a new-born babe, desired the
+sincere milk of the word, that she might grow thereby. She was very
+ignorant, not only of the doctrines of the Christian faith, but even of
+the great facts that underlie those doctrines. She could not read; and
+had she been able to do so, she had never so much as seen any portion of
+the Word of God in her own tongue. She was therefore entirely dependent,
+both for instruction and edification, upon the sermons of Wishart; and
+she valued those precious means of grace perhaps more highly than those
+can conceive who are surrounded with churches and Bibles, with Christian
+friends and religious books. She soon learned that prayer was not the
+vain repetition of words she could not understand, but the lifting up of
+the heart to a reconciled God and Father; and she found the way into his
+presence opened to her through the merits of Him in whom alone she
+trusted. When perplexities arose in her path (and to the thinking mind,
+whether educated or ignorant, they surely will arise), she either prayed
+over them until they vanished, or the preacher took them up and solved
+them for her in one or other of his discourses. But she was saved from
+many difficulties by the simple, childlike faith with which she had been
+led to receive the word of God, and in a lesser degree by the fact that
+religion had previously been with her merely the sentiment of a
+naturally devout and amiable character. She had not been either deeply
+acquainted with, or strongly attached to, the peculiar tenets of Popery;
+and she gave them up almost without a struggle, when convinced, less by
+the reformer’s eloquence than by the instincts of her own renewed heart,
+that they were dishonouring to the Saviour she loved.
+
+With James Duncan it was far different. The battle between the old faith
+and the new had to be fought out step by step in his slow but thoughtful
+mind. The good words of the gospel, its free invitations and promises of
+mercy, seemed every day more suited to his need, and more grateful to
+his longing heart. But he found that this pure and lofty faith could not
+be made to harmonize with the creed to which he was still so strongly
+attached. In his soul, that which letteth would let, until it was taken
+out of the way. He was sometimes roused to vigorous, even bitter
+opposition, by the preacher’s powerful though temperate exposure of
+Romish superstition. To the mass, to purgatory, to the invocation of
+saints, he clung almost with the energy of a drowning man; but he felt
+them, as it were, dragged one by one from his unwilling hands by a moral
+force greater than his own.
+
+But no doctrine irritated him so much as that of justification by faith
+only, which Wishart, who was lecturing on the Epistle to the Romans, set
+forth with all the power and clearness for which the reformers were so
+peculiarly remarkable. Yet even when he was most opposed to it there was
+a voice within him that witnessed to its truth; and sometimes he was not
+very far from suspecting that the secret of the peace he longed for lay
+in the doctrine he despised.
+
+As for Janet, the preaching did not, in the first instance, either
+perplex her mind or touch her heart, but it troubled her conscience. She
+did not hear it as a bigoted Romanist, nor yet as a candid inquirer
+after the truth, but as a sinner, who had hitherto lived in careless
+security, without God in the world. She grew miserable, and at one time
+would gladly have discontinued her attendance; but she would not refuse
+to accompany her brother, and besides she was herself not insensible to
+the fascination which the preacher exercised. She could not speak of
+what she felt; and, fearing to betray herself, she joined energetically
+in Jamie’s condemnation of his heresies, while, in fact, she scarcely
+understood in what they consisted.
+
+The children loved to attend sermon almost as much as their elders.
+Archie, while he remained utterly indifferent to the doctrines taught by
+Wishart, contracted a boy’s first enthusiasm for his person; and little
+Effie always liked to go where she might hear “mair o’ the guid Lord
+Jesus.”
+
+Upon one occasion Jamie returned from the East Port in a state of more
+than usual apparent irritation, but real doubt and perplexity. They had
+just heard a very full and luminous exposition of the way of the
+sinner’s acceptance before God.
+
+“It’s ill to ken what a man suld think,” he said. “Naebody does what he
+preaches, or preaches what he does. Maister Wishart and the priests are
+like enoo; there’s nae muckle to choose between them.”
+
+“What gars ye sae sic a thing?” asked Archie indignantly. “Maister
+Wishart’s no like the priests; he proves a’ he says, frae his wee book.”
+
+“Do ye no mind that the priests are aye and aye telling us to do guid
+warks for our puir souls? And they never do ane themsels that _I_ hae
+seen; while Maister Wishart, wha does a hantle guid warks himsel, tells
+folk they’re nae manner o’ use.”
+
+“Ye may weel say he does guid warks,” said Archie, who preferred the
+concrete to the abstract, and was glad to escape from a theological
+discussion to a matter of fact. “A’ the toun says he does naething in
+the warld (when he’s no preaching) but gang up and doun amang the sick
+folk, wi’ neither fear nor care for his ain life, telling them the guid
+words, and gieing them a’ the comfort he can, for their puir bodies as
+weel as their souls. I hae heard that whiles, when he’s got nae mair
+siller, he’s gien his vera claes awa’.”
+
+“Mair’s the wonner what he can be thinking on, to tell us its nae use
+our doing warks ava’, and that we hae nocht to do but just _believe_.
+It’s owre easy ganging to heaven that gait.”
+
+“Ye’re wrang, Jamie,” said Janet, turning suddenly round on him. “It’s
+no easy ava’, but owre _hard_, the way he puts it. Does he no say we
+maun love the Lord better than father, or mither, or brither? an’ that
+we maunna gie up his Word, aince we ken it in our hearts, no, not to
+save our vera lives? It’s owre muckle that for flesh and bluid, say I.”
+
+Mary, who had not spoken before, now quietly put in a word.
+
+“Ay, Janet, ye’d be richt enoo, gin we had to do it oursels. But the
+guid Lord wha loved us, and gied his ain bluid for our sins, forbye a’
+that, he gies us _the heart_ to do what he bids.”
+
+“Then,” said Jamie quickly, “we maun do what He bids, and no just
+believe and nae mair.”
+
+Mary was a little puzzled, not exactly for thoughts, but for words in
+which to clothe them. At last she said—
+
+“Ane couldna believe and nae mair. Aebody wha kens the guid Lord loved
+and forgave them, maun just be trying the haill day lang to do bits o’
+things by way o’ thanks to him. But gin he didna make us free to the
+love and forgieness _first_, what wad become of us ava’, puir sinners
+that we are?”
+
+She said this with much feeling; for it was with her as with many others
+whose hearts are opened to receive the word immediately and with
+gladness. Conviction rather followed conversion than preceded it; and
+she grew day by day, as well in the knowledge of her own sin as in that
+of her Saviour’s grace.
+
+She was about to leave the room, and Jamie asked her whither she went.
+
+“But to the guidwife wha bides in the top back room. Her wee bairnie’s
+vera ill the day.”
+
+“God grant it’s no the sickness.”
+
+“Na, na; but she couldna gang to the preaching, sae I hae promised to
+tell her the sermon.”
+
+“Nae harm in that,” said Janet. “But ye maunna bide wi’ her the haill
+nicht, to help caring the bairn.”
+
+“Did ye do that, Mary lass?” asked Jamie.
+
+“Ay, did she, twice over,” said Janet.
+
+“Weel, the puir thing was sair troubled and forfoughten. And she has
+naebody to fend for her; her guidman’s at the sea.”
+
+When she was gone, Janet remarked to her brother—
+
+“Wad ye think, Jamie, it was the same lass that used to sit at yon wheel
+a wee while ago, like a puir dead thing, wi’ neither wish nor care for
+hersel or onybody else?”
+
+Jamie shook his head.
+
+“I wonner,” he said, “how ane can keep sic’ a bricht face and happy
+heart in the midst of a’ this fear and trouble.”
+
+“It’s naebut she frets hersel whiles, because she’s sorning upon us, as
+she says.”
+
+“Hoot awa’!” cried Jamie indignantly. “Ye’re no worth a plack, Janet
+woman, gin ye let the lassie think _that_. She has brought us nought but
+comfort and blessing.”
+
+“That’s owre true, Jamie; forbye she’s unco quick and handy in fending
+for the bairns, and sic’ like. Sin’ the time she cheered up sae
+wonnerfu’ hersel, she’s no had a thocht but to save and help us a’ she
+could. And it’s clear she maun bide wi’ us, for she couldna find a
+service the noo’, let her seek as she may.”
+
+Jamie expressed his entire acquiescence, even more by his looks than by
+his words.
+
+“Ony ither time idle folk might hae their clavers, ye ken,” Janet added,
+with a little hesitation.
+
+“What care I for that?” said Jamie. “Not ane bodle. Forbye, the hand o’
+God is upon us; and the folk wha he has brought thegither, to help and
+comfort ane anither in this sair distress, maun just be thankfu’ an’
+bide as he pleases. Gin he send us better days—” But here he stopped
+abruptly, either because he was a man of few words, and had already said
+more than his wont, or because some purpose was stirring in his heart,
+to which as yet he did not choose to give words at all.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                   V.
+                     =More Fruits of the Message.=
+
+
+         “God took thee in his arms, a lamb untasked, untried;
+         He fought the fight for thee, He won the victory;—
+         And thou art sanctified.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                   V.
+                     =More Fruits of the Message.=
+
+
+As day after day passed quietly on, the Duncans began to hope, with
+trembling, that they were destined to escape the sufferings which
+surrounded them on every side. But they were to enjoy no such happy
+immunity; the fiery trial had its work to do for them as for others, and
+they must needs pass through it. At first, however, it did not assume
+the form they most dreaded, but one to which they were already in some
+degree inured.
+
+One morning Jamie returned from his master’s shop at an unusual hour;
+coming in with his blue bonnet pulled over his face, and his whole
+demeanour showing that something was amiss.
+
+Janet, who was giving Archie and Effie their “morning pieces,” turned
+round, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.
+
+“Maister dee’d this morn at the fourth hour,—God’s guid will be done!”
+said Jamie, uncovering his head.
+
+“Wae’s me!” cried Janet, dropping her arms by her side. “There’s our
+bread gane again.”
+
+Little Effie began to cry; and Archie, who would not of course
+condescend to any such demonstration, certainly looked mournful enough.
+Both well knew what it was to want for bread.
+
+“We’re no waur than mony ither puir folk,” said Jamie. “And we maun just
+thole[6] it as we may, and thank the guid Lord wha hae keepit us frae
+the sickness.”
+
+“It’s no true that we’re like the lave,” said Archie. “Ither puir folk
+’ill beg for bread and get it,—but the Duncans never beg;” and the boy
+held up his head proudly.
+
+Nor did he say more than the truth. The Duncans had their faults; but
+they were brave and honest, as well as strongly attached to each other.
+The noble struggle made by James and Janet to keep the family together
+after their father’s death, had developed and strengthened these
+qualities. They had learned to endure privation cheerfully, to practise
+self-denial for each other’s sakes; and when things were at the worst,
+not to lose courage, but to look hopefully for better days.
+
+It was now the time to put all these lessons into practice. Not poverty
+alone, but starvation, seemed before them. Most of the resources to
+which the poor betake themselves in the day of need were cut off by the
+state of the city. Provisions were at famine price, so that “mony people
+died with great scant and want of victuallis.” Employment could not be
+had; nor was it even easy to barter their clothes and furniture for
+food, on account of the terror of infection which everywhere prevailed.
+And yet they would not beg. Those who survived to tell the tale in
+happier times, found it difficult to understand how they lived on from
+day to day. As Jamie said, “they tholed it as they might.” Each spared
+the other, and Jamie, as far as possible, spared them all. He was
+naturally somewhat of a despot, and his circumstances had fostered this
+tendency. His despotism now assumed the form of an obstinate
+determination to bear the worst of every privation himself; nor could
+Janet ever prevail on him to allow their scanty provisions to be divided
+on the good old principle of “share and share alike.” He always said he
+was a man, and “the lassies and the bairns maun be thocht on first.”
+
+He was much less irritable and impatient than he had been when without
+employment on a former occasion. This was partly perhaps because Archie
+tried him less. The boy had a new interest now; and although not deeply
+impressed by what he heard, he still preferred a preaching at the East
+Port to a stolen game of play in the streets, or a visit to the quays.
+
+The same influence told, and in a greater degree, upon every other
+member of the family. No sudden change took place in either Jamie or
+Janet; but both kept the words they heard, and pondered them in their
+hearts. What was more important, both prayed earnestly in secret; Jamie
+asking for light that he might find the Truth, while the burden of his
+sister’s cry was ever this, “O Lord, I beseech thee, pardon mine
+iniquity, for it is great.”
+
+It was well for Mary Wigton that in this evil day her heart stayed
+itself upon the Lord. It caused her bitter grief to feel that she added
+daily to the privations of her kind and generous friends. Much did she
+ponder, and often did she pray that she might be shown some way out of
+the difficulty. But what was she to do? She could not, in the present
+state of things, hope to obtain any employment; especially as she had
+not, except the Duncans, a single friend in the city. Once or twice she
+thought of applying to Wilson; but she felt she could scarcely hope that
+a man who had treated her father with so much injustice would prove a
+friend to her in the time of need. Perhaps the idea would not even have
+occurred to her, were it not that she had frequently seen him amongst
+the crowd at the East Port, where he seemed not only an attentive, but
+sometimes a deeply affected listener. Still it did not appear to her
+that any good was likely to result from an application to him.
+
+One morning she succeeded, to her great satisfaction, in disposing of
+some little article of personal decoration, a relic of more prosperous
+times. Having purchased a loaf of bread, she brought it to the Duncans
+with a pleasant anticipation of Archie and Effie’s delight. But she had
+no sooner opened the door of their room than she drew back in surprise
+and alarm. Jamie stood at the window, shading his face with his hand. He
+did not notice her, but Archie, who was beside him, turned quickly
+round, and she saw that his eyes were red with weeping. Janet was in
+another part of the room, bending over Effie’s little bed. Before Mary
+could find breath to ask what was amiss, Archie touched his brother’s
+arm, and said softly, “It’s Mary.”
+
+The young man started, and looked towards her, his face pale and
+quivering with emotion. In another moment he took her hand, led her from
+the room, and gently closed the door.
+
+“Mary, lass,” he said, “we’re stricken vera sair. It’s the bairn Effie,
+our youngest. Wae’s me! I didna think o’ fearing for her.”
+
+Is it not often thus? Is not the keen arrow sure to smite us through
+some “joint in the harness,” at some point where we never thought of
+strengthening ourselves?
+
+“Is she vera ill?” asked Mary.
+
+Jamie shook his head. “I canna thole to part with her,” he said
+presently. “She was the wee bairn o’ the house, the bit plaything wi’ us
+a’. We fought through the hard times thegither, and kept her frae scaith
+and sorrow as we could. An’ noo—just in ane day, wi’ this cruel
+sickness—oh, Mary, it’s owre hard!”
+
+“Oh, Jamie, dinna say that. It’s the Lord sends it. It’s his ain
+hand—‘His ain gentill visitation that man cannot eke or paire,’[7] as
+guid Maister Wishart says.”
+
+“It’s the Lord sends it?” repeated Jamie, and he raised his head and
+gazed upwards as one who earnestly looks for something he cannot see.
+“Does the Lord care about us ava’?” At another time he would not have
+said this; but in that moment of agony the gnawing doubt hidden far down
+in his heart rose to the surface, and forced itself into words.
+
+“Is it the blessed Lord Jesus wha dee’d for us? Jamie, lad, he cares for
+us mair than we care for our ainsels. He kens a’ about ye, and how loath
+ye are to part wi’ the bairn; and maybe—” Here her own voice faltered,
+but after a moment she resumed, “I maun gang in to Janet.”
+
+“Na, na! Dinna gae in—whaur’s the use?”
+
+“Oh, Jamie, ye wadna say that! Is it to bid me awa’, and ye all in sic’
+trouble?”
+
+Jamie considered a moment, then opened the door. “Be it sae,” he said.
+“For guid or ill we maun bide thegither.”
+
+Mary entered the sick room; and with that quiet self-possession which in
+a sick room is such a treasure, she spoke to Janet, and took counsel
+with her as to what they should do.
+
+A physician seemed unattainable; but many panaceas, under the names of
+plague water, plague pills, plague elixir, &c., were popularly believed
+in, and might be purchased at a trifling expense. Most people maintained
+the sovereign efficacy of some one or other of these, nor was Janet any
+exception to the rule. She was very anxious to procure her favourite
+remedy; and the remainder of the sum obtained by Mary for her silver
+brooch was appropriated to this purpose. Archie was despatched to the
+shop, and it is needless to say he did not linger upon this errand. But
+when he returned his little playfellow no longer recognised him. Her
+mind, like a shattered mirror, reflected only confused and broken
+fragments of the experience of her young life. She talked of merry games
+with Archie, of walks along the heathery slopes of the Law, of easy
+household tasks performed under Janet’s direction. But there ran through
+all, like a silver thread through some dark pattern, words of childlike
+trust in “the guid Lord Jesus, the blessed Saviour.” Now and then it was
+a text of Scripture, or some simple saying out of one of the sermons she
+had heard, but oftener still the words were those of prayer.
+
+At length there was a gleam of returning consciousness. Seeing her
+favourite brother beside her, she asked him to take her in his arms.
+Jamie did so, with a calm face but a heavy heart, for by this time they
+all “perceived that the Lord had called the child.”
+
+“Effie, dear, do ye ken ye’re vera ill?” he asked.
+
+The child’s blue eyes sought his wistfully, perhaps wonderingly. At last
+she said softly, “Yes.”
+
+“Are ye no fear’t, darling?”
+
+“What for? The Lord Jesus ’ill take care o’ me.”
+
+“What gars ye think that, bairnie?”
+
+“The minister tald me at the gate. The Lord Jesus loves me. But I’m unco
+tired, Jamie.”
+
+The blue eyes closed wearily, the little head rested heavily upon
+Jamie’s shoulder; and it was not long before the tired child slept—that
+deep and quiet sleep from which they do not awake until the heavens be
+no more. Many who remained might have envied her that tranquil rest.
+“Short and narrow her life’s walk” had been; but long enough, since in
+its brief span she had found Christ, or rather, had been found of Him.
+
+Type of a vast multitude whom in all ages the Good Shepherd has carried
+in his bosom; so keeping them, in his love and tenderness, that their
+feet do not touch the waters of the dark river, nor their eyes even
+behold the conflict and the anguish through which others have to pass.
+Theirs is the crown almost without the cross. Thrice happy they! Yet
+happier still are those who have come out of great tribulation, because
+more closely conformed to the image of the Captain of their salvation,
+and more highly privileged to work and to suffer for Him.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  VI.
+                          =The Darkest Hour.=
+
+
+              “The corpse is calm below our knee,
+                Its spirit bright before Thee;
+              Between them, worse than either, we,
+                Without the rest or glory,—
+                              Be pitiful, O God!”
+                                          E. B. BROWNING.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  VI.
+                          =The Darkest Hour.=
+
+
+On the following morning, the Duncans and Mary Wigton sat together in
+the desolate stillness that succeeds bereavement. Already their dead had
+been buried out of their sight,—buried hastily, by cold, unloving hands.
+Nor might they even hope to visit the spot where she lay, for a common
+and unhonoured grave must receive the victims of the pestilence. This
+was one of the lesser sorrows in their cup. For the most part they sat
+silent, neither weeping nor speaking, but thinking sadly of what they
+had lost, and trembling for what still remained to them. For now that
+one link in the chain was broken, it seemed as if all were loosened and
+ready to fall asunder.
+
+They were very helpless in their time of trouble. If they could have
+prayed together, if they had possessed a copy of the Scriptures, it
+would have fared better with them. But the Duncans were groping after
+comfort in the dark; and even Mary, who knew more herself, was hardly
+able to explain her own convictions to others, and shrank from the
+attempt.
+
+Archie was the first to suggest a thought of consolation. “Effie ’ill no
+be hungry ony mair,” he said.
+
+“True, callant,” answered Jamie; “and what for suld we greet? It’s
+better far wi’ her than wi’ us the day.”
+
+“But, Jamie,” said Janet, looking up with a puzzled, half-frightened
+air, “what do you think about—purgatory?”
+
+“Hoot! Is it that wee bairn, and she to dee as she did? I tell ye, I’d
+gie a hantle siller, gin I had the same, for the lassie’s simple faith.
+Na, na, my mind is clear; she’s wi’ the blessed saints this minute.”
+
+“Nay, but wi’ the guid Saviour she loved sae weel,” said Mary. “Forbye,
+I’m unco sure there’s nae sic place ava’ as purgatory. Gin the Lord were
+to send his messenger for you or me the day, Janet (sae’s we believed
+his Word), we’d gae right up to him; and neither sin, nor death, nor
+Satan himsel, could keep us ane minute from his presence.”
+
+“Eh, but that’s guid tidings,” said Janet.
+
+“Ower guid to be true,” added Jamie. “At least, I’m no that certain yet.
+Though,” he continued after a pause, “Maister Wishart does say, he has
+‘oft and divers times read ower the Bible, yet such a term fand he
+never, nor yet any place of Scripture applicable thereunto.’”
+
+“And do ye no mind the braw words he tells us about the rest of God’s
+children, and the guid hame Christ is keeping for them up in heaven?”
+said Mary. “It’s enoo to make us lang to gae there oursels, and feel
+like kneeling down to thank God for taking ane we love frae this sad
+warld to that better place.”
+
+There was a long silence, which Jamie broke. “It’s a’maist time for the
+preaching.”
+
+Every one looked surprised, and Janet said, “Ye’re no gaun the day,
+Jamie?”
+
+“Why suld we bide awa’? God’s hand is on us (his voice trembled), we’re
+in sair trouble—is that a reason we’re no to gang to the ane place on
+airth whaur we’re like to get comfort?”
+
+“I’d a hantle rather gang than bide,” said Archie; and as the rest
+appeared to agree with him, they began to prepare.
+
+All were soon ready except Jamie himself. After rising to fetch his gown
+and bonnet, he sat down again, looking very pale.
+
+“What’s wrang wi’ ye?” asked Janet, in a frightened voice.
+
+“Hoots! naething but a kind o’ dizziness. Dinna look sae fear’t, lass.”
+
+“Aiblins it’s the hunger. Ye havena broken fast the day,” said Janet,
+having recourse to Mary’s loaf.
+
+But he rejected the food, and asked for water instead. Archie ran to
+fetch it, and Jamie presently added, “Gang to the preaching, and dinna
+mind me. I’ll try to sleep.”
+
+But no one went to the preaching that day. Instead of listening to the
+words of life, they sat in the chamber of sickness, soon perhaps to be
+again the chamber of death. For the fiery arrow of the pestilence had
+struck down their best and noblest, the prop and stay of the household.
+The morning had risen in gloom upon the empty place of their youngest,
+the child Effie, but that gloom seemed brightness itself compared with
+the horror of the night.
+
+Their hearts sank within them; from his first seizure they gave him up
+for lost. Nor did he himself take a more cheerful view of his condition.
+The attack differed considerably from those they had witnessed before;
+though it still presented certain unmistakable symptoms marking it as
+the dreaded sickness. There was no delirium, and but little acute
+suffering, but there was a low wasting fever, and ever-increasing
+exhaustion. There are cases, it has been said, “when a person has so
+long and gradually imbibed the fatal poisons of an infected atmosphere,
+that the resisting powers of nature have been insidiously and quietly
+subdued.” Whether Jamie’s was really such or no, it looked very like it.
+It seemed as if his frame, weakened by a long course of severe
+privation, must sink and that speedily, beneath the attack of the
+destroyer. Those around him longed, more than words can tell, for the
+strong wine and nourishing food that they felt instinctively might save
+him even yet. But what could they do?
+
+Janet’s courage and calmness gave way when she saw this beloved brother
+about to be snatched from her. Any other sorrow she could have
+borne,—but this was too terrible. Once or twice the usually strong
+self-possessed girl was obliged to leave Mary and Archie to watch by
+that sick bed, whilst for a brief space she sought relief in tears. Mary
+did all that was required of her; and if she learned to conceal a
+breaking heart beneath a countenance that was almost cheerful, she did
+no more than many women do every day. Yet Janet did not suffer more than
+Mary, perhaps not so much. She never asked herself why this was so, or
+whether it should be; it seemed quite natural and inevitable. They were
+a family, bound together by the strong links that sorrow forges, and
+what touched one touched all equally.
+
+“Is it you, Mary?” asked the sick man upon one occasion when Mary kept
+watch beside him. “I hae twa or three things that are vexing me sair,
+aiblins ye could help me.”
+
+“Dinna vex yersel noo, Jamie; but think o’ the guid Lord Jesus, wha
+dee’d to tak’ yer sins awa’.”
+
+“Eh, but that’s just it, Mary lass. I ken a’ about the blessed Lord wha
+dee’d for sinners; but what’s that to me, sae lang’s I’m no sure _I’ll_
+get the guid on’t? There’s bread enoo at the baxter’s, but we maun jist
+starve for a’ that, gin we’ve no a plack to pay for it.”
+
+“But He gies it to us, Jamie, ‘without money and without price.’”
+
+“_Wha_ does He gie it to? O Mary! gin I couldna think it out an’ I
+strong an’ weel, what chance hae I, noo that I lie here weak and
+feckless, and canna put twa thochts thegither? The Lord hae mercy on me!
+An’ I had a priest—”
+
+“That wad do ye nae guid ava’, Jamie.”
+
+“Wae’s me! I ken the same. I hae dooted lang; but noo I’m unco clear;
+they’re nae better than idle paivies—the oil, and the cross, and sic’
+like. But I maun hae _something_, Mary. Death’s a gruesome thing to look
+at, and I’m sair afear’t.”
+
+“Dinna fear, look on the Saviour’s face. ‘Only believe.’”
+
+Very touching was Jamie’s wistful gaze of intense anxiety. “Is it ‘Only
+believe,’ Mary? Can I mak siccar there’s naething mair to do? Forbye,
+what’s the right gait to believe?”
+
+“To believe is naething but to trust. It’s to trust the guid Lord as I’d
+trust ye or Janet—(anely a hantle mair)—kenning weel as I do that ye’d
+no wrang me, but keep yer ain promise fast. Whilk promise frae God is
+just this, ‘I’ll forgie yer transgressions, and yer sins an’ iniquities
+I’ll remember nae mair.’”
+
+“Mary, could ye pray for me?”
+
+Mary first lifted up her own heart in silent supplication; and then said
+in a low voice, “I’ll try.”
+
+But at that moment Archie, who had stretched himself in a corner of the
+room to make up for a lost night’s rest, startled them both by showing
+he had heard the conversation.
+
+“Eh, Jamie!” he cried, thrusting up his head, “_I’d_ do mair for ye than
+a’ that.”
+
+As no one replied to this strange announcement, he went on: “What for
+suld I no just gang to guid Maister Wishart and ask him to come and see
+ye? Nae doot but he’d do it, for the love o’ God; and he’d tell ye a’
+the things ye’re speiring after.”
+
+This audacious proposal, as Mary considered it, fairly took away her
+breath; while it brought a moment’s colour to Jamie’s pale face. “Is it
+for the like o’ me?” he said; “a puir baxter lad! Callant, ye’re clean
+daft.”
+
+“I’m no daft ava’. He gaes to waur than us, aft an’ aft. Ye’re in
+trouble and hae the sickness—”
+
+“And hae the sickness!” repeated Jamie indignantly. “Guid reason _that_
+to bring him here! Na, na, Archie, let me fend as I may, I’ll no hae the
+precious life that’s help and comfort to sae mony risked for me. What
+wad we a’ do without him? He’s just like ane licht in a dark sky to the
+puir folk in this stricken toun.” He was growing excited, and might have
+injured himself, had not Janet re-entered the room at that moment. She
+looked pale and haggard; and when, at Jamie’s request, she brought him a
+drink of water, she could not help expressing her sorrow that she had
+nothing better to give him.
+
+“Weel,” said the sick man with a sigh half sorrowful, half resigned, “we
+maun thole it. It’s no for sae lang.”
+
+Shortly afterwards he fell asleep, and Mary beckoned Janet from the
+room, leaving Archie with his brother.
+
+“Janet,” she said, as they stood together in the passage, “something
+maun be done.”
+
+“I dinna ken what to do, but to dee a’ thegither,” answered Janet,
+hopelessly.
+
+“Let us dee, then, by God’s visitation, no by our ain fecklessness.
+Janet, we’re like to starve, and Jamie—” her voice faltered, but she
+presently resumed, “gin he had the meat and drink a sick man suld hae, I
+doot but he’s no that ill, after a’.—Listen, I hae seen my ain dear
+father dee o’ this awfu’ sickness; forbye that, I hae watched the bairn
+Effie. It’s no easy to mak me fear’t, and ye say I’m gleg an’ handy. Sae
+I might find a place to nurse some o’ the sick folk. Dinna think to
+hinder me, Janet, my mind is set on it; I’ll just gang my gait to the
+guid leech wha came to father, and ask him to help me. An’ I daur think
+God ’ill prosper me, sin’ I hae prayed to him wi’ a’ my heart. I’ll
+bring, or send ye help, the first minute I can. But dinna tell Jamie.”
+
+Janet at first objected to the plan, but Mary’s resolution conquered.
+Weak herself from watching and fasting, she set out on what her reason
+told her was a sufficiently hopeless errand. But she trusted in God; and
+having earnestly prayed for help in the dark hour of trial, she believed
+he would give it, either by this or by some other means.
+
+Bitter, therefore, was her disappointment to find that the physician
+whom she sought had himself fallen a victim to the disease with which he
+had so bravely striven on behalf of others. She sat down on the doorstep
+to consider what next to do; and it was with difficulty she could
+prevent herself from giving way to tears. She knew no other physician
+even by name. To whom then could she go? Again the thought of Wilson
+occurred to her, and finding any sort of action a relief, she rose half
+mechanically and moved in the direction of his house. The walk was long
+enough, and she was very weary. But it seemed as if her limbs must fail
+her utterly, when, upon arriving at the spot, she found the door shut,
+and inscribed with the well-known mark that told the plague was within.
+
+If ever she felt despair, it was at this moment. Why should they
+struggle any more for life? It was useless—they were doomed. Like the
+wave to a shipwrecked mariner, clinging desperately, hopelessly to some
+fragment of rock—that cruel sickness, with its fell ally starvation,
+came on slowly—surely—nearer—nearer—nearer. It was but the work of days,
+perhaps of hours now. Death reigned everywhere. Her father, little
+Effie, the physician, all were dead; Wilson was probably dying, and
+Jamie;—a chill came over her. Should she ever see his face again, that
+bright young face, except fixed in the awful stillness of death? She
+scarcely dared to return home. And yet she must. She began to grow dizzy
+and faint, and to think, almost to _hope_, that she was dying too. She
+thanked God that for herself she had no fear. And she sought to trust
+him with those so dear to her; but it was one of those dark hours when
+Faith droops her pinions, and the tried heart sinks to the very depths,
+refusing to respond even to the holy thoughts upon which in other
+seasons it was wont to stay itself.
+
+Once or twice she paused on her weary homeward way, as the last resource
+of penury presented itself to her mind. Should she ask an alms? Her
+cheek crimsoned with pain and shame at the thought, but for Jamie’s sake
+she could conquer this weakness. Still, amongst the passers-by she saw
+none to whom she could apply for the purpose, so at least it seemed to
+her; and she had not the physical strength to go further.
+
+Thus, at last, having accomplished nothing to help those she loved in
+their sore distress, she found herself again at the familiar door. She
+was able to admit herself; and after standing still for a moment or two
+in silent dread of what she might meet above, she began to ascend the
+narrow staircase with trembling limbs and an aching heart.
+
+She had not gone half way when the sound of a voice arrested her. It was
+Archie’s. Great was her astonishment at the quiet measured tones in
+which the boy continued to speak. No; he was not speaking, but reading
+or reciting something. She drew a few steps nearer, and found she could
+distinguish the words. They thrilled her heart with a strange sense of
+wonder and delight; for although she had never heard them before, she
+felt instinctively that they were the words of God. Allowing for the
+difference (here but very slight) between the quaint language of
+Tyndale’s New Testament, and that into which our own minds and hearts
+have grown, this was what she heard:—“Seek not ye what ye shall eat or
+what ye shall drink, neither be ye of doubtful mind. For all these
+things do the nations of the world seek after: and your Father knoweth
+that ye have need of these things. But rather seek ye the kingdom of
+God, and all these things shall be added unto you. Fear not, little
+flock; for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”
+
+Mary’s soul was refreshed by this cup of cold water from the living
+fountain, and hope began to take the place of her despondency. She was
+soon at the chamber door. It was wide open; and, for a marvel, so was
+the little window (despite all Janet’s theories), letting in an evening
+breeze laden with pleasant messages from the fresh and open sea. But
+then there was also a fire, before which Janet was standing, busy with
+some cooking operation. Best of all, Jamie, whose face was turned
+towards her, was sitting propped up in his bed, a faint flush, not from
+fever, in his cheek, and a look of earnest living interest in his face,
+as he listened to Archie’s reading. He was the first to perceive Mary,
+and he cried out, “Come ben, Mary lass, and praise the guid Lord wi’ us!
+He _hae_ cared for us, after a’.”
+
+“Come an’ tak’ yer supper,” said Janet, “ye maun be amaist starved.”
+
+Archie at the same moment laid down his book, and exclaimed with
+characteristic vehemence, “We’re a’ richt noo, Mary! Our Jamie’s no to
+dee, but to live!”
+
+But Mary, instead of responding to these joyful words, threw herself
+upon the nearest seat; and, worn out with sorrow, fatigue, and
+excitement, wept long and unrestrainedly.
+
+Who dreams that tears are the saddest things on earth? Sorrow has often
+failed to bring them, when the gentle summons of joy and hope has called
+them forth from their hidden cells.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  VII.
+                         =New Friends and Old.=
+
+
+             “Oh! are not meetings in this world of change
+             Sadder than partings oft?”
+                                         HEMANS.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  VII.
+                         =New Friends and Old.=
+
+
+It was some time before Mary could obtain any distinct idea of what had
+taken place in her absence. Janet and Archie, so eager to tell all that
+they were in danger of telling nothing clearly, talked together, and
+nearly drowned each other’s voices. At last, however, Jamie found
+opportunity to put in a word. Taking the New Testament in his hands, he
+said reverently, “Thank God for his guidness to me and mine the day. He
+hae sent his ain dear servant to speak the words my soul langed for, and
+to set my feet on the rock. We were no worthy o’ the like, and we didna
+think on’t.”
+
+“_Wha_ has been here?” asked Mary, with a bewildered look.
+
+“Mary!” cried Archie, “I hae telled ye thae ten times—just Maister
+Wishart himsel!”[8]
+
+And then by degrees they told Mary all that had happened. It was a very
+simple story, and not in the least wonderful, though they were disposed
+to think far otherwise. The minister of Christ who spent his days in
+such labours of love, and in whose eyes the soul of the poor man was as
+precious as that of the rich, had heard of the Duncans from some
+neighbour whom he chanced to visit. For although in more prosperous
+times the family had rather the reputation of “hauding their heads
+high,” and “keeping theirsels to theirsels,” they were generally
+respected, as those are sure to be who in difficult circumstances “learn
+and labour truly to get their own living,” making no complaint and
+asking no help. When Effie’s death became known, people gave them a
+passing sigh of pity; but the sorrow seemed a light one in comparison
+with that of so many others. It was different when the tidings, “Our
+Jamie’s down wi’ the sickness,” came from Archie’s lips, as he stood at
+the window to answer some neighbourly inquiry from the street. Every one
+knew what that eldest brother had been to the family; and men shook
+their heads mournfully as they acknowledged that “the puir Duncans were
+in sair trouble—God help them!”
+
+The servant of Christ was thus furnished with the only motive he ever
+needed for going anywhere, the motive that had brought him from the
+midst of his honoured successful ministry in Ayrshire back to
+plague-stricken Dundee—“They are now in trouble, and need comfort.” To
+enter the humble dwelling, to take his seat by Jamie’s bedside, and in
+simple language suited to his need and his weakness to offer him the
+precious consolations of the gospel—this was easily done. But then the
+sick man had perplexities to solve, and doubts to set at rest. “It was
+that easy to speak to him, just as it is to yer ain sel, Mary,” he said
+afterwards. Nor was this wonderful, from the peculiar grace and
+gentleness which everything that has come down to us of George Wishart
+leads us to attribute to him. One who watched him closely describes him
+as “courteous, lowly, lovely,” in his intercourse with others. There
+must have been fine elements of natural character; but independently of
+these, men who live very near to Christ not seldom learn to deal with
+their fellow-men in a loving, tender, self-forgetting spirit. One by one
+Jamie’s difficulties, like shadows, fled away before the light of the
+Word of God, patiently and skilfully brought to bear upon every dark
+perplexing point. Power was given him from above to receive and embrace
+the truths thus clearly set before him; and with a heart eased of its
+heavy burdens, he was able to tell the minister (who talked not _to_ him
+alone, but _with_ him) of the death of their little sister. They
+ventured to ask him some of those questions which are so dear to every
+bereaved heart—where and what was their lost one now?—were they not
+right in thinking she was at rest, was happy?
+
+Wishart told them in reply, that if any one “had begone to have the
+faith of Jesus Christ,” as had their sister, his or her soul “shall
+never sleape, bot ever shall leve ane immortal lyef; the which lyef from
+day to day is renewed in grace and augmented; nor yett shall ever
+perish, or have ane end, bot shall ever leve immortal with Christ thare
+Head. To the which lyef all that beleve in him shall come, and rest in
+eternal glorie.”
+
+Prayer followed, such prayer as could only be offered by one who
+habitually talked more with God than with man. Was the minister’s work
+done then? Enough was done to fill at least three hearts with grateful
+love, and to leave with them a hallowed memory that should last long,
+long after—what we must not now anticipate;—but there soon came a day
+from which this day could not be looked back upon except through
+blinding, burning tears.
+
+Another duty however remained, and one in which he especially delighted.
+They had not confessed their necessities, nor would they have done so,
+but it needed not to be, as he was, “maist scharp of eye and judgment”
+to perceive what was amiss. The bare unfurnished room told its own
+story, as did also the pale and sharpened features of the inmates. He
+gave what they needed; and in a way that made it, if more blessed to
+give, at least blessed also to receive—for much of this is in the
+giver’s power. He spoke words of hope and cheer, for he guessed rightly
+that the supply of the sick man’s wants would go far towards ensuring
+his recovery; he gave Jamie the Testament out of which he had read to
+him, knowing that the book could not easily be procured elsewhere; and
+then he took his leave “as tho’ we’d been a’ braw gentlefolk like
+himsel,” as the delighted Archie afterwards declared.
+
+Mary heard all this, and much more in the shape of blessings invoked by
+grateful hearts upon the good minister, with much wonder and
+thankfulness. It was impossible not to regret that she had been absent;
+but since every step of her way, even the smallest, was ordered by One
+who thought and cared for her, she knew that this also must be right.
+And the quiet depth of that love and reverence with which she regarded
+the man who had been the messenger of God’s mercy to her soul, could
+scarcely have been increased by standing face to face with him in a
+room, and touching his hand with hers.
+
+“Weel,” said Jamie, “it’s no to look for that we’ll ever see his face
+again, ony o’ us, forbye at the preaching. But here’s the Testament—the
+vera Word o’ God! Is no that wonnerfu’?”
+
+“Let me hand it in my ain hand, Jamie,” said Mary.
+
+No one that reads these pages will be able to understand from experience
+what Mary felt as, loving Christ more than her life, she held in her
+hand for the first time the Book that contains the words of Christ. Day
+by day she had gone with eager willing footsteps for draughts from that
+fountain; and now, behold! the fountain was hers, was theirs, to draw
+from whenever they would. She raised the Book to her lips and kissed it.
+
+“I’m to read it for ye a’,” said Archie, for the first time in his life
+proud of his scholarship.
+
+“I’m nae but a puir scholar,” added Jamie, “but ainst I’m weel again,
+I’ll try hard to learn; and then, Mary, I’ll teach you and Janet.”
+
+Janet, on hearing him speak with such confidence of his own recovery,
+exchanged glances of satisfaction with Mary, and shortly afterwards
+remarked: “The first words we heard Maister Wishart say, the day ye
+gar’d us a’ gang to the Cowgate, Mary, will we or nill we, was just
+this, ‘It’s nae herb nor plaister, but God’s Word that heals the folk,’
+an’ I’m thinking it’s owre true.”
+
+Yes; the worst was over now. The sunshine of that day abode with the
+Duncans. By the aid of that best medicine, a happy because a trustful
+heart, Jamie recovered surely though slowly. No other member of the
+family took the sickness; and when the minister’s gift was exhausted,
+other friends (perhaps through a hint from _him_) were raised up to
+supply their necessities. For the preacher of righteousness by faith had
+provoked men everywhere to love and good works. “The toune was
+wonderouse beneficiall;” and the rich were becoming day by day not only
+more willing to impart to the poor, but more active and self-denying in
+searching out those cases of distress which are all the more worthy of
+succour because carefully hidden from the public eye.
+
+Jamie was not yet able to leave his bed, when one evening, as they were
+all together listening to Archie, who was reading aloud from the
+Testament, some one knocked at the street door. Archie put down the
+book, and ran to open it, speedily returning with the tidings, “Yon’s a
+gentleman speiring after Mary Wigton.”
+
+“Did ye tell him the sickness was here, callant?” asked Jamie.
+
+“He had his een,”[9] returned Archie, “sae he micht hae seen the mark.
+But he gaed richt into the first room on the left han’ side, asking nae
+leave o’ me.”
+
+Mary knew that was the room where her father died. She could scarcely
+tell why, but she felt a shade of apprehension as she silently went down
+to meet the stranger.
+
+She soon found herself face to face with a well-dressed man, who looked
+about forty years of age, though he was in reality ten years younger. He
+was pale, and had dark rings about his eyes, which were large and
+mournful, indeed almost wild in their expression, and certainly the most
+striking features of a face otherwise not prepossessing. His forehead
+was high but narrow, his lips were large and full, and his whole
+countenance had an anxious, restless look.
+
+Mary courtesied, and asked, “Is it me ye were wanting, sir?”
+
+“Do ye no mind me, Mary? I’m yer brother, John Wigton,” said the
+stranger, taking her in his arms and embracing her.
+
+For a moment she shrank back half frightened. Could this be the brother
+from whom she parted, as a little child, so long, long ago? She only
+remembered him a bright, noble-looking young lad; could this man of
+middle age, with that sallow, care-worn face, be really John Wigton? And
+again, could he be Sir John Wigton, the priest? If so, where was his
+priest’s frock? Almost before she was aware of it, this question had
+passed her lips.
+
+“Nae matter o’ that,” was the reply. “Do ye no ken a kirkman may lay it
+by when his superiors order the same, as mine hae done me?”
+
+“Oh, but, John, hae ye heard that father’s dead?”
+
+A look of hard repressed sorrow passed over Wigton’s face as he answered
+briefly, “Ay.”
+
+“He askit for ye, John, a’maist wi’ his last breath. His word was aye
+and aye, ‘Whaur’s our John?’ Wae’s me! why did ye no come to us before?”
+
+“I couldna, lassie,” he said, his voice trembling a little. “And noo, I
+hae searched the haill town through to find ye.”
+
+“Wha telled ye I was here?”
+
+“Sin’ I left St. Andrews meaning to come here, I hae been at the auld
+farm.”
+
+“Then ye didna come here o’ purpose to speir after _us_,” said Mary, in
+some surprise. “What gar’d ye come to sic’ a place ava’, gin it wasna
+for that? Did ye no hear o’ the sickness?”
+
+“I’m a servant o’ Holy Kirk, Mary; and I daur gae _onywhaur_, were it
+into the vera jaws o’ death, to do my duty by the same.”
+
+Mary thought this was certainly a noble sentiment, and one which Wishart
+would approve; though at the same time it occurred to her that _he_ had
+never said so much for himself, while he acted upon the principle every
+day.
+
+Wigton presently resumed: “Forbye, whaur the deil’s ain children are no
+fear’t to gang upon their father’s evil wark, guid men and true suldna
+shrink frae following them.”
+
+“I didna ken we had ony sic’ wicked folk amang us,” said Mary, with a
+puzzled look.
+
+“Atweel, never mind that. Tell me—”
+
+“Of our puir father and mither. Oh, ay—but ye suld hae been wi’ us,
+John.”
+
+Wigton, who had seated himself, now rose and turned his face away. After
+a few moments he said, “Dinna talk o’ them. No the nicht. Tell me o’
+yersel. Wha has fended for ye sin’ ye’ve been left yer lane?”
+
+Mary told him of the kindness she had experienced from the Duncans,
+admitting however that they had endured many hardships together, and
+been in great want. Her brother warmly expressed his regret that such
+should have been the case, adding, “Ye’ll no hae that to say ony mair,
+lassie. I hae siller enoo’ for baith, and to spare.”
+
+In proof of his assertion, he drew out a purse certainly much heavier
+than that which had so lately relieved their necessities, and took from
+it several pieces of gold.
+
+Mary’s eyes sparkled. For herself, having food and raiment, although of
+the humblest kind, she was more than content; but she could not help
+rejoicing at the thought of having wherewith to assist those kind and
+self-denying friends who had done so much for her.
+
+“Jamie and Janet hae mony a time gone hungry theirsels that I might
+share the bit bread,” she said. “An’ it’s blythe I’d be to bring them
+thae broad pieces the nicht.”
+
+“Sae ye sall,” answered John. “’Twas for you and father I took the gowd;
+and noo, I’ve naebody but yersel to share it wi’.” After a pause he
+added, “Can I bide here?”
+
+“There’s naething to hinder but fear o’ the sickness. Sin’ father dee’d
+here (John Wigton started), naebody daured tak’ the room.”
+
+“Was it _here_, in this room, then?”
+
+“Ay, in this vera room. There he lay, calling for you, John, and moaning
+like, because he couldna get a priest.”
+
+“That was awfu’,” said John, growing very pale.
+
+“Oh, John, it a’maist broke my heart to think on’t. I daurna tell ye a’
+the gruesome, fearfu’ thochts I used to hae. But God be thanked, a’
+that’s by lang syne.”
+
+Her brother did not answer; he may not even have heard her. He was
+sitting with his head buried in his hands, absorbed in bitter
+reflection. For the thought of his father’s death, without priest or
+sacrament (as he would have expressed it), was more terrible to him than
+it had ever been even to Mary.
+
+After a while, his sister returned to the subject upon which they had
+been speaking. “Ye could hae a room upstairs, John, and there wadna be
+sae muckle risk in’t. There’s naebody in the haill land noo but guidwife
+Brown and—”
+
+“Brown!” repeated Wigton, rousing himself. “It was thanks to her
+guidman, I fand ye ava’.”
+
+“He’s but just hame frae the sea,” said Mary.
+
+“Ay; I forgathered wi’ him at the tavern whaur I dined. We talked
+thegither, and as seamen use, he was by-ordinar free, and willing to
+tell me a’ his matters. His guidwife, he said, had been sair troubled
+wi’ the sickness o’ her bairn; but he couldna say enoo’ o’ the kindness
+o’ a lassie—ane Mary Wigton—wha bided in the same land.”
+
+“’Twasna sae muckle what I did for her, puir thing,” said Mary. “Still,
+I’m unco blythe ye fand me, John. But I daurna bring ye to the Duncans,
+seeing Jamie’s no weel yet.”
+
+“Did ye tell them ye had a brither a priest?”
+
+“Oh, ay; I hae telled them that.”
+
+“Then ye maunna say I’m yer brither, Mary.”
+
+“What for?” asked Mary, evidently distressed.
+
+“It doesna look sae weel for a priest to gang without his frock; forbye
+there are reasons. Ye can just say I’m a friend.”
+
+Mary shook her head. “I maun say what’s true,” she answered.
+
+“Weel, say a kinsman. Nae doot but that’s true.”
+
+With this compromise Mary, who hated unnecessary mysteries, was obliged,
+though reluctantly, to content herself for the present. At her brother’s
+request she left him alone for the night in the room where his father
+died, having first tried in vain to induce him to seek quarters where he
+would be less exposed to the danger of infection. Taking with her the
+gold he had given, she returned to the Duncans, told them as much as she
+was permitted to do, and in all simplicity and with the freedom of a
+sister gave the money into Janet’s keeping for the family use.
+
+The supply was very seasonable, though Jamie scrupled to accept of it.
+But had they known from whose hands it came, and how it was obtained,
+not Jamie alone, but Mary herself, Janet, and most certainly Archie,
+would have died of absolute starvation rather than have touched it.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                 VIII.
+                      =The Cardinal’s Missionary.=
+
+
+   “The blood-thirsty hate the upright; but the just seek his soul.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                 VIII.
+                      =The Cardinal’s Missionary.=
+
+
+The next morning Mary saw her brother again. First interviews between
+relatives or friends who have been long parted are almost always
+unsatisfactory. It is neither the things of most importance, nor those
+nearest the hearts of the speakers that rise to the lips; the waters are
+as yet too much troubled; they must have time to settle ere their depths
+become visible. But after the night (though that night had been
+sleepless to both, and to one very miserable), they talked more at their
+ease. John Wigton was most incommunicative about everything that
+concerned himself; but he seemed really anxious to hear every particular
+about his family. He had previously learned the fact of his mother’s
+death, but little more than this. Mary therefore began her story at this
+point, and then told of the relinquishment of their farm, of the journey
+to Dundee, and the hardships endured since their arrival there. The
+narrative of her father’s death naturally followed, and was given much
+more at large than on the preceding evening. John heard it almost in
+silence; but he looked very sad, and now and then he sighed heavily.
+Perhaps conscience was at work within him, whispering that if he had
+done his duty, and honoured his father and mother according to God’s
+commandment, all this sorrow need not have been. But John Wigton’s
+conscience could not, in the present state of things, be greatly relied
+upon. Not that it was by any means silent or dead; on the contrary, it
+was in continual active exercise; but, like a chronometer wrongly set,
+it was regulated upon such false principles that every beat tended only
+to mislead.
+
+Seeing him so much cast down, Mary essayed to speak some words of
+comfort. “Ye ken, John,” she said, “gin a hantle priests had been wi’ my
+puir father, they wadna hae done him muckle guid. When I kenned that
+mysel, my ain heart grew lichter. An’ oh, but a’ the weary burdens were
+taken aff me for aye and aye, aince I learned that the blessed Lord
+loved me, and cared for me. Sin’ that wonnerfu’ sermon o’ Maister
+Wishart’s—”
+
+“_What!_” interrupted Wigton, with a start. “Ye hae heard _him_?”
+
+“That I hae, and blessed God for the same. Wae’s me, what ails ye,
+John?”
+
+It was no wonder she asked, for John Wigton’s face was white to the
+lips, and his eyes were gleaming with passion.
+
+“This is waur than my puir father deeing like a dog, but shrift or
+housel. Lass, lass! yer soul‘ll be lost for aye an’ aye. Do ye believe
+his abominable heresies?”
+
+Although pale and trembling at this outburst of rage, Mary answered
+bravely, “I believe that he speaks the true word o’ God, whase servant
+he is.”
+
+“He’s no God’s servant; he’s the devil’s ain—”
+
+“Whisht!” said Mary, laying her hand on his lips, and speaking in a tone
+almost of authority, “Ye sallna say thae wicked words in my hearing.
+It’s no that ye can hurt or harm God’s dear servant, but ye’ll sair hurt
+yer ain soul.”
+
+“How lang may it be sin’ ye hae been ta’en wi’ thae fooleries?”
+
+“They’re nae fooleries, brother. Is it foolery, think ye, to ken for
+sure that the guid Saviour dee’d for me, to hae a’ my sins forgien?”
+
+“Haud yer clavers!” interrupted John Wigton, angrily. “It’s no sae easy,
+the forgieness o’ sins. I tell ye, lass, there hae been blessed saints
+whase shoon the like o’ you and me are no worthy to unloose, wha hae
+toiled, and tholed, and striven their haill lives lang, and after a’ hae
+been no sure, no _that_ sure. And noo, forsooth, lads and lasses wha
+canna read or write, daur to prate o’ the forgiveness o’ sins, a’
+because a leeing, thieving loon—”
+
+Mary rose with a crimsoned cheek, and walked towards the door.
+
+Angry as he was, John Wigton perceived that if he desired to be heard to
+the end, he must use different language. “Weel,” he said with a sneer,
+“because Maister George Wishart tells them a hantle lees and clashes out
+o’ his ain head. What’s _he_, that folk suld tak’ his word before that
+o’ my Lord Cardinal, and the Bishops, and the Doctors, and Holy Kirk
+hersel?”
+
+“It’s no _his_ word, John, it’s the Lord’s.”
+
+“Hoot awa’! But there’s ane comfort, ye’ll no hear the like aft again, I
+wad ye.”
+
+Mary now looked not only distressed but alarmed. “What gars ye say
+that?” she asked. “It’s nae manner o’ use for the Cardinal or the
+Governor to bid Maister Wishart awa’, as they did aince before, for noo
+the townfolk’ll a’ stan’ by him like ane man. They a’maist worship the
+ground he walks on; and that’s no wonnerfu’.”
+
+Wigton’s pale face grew a shade paler, and he compressed his lips
+firmly. Could Mary have read his secret thoughts she would have been
+profoundly astonished. He was balancing _his own_ chances of martyrdom,
+and arming himself with courage to meet them.
+
+She broke the silence at last with the very pertinent question, “Hae ye
+ever heard him yersel?”
+
+“Me? Na; thank the saints. And hark ye here, Mary. Gin you and I are to
+be brither and sister, _friends_ and no faes and strangers, ye maun gie
+yer word to me this vera hour that ye’ll no gang ony mair to that
+heretic’s preaching. Will ye dae that?”
+
+“I’ll dee first,” answered Mary, very quietly. But there looked out from
+her soft brown eyes a soul as strong and more resolved than that of John
+Wigton.
+
+He gazed at her for a moment or two, and then said bitterly, “I hae said
+my say. God’s malison and mine I gie the traitor wha hae driven ye daft
+wi’ his clavers, ye silly lass!”
+
+He turned, and was about to leave the room, but Mary stopped him. “Bide
+a wee, John Wigton,” she said. “It’s unco ill to thole that my ane
+brither suld come back to me after a’ these years, naebut to say thae
+cruel, bitter words. Wi’ father’s an’ mither’s twa graves between us, it
+micht hae been different. But this maun be _the cross_ that Maister
+Wishart talks of—God help me to bear it patiently. Atweel, John, it’s no
+_that_ gars me speak. Sma’ matter for me, but muckle for yer ain puir
+soul, gin ye put the word o’ God frae ye. Dinna mind what silly folk hae
+telled ye, but use yer ain een, and the guid wit God gied ye. Is it to
+look for, think ye, that a man wha hae put the dear life in his hand,
+and come amang us at sic a time, like God’s ain blessed angel, suld be
+what you daur call him, though _I_ daurna speak the word? Wha hae said,
+‘By their fruits ye sall ken them?’ And did ye ever see sic’ fruit as
+that grow on ony tree _He_ hasna planted?”
+
+“Satan himsel can tak’ the likeness of an angel o’ licht,” answered John
+Wigton. No words that human lips can utter sound as mournful as the
+words of Scripture when quoted thus.
+
+“I’m no asking ye to trust what ye havena heard and sifted,” answered
+Mary. “But I think that when a man hae _done_ like Maister Wishart,
+ither folk are bound at least to hear what he has got to say. Gang to
+the Cowgate yersel, hear his doctrine, and pray God to show ye the
+truth.”
+
+“I’m content wi’ the truth o’ Holy Kirk,” said Wigton in reply, and with
+these words they parted.
+
+How often it happens that the thing we most earnestly desire, when at
+last we obtain it, wears an aspect so different from all we anticipated,
+is in such dark sad contrast to our brilliant hopes, that the desire
+accomplished, instead of sweetness, proves very bitterness to the soul.
+As in the fabled fairy gifts, the silver sheen changes into dust, the
+glory has departed. Mary had longed for that lost brother, had wept and
+prayed for his return through years of anxiety and sorrow. Not alone
+from her dying father’s couch had that sad cry, “Where’s our John?”
+re-echoed and found no answer. Night and day, and often with bitter
+tears, had the same question been asked, first by the motherless, then
+by the wholly orphaned girl. There is something very sorrowful in being
+left in early youth without any near household ties. And although He
+that setteth the solitary in families had dealt with Mary in fatherly
+pity, there was still a waste and desolate place in her heart that no
+one save the brother of her childhood could fill.
+
+That brother had returned, but only to cast scorn on what she most loved
+and revered, and to demand from her, as the price of his affection, the
+renunciation of what was dearer to her than life itself. If tears were
+mingled with her prayers that night, was it any marvel?
+
+But her distress, keen though it was, was happiness compared with the
+anguish her brother was enduring. For the fire of fanaticism, a fire
+kindled from beneath and not from above, burned and tortured the heart
+upon which it fed. They had the greater sin who had worked upon the
+sensibilities of an awakened conscience, and an excitable nervous
+organization. In that condition of mind and body which was the natural
+result of years of mental distress, physical suffering, and intense and
+continued excitement, and which might not improbably have been the
+precursor of insanity, John Wigton had fallen into the hands of
+remorseless designing men, who, being by no means fanatics themselves,
+knew how to use a fanatic to the best advantage. Whatever his
+capabilities or endowments may or may not be, a man who, for any reason,
+has learned to despise death, always possesses a kind of strength which
+other men have not. It was probably the fact that he had no objection to
+the honours of martyrdom, that recommended “Schir John Wighton, a
+desperat preast,” to the notice and employment of a personage of very
+different character, David Beaton, Cardinal and Archbishop of St.
+Andrews.
+
+Great and signal service to be done to the Holy Catholic Church, full
+pardon at last for all his sins, and immortal renown and glory, these
+chiefly were the allurements that baited the hook. But alas for the
+melancholy inconsistencies of human nature! The man who could feel the
+power of these motives was at the same time not above taking gold in
+payment for a deed of blood. For, on the one hand, fanaticism does not
+expel the sordid passions of our nature; nor had it, on the other,
+succeeded in stifling every sentiment of affection in the heart of John
+Wigton. He hoped to atone for his past neglect by making ample provision
+for his father and young sister; and he thought himself the rather at
+liberty to do this, since he was about to perform an act of such
+exceptional virtue that its merit might well obtain an indulgence for
+greater weaknesses than those of filial and fraternal affection. So
+thoroughly had he learned to put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter.
+
+The unhappy man had in an evil hour undertaken a cruel and a perilous
+task. Beneath the gown for which he had exchanged his priest’s frock, he
+bore a sharp new dagger, which he had sworn to sheathe in the heart that
+had brought so much help and comfort to Dundee. Such were the convincing
+arguments Cardinal Beaton employed to silence obstinate heretics like
+George Wishart.
+
+And this is “an owre true tale.” There is no room for the so-called
+liberality of the present day to accuse us of libelling our adversaries,
+and drawing from a heated fancy pictures of crimes never committed, in
+order to calumniate the characters of men whose opinions we detest.
+Those who accuse Protestant writers of doing this are recommended, if
+their nerves will bear it, to study for themselves the history of past
+ages in contemporary records. They will probably rise from the study
+sadder and wiser, and in a temper to comprehend that sublime burst of
+angelic thanksgiving, “Thou art righteous, O Lord, which art, and wast,
+and shalt be, because thou hast judged thus. For they have shed the
+blood of saints and prophets, and thou hast given them blood to drink;
+for they are worthy.”
+
+They who know the depths of Satan, as exemplified in the history of the
+Romish apostasy, will respond from full hearts, Amen and Amen!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  IX.
+                        =How the Mission Sped.=
+
+
+    “’Tis sweet to stammer one letter,
+    From the Eternal’s language; on earth it is called Forgiveness.”
+                                                    LONGFELLOW.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  IX.
+                        =How the Mission Sped.=
+
+
+Without exactly fulfilling his threat of becoming to his only sister as
+a stranger or an enemy, John Wigton withdrew himself almost entirely
+from her society. He took up his quarters in a different lodging, and
+only came to see her upon two or three occasions for a short time. Nor
+were these visits productive of much enjoyment to either party; for
+controversy was sure to arise between them, and then the brother became
+violent, and the sister sorrowful though steadfast. It added to her
+grief that she could not help perceiving he was very unhappy, while she
+felt utterly unable either to aid or to comfort him. She tried once or
+twice to induce him to speak of himself, and to tell her where he had
+spent the past years, what he had been doing, and what he intended to do
+in future. But he repelled, in an irritable and impatient manner, every
+effort to win his confidence; until at last the poor girl, thus
+prohibited from inquiring into what might interest _him_, and dreading
+the mention of what interested herself for fear of raising a storm, was
+almost reduced to silence. Above all, she sedulously avoided any
+allusion to Wishart, as the name she most venerated seemed to awaken in
+his mind a fierce and bitter hatred that filled her with anguish and
+alarm. Thus it happened that she never told him of the minister’s
+seasonable visit to the Duncans. Nor was this perhaps to be greatly
+regretted. The circumstance that the man he intended to kill had saved
+his sister from perishing of want, would not probably have either
+softened the assassin’s feelings or altered his purpose. In his present
+temper of mind, John Wigton would have regarded the heretic’s good
+offices in the light of injuries and insults, intended to beguile and
+calculated to degrade those who accepted of them.
+
+Upon one occasion, however, he himself opened the forbidden subject by
+asking abruptly, “Are ye bound for the heretic preaching the morn,
+Mary?”
+
+She answered quietly, “Yes.”
+
+“Dinna gang, lassie,” said John, in a tone rather of entreaty than of
+command.
+
+The kindness of his manner touched her, and she answered, “I’m sair
+vexed ye dinna like it, John, but I maun gang whaur I hear o’ my Saviour
+Christ.”
+
+“Ye hae gone aft and aft, can ye no bide at hame, just for aince!”
+
+Mary shook her head; the matter was not only one of inclination but of
+principle with her. She did not think she would be doing the will of her
+Lord in forsaking the assembling together of those that loved his name,
+and forfeiting even one of her precious opportunities of hearing more
+about him. Who could tell how long those opportunities might be granted,
+since the sword of the pestilence was still suspended over the heads of
+both minister and people? She therefore steadily refused to grant her
+brother’s request, that only this once, for his sake, she would absent
+herself from the preaching. She expected a burst of passion, but this
+time John Wigton exercised unusual self-control, merely saying, “Weel,
+gang yer ain gait. It’s naebut for yer guid I spoke the word. Guid
+nicht.” And as they parted he kissed her—a mark of affection he had not
+shown since their first bitter quarrel about the preaching.
+
+Jamie being still unable to leave the house, Mary, Janet, and Archie,
+went together the next day to the East Port; taking their places of
+course amongst the congregation who worshipped outside the gate. They
+were unfortunate in the position into which they were forced by the
+pressure of the crowd. Without much will or design of their own, they
+were gradually pushed under the gateway, and quite close to the massive
+bars of the gate. In this situation they could hear very well, but were
+unable to see; a loss always considerable, but especially so where the
+earnest speaking countenance of the preacher lent additional weight to
+his words. Archie loudly deplored the privation, but Mary soon felt
+herself more than repaid for it. She could scarcely indeed believe the
+testimony of her eyes—there, within the gate, not a yard from her, stood
+her brother! He looked pale and haggard, but at this she did not marvel,
+since it must have been after a hard struggle with the prejudices and
+prepossessions of half a lifetime, that he prevailed on himself to take
+his place amongst the hearers of the great heretic. But was not this the
+dawn of a brighter day for both of them, and the earnest of an answer to
+her many fervent prayers on his behalf? Her heart went up silently in
+words of thanksgiving, and it must be owned that she was rather in
+danger of yielding to the subtle temptation of listening to the Word of
+God with the ears of those in whom we are interested rather than for our
+own edification. More fortunate, however, than the listeners without the
+gate, her brother soon succeeded in obtaining a better position, and
+passed on to where her eye could not follow him.
+
+We must follow him thither. With the successful pertinacity of a man in
+a crowd who has a settled purpose, while those around him have only a
+vague desire to make themselves as comfortable as they can, he slowly
+pushed his way until he reached the very foot of the narrow stair by
+which the preacher always descended into the street from his elevated
+position on the top of the gate. Then, for the first time, John Wigton
+saw the man he purposed to slay. In spite of sleepless nights and weary
+days spent in prayer to all the saints in the Calendar for a strong and
+steady heart, a tremor ran through his frame at the moment. Wishart was
+kneeling for the prayer that preceded his sermon, but he soon rose and
+began to speak. Wigton however did not hear a word, he only saw the
+speaker. A morbid but most natural fancy that he was looking at _him_,
+at him alone in all that crowd, took possession of his mind. He could
+not endure the gaze of that dark, mournful, noble countenance. It was
+one thing to think of George Wishart as a kind of abstraction, the
+representative of those ideas which his heart most loathed and detested;
+another to stand and look him in the face, a living man, whom that sharp
+“whinger” beneath his gown, upon the hilt of which his hand was resting,
+must, in two hours at the most, change into a ghastly corpse. It was
+gruesome work at the best,—_why_ had he undertaken it?
+
+But it had to be done. The interests of Holy Kirk, the salvation of his
+own soul, the rescue of many others from fearful peril, all demanded it.
+His heart was resolved, and he would not look at the man again; where
+was the use of it? But he _did_ look again, in fact he neither looked,
+nor could look, away from him. A kind of fascination held his eyes fixed
+to the spot. With that curious minuteness of perception which is
+sometimes the result of intense excitement, his mind took in everything
+however trifling—his victim’s dress, simple in fashion and coarse in
+texture;[10] the long frieze mantle with the plain black “millian”
+doublet underneath, relieved by snow white cuffs and Geneva bands,—all
+such as a poor man might have worn, and yet so worn by him as to add to
+the impression which made every one instinctively describe him as “a
+braw gentleman.”
+
+Then with a start Wigton tried to recall his wandering thoughts. But
+before he was aware of it, he actually found himself, in spite of all
+his previous resolutions, listening to the heretic preacher. The words
+so often repeated in his heart, “the forgiveness of sins,” struck on his
+ear, and beguiled him even into a few moments’ forgetfulness of his
+purpose. What he heard was so unlike all his anticipations that very
+wonder made him listen still for more. He expected to hear a torrent of
+coarse and scurrilous abuse poured upon the dogmas and ceremonies of the
+Church; not worse perhaps in point of good taste and good feeling than
+the average sermons of the Gray or Black Friars, but necessarily most
+offensive to a devout Catholic. He heard nothing of the kind. The
+preacher’s soul was intent on “this one thing,” to bring other souls to
+Christ; and he only stooped to notice error when it lay so directly in
+the way between the sinner and the Saviour that he must needs clear it
+thence and cast it forth. “To the pure word of God he gave his
+labooris.” Christ, in his person and his work, was the theme of his
+discourse.
+
+“He only is our Mediator,” he said, “and maketh intercession for us to
+God his Father.
+
+“He is the door, by which we must enter in.
+
+“He that entereth not in by this door, but climbeth ane other way, is a
+thief and a murderer.
+
+“He is the Verity and Life.
+
+“He that goeth out of this way, there is no doubt but he shall fall into
+the mire; yea, verily he is fallen into it already.”
+
+Then he “exhorted all men equally in his doctrine,” to put their trust
+in that Saviour, and to receive from him what he was exalted to God’s
+right hand on purpose to give, and that freely, repentance and remission
+of sins.
+
+Had John Wigton heard these words twelve years ago, how different might
+all have been! Then indeed for him might the parched ground—the mirage
+of the desert—have become a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water.
+Too late now! And yet it might be that a few drops of that living water,
+poured so freely upon all around, forced their way through the hard
+crust of fanaticism to the human heart that still throbbed beneath it.
+For old feelings long forgotten, new feelings struggling for life, began
+to stir within him. There was a strange sweetness in all this, mingled
+with a kind of pain; as if those re-awakened longings, never satisfied
+before, scarcely hoping to be satisfied now, cried aloud in his heart,
+“Wherefore hast thou disquieted us to bring us up?” Glorious thought of
+forgiveness, of peace with God, once, oh how ardently desired! Might it
+even still be realized? Was it in this way,—
+
+Where was he? What was he doing? Was he dreaming? No; at least the hard
+hilt of the whinger, pressed by his right hand, was real enough. But he
+had actually been listening to the heretic; and so listening that he had
+forgotten himself, what he came to do, everything, except those
+wonderful words. Had he forgotten his faith? Was the numbing spell of
+heresy creeping over his senses, even over _his_? Horrible thought!
+“Holy Mother of God, aid and keep thy servant,” he said within himself.
+And then there came over him a great and sudden revulsion of feeling.
+The very fact that for a few moments his heart had been half won, made
+the strong rebound to his old hatred and fanaticism all the quicker and
+surer. How subtle must be that poison which, in spite of all his
+precautions, had well-nigh stolen into his own veins. How fatally sweet
+the voice of that charmer to whom, trained and guarded as he was, he had
+almost been seduced into listening! They who listened should no doubt
+repent it where there was no more place for repentance, in the fire that
+is not quenched for ever and ever. It was time all this were ended. The
+murderer of souls had earned his doom, and his blood should be upon his
+own head. Heart and hand were strong enough now, and ready for the work
+of vengeance. It was well they were; for the heretic’s sermon was over,
+and he was about to descend from the gate.
+
+After the concluding prayer there was a pause of solemn silence, then
+the people began soberly to disperse. Wigton, who was fully aware of the
+hazard of the deed he had undertaken, had planned a quick escape through
+the startled crowd after its accomplishment. He now retained sufficient
+composure to look round and decide upon the way he should take. By the
+time this was done, the preacher was descending the narrow staircase. In
+a moment the two are face to face. Now—now! One blow for Holy Mother
+Church!
+
+Before that blow could be struck, George Wishart calmly laid his hand on
+the assassin’s arm, saying, “Friend, what wad ye do?” Then, with a
+gesture at once gentle and commanding, he threw back his gown, and took
+the now useless whinger from his nerveless unresisting grasp.
+
+John Wigton was the superstitious child of a superstitious age; and he
+had long been in that peculiar temper of mind from which the thought of
+the supernatural is never far removed. With nerves and brain stimulated
+to a pitch of intense excitement, it was most natural that he should
+take for a miracle what was in reality only an instance of wonderful
+quickness of perception and presence of mind. Clearly God was on this
+man’s side, and had interposed his own arm to protect and deliver him!
+Then had _he_ been fighting even against God!
+
+Overwhelmed by the thought, and conscience-stricken, he threw himself at
+the feet of the man whose life he sought, confessing in broken accents
+what he had been about to do, and why. He even named the Lord Cardinal
+as the instigator of the crime. Beaton had indeed been guilty, not only
+of a crime but of a blunder, when he selected for so tough a piece of
+work an instrument at once too weak and too fine.
+
+But in betraying his employer, the miserable man had also betrayed
+himself, and that to an instant and horrible death. He knew and felt
+this as he stood there like one turned to stone, with cheeks and lips of
+ashy whiteness, and eyes wild with terror. The revelation of his
+purpose, made by himself alone, and overheard by the bystanders, had
+transformed the quiet orderly assembly into a frantic mob, thirsting for
+his blood like one man, or rather like some fierce beast of prey
+springing with eyes of fire upon its terrified, palsied victim. All mobs
+have not had so fair an excuse for violence. Should a company of men who
+are treading in the dark some perilous path that skirts a precipice,
+arrest a stranger in the act of hurling their solitary light-bearer down
+the rock, they would not probably be very scrupulous in their treatment
+of the criminal. Every man in the crowd who had a sword or whinger, drew
+it, and rushed towards the assassin, while the rest brandished staves or
+caught up stones from the street. And “the noyse rising, and coming to
+the ears of the sick (without the gate), they cried, ‘Deliver the
+traitor unto us, or ellis we will tack him by force;’ and so they birst
+in at the gate.”[11]
+
+Wigton tried hard to cry to God for the mercy he dared not hope from
+man; but no word would come to him, nor any thought except a fearful
+looking for of judgment and fiery indignation. His head dropped on his
+breast; his arms were folded in despair. A lifetime’s agony seemed
+compressed into those horrible moments. He must die, and unforgiven. All
+was lost—lost—lost—for ever.
+
+No; he is saved! In the tumult he had not heard the voice of one who
+pleaded for his life, nor perhaps could others hear it. But George
+Wishart did not trust to words alone when the life of an enemy was at
+stake. A moment more, and Wigton felt himself clasped in the minister’s
+arms, shielded thus with his own person from sword and stave and
+whinger. “Whosoever troubles him shall trouble me,” cried the
+noble-hearted reformer. “He has hurt me in nothing, but has done great
+comfort both to you and me, for he has letten us understand what we may
+fear. In times to come we will watch better.”
+
+This was George Wishart’s only vengeance. Rarely, perhaps, have such an
+assemblage of qualities been displayed in so brief a moment of time. But
+the flash of lightning which, in the space of a second, illumines a
+whole landscape, creates nothing of what it reveals; all was there
+before. Thus the occasion proved the man; what he did was but the
+evidence of what he was. Through patient years of “the unremitting
+retention of simple and high sentiments in obscure duties,” had been
+trained the brave and loving heart, as well as the “maist scharp eye and
+judgment,” which saved, that day, two lives—his own and his intended
+murderer’s.
+
+Our friends without the gate had their full share in the general
+excitement and confusion. Archie strove and pushed and shouted with the
+best; no man in the crowd more eager to be avenged upon the cowardly
+assassin.
+
+“I’d hae dinged his skull in wi’ a muckle stane,” he boasted afterwards,
+“but I daurna for guid Maister Wishart.”
+
+Jamie told him in reply that he’d “better hae been caring the lasses,”
+which was true enough. For some minutes Janet and Mary, pressed as they
+were against the gate by those immediately behind them, were in actual
+peril. When at last it gave way, they were borne through it by the
+crowd, and swept onwards without any power of resistance. Still they
+clung together, sorely terrified, but unhurt, until in one unhappy
+moment Mary chanced to look up, and caught a glimpse of the two men on
+the staircase, locked together in that strange embrace.
+
+Well did she recognise the white agonized face of her brother. At once
+the whole terrible truth flashed upon her mind. Her head sank on Janet’s
+shoulder; and had there been room to fall, she would have fallen
+senseless to the ground. Janet fortunately possessed a degree of
+muscular strength unusual in a girl; and she exerted herself to the
+utmost to drag her friend out of the throng. When the bystanders
+understood what was the matter, they made way for them as well as they
+could; and one or two men good-naturedly volunteered their assistance.
+That a girl in the crowd should faint, in circumstances of such
+excitement, seemed to all the most natural thing in the world. At last
+she was carried to a quiet spot some distance down a neighbouring wynd.
+Here, just as Archie and some others joined the group, she recovered
+consciousness, and looking round her, asked with a bewildered air, “Hae
+they killed him?”
+
+Of course every one misunderstood the question. Janet answered eagerly,—
+
+“Na, na! He’s as safe as you or I. God gied his angels charge over him!”
+she added, for once in her life kindling into enthusiasm, and even
+quoting Scripture.
+
+“Eh, and what wad the saints hae got to do, gin they couldna tak’ care
+o’ _him_ amang them a’!” cried Archie, his creed rather in confusion,
+but his heart glowing with the delicious passion of a boy’s first
+hero-worship.
+
+Mary’s pale face scarcely showed relief or pleasure. She was bowed down
+beneath a weight of sorrow those around her could not comprehend. Too
+sick at heart to repeat her question, a little reflection sufficed to
+convince her it was scarcely a necessary one. She did not fear for her
+brother’s _life_; she had such absolute trust in him under whose
+protection she had seen him, that to doubt either his good-will or his
+ability never occurred to her.
+
+At length she turned to Janet and whispered, “Let me gang hame.”
+
+Janet and Archie took her home, still feeling as one who dreamed. She
+hardly spoke to them; and she thought she dared not face Jamie then, or
+indeed ever again upon earth. Still she ought to tell them—she _must_
+tell them—all; but oh, not yet!
+
+She went at once to the little room where she slept, shut the door, and
+threw herself on her knees. Only before her God could she pour forth the
+anguish of her soul. Her own—her only brother—had raised his hand
+against the life of the man to whom she owed far more than life. For a
+while she must be left to the shame and the bitterness of that thought.
+By and by she will see comfort, rich comfort, in the mercy of Him who
+interposed to shield his servant from the malice of wicked men, to save
+her misguided brother from a fearful crime, and to give him still time
+for repentance.
+
+But while Mary mourned, the men of Dundee rejoiced and gave thanks, each
+one as if for his own personal deliverance from terrible danger. For the
+cardinal’s mission had failed. Well was it for them, well for John
+Wigton, well for thousands who had yet to hear the word of truth from
+the lips he sought to silence. But was it well for George Wishart? That
+is not so clear. Little cause indeed had he to fear the assassin’s
+knife. Had the murderer done his worst, it would still have been—
+
+             “But one step for those victorious feet,
+             From their day’s walk into the golden street!”
+
+Only a moment’s shock, a death-pang scarcely felt,—then a joyful waking
+in his Saviour’s presence. Were not this better far for him than the
+dark and painful path he was destined to tread? Yet no. “The righteous,
+and the wise, and their works, are in the hand of God,” and best in the
+end for them the ways He chooses are sure to prove. Those who, in all
+ages, have dared to resign themselves to his guidance, have borne
+triumphant witness to the Light that illumined and the Hand that led
+them throughout. Many doubtless there are on earth, who, bending wearily
+beneath the weight of the cross, wish that weight were lightened; but we
+may be sure that amongst the white-robed choir before the throne there
+stands not one who would now be willing to have had his cross less
+heavy, or to have done or suffered the least fraction less for his
+Master’s sake.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                   X.
+              =What became of the Cardinal’s Missionary.=
+
+
+               “Oh, if before thy death, our God
+               Will thee reclaim and own;
+               No dearer face than thine I’ll hail,
+               Around his judgment throne.”
+                                       REV. R. S. BROOKE.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                   X.
+              =What became of the Cardinal’s Missionary.=
+
+
+It was late in the afternoon, but Mary had not yet left her room, nor
+would she admit even Janet. To the anxious inquiries of her friends she
+only answered that she was not ill, and that she would come to them by
+and by, but she needed rest and wished to be alone. In the meantime
+Archie told his brother all that had happened; and it may well be
+guessed the story did not lose any of its striking features by his
+telling.
+
+Jamie, who was considerably better, was amusing himself by walking up
+and down the hall and passages of the house, when some one knocked
+gently at the street door. Being near at the moment, he had it opened
+before Archie, the usual porter, could bound down the stairs for the
+purpose. But had Mary heard that knock, she would at once have
+recognised it, and with her will no hand save her own should have opened
+the door.
+
+A gentlemanly person, unknown to Jamie, stepped inside. He had just
+asked the stranger what he wanted, when, to his equal surprise and
+horror, Archie sprang at the man’s throat like a wild cat, his fair
+boyish face darkened by a scowl of positive hatred.
+
+“Hae ye tint yer senses, callant?” cried Jamie, exerting all his
+strength, which at the time was not great, to drag them asunder.
+
+“Haud yer hand aff!” shouted Archie. “Yon’s the loon wha hae tried to
+kill Maister Wishart.”
+
+Jamie, however, succeeded in separating them, but only in time to save
+Wigton (who seemed to lack the spirit to resist his youthful assailant)
+from a severe fall.
+
+“Is that true, sir?” he demanded then, much in the tone of a judge
+interrogating a prisoner.
+
+The unfortunate man raised his eyes for a moment to those of his
+questioner, then dropped them again as if unable to bear his gaze, and
+after making an ineffectual effort to speak, turned quickly towards the
+door. But Archie, either from accident or design, was standing directly
+between him and it.
+
+“Let him pass, brither,” cried Jamie; then turning to Wigton with a
+manner expressive of the most bitter contempt and loathing, “Nae hand o’
+ours sall be upon ye, traitor tho’ ye are, for his sake wha askit yer
+life; but tak’ yer foot frae an honest man’s threshold.”
+
+John Wigton hesitated, and, to do him justice, his thoughts at the
+moment were not selfish ones. His natural impulse would have been to
+say, “Where’s Mary Wigton? She is my sister.” He had counted upon her
+affection, sorely as it had been tried, for the shelter or the disguise
+which might yet be necessary to save his life. But were it well done to
+betray their relationship, and thus perhaps to deprive her of the only
+friends now remaining to her on earth? For he himself, as friend or foe,
+must henceforward count as nothing.
+
+Archie eagerly flung the door wide open, Jamie sternly watched to see
+him go, but still he stood irresolute. At last, looking full in the
+young man’s honest though angry face, he said boldly, “Gin ye fear God,
+and pity the unfortunate, let me bide here the nicht.”
+
+Jamie’s eyes flashed, “An’ I do I’ll be——,” and there he stopped
+abruptly, and bit his lip until the blood came; for an evil word had
+well-nigh escaped him unawares. But presently his anger changed to
+disdain. “What hae ye got to fear, gin it’s no yer ain ill conscience,
+ye puir spirited loon? The law ’ill no touch a hair o’ yer head, sin’
+(God forgie the wicked men wha hae done it) Maister Wishart’s been put
+to the horn.[12] Ye kenned that unco weel, ye dastard, when ye thocht to
+raise yer hand against his life.”
+
+Wigton unconsciously answered him almost in the very words of the first
+murderer. “But aebody wha finds me ’ill kill me.”
+
+“Ye suld hae thocht o’ that afore ye took sic’ a bluidy trade in hand,”
+said Jamie scornfully.
+
+“Dinna fash yersel wi’ his clavers,” cried Archie. “Fling him across the
+street!”
+
+“Whisht, Archie!—Gin ye’re sae fear’t for yersel”—
+
+“I do fear,” said Wigton, in a low voice. “I darena dee—_no just yet_.”
+
+Jamie looked at him steadily, and the hard expression of his face began
+to soften a little. “Be you a Dundee man?” he asked.
+
+“Na.”
+
+“God be thankit for the same! I couldna thole the thocht that _he_ had
+come amang us, sae brave and kind, to do us a’ the guid he might for
+soul and body, and that we had sought to pay him—wi’ the murderer’s
+knife! I was aye proud to be a Dundee man, but I thocht to-day I maun be
+shamed of it. Weel, that’s bye. What for can ye no gang hame? The sooner
+ye free the toon o’ the presence of a traitor carl, the better.”
+
+“Daur I pass the gate in this gear?” asked John Wigton.
+
+Jamie had no answer to this question ready. It had now become clear to
+him that the unhappy man was really in danger, and that either a change
+of clothing or a night’s lodging was absolutely necessary to give him a
+reasonable chance of safety. But what was that to him? For one short
+moment he was glad—glad to think that, without overt act of his, the man
+who had raised his cruel hand against the life so dear to them all
+should pay the just forfeit of his crime. But then another thought came
+to him,—and he stood irresolute, gazing on the pale troubled face before
+him.
+
+After a short pause, he turned abruptly and opened the door of the room
+where Wigton once before had passed the night. “Gang in there,” he said;
+“I maun think.” About to walk hastily upstairs, he fortunately
+recollected Archie, and mindful of the explosion that would certainly
+follow if he were left with that man, he seized the boy by his collar,
+and marched him before him with little ceremony and much decision.
+
+Whilst Archie told the astonished Janet who was in the house, Jamie
+walked silently to the window and stood there, his head resting on his
+hands. Not long since had his heart’s choice been made to serve and
+follow his Master Christ; and this was the first time his faith had been
+put to the proof by the solemn question, “Shall I do in this matter the
+thing that _I_ please, or shall I deny myself, and do the will of Christ
+my Saviour?” What that will was, he could not doubt. He from whose lips
+he had learned “the mercies of God,” was very earnest and explicit in
+beseeching those who tasted them to yield themselves living sacrifices,
+holy, acceptable unto him. “If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he
+thirst, give him drink;”—Jamie well knew the words, and felt them at
+that moment directly addressed to him. But his eyes were resting on the
+spot where so lately Wishart had knelt by his sick bed in prayer; the
+Book he had given lay near him on the table; and all the blessed words
+or help and healing, all the noble deeds of Christian love, which he and
+others owed to him, came crowding on his memory. A personal wrong would
+have been, oh how easy to pardon! But to attempt his life—_his_! That
+was too cruel; it was beyond all pardon. He had yet to learn the last
+and hardest lesson of Christian charity (witness any who have tried
+it)—to forgive the injuries done to those we love and reverence. But
+then, who possessed, after all, the right to decide the question, and to
+dispose of the man’s life? And had not he, in the plainest possible
+manner, already made known his decision! This thought softened him; his
+lip trembled, and a mist came over his dark eye.
+
+At last he spoke aloud, but as if addressing himself: “I’ll do it, sin’
+Maister Wishart willed it thus.”
+
+“Oh, Jamie!” cried Janet, who for some moments had been watching him
+earnestly, “dinna do it for Maister Wishart’s sake, but for the guid
+Lord Jesus, wha prayed on the cross for his murderers!”
+
+Jamie was surprised at this burst of feeling from the ordinarily
+reserved and silent Janet. But not the less had the arrow she sped
+winged its way to his heart. “Ye’re richt, lass,” he said, in an altered
+tone. Then, turning to the large “kist” which did duty as the family
+wardrobe, he began to ransack its contents with a hasty hand.
+
+“What gars ye make sic’ a litter?” asked Janet, subsiding in a moment
+into her ordinary sphere of common life and practical activity. “Tell
+_me_ what ye’re seeking, an’ I’ll find it for ye without turning aething
+topside down.”
+
+But Jamie silently held up the object of his search—a suit of coarse
+clothing which he had been accustomed to wear when about his daily work.
+
+Just then Mary entered the room, looking very pale. She had heard the
+loud voices in the passage, and at once the idea occurred to her that
+her brother might have ventured to the house. As hitherto, in compliance
+with his own request, she had always been careful to watch for his knock
+and to admit him herself, he would naturally calculate upon this.
+Alarmed at the thought of his being recognised by any one else, she was
+going down to meet him, when, in passing by the open door of the
+Duncans’ room, she overheard part of their conversation.
+
+“Jamie,” she said, in a low but tolerably calm voice, “yon man is my
+brither, John Wigton.”
+
+Janet and Archie uttered exclamations of surprise, perhaps of horror.
+Jamie remained silent, but drew his hand across his face.
+
+Mary’s soft eyes were fixed on that shaded face with a wistful inquiring
+gaze, very touching in its sorrowful earnestness. “Do _you_ indeed
+despise me?” they seemed to ask.
+
+At length Jamie spoke, and in that peculiarly gentle tone which a keen
+observer might have noticed he never used except in addressing her:
+“Mary, lass,” he said, “wad ye rather see him again or no?”
+
+“I maun see him, Jamie.”
+
+“Then bring him thae bit claes; an’ he wants meat or drink, ye ken whaur
+to get it.”
+
+“God bless ye,” answered Mary; and taking the clothes with her, she left
+the room.
+
+Mere courage, or the absence of it, is not always a fair test of a man’s
+moral condition. That morning John Wigton had been ready enough to brave
+a violent death; that evening, he was willing to do or suffer almost
+anything in order to retain for a little longer.
+
+               “The poor common privilege of breathing.”
+
+But in the meantime a revolution had passed over him; and the man who
+shrank from death was in some respects better and wiser than the man who
+faced it fearlessly. His daring had been the offspring of ignorance and
+superstition; his fears were at least reasonable. A weight of conscious
+guilt was on his soul, how then could he venture to enter his Maker’s
+presence?
+
+He was sitting at the table, his head bowed down between his hands, when
+Mary entered the room, came towards him, and said softly, “Brither.”
+
+He started and looked up, but in an instant afterwards his head sank and
+he covered his face again.
+
+“I’ll no reproach ye,” said Mary, her voice trembling, “but gin it’s no
+wrang to think it, I could wish God wad hae taken me hame afore this
+bitter day. Brither, brither—what gared ye dream o’ sic’ a deed?”
+
+“I hae nae will to blame him that bade me do the wark, my ain guilt is
+owre heavy for that,” he answered; and Mary saw that his heart was
+crushed within him.
+
+“Thank God it was nae waur,” she said gently; “it gars me grue to think
+what micht hae been the day.”
+
+“Sister, ye were richt. Maister Wishart preaches the true Word o’ God.
+Miserable sinner that I am, I hae focht against God himsel!”
+
+“God can pardon, brither.”
+
+“Oh ay, he can, but I sair misdoot,—atweel, Mary, we maun part the noo
+for aye and aye. Ye ken yersel it’s better sae.”
+
+Mary did not deny it. Tearless, but with a look more sad than many
+tears, she answered, “Brither, I’ll pray for ye night, noon, and
+morn—I’ll nae mair forget yer name than I could _his_ whase life ye
+sought. And I hope in God’s mercy we’ll meet ainst again at his right
+hand.”
+
+“Then we part friends, Mary?” said Wigton, extending his hand.
+
+“Oh ay,” replied Mary quickly; but a sudden thought of the deed that
+hand had been about to do overcame her at the moment, and she hesitated
+to take it.
+
+“Ye willna touch me,” said her brother. “_He_ took me in his arms.”
+
+Overpowered by the recollection, he buried his face once more in his
+hands and wept aloud. George Wishart’s forgiving love had conquered. All
+the ice of fanaticism, that for years had been gathering around the
+heart of Wigton, melted beneath its beams in a single hour. Since he
+left his father’s home he had scarcely known what it was to weep; for
+men who harden their hearts as he did, do not often yield to the
+softening thoughts that bring tears. But now he was sobbing like a
+child; not for sorrow, not for shame, not even for the sense of sin, but
+only at the memory of those arms clasped around him—that voice pleading
+for him—“Whosoever shall trouble him troubles me.” And he had hated the
+man so bitterly, had believed so firmly that by killing him he should do
+God service! Truly, as Martin Luther said, “Satan cannot cast out
+Satan,” nor hate vanquish hate, “but the finger of God, which is love,
+will do it.”
+
+When men weep thus they do not soon grow calm again. Mary saw that every
+nerve in her brother’s frame was quivering with emotion. She came very
+close to him _now_, wound her arms about his neck and pressed her lips
+to his. “God will pardon thee,” she said again.
+
+“God’s servant pardoned,” murmured Wigton.
+
+“An’ I dinna think the Maister’s ain heart ’ill be less full o’ love
+than the servant’s. Whaur but frae the blessed Lord himsel did Maister
+Wishart learn to forgie like that? Gin _he_, wha ye thocht to kill,
+could shield ye wi’ his ain body frae them that sought yer life, ye may
+ken for sure that the guid Lord ’ill no refuse, an’ ye turn to him, to
+tak’ ye in _his_ arms and keep ye safe frae scathe and harm.”
+
+“O Mary, what a refuge for the like o’ me! Na—na—it’s owre guid.” And he
+shook his head despondingly.
+
+“He saves to the uttermost, he forgies e’en the chief o’ sinners,”
+answered Mary.
+
+“But I maun gang,” said Wigton, rising. “It’s wearing late, and they’ll
+hae shut the gates.”
+
+Mary gave him the clothes she brought, and proffered food, which he
+declined. He changed his dress in a small adjacent room where Mary used
+herself to sleep before her father’s death; and then returning to her,
+said, “I dinna think aebody’s like to ken me noo, forbye it’s weel nigh
+dark.”
+
+“Could ye no bide here the nicht, John?”
+
+“I daurna; an’ what guid wad it do?”
+
+“Will ye no tell me whaur ye’re gaun?”
+
+“I dinna just ken mysel. But I ken unco weel whaur I’m no like to gang,
+and that’s to St. Andrews. Aebody’s hand ’ill be again me noo; and my
+lord the Cardinal wad gie me sharp thanks for this morn’s wark.”
+
+Mary shuddered. “He maun be a bluidy blackhearted man, God forgie him,”
+she said. “What gars him hate guid Maister Wishart, wha never did him or
+ony man harm?”
+
+To this question John Wigton was scarcely competent to give an answer.
+But he gave the best he could,—“Because he is—he was—that is, they ca’
+him—an awfu’ heretic. But heretic or no,” he added very earnestly, “wi’
+a’ my heart I pray God bless him, an’ I’ll pray the same ilka day until
+I dee, gin the prayer o’ sic’ a puir wretch as I can be worth aething
+ava.”
+
+Again his voice faltered and his lips trembled. But steadying both with
+an effort, he said, “Guid nicht, Mary. Aiblins ye’ll hear o’ me again,
+but maist like ye willna.”
+
+“Brither!—”
+
+“Dinna fret for me. I’ll no starve, I’ll fend for mysel some gait or
+ither. It’s an ill pairt I hae done by you, lass, but ye’ve better
+friends than me noo. Guid nicht!”
+
+Mary threw herself into his arms. One moment she was locked in his
+embrace, the next he was gone. Where he sat and wept, there she too
+seated herself, and her tears began to flow. “Brither! brither!” was the
+cry of her heart, though her lips uttered no sound—“My puir, puir
+brither!” Love and pity were now the only feelings that found place in
+her soul. Pity for his shame and sorrow; mingling with the old familiar
+childish love, the love that never grows up save between those whose
+
+                     “Voices mingled as they prayed
+                       Beside one parent’s knee.”
+
+Oh, might they meet again, here if it were her Father’s will; if not,
+hereafter, in that home where shame and sorrow can never come!
+
+But did John Wigton really repent? Towards the man whose life he sought
+he certainly repented; did he towards that God against whom he had
+sinned so deeply? We cannot answer. It is God’s own high prerogative to
+_give_ repentance. He alone who made the heart can re-make it, changing
+its stony hardness into flesh “like a little child’s.” Man’s love and
+forgiveness may soften even obdurate hatred towards man; but it needs
+the revelation of a divine tenderness, divinely made, to subdue that
+awful and mysterious enmity of the depraved mind against Him who is the
+source of all good and all happiness.
+
+Mary’s tears were changing into prayers for the now doubly lost one,
+when some one quietly entered the darkening room. She knew Jamie’s
+footstep,—but why should she tremble so? How glad she was that in the
+waning light they could not see each other’s faces! She could not help
+the strange fear that thrilled her heart. Fear of what? His contempt? He
+was too generous for that; but generous as he was, the sister of John
+Wigton could never be to him, or to any of them, what she had been
+before. The very name was infamous now. She would go away—would hide
+herself from them all.
+
+James Duncan walked straight up to her, and took her passive hand in
+his. “Mary, lass?” said his gentle voice,—the voice of a strong man’s
+tenderness.
+
+Mary steadied hers to answer him. “Jamie,” she said, “ye ken God has
+laid his hand on me the day. For I maun think, it’s my comfort, that a’
+the grief and dolour comes straight frae his ain hand; an’ no be minding
+the wicked, cruel men wha hae had to do in’t. And, oh Jamie! there hae
+been ithers mair to blame than my puir misguided brither. God forgie
+him; and I hae that faith He will. For sure he repents.—But that’s no
+what I want to say.” She paused a minute; and the darkness hid the
+deepening crimson of her cheek, but not the faltering of her voice, as
+she resumed, “Puir we hae been, but dishonour ne’er came to our house
+till the day. It has come noo, God help me to bear it! Na Wigton ’ill
+ever haud up the head again in a’ the country. God may forgie this day’s
+wark, but men willna forget it; aiblins they suldna. And I’m Mary
+Wigton, John Wigton’s sister. Archie and Janet—”
+
+The rest of the sentence was never spoken, for Jamie quickly
+interrupted, “Janet hauds ye her ain dear sister, an’ I—hear me, Mary—I
+love ye as I love naething else in a’ the muckle warld.”
+
+And he added a great deal more, which need not here be written. If the
+sober, quiet, but deep-feeling young man grew actually eloquent, it was
+no marvel, for eloquence is the language of strong emotion, and his soul
+was moved to its centre. What he said might, and probably would, have
+been said weeks before, but for the circumstances of danger and trial in
+which they had been placed, which seemed to render such thoughts
+untimely and unsuitable. Or it might still have been deferred for weeks,
+had not Mary’s grief and shame for her brother smitten the rock of
+reserve and caused the waters to gush forth. However this may be, it
+_was_ said now. There, in the soft autumn gloaming, the faces of the
+speakers unseen, but their hands clasped together, simple earnest vows
+were exchanged, vows which they prayed God to bless and confirm. They
+believed he would look down in love upon his two poor children, whose
+hearts he had bound together by such a close and tender tie. They had no
+dream of happiness apart from his favour and blessing; whatever he might
+give them in each other, the cry of both their hearts was still the
+same,—“Thou, and Thou alone art our portion.” They could not have loved
+each other so well, if they had not loved Him better.
+
+That bitter day did not close in bitterness upon Mary Wigton. Subdued
+and chastened but most heartfelt thanksgivings for God’s mercies to
+herself, mingled with her prayers for her misguided, wandering, but as
+she hoped, repentant brother.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  XI.
+                      =Clear Shining after Rain.=
+
+
+                 “Bent on such glorious toils,
+                   The world to him was loss;
+                 Yet all his trophies, all his spoils,
+                   He hung upon the cross.”
+                                     MONTGOMERY.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  XI.
+                      =Clear Shining after Rain.=
+
+
+Janet Duncan gave Mary a sister’s welcome with heartfelt pleasure and
+affection. With her, as well as with her brother, ties were slowly
+formed, though when once formed they were strong as adamant. She
+contracted friendships rather from long association and mutual service
+than from congeniality of disposition or sentiment. Mary had shared her
+watch beside little Effie’s dying bed, had helped to tend Jamie during
+his long illness, and had struggled and suffered with them through their
+sorest trials;—these were cogent reasons for taking her at once to her
+warm and honest heart. Nor was Archie less satisfied with his brother’s
+choice; though he pertly suggested, that the sooner Mary Wigton changed
+her name to a less objectionable one the better it would be for all
+parties.
+
+But there were difficulties about ways and means sufficient to have
+perplexed much more thoughtful heads than Archie’s. James and Mary,
+however, were quietly happy in the present, and therefore content to
+“bide their time.” Upon one point they were both agreed: they must wait
+at least until God was pleased to remove “the great plague and sickness”
+from the city where they dwelt. Had not the worst been already over, the
+matter would scarcely have become even one for deliberation.
+
+The worst _was_ over. Joy and thankfulness were about to take the place
+of universal sorrow and fear. Day by day, and more and more rapidly, the
+number of deaths decreased. Life began to return to its usual course;
+shops and other places of public resort were re-opened; people no longer
+threaded their way cautiously through the middle of the streets,
+jealously guarding themselves from every touch that might convey
+infection, but began to jostle the passers-by on the footways, or to
+stop and talk with their neighbours as in former times. Devout and
+fervent were the thanksgivings that arose from many hearts; nor were the
+Duncans and Mary Wigton among the least grateful of the inhabitants of
+Dundee.
+
+James Duncan was now anxiously seeking another situation. Since the
+memorable day of Wishart’s visit the family had not known want; but they
+were not of a temper to eat the bread of charity one hour longer than
+was absolutely necessary. Besides, Jamie had now an object before him
+sufficient to animate him to tenfold energy and activity. A very frugal
+livelihood, it is true, would suffice for them. Janet and Mary could
+help in various ways (for as a matter of course they were all still to
+remain together); and it was fully time even for Archie to take the
+matter of earning his own bread into consideration. But the first thing
+necessary was, that James should procure employment. Poor in everything
+else, the young man was rich in character; the family of his late
+employer and many of his customers were ready to give him those “goodly
+words,” which in certain cases are the reverse of useless. Still, for
+some time his efforts proved unsuccessful; and he was beginning to feel
+disheartened and seriously anxious, when a circumstance occurred which
+diverted his hopes and his exertions into an entirely new channel.
+
+Mary had gone out one day to take home some fine sewing which had been
+given her through her friends the Browns; for people were again
+beginning to care, not only for the necessaries, but for the elegancies
+and superfluities of life. On her return, Janet surprised her with the
+intelligence that no less important a personage than Maister Wilson from
+the Nethergate had been inquiring for her, and requested her to call at
+his house as soon as she could. Mary’s feelings towards the man who had
+wronged her father had once been very bitter; for it is possible for
+gentle natures to harbour very bitter feelings when those they love are
+injured. She could not forget that her father’s desire to recover the
+debt so dishonestly repudiated had occasioned the removal of the family
+to Dundee, and been thus, in a manner, the cause of the troubles that
+had ensued. But her resentment against this man was amongst the old
+things that had passed away from her when the great change came over her
+heart and life. When she found that he too had been smitten with that
+terrible plague, she had not failed earnestly to pray that God would
+have mercy both on his body and his soul; and it was with pleasure she
+learned that his sickness was not unto death. Still the thought of an
+interview was embarrassing; and the more so as the recollection of the
+father to whom she had been so tenderly attached naturally came back
+very vividly on her mind, and threatened almost to overcome her.
+
+Not choosing, however, to defer a disagreeable duty, she at once
+repaired to the mercer’s dwelling; and it was fully two hours before she
+returned. When she did so, she looked agitated, and there were traces of
+recent tears on her countenance. Seeing that Janet remarked them, she
+said in explanation, “It’s no that I’ve been fretted, Janet; but it’s an
+unco thing to think that Maister Wilson suld come to himsel the noo, and
+make a’ richt between us—and my puir father in his grave.”
+
+“Ye dinna mean to say he’s gien ye back the siller, lassie?”
+
+“Ay, has he. Ilka plack and bodle o’t. Forbye, it’s a hantle mair than
+the twa hundert merks, for there’s what he ca’s _interest_.”
+
+“Eh, but that’s guid news!” cried Janet and Archie in a breath.
+
+“I’m blythe to win it—for Jamie,” said Mary softly, and with a blushing
+cheek.
+
+“Hae ye brought it wi’ ye?” asked Archie.
+
+“Na; I was fear’t to carry sae muckle gowd. I thocht Jamie wad gang and
+fetch it for me.”
+
+“Weel for him an’ he has nae waur wark to do,” said Archie.
+
+“Maister Wilson maun hae gone clean wud, I’m thinking,” said Janet. “I
+hae never heard the like! And naebody e’en speiring after the siller.”
+
+It was a moment or two before Mary answered; and then she said, in a
+quiet, reverent voice, “God has changed his heart, Janet.”
+
+“And was _that_ what gared him pay the debt?”
+
+“Just that. And he’s sair grieved to think of a’ the sorrow that he—”
+here her voice faltered, and she stopped. “I telled him that was a’ bye,
+and suldna be thocht on again. Forbye, God meant it for guid to me; for
+ye ken, gin it hadna been for the siller we’d hae never come here, whaur
+the true Word o’ God is preached. But he askit o’ my puir father, and
+wad hear the haill story, sair vexed as I was to tell it. It gaed hard
+wi’ him, Janet—he a’maist grat before I had done. And he said to me that
+he kenned full weel God had forgien him, but he couldna forgie himsel. I
+tried to gar him see that he suldna hae sic’ thochts; but I’m naebut a
+puir body for words, and no gleg wi’ my tongue.”
+
+“How did he find ye out, Mary?”
+
+“I dinna just ken; gin it wasna through the guid folk wha hae helpit
+Jamie. He has aft seen my face at the preaching, little dreaming wha I
+was. Eh, but ye suld hae heard him talk o’ the preaching, Janet.”
+
+At that moment Jamie entered, and was soon told the pleasant news. Mary
+had now a “tocher” that many a lass in a higher grade might have envied.
+
+“And it’s a’ anent Maister Wishart,” said Archie, “wha tells folk they
+canna be saved for doing guid warks; and gars them do mair in a day than
+a’ the priests in Scotland wadna in a year.”
+
+A discussion of their plans naturally followed. The possession of this
+sum of money removed most of the obstacles to Jamie and Mary’s union.
+The first and apparently the most feasible proposition was, that Jamie
+should undertake a shop of his own, in which Archie might assist. This
+was not at all to Archie’s taste; but had his been the only dissentient
+voice, it might still have been carried. Mary had been for some time a
+silent listener to the conversation between Jamie and Janet, but when
+directly appealed to by Jamie, she said gently, “I dinna doot it’s a’
+richt, Jamie. Aiblins it’s the best thing we can do.”
+
+“But I’m fear’t ye dinna like it, Mary.”
+
+“Oh ay.” Then after a pause, and rather timidly, “Whiles I canna help
+thinking lang for the bonnie Sidlaw Hills.”
+
+“Wad ye like to gang _there_, lassie?” asked Jamie, eagerly.
+
+“Oh, _brawly_,” answered Mary, with sparkling eyes. “An’ John tald me
+father’s farm’s to let. But it’s a fule thocht,” she added; “ye couldna
+mind a farm, Jamie.”
+
+“It’s a’maist time I was awa’ to the Nethergate to Maister Wilson,” said
+Jamie, evading a direct reply. But though he spoke little, he thought
+much. Intensely anxious to gratify Mary, and conscious of his own power
+to master almost anything in the way of business in which his strong
+will was sufficiently interested, he revolved the plan she had suggested
+in his mind. Now that he was possessed of the requisite capital, could
+he not turn farmer, and thus secure, not only a comfortable livelihood,
+but a healthy country home to Mary and Janet? Part of his own boyhood
+had been spent with a relative in the country; and he had thus acquired
+a taste for rural occupations, as well as a little elementary knowledge
+on the subject. For the rest, he could engage competent assistance, and
+feel his way, trusting to his natural shrewdness to protect him from
+imposition. If he was imprudent, he had at least a very valid excuse.
+“It will please Mary so much,” was a reason weighty enough to
+counterbalance many difficulties.
+
+His visit to Wilson proved much longer than he anticipated. The mercer,
+a new convert to “Christ’s Evangel,” and full of life and zeal, was glad
+to find a kindred spirit in Mary Wigton’s “weel-wisher.” A very short
+time sufficed for the transaction of their business; and they then
+entered into conversation upon the higher themes so dear to both their
+hearts. Wilson was struck by the young man’s general intelligence, as
+well as by his knowledge of the Word of God, which indeed had been his
+meditation day and night since he obtained possession of it. No subject
+makes strangers friends so quickly as this. Ere they parted, Jamie could
+not help yielding to the impulse that prompted him to ask the advice of
+Wilson upon the project Mary had suggested. Wilson thought it might be
+accomplished, and volunteered his counsel and assistance, which in many
+ways were very useful.
+
+Anxious to perform a service for the family Mary was about to enter
+which might in some degree atone for past injuries, he offered to take
+the young brother, whom Jamie had casually mentioned, as his apprentice;
+and if he liked the business, to establish him in life without cost to
+his relatives. Archie’s future was just then a matter of serious
+consideration to Jamie, and he was deeply grateful for an opening much
+more eligible than any he could have dreamed of securing for him.
+
+Having duly thanked Wilson on his brother’s account and his own, he
+hurried home freighted with pleasant tidings. Great was his astonishment
+when Archie declared that no persuasion could induce him to be bound to
+a trade. He who in past days had so hated school, would now do anything,
+possible or impossible, would work half the night, would live on one
+meal a day,—if Jamie would only consent to keep him there for another
+year. Most earnestly did he entreat his brother to grant him this boon;
+but when pressed to say what he proposed doing at the year’s end, he
+continued obstinately silent. Jamie reasoned, remonstrated, and finally
+grew angry and threatened, all to no purpose. Even when an elder brother
+performs a father’s part, he seldom possesses in full measure a father’s
+authority.
+
+Janet’s well-meant expostulations did not tend to smooth matters. Archie
+was probably not mistaken in thinking that if he explained himself
+freely, his practical sister would ridicule him as an absurd dreamer,
+and he dreaded nothing in the world so much as ridicule. Therefore no
+more could be got from him than this, “I willna be Maister Wilson’s, or
+ony man’s ’prentice.” Jamie was fain to treat his extraordinary conduct
+as the result of a fit of boyish naughtiness, and to tell him he would
+give him until next morning to recover his senses.
+
+Meanwhile the old farmstead on the slope of Dunsinnan, amongst the
+bonnie Sidlaw Hills, grew fairer and fairer in prospect. Difficulties
+seemed to vanish away upon closer inspection; and after a long happy
+talk together that evening, Jamie said, “My mind is set to try it, Mary,
+and I think God ’ill help me; for I hae askit him to show us the gait we
+suld gang.” Very thankful was Mary for this decision. It was her
+character to cling fondly to old cherished scenes and associations, and
+even with Jamie she felt as if a narrow room in a crowded “land” could
+scarcely ever be “hame” to her. Besides, he had not since his illness at
+all recovered his wonted strength; and for his sake, as well as for her
+own and Janet’s, she longed for those fresh mountain breezes that “sweep
+disease on their breath away.”
+
+A night’s reflection strengthened Jamie’s determination; neither,
+unfortunately, did it alter Archie’s. Jamie, anxious to avoid a sinful
+loss of temper on his own part, told the boy as quietly as he could,
+that if he refused Wilson’s generous offer, he did so on his own
+responsibility, and very much to his own disadvantage. He added, that he
+could only maintain him by taking him with him to the country, where he
+must expect to work hard and fare hard; and that as he did not see fit
+to entrust him with the motives of his strange behaviour, he must at
+least go with him to the Nethergate, thank the mercer himself for his
+kind proposal, and give his own reasons for declining it. He was of an
+age to speak for himself, Jamie said, and certainly in this instance
+_he_ could not undertake to speak for him. To this Archie agreed, and
+prepared to accompany his brother. A consciousness that all his friends
+were displeased with him, made him sullen in manner and extremely
+uncomfortable in feeling; but he was cherishing a purpose that he
+believed in his heart of hearts to be a good and noble one, and like an
+inconsiderate boy, he resolved upon pursuing it, without pausing to
+reflect whether it was practicable or no.
+
+“I’m sair fashed for Archie,” said Mary to Janet when he was gone. “The
+callant has some notion or ither in his head, gin a body could come by
+it. Do ye no mind how he’s changed, Janet? He’s grown sae douce and
+still; and he’s aye and aye reading at ‘Maister Wishart’s wee bookie,’
+as he ca’s it.”
+
+To Jamie and Janet and Mary the New Testament was “God’s Word,” to
+Archie it was only as yet “Maister Wishart’s book.”
+
+“Hoot,” cried Janet contemptuously, “the laddie’s clean wud, that’s a’.
+An’ I had my will, he suld e’en want his parritch till he fand his
+wits.”
+
+In the meantime Jamie and Archie walked silently to the Nethergate, and
+soon found themselves in the mercer’s comfortable parlour. The rich man
+greeted Jamie cordially, and noticed his young brother with frank
+kindness, but he appeared grieved and pre-occupied.
+
+“There’s news to-day,” he said, “mony a heart in Dundee ’ill be sair to
+hear.”
+
+“Is the sickness waur again, sir?” asked Jamie.
+
+“No, God be praised, the sickness is a’maist gone; but I hae just seen
+Maister James Wedderburn, wha’s weel acquaint wi’ Maister Wishart, and
+its owre true he’s gaun awa’. Neist sermon ’ill be his last here.”
+
+Jamie’s exclamation was drowned by a real cry of distress from Archie, a
+cry that made Wilson turn and look at the boy more attentively than he
+had done before.
+
+“That’s ill news indeed for Dundee,” answered Jamie, with a face that
+said more than his words. “But is it sure he maun gang, sir? Couldna the
+Lord Provost or Maister Robert Mill, or Maister James Wedderburn, gar
+him bide wi’ us?”
+
+Wilson shook his head. “Na, na. He says ‘God has weel nigh put an end to
+this battle, he finds himsel called to ane ither.’ But there’s mony
+amang us ‘id gae thro’ a’ the trouble and dolour o’ this waefu’ year
+again, anely to hae him still to comfort us.”
+
+“God’s will maun be done,” said Jamie sadly. Then after a pause, “Does
+aebody ken whaur he’ll gang the noo, sir?”
+
+“Maister Wedderburn’s no sure yet. Aiblins to Montrose, whaur he first
+began to preach, aiblins back to Kyle.” Some conversation followed upon
+Wishart’s brief but brilliant ministry in the west. Jamie and Archie
+knew very little of their venerated pastor, except what they had
+themselves seen and heard. They listened therefore with much interest to
+Wilson’s animated description of his “offering Goddis Woord” in Ayr and
+the surrounding places. For everywhere, as amongst them, had he approved
+himself the minister of God, “by pureness, by knowledge, by
+longsuffering, by kindness, by the Holy Ghost, by love unfeigned.”
+
+One story amongst others the mercer told them, which Knox has preserved
+for us, bestowing upon the picture one or two of those rare touches of
+grace and tenderness of which his strong bold hand was not incapable.
+Having been invited to preach in the church of Mauchline, Wishart found
+himself on his arrival excluded by the Sheriff and a strong party of
+Romanists, who, acting under his orders, had seized upon the building.
+The high-spirited gentlemen, his friends and adherents, were indignant
+at this treatment, and vowed to enter the church by force. But the
+servant of the Lord would not strive. Taking Hugh Campbell of
+Kinyeancleugh, the most zealous of his followers, aside, he said to him:
+“Brother, Jesus Christ is as potent upon the fields as in the kirk; and
+I find that he himself more often preached in the desert, at the
+sea-side, and in other places judged profane, than that he did in the
+Temple of Hierusalem. It is the word of peace that God sends by me: the
+blood of no man shall be shed this day for the preaching of it.” And so,
+followed by all the people of the town, he withdrew to the hillside,
+where they stood or sate around him while he preached from “a dyke in
+the moor edge.” And Knox forgets not to tell us, that “God gave the day
+pleasing and hote.” Modern church-goers may be surprised to hear that
+the sermon lasted more than three hours; but the preacher knew his time
+was short, nor were the hearers weary, for “the word of the Lord was
+precious in those days.” And “in that sermon God wrought so wonderfully
+with him, that ane of the most wicked men that was in that country,
+named Laurence Rankin, laird of Sheill, was converted. The tears ran
+from his eyes in such abundance that all men wondered.” And his life
+thenceforward was such as to evidence the reality of the change.
+
+Here Wilson paused, struck by the eager attention of his younger
+listener. Archie’s bright young face was indeed glowing with interest
+and enthusiasm; and the mercer, pleased with the boy’s appearance, felt
+the more desirous to receive him into his household. He therefore asked
+him kindly if his brother had told him of his proposal, and what he
+thought of it.
+
+“Ye’re unco guid, sir,” said Archie, so fired by all he had been hearing
+that reserve and shyness were forgotten, “but I willna hae a trade. I
+maun gang to the schule and learn my book. Aiblins God’ll gie me sae
+muckle grace that when I’m a man grown I may preach his holy Word—like
+guid Maister Wishart.”
+
+Jamie stood aghast at this revelation of his brother’s ambition. Had the
+friendless orphan boy declared his intention of one day becoming lord
+provost of Dundee, or even lord high sheriff of Angus, he would have
+deemed his aspirations comparatively moderate and reasonable. “Ye puir
+fule callant!” he said, too deeply compassionate to entertain the least
+thought of ridicule, “ye’ll no ever be like _him_. What gars ye cry for
+the moon, like a senseless bit bairn?”
+
+“Leave him his lane,” interposed Wilson. “He’ll no be the waur, ony
+gait, for having dreamed that dream; and he’s like to be the better his
+haill life lang.”
+
+The famous words,
+
+                           “Who aimeth at the sky,
+             Shoots higher far than he that means a tree,”
+
+had not yet been penned; but they would not be so famous if they did not
+embody a truth which thoughtful spirits had recognised and acted upon
+long before.
+
+Wilson then spoke to James Duncan about his plans; and having
+ascertained his determination to remove to the country, he finally
+offered Archie a home in his house for the next year; telling him he
+might attend school with his own bairns and show what progress he could
+make; and adding, for Jamie’s benefit, that if it seemed advisable, at
+the end of that time, he might still be bound to the trade.
+
+Archie “wasna blate,” as Jamie afterwards declared. He frankly and
+gratefully embraced the proposal, leaving his brother little opportunity
+for showing the reluctance he felt at accepting so great a boon from a
+comparative stranger.
+
+The brothers did not return as silently as they came. Their brief
+misunderstanding had been swept away by a common interest and sympathy;
+and if the elder remonstrated with the younger on the wildness of his
+ambition, it was in the spirit of love and meekness. For he had reason
+to fear that the boy had not yet in his own heart felt the power of the
+truths that Wishart preached; and that what looked so like an ardent
+attachment to the doctrines of the gospel, was, in fact, only the result
+of a passionate admiration for the best and noblest man he had ever
+known. Archie’s answers to the questions he put, though both frank and
+intelligent, confirmed him in this opinion; and he warned him, gently
+but faithfully, against the danger of self-deception. He was so far
+impressed and sobered, that on his return home he actually allowed Jamie
+to narrate to Janet and Mary all they had heard; not interposing a
+single word until his brother told Wishart’s reason for leaving Dundee,
+when he could not refrain from saying, “Eh, but I think it’s unco hard.
+_Our_ troubles are bye noo, and we’re gaun to rest. An’ is _he_ naebut
+to gang to some ither battle, aiblins as hard as this ane?”
+
+“Ay, lad,” said Jamie, “there’s nae rest for the preacher o’ God’s Word
+till God gies rest himsel. How could it be ony ither gait, sae lang as
+the haill country lies in darkness and the shadow o’ death, and men are
+deeing ilka day without the fear o’ God or the hope o’ heaven? Atweel,”
+he added after a pause, “he’ll no ever ken here a’ the guid he’s done
+us, and a’ the love we bear him for it; but an’ it’s no wrang, I like to
+think whiles that we’ll get to tell him up yon in heaven. For doesna the
+Book say that sic’ as we ’ill be the minister’s joy and crown o’
+rejoicing in Christ’s presence by and by?”
+
+“But I’m no just sure, Jamie,” said Mary thoughtfully, “that it’s richt
+to leave a’ the doing and suffering in Christ’s cause to Maister
+Wishart. What has the guid Lord done for him he hasna done just the same
+for ilka ane of us?”
+
+“But ye ken we canna preach, Mary,” remarked Janet.
+
+“That’s owre true, Janet, but we can _live_. Forbye, Jamie, when we gang
+to Dunsinnan, do ye no think we can tell our puir neebors the Word o’
+God, and read them a wheen chapters out o’ the Book?”
+
+“Sae we will, God helping us,” said Jamie. “Gin trouble suld come to us
+for the same (I’m no saying it’s like to come, Mary, but ye ken it
+_might_), we’d be blythe to thole it for his sake wha tholed the bitter
+cross for ours.”
+
+“Ony gait, Jamie, we’re unco safe in his keeping. An’ how weel he has
+fended for us! I canna but mind that bit verse in the wee psalm book ye
+bought me yestreen for a propine.[13] ‘The lot is fallen to me in a fair
+ground: yea, I hae a guidly heritage.’”
+
+“God be praised,” answered Jamie; “the year o’ the muckle sickness has
+been the best year I hae seen in a’ my life.”
+
+Many besides James Duncan could have borne this witness. The dark year
+of Dundee proved one of the brightest in her history. Never before, and
+perhaps never since, until the great revival of the present day, had
+such numbers there been turned from darkness to light and from the power
+of Satan unto God. It was but a little while until that light so
+increased and brightened, that it chased the shades of darkness away
+before it,—nay, until its beams, concentrated as in a burning-glass,
+shrivelled to ashes the worn-out gauds and trappings of Romish
+superstition. Dundee was the first of all the Scottish burghs that
+declared for the Reformation; and by her whole-hearted steadfastness in
+the good cause she won the honourable name of the Second Geneva.
+
+Three hundred years, with all their changes, lie between us and those
+stormy days of conflict and victory. Yet they are not quite forgotten.
+The old walls of Dundee have indeed been laid level with the ground; but
+reverent grateful hearts have spared the antique gateway, hallowed so
+long ago by the feet of him who brought glad tidings and published
+peace. Fitting emblem of a grand truth! Thus shall perish the memories
+of mere human greatness—the renown of kings and captains—the gaudy
+trophies of successful warfare. But the work of faith and labour of
+love, wrought in Christ and for him, stands secure of a double
+immortality. Its blessed results here shall last as long as the earth
+herself, while its bright memorial and recompense above are imperishable
+as the stars, like which they that turn many to righteousness shall
+shine for ever and ever.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  XII.
+                    =The Reward of God’s Messenger.=
+
+
+    “I bless Thee for the light that dawns e’en now upon my soul,
+    And brightens all the narrow way, with glory from the goal.
+    The hour and power of darkness, it is fleeting fast away,
+    Light shall arise on Scotland, a glorious gospel day!
+
+           ·       ·       ·       ·       ·
+
+    Now let thy good word be fulfilled, and let thy kingdom come,
+    And in thine now best time, O Lord, take thy poor servant home.”
+                                    _Lays of the Kirk and Covenant._
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  XII.
+                    =The Reward of God’s Messenger.=
+
+
+More than a year has passed away since James and Mary Duncan, with their
+sister Janet, left Dundee for their new home amongst the Sidlaw Hills. A
+very happy home they have found it. They have not been without cares and
+anxieties, but these have seemed light because borne together in loving
+sympathy. God has established the work of their hands upon them, and
+they have now every reason to believe that the old farm of Dunsinnan
+Brae will amply supply their simple wants. What is still better, they
+may hold and even profess the true faith in peace, none making them
+afraid. The neighbours are friendly, the parish priest careless and
+indifferent. Provided he receives his “teindis, rentis, and all uthir
+dewties,” he is quite willing to connive at the absence of the Duncans
+from their parish kirk; and even if he is aware that many of the
+neighbours find their way in the winter evenings to the farm-house
+spence,[14] to hear the Scriptures read in their own tongue, at least he
+is obliging enough to keep the knowledge to himself. Having thus learned
+in a humble way to water others, James and Mary Duncan are abundantly
+watered themselves. They often long, it is true, for the public
+ministrations of the gospel; but since the streams are at present denied
+them, they repair the more frequently to the fountain-head. Both can now
+read with ease and fluency; and to the Testament and Psalm book they
+possessed before leaving Dundee they have since added the remaining
+portions of the Word of God. These they study diligently and
+prayerfully, and the Lord himself is their teacher. Meanwhile, in their
+daily walk, and in all their dealings with others, they seek to show
+forth the praises of Him who called them out of darkness into his
+marvellous light.
+
+Janet is now no longer an inmate of the Dunsinnan homestead. An
+honest-hearted farmer of the neighbourhood, who received the new
+doctrines from James Duncan, has learned to appreciate the sterling
+qualities of his teacher’s sister, and asked her to share his home. But
+a distance of only two or three miles separates Mary and Janet, who will
+always continue to be, what sorrow shared together made them to each
+other,—loving sisters and true friends.
+
+Archie is still in Dundee, and bids fair to be one of the first pupils
+of the grammar-school. The good abilities of the once idle thoughtless
+boy are rendered available by the industry which is born of a cherished
+purpose. Wilson proves a true and wise friend, and allows him to lack
+for nothing; and, moreover, in a town like Dundee, there are prizes
+enough to be won by the talented and studious. A free education and
+maintenance at the University of St. Andrews might be easily obtained;
+but as things are at present, this would scarcely be an advantage to one
+of his views and opinions. He is not, however, either at an age or of a
+disposition to foresee difficulties, and is too happy in his present
+life of conscious progress and improvement to think much of the future.
+
+The beginning of the year 1546 brings great joy to Dunsinnan Brae. A
+proud and happy man is James Duncan when he holds in his arms “a bonnie
+lad bairn,” his first-born; prouder and happier still when Mary’s gentle
+step again moves softly through the house, or her sweet voice chants for
+a cradle-song some verse from the “guid and godly Ballates” of Maister
+John Wedderburn.
+
+It was a cold inclement winter, but within that home there were warmth
+and light; even for the life that now is there were “all things richly
+to enjoy,” and there was a bright and sure hope for that which is to
+come.
+
+“Jamie,” said Mary softly, one day as she sat at work beside her baby’s
+cradle, “do ye mind a bit promise ye made before we left Dundee?”
+
+“I ken what ye mean, Mary,” answered Jamie, with a thoughtful face. “I
+said, gin the guid Lord gied me a bonnie bairn, I’d no hae it kirstened
+wi’ ‘spittle, salt, candle, coit, oil,’ and the lave, but according to
+our blessed Saviours ain simple ordinance.”
+
+“Ye said mair than that, Jamie.”
+
+“Ay, and I’ll haud to the same. Nae hand but guid Maister Wishart’s sall
+bapteeze my bairn, an I hae to carry it across half Scotland ere I find
+him.”
+
+“Ye’ll na hae that to do, for it’s maist like he’s still at Montrose.”
+
+“Then ye wadna think muckle o’ the journey, or be fear’t for the bairn,
+Mary?”
+
+Mary’s eyes shone very brightly through tears of grateful love as she
+answered: “Is it to see _his_ face again, Jamie? That were weel worth it
+a’. Forbye, he’d pray a bit prayer for our bairn that wad bring it a
+blessing its haill life lang.”
+
+“And ye ken, he’s sae kind and gentle, ane needna be fear’t to ask him.
+Gin the morn’s clear and frosty like the day, I’ll just gang to Dundee
+and talk the matter owre wi’ Maister Wilson.”
+
+“Ay, and speir after Archie, puir lad. I jalouse he’s working owre hard
+wi’ that Latin.”
+
+The next day James Duncan put his resolve into practice. Nine or ten
+miles and back on foot were a small matter to him now; but Mary, a
+careful and tender wife, was grieved to see the day, which had begun in
+frosty brightness, become overclouded at noon, and end in rain and
+sleet. She exerted herself to make everything within the house present
+as favourable a contrast as possible to the gloom and dreariness
+without; and a brighter “inglenuik,” a warmer welcome, or a more
+comfortable supper, were never prepared for any tired wayfarer than
+those which awaited Jamie’s return that night. He was late, and Mary had
+dismissed the farm-servants to their beds long before she heard the
+well-known sound of his footsteps, and joyfully hastened to open the
+door for him.
+
+He scarcely answered her inquiries whether he was “wat through,” “owfre
+forfoughten,” and similar subjects of wife-like anxiety. Having thrown
+off his dripping cloak in the outer porch, he silently followed her into
+the cheerful spence, bright with fire and candle light.
+
+One glance at his pale agitated face made her exclaim, in tones faint
+with terror, “What’s wrang wi’ ye, Jamie?”
+
+“O Mary, they hae taken him at last!” was the sorrowful reply. No need
+to ask _who_ he meant.
+
+“Wae’s me!” said Mary, when she _could_ speak. “I thocht God wad hae
+keppit him.”
+
+“His way is in the sea, his path is in the great waters, and his
+footsteps are no kent,” answered Jamie in a voice that showed how sorely
+his own faith was tried by the mystery of God’s dealings with his
+servant.
+
+“_Wha_ has taken him, Jamie?”
+
+“Alas, that’s weelnigh the waurst of a’. My lord Bothwell has gien him
+up for gowd to the bluidy Cardinal. But he’ll wish sair that day’s wark
+were undone, when he comes to stand before the judgment-seat o’ God.”
+
+“Then, whaur is he noo?”
+
+“In the cruel Cardinal’s dungeon at St. Andrew’s. God help and
+strengthen him!”
+
+“We can but pray. Oh, Jamie, do ye no mind wha answered prayer sae lang
+ago, and sent his angel to open the prison-door and set the captive
+free? I dinna misdoot he loves Maister Wishart just as weel as e’er he
+loved St. Peter.”
+
+“He doesna send his angels noo, Mary.”
+
+“I dinna ken; I think they were no that far awa’ when he was saved sae
+strangely from sic’ a dreadfu’ snare at Montrose.[15] But maist like the
+Lord of angels himsel was by then. Ony gait, I’ll no gie up hope for
+him, Jamie. He that saved Daniel in the lions’ den, and the three
+children in the fiery furnace, can save his dear servant frae the cruel
+hand o’ him that hates him.”
+
+“He _can_, Mary. He’s the God o’ the haill earth. But I doot it’s na his
+will to do it.”
+
+“What gars ye say the like o’ that?”
+
+“Unco hard it is to say it, God wot. Oh, Mary, I _hae_ prayed—I hae
+warsled sair wi’ the Lord a’ the time sin’ I heard it, wi’ the bitter
+sleet and rain driving in my face, and a waur storm in my heart. And I
+could get nae licht or comfort ava’, God help me! But I ken by a sure
+token Maister Wishart’s wark is done.”
+
+With trembling lips Mary asked him what he meant.
+
+“He kenned it weel himsel. But I maun tell ye frae the beginning what I
+hae heard the day. Maister Wilson tald me the waefu’ tidings; and by and
+by wha suld come in but Maister James Wedderburn himsel. Ane love and
+ane sorrow brought us twa thegither, and I think neither minded that are
+was puir and the ither rich. He sat down sae douce and kind, and tald me
+a’ that happened sin’ the time Maister Wishart left Montrose.”
+
+“Why did he leave it, Jamie?”
+
+“The gentlemen o’ the Westland, wha were his friends, wrote to ask him
+to come to Edinburgh, and they wad keep tryst wi’ him there, and gar the
+bishops gie him leave to haud public disputation, and to preach the
+gospel. Dauntless as he ever was in the cause of Christ’s evangel, ye
+may weel guess he didna say them nay. Gin ither hearts had been as leal
+and true, it might hae fared better wi’ him and wi’ us a’. There was
+fearfu’ peril, for the cruel Cardinal was coming to Edinburgh; but this
+didna move him, nor counted he his life dear to himsel. He passed thro’
+Dundee”—
+
+“I wish we had kenned that, Jamie.”
+
+“Sae do I. For noo, I wot weel that they amang whom he has gone
+preaching the word o’ God sall see his face nae mair.”
+
+After a long pause he continued. “But he didna bide in the town. He
+stayed the night at Invergowrie, wi’ Maister James Watson. It’s his
+brither John wha hae tald Maister Wedderburn what happened there. In the
+dark nicht, a wheen before the daybreak, Maister Wishart rose and gaed
+forth o’ the house. Still and lane as it was that hour, the yard was no
+lane enoo’ for him,—he maun gang to and fro till he fand a bit quiet
+walk. Maist like he thocht nae closet wi’ the door steeked could be sae
+siccar as _that_, in the chill silent autumn night. But John Watson, wi’
+ane friend o’ his, followed and marked a’ he did.”
+
+“Eh, but that was no richt, Jamie.”
+
+“Owre true. Nae een but God’s suld hae watched the bitter struggle o’
+that brave heart. For he fell upon his knees, and wept and groaned aloud
+like ane that tholed an awfu’ agony. _He_, sae grand and calm, and aye
+sae unmoved in trouble and danger! And at last he bowed e’en his vera
+face to the earth, and prayed thus for nigh an hour, in a low voice sair
+broken wi’ tears. But it seemed as tho’ God heard his prayer, for then
+he rose calm and stilled, and sae he gaed in.
+
+“The twa friends met him, as by chance, and askit him whaur he had been.
+He wadna tell them; but in the morning they came again to him, and said:
+‘Maister George, ye maun be plain wi’ us; for we hae seen ye, and heard
+your bitter mourning, baith on yer knees and on yer face.’ They kenned
+weel he was grieved at this, tho’ he wadna gie them an ungentle word. ‘I
+had rather you had been in your beds; and it had been more profitable to
+you,’ he said. But still they urged him to show them some comfort. Then
+at last he answered them: ‘I will tell you. I am assured my travail is
+nigh an end. Call to God for me that now I shrink not when the battle
+waxes hot.’ But this gared them baith greet, and say to him, ‘that was
+sma’ comfort unto them.’ ‘God shall send you comfort after me,’ Maister
+Wishart said again. ‘This realm shall be illumined with the light of
+Christ’s evangel, as clearly as ever was any realm since the days of the
+Apostles. The house of God shall be built in it. Yea, it shall not lack
+(whatsoever enemies shall devise to the contrary) the very copestone.
+Neither shall this be long in doing. There shall not many suffer after
+me, till that the glory of God shall evidently appear, and shall anes
+triumph in despite of Satan.’—I hae gien ye word for word, Mary; a man
+doesna forget sic’ words as thae.”
+
+“Oh, Jamie,” said Mary, in tones full of awe and wonder, “did God
+himsel’ tell him a’ that?”
+
+“Is it that strange gin he did, Mary? Might he no tak’ his servant, like
+Moses to the top o’ Pisgah, and gie him a glint of the guid land whaur
+he means to bring his ain faithfu’ folk? Forbye, ye ken there’s a power
+in the prayer o’ faith that passes thocht and comprehension. I canna
+think that Maister Wishart’s sair warsling wi’ the Lord that hour, wi’
+strong crying and tears, was a’, or maistly for himsel. Nae doot the
+thocht o’ sic’ a death as he maun face is owre hard to flesh and bluid.
+And that’s no the bravest heart that feels the least, Mary; but that
+feels the _maist_, that kens a’ the bitter pain and dolor, and yet can
+thole it for the Saviour’s sake. But I believe Christ’s wark in this
+realm is mair a thousandfald to him than his ain life. I believe the
+strongest cry of his heart gaed up to heaven for thae puir souls he
+wared that life to teach and save. And wadna the guid Lord tell him,
+‘See, I hae heard thee in this thing’—‘My righteousness is near, My
+salvation is gone forth.’—‘But gae thou thy way till the end be, for
+thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot in the end o’ the days?’—Still,
+it’s no for me to say muckle on’t; the place is owre holy, a man suld
+tak’ his shoon frae his feet.[16]
+
+“After that nicht’s agony and joy, he gaed forward, strong in the calm
+trust that kens nae fear. But when he came to Leith there was nae word
+frae the Westland gentlemen; and the peril being great, his friends were
+feart for him, and gared him keep close a wee while. But he waxed
+sorrowfu’ in spirit, and said: ‘What differ I from a dead man, except
+that I eat and drink? To this time God has used my labours for the
+instruction of others, and the disclosing of darkness; and now I lurk as
+a man ashamed, and dare not show myself before men.’ Seeing that he
+willed to preach, they answered him: ‘Maist comfortable were it unto us
+to hear ye, but because we ken the danger wherein ye stand, we daurna
+desire ye.’
+
+“‘But daur you and others hear?’ said the brave preacher o’
+righteousness,—‘then let my God provide for me as best pleaseth him.’
+(It was aye _my_ God wi’ him.) Sae he preached in Leith, in Inveresk, in
+Tranent; and God wrought for him, and blessed his ain Word. Amang thae
+whase hearts he opened was Sir George Douglas, the Maister of Angus.
+After the sermon at Inveresk he said publicly, ‘I ken that my lord
+governor and my lord cardinal will hear I hae been at this preaching.
+Say unto them that I will avow it, and that I will not only maintain the
+doctrine I hae heard, but also the person o’ the preacher to the utmost
+o’ my power.’
+
+“But it was in Haddington he preached his last sermon. Ere he gaed to
+the pulpit, they brought him a letter frae the Westland, to wit, that
+the gentlemen couldna keep their tryst, or come to Edinburgh ava’;—maist
+like they feared the Cardinal. He called unto him ane Sir John Knox”—
+
+“Wha’s he?” asked Mary, little dreaming that the name so unfamiliar to
+her ears was destined to become far more famous than that of her revered
+pastor. Thus also perhaps was the word fulfilled, “One soweth and
+another reapeth,”—if indeed this be worth noticing, now that for so many
+years he that sowed and he that reaped have been rejoicing together in
+their Saviour’s presence.
+
+“He’s a guid priest,” said James Duncan, “wha was maister to Sir Hew
+Douglas’s bairns. He has shown muckle love to Maister Wishart, waiting
+on him wi’ a’ diligence, and blythe and proud to bear before him the
+twa-handed sword his friends gared him tak’ wi’ him sin’ John Wigton—
+
+“Well, I meant—I was saying he ca’ed for his friend Sir John Knox, and
+tald him a’ his bitter grief at thae tidings. Nae thocht had he for
+himsel, that they had led him into cruel peril, and then left him his
+lane to dee; a’ his complaint was, that they were weary o’ God and his
+cause.
+
+“Then, after sermon,—whilk he ended thus, ‘Let these my last words as
+concerning public preaching remain in your minds till God send you new
+comfort,’—‘he took good night, as it were for ever, of all his
+acquaintance.’ Sir John Knox begged sair to bide wi’ him, but he wadna.
+He took frae him the twa-handed sword, and bade him gang his ways. Sir
+John still entreating, he answered (aye thoughtfu’ as he was for a’body
+but himsel), ‘Nay; go back to your bairns, and God bless you—_ane is
+enough for a sacrifice_.’”
+
+It was well for Scotland that the heart of George Wishart was thus “at
+leisure from itself.” Had he granted Knox’s affectionate entreaty,
+another name would probably have been added to the noble army of
+martyrs, but the Reformation would have lacked its great leader, the one
+man who could bend and sway the hearts of thousands. Little, however,
+did the Duncans suspect all this; and very lightly would they have
+esteemed the life of John Knox in comparison with _his_ over whose head
+they saw the martyr’s crown suspended.
+
+Jamie continued, “Sae he gaed wi’ the laird and a wheen ither gentlemen
+to Ormistoun, whaur he was to sleep. It chanced they had to walk, by
+reason o’ the muckle frost. After supper he talked happily wi’ his
+friends o’ the death o’ God’s dear children; then, being weary, he said,
+‘Methinks I desire earnestly to sleep. Will we sing a psalm?’ Near as he
+lived to Christ, the lowliest words o’ penitence and prayer seemed best
+to suit his heart’s need that nicht. Sae he waled the fifty-first, frae
+the “gude and godly ballates,’—
+
+                  “‘Have mercy on me now, good Lord,
+                    After thy great mercy;
+                  My sinful life does me remord,
+                    Whilk sair has grievit thee;
+                  But thy great grace has me restored,
+                    Through grace to liberty:
+                  To thy mercy with thee will I go.’
+
+“Whilk being sung, he gaed to his chalmer, saying to his friends as they
+parted, ‘God grant quiet rest.’ But na quiet rest was for God’s weary
+servant that nicht. Ere midnicht Lord Bothwell, wi’ his men-at-arms, had
+beset the house.[17] Sae soon as he kenned their purpose, Maister
+Wishart said to the laird, ‘Open the gates, and let the blessed will of
+my God be done.’ Sair grieved was the laird to do it, but it had to be.
+Forbye, Lord Bothwell had gien express promise ‘that he should be safe,
+and that it should pass the power o’ the Cardinal to do him scaith or
+harm.’ And this said he owre again to Maister Wishart himsel, in the
+presence o’ the lairds his friends. ‘Neither sall the Governor or the
+Cardinal hae their will o’ ye, but I sall retain ye in my ain hands and
+in my ain place, until that either I sall mak’ ye free, or else restore
+ye in the same place where I receive ye.’
+
+“And the lairds answered, ‘Gin ye do this, my lord, we will serve ye our
+haill lives lang, wi’ a’ the men o’ Lothian wha profess Christ’s
+evangel.’ Sae they a’ straik hands upon it, and made solemn promise as
+in God’s presence.
+
+“But sma’ thocht o’ God was in Lord Bothwell’s mind. Maist like he meant
+fair at first; but the Cardinal gied muckle gowd, and the Queen’s
+grace[18] gied guidly words, and sae—and sae—amang them a’ God’s servant
+was bought and sold. First the Lord Governor had him in his keeping in
+Edinburgh Castle. Wae’s me! but few days passed then, until he lichtly
+gied him up into the hands o’ him that sought his life.”
+
+“What say the Dundee folk to a’ this, Jamie?”
+
+“It’s no that lang sin’ the tidings came for sure, that they had haled
+him to St. Andrews. A’ the faithful make sair lamentation, but I needna
+tell ye _that_, Mary” (and his own voice faltered)—“The cry is aye and
+aye, ‘My father, my father, the chariot of Israel and the horsemen
+thereof.’”
+
+Mary shuddered. “Oh, Jamie, do ye no think what that minds me of? The
+chariot—of _fire_!” The last word was rather breathed than spoken; yet
+the loudest thunder-peal could not have sent such a thrill through both
+those hearts.
+
+James Duncan covered his face, and did not speak for a long time. At
+last he said, “Young folk like Archie are weel nigh daft, because the
+gentlemen and a’ the lave wha hae heard the blessed word o’ truth frae
+his lips, sit still the noo in their quiet hames while the Cardinal pays
+him for his message wi’—wi’ _that_. But they couldna save him. The haill
+power o’ the realm is against them.”
+
+“Archie, puir lad, ’ill be sair troubled.”
+
+“Ay; but he’s had his arm broken.” What would at another time have been
+considered a serious misfortune, now scarcely caused Mary a start. So
+true it is that “a great grief kills all the rest.” She asked, however,
+how it happened.
+
+“A’ anent thae waefu’ tidings. There be some, of course, amang the
+tounsfolk wha haud still by the Cardinal and the priests. The lads fecht
+their forbears’ quarrels owre again, and whiles they dinna spare to use
+waur weapons than their tongues. Our Archie wadna stint to gie as guid
+as he got, ony gait. But it chanced he fell in wi’ a wheen silly
+callants, wha had learned frae the priests to ca’ Maister Wishart a
+heretic. He gied them back the word, that he was na heretic, but the
+noblest man and the best Christian in a’ Scotland. That was unco weel;
+but then he was sae far left to himsel, that he maun curse the bluidy
+Cardinal in a loud voice, and pray God wad send him an evil end. Wi’
+that somebody flang a muckle stane at him, and, lifting his arm to save
+his head, he had it broken.”
+
+“I’m wae for that, ilka gait,” said Mary. “Sic’ paivies couldna do God’s
+servant ony guid.”
+
+“True; but the broken arm willna do Archie muckle harm. It’s a kind o’
+comfort to him to hae something to thole, and keeps him a bit quiet. I
+gared Maister Wilson promise to send him here sae soon as he could.”
+
+“Jamie,” said Mary after a pause, and rather hesitatingly, “will ye no
+tak’ yer supper, man?”
+
+Jamie drew forward towards the table, which had been spread by Mary with
+such loving care. His eye rested on the little tokens of anxious thought
+for his comfort, then wandered round the cheerful pleasant room, to
+their store of treasured books—to the bright fireside—to the cot near it
+where their infant slept. With a quick movement he turned away, and
+veiled his face to hide the tears he could no longer restrain. “Oh,
+Mary,” he said, “I’m fear’t it’s no sae cheery as this the nicht—in the
+Sea Tower o’ St. Andrews!”
+
+“But, Jamie, God can make the dark gruesome dungeon mair bright wi’ his
+presence than the summer sky wi’ sunshine. Can we no trust our dear
+father in Christ in the loving hands o’ the guid Maister he served sae
+faithfu’? While yet he walked amang us God was his portion, why suld we
+doot that even noo he can be his exceeding great reward?”
+
+Mary Duncan’s words were true. No record indeed remains to us of the
+month during which he lay, “straitly bound in irons,” in that “nook in
+the bottom of the Sea Tower, a place where many of God’s children had
+been imprisoned before,”[19]—unless the faith and love, shown so soon
+afterwards by the captain of the castle, may be counted a record of work
+done for Christ in that solemn interval. But it has well been said,
+“There has been a joy in dungeons and on racks passing the joy of
+harvest. A joy strange and solemn, mysterious even to its possessor. A
+white stone dropped from that signet-ring, peace, which a dying Saviour
+took from his own bosom, and bequeathed to those who endure the cross,
+despising the shame.” If that white stone has been ever given (and most
+assuredly it has), we may presume it was not withheld, in the hour of
+loneliness and suffering, from Christ’s faithful soldier and servant,
+George Wishart.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                 XIII.
+                    =“He giveth his beloved Sleep.”=
+
+
+   “I bless Thee for the quiet rest thy servant taketh now,
+   I bless Thee for his blessedness, and for his crownèd brow;
+   For every weary step he trod in faithful following Thee,
+   And for the good fight foughten well, and closed right valiantly.”
+                                   _Lays of the Kirk and Covenant._
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                 XIII.
+                    =“He giveth his beloved Sleep.”=
+
+
+Heavy was the cloud of sorrow that brooded now over the once cheerful
+home at Dunsinnane Brae. “All joy was darkened, the mirth of the land
+was gone.” Mary moved with hushed footsteps about her household duties,
+speaking little, but praying much. Many a quiet tear dropped over her
+baby’s cradle; many a time the psalm she tried to sing died away in low
+sobs; nor could she even recall the precious words of Scripture for her
+own comfort, without too vividly recalling with them the thought of him
+who was suffering for the crime of having brought to her and to others
+that living water. Jamie’s grief was less resigned and patient than
+hers. Certain very old perplexities about the works of God and his ways
+with the children of men sorely haunted and troubled him. With these
+came thoughts of anger and bitterness, only too natural under the
+circumstances. Mary often heard him murmur, “How long, O Lord, holy and
+true, dost thou not judge and avenge?”—But he could never bear to
+complete the sentence.
+
+Soon afterwards Archie, who was now wonderfully subdued and quiet,
+joined their party. He brought with him from Dundee the tidings that the
+Cardinal had asked the Governor for a temporal judge to pronounce
+sentence upon the heretic; but that it was hoped and expected he would
+refuse the request, which indeed he did, telling the Cardinal that “he
+would not meddle with the blood of that good man.”
+
+Further than this, for three slow and sorrowful weeks they heard
+nothing. One evening they had just concluded their wonted family
+worship, in which the prayer was never omitted, that God would hear his
+servant in the day of trouble, send him help from the sanctuary, and
+strengthen him out of Zion. Jamie’s voice faltered sorely as he offered
+it; and, on rising from his knees, he drew Mary aside and said to her,
+“It’s na use. I canna bide here ony langer. I maun gang to St. Andrews.”
+
+Mary started at this announcement.
+
+“To St. Andrews, Jamie! What gars ye think o’ that?”
+
+“I wad learn a’ there, and—and—aiblins see his face again.”
+
+“Eh, but that’s no like to be,—God wot,” she added very earnestly, “gin
+you could bring him but sae muckle comfort as a cup o’ cauld water, I
+wadna haud ye back, an’ ye were to set your ain life in the bawk to do
+it. But ye couldna. Think on’t yersel; ye ken weel they wadna let you
+see him. It’s naebut a fule thocht, Jamie.”
+
+“No just that. We canna get the bit news our hearts are aching for, but
+I maun gang a’ the gait to Dundee. St. Andrews is no sae muckle
+farther.”
+
+“Ay is it, owre twice as far. But it’s no the distance. It’s that I
+canna see the guid on’t. Forbye, Jamie, St. Andrews is the Cardinal’s
+ain town.”
+
+“Weel, what matters that to a puir simple man like me, wha naebody
+kens?”
+
+“Ye might be owre gleg wi’ yer tongue.”
+
+Jamie shook his head impatiently, was silent for a few moments, and then
+wisely shifted his ground. He had made a mistake, in attempting to
+reason at all about what was not a matter of reason, but of feeling.
+
+“It’s a’ true what ye say, Mary. But ye maunna keep me back, for it’s
+_borne in on me_ I suld gang. Fule thocht or no, I canna rest till I do
+it.”
+
+The woman’s nature responded to this appeal. She answered immediately,
+“Then do a’ that’s in thine heart, Jamie. But oh,” she added, “for the
+sake o’ yon bit bairn in the cradle, be prudent, man, and dinna be
+thinkin’ out loud!”
+
+“Ne’er fear for me. I havena done sae muckle for my Lord that he suld
+honour me to suffer for him. But it’s my thought aye and aye, an’ I gae
+to St. Andrews, aiblins he’ll gie me an answer here to the question
+that’s rackin’ my heart baith day and nicht, ‘Thou art o’ purer eyes
+than to behold evil, an’ canst not look on iniquity, wharefore lookest
+thou on them that deal treacherously, and haudest thy tongue when the
+wicked devoureth the man that is mair righteous than he?”
+
+James Duncan acted on his impulse. It may be the highest wisdom of a
+wise man to do this occasionally; for “the heart has its reasons, which
+the reason cannot comprehend.” He was enough of a Scotchman, however, to
+be prudent in his way of doing even what might be considered an
+imprudent action. In order to cover his real purpose, he found a
+plausible business errand to a brother of Janet’s husband, one Walter
+Graham, who resided at St. Andrews. And being well aware how little
+Archie’s discretion could be counted upon, he steadily refused his
+passionate entreaties to be permitted to accompany him. It was perhaps
+fortunate that he had another very sufficient reason for this refusal,
+as the boy was still weak and suffering from the effects of his
+accident. Janet volunteered to remain with Mary and the invalided Archie
+at the farm during the few days of the master’s absence; and he set out
+on foot, intending to cross the Firth of Tay, and in this manner to
+accomplish the journey in a single day. Thus the man, as man ever will,
+found relief for his sorrow in action, in motion, in excitement; while
+the woman, as woman so often must, sat at home, and suffered and kept
+silence.
+
+Three anxious days passed heavily by at Dunsinnane Brae. But on the
+evening of the third, a little after sunset, James Duncan returned home.
+So calm, it might almost be said so radiant, was his countenance, that
+at the first glance his impetuous young brother could not help
+exclaiming, “Is he saved, Jamie—tell us, is he saved?”
+
+“Saved—ay, that he is! Ane day and nicht (but there’s nae nicht there)
+has he been in his Saviour’s presence, and is no that enoo to pay for a’
+he suffered here?”
+
+“Oh but, Jamie—did God let them do their waurst?”
+
+“Nae doot he kens noo that the _waurst_ cruel men could do was just the
+_best_ his Lord could appoint for him. And I’m amaist come to that
+mysel. What I hae seen is wonnerfu’.”
+
+“Let my God provide for me as best pleaseth him,” had George Wishart
+said; and God had not denied him the request of his lips. But truly
+man’s worst is often His best for his chosen. Our love is timid,
+shrinking, more fearful even of inflicting than of enduring pain; His is
+broad, and strong, and far-seeing, as well as tender. Could we have our
+will with the dark tragedies of earth’s history, should we not be often
+tempted to find for them some softer termination? But,—
+
+                     “God himself is the true poet,
+                       And the real is his song.”
+
+And with deep meaning has it been said, that “he whom the poet loves he
+allows to suffer.” For the heart attuned to comprehend its beauty, no
+sweeter poem was ever sung than the life that ended at St. Andrews, upon
+that 1st of March 1546.
+
+As soon as the others were calm enough to hear it, James Duncan told his
+tale:—“I hae tint my gait,” he said, “after I crossed Tay Frith, and I
+fand mysel at Cupar—no that a’ that matters noo; but in sae far that it
+gared me bide there the nicht. Neist morn (and no sae early either, for
+I was owre forfoughten) I walked the sax mile to St. Andrews. Being come
+there, straight I ken’d that something by-ordinar was on hand. Castle
+and town were full o’ spearmen and jackmen, wi’ knapscall splent and
+axe; and folk were busy loading the muckle guns in the Towers. I thocht
+first it was for fechting, and that there maun hae been a stour in the
+town, but soon I changed my mind. Passing the East Tower, I saw nigh the
+Abbey, at the foot o’ Castle Wynd, men biggin’[20] _something_, I ken’d
+na what. But ainst I looked up at the castle, I had it a’ fixed: the
+folk were naebut making holiday, and they were biggin’ a stage for a
+clerk-play, or sic like. For the hail fore tower was decked out wi’ braw
+gear,—velvet cushions, tapestry curtains, and the lave,—as for the
+Cardinal and the kirkmen to look on and tak’ their ease. By-an’-by, I
+askit ane o’ the jackmen wha stood on guard what a’ this suld mean. He
+answered me cold and careless,—‘They’re gaun to burn Maister Wishart,
+and yon’s naebut for my lord and the bishops to see the ploy.’”
+
+“_Curse them!_” cried Archie.
+
+“Whisht, callant!—I cursed them ainst mysel, and that bitterly,—but I
+hae done wi’ cursing noo. Weel, I just said, ‘The Lord require it,’ and
+leaned back against the wa’. Na for a’ the muckle warld wad I fecht
+thro’ sic’ an hour again! I thocht my heart maun break, no just wi’
+grief for _him_, but wi’ rage an’ bitter hate. Christ’s gentle, loving
+servant, wha had wared his haill life doing guid, to dee in cruel
+torture,—and thae fiends to sit yonder, in their hatefu’ pomp an’ pride,
+to _enjoy_ the sight o’ his agony! ‘Serpents, generation o’ vipers, how
+wad they escape the damnation o’ hell?’ I was blythe to think they wadna
+escape it. Wi’ an awfu’ thirl o’ joy the thocht gaed thro’ and thro’ me,
+that the smoke o’ their torment wad gang up for aye and aye in the
+presence o’ the holy angels. It’s nae word to say I wad hae slain the
+bluidy Cardinal wi’ my ain hand; I’d hae deemed a quick death like that
+owre muckle guid for him—it was no to _that_ death he doomed his victim.
+Sae I gied him up in my heart to God’s ain fearfu’ vengeance, and I
+lifted my hand to heaven to curse him in his holy name.
+
+“But when I thocht upon God I was troubled. For I minded that _he saw a’
+this_. He beheld, frae his dwelling-place, the cruel triumph of his
+enemies, the bitter suffering of his dear, faithfu’ servant. Yet he
+bided still, and gied nae sign. The sky was clear and blue;—he sent nae
+thunnerstorm to smite the guilty town. Had he indeed forsaken him? Did
+he no care what happened? Were the murderer and the martyr alike to him?
+Ye may weel look fear’t, Mary, thae were gruesome wicked thochts—but God
+had mercy on me.
+
+“Belyve[21] a braw gentleman, wi’ sword and broidered doublet, passed
+quick by us. The man wha had spoken wi’ me made him a salute, and said,
+‘Yon’s our captain.’ Unkenning what I did, I gied ane glint at his face.
+Sadder face hae I never seen upon living man! He looked as he’d hae gien
+the haill warld just to greet like a bit bairn, but daredna do it
+_then_. I couldna help mysel, I gaed richt up to him, and said, ‘Sir, in
+God’s name, tell me gin this thing be true?’
+
+“He didna answer me sae quick; but he peered in my face as he’d hae read
+the vera thochts o’ my heart. Indeed, I trow ilka ane of us read the
+ither’s heart, for the een whiles can say mair than the tongue. At last
+he speired o’ me, ‘Be you a friend o’ his?’
+
+“I said, ‘Nae mair than thousands wha hae heard the Word o’ Life frae
+his lips, and wad be blythe to dee for him the day, gin that might be.’
+
+“‘Ye haud his faith?’
+
+“‘Dearer than my heart’s bluid.’
+
+“‘Follow me then,’ sayeth he, ‘in the name o’ our Lord Jesus Christ.’
+
+“Muckle wonnerin’, I did as he bade. As we passed alang to a postern o’
+the castle, he spake but ane word mair to me,—‘He sall hae his last wish
+the day, despite a’ the bishops in Scotland.’ Then a familiar[22] having
+opened to us, he gied me in his charge, and we parted. I was led to a
+quiet, pleasant room, and left there my lane. Like ane in a dream I
+looked around me, and felt a kind o’ wonner at seeing ilka thing sae
+still and hame-like. As tho’ that day were like ither days, and folk
+could eat and drink, there was a fair white cloth laid on the table, wi’
+bread and wine, and sic’, upon’t. Belyve, there dropped in quietly ane,
+an’ anither, an’ anither. Aiblins the maist part were the captain’s ain
+househald, but I ken there were mair by than that. Ane thing was sure,
+they a’ feared the Lord. Strange it seemed to me to meet God’s children
+_there_, in the vera seat o’ Satan. But I soon learned frae their talk
+what had happened. It was but that morn they had tried and condemned
+him.”
+
+“Their feet were swift to shed bluid,” said Archie. “What need to try
+him ava’?”
+
+“It was naebut for fear the folk suld say he was unjustly slain, as
+indeed they spared not to avow.” James Duncan paused for a moment, and
+suppressed a bitter sigh. “I canna just tell a’ they tald me o’ that
+trial as calm as I ought. Tho’ it’s a’ by noo, the heart maun burn still
+at the cruel insults heaped on Christ’s servant. They gied him to drink
+verra deep of his Maister’s cup; he was mocked, reviled,—even spit upon.
+But he tholed a’ wi’ grand and sweet patience; not ainst, they say, did
+e’en a change come owre his face. Sae calmly and bravely he defended
+God’s truth, that the folk wha filled the Abbey Kirk—”
+
+“Auld wives and doited carles they maun hae been to bide it. They suld
+hae torn the Cardinal in pieces and saved him!” Archie burst forth
+impetuously, every nerve in his frame quivering with passion. Mary and
+Janet were weeping quietly.
+
+“Callant, what could they do? I hae said the town was filled wi’
+soldiers; and the gunners stood ready at the muckle guns till a’ was
+done. Ane hundert jackmen, wi’ spear, splent, and axe, guarded the
+prisoner. But the folk gied him what they could. Ainst, a priest wha
+said the devil was in him, had the word gien back to him quick by ‘ane
+young scholar boy’ in the crowd, ‘It’s a devilish tale to say that. The
+devil never moved to speak as yon man speaks.’ Again, as he spake o’ the
+priesthood of a’ God’s children, the bishops drowned his voice wi’ a
+shout of insulting laughter. Sae soon as he might be heard, he said
+gently, ‘Do ye laugh, my lords? Though these sayings appear to your
+lordships scornful and worthy of derision, yet they are very weighty to
+me, and of great value, for they stand not only upon my life, but also
+upon the honour and glory of God.’ When folk’s hearts are owre full, a
+sma’ thing’ll gar them greet; many wha were present brake forth into
+tears at this, nor did they even fear to make lamentation for him aloud.
+And at last, ere their wark was done, the bishops were fain to put the
+people forth, for they daredna trust them mair.
+
+“Ane that came in later than the lave, tald us that Dean John Wynram,
+the sub-prior o’ the Abbey, wha preached the sermon in the kirk that
+morn before them a’, having spoken afterwards wi’ Maister Wishart, was
+moved to the vera heart; sae that he gaed, weeping bitterly, to the
+bluidy Cardinal himsel, wi’ a’ his priests and bishops, and tald him
+plainly, that ‘Maister Wishart was an innocent man, and that he said
+this, not to intercede for his life, but to make known his innocency
+unto all men, as it was known already unto God.’ May God remember that
+man for guid, and bring him, in his grace, to a clear knowledge o’ the
+Truth, for the whilk his servant suffered!
+
+“But maist eager for his death, after the cruel Cardinal himsel, was the
+Archbishop o’ Glasgow. Folk couldna fail to mind it was no that lang
+sin’ he came to Ayr, wi’ his jackmen and spearmen, to tak’ the muckle
+heretic. But he fand him wi’ a’ the Westland gentlemen around him, sword
+in hand. Ye mind then how he seized the kirk, and how, as at Mauchline,
+the angry gentlefolk wad hae driven him forth waur than he came, hadna
+God’s servant withheld them, saying, ‘Let him alane; his sermon will not
+much hurt. Let us go to the Mercat Cross.’ Bitter thanks the bishop gied
+him for the same! But at least Maister Wishart had his will; ‘the Word
+sent by him was a word o’ peace,’ na bluid was shed for it—_but his
+ain_.
+
+“We were talking o’ these things amang oursels wi’ sad hearts, when the
+captain came again, and wi’ him—the man sae dear to us a’.”
+
+“Oh, Jamie! Then, ye saw him?” Jamie bowed his head.
+
+“Was he changed?” asked Mary in a trembling voice.
+
+“He was pale and worn-looking, but ye’d scarce hae thocht o’ that; for
+God’s peace was in his face, gin it’s ever been in man’s.”
+
+“Then he wasna fear’t?” asked Janet.
+
+“_Fear’t_, Janet? He was naebut gaun ‘unto God, his exceeding joy.’ But
+I couldna but mind the day he knelt by my bedside sae kind and gentle,
+and a great sob came up like a wave frae the bottom o’ my heart. Wi’ a’
+my strength I forced it back, and kept still, warsling wi’ mysel, while
+the lave pressed round and talked wi’ him.
+
+“But presently I heard him say, ‘I beseik ye, my brethren, to be silent
+for a little while, that I may bless this bread according to our
+Saviour’s ordinance, and so take my leave of you.’ He was sae calm
+himsel, that he calmed us a’. He gared us come to the table; and we were
+soon seated there, as for a simple meal, yet kenning full weel the place
+was na ither than the house o’ God, the vera gate o’ heaven.
+
+“And sic’ God made it to us. Oh Mary, it was wonnerfu’ to hear a man
+talk o’ Christ, wha we kenned, ere that day’s sun set, suld see Him eye
+to eye. It was amaist as though he _had_ seen Him, even then. He seemed
+to tak’ us wi’ him—abune—ayont a’ earth’s grief and dolor, into the
+strange peace and quiet of our Lord’s ain immediate presence. He spake
+first o’ the institution of the Lord’s Supper, then of his sufferings
+and his death for us. He made us a’ think o’ that, till, looking at the
+Cross, we amaist forgot the stake that was sae near us. Nae doot but
+_he_ forgot it!
+
+“But ye ken that in the old times, Mary, he never failed to bring the
+truth hame to our ain hearts and lives. And sae it was the noo. Maist
+lovingly he pleaded wi’ us, by that Death for us, to love ane anither
+‘as perfect members of Christ, wha intercedes continually for us to God
+the Father.’ And he bade us lay aside, for His name’s sake, a’ rancour,
+envy, _vengeance_!—Weel we kenned what he meant! Archie, lad, it seemed
+no hard to do it then, wi’ sic’ thochts before us. I looked for a’ the
+rage and hate that a wheen agone had filled my soul wi’ the bitterness
+o’ death, and lo! they were gone; Christ’s love had melted them awa’.
+Frae the vera depth o’ my heart I forgave that hour—even the cruel
+Cardinal. And I think we a’ did the same. This was the last lesson _he_
+taught us.
+
+“Then he blessed the bread and wine, and having tasted them himsel, he
+gied to ilka ane of us. I feel the thirl yet o’ his hand touching mine,
+and his voice saying to me, ‘Remember that Christ died for thee, and
+feed on Him in thy heart by faith.’ Still mair when he gied the cup,
+that the kirkmen say we daurna touch.”—Here at last Jamie’s voice
+failed, and he was silent for some moments. Presently he resumed, “After
+this he gied thanks, and prayed for us. Then he said, ‘I shall neither
+eat nor drink more in this life. There is a more bitter cup prepared for
+me, only because I have preached the true Word of God; but pray for me,
+that I may take it patiently, as from his hand.’ And sae, having bade us
+a’ farewell, he gaed forth.”
+
+“Did ye greet?” asked Janet.
+
+“Not ane tear till he was awa’. We wadna grieve him wi’ our grief;
+forbye, ere he had done, our hearts were owre full of a kind of awfu’
+happiness that left nae thocht o’ grief. But then—when a’ was by,”—again
+his voice died away.
+
+Archie broke the silence,—“It was just like him to help and comfort
+a’body else to the vera last minute, wi’ nae thocht nor care for
+himsel.”
+
+“It was like his Lord,” said Mary’s low soft voice. “Thank God a’ yer
+life ye hae seen him thus, Jamie.”
+
+“I hae seen him ainst mair.”
+
+“Sure ye daredna see the end?”—the question was Archie’s.
+
+“I’d hae dared onything then. I said to mysel, ‘Am I sae weak that I
+canna thole to _see_ what he maun suffer? Gin a’ that love him hae sic’
+coward hearts, he’ll be left, that dreadfu’ hour, his lane amang faes
+and strangers.’ Sae I gaed wi’ the lave.
+
+“Archie, Mary, dinna ask me to say muckle on’t! I canna—no just yet.
+Aiblins when lang years are by, and our hairs are gray, we’ll talk it
+owre wi’ mair quiet hearts; but noo”—
+
+After a long pause he went on, shading his face, and bringing out every
+word slowly and with effort. “I saw him led to the stake—the gibbet I
+suld say, for nae shame or scorning they could devise was spared him.
+His hands bound behind him, a rope round his neck, and a muckle chain—oh
+Mary, dinna greet like that, it’s a’ by noo. Shame, did I say? God’s
+bright angels might hae envied him the glory o’ that hour. Gin ye’d seen
+his face as I did, ye’d hae thocht sae. His spirit had just been in sic’
+close communion wi’ the Lord he loved; he was gaun straight to the mair
+perfect fellowship abune; and this was naebut a bit passage,—ane step
+between the twa,—Christ’s presence in grace here, Christ’s presence in
+glory up yonder.
+
+“Vera gentle were his words to a’, baith friend and fae. Even to the
+beggars, wha met him on the way, he couldna but gie a word o’ comfort.
+‘I want my hands, wherewith I wont to give you alms. But the merciful
+Lord, of his benignity and abundant grace, that feedeth all men,
+vouchsafe to give you necessaries, both unto your bodies and souls.’ And
+when the Grayfriars troubled him, urging him to pray to our Lady, he
+answered meekly, ‘Cease to tempt me, I entreat you, my brethren.’
+
+“Being come to the place, he kneeled down and prayed, ‘O thou Saviour of
+the world, have mercy upon me. Father of Heaven, I commend my spirit
+into thy holy hands.’ Then he spake to the people. I hae brought ye his
+last message, Mary. I think my heart has gathered ilka ane o’ the words
+he spake. For the hot airn takes the stamp, and keeps it for aye.
+
+“‘I pray you,’ he said to them that stood around, ‘show my brethren and
+sisters, which have heard me oft before, that they cease not nor leave
+off to learn the Word of God, which I taught unto them after the grace
+given unto me, for no persecutions or troubles in this world, which
+lasteth not. And show unto them, that my doctrine was no wives’ fables,
+after the constitutions made by men; and if I had taught men’s doctrine,
+I had gotten greater thanks by men. But for the Word’s sake and true
+evangel, which was given to me by the grace of God, I suffer this day,
+not sorrowfully, but with a glad heart and mind. Consider and behold my
+visage, ye sall not see me change my colour. This grim fire I fear not;
+and so I pray you for to do, if that any persecution come to you for the
+sake of the Word, and not to fear them that slay the body, and after
+that have no power to slay the soul. Some have said of me, that I taught
+that the soul of man should sleep until the last day; but I know surely
+that my soul shall sup with my Saviour this night, or it be six hours,
+for whom I suffer this.’
+
+“Then prayed he for his enemies in sic’ words as thae: ‘I beseik the
+Father of Heaven to forgive them that have, of any ignorance, or else of
+any evil mind, forged lies upon me; I forgive them with all mine heart;
+I beseik Christ to forgive them that have condemned me to death this day
+ignorantly.’
+
+“But no yet was done his last act o thoughtfu’ love. For we marked that
+the doomster[23] kneeled unto him, and maist earnestly prayed his
+forgiveness, saying he was in no ways guilty of his death. To whom he
+said, ‘Come hither to me.’ When he was come, he kissed him on the cheek,
+wi’ the words, ‘Lo, here is a token that I forgive thee. My friend, do
+thine office.’”
+
+A long, long silence followed. At last Archie murmured through his
+tears, “What then?”
+
+“Then—the end came. But my coward heart failed me; I could thole nae
+mair. Scarce kenning what I did, I gat me frae the place, frae the town.
+I dinna mind aething, till belyve I fand mysel in a bit quiet grassy
+spot. There I threw mysel on my knees, and tried hard to cry to God. It
+were sae easy for Him to tak’ a’ the bitter pain awa’, and gie his
+servant peace in that last awfu’ hour. The ‘grim fire’ needna hurt, gin
+He willed it sae. For fire and hail, snaw and vapour, alike fulfil His
+word. A’ my heart gaed up in ane last prayer for him; and I took nae
+thocht o’ time, till at length the sound of a bell frae the Abbey Kirk
+struck my ear. Then my prayers changed to praises. For I kenned it was
+the saxt hour, and I minded the martyr’s words, ‘Ere it be sax hours, my
+soul shall sup wi’ Christ my Saviour.’ Nae truer thirl o’ joy do I ever
+think to feel, were I to live a hundert year on earth. I couldna but cry
+aloud, wi’ clasped hands, and tears that were a’ for gladness, ‘Thou
+hast gien thy servant ‘quiet rest’ at last. I thank thee, O my Father!’”
+
+“God be thanked for _him_. He rests frae his labours, and his warks do
+follow him.—But it’s the waefu’ day for us!” sobbed Archie, who although
+at an age when boys are more ashamed of tears than men, had for some
+time been weeping without restraint.
+
+James Duncan laid his hand gently on his shoulder. “Brither,” he said,
+“daur ye stand this day by the word ye spake when ye waled sic’ a life
+as his aboon ilka ither? Can ye drink o’ that cup, think ye?”
+
+The boy raised his head quickly, dashed his tears away, and said with
+deep emotion, “I’d rather live sic’ a life and dee sic’ a death, than be
+king owre a’ the muckle warld, wi’ a’ the honour and glory o’t. But,” he
+added presently, and in a lower voice, “it’s no by might or by power,
+but by the Lord’s ain Spirit; the whilk he’ll no deny e’en to a puir
+sinfu’ lad like me, wha asks it this day for his dear Son’s sake.”
+
+“Amen,” said James Duncan.
+
+Then they wept together, long and bitterly, like orphaned children for a
+beloved father. But with their tears were mingled earnest prayers that
+they might be enabled to follow his faith, considering the end of his
+conversation.
+
+George Wishart entered into rest at the comparatively early age of
+thirty-three (as is supposed). His ministry, after his return to
+Scotland, did not last more than two, or at the most, three years. But
+both that ministry itself, and the martyrdom that crowned and
+consecrated it, were very fruitful in results. In the strong words of
+Burnet, “Not any one thing hastened forward the Reformation more than
+this did.... And it was now so much opened by his preaching, and that
+was so confirmed by his death, that the nation was generally possessed
+by the love of it.”
+
+It seems strange, however, that the story of one of Christ’s gentlest
+servants should be so associated with a deed of blood and vengeance,
+that the martyrdom of Wishart is seldom mentioned without recalling at
+the same time the assassination of Cardinal Beaton. We may not account
+for the gleam of prophetic vision that crossed the martyr’s spirit,
+prompting those strange words, said to have been spoken from the midst
+of the flames to that faithful friend who stood so near him that he was
+himself actually injured by the fire, “Captain, God forgive yon man who
+sits so proudly on that wall-head; but I know that he shall soon lie
+there in greater shame than he now sits in glory.” But if life and death
+have both their many mysteries, above all “dark with light of mysteries”
+is the dim region between them. Who knows how God may then speak to the
+soul? The real difficulty is, not that in that hour he was pleased to
+reveal something to his servant, but that the thing revealed was not of
+a nature to have given him joy or comfort.[24]
+
+This much is certain, no one who has felt all the glory of that death,
+so bright with courage and patience, and with the gentleness of Christ,
+could regard the other death, in such dark sad contrast, with any
+feelings but those of mournful pity. The scene was not without a sombre
+grandeur of its own. The heart throbs yet at the solemn words of the
+avenger of blood, spoken with his sword at the breast of his trembling
+victim, “Repent thee of thy former wicked life, but especially of the
+blood of that notable instrument of God, Master George Wishart, which
+albeit the fire consumed before men, yet cries for vengeance upon thee,
+and we are sent from God to avenge it. For here, before God, I protest
+that neither the hatred of thy person, nor the love of thy riches, nor
+the fear of any trouble thou couldst have done to me in particular,
+moved or moves me to strike thee, but only because thou art an obstinate
+enemy of Christ Jesus and his holy evangel.” And still we seem to hear
+the echo of that “dismal cry, full of eternity’s despair,” with which
+the guilty spirit passed.—“All is gone!” The retribution was complete.
+That the townspeople might believe their Cardinal was really dead, the
+assassins flung his body, with scorn and insult, upon that very “fore
+tower” from which he beheld the martyr’s sufferings.
+
+Perhaps other humble Christians may have felt as the Duncans did when
+the news of this event reached the quiet home of Dunsinnane Brae. Archie
+indeed could not help exclaiming, “‘Hell frae beneath is moved for thee
+at thy coming, it stirreth up the dead for thee.’ Eh, and willna Herod,
+and Pontius Pilate, and a’ the wicked heathen kings be blythe to see him
+there?”
+
+But James Duncan said, “Whisht, callant. It’s no for us to tak’ sic’
+awfu’ words in our mouths. Nae mair than it was for _them_ to tak’ at
+their ain hands that vengeance, of the whilk God has said, ‘It is mine.’
+But Mary, woman, sure ye’re no greeting for him?”
+
+“No for the Cardinal, Jamie. But for ane wha, had he been alive the day,
+wadna hae let them touch a hair o’ his head. I amaist think,” added
+Mary, her tears falling faster, “I amaist think he’d hae said, as he did
+ainst before, ‘_He that troubles him troubles me._’”
+
+“But, ye ken, it was to avenge him they did it, Mary.”
+
+“They suld hae left that to the Lord he loved. His cause was unco safe
+in his guid hand. Wae’s me! what gared them touch it ava’?”
+
+And thus, without unseemly triumph or exultation, they left the cruel
+Cardinal to the just award of his great Judge. They had once fought the
+battle with anger and hatred, and having, by God’s grace, gained the
+victory, it had not to be fought over again.
+
+The quiet current of their own lives flowed on undisturbed by any
+striking event. James Duncan did for his child what other Christian
+laymen were at that time obliged to do for theirs. He baptized it
+himself, in the name of the Father, Son, and Spirit, commending it to
+the tender care of the Good Shepherd, and praying him earnestly to
+suffer this little one to come unto him. And his prayer was heard.
+George Duncan feared the God of his father from his youth upwards. There
+rested indeed upon all the family that blessing of the Lord which maketh
+rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it. James and Mary saw their
+children’s children, and peace upon the Israel of their native land,
+God’s faithful “congregation” in Scotland.
+
+The minister’s martyr death was the message God sent home to Archie’s
+young ardent soul. He lived to realise his boyish dream; for
+
+          “A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
+          And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
+
+He became himself a preacher of the gospel, a good steward of the
+manifold grace of God. When, twelve years afterwards, his native town of
+Dundee “began to erect the face of a publick churche reformed, in the
+which the Worde was openlie preached, and Christ’s Sacramentis trewlie
+ministrat,” he was amongst those “zealous men who did exhort their
+brethren according to the gifts and graces granted unto them.” Thus the
+lips silenced by fire at St. Andrews spoke on still, as well in the
+living burning words which other lips caught up from theirs, as in the
+voiceless eloquence of thousands of holy lives, extending and
+transmitting their influence for good in wider and ever wider circles of
+blessing.
+
+Two years after the establishment of the Reformation in Dundee, the
+faith for which George Wishart died became the recognised faith of
+Scotland. “Nor was this long in doing, nor did many suffer after” him;
+only two indeed—Adam Wallace, and brave old Walter Mill—were privileged
+to lay down their lives at the stake, before “the kingdom of God
+evidently appeared and triumphed in despite of Satan.”
+
+         “Round went the message, over rock and plain,
+         Like burning words from lips of prophet old;
+         Priest, lord, and king, opposed the voice in vain,—
+           It would not be controlled.
+
+         “Wide o’er the land went forth the new-born day,
+         Brightening alike the cot, the hall, the throne;
+         Long years of darkness vanish at its ray,
+           Ages of night have gone.
+
+         “The Christ has come, the breaker of all chains,
+         The giver of the heavenly liberty.
+         Peace, light, and freedom, to these hills and plains,—
+           The land—the land is free!”
+
+And after three centuries, still the land is free, and peace and light
+have their habitation there. Happy Scotland, land of Schools and Bibles,
+land of God-fearing men and women! As we climb thy glorious hills, or
+wander over thy peaceful plains, so rich in all that can please the eye
+or stir the fancy, and hear the voice of prayer and praise arise from
+hall and cottage, and behold the Sabbath esteemed a delight, the holy of
+the Lord, honourable—there floats back upon the ear, like sweet music
+from the distance, the echo of those words spoken so long ago by one of
+thy noblest martyr sons,—
+
+
+“THIS REALM SHALL BE ILLUMINED WITH THE LIGHT OF CHRIST’S EVANGEL, AS
+CLEARLY AS ANY REALM EVER WAS SINCE THE DAYS OF THE APOSTLES. GOD’S
+HOUSE SHALL BE BUILT IN IT; YEA, IT SHALL NOT LACK THE VERY COPESTONE.”
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: THE PRIOR]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                   I.
+                          =Tithing the Fish.=
+
+
+             “The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
+               The boatie rows fu’ weel;
+             And muckle luck attend the boat,
+               The merlin, and the creel.”
+                                         _Old Scotch Song._
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                   I.
+                          =Tithing the Fish.=
+
+
+“Tak’ guid counsel when ye get it, man,” said the Laird of Lauriston to
+his brother David, who was pacing up and down the hall of Lauriston
+Castle in a state of considerable excitement.
+
+“Thole it, Davie, thole it—‘He that tholes overcomes.’ Forbye, ye suld
+ken it’s ill fechting wi’ kirkmen.”
+
+“Ay,” returned David Stratton between his teeth, “’ill fechting wi’
+them, but waur tholing them. A pack o’ greedy loons they be, ilka ane o’
+them, bishop, priest, monk, and friar; taking the bread frae the mouths
+o’ widows and fatherless bairns to keep their ainsels in pride and
+luxury, and a’ manner o’ sin. What wi’ the best cow, and the uppermost
+cloth, and the teind o’ meal and maut, and a’ the lave, were we no
+shaved close enoo’, but they maun come speiring after the vera fish o’
+the sea, that we get by the guid help o’ God and the hard toil o’ our
+ain hands? Say what ye may, brither, neither Prior Patrick Hepburn nor
+Maister Robert Lawson sall hae the tenth fish o’ me.” And he confirmed
+his declaration by an oath.
+
+David Stratton was a man whom either priest or layman, in those stormy
+days, might have preferred having as a friend than as a foe. Every
+movement of his powerful well-knit frame, every glance of his keen blue
+eye, bespoke energy and decision of character. A strong will and a brave
+heart, a good share of common sense, and an iron constitution, had
+hitherto enabled him, in whatever he undertook, to bear down opposition,
+and to carry out his purposes with a high hand. Still he had a rough but
+real sense of justice that might have disposed him to yield good
+humouredly to a fair demand. It only quickened his opposition to one
+that he considered obviously unjust and oppressive.
+
+His case was this. He had shrewdly invested part of his moderate
+resources (a younger brother’s portion) in the purchase of a
+fishing-boat, which brought him in a considerable profit. Hearing of
+this, the Prior of St. Andrews demanded the tithe of his gains,
+employing as his agent in the business, Robert Lawson, vicar of
+Ecclescreig.
+
+The Laird of Lauriston, who did not equal his brother in courage and
+determination, urged compliance with the demand; but David, although
+well content to leave his soul, with all its weighty interests, to the
+management of the kirkmen, had no disposition to permit their meddlesome
+interference with his temporal possessions.
+
+Lauriston therefore remonstrated in vain, and he did so in the
+hesitating tone of one who foresees his remonstrance will be in vain.
+“Gie him the teind, Davie, that ye may keep the nine siccar.”
+
+“Haud yer clavers! I’ll keep the nine siccar, and nae thanks to you or
+him.”
+
+“Douce, man, douce. Do ye no ken the holy prior may curse ye wi’ the
+muckle curse, and aiblins yer net ’ill break, or your boat ’ill gae down
+in the sea, or Hugh Peters, yer best fisherman, that ye set sic’ store
+by, ’ill fall frae the mast?”
+
+For a moment David stared at his brother in surprise, then he burst into
+a loud fit of laughter.
+
+“The _holy_ prior! Heerd a man ever the like? Ye’ve been just taking a
+willy-waucht o’ yer guid French wine, or ye wadna talk sic’ fooleries.
+What wad gar me be fear’t for a kirkman’s curse, that aebody wha likes
+may buy for a plack[25] ony day? Forbye, the blessed saints hae got mair
+to do than to tak’ tent o’ Patrick Hepburn, when it’s his pleasure to
+curse better men than himsel.”
+
+“Weel, a wilfu’ man maun gang his gait. Gin it were but for my sake,
+though, ye might speak him fair. Forbye that, ye’re a daft lad to be
+making faes for yersel when it’s _friends_ ye suld be speiring after.
+An’ ye want to win favour wi’ the Lindsays it’s ill fechting wi’ the
+Hepburns, for they’re fast friends the noo.”
+
+David threw himself into the nearest seat, and remained silent for some
+minutes, during which a change passed gradually over his face, softening
+its hard and keen expression. At last he said, “Alison Lindsay’s a brave
+lass, and likes a man wi’ a will o’ his ain.”
+
+“There be ways enoo’ to show thy will, but meddling wi’ the priests.”
+
+“I canna thole to hae the gear minished when I’m gathering it for her,”
+said David slowly, and in an altered tone.
+
+“Hoot awa, man! There’ll be gear enoo’. I’ve nae but ane son”—
+
+David stretched out his sinewy arm with a forbidding gesture. “Na, na,
+David Stratton ’ill never sorn upon ony, be it his ain brither ten times
+owre. Forbye,” he added with a laugh, “Maister Geordie ’ill need a’ the
+gear ye can win for him, for I wad ye a plack it’s na muckle he’ll win
+for himsel, wi’ his Latin and his logic, and a’ his ither fooleries,
+that hae never filled aebody’s mouth, sae far’s I ken, wi’ onything
+better than idle clavers.”
+
+Lauriston looked annoyed, but controlled himself. “Atweel, David,” he
+said, “we’re no like to agree upon _that_. But never heed the gear.
+Alison’s father’ll gie her a braw tocher, never fear. She’s my wife’s
+ain cousin, and forbye that, she’s a guid lass and a bonnie, sae I wish
+thee guid luck wi’ her.”
+
+A very perceptible flush mounted to David’s bronzed cheek. Not choosing
+apparently to talk more of the matter, he turned his attention to the
+“good French wine” on the table, of which he drank a cup. Then he said
+with a smile, “Weel, Andrew, I’ll no stan’ against guid counsel. The
+prior may tak’ his teind, I’se no hinder him.”
+
+Lauriston looked keenly at his brother. He spoke fairly enough, but
+there was a light in his eye, and a smile lurking about the corners of
+his mouth, not pleasing in the sight of the prudent and peaceable laird.
+But at that moment the young Master of Lauriston entered the room, his
+usually open countenance wearing an expression of considerable
+impatience and vexation. His father and uncle had in fact delegated to
+him the very uncongenial task of entertaining the vicar of Ecclescreig,
+whilst they deliberated upon the demand of which he was the bearer; and
+the youth was both wearied and disgusted with his companion. Nor was he
+perhaps too willing to sacrifice his own convenience to that of his
+uncle David, whom he could not help regarding with the kind of contempt
+a scholar usually entertains for the _wilfully_ ignorant. And David
+repaid his contempt with interest, though upon different grounds. “He
+despysed all reading, chiefly of those things that are godly;” he
+regarded every scholar as a useless, effeminate character, but most of
+all a scholar who, like George Stratton, had “drunk of St. Leonard’s
+Well,”[26] and was even suspected of carrying about his person, for
+private perusal, a copy of Tyndale’s New Testament. At the same time,
+with considerable inconsistency, he also despised the clergy for their
+shameful ignorance and their abandoned lives.
+
+“Uncle,” said George, “yon priest wad needs be gone. I pray you stay him
+not, but give him an answer straightway, yea or nay.”
+
+“An answer, lad? That I will, and a better, I wad ye, than ye’d find in
+yer books frae this to Yule.” And he rose to go.
+
+“Tak’ tent,” said Lauriston, in a warning voice. “I jalouse ye’ll be
+playing some of your tricks upon the priest.”
+
+“I?” said Stratton, with a droll look of assumed simplicity, “what for
+suld I play tricks upon Maister Robert? I’d as soon play them upon my
+lord the prior himsel (which was probably quite true). Ye ken my boat
+lies in the creek, twa mile and a bittock frae this. I’ll just ride sae
+far wi’ the vicar, and he sall hear me tell my men to reserve my lord’s
+teinds at their peril. Gin that’ll no content him, ’twill be an ill
+case.”
+
+With this assurance Lauriston was obliged to be satisfied; and a few
+minutes later saw the energetic David Stratton and Master Robert Lawson
+on their way together to the little harbour.
+
+The sound of their master’s well-known whistle summoned the fishermen,
+who were engaged in preparing their evening meal on board the little
+vessel. They were a rough, wild-looking group; but they seemed warmly
+attached to “Maister Davie,” who had often shared their toils and
+dangers.
+
+He addressed himself particularly to the two who stood foremost amongst
+them: “Hark ye, my lads. The Prior o’ St. Andrews hath sent this holy
+man unto me, speiring after the teind pairt o’ our fish. And we maun be
+guid Christians, and gie the kirk her dues, ye ken. Sae I command ye,
+gin ye be my true men, of a’ the fish ye tak’ frae this day
+for’ard—_throw the teind pairt back into the sea_!” The men listened to
+the first part of this address with ill-concealed annoyance and dislike.
+But when, in conclusion, their master gave his singular command, the
+expression of their countenances changed, first into surprise and
+wonder, then into undisguised satisfaction. “Ay, ay, maister!” shouted
+the two foremost heartily; and their shout was echoed by all the group,
+from gray-haired Hugh Peters to the brace of bare-legged, shock-headed
+boys, who stood at a respectful distance staring at the master and his
+unwonted companion the priest.
+
+To whom, as soon as the noise had subsided, Master David turned: “Gang
+yer ways, sir, and tell my lord the prior that he may _come and tak’ his
+teind frae the place whaur I get my stock_.”
+
+To judge by their continued cheers and laughter, the joke was better
+relished by the fishermen than it was by the priest. “That’s a dour
+message, Maister David,” said he, “and ill to carry to a proud and
+scornful man like my lord the prior.”
+
+“Nae ither sall ye get frae me,” answered David briefly; and with a
+slight and rather contemptuous salute, he turned his horse’s head and
+rode quickly back to Lauriston.
+
+Far indeed was he then from foreseeing all the sorrow his rude and
+thoughtless jest was destined to occasion. Yet out of that sorrow were
+to spring forth richer and purer blessings than as yet he could even
+conceive. But for the covetous demand of the prior of St. Andrews, and
+the reckless defiance it provoked, David Stratton would probably have
+lived and died without God in the world. His fishing, his farm, his
+field-sports, his family, would have engrossed his thoughts, and (as far
+as these things can do it) have filled his heart. But He who is
+“wonderful in counsel and excellent in working” was leading the blind by
+a way that he knew not, which was yet for him “the right way, that he
+might go unto a city of habitation.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  II.
+                         =The Excommunication.=
+
+
+                 “There is a forest where the din
+                   Of iron branches sounds!
+                 A mighty river roars between,
+                 And whosoever looks therein
+                 Sees the heavens all black with sin,—
+                   Sees not its depths nor bounds.”
+                                             LONGFELLOW
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  II.
+                         =The Excommunication.=
+
+
+Whilst Patrick Hepburn, Prior of St. Andrews, was disputing about his
+“teindis” with David Stratton, the corrupt hierarchy, of which he was a
+most worthy member, was fast filling up the measure of its iniquity.
+What that iniquity was—how deep, how dark, how terrible—may still be
+read in the pages of contemporary history. But the heart turns sickening
+from the record, feeling it “a vexation only to understand the report,”
+a pain and a grief even to _know_ what these men dared to do “in the
+face of the sun and the eye of light.”
+
+Some, indeed, there were, who amidst all that unutterable pollution yet
+“walked with Christ in white garments stainless.” For their names and
+their memories we thank God; and none the less because such names have
+oftenest come down to us surrounded by a mournful halo of martyr glory.
+Strange to say, it is usually those stories that end with stake and
+gibbet to which the student turns with relief and pleasure, and over
+which he lingers gladly. Bright to the thoughtful eye is the dungeon’s
+midnight gloom; dark with a horror of great darkness are the abodes of
+pomp and luxury, where cardinal, priest, and bishop held ungodly
+revelry.
+
+For they held revelry, as those who neither feared God nor regarded man.
+Like the nobles at Belshazzar’s feast, they drank wine, and praised
+their gods of silver and gods of gold; they profaned to every vile,
+degrading use “the vessels of the sanctuary,” those hallowed names and
+symbols which Rome has borrowed, or rather stolen, from the true temple
+of the Lord. But they saw not the writing of the man’s hand upon the
+wall, they knew not that even then they were weighed in the balances and
+found wanting, and that God had numbered their kingdom, and finished it.
+
+Already, at the period of which we write, the light of the glorious
+gospel of Christ was beginning to shine upon Scotland. Five years
+before[27] young Patrick Hamilton, the protomartyr of the Scottish
+Reformation, sealed his testimony at St. Andrews, and “the reek of his
+burning infected all that it did blow upon.” Many copies of Tyndale’s
+New Testament had found their way into the country, chiefly through the
+instrumentality of the merchants of the sea-port towns; and these were
+eagerly read by all classes of the people. Some of the principal
+teachers at the university of St. Andrews were strongly inclined to the
+reformed doctrines, and numbers of the young men who were educated there
+had imbibed their opinions.
+
+But to return to the true history of David Stratton. For a short time
+after his bold message to the Prior of St. Andrews, all went on
+prosperously with him. His land brought forth abundantly, his nets
+gathered rich spoils from the sea. What was better still, Alison Lindsay
+was disposed to look favourably on his suit; nor did her relatives, at
+this time, seem to regard him with an unfriendly eye. But while he
+“blessed his soul,” and promised himself years of peace and plenty, a
+dark and threatening cloud had gathered unnoticed, and was about to
+burst over his head.
+
+The proud and covetous Prior of St. Andrews answered his rude taunt with
+the thunders of a Romish excommunication. It might have been thought,
+even by zealous Romanists, that the punishment exceeded the offence; and
+that those thunders might better have been reserved for more important
+occasions, and more desperate and wilful offenders. “For, indeed, the
+man had _no_ religion,” as we are gravely told of another person, by way
+of a sufficient reason for his full and triumphant acquittal from the
+charge of heresy. It is light that darkness hates, and light alone:
+Rome’s quarrel is not with ignorance and irreligion; though these may
+sometimes provoke her bitter anger, when they lay their hands upon some
+of her cherished interests. This was just what David Stratton had done:
+striking blindly and recklessly, under the influence of momentary
+irritation, he had chanced to strike a very tender part. “One that
+shoulde have said that no tithes shoulde be payed” was a dangerous
+member of society in the eyes of those who by means of these very
+“teindis and rentis,” extracted from the fears or the superstitions of
+the laity, were clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously
+every day.
+
+It is not easy for us to understand what David Stratton felt when he
+found himself cursed with bell, book, and candle, and “delivered into
+the deville’s handes.” The lion’s roar has lost its terrors for us, who
+have only seen him caged and powerless; it was very different with the
+men who knew that the roar was but the prelude to the crouch and spring
+of the deadly destroyer.
+
+But apart from the temporal consequences of excommunication, which were
+likely to be dreadful enough, other troubles, born of superstition,
+could not fail to arise in the soul of the excommunicated. Every man who
+is not religious in the highest sense of the word, must be in some way
+or other superstitious. For though many men can dispense with a creed,
+every man must of necessity have a faith; a belief in something of which
+his senses cannot take cognizance, in some power greater than his own,
+yet not without its influence upon his being. David Stratton had thrust
+this belief away into the darkest corner of his soul—had smothered it
+with the pursuits, the interests, the pleasures of life—had almost
+become insensible to its existence. But the thunder of excommunication
+awakened it within him, and every superstitious fear or fancy he had
+felt or known since childhood nourished and gave it strength. Strange
+things began to haunt and torture him; memories of warnings from the
+lips of a dead mother; frightful stories of hell and purgatory from the
+friars’ sermons he had occasionally listened to; legends of the terrible
+punishments inflicted on those who despised holy Kirk, how their bodies
+could not rest in their graves, nor their souls find relief from
+anguish; all these mingled with recollections of his own sins since last
+he had confessed, and indeed during his whole life—a very miscellaneous
+catalogue, comprising such items as neglecting to hear mass, and running
+some one through with his whinger in a drunken brawl. But on all these
+points he was profoundly silent, covering a heart that ached and
+trembled in secret by a dauntless, or rather a defiant bearing. He paid
+the prior his Latin curses back with interest in good plain Saxon; and
+he boasted everywhere that he “wadna gie a brass bodle for a’ his
+cursing.”
+
+He would, however, have given half his worldly possessions with a
+cheerful heart to be well clear of the whole business, when he learned
+in what light it was regarded by Alison Lindsay and by her relatives. A
+cold message from her father, declining a proffered visit, stung him to
+the quick, especially as it was hinted that her own wishes on the
+subject entirely coincided with those of her family. About the same
+time, an intimation reached him from another quarter, that his open
+contempt of the sentence of excommunication was considered to savour of
+heresy, and might probably involve him in temporal pains and penalties.
+
+Upon hearing this, he went to Lauriston to seek his brother’s counsel
+and countenance. The consolations the Laird administered to his wounded
+feelings were of a very common, but very unsatisfactory kind. “This came
+of rejecting good counsel—he had told him beforehand exactly what would
+happen.” Such was the substance of Lauriston’s exhortations; nor was it
+to be wondered at that under the circumstances he should look coldly on
+his imprudent brother. Naturally both shrewd and timid, he was keenly
+alive to the peril David incurred in provoking a prosecution for heresy,
+and no less sensible that the danger would not be confined to his own
+person, since the orthodoxy of other members of the family was by no
+means above suspicion. But reasonable as his displeasure may have been,
+David was not prepared to brook its expression. His anger was easily
+kindled, and an open quarrel between the brothers, the first since their
+childhood, followed. David at last strode out from the halls of
+Lauriston with flushed cheek and burning brow, protesting that nothing
+would induce him to remain, even for one single night, beneath the roof
+of a brother who used him so unworthily. He had come on horseback, and
+with a mounted servant, but he departed alone and on foot, leaving
+orders at the porter’s lodge for his attendant to follow him next day to
+his own dwelling with the horses.
+
+It was late; but the month was August, and the long twilight lingered
+still. Mechanically David went on, his mind too busy with its own bitter
+thoughts, to take note of anything around him. The kirkmen, the
+Lindsays, his brother, all were alike his enemies; and had either united
+together for his ruin, or were determined to abandon him to those who
+had. Every man’s hand was against him; but if he must die, he would die
+hard. He would give them all trouble enough before he had done with
+them, from Patrick Hepburn himself, villain that he was (and David
+clenched his hand), to Alison Lindsay’s scapegrace brother, who had
+delivered that bitter message with such a mocking smile. He wondered
+what had kept him from giving the lad a taste of his whinger in return,
+save indeed that he was but a “hafflins callant,” and slight and
+pale-faced like “Maister Geordie,—wha’ll be owre blythe to ken a plain
+man like me can make a muckle fool o’ himsel as weel as a body wha has
+been driven daft wi’ logic, and Latin, and sic’.” He was just about to
+retract the acknowledgment of his folly, when feeling a hand laid on his
+shoulder, he turned quickly round, and at the same moment placed his own
+on his sword, a very natural impulse in those rough uncertain times.
+
+He was a good deal surprised to see the person who had just occupied his
+thoughts, his nephew George. “I a’maist took ye for a robber, lad,” he
+said, adding an expression that need not be chronicled. “Gang hame to
+yer bed, and dinna stop folk at midnight on the king’s highway.” He
+spoke however, all things considered, with tolerable good humour; for he
+remembered that he had no personal quarrel with George, who had not even
+been present during his stormy altercation with the Laird.
+
+“The Laird of Lauriston’s brother,” answered the young scholar, “suld
+not be found on the king’s highway at midnight within three mile of
+Lauriston Castle.”
+
+“That’s the Laird o’ Lauriston’s ain doing.”
+
+“Not with his will.” And then the youth exerted himself to the utmost to
+act the part of peace-maker. As might be guessed, his mission was not
+exactly of his own choosing. His gentle mother, the Lady Isabel, had
+been much distressed by the quarrel between the Laird and his brother.
+This was not only because she liked David, and did justice to the
+genuine qualities that lay beneath his rough exterior, but because she
+was warmly interested in her young cousin Alison, and had set her heart
+on the prosperous termination of a suit which, from the beginning, she
+had furthered in every way in her power. No sooner, therefore, had she
+heard the heavy tramp of David’s retreating footsteps, than she hastened
+to her son, who was reading in his own chamber, and entreated him to
+follow his uncle and prevent, if possible, the open and perhaps deadly
+rupture that must ensue if he quitted Lauriston at such an hour and in
+such a way. George hesitated, pleading the dislike and contempt with
+which his uncle evidently regarded him. But his mother’s earnestness
+overcame his reluctance, and he eventually consented to undertake the
+difficult and distasteful task.
+
+Though for some time his explanations and remonstrances seemed
+unavailing, yet he was not discouraged, as he drew a favourable augury
+from the fact that his uncle was willing to hear him patiently to the
+end, which was much more than he expected at first.
+
+At length he took the last arrow out of his quiver, and discharged it
+with due care and deliberation. “His mother,” he said, “greatly
+regretted his uncle’s departure, having a few days agone received a
+letter from a gentlewoman, her friend or cousin, concerning which she
+desired to hold purpose with Maister David.” Then, wisely changing the
+subject, he added, “Gif ye depart thus, uncle, it will be a tale for all
+the country side, that the Laird and his brother have quarrelled. But
+come home with me, and bide till the morning breaks, and servants and
+horses will haud themselves ready to do yer pleasure. So shall ye go,
+gif ye maun go, as Stratton of Stratton suld frae the halls of Stratton
+of Lauriston.”
+
+“Atweel—aiblins—for the honour o’ the family,” said David, slowly
+turning; “but I’ll keep my word, and no see Andrew’s face again.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  III.
+                          =The First Prayer.=
+
+
+               “Oh, that I knew where I might find Him!”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  III.
+                          =The First Prayer.=
+
+
+When George Stratton returned with David to the Castle, he found that
+his parents had already retired to rest. This was only what he expected
+and wished; he therefore himself cheerfully accompanied his uncle to the
+chamber which had been prepared for him; where he waited upon him with a
+respect and attention that evidenced something more than the mere desire
+to discharge the duties of hospitality towards a guest beneath his
+father’s roof, and that guest his father’s brother. We usually conceive
+a liking for any one for whom we exert ourselves to do a kindness; and
+in this way, perhaps, it happened that George was disposed to regard his
+uncle’s character from a more favourable point of view that night than
+he had ever done before. Besides, the attitude of fearless independence
+which David had assumed was not entirely without its charms in his eyes,
+little as he found to admire in the feelings that had, in the first
+instance, inspired his resistance to the prior’s covetous demand.
+
+During their walk they had scarcely interchanged a word, but as they
+stood together before parting for the night, David remarked, with a
+laugh: “I doot but yon Sir William, the Capellan, ’ill come here sae
+soon as I’m awa’, and sprinkle the chalmer[28] wi’ holy water, for fear
+I might chance to leave the tail o’ the prior’s curse behind me.”
+
+George laughed also as he answered, “Sir William maun just bide yer
+presence, as he has to bide many a thing he likes scarce as weel.”
+
+“Ye’re daffing, lad. I thocht ye were a’ good Christians.”
+
+“But we’re not dumb; an’ if a chance word against the priests is to earn
+a man the name of heretic, there’ll be mair in it than you, uncle.”
+
+David turned, and gave George the benefit of one of the keenest glances
+of his keen blue eyes. Had the lad more in him than he had ever given
+him credit for? Was he, in spite of his “book lear,” neither coward nor
+fool? Resolved at least to test him a little further, he told him his
+opinion of the kirkmen in general, and of Patrick Hepburn in particular,
+using language much too plain and forcible to be transferred to these
+pages.
+
+George listened in silence to his angry diatribe; and, when he had
+finished, allowed a few moments to elapse before he attempted an answer.
+Then he said, in tones unusually quiet and gentle, “When our blessed
+Lord was here on earth, he said many things of the wicked priests and
+Pharisees of his time, that to my thinking are owre true yet.”
+
+“Ay, did he?” asked David, with a look of interest. He had the vaguest
+possible ideas of the time of which his nephew spoke, and we fear we may
+add, of the Person whom he named with such reverence; but he was glad to
+hear that any one had told hard truths of “thae greedy loons, the
+priests.”
+
+“Wad ye like to hear what he said?” continued George.
+
+“Unco weel,” answered David, eagerly enough.
+
+George drew his New Testament from the sleeve of his doublet, opened it
+at the 23rd of St. Matthew, and began to read. “Then spake Jesus to the
+multitude, and to his disciples, saying, The scribes and Pharisees sit
+in Moses’ seat: all therefore whatsoever they bid you observe, that
+observe and do.”
+
+“Eh, but that’s nae guid ava’,” interrupted David angrily.
+
+“Bide a wee, uncle, and have patience,” said the reader, and he went on:
+“But do not ye after their works, for they say and do not.”
+
+David was all attention now, nor did he again interrupt until George
+came to the words, “Ye devour widows’ houses, and for a pretence make
+long prayers, therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation,” when he
+could no longer contain his delight,—“Yon’s the brawest sermon I hae
+heard in a’ my life,” he cried; “it’s a’ true, but the lang prayers. Our
+priests dinna fash theirsels owre muckle wi’ _them_, I’m thinking.”
+
+George was too intent upon another and very different object to waste
+the precious moments in discussing this point; though he certainly
+thought that the frequent masses, and many of the other services of the
+Church, might be not inaptly described as “long prayers made for a
+pretence.” He read on, therefore, without note or comment, to the close
+of the chapter.
+
+“Is that a’?” asked David, quickly. “Does he tell us naething o’ the
+proud bishops and priors, and a’ the lave?—but aiblins they werena sae
+bad in those times as they be the noo.”
+
+“They did not use the same names to call them by,” said George; “but ye
+see, uncle, they were bad enough, and to spare.”
+
+“Did they curse honest folk, and drive them frae the kirk, naebut for
+standing on their right, and no letting theirsels be fleeced like sae
+mony puir feckless bits of sheep? and what did the Saint—I mean our
+blessed Lord (and he crossed himself)—say to sic cantrips?”
+
+“They did worse than all that, uncle; they cursed good and honest men,
+cast them out of the kirk, ay and killed them an they could, gif they
+dared to confess that Jesus was the Christ, or to say they believed in
+him,”—and a dark shadow passed across young Lauriston’s face. Perhaps he
+was thinking of a scene he had witnessed, not so many months before, at
+St. Andrews,—the death by fire of “ane Henry Forrest, a young man born
+in Linlithgow,” “for none other cause but because he had ane New
+Testament in Englis,” and that he constantly affirmed “that Maister
+Patrick Hamilton was a martyr, and that his articles were true, and not
+hereticall.”
+
+But he only said, “I can give you, from my book, a true history of one
+they cast out.” And then he half read, half repeated, the story of the
+man blind from his birth, whose eyes the Saviour opened, and who
+afterwards confessed his name so boldly before the Pharisees.
+
+David Stratton did not, by word or sign, evidence either interest or
+impatience. He stood still, leaning against the casement, and looking
+out upon the moonlit castle-yard, and the pasture-lands beyond, with
+rows of stately trees. Ever afterwards with that scene was associated in
+his mind the first hearing of those marvellous words, “I am the light of
+the world,” and the vague awe, and wonder, and sense of mystery they
+awoke within him.
+
+At last George read, “Thou wast altogether born in sins, and dost thou
+teach us? and they cast him out.”
+
+“_That’s just like me_,” said David emphatically, turning towards him
+again. “Na, na,” he added, in a lower voice, “they cast _him_ out
+because he told them the truth anent our Lord’s wonderfu’ wark,—_I’ve_
+nae done like that.”
+
+George went on quietly: “Jesus heard that they had excommunicate him;
+and as soon as he had found him, he said unto him, Dost thou believe on
+the Son of God? He answered and said, And who is it, Lord, that I might
+believe on him? And Jesus said unto him, Thou hast both seen him, and he
+it is that talketh with thee. And he said, Lord, I believe. And
+worshipped him.”[29] Then, without a word of comment, he closed the book
+and restored it to its hiding-place.
+
+David’s eyes followed it wistfully. “It’s a braw thing ye hae got book
+lear, Geordie,” he said.
+
+George was naturally not displeased at this unwonted admission on his
+uncle’s part. “And there’s no book like this book,” he answered; “God’s
+ain hand has written every line and letter in it.”
+
+“But can ye mak’ the meaning out, callant? For I misdoot that’s unco
+hard.”
+
+“Whiles,” said the youth humbly; “and I pray God day by day to teach me
+more and better. But the hour is late, and your foot is aye early in the
+stirrup, uncle, so that I should not tarry.”
+
+Good-nights were then exchanged, and without further conversation George
+left the room.
+
+David Stratton stood long at the lancet window—how long he never knew.
+Strange new thoughts filled his mind, and for the first time for weeks
+even the Prior of St. Andrews and the Vicar of Ecclescreig were
+forgotten. For he did not, as might be imagined, amuse and gratify
+himself by applying the fiery denunciations he had just heard to these
+his personal enemies. They had indeed impressed and delighted him at the
+time; but what he afterwards heard almost swept them from his memory.
+Unaccustomed to abstract thought, though full of practical shrewdness, a
+mere exposition of doctrine would perhaps hardly have left a clearer
+impression on him, when delivered in his native tongue, than if it had
+been couched in Latin; but his mind was quick to grasp and strong to
+retain the circumstances of a story. Nor did he only retain them
+passively: he was accustomed to reflect, after a fashion, upon his own
+doings and those of other men; and to his imagination, the blind man of
+the gospel was as real, and not more distant, than if he had lived or
+was living then in Edinburgh or St. Andrews. For what did he know or
+care about those fifteen long weary centuries that lay between? The
+restoration of sight to the blind—that was very wonderful, to be sure.
+He knew a blind man, who used to sit at the door of St. Mary’s Abbey
+Kirk in Dundee, and to whom he had many a time given an alms as he
+passed. He wondered what would old Simon think if some one were to come
+one day and open _his_ eyes. And who was that _some one_ whose word,
+whose touch, had such power? It was Jesus, the Son of God. How good it
+was of him to do it—and to do it for a poor unknown man, a blind beggar,
+no better than old Simon Hackett! And, moreover, he did not send one of
+the holy apostles to him, though that would have been marvellously kind
+and condescending—he did much more. He himself spoke to him, and touched
+him.
+
+Here it will be observed that the goodness of the act impressed David
+far more than its greatness. There was a reason for this. It is the
+tendency of all spurious imitations to lower the value of the thing
+imitated in the popular mind. Thus, Rome’s lying legends had, as it
+were, cheapened miracles in the eyes of men. They were accustomed to
+hear, and to believe, stories of wonderful works, which, as mere
+exhibitions of superhuman _power_, apart from wisdom or goodness, are to
+the calm and dignified narratives of the gospel as the blaze of an
+illuminated city to the pale and distant, but enduring, glories of the
+starry heavens. A hundred blind men, or a thousand, restored to sight,
+would not have astonished David beyond measure, or too sorely taxed his
+faith. But the personal human kindness with which that awful Being, the
+Son of God (of whom, when he thought at all, he thought with vague
+terror as the Judge of mankind), stooped to deal with this one poor
+blind man, surprised and touched him deeply. Little wonder, he thought,
+that the man spoke up so bravely before the Pharisees (David called them
+the _Bishops_) to bear witness to his goodness! And very like them to
+cast him out for it!
+
+But how did the poor man feel when he found himself an outcast, cursed
+by the kirkmen, abandoned by all his friends, and in danger of worse
+harm to follow, belike both to soul and body? Probably he was sore
+perplexed and terrified. Ay, but then “Jesus found him.” Found him, was
+it, or met him—which did Geordie say? _Found him_; he was sure of it.
+“It wasna that he forgathered wi’ him by chance in the highway, but he
+_speered after_ him, for he heard that they had excommunicated him.” And
+he spoke to him so gently and kindly, and gave him, no doubt, a short
+and clean shrift from all his sins, better than all the bishops in that
+country could do. Would, oh would that he were alive now! However
+distant he might be, David Stratton would go to him, were it twice as
+far as the shrine of St. James of Compostella—twice as far even as that
+Hierusalem whither Friar Scott had travelled lately—he cared not. Had he
+to go the whole “gait” on foot, he cared not, if so be that at the end
+he might throw himself at the feet of that great and good One, and say
+to him, “Lord, I too am cast out of the Kirk by these wicked, covetous
+bishops, wilt thou not let me confess my sins to thee, and give me thy
+pardon?”
+
+But the Lord Jesus was not to be found at Compostella, nor yet in
+Hierusalem—he knew that. It would be a good thing, doubtless, for a man
+to pray in these holy places, or to bring back relics of wonderful
+virtue, as Friar Scott had done—fragments of stone from the pillar to
+which Christ was bound, and such like; but to meet our Lord himself
+personally, and to speak with him, that was another matter clearly.
+Friar Scott, with all his bragging, had never bragged of _that_; nor
+would he have believed him if he had. Yet nothing less would do for him,
+in his present sore distress and difficulty—for such he now confessed it
+to be. And then he remembered that the Lord was not on earth at all, in
+any place—he was in heaven, at God’s right hand. Could he not pray to
+him there?
+
+This was the first glimmering perception of the real purpose and meaning
+of prayer that dawned upon the mind of David Stratton. Hitherto he had
+always thought of it as a meritorious action, by means of which good
+things might be obtained and evil ones averted, through the assistance
+and mediation of the Virgin and the saints, to whom by far the greater
+part of the prayers he knew were addressed. Now he began to think it
+might possibly be a way of communication between this world and the
+other, by which he might actually succeed in conveying a request about
+which he was very much in earnest to the ear of the great Son of God
+himself.
+
+His prayer, if prayer it may be called, was couched in words like these:
+“Lord, they hae cast me out. I wad find thee an’ I could; but sin’ I
+canna do that, I ask thee to find me. And gie me, thysel, shrift and
+pardon for a’ my sins; for ye ken I canna get it frae the kirkmen, and
+I’m a muckle sinner in thy sight the day—God help me. Amen.”
+
+Such were some of the thoughts that filled the mind of David Stratton
+during the silent hours of that night, to him for ever memorable. What
+he felt cannot be traced so easily as what he thought. There is a
+sanctuary in almost every soul into which no other human soul can
+penetrate. None but He who has searched and knoweth the hearts he made,
+could understand the strange new-born impulse which brought David
+Stratton, in his trouble and danger, to the feet of the merciful
+Saviour, of whose grace he had heard that night for the first time. “He
+is great, he can help me—he is good, perhaps he will.” Thus much could
+be expressed in words; but not so the strong sense of his goodness, and
+the first dawnings of love and trust in the heart that was ignorantly
+and half unconsciously, yet really, turning towards Him.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  IV.
+                          =Dawnings of Light.=
+
+
+               “I bring my guilt to Jesus,
+                 To wash my crimson stains,
+               White in his blood most precious,
+                 Till not a spot remains.”
+                                           REV. H. BONAR.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  IV.
+                          =Dawnings of Light.=
+
+
+Other eyes were wakeful that night, and other minds were busy, upon
+Master David Stratton’s account. The Lady of Lauriston, as we are
+already aware, had set her heart upon bringing about a reconciliation
+between him and her husband. She did not anticipate much difficulty with
+the Laird, over whom she possessed almost unbounded influence. And even
+without her interference, he would probably have speedily regretted his
+quarrel with a brother to whom he was really attached; and the rather
+because of the dangers and difficulties of David’s present position. His
+wife’s persuasions, therefore, combined with his own relentings, soon
+brought him to a state of mind to hear with much thankfulness of the
+mission George had undertaken in the capacity of peace-maker.
+
+“But it’s na use,” he answered, with a desponding shake of the head. “I
+ken Davie unco weel; he’s that stubborn, a man might cut him in twa, and
+no gar him turn frae his ain gait.”
+
+“Leave him to me,” said the lady in reply. “I ken for sure he came back
+with George last night, for I heard his foot as he gaed to his chalmer;
+and ye’ve but to keep still, Andrew, and to speak him fair, when I bring
+him into the hall to breakfast, as, the saints helping me, I’ll try to
+do. Speak him fair anent his kine or his boat, or his braw new house
+that he’s plenishing in Dundee—onything ye list but the kirkmen and the
+cursing.”
+
+“And yer bonnie cousin Alison, that he’s like to tyne[30] for his
+foolery?” asked the Laird, with a smile.
+
+“Ay, Laird, that were best left to me too. Weel as ye think ye ken
+Maister David,” she added after a pause, “_I_ ken him better. He’s a
+dour chield, and unco stubborn, but he’s manful; and it’s a lang gait he
+wadna gang for the man or the woman he truly loves. And he loves Alison
+Lindsay.”
+
+“And she—what of her, Isabel?”
+
+“Tut, Laird; ye mauna be speering owre mony questions. I’m not my
+cousin’s father confessor.”
+
+“Ye’ll be plainer with David, I hope.”
+
+“No need for that. He that loves can understand what is but half
+spoken.” And Lady Isabel could not be induced to explain herself
+farther.
+
+The Laird’s question, however, was a very natural one; nor was the fact
+that Alison Lindsay had been promised by her father to David Stratton in
+reality any answer to it, for every one knows that the sacrifice of a
+girl’s inclinations to the interest or convenience of her kinsfolk was a
+matter of daily occurrence in those rough times. David was ten years
+older than his intended bride; he was neither very handsome nor very
+rich, and he was greatly her inferior in refinement and cultivation—for
+both Isabel and her young cousin had received their education in a
+convent, where, besides the peculiarly feminine art of skilful
+embroidery in its various branches, they were carefully initiated into
+the mysteries of reading and writing; and were, in fact, for their time,
+well educated if not accomplished women. Yet, in spite of all this,
+Alison Lindsay _did_ return David Stratton’s affection. If a reason
+should be asked, it may perhaps be rendered (strange as this may appear)
+in the very words by which the Lady Isabel described her
+brother-in-law’s character: “He’s a dour chield, and unco stubborn; but
+he’s _manful_.” As men admire nothing so much in women as perfect
+womanliness, so women, even the gentlest, usually admire manliness in
+men more than any other characteristic. In Alison’s eyes, “Maister David
+Stratton of Stratton” was a hero; nor need we pause to inquire whether
+or not he was transfigured by her imagination into something essentially
+different from what he really was; it is enough to have stated the fact,
+that the life of this rude, obstinate, daring gentleman of Angus was far
+more precious in the eyes of some one else than it was in his own.
+
+Without a great deal of difficulty, George succeeded the next morning in
+detaining his uncle until the Lady Isabel appeared. Purposely abstaining
+from any allusion to what had passed the night before, he sought to wile
+away the time by conversation upon indifferent subjects. Amongst other
+things, he chanced to ask what had become of a favourite bay mare, which
+he had been wont to ride when he came to Lauriston. David told him, with
+some regret, that he had sold her before Pasche, being then anxious for
+a sum of money to complete the purchase of his new house in Dundee.
+
+George asked who had bought her; perhaps thinking the mare a safer
+subject of conversation than the house, which he well knew had been
+destined by his uncle for the reception of his bride.
+
+“Wae’s me!” answered David; “wha suld buy her but John Erskine o’ Dune.
+Mair’s the pity! Owre guid for him to hae sic a bonny beast to carry
+him, wi’ a’ his outlandish nonsense.”
+
+But George’s face brightened wonderfully at the mention of John
+Erskine’s name.
+
+“Then you’re acquaint with the Laird of Dune, uncle?” he asked.
+
+“As weel as I’m like to be. Leeze me on a man wi’ a guid Scot’s tongue
+in his head, forbye a guid Scot’s heart in his bosom, and tak a’ yer
+newfangled outland folk.”
+
+“There’s no truer Scottish heart in all the realm than that of John
+Erskine of Dune!” cried George, unable any longer to keep silence.
+“Uncle, you know him not. But I pledge ye my word there are few like
+him. A learned, godly gentleman”—But here he stopped suddenly,
+recollecting that the praise he was so liberally bestowing on his friend
+would hardly sound well in his uncle’s ears.
+
+“Oh ay, unco learned, nae doubt. I hae heard he’s gaun to set up a
+schule at Montrose, to lear the puir bairns Greek, forsooth! Guid wark
+that for a laird! He’d better hae them taught to put the stane and to
+shoot at the popinjay, sae he’d hae a chance to make _men_ o’ them, at
+least.”
+
+George could not help laughing at this representation of the case; but
+he admitted that the Laird of Dune was endeavouring to found an academy
+at Montrose for the study of Greek, being anxious that the intelligent
+youth of his native land should learn to read the word of God in the
+language in which it is written. “For he loves the word of God with his
+haill heart,” said George. “And I ken no one who understands it so weel.
+He hath expounded mony things unto me.”
+
+Here the entrance of the Lady Isabel put a stop to the conversation. It
+will be easily seen that a woman like the Lady of Lauriston was sure to
+come off victorious from any verbal encounter with a man like David
+Stratton. But beside all other advantages, she had a powerful though
+silent ally in the piece of folded paper she held in her hand. Alison
+Lindsay’s letter was indeed no more than a quaint and rather formal
+appeal to her “loving cousin,” asking her to entreat the Laird to take
+into his service a certain old retainer of the Lindsays, “muckle Sawney
+Gordon,” who had been so unfortunate as to displease one of her
+hot-headed young brothers. But then there was a brief postscript, which
+ran thus:—
+
+“Shoulde Maister Stratton come unto Lauriston, it were as weall to tell
+him that all his friendis, and they that were his friendis, merveille at
+his temeritie, or rather proude rashnesse. For his soule’s wealle, no to
+say for that of his temporall Estaite, entreate him to reconseille
+himselfe to Holie Kirke, quhill as yett thare is tyme.”
+
+Perhaps the words might have seemed cold and harsh, had not Isabel shown
+David the paper upon which they were written. It was blotted with tears.
+He took it in his hand, and held it there for one moment, his strong
+fingers closing over it with a nervous grasp, and trembling as they
+closed. Then he silently gave it back, rose from his seat, and strode
+across the room.
+
+When he reached the door, he paused, as if in doubt. Lady Isabel took
+advantage of his momentary irresolution; she had something still to say
+which he could not choose but hear. She told him quietly she had long
+been desirous to receive a visit from her cousin Alison, as she knew the
+motherless girl was often lonely in her father’s house; and that she
+thought she could overrule any objection her relatives might make to her
+coming to Lauriston. Should this plan succeed, Maister David would have
+many opportunities of pleading his own cause, and it would be very much
+his own fault if he did not turn them to good account. She did not
+_say_, but she hinted, that in reality one thing, and only one, was
+necessary in order to the accomplishment of all his desires—and that was
+his reconciliation with the Church.
+
+In the meantime, he could not but feel—and he did feel—that the Lady of
+Lauriston was his warm and true friend. As might have been anticipated
+under the circumstances, his quarrel with the Laird terminated speedily.
+No formal reconciliation took place, nor did many words pass between
+them; but both were willing to bury their last night’s altercation in
+oblivion; and Isabel obtained her wish, and saw David seated by her side
+at the table in the great hall, to partake of their substantial morning
+meal.
+
+The brothers spent the day in hunting, accompanied by a party of the
+Laird’s retainers, and by George, whose studies did not indispose him
+for manly sports and exercises.
+
+On the following morning, however, David asked his nephew if he had not
+some good falcons, and proposed that they two should go out hawking
+together. George, who was not particularly fond of the pastime of
+falconry, consented, at first rather unwillingly, then joyfully and
+eagerly, as he began with trembling hope to guess the wish that prompted
+his uncle’s request. They set out, with falcons on their wrists, but
+declining the attendance of the Laird’s falconer or of his assistant.
+And when they reached a quiet place in the fields, David, without a
+word, hooded his falcon and sat down, motioning George to do the same.
+
+Then he said, in a low but eager voice, “Hae ye brought yer book,
+callant?”
+
+George produced it.
+
+“Read me mair o’ yon blind man the guid Lord Jesus speered after.”
+
+“There’s no more told of him,” said George. “The last thing is this: ‘He
+said, Lord, I believe. And he worshipped him.’”
+
+“And does the Book no tell us gin the guid Lord gied him shrift or
+pardon? For I mind weel the kirkmen cast him out, and wad hae naething
+to do wi’ him. Not ane priest or friar amang them a’ wad hear his
+confession, I wad ye.”
+
+“What I hae read ye tells us all. He believed on the Lord Jesus Christ;
+and he who thus believes _is_ pardoned, whether the priests say it or
+no.”
+
+“How do ye ken that?” asked David, with a wondering look.
+
+By way of reply George read the 3rd of John, adding from time to time
+such brief explanations as he thought necessary, and in particular
+telling, very simply and clearly, the story of the brazen serpent.
+
+So still and silent was the listener, that George almost feared he had
+fallen asleep. He was undeceived, however, when, drawing a deep breath
+and fixing his eyes upon him with a look of intense interest, David
+asked, “But what can a man do wha has been a muckle sinner a’ his life?”
+
+“I have told you, uncle. ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ.’”
+
+“That’s unco weel for douce honest folk. But I hae stuck Black Will o’
+the Hirst wi’ my whinger.”
+
+“Gif ye had done waur than that, uncle, still the Lord Jesus wad forgive
+ye, and wad be blythe to do it. See, I will tell ye—” and he found the
+23rd of Luke, intending only to read the story of the dying thief; but
+he read instead the whole of the grand and touching narrative in which
+it is set, like a gem in a diadem of gold. “And thus,” said George
+Stratton, “He suffered for our sins, ‘the just for the unjust, that He
+might bring us to God.’ For ‘He himself bare our sins in his own body on
+the tree.’”
+
+“Bare our sins?—I dinna just tak’ ye up, Geordie.”
+
+“Though you stuck Black Will with yer whinger, the Lord Jesus’ll _pay
+the wyte_.[31] On the Cross, with his ain bluid, he paid the wyte for
+all our sins. And ye’ve nought to do, but just to plead what he has done
+with the Lord Almighty, and to take the guid comfort of it to yer ain
+heart.”
+
+“Oh, Geordie—Geordie, lad—it’s owre guid—it canna be—” David’s voice was
+trembling with emotion.
+
+“But it’s _true_, uncle; I could find ye mony other places in God’s book
+that tell the same.”
+
+David was silent for a moment or two, then he said, very seriously,
+“George, my lad, I’m right siccer ye wadna deceive me, for ye ken I
+lippen[32] to ye. But I’m no that siccer ye mightna be misled yersel,
+for ye’re but a haflins callant, wi’ a’ yer book lear. And I’d gie a’
+the warld just to find the truth. But wae’s me! wha’s to tell it? The
+priests are a pack o’ misleared carles themselves; they ken neither new
+law nor auld, like the puir doited Bishop o’ Dunkeld.”
+
+“The Lord himself will teach you, an’ ye ask him.”
+
+“Wha has taught _you_?”
+
+“I think He has,” said George reverently, and in a low voice. “But as
+for men’s teaching,” he added, “it was some of the lectures of Maister
+Gawin Logie gared me first think of these things, when I was a
+determinant at St. Leonard’s College. Afterwards I forgathered with the
+Laird of Dune, and he gave me this Testament, and told me mony things
+whilk have helped me to understand it.”
+
+Soon afterwards they returned to the castle.
+
+David was unusually silent and thoughtful during the rest of the day;
+and, to the surprise and regret of his brother, and still more of his
+nephew, he announced his intention of leaving them the next morning.
+Having remonstrated in vain against this decision, they asked him where
+he intended to go.
+
+He hesitated a little, then said: “Weel, to be plain, it’s a’ anent my
+bonny bay mare—fool that I was to part wi’ her. I’m sair wirried wi’ yon
+puir beastie, that’s nae mair fit for a gentleman than ony aver[33] ye’d
+tak’ frae the pleugh. Sae I’ll just gang to Erskine o’ Dune, aiblins
+he’ll gie me my ain back again.”
+
+The Laird shook his head. “Ye’re no that wise, brother,” he said, “to
+twine wi’ yer siller the noo.” And he kindly offered him the use of an
+excellent horse of his own, saying that Geordie would show him the
+animal, and could tell his merits from experience.
+
+George, however, evidenced a decided want of alacrity in the business;
+and being too keenly interested in the proposed visit to the Laird of
+Dune to behave with his usual tact and readiness, he actually drew upon
+himself a sharp reproof from his father for his unwillingness to
+accommodate his uncle. “It sets ye weel,” he said, “wi’ twa guid horses
+o’ yer ain, to grudge brown Rob to yer uncle. In my day, young folk
+didna set sic’ store by themsels, and had mair thought for their
+forbears.”
+
+“Leave him his lane, Andrew,” said David, warmly. “He’s a guid lad, is
+Geordie—nae better between this and the Solway.” A speech that surprised
+the Laird a little, but pleased him considerably.
+
+So the next morning they parted; David promising soon to revisit his
+brother, and in the meantime to behave with as much circumspection as he
+could, and to avoid any course of action calculated to increase the
+hostility he had provoked. But he would promise no more than this; nor
+did he express the slightest inclination to seek a reconciliation with
+the Church.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                   V.
+                          =The Great Change.=
+
+
+         “He came to me in love—and my heart broke,
+         And from its inmost depths there rose a cry,
+         ‘My Father, oh, my Father, smile on me!’
+         And the great Father smiled.”
+                                         _Night and the Soul._
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                   V.
+                          =The Great Change.=
+
+
+Some time elapsed before David Stratton fulfilled his promise of
+revisiting his relatives at Lauriston; nor did they hear much about him
+during his absence. One winter evening, however, they were all assembled
+at supper in the great hall; the Laird and his Lady, with her young
+Cousin Alison—then a guest at the castle, the Master of Lauriston, and
+the Capellan, Sir William Ker, occupying the upper end of the board;
+while “below the salt” the numerous retainers of the Laird took their
+places according to their respective ranks. The sound of horse-hoofs,
+and then the blast of a horn, gave intimation of the approach of a
+visitor; and in a very short time David Stratton, followed by two or
+three attendants, strode into the hall.
+
+He was warmly welcomed by the Laird and Lady; and there were others
+present who, although less demonstrative, were probably no less pleased
+at his arrival. A seat was soon placed for him at the Lady’s right hand,
+and the butler despatched for a stoup of the best wine in the laird’s
+cellar, to improve the cheer and to celebrate his arrival.
+
+All went merrily forward for some time, and every one present seemed in
+high good humour. There was no lack of conversation; although David was
+not communicative on the subject of his own proceedings since they
+parted. He had always enough to say upon the usual country sports and
+occupations; and, much to the surprise of his hearers, he added upon
+this occasion several amusing stories of the manners and customs of
+foreign nations, and particularly those of the French, in whom the
+Scotchmen of that day took such a lively interest. He said they had been
+lately told him by a friend, and he retailed them with great spirit, so
+as to occasion a good deal of harmless merriment. But one thing George
+particularly noticed, no oath or profane expression of any kind passed
+his uncle’s lips. Did the presence of Alison Lindsay refine and soften
+him, or was there any other influence at work?
+
+“Seems to me there’s something no just canny about ye, Davie,” remarked
+the Laird at last. “Ye couldna talk better, gin ye were as weel
+travelled a gentleman as holy Friar Scott himsel.”
+
+“Dinna tell _me_ o’ Friar Scott,” said David, with a strong expression
+of disgust. “Hae ye heard of his cantrips in Edinburgh?”
+
+“Oh, ay; I hae heard that he fasted frae meat and drink twa and thirty
+days—gin it wasna for ane drink o’ cauld water.”
+
+“Lees and clashes!” returned David, very unceremoniously.
+
+Sir William Ker here thought it his duty to interpose; and ventured to
+reprove Maister David for his scepticism, telling him that Friar Scott’s
+miraculous fast was, as he himself stated in a sermon preached at the
+Market Cross, “be helpe of the Virgin Mary,” and ought not therefore to
+be spoken of lightly.
+
+David answered, with a seriousness that took all present by surprise,
+that he did not believe the blessed Virgin possessed the power to do
+what Friar Scott attributed to her; but that if she did, he thought
+better of her than to suppose she would exercise it for the purpose of
+enabling a man of notoriously evil character to escape the payment of
+his just debts.
+
+Upon this Sir William, who had for a long time cordially disliked David,
+lost his temper, and availing himself of the licence usually allowed to
+those of his profession, even dared to tell the Laird’s brother to his
+face that he was no better than a heretic and a reprobate.
+
+The Laird fully expected to see David’s whinger spring from his belt,
+and flash across the table. He looked helplessly towards Isabel, as
+indeed he was accustomed to do in most of his difficulties, in the
+expectation that her ready wit would find a way out of them.
+
+In this case, however, her interposition was not necessary. David’s
+cheek burned, but he answered quietly, “It’s no sae wonnerful _you_
+should say that, sir priest.”
+
+Perhaps there is no greater test of a gentle nature, or its opposite,
+than the manner of meeting unexpected forbearance in an antagonist. A
+gentleman is softened, and repays courtesy with courtesy; a man of
+vulgar nature regards moderation as a sign of weakness, and presumes
+accordingly. Sir William thought the usually rude and overbearing
+Maister David must have some good reason for being afraid of him; he
+therefore boldly followed up his fancied advantage by requiring him to
+retract what he called his blasphemy against the blessed Virgin, saying
+there were present unlearned persons who were scandalized, and might be
+injured by what he had said.
+
+This second impertinence was too much to bear. David relaxed his strong
+guard over himself, and answered hastily: “That which I say I never
+unsay, least of a’ at the bidding of a knave priest.”
+
+“Thou hast thine answer, Sir William,” cried the Laird, with undisguised
+satisfaction; “so eat thy supper, man, and haud thy tongue.”
+
+But David looked very ill at ease. “Yon was na answer ava’,” he said at
+length, and with an evident effort. “Sir William, I pray your pardon.”
+
+The priest would have felt much less astonishment had he struck him in
+the face. He stared at him in silence, unable to think of a suitable
+reply, while the Laird muttered, “Hech, sirs!—what’s got into ye,
+Davie?”
+
+But Sir William had not tact or common sense enough to make some
+courteous answer, and then quietly drop the subject. It should perhaps
+be mentioned in his defence, that he entertained well-founded suspicions
+of the orthodoxy of his patron’s son; and while a due regard for his
+temporal interests had hitherto prevented his openly attacking the
+Master of Lauriston, he compounded with his conscience by making as many
+general demonstrations against heresy as he could in his presence.
+Besides, Maister David being already excommunicated and under the ban of
+the Church, it was both meritorious and comparatively safe to attack
+him. He therefore attempted to “improve the occasion.” _His_ pardon for
+any personal insult, he said, was granted before it was asked, as he
+cherished no resentment except against the enemies of Holy Kirk; but he
+trusted Maister David would ask the forgiveness of the blessed Virgin
+for what he had presumed to say of her, which he again averred (crossing
+himself while he spoke) to have been downright blasphemy, and near akin
+to “the Englishmen’s opinions.” “Thae pestilent heretics,” he continued,
+“hae even dared to say there’s na sic’ thing ava’ as purgatory.”
+
+“That hae _I_ never said, nor shall I, wi’ the guid help o’ God,”
+answered David, with a quick glance of his blue eye, but a quiet
+thoughtful face.
+
+“I’m blythe to hear it,” said the priest; and he cast an unmistakable
+look of triumph upon George, who, like every one else at the table, was
+watching his uncle with wonder and interest.
+
+But David presently resumed: “I believe in ane purgatory, by the whilk
+folk are cleansit frae a’ their sins—_the precious bluid of our Saviour
+Christ_. Forbye,” he added in a lighter tone, “ye may ca’ the troubles
+o’ this present evil warld a kind o’ purgatory, an’ ye list. But these
+twa, I ken nae ither.”
+
+George, who for months had thought the same, and yet never dared to
+utter his thoughts with such boldness, now deeply felt the truth of our
+Lord’s words, “The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.”
+But he could not do less than come promptly to his uncle’s support, and
+follow the example of his fearless confession.
+
+“You have spoken truly,” he said, “for God himself doth testify in his
+holy Word that the bluid of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from
+_all_ sin.”
+
+If Lady Isabel had been slow to interpose between David and the priest,
+she was prompt enough in stopping the discussion when she saw her son so
+disposed to compromise himself. She begged there might be no more talk
+of such “gruesome things” as heresy and purgatory and the like; and the
+Laird followed up her efforts by pressing David to take more wine,
+assuring him it was the part of a wise man to eat and drink, and to do
+his duty by his family and his estate, leaving all these puzzling
+questions to be settled for him by the priests and the doctors.
+“Forbye,” he added with a laugh, “an’ the said priests catch us meddling
+wi’ what doesna concern us, it’s like enough they’ll gie us, for our
+sins, a taste o’ the kind o’ purgatory _you_ talk of, Davie—to wit, a
+hantle grief and dolour in this life.”
+
+“Aiblins,” answered David; “but _he that saves his life shall lose it_.”
+
+As soon as George could find an opportunity of speaking to his uncle
+alone, he warned him against Sir William Ker, saying that their opinions
+were by no means safe with him.
+
+“I ken that, lad,” answered David; “but I maun speak the truth.”
+
+“Uncle,” said the young man humbly and sorrowfully, “your courage shames
+my weakness.”
+
+“I havena sae muckle to twine as you,” replied David; “forbye, I hae had
+muckle mair forgien me. Oh, Geordie lad, I dinna mind that the guid Lord
+hae ever done sic’ wonnerfu’ things for ony puir sinner! Think on’t
+yersel. I had nae thocht o’ him; I cared for naething but thae puir bits
+o’ gear, and—and the hopes and pleasures o’ this life. But then, first,
+he gied me a kind o’ start anent my ain foolishness, fechting wi’ the
+prior for the teinds. He let them cast me out o’ the Kirk (that’s nae
+God’s Kirk ava’, but the synagogue o’ Satan); and when my heart was sair
+vexed, and I didna ken whilk gait to gang, and a’ was black as
+midnight—na shrift nor pardon for me, and I just beginning to think I
+was the maist awfu’ sinner in a’ Scotland—_then_, lad, He speered after
+me. He sought me his ainsel, he showed me how a’ my sins were clean
+forgiven, naebut because he deed on the Cross to tak’ them awa’. And noo
+I hae naething mair to do but to love him, and to witness for him, and
+to tell ither folk ilka day how guid he is.”
+
+George’s eyes were dim with tears of joy and thankfulness. “Blessed art
+thou,” he could not help saying, “for flesh and blood hath not revealed
+it unto thee, but our Father in heaven.”
+
+“That’s owre true,” answered David. “Yersel, or the Laird o’ Dune, or
+ony man, might hae tald me thae things twa hundert times, and I wadna
+hae minded ane word. But the guid Lord has gien me—I canna find the name
+for’t, gin it’s no a new eye to see, a new ear to hear, and a new heart
+to feel. It’s like as I hae been a dead man a’ my days, and I’ve naebut
+wakened up and begun to live the noo. Eh, but, Geordie, its wonnerfu’!”
+
+Wonderful it certainly was, as all who came in contact with David
+Stratton could not fail to acknowledge. We who are accustomed to breathe
+an atmosphere pervaded by Christian sentiment and opinion, may find it
+hard to realize the greatness of the change—even the outward
+change—which was wrought in him. The entrance of God’s word had indeed
+given light, and given understanding to the simple. But love as well as
+light was shed abroad in his heart, and that richly. He who had once
+been overbearing, rude, violent, ready to offer offence and quick to
+take it, was now “ane vehement exhortar of all men to concord, to
+quietness, and to the contempt of the warld.”[34] Nor did he fail to
+practise that to which, with the “vehemence” that belonged to his
+character, he thus exhorted others. He was noways inclined to hide his
+light under a bushel; it was too real, too marvellous for that. Like the
+little child who, seeing the first star appear in the shaded evening
+sky, cried out in wonder and delight, “God has just made a new star in
+heaven;” so, when the light which had been shining from the beginning of
+the world first reached his soul, David felt as if for him God had “made
+a new thing in the earth;” and he could not but tell the marvel to all
+those around him.
+
+He had therefore scarcely been three days at Lauriston ere more of
+Scripture truth was heard from his lips than there had been in two years
+from those of the cautious and thoughtful George. He avowed his
+convictions openly, for he was a stranger to fear. He spoke to his
+brother, to the Lady Isabel, to many of the retainers; and above all, he
+was eager to communicate to Alison Lindsay the knowledge he esteemed so
+precious. For with him faith was _knowledge_. That which he had seen and
+heard he declared to others. He was totally untroubled by doubts, either
+of any of the doctrines of Scripture or of his own interest and
+acceptance in Christ. His natural character contributed to this: in his
+mind there were no half lights and shadows; all lay in clear sunshine or
+in utter darkness, all was positive, welldefined, certain.
+
+Though David’s knowledge of the Word of God often surprised his nephew,
+he was still dependent upon others for all he acquired, being himself
+unable to read. It was his special delight, during his stay at
+Lauriston, to induce George to accompany him to some quiet place in the
+fields, and to make him read for him chapter after chapter from the New
+Testament. George loved this occupation as much as his uncle did; and
+found the readings, and the conversation that always followed them, very
+profitable to his own soul. Their positions were strangely reversed. He
+who had once been the pupil was now himself so deeply taught of the
+Spirit that he became in his turn the teacher; and many were the
+passages in the Word of God upon which he was able to throw the light of
+experience.
+
+George and David often talked together of their friend and instructor,
+the Laird of Dune. From this remarkable man, whom Knox tells us “God had
+in those days marvellously illuminated,” David received nearly all the
+human teaching he ever had. He consequently so loved and revered John
+Erskine, that he even came to regard his favourite project of the Greek
+Academy at Montrose not only with approval, but with enthusiasm. There
+was indeed something touching in the desire this unlearned man evinced
+to secure to others the best fruits of learning. “Wha cares a bodle,”
+said he to George, “whether the bairns get the lear in Greek or in
+Latin, or in our ain guid Scot’s tongue, sae’s they _do_ learn that the
+blessed Lord loved them, and deed for a’ their sins?”
+
+“Then you think, uncle, that the Greek school will prosper?”
+
+“Nae doot o’ that. There’s ane young man has begun to teach the bairns
+the New Testament—_vera_ young, but by-ordinar learned, and o’ guid
+family, brither or brither’s son to the Laird of Pitarrow—ane _George
+Wishart_. He’ll do something, gin the bishops dinna burn or banish him,
+as they’re like enough to do to ony man wha reads the Word o’ God,
+either in Greek or English.”
+
+George often wondered at the apparent coolness with which David alluded
+to such terrible probabilities, and tried to exhort him to caution and
+prudence. But he was not so indifferent as his nephew supposed to the
+dangers that menaced every one who dared to profess “the new Faith;” and
+if he received his well-meant warnings in silence, it was only because
+he could not argue, while he felt at the same time that but one course
+of conduct was possible to him, and that he must pursue it, lead where
+it might.
+
+Perhaps this day his heart was softened by the recollection of a promise
+which only the night before he had obtained from Alison Lindsay; for a
+look of pain, almost of perplexity, stole over his face, and it was some
+time before he spoke again.
+
+But at last he said, quietly, “Whaur’s the Book, Geordie? We’ll hae tint
+a’ our reading time.”
+
+“What shall I read ye?” asked George; for David nearly always selected
+the portions they read together.
+
+He said at once, “The tenth o’ Matthew;” and George read the precious
+words of comfort addressed by the Saviour to those whom he sent forth as
+sheep in the midst of wolves. His double command, “_fear not_,” and
+“_fear_”—fear not them which kill the body, fear Him who is able to
+destroy both soul and body—sounded very full of meaning in the ears of
+men who knew that those who could kill the body were not far off. And
+very precious was his assurance that, notwithstanding every danger that
+menaced them, “the hairs of their head were numbered” by that Father who
+loved and would protect them.
+
+But when George read, “Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I
+also deny before my Father which is in heaven,” David Stratton could no
+longer control his emotion. Rising from his seat on the trunk of a
+fallen tree, he threw himself suddenly on his knees, and lifted up his
+eyes and hands to heaven as one in an ecstasy of prayer. For some
+moments he was silent, but at length he spoke aloud, or rather “burst
+forth in these words:” “O Lord, I hae been vera wicked, and justly
+mightest thou take thy grace frae me. But, Lord, for thy mercy’s sake,
+let me never deny thee, or thy truth, for the fear of death or corporal
+pain.”[35]
+
+George said “Amen” to his prayer, but he felt awed, as well as touched
+and solemnized. And it may be that his heart shrank in terror from the
+prospect that prayer unveiled before him. For his uncle had become very
+dear to him, “both in the flesh and in the Lord.” And still,
+
+                “Howe’er assured be faith,
+                To say farewell is fraught with gloom;”
+
+and “death and corporal pain” are fearful realities to contemplate. Far
+more fearful for those we love than for ourselves! For who does not know
+how hard it sometimes is to acquiesce in God’s dealings with our beloved
+ones, and by what agonizing lessons the heart is taught that for them
+“it was good to suffer _here_, that they might reign _hereafter_; to
+bear the cross _below_, that they might wear the crown _above_;” and
+that it was that they might be made like unto Him, that “He had placed
+them in the furnace, sitting by as a refiner of silver, until they
+should reflect his image.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  VI.
+                       =Entering into the Cloud.=
+
+
+                “Know then, my soul, God’s will controls
+                  Whate’er thou fearest:
+                Round him in calmest music rolls
+                  Whate’er thou hearest.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  VI.
+                       =Entering into the Cloud.=
+
+
+Mistress Alison Lindsay sat alone in one of the smaller apartments of
+Lauriston Castle. She had scarcely moved since Lady Isabel quitted the
+room, more than an hour before; the cunning “stitch-work,” with which
+she had been occupied, lay unheeded on the table; her fair face was
+clouded with care and anxiety, and her large dark eyes, which so often
+sparkled with merriment, were full of thoughtful sadness, and now and
+then dimmed with tears.
+
+Alison’s heart was indeed sorely troubled and cast down within her; but
+why was this? The answer is easy; the same Word that had brought peace
+and joy to the heart dearest to her on earth, had brought bitter sorrow
+and perplexity to hers. For the present life, fear and anguish where all
+had been bright before; for the future, light indeed, but light that
+disturbed and dazzled, without guiding or cheering the bewildered soul.
+It perplexed and troubled her that the peace of her little world should
+have been invaded by these “new doctrines.” The old faith was good
+enough for her, good enough for her kindred and her friends, and
+certainly good enough for Maister David Stratton. She knew him ere this
+strange spell had fallen upon him; she thought him then as brave and
+bold a gentleman as ever claimed a lady’s hand; and she would not
+willingly have had him changed. She had been so happy, so content with
+her lot, envying no one, desiring nothing beyond what she had either in
+possession or in prospect, when the consequences of David’s perverse
+quarrel with the Prior fell like a thunderbolt upon her, causing her the
+first real sorrow she had ever known. Yet even while she blamed, in her
+heart she half admired his reckless courage and daring. And she never
+ceased to anticipate a satisfactory termination of the dispute, through
+the mediation of his friends, and the slow but sure actings of his own
+good sense.
+
+Great, therefore, was her horror when, upon his late arrival at
+Lauriston, he committed himself openly to sentiments which put a more
+formidable obstacle in the way of his reconciliation with the Kirk, than
+personal quarrels with half the kirkmen in Scotland would have done.
+Naturally intelligent and thoughtful, she had more definite ideas on the
+subject of heresy than any one in the castle, except Sir William Ker. It
+would not have been possible for her to become, without knowing it, more
+than half a Protestant, as her less reflective cousin Isabel had already
+done. She was too well informed upon the tenets of her own faith for
+this; and besides, she did not possess one of those illogical, though
+perhaps in some respects happily constituted minds, in which opinions
+actually inconsistent with each other can remain together as peaceably
+as the leopard and the lamb will do in the future millennium. She knew
+only too well that David’s words were heresy; and she believed that
+heresy meant _ruin_, both to soul and body. And for life or death, for
+good or evil, his fate and hers were bound together. She had never loved
+him half so well, and yet she had never felt half so indignant with him.
+Nor was her anger unreasonable; since, as she then supposed, it was
+solely in the pride of his heart, and in his unreasoning wrath against
+the kirkmen, that he threw himself into that yawning gulf of heresy,
+thus very nearly committing an actual as well as a spiritual suicide.
+She did not think that any form of doctrine, as such, could possess much
+interest or significance for David Stratton. She supposed that in his
+eyes the errors of the Catholic Faith consisted in its being upheld by
+such men as the Prior of St. Andrews; and that the charm of the new
+doctrines might be found in the fact that, if they prevailed, neither
+priories nor parishes, nor the rents and tithes accruing therefrom,
+would be left to Patrick Hepburn and Robert Lawson.
+
+But after her first interview with him, she began to feel she had done
+him an injustice. She could not fail to perceive how marvellously these
+new doctrines had quickened both his mind and his heart. The earnestness
+with which he explained and enforced them first surprised, then touched
+her. She thought it only fair and generous not to condemn him unheard,
+but to allow him a full opportunity of stating his convictions.
+Otherwise, how could she combat them successfully? And she was resolved
+upon making the attempt; though less from any abstract zeal for the
+conversion of heretics in general, than from her intense and personal
+interest in the fate of this one particular heretic. On the other hand,
+he was as anxious for her conversion as she could possibly be for his;
+so that their conversations on the subject of religion were naturally
+neither few nor passing.
+
+The consequences soon became apparent to those around them, and very
+painfully so to Alison herself. The faith of her childhood was first
+shaken, then actually overthrown. In any sensitive mind, this process
+must necessarily be attended with great suffering; but especially so if
+nothing be accepted as a substitute for that which is displaced. This in
+a sense, though only in a sense, was the case with Alison Lindsay. David
+had indeed presented her with the jewel of Truth, and she had taken it
+from his hand, and laid it up amongst her treasures; still it might be
+said that she knew nothing of its beauty or value. For her no ray of
+light from above had fallen upon it, calling forth its brilliancy and
+lustre; it was a diamond, but a diamond unillumined by the sunshine;
+clear indeed and pure, but cold and colourless. How could such a
+possession as this repay her for all she must surrender for it—for the
+sparkling brilliant of earthly happiness, as well as for her early
+faith—once accounted a precious gem, though now discovered to be only a
+clever, beautiful imitation?
+
+To drop the metaphor, she had received a creed, but she had not yet
+received life. And something more than a creed is necessary to enable a
+man—that we say not, a woman—to abandon all that the heart holds dear,
+whether of association with the past, or of hope for the future. Such
+sacrifices she felt might now be demanded from her, and her heart shrank
+back in terror from the demand. It was no wonder, therefore, that as she
+sat alone that morning her thoughts were very mournful ones.
+
+But the sound of an approaching footstep made her start, and brought a
+deeper colour to her cheek. She hastily took up her work; but had not
+added a single stitch to the “pearling” she was embroidering, ere David
+Stratton stood beside her.
+
+“Mistress Alison, I hae twa or three things to say to ye; hae ye time to
+hear me?” he asked, in tones which showed that the gentleness and
+deference with which he always addressed her were mingled in this
+instance with a shade of embarrassment.
+
+“There’s nothing to hinder, that I ken,” said Alison, glancing at her
+work. “Isabel’s in the wool-room, sorting wool for the lasses to spin.”
+
+David drew nearer the carved oak chair in which Alison sat. They formed
+rather a striking contrast. Alison wore a kirtle of fine taffetas of a
+deep full blue; a silken snood of the same colour edged with silver
+confined her rich dark hair; and seldom did the bright cold sunshine of
+March rest on a more graceful form or a fairer face than hers. David was
+dressed in a maud, or rough gray overcoat, and buskins of untanned
+leather, which were splashed here and there with mud. The wind had been
+dealing rather rudely with his brown hair, and his honest and manly,
+though not handsome face, was flushed with exercise. Thus much the eye
+could take in at a glance; there were other things, not so apparent, but
+of deeper significance. In _her_ countenance there was a kind of surface
+quiet and repose, but underneath this all was restless, and fear and
+anxiety flowed on in dark waves; in _his_ there was momentary agitation,
+as if he had just heard some disturbing tidings, but beneath the
+disturbance there was a settled calm, telling that his soul dwelt
+habitually in a peace no outward agitation could destroy.
+
+“I hae ridden hame this morn, and I’m but just back again,” he began, in
+his rather abrupt way.
+
+“Nae need to tell that,” Alison could not help saying, with a quick
+glance at the mud on his boots. Little heed would she have given to such
+trifles, had she guessed the thoughts that were occupying his mind.
+
+“I fand there ane young man, familiar to the Laird o’ Dune, wha was
+speiring after me.”
+
+“Weel?” said Alison, rather wondering what this would come to.
+
+“He brought me tidings;—Mistress Alison, I maun gang my ways, I daur
+bide here nae langer.”
+
+Alison’s colour changed rapidly from red to pale, and from pale again to
+red. “But what danger threatens you?” she asked quickly.
+
+“Ye ken that unco weel yersel,” answered David.
+
+“Oh, but they darena touch a gentleman, a laird’s brother”—yet the lips
+that uttered these confident words were growing white with terror.
+
+“Na, na, Mistress Alice,” said David gently, but with great earnestness,
+“ye mauna stay yersel on what’s no _true_. Maister Patrick Hamilton was
+better than a laird’s brither, he was Abbot o’ Ferne; and forbye that,
+he had the best bluid o’ Scotland in his veins; yet ye ken they brent
+him to ashes at the stake. But the guid Lord is aboon them a’; gin it’s
+his will to save me alive, a’ the kirkmen in Scotland canna touch a hair
+o’ my head; gin it’s his will I suld dee, his holy will be done!”
+
+“But why do ye say sic’ awful things?”
+
+“Because I’m _warned_, Mistress Alice; Erskine sent his servant to warn
+me. He hath had certain tidings that the Prior and the Bishop o’ Ross
+(God forgie them) ’ill no rest till they finish their wark. Sae I maun
+just gang awa’.”
+
+“Do no such thing,” interrupted Alison hastily. “Bide here, Maister
+David. There’s no place in Scotland sae safe for ye as the laird yer
+brither’s castle.”
+
+“Ay, but then there’s Geordie. Gin folk begin to speir after heretics at
+Lauriston Castle, it’s like they wadna end wi’ David Stratton. And
+that’s why I darena quit the country, lest the blame might fall whaur it
+suldna, and better men pay the wyte for me.”
+
+“Ye’re no right there,” said Alison eagerly, almost sharply. “Ilka man
+should fend for himself. Forbye, there are others as deep or deeper than
+you in it, David. What have ye done mair than John Erskine o’ Dune? Yet
+he bides safe and siccar—”
+
+“And God keep him safe and siccar, for the sake of a’ that love his name
+in this puir country. Mistress Alice, when first I kenned the Lord, I
+was sair fashed wi’ mysel for a’ my foolery anent the Prior’s tithe. But
+noo I’m richt sure it was God himsel let a’ that be. Gin it hadna been
+for that, I might hae never learned his truth ava’; and forbye, it’s
+unco weel the bishops suld misdoot a simple man like me, and hunt me
+down for a thing like that, or wha kens but they might be doing
+waur?—Aiblins speiring after Geordie, or Erskine o’ Dune, or that braw
+young scholar—”
+
+“O David, dinna say such words!”
+
+But her tones, though just a little reproachful, were very low and
+quiet; and he did not see her face—she had veiled it with her hand. Else
+surely he would not have gone on—“For the folk wha hae got lear can do
+sae muckle for the Lord. He canna spare sic’ as thae. He has sair need
+o’ them to speed his wark here, and to tell ither folk about him. But
+I’m aye unco slow wi’ my tongue; sae I think, an’ the guid Lord wad let
+me suffer for him, it wad be just the best—Wae’s me! what hae I done?
+Alice—_dear_ Alice!”
+
+For Alison could no longer either restrain or conceal the anguish his
+words inflicted. Did David know _what_ he was doing? There he stood,
+cold and calm, reasoning about that, to her, dim abstraction he called
+“the Truth,” and the best way in which its interests might be forwarded,
+while his own life—his precious life—was an item in the calculation. A
+mere figure, a something to be carried to this side or that, to be
+preserved or blotted out, as best might help to produce the wished-for
+result! To her this indifference seemed horrible. If, in her bitter
+pain, she could have found words at all, those words would have been,
+“You care not for yourself, but care you nothing for me?” But words
+would not come, only tears, and low choking sobs.
+
+David Stratton soothed her with a tenderness of which few would have
+believed him capable. Not now indeed, but often during the long after
+years, Alison confessed to herself that it was worth while to have shed
+some tears and suffered some pain, in order to be comforted thus, and to
+win such words and looks from that silent, undemonstrative nature.
+
+When she grew calmer, he said remorsefully, “I hae done wrang to say
+sic’ things. For ye ken, a’s no tint that’s in danger. The king’s aboon
+the bishops, and our King Jamie makes na muckle count o’ kirkmen. But I
+lippen a’ to the guid Lord, and Alice, ye maun just do the same.”
+
+“But I canna, David. I’m no like you.”
+
+“Ye haud the Truth, Alice?—ye love the guid Lord Jesus?” The two
+questions were asked in a quick, eager whisper, and without any pause
+between, as if they were indeed but one.
+
+Alice answered slowly and sadly, perhaps reluctantly, “I haud what you
+taught me, David. I dinna pray to saints, I dinna believe in purgatory,
+I dinna think our ain works can save our souls. But all that doesna make
+it an easy thing to dee, or—whilk is waur—to see ithers dee.”
+
+What David Stratton felt at that moment came nearer the bitterness of
+death than anything he had ever known before. “Alice”—he began; but his
+broad chest heaved with emotion, and for some time the words struggled
+in vain for utterance. “Alice,” he said at length, stretching out his
+hand to her—“Alice, forgie me; for I misdoot sair I hae done an ill
+pairt by ye. I suld hae bided awa’. I suld hae never seen yer face again
+(though it’s dearer, God wot, than heaven’s ain licht to me!)—that were
+better far than to drag ye down into a’ this grief and dole. No that
+it’s dole to me, but for the thocht o’ _you_, Alice. But is it owre late
+yet to say good-bye—God speed ye—forget a’ that’s been between us?”
+
+Alison rose calm and pale, and put her small hand into his. There was a
+light in her dark eyes, and her voice, though low and quiet, had no
+trembling in its tones. “David Stratton,” she said, “it _is_ owre late.
+There be some gifts that can never be taken back; and of such I hae
+given you. No that I’m wae for that. Gif I could, I would not be again
+the merry lass I was ere I kenned you, David. I—I—canna say mair on’t,
+but take that thought with you through all that may happen to us baith.
+Whatever God sends, you shall hear no murmur frae my lips. But pray for
+me, for I wot weel I havena your faith.”
+
+David Stratton did not exaggerate his own danger. But the fear of
+involving others in the same peril made him deaf to his brother’s
+affectionate, and under the circumstances really generous entreaties
+that he would still remain a guest at the castle. On the following
+morning he returned to his own secluded residence on the sea-coast,
+intending to live there, in as private a manner as he could, until the
+storm either broke or blew over.
+
+Isabel tried hard to console her young cousin, and to persuade her that
+all would yet end happily. David had powerful friends, she said; the
+Strattons stood well with the king, and he would never allow the kirkmen
+to proceed to extremities against one of the name. “It was not to be
+denied,” she added, “that David had advanced very strange opinions, and
+been very imprudent in his conduct; but yet—”
+
+Here Alison indignantly interrupted her. “Ye’ve no right to say that,
+Isabel. Gif Maister David makes sma’ count of this world, it’s because
+he’ll hae a better portion in the world to come than you or I, or aebody
+else. His faith in God is just wonnerful; it’s nigh the grandest and
+noblest thing I hae ever seen. But wae’s me!” she added, in an altered
+tone, “why might we no have been left to live and die in peace like
+other folk? Wherein have we offended, that all this should come upon
+us?—I wot weel _he_ would say, ‘God’s will be done.’ But oh, Isabel, _my
+heart_ willna say it!—at least, no yet.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  VII.
+                         =Voices in the Cloud.=
+
+
+                 “Thanks for the little spring of love,
+                   That gives me strength to say,
+                 If they will leave me part in Him,
+                   Let all things pass away.”
+                                         A. L. WARING.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  VII.
+                         =Voices in the Cloud.=
+
+
+Three months after that sunny March morning, the young Master of
+Lauriston rode one day to the gate of his uncle’s dwelling, usually
+called Stratton House. This was a rude building, half castle, half
+farmstead, erected by some Stratton of a former generation, who having
+quarrelled with the laird of his time, chose to lead a life of
+independence in his own abode. It was situated on a hill, and close to
+the sea-shore; and many a time from the narrow windows had David watched
+his little ship as it struggled with the breakers; oftener still, in the
+gray morning light, had he trod the rough footway to the beach, prepared
+for a cruise along the coast of Angus, half for business and half for
+pleasure. Or after such an expedition, he had landed there, bringing
+with him his troop of swarthy, sunburnt fishermen, to drink huge flagons
+of double ale, and to fill the gloomy hall with their rough merriment.
+But these days were passed now, passed for ever. At the time of George’s
+visit, all within the house was still and silent. David was busy
+superintending the concerns of his little farm, and the servants were
+assisting him in the field work. He perceived, however, the approach of
+his guest, and quickly came to meet him, soiled and heated, but with a
+face beaming with pleasure.
+
+“Eh, but I’m unco blythe ye’ve come, lad: guid day to ye. Here, Jock,”
+addressing a boy who had followed him from the field, “tak’ young
+Maister’s horse.”
+
+George warmly grasped his uncle’s extended hand, and then followed him
+into the hall, which presented a rather bare and comfortless appearance,
+having scarcely any furniture but a long table and some benches and
+settles by the wall. He was pressed to take a cup of sack, a draught of
+French wine (his father’s present), or even a horn of ale, with other
+more substantial refreshments, but he declined, promising to wait for
+the evening meal.
+
+After some little conversation on indifferent subjects, he drew out his
+precious New Testament, saying, “I think ye wad scarce give me a welcome
+without this, uncle.”
+
+David’s blue eyes kindled with eagerness; then a shade of sorrow crossed
+his face, and he said mournfully, “Gin I had to live owre again, I wad
+tak’ tent, and get book lear while I might, and no be like yon puir
+cripple at the pool o’ Bethesda, wha had to lie there his lane the haill
+day lang, and see ither folk gang in and get the blessing, a’ because he
+couldna fend for himsel, and there was naebody by that wad fend for him,
+for the love o’ God.”
+
+“But then, uncle, ye ken the Lord Jesus did the wark _himsel_, with ane
+word of his mouth. It was He wha gave the waters their power to heal,
+sending his angel to trouble them. An’ if he pleased, he could heal just
+as well without them.”
+
+“Oh ay, Geordie, I ken what ye’re ettling after.[36] Folk might read yer
+wee book frae ane end to the ither, and no be the wiser, gin the guid
+Lord didna speak himsel to their ane hearts the while. When it’s his
+will to speak, he can do it, an’ he pleases, but book, or priest, or
+sacrament. For he’s the Lord.”
+
+“That’s owre true, uncle.”
+
+“Ay, but ye’ve no a chance to learn _how_ true, sin’ ye dinna stan’ as I
+do, like a wrecked seaman on a bit rock, between life and death as a man
+might say.”
+
+George looked at his uncle in some surprise. Never from the lips of
+David Stratton had friend or foe heard words of complaint before. He had
+always made light of danger; almost too light, George had often thought.
+He answered, with a smile, “It’s time I suld come to speir after you,
+uncle. I think ye have bided your lane owre lang.”
+
+“Na, it’s no that, Geordie. No that I wadna be blythe to see ye ony day,
+lad; for yer ain sake, and for the book ye aye bring wi’ ye. But I’m no
+my lane here ava’. What wi’ the lads and the lasses, and the fisherfolk,
+there’s enoo to tell the Lord’s love to, and mony’s the hour I spend in
+the house or the field, or by the sea-shore, just talking wi’ Him.
+Geordie lad, I kenned him first as the Saviour—the guid Lord that deed
+for me. But forbye that, I hae come to ken him noo as my ain, anely
+friend, wha can read off ilka bit thocht or trouble in the heart as easy
+as you can read thae wee crooked marks in your book.”
+
+“But for a’ that, uncle, are ye no cast down and sorrowfu’ whiles?”
+
+“No that sorrowfu’ Geordie. This life’s no sae lang, nor sae guid
+either, that a man suld sit down and greet for it, like a bairn wha hae
+tint a play-toy.”
+
+“But methinks ye’ve no tint all yet, even for this life?”
+
+David’s brow was mournful, though his blue eyes were full of light, as
+he answered, “Do ye no mind the story ye hae tald me ainst o’ the great
+King and the puir man, Geordie? The king (David mixed the allegory and
+its application together)—the king had graith and plenishing and gear
+enoo, and braw flocks and kye, the puir man had naebut ane wee lambie.”
+Here his voice failed, and a few moments passed before he was able to
+resume. “I hae never cared for onything as I care for _her_. And noo,
+it’s no like I’ll ever see her face again, till we stand thegither at
+the judgment-seat o’ Christ. But that’s no the waurst to bear. Aft and
+aft hae I cried shame on mysel for a feckless tentless coof. Why could I
+no haud my peace and bide my time? What gared me turn my face to
+Lauriston ava’, quhill that she was there? Gin trouble suld come to me,
+its nae wonner, I hae done enoo to earn it, owre and owre again. And I
+thank the Lord I can thole it, thro’ his guid grace. But God help me! I
+canna thole the thocht o’ her sorrow.” David’s head was bowed upon his
+hands, and his face was hidden from sight.
+
+“God will help thee, uncle. He hears prayer,” George said
+compassionately, almost tenderly.
+
+“Hears prayer! I wad ye, lad, he does, or I’d hae gane clean daft ere
+this. But it’s ill to ken what a man suld pray for whiles. When it’s
+naebut mysel that’s in it, it’s a’ plain enoo.” His head was raised now,
+and his eyes shone through the tears that had gathered in them. “Sma’
+matter what he gies, or what he taks awa’, sin’ he has gien me his
+ainsel. And his ‘loving-kindness is better than the life itself; my lips
+shall praise him.’ Gin I could, I wadna wale to turn ane step frae the
+gait he has markit for me. For weel I wot, that I’d tyne mair than I’d
+win by that. I’m just in his guid hand, and there’s nae better place to
+be in a’ the muckle warld.”
+
+“And Alison?” asked George gently, “is not she there too, in the same
+guid care and keeping?”
+
+“Nae doot of it,” answered David, who, fortunately for himself, was too
+simple-minded to doubt that Alison’s clear intellectual perception of
+the truth was accompanied by genuine faith and love. “Still I canna just
+mak’ it out. It’s no that easy to trust the Lord wi’ her. Mony’s the
+time I pray that he wad gie her a bit portion _here_, as weel as in the
+guid hame aboon—a wee bit joy or comfort, ye ken, even for this puir
+life. But it’s a’ dark; I canna see ane glint before me, or bring to my
+mind what he thinks to do wi’ her ava’.”
+
+“Uncle,” said George, slowly and reverently, “he loves her mair than you
+do.”
+
+Wonder and incredulity mingled in the gaze David bent on him; but after
+a time these passed away, changing gradually into a full content, calmer
+than common joy and deeper than earthly gladness. His silence was long;
+ere he spoke again his ear had caught the sound of footsteps and voices
+outside, but he heard them as one in a dream, a happy dream, from which
+he would not willingly be awakened.
+
+“Ye’re richt, lad,” he said at length. “Unco hard it seemed to me to
+think there _could_ be love mair deep and true than mine. Fule that I
+was for that! For I ken in my ain heart, just a wee bit, what his love
+is and can be; and kenning that, whaur I trust my ain soul I can trust
+my soul’s treasure too, God helping me.” And he stopped, overcome by the
+fear and shame that so often seizes upon reserved natures when betrayed
+by strong emotion into unwonted self-utterance.
+
+It was only too easy for George to turn the conversation. Not quite so
+absorbed as his uncle, outward things had been making rather more
+impression upon him. “Is it your wont, uncle, to have guests at Stratton
+House?” he asked, with a glance towards the little window.
+
+“Aiblins it’s the fisher folk,” answered David. “Tho’ that’s no like to
+be; the boatie suld be unco far by this, maist awa’ to Arbroath.” But he
+rose and walked quickly towards the door, followed by George, whose
+curiosity was excited by the arrival of strangers in a place so remote
+and difficult of access.
+
+Both involuntarily recoiled for a moment from the scene that met their
+view. The yard seemed filled with armed men, dressed in “jacks” or stout
+buff leather jerkins, and with steel caps on their heads and spears in
+their hands. They had entered unchallenged, for the servants were all
+absent at their work in the fields, and had left wide open the
+substantial “yetts,” which, if closed, might have been defended for a
+considerable time even against overwhelming odds. But no one dreamed of
+danger then. No one knew, that while David Stratton walked quietly by
+the sea-shore, holding sweet communion with Him whom having not seen he
+loved, or spoke of Him in simple strong words to his poor farm-servants
+and fishermen, two such important personages as the Prior of St. Andrews
+and the Bishop of Ross, assisted by other Churchmen of less degree, had
+been taking grave counsel together as to the best means of apprehending
+so dangerous a heretic. They had come to the conclusion that the
+business required careful management, as a desperate resistance might be
+looked for from the reckless and daring Stratton of Stratton. Like other
+great Churchmen of the day, the Prior maintained a number of armed men
+at his own expense and on his own account. A troop of these “jackmen,”
+as they were called, were accordingly destined to this service, supposed
+to be one of danger; and they were purposely placed under the command of
+a certain Halbert of the Hirst, cousin to that “black Will” whom David
+once stabbed in a quarrel in Dundee. It was with this man that he now
+stood face to face, with an instant consciousness of his errand and of
+all its terrible import. How often do the great moments of our lives
+steal upon us thus with noiseless footsteps! We may have been watching
+long for some great joy or sorrow with strained eyes and parted lips;
+but at last there comes an unguarded hour, when weary lids close
+unconsciously, and mind and body are at rest, and then, just then,
+expectation becomes reality, and the very event for which we watched and
+waited takes us by surprise.
+
+Thus it was that, while a man might count twenty, David stood amazed and
+silent before Halbert of the Hirst, who briefly and rudely explained his
+errand, at the same time showing his warrant for the apprehension of the
+excommunicated heretic. But in another moment Stratton of Stratton was
+himself again. Not in vain, after all, had he anticipated this solemn
+hour.
+
+“I’m fain to gang wi’ ye,” he answered, calmly and simply; “and I thank
+my God I’m no feart to answer for his truth the day.”
+
+Here George interposed impetuously; entreating Halbert to come with him
+to Lauriston Castle, and promising that, if he did so, his father the
+Laird would give ample securities for his uncle.
+
+But Halbert shook his head. His orders were precise, he said: he was to
+bring Maister David Stratton, dead or alive, to St. Andrews, and he
+would not be found wanting in his duty to those that sent him for all
+the lairds in Scotland, be they who they might.
+
+George would have pleaded further, but David silenced him, saying, “Na,
+na, Geordie; dinna fash yersel, it’s a’ richt.” Then turning to Halbert,
+“Ye’ll bait yer horse and tak a drink? Yon puir lads’ll no be laith for
+that, seeing the day’s unco het, and it’s a lang gait up the hill.”
+
+Halbert, however, declined the proffered hospitality, which he feared
+might cover some snare. His impatience to set out on his way was
+extreme. He could scarcely believe his own good fortune, in having so
+easily secured his captive, and every moment’s delay seemed to him
+fraught with unknown perils of rescue, flight, or evasion.
+
+The farm-servants, as yet surprised and curious rather than alarmed, now
+came running in from all directions.
+
+One of them was immediately desired to saddle a horse for his master,
+but on no account would Halbert lose sight of the prisoner even for a
+minute. Perceiving this, David asked George to bring him a little money
+and a few other necessaries for his journey, giving his directions with
+a calmness that contrasted strongly with his nephew’s ill-concealed
+agitation.
+
+When George returned, David was already taking a hasty but kind farewell
+of the perplexed and terrified servants. Halbert of the Hirst stood a
+little apart, leaning upon his spear; perhaps he was beginning, in spite
+of himself, to feel a sort of respect for his captive. George turned
+towards him, and in a few words bespoke his courtesy and good offices
+for Maister David, making very free use of the name and influence of the
+Laird of Lauriston. This was little, certainly, to do for a relative so
+dear to him, but it was all he could under the circumstances. Then came
+the parting moment.
+
+David lowered his voice, “Geordie, lad, will ye do me ane kindness the
+day, for auld lang syne?”
+
+“Onything ye list, uncle.”
+
+“Then stay not—ride quick to Edzell (the family-seat of the Lindsays),
+and tell the tale o’ what has chanced wi’ me. For I’m feart the country
+folk’ll hae a phrase about it, and mak’ it waur than it is, ten times
+owre. But I lippen a’ to you, Geordie. Ye’ll do the best ye can, and
+help and comfort _her_, for my sake. Tell her God is wi’ me, and he’ll
+no leave nor forsake me, even to the end. And I’ll pray day and nicht
+for her, for thy guid faither and mither, and for thee, Geordie. God
+bless thee, lad!”
+
+It was no shame to that brave man that he took his young kinsman in his
+arms, strained him to his heart, and pressed his lips to his. Nor to
+George that his tears fell fast, and his voice was not calm enough to
+return his uncle’s blessing. For they were parting beside the grave, and
+they knew it.
+
+A few minutes afterwards George stood alone, watching the soldiers as
+they marched down the hills, with the sun flashing upon their steel caps
+and spears. The blow had fallen so suddenly that he could scarcely
+realize it; yet its very suddenness was, in some respects, a merciful
+provision. Had there been time and opportunity, the habits of his
+previous life might so far have prevailed with David Stratton as to
+induce him to offer some resistance. The manners of the age, and the
+lawless state of the country would have excused such a course; and,
+moreover, David might well have felt that, though he owed loyal
+obedience to “the king as supreme,” he owed none to proud and
+domineering Churchmen, who, according to their too frequent practice,
+were taking justice—or injustice—“at their own hand.”
+
+Yet, natural and excusable as a violent resistance might have been,
+David would have forfeited much thereby. There is great dignity in
+submission; dignity which the heart feels, even when the reason cannot
+analyze it. No rebuke is so crushing as that which the apostle addressed
+to the persecutors of his day, “Ye have condemned and killed the just,
+and _he doth not resist you_.”
+
+And “he who suffers conquers;” that is, he who suffers willingly,
+patiently, bravely. Victories thus won, silent and often unnoticed
+though they be, are the best and noblest earth’s trampled battle-field
+has ever witnessed; nor, however times may change, shall they wholly
+cease, until He comes who shall bring peace to the nations.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                 VIII.
+                          =The Cloud Breaks.=
+
+
+                “God’s Spirit sweet,
+                Still thou the heat
+      Of our passionate hearts when they rave and beat.
+                Quiet their swell,
+                And gently tell
+      That his right hand doth all things well.”
+                                                  C. F. ALEXANDER.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                 VIII.
+                          =The Cloud Breaks.=
+
+
+David Stratton’s heart was not likely to sink when the trial he had
+anticipated actually came. He was constitutionally brave; gifted indeed
+with
+
+               “A spirit that would dare
+               The deadliest form that death could take,
+               And dare it for the daring’s sake.”
+
+Not that his fortitude was of the very highest and noblest kind; of such
+fortitude, strange as it may seem, that nature is only capable which is
+also capable of the intensest agony of fear. It is the heart sensitive
+enough to apprehend and to feel in its utmost bitterness every pang that
+can be inflicted, that will rise, by God’s grace, to the loftiest height
+of gentle, self-forgetting heroism in the hour of anguish. But even if
+David Stratton’s courage was not, like one of Solomon’s targets, of
+beaten gold pure and precious, it was at least “a right good shield of
+hides untanned,” strong and serviceable in the day of battle.
+
+When, therefore, he was apprehended and brought a prisoner to Edinburgh,
+he was probably not by any means the greatest sufferer himself. Other
+hearts trembled more than his, when at last he was “produced in judgment
+in the Abbey of Holy rood House, the king himself (all clad in red)
+being present.” A priest named Norman Gourlay was his companion in faith
+and suffering. The priest was accused of having said “that there was no
+such thing as purgatory, and that the Pope was not a bishop, but
+Antichrist, and had no jurisdiction in Scotland.”
+
+Against David the old accusation was revived. Robert Lawson, vicar of
+Ecclescreig, deposed to his unmannerly refusal of the tithes demanded by
+him on behalf of the Prior of St. Andrews. To this was added an offence
+more recently committed—“that he said there was no purgatory but the
+passion of Christ and the tribulations of this world.”
+
+The king, most anxious to save him, earnestly entreated him to recant,
+and to “burn his bill.” But in vain. “I have offended in nothing,” said
+brave, honest David Stratton.
+
+His was not the tongue of the learned; he had no words of burning
+eloquence wherewith to explain and defend the faith so precious to his
+heart; yet, as was once said by another of Christ’s true disciples, he
+“could not speak for him, but he could die for him.” No threats—no
+persuasions could turn him from his simple strong adherence to the cause
+of truth and right. He “stood ever at his defence,” maintaining that he
+had done no wrong, and therefore refusing to retract.
+
+Then, before all that awe-struck assembly, the terrible sentence was
+pronounced—_death by fire_.
+
+David heard it with undaunted courage. Death had no terrors for him, for
+he knew in whom he had believed, and was persuaded that He was able to
+keep that which he committed to him against that day. Still, for the
+sake of one far away whose heart would bleed, he desired to live, if
+life might be preserved without unfaithfulness to his God. He made,
+therefore, one last effort to save himself by appealing to the king and
+asking his grace.
+
+The king’s heart was touched, and words of mercy and pardon trembled on
+his lips. But the Bishop of Ross, who managed the prosecution upon this
+occasion, proudly interposed. “Your hands are bound in this case,” said
+he. “You have no grace to give to such as are condemned by the Church’s
+law.” So little did a king’s compassion avail the victims of priestly
+cruelty.
+
+There is no need to linger over the rest of the story; a few brief words
+may suffice to tell it. On the 27th of August 1534, Norman Gourlay and
+David Stratton sealed their testimony with their lives. They were
+strangled, and their bodies burned at a place “besydis the rood of
+Greenside;” probably near the road that now leads from the Calton Hill
+to Leith. It is recorded that David Stratton consoled and encouraged his
+fellow-sufferer to the last. We know not why a less painful death was
+granted these two than that which in those days usually fell to the lot
+of the witnesses for Christ. But after all, it mattered little through
+what gate they passed from earth, with its sin and sorrow, to the
+brightness of their Saviour’s presence. In that presence it was well
+with them—nay, it _is_ well—for years and centuries make no change in
+the blessedness of those who, absent from the body, are present with the
+Lord, and “await their perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and
+soul, in his eternal and everlasting glory.”
+
+But how was it with the inmates of Lauriston Castle when these sad
+tidings reached them? How the Laird mourned his brother, or George his
+uncle—rather his loved and valued friend—might indeed easily be told.
+But Alison Lindsay, in the restlessness of her anxious and sorrowful
+heart, had once again sought the shelter of that roof, only to learn the
+terrible truth from the lips of her cousin Isabel—and who shall paint
+anguish such as hers?
+
+We know, alas!—
+
+                    “What bitter words we speak,
+                      When God speaks of resigning;”
+
+though it is his own voice that asks us to give up our treasure, and his
+own loving hand, not the cruel violence of men, that takes it gently
+from our arms. We know how hard it is to bury our dead out of our sight,
+even when, as oft as we will, our tears may water the seed sown in
+“God’s acre” against the harvest of the resurrection. What would it be
+if, without farewell, without last look or parting word, that to which
+our hearts cling so fondly were snatched from us; and even the lifeless
+form—still so precious—denied a grave, burned to ashes, and scattered to
+the winds of heaven? Yet all this many women have borne, and borne
+bravely and meekly, not cursing God or man, but learning day by day to
+love and pray through all, and to possess their souls in patience.
+Surely, besides that written here below, there is another “Book of
+Martyrs”—a book in which He who himself wept over the dead, has recorded
+those tears and agonies, worse than stake or gibbet, shed in secret and
+endured in silence, for his name’s sake.
+
+But if it be only the willing sacrifice He accepts, Alison could not yet
+receive the joy of that sacrifice to compensate for her bitter pain.
+While hope remained she had prayed for David’s life, if indeed the cry
+sent up from her agonized heart to him who was as yet to her the unknown
+God, could be called prayer. ‘Surely’ (she thought), ‘the God whom he
+served continually could and would deliver his faithful witness from the
+hands of his enemies. He would never suffer the bad to triumph, and the
+good to perish thus. He would take care of his own cause.’ So, even to
+the last, she sought to reason herself into trustful hope, if not into
+confidence. And then the blow came. Her life was desolate; earth was
+dark—dark for ever; nor did any light from Heaven shine in upon its
+midnight gloom. For had not her hope deceived her? was not her prayer
+given back into her own bosom? And yet she could not say, “It was a
+chance that happened us.” She could not forget God—there are situations
+in which this is impossible; she recognized his mighty hand, and bowed
+beneath it—alas! not in resignation, but in despair. The language of her
+heart was not, “It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him good;” but
+rather, “O Lord, take, I beseech thee, my life from me, for it is better
+for me to die than to live.”
+
+Those around her, though they longed to comfort, yet had to stand apart,
+for it is God’s ordinance that through all deep waters the soul must
+pass alone. In the great silence that he makes around the mourner, every
+human voice dies away that his, and his alone, may be heard. It is a
+fearful thing when _He_ is silent! Then to the tried and tortured heart
+come the whispers of the tempter, the “adversary” of God and man. Such
+whispers came to Alison. First, they said to her, “There is no God;” but
+well she knew that was false. Then came the more subtle suggestion,
+“There is a God, but he cares not for you. He does what he pleases in
+heaven and upon earth, heedless of the happiness or the misery of the
+creatures his hand has made.” And Alison said in her heart, “It is so in
+truth;”—thus from despair she passed into rebellion, and again rebellion
+engendered despair.
+
+All this time she did not weep, or wept but seldom. Nor would she speak
+of the past even to her cousin Isabel, after having once heard, with a
+calmness that seemed terrible to those who told it, the tale of David’s
+trial, condemnation, and martyrdom. But George took care frequently to
+leave in her way the Testament from which David had so loved to hear the
+words of truth. Remembering how earnestly he had urged its study upon
+her, she took it to her own apartment, and there read it, often for
+hours together. At first her attention wandered, and she scarcely tried
+to fix it, believing herself already sufficiently familiar both with the
+history and the doctrines of the book. But gradually she became
+interested in what she read. Now and then a passage would arrest and
+touch her; some parable or narrative it might be, which she had heard in
+David’s presence, or he had spoken of to her. And then tears would come,
+welcome tears, that relieved the heart of some of its heavy burden. She
+began to grow humbler in her sorrow, to take sympathy gently if not
+thankfully, and to long to hear of him she had lost from those who knew
+and loved him.
+
+Thus it happened that George told her one day of his last interview with
+David. She heard all in silence, determined to restrain her emotion, at
+least in George’s presence; with Isabel it might have been different.
+But when she heard that David had been willing to trust her where he
+trusted his own soul, because he knew by experience even a little of
+that love passing knowledge, wherewith he had been loved, so strong was
+the rush of feeling, that in spite of all self-restraint, there were
+heavy sobs and tears, though they were not wholly for sorrow.
+
+George would willingly have consoled her, but he knew not what to say or
+do. He was about to leave the room, when the thought occurred to him
+that if he did not finish his story now he might probably never have
+another opportunity. Before the conversation began, he had been reading
+the Testament to his mother and Alison; but Lady Isabel having been
+called away, he had laid the book aside. He now quietly resumed where he
+had left off; and these were the words that fell upon the ear of Alison:
+“And when even was now come, his disciples went down unto the sea, and
+entered into a ship, and went over the sea toward Capernaum. And it was
+now dark, and Jesus was not come to them. And the sea arose, by reason
+of a great wind that blew. So when they had rowed about five and twenty
+or thirty furlongs, they see Jesus walking on the sea, and drawing nigh
+unto the ship: and they were afraid. But he saith unto them, It is I; be
+not afraid. Then they willingly received him into the ship: and
+immediately the ship was at the land whither they went.”
+
+No words she ever heard had been to Alison what those words were then.
+To her sorrowful but softened heart they seemed an image of her own
+condition. Was she not alone—as it were—on a stormy sea, amidst wild and
+tossing breakers? “And it was now dark, and Jesus was not come.” Was it
+because he cared not? Oh, no; his heart was full of love. Whatever else
+she doubted, henceforward she would not doubt of this. But would he come
+to her? Surely she would “receive him willingly.” Would he but say to
+her: “It is I; be not afraid?” Would he but reveal himself as he had
+done to one she loved? Then all might yet be well, and a bright and
+blessed morning dawn upon her night of weeping.
+
+She thanked George calmly enough, and then withdrew to the welcome
+refuge of her own room. As her heart had known its own bitterness, so
+with this newly awakened hope no stranger might intermeddle. Thus it is,
+almost always, with deep natures. Whether we lose or win, we must fight
+our great battles alone. Alone! but if once we have learned to “cry to
+the strong for strength”—because we know that the strong is also the
+loving One, and therefore will surely hear us—it is no longer doubtful
+whether victory will be ours or no. Weary and heavy laden heart, be
+comforted; “thou wouldst not be seeking him, if he had not already found
+thee.”[37]
+
+Very soon Alison’s prayer was answered, and the desire of her heart was
+given her. She found rest in Christ; and though still she wept for the
+earthly treasure his hand had taken, she wept like a child sobbing out
+its grief in its mother’s arms; not like one standing outside in the
+cold and dark, knocking in vain at a closed door. Christ had revealed
+himself to her as her Saviour, her Redeemer, her ever-living Friend. And
+having seen him, she had seen the Father also; she knew him as her
+Father who loved and cared for her. Once she could not say: “It is the
+Lord, let him do what seemeth him good;” _now_, “Even so, Father, for so
+it seemeth good in thy sight,” was the voice of her resigned and
+grateful heart.
+
+The great sorrow of her life had come to her in midsummer, when skies,
+and leaves, and flowers were brightest, and all nature seemed to
+rejoice. Peace and comfort came when the November winds were whistling
+through the leafless trees, and the first snows of winter were whitening
+the ground.
+
+And even then she arose and went to her own home. When God visited her
+and gave her peace, he taught her that she had a work to do for him, and
+that the command, “Occupy till I come,” was as truly addressed to her as
+though her life had been filled with earthly ties and earthly happiness.
+Nay, perhaps it is addressed to her and to those like her, for their
+comfort and blessing, in a sense peculiarly full of meaning; for was she
+not called and set apart, even more than others, to care for the things
+of the Lord, that she might be holy both in body and in spirit?
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  IX.
+                             =Left Alone.=
+
+
+                                   “Thy love
+          Shall chant itself its own beatitudes
+          After its own life-working. A child-kiss
+          Set on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad;
+          A poor man, served by thee, shall make thee rich;
+          A sick man, helped by thee, shall make thee strong;
+          Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense
+          Of service which thou renderest.”
+                                              E. B. BROWNING.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                  IX.
+                             =Left Alone.=
+
+
+Alison Lindsay found her father and her brothers full of sympathy for
+her, and of indignation at the fate of Stratton. As so often happens,
+death had proved a great peace-maker. David’s punishment had so vastly
+exceeded his offence, that the offence itself was altogether consigned
+to oblivion. Nothing more was heard of the petulance and obstinacy with
+which he had involved himself in the quarrel which provoked the Lindsays
+of Edzell to deny him the honour of their alliance; only his dauntless
+courage and fortitude were remembered now. Even young Gavin, who had
+once been so glad to bring David his father’s hostile message, was upon
+more than one occasion heard to call him “a martyr.”
+
+Knowing something of Alison’s strong affections and of the determination
+of her character, and not knowing the change that had taken place in her
+views, they half expected her to evidence her grief for David by bidding
+the world farewell and retiring to a convent. Great was their relief to
+find that the only daughter of their house had formed no such intention;
+greater still their wondering admiration of the quiet fortitude and
+resignation with which she bore her heavy sorrow. They had always known
+that “our Alison was a brave lass, and had a great spirit,” but they
+never thought so highly of her as when they saw her resuming with
+energy, and even with apparent cheerfulness, the occupations (though not
+the amusements) suitable to her age and position. Into all their
+interests and their harmless pleasures she entered fully, giving them a
+sympathy and a toleration which they in turn learned to extend to her.
+It was a signal mark of this toleration that when, in the course of
+time, other offers were made for her hand, and amongst them more than
+one which, if accepted, would greatly have advanced family interests;
+her indulgent father only said, “Please yerself, my lass;” and her
+brothers refused to interfere, on the plea that “our Alice will aye gang
+her ain gait.”
+
+To her religion they were gradually led to extend something more than
+toleration; and to win their hearts to it became the great interest,
+because the great duty, of her life. The impression made by David’s
+martyrdom was not suffered to die out. The precious season of natural
+re-action against priestly tyranny was eagerly, yet wisely, spent in
+leavening their minds with as much of Scripture truth as they were
+willing to hear from her lips. During the five or six following years
+nearly all the members of her family were won, at different intervals
+and more or less gradually, to the cause of the Reformation. In some,
+indeed, the change was merely outward, but in others it was deeper and
+more real; and more than once or twice was Alison given to taste the
+full blessedness of leading those she loved to her Saviour’s feet. Nor
+was her quiet but effectual work for him limited to her immediate
+family. The servants, the retainers of the household, the poor of the
+neighbourhood, all felt her sweet influence for good; she was unwearied
+in ministering to their bodily necessities, but still more anxious to
+bear to their thirsting souls the living waters of the Word of God.
+
+Yet it must not be concluded that Alison’s life, whilst thus rich in
+blessing for others, was for herself either a perfectly happy or a
+perfectly healthful one. In a sense, indeed, the wound of her heart was
+healed; but “what deep wound ever healed without a scar?” and to tell
+where _that_ wound had been, a broad deep scar remained. There was an
+incompleteness in her life, a sense of want, a hunger in her heart; and
+this was felt not so much during the first year after David’s martyrdom,
+as during those that followed it. For when, in that hour of deepest need
+and sorrow, God had revealed himself as the strength of her life and her
+portion for ever, it seemed as though want or woe could never again come
+near the heart he had satisfied with his own fulness. Had he not made
+the wilderness to rejoice and blossom as the rose? Had he not given her
+songs in the night, as when a holy solemnity is kept; and with these
+upon her lips, should she not come to Zion with everlasting joy, and
+sorrow and sighing flee away?
+
+But weeks and months and years rolled on in slow monotonous succession.
+Life, with its cares and struggles and dull every-day realities, drew
+its meshes around her again. The brilliant hues and colours of the
+morning—“the gold, the crimson, and the scarlet, like the curtain of
+God’s tabernacle”—which had heralded the shining of the sun of
+righteousness upon her soul, faded from her, and passed into the light
+of common day. True, it was light still and not darkness,—light to live
+in, light to work by, light to be thankful for as heaven’s best gift;
+and yet sometimes, in spite of all this, tears would start,—tears not of
+rebellion, scarcely even of sorrow, but rather of weariness and
+loneliness. She wanted something, she knew not what; and she often felt
+that if it were not very wrong, it would be very sweet to think that the
+time of her rest in heaven was not far away.
+
+Those around her understood but little of her inner life, else, perhaps,
+they might not inaptly have described her in the poet’s words,—
+
+                “You never heard her speak in haste;
+                  Her tones were sweet,
+                And modulated just so much
+                  As it was meet.
+                Her heart sate silent through the noise
+                  And concourse of the street;
+                There was no hurry in her hands,
+                  No hurry in her feet;
+                No joy drew ever near to her,
+                  That she should run to greet.”
+
+One thought indeed there was that came to her with something like a
+thrill of rapturous hope. As she indulged it, it returned again and
+again, and with such force, that in process of time it became the
+strongest temptation of her quiet secluded life. She had early learned
+contented acquiescence in God’s dealings with him she loved, as far as
+he himself was concerned. She thought of David Stratton not with
+resignation only, but with deep and solemn joy. For she rightly
+considered his fate as the most glorious possible to the sons of men.
+None of the diadems of earth appeared to her imagination half so bright
+as the martyr’s crown. Was it then so strange, if she gazed on that
+crown until she began to long that it might be hers also? Or if she
+looked upon the bright pathway by which the martyr had gone to his rest,
+until her eyes were so dazzled that the common beaten road in which God
+appointed her to tread seemed dark and void of beauty and interest? That
+longing for martyrdom,—is it hard to comprehend, even for us; knowing as
+we do, that there are many things worse than death, and sometimes
+dreaming, as we may, of the strange sweetness of proving by some great
+sacrifice our love to him whose love to us was so great? Does it seem a
+thing incredible to us that the men and women of other days should have
+rushed unsummoned before the heathen tribunals, stretching out rash
+hands to grasp the fiery cross, and even sinning that they might attain
+what so many through the weakness of nature have sinned that they might
+avoid? Surely we can sympathize with Alison Lindsay if, in the loosening
+of earthly ties, and the daily strengthening of those that bound her to
+the unseen, the thought of such a fate often presented itself to her
+mind as a consummation devoutly to be wished for. Why could not she have
+died as David Stratton did?—“for the word of God and for the testimony
+of Jesus Christ.” It would have been so easy and so blessed to give up
+life in such a cause. That would be indeed to serve and glorify her Lord
+and Saviour; and to enter in joyfully, and with an “abundant entrance,”
+within the veil, where her longing heart desired to be. But her desire
+was not given her. There was indeed little fear, or as perhaps she would
+have phrased it, little hope, that a life so retired as hers, and so
+carefully guarded by loving hearts and hands, should be cut short by
+martyrdom.
+
+With an intensity of sympathy and interest which it is difficult for us
+to realize, Alison watched the fate of those brave sufferers who—after
+David Stratton and Norman Gourlay—sealed their faith with their blood in
+Scotland. It almost seemed as if she went with each one of them in
+spirit to the very gate of heaven, hoping that, as it opened to admit
+the new comer, some gleam of the glory within might fall on the solitary
+watcher outside; and then, when all was over, many a quiet tear was
+shed, and many a prayer was whispered,—“How long, O Lord? Is it not yet
+enough? Wilt thou not soon make an end of this tyranny, and give peace
+and freedom to thy people in this realm?”
+
+Those for whom she wept thus were not too many to be briefly enumerated
+here. Four years after the martyrdom of Stratton and Gourlay, several
+persons were burned in one fire on the Castle Hill, Edinburgh, “when
+they that were first bound to the stake godly and marvellously did
+comfort them that came behind.” Of four of these brave and faithful
+witnesses—Kyllour, Beverage, Sympson, and Forrester—little is known to
+us; but the fifth, Dean Thomas Forrest, stands before us in striking and
+interesting individuality; his story may be read in Fox’s “Book of
+Martyrs.”
+
+Alison’s heart thrilled at Forrest’s dying challenge to one who sought
+to persuade him to retract—“Before I deny a word which I have spoken,
+you shall see this body of mine blow away with the wind in ashes.” But
+she gave perhaps a tenderer sympathy to the two Glasgow martyrs who
+suffered shortly afterwards. Russell’s gentle disposition, and Kennedy’s
+extreme youth (he was only eighteen), seemed to have softened the hearts
+of some of their persecutors; and even the Archbishop of Glasgow would
+have allowed them to escape, but for the ferocious zeal of Cardinal
+Beaton’s emissaries. Kennedy “at first was faint, and gladly would have
+recanted;” but God so wonderfully revealed himself to him, raising
+himself above all fear, and filling his heart with joy and peace, that
+he met his doom triumphantly. Nor was Russell less steadfast. “Brother,
+fear not,” he said to his young companion. “More potent is He that is
+with us than he that is in the world. The pain that we shall suffer is
+short, and shall be light; but our joy and consolation shall never have
+an end. And, therefore, let us contend to enter in unto our Master and
+Saviour by the same straight way that he has trod before us. Death
+cannot destroy us, for it is destroyed already by him for whose sake we
+suffer.”
+
+Four years passed ere there were martyr-deaths again in Scotland. During
+that interval King James died, and the Earl of Arran, who succeeded to
+the principal authority under the title of Governor, favoured at first
+the cause of the Reformation. But this gleam of prosperity soon faded
+away, no doubt to the bitter sorrow and disappointment of many a waiting
+heart.
+
+That of Alison Lindsay was still beating high with hope for her country
+and her faith, when a friend of her father’s, newly arrived from Perth
+(or, as it was then called, St. Johnstone), told a tale that awoke
+deeper and sadder feelings within her than any she had heard for the
+last nine years. Four burghers of that city had been tried, condemned,
+and executed, for heresy. They were humble and simple men, but
+God-fearing and intelligent, able to give a reason for the hope that was
+in them, and willing to die rather than surrender it. But the
+martyr-band also included a woman. Helen Stirk, the wife of the most
+advanced and fearless of the “heretics,” was accused of heresy, and
+condemned to die because she refused to pray to the Virgin Mary. “She
+desired earnestly to die with her husband, but she was not suffered;
+yet, following him to the place of execution, she gave him comfort,
+exhorting him to perseverance and patience for Christ’s sake, and,
+parting from him with a kiss, said in this manner: ‘Husband, rejoice,
+for we have lived together many joyful days; but this day in which we
+must die ought to be most joyful to us both, because we must have joy
+for ever. Therefore I will not bid you good night, for we shall suddenly
+meet with joy in the kingdom of heaven.’ The woman after was taken to a
+place to be drowned, and albeit she had a child on her breast, yet this
+moved nothing the unmerciful hearts of the enemies. So, after she had
+commended her children to the neighbours of the town for God’s sake, and
+the sucking bairn was given to the nurse, she sealed up the truth by her
+death.”
+
+Bitterly did the Lindsays execrate this cruelty, exceptional even in
+that cruel age, and many were their invectives against him by whose
+authority it was perpetrated; “curses not loud but deep” added to those
+already “waiting in calm shadow around” the wicked Cardinal, until the
+memorable day when he filled up the measure of his iniquity, and the
+land was no longer able to bear him.
+
+But Alison heard the tale in silence; not until she had entered into her
+chamber, and shut the door, did the torrent of mingled feelings it
+awakened find vent in tears. How she envied that unknown sister in
+Christ, to whom he had given this great joy and glory of suffering for
+his name’s sake. How blessed seemed _her_ lot, to go with him she loved
+not only to the gate, but within it. Not to turn back to earth, weary
+and sorrowful, to tread that long, long path of life alone,—
+
+                 “With aching heart, and weeping eyes,
+                 And silent lips;”
+
+but neither by life nor by death to be divided from him, the pain of the
+brief parting to be swallowed up in the joy of the near and certain
+re-union, and for all farewell only those sweet words, “I will not bid
+you good night, for we shall suddenly meet with joy in the kingdom of
+heaven.”
+
+“Father, Father!” sobbed Alice on her knees, “thou hast been very
+gracious to thy poor, weak, sinful child. And thou knowest I would not
+murmur. Righteous art thou in all thy ways, and holy in all thy works,
+_yet_ let me talk with thee of thy judgments. Wouldst thou but grant me
+a portion like to _hers_? None ever raised such a triumphant song of
+praise for life restored as I would do for that death—better and
+brighter than any other lot on earth.”
+
+Thus she prayed, if these words can be called a prayer. But she rose
+uncomforted, because in part at least unsubmissive. “Happy, happy Helen
+Stirk!” were the words on her lips; and in spite of her resolves,
+perhaps the contrast her heart drew the while was more than half a
+murmur.
+
+But as she lay awake through the long silent hours of the winter night,
+other thoughts came to her—visions of little lonely orphan children,
+fatherless and motherless, wandering desolate and uncared for, or tended
+only by the unloving hands of strangers. Had such thoughts saddened the
+last hours of the martyr-mother? Had she dreamed, as she pressed that
+last kiss on the lips of her babe, that perhaps in after years those
+lips would be taught to lisp the “Aves” _she_ died rather than repeat?
+Or was it given her to see the untwining of those tender ties without a
+pang? Could she part from all in full unfaltering reliance on his
+promise who has said, “Leave thy fatherless children, and I will
+preserve them alive?”
+
+Alison felt very sure that He would make that promise good. But by and
+by it occurred to her that he usually worked by means, and that when he
+wanted the lambs of his flock fed and cared for, it was his way to say
+to some one, “Feed my lambs.” What if he said it that hour, even unto
+her? Why not? There was meal enough in their “girnels” to feed twenty
+orphan children, wool enough in their stores to clothe them, and little
+danger that her liberal and kind-hearted father would object to any use
+she pleased to make of either. Every detail of her plan was soon
+settled. It was simple, natural, easy; requiring no romantic effort, no
+heroic sacrifice; only some forethought, and a little daily self-denial.
+She felt it would be so sweet to do this work of love for her martyred
+sister, and for Him for whom she gave her life. And thus she learned
+that it might be as blessed a thing to do as to suffer his will, to live
+unto him as to die unto him. For living or dying, she was his. Her
+morning prayer began as her evening prayer should have ended. “Not my
+will, but thine be done, O my Father. I see thy will is the best, and I
+know now thou carest as tenderly for her thou leavest here to work and
+pray, as for her thou calledst up yonder to rejoice and praise.”
+
+It seemed as if the orphan children that Alison brought from St.
+Johnstone to her home at Edzell, brought with them a kind of completion,
+as well as manifold comfort and blessing to her own life. Their
+love—childhood’s love, so easily won, so freely expressed—was a joy to
+her lonely heart; and the task of training them for Christ, an
+ever-fresh interest and occupation. And besides, this work, undertaken
+directly for her Lord, helped her to feel that all her other work was
+for him also. Thus quietly and peacefully her days glided on, like
+waters that fertilize where they flow. No praise she sought from man,
+and but little she received; but he that hath “his eyes like a flame of
+fire” to search the hidden things of darkness, would surely have said of
+her, “I know thy works, and charity, and service, and faith, and thy
+patience, and thy works; and the last to be more than the first.”
+
+She lived to see the morning of the Reformation—which had dawned upon
+Scotland amidst cloud and storm—settle into the noonday of gospel light
+and liberty. Although by that time her dark hair was mixed with gray,
+her heart was still fresh and young. A joyful day it was for her, when
+being on a visit with George Stratton, Laird of Lauriston, who both as a
+youth and a man was a zealous and consistent friend of the Reformation,
+she accompanied him and part of his family to the house of Erskine of
+Dune, to hear John Knox preach the word of God, and to receive the
+sacrament from his hands. And when a young David Stratton (so named by
+the Laird in affectionate remembrance of his martyred uncle) asked her
+on their return if she had been happy, adding significantly, “but I mind
+_you’re_ aye happy, Mistress Alison,” she did not contradict him, but
+answered simply, “Yes, my bairn; and why should I not? Loving-kindness
+and mercy have followed me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in
+the house of the Lord for ever.”
+
+
+Nothing more remains to be told. Short and simple, as it has come down
+to us, is the true story of David Stratton; and we have purposely
+avoided obscuring its few salient features by any redundancy of
+ornament. The Reformation martyrs of Scotland were not numerous, in
+comparison with those that suffered in other countries. But they were in
+many ways fitting representatives of their nation, its true
+“first-fruits” offered up to God. Every age was there: WALTER MILL, who
+had passed the fourscore years allotted to man, and might have laid his
+hoary head in the grave in peace, but that, as he said, he was “corn and
+no chaff, and would not be blown away with the wind nor burst with the
+flail, but would abide both;” NINIAN KENNEDY, who had scarcely reached
+the age of manhood, but yet had lived long enough, since he found his
+Saviour owned him and died for him. Every rank was there: young PATRICK
+HAMILTON, with his royal blood and brilliant prospects; ADAM WALLACE,
+“in appearance a simple, poor man,” but deeply taught of God, and
+moreover, “having read the Bible and Word of God in three tongues, and
+understood them so far as God gave him grace.” In GEORGE WISHART
+profound learning, deep thoughtfulness, and winning sweetness and
+nobleness of natural character, had their representative: DAVID
+STRATTON, on the other hand, was remarkable for none of these—he held
+the treasure in an earthen vessel, that the excellency of the power
+might be of God.
+
+Yet this very fact imparts peculiar significance to his history. We are
+prone to look upon the noble army of martyrs through the haze of a vague
+admiration, that on the one hand magnifies their forms to something
+larger than human, but on the other robs their outlines of individual
+distinctness. That they were, in the fullest sense of the word, good
+men, scarcely any one, even amongst those who regard the truths for
+which they suffered with indifference, will think of denying. But we
+have a tendency also to regard them as great men; the chosen of their
+age for thoughtfulness, for nobleness, for all the intellectual and
+moral qualities by which man differs from his fellow. No doubt some of
+them were such. But as in the Church of Christ itself, so amongst those
+“white-robed warriors” who form its honoured vanguard—all classes, all
+grades, all types of character are represented. They were men of like
+passions with us, and of like temptations, faults, and weaknesses. That
+which made them to differ was nothing in or from themselves; it was the
+sublime power of that faith of which the great Head of the Church is
+himself the Author and the Finisher, and of that love which his Spirit
+alone can shed abroad in the heart of man.
+
+
+[Illustration: FINIS]
+
+-----
+
+Footnote 1:
+
+  Baker.
+
+Footnote 2:
+
+  Without.
+
+Footnote 3:
+
+  A doctor.
+
+Footnote 4:
+
+  That is, cautiously.
+
+Footnote 5:
+
+  That is, lost.
+
+Footnote 6:
+
+  That is, endure.
+
+Footnote 7:
+
+  Increase or diminish.
+
+Footnote 8:
+
+  As it is intended that the reader should understand that whatever is
+  told of George Wishart throughout is pure history, a word of
+  explanation, perhaps of apology, may be necessary here. It does not
+  seem any deviation from the rule thus laid down, to suppose his doing
+  for the personages of the story what, at this time, he did for so
+  many. Knox tells us “he spared not to visit thame that lay in the
+  verray extreamitie; he comforted thame as that he might in such a
+  multitude; he caused minister all things necessarie to those that
+  might use meat and drink.” And Emery Tilney, who, during the year that
+  he taught at Cambridge, was his affectionate and admiring pupil,
+  writes of him, “His charity had never an end, night, noon, nor day;”
+  and again, “If I should declare his love to me and all men, his
+  charity to the poor, in giving, relieving, caring, helping, providing,
+  yea, infinitely studying how to do good to all and hurt to none, I
+  should sooner want words than just cause to commend him.”
+
+Footnote 9:
+
+  Eyes.
+
+Footnote 10:
+
+  Not from affectation, but because it was his custom to wear nothing he
+  might not suitably give away to the poor. In order to supply their
+  necessities, he seems to have habitually practised the most rigid
+  self-denial. “_He that is faithful in that which is least, is faithful
+  also in much._”
+
+Footnote 11:
+
+  Knox.
+
+Footnote 12:
+
+  Outlawed.
+
+Footnote 13:
+
+  Present, gift.
+
+Footnote 14:
+
+  Parlour.
+
+Footnote 15:
+
+  The following is the circumstance alluded to above. During Wishart’s
+  stay at Montrose, the Cardinal, whom Knox may be excused for calling
+  the “devill’s awin sone,” again attempted his life. “He caused to
+  write unto him a letter, as it had been from his most familiar friend,
+  the Laird of Kinneyre, ‘desiring him with all possible diligence to
+  come unto him, for he was stricken with a sudden sickness.’ In the
+  meantime had the traitor provided three score men, with jacks and
+  spears, to lie in wait within a mile and a half of the town of
+  Montrose, for his despatch. The letter coming to his hand, he made
+  haste at the first (for the boy had brought a horse); and so, with
+  some honest men, he passes forth of the town. But suddenly he stayed,
+  and musing a space, returned back; whereat they wondering, he said, ‘I
+  will not go; I am forbidden of God. I am assured there is treason. Let
+  some of you go to yonder place, and tell me what ye find.’ Diligence
+  made, they found the treason as it was; which being shown with
+  expedition to Maister George, he answered, ‘I know that I shall end my
+  life in the hands of that blood-thirsty man; but it will not be of
+  this manner.’”—KNOX.
+
+Footnote 16:
+
+  In connection with this narrative, there naturally recurs to the mind
+  the suggestive remark of Pascal upon “the qualities of a perfectly
+  heroic soul:” “Capable of fear before the necessity to die is actually
+  present, then altogether fearless.... Troubled when he troubles
+  himself; when other men trouble him altogether strong.”
+
+Footnote 17:
+
+  The Earl of Bothwell, “made for money bucheour to the Cardinall,” was
+  at this time High Sheriff of Haddington.
+
+Footnote 18:
+
+  The Queen Mother, Mary of Guise.
+
+Footnote 19:
+
+  This dungeon may still be seen, and is thus described by one who has
+  recently visited it: “It is in shape like a champagne bottle, the neck
+  or narrow part might be nine feet deep, and the whole depth
+  twenty-four feet. It is six feet wide at the top, but widens into
+  about eighteen below. Prisoners were let down into it by means of a
+  chain, which was fastened to an iron bar placed across the mouth of
+  it. There are no doors or windows.”
+
+Footnote 20:
+
+  That is, building.
+
+Footnote 21:
+
+  By and by.
+
+Footnote 22:
+
+  Servant.
+
+Footnote 23:
+
+  That is, executioner.
+
+Footnote 24:
+
+  Nor was this, as it is well known, the only instance in which Wishart
+  was believed by his contemporaries to have spoken under the influence
+  of prophetic inspiration. John Knox says (and his testimony is
+  remarkable as that of one who had an intimate personal acquaintance
+  with him): “He was not only singularly learned, as well in godly
+  knowledge as in all honest human science, but also he was so clearly
+  illumined with the spirit of prophecy, that he saw not only things
+  pertaining to himself, but also such things as some towns and the
+  whole realm afterwards felt, which he forspake not in secret, but in
+  the audience of many.” But may not the instances of this strange
+  foresight which Knox adduces be resolved into the results of deep
+  thoughtfulness, intense prayerfulness, and very close walking with
+  God?
+
+Footnote 25:
+
+  Knox, in his “History of his own Times,” quotes from a sermon of Friar
+  William Arth, in which a poor man is made to say, “Know ye not how the
+  Bishops and their officials serve us husband men? Will they not give
+  to us a letter of cursing for a plack, to last for a year, to curse
+  all that look owre our dyke, and that keeps our corn better than the
+  sleeping boy, that will have three shillings of fee, a sark, and pair
+  of shoon in the year?”
+
+Footnote 26:
+
+  “Gawin Logie, Rector of St. Leonard’s College, was so successful in
+  instilling them (the Reformed opinions) into the minds of the
+  students, that it became proverbial to say of any one suspected of
+  Lutheranism, that he had ‘drunk of St. Leonard’s Well.’”—_M‘Crie’s
+  Life of Knox._
+
+Footnote 27:
+
+  1527.
+
+Footnote 28:
+
+  Chamber.
+
+Footnote 29:
+
+  Tyndale’s New Testament.
+
+Footnote 30:
+
+  Lose.
+
+Footnote 31:
+
+  Penalty, fine.
+
+Footnote 32:
+
+  Trust.
+
+Footnote 33:
+
+  Horse used in farm work.
+
+Footnote 34:
+
+  Knox.
+
+Footnote 35:
+
+  Knox.
+
+Footnote 36:
+
+  Trying to say.
+
+Footnote 37:
+
+  Pascal.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
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+
+                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
+
+
+ ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
+ ● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last
+     chapter.
+ ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
+ ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77324 ***
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+  <body>   
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77324 ***</div>
+
+<div class='tnotes covernote'>
+
+<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p>
+
+<p class='c000'>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_001.jpg' alt='THE DARK YEAR OF DUNDEE.' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='border titlepage'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_003a.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h1 class='c001'><span class='large'>THE</span><br> <span class='sc'>Dark Year of Dundee</span>:<br> <span class='xlarge'><span class='blackletter'>A Tale of the Scottish Reformation.</span></span></h1>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+    <div><i>BY THE AUTHOR OF</i></div>
+    <div><i><span class='small'>“Sunset in Provence, and other Tales of Martyr Times,” &#38;c.</span></i></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_003b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>LONDON:</div>
+    <div class='c003'>T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;</div>
+    <div>EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.</div>
+    <div class='c003'>1867.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_v'>v</span>
+<img src='images/i_005.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'>PREFACE</h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_005.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+The Dark Year of Dundee may be
+called a tale of Fact, since Fiction has
+only been employed in it as the handmaid
+of Truth, and for the purpose of throwing a
+more vivid light upon scenes and events that
+actually occurred. The “story,” slight as it is,
+may not inaptly be likened to the sheath or calyx
+that encloses and protects the yet unopened bud.
+When the flower unfolds its petals, the calyx has
+fulfilled its work, and, hidden from the eye, no
+longer attracts the thoughts and attention of the
+spectator. Thus it has been intended only to leave
+upon the reader’s mind the impression of one grand
+and simple character;—only to tell, plainly and
+briefly, the story of one who, long ago, laboured
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_vi'>vi</span>abundantly and endured nobly for Christ’s sake,
+“strengthened with all might according to his
+glorious power.” And no alloy of fiction has been
+admitted into what is here recorded of George
+Wishart; for, apart from any other consideration,
+such a character as his is “God’s workmanship,”
+and it would seem impossible to add anything to
+the great Artist’s design without marring its beauty
+and completeness.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_006.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_vii'>vii</span>
+<img src='images/i_007.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'>CONTENTS</h2>
+</div>
+
+<table class='table0'>
+  <tr><td class='c006' colspan='3'>THE DARK YEAR OF DUNDEE.</td></tr>
+  <tr>
+    <th class='c007'></th>
+    <th class='c008'>&#160;</th>
+    <th class='c009'>Page</th>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>I.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>Fanaticism</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_9'>9</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>II.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>Clouded Death</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_21'>21</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>III.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>God’s Messenger</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_31'>31</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>IV.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>Fruits of the Message</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_45'>45</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>V.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>More Fruits of the Message</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_57'>57</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>VI.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>The Darkest Hour</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_69'>69</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>VII.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>New Friends and Old</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_83'>83</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>VIII.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>The Cardinal’s Missionary</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_99'>99</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>IX.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>How the Mission Sped</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_111'>111</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>X.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>What became of the Cardinal’s Missionary</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_129'>129</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>XI.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>Clear shining after Rain</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_147'>147</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>XII.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>The Reward of God’s Messenger</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_169'>169</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+ <td class='bbt c007'>XIII.</td>
+ <td class='bbt c008'>He giveth his beloved Sleep</td>
+ <td class='bbt c009'><a href='#Page_189'>189</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr><td class='c006' colspan='3'>THE PRIOR’S TITHE.</td></tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>I.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>Tithing the Fish</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_219'>219</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>II.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>The Excommunication</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_231'>231</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>III.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>The First Prayer</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_243'>243</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>IV.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>Dawnings of Light</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_257'>257</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_viii'>viii</span>V.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>The Great Change</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_271'>271</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>VI.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>Entering into the Cloud</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_287'>287</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>VII.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>Voices in the Cloud</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_301'>301</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>VIII.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>The Cloud Breaks</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_315'>315</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>IX.</td>
+    <td class='c008'>Left Alone</td>
+    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_329'>329</a></td>
+  </tr>
+</table>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_008.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>
+<img src='images/i_009.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>I.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>Fanaticism.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“I know the dim haunts of fever,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Where the blossoms of youth decay:</div>
+      <div class='line'>I know where your free broad river</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Sweeps disease on its breast away.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Yet despite your earnest pity,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>And despite its own smoke and din,</div>
+      <div class='line'>I cling to yon crowded city,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Though I shrink from its woe and sin.”</div>
+      <div class='line in24'><cite>Hymns of Faith and Hope.</cite></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_009b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_011.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>I.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>Fanaticism.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_011.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+It was the early summer of the year 1544, and
+the shadow of a dark cloud was already
+looming over every home in Dundee.
+God’s terrible angel of the pestilence stood with his
+sword outstretched, as of old over guilty Jerusalem; but
+no eye was opened to behold him; as yet no one suspected
+the danger and the anguish at hand.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In a small room of one of the high dark houses of the
+old town, a pretty, modest-looking young girl sat spinning,
+and singing as she span, in a sweet though rather listless
+voice. Now and then she glanced anxiously at the door,
+or rose to pay some little attention to the “kail” for the
+mid-day repast. Although the meal could scarcely have
+been intended for more than two persons, the fire
+necessary for its preparation increased uncomfortably the
+heat of the narrow room.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Guid day, Mary,” said a girl about her own age, or
+a little older, entering without ceremony.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>The new comer was tall and strongly made; and,
+without the smallest pretensions to beauty, had an
+honest, open countenance. She held in her hand a
+large bunch of the pretty field-flowers so well known in
+Scotland as blue-bells.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Look what I hae brocht ye, sin’ ye tell me ye come
+frae the hills. I thocht ye’d like them, maybe, to mind
+ye of yer auld hame.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary Wigton eagerly took the flowers, thanked her
+friend with many expressions of delight, and a moment
+or two afterwards burst into tears.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Honest Janet Duncan was considerably disconcerted
+by the effect produced by her gift. “Weel, to be sure,”
+she ejaculated, “gin I didna think they’d hae pleasured
+ye!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Sae they hae,” said Mary, recovering herself
+quickly. “It was naebut a wee thocht of the auld
+hame and the auld times, and the heather and gowans
+on the bonnie Sidlaw hills. But it’s nae use thinking
+lang. Noo father’s farm is sold, it’s no like we’ll
+ever gae back again. Where did ye get thae blue-bells,
+Janet?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Archie, the ne’er-do-weel, played the truant frae his
+schule wi’ a wheen idle callants like himsel, and gaed
+out owre the Law and Balgay Hill. I’m afeard when
+Jamie comes ben and hears it he’ll be sair angered.
+An’ it’s no wonnerfu’, when he’s focht as he has to keep
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>the lad to his schuling, and he nae mair himsel but a
+puir journeyman baxter.”<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c014'><sup>[1]</sup></a></p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He’s a guid brither to ye, Janet.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye may say just that.” Then, as a new thought
+struck her, she contradicted herself energetically. “Na,
+he’s nae guid brither, but the best brither in a’ Dundee.
+Left but<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c014'><sup>[2]</sup></a> father, or mither, or friend in the wide warld,
+wha wad hae thocht he could hae keepit us thegither,
+and fended for us sae weel. I can turn my hand to
+mony a thing, thank the saints, but there’s Archie and
+Effie, puir bairns; Archie naebut gaun threteen, and
+unco witless, and Effie a wee bit lassie. Eh, but we’ve
+seen hard times, Mary.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary probably thought her own troubles had been
+greater than those of her friend; but she only said in a
+sympathizing tone, “Sit ye down, Janet, ye’re no hurried
+the day?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet replied in the negative, for she dearly loved
+half an hour’s chat with a friend, when it could be
+obtained without neglecting her duties to her paragon
+brother Jamie, or her youthful charges, Archie and Effie.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye’re watching for your father?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay; but I’m in hopes he’s got a lift o’ wark, he’s
+sae late. It’s unco little he brings hame,” she said
+sadly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It’s ill speiring after wark in this muckle town,”
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>answered Janet. “Why did ye no bide in the country
+pairts, whaur a’body kenned ye?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I tell ye. There’s a man here that owes father a
+matter o’ twa hundert merk—that Maister Wilson wha
+has the muckle shop in the Nethergate, and sells silks
+and ribbons and sic’. He’s a rich man, but he’s no an
+<i>honest</i> man, Janet. When father loaned him the siller
+he was naebut a puir laddie, and father helped him sin’
+he was sib to his wife’s mither. Weel, father’s that
+careless he never took tent to get a bit writing, forbye
+his word o’ mouth, ye ken. Sae when the warld gaed
+by-ordinar ill wi’ him, and the oats failed, and the sheep
+dee’d, and he maun sell the bonnie farm his forbears
+held before him, he thocht o’ Maister Wilson and his
+twa hundert merk, and came here to look after the
+siller. But Maister Wilson, he says there’s nae debt
+ava’, and that father canna prove it. Whilk last is owre
+true, wae’s me! Gin John, that’s my brither, wad hae
+bided wi’ us, he’d hae been a braw lawyer the noo, and
+richted us.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I didna ken ye had a brither, Mary.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, ay; there were five o’ us, and a’ dee’d bairns but
+John and mysel. He was the eldest, an’ I the youngest.
+He was twal year aulder than I. He was a clever bairn,
+<i>vera</i>. Father had siller to spare in thae days, sae he
+thocht to make a man of him, and sent him to St.
+Andrews to study the law. And he was sae guid and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>kind-like, and loved his book sae weel. A’ the maisters set
+muckle store by him, and as for father and mither, he
+was just the licht o’ their een. But he gaed clean daft.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Gaed daft, Mary?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I canna mind mysel, for I was a wee lassie the time;
+but father told me he wasna seventeen year auld full
+when sic’ a change came owre him. He grew dour and
+hard, and wad hae nocht to do wi’ archery, and goff,
+and putting the stane, and a’ thae ploys that young men
+use. He wad gang by himsel, and greet and talk of his
+sins. It was aye and aye his sins wi’ him. Gin he had
+been a thief or a murderer he couldna hae made mair to
+do on’t. Yet he was aye a guid lad, and what he could
+hae done to gar him tak’ on sae, nae mortal could speir.
+Let father say what he might, naething would serve him
+but to gie the law up, and tak’ the priest’s frock. Sae
+that was the end on’t.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And do ye no see him whiles?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Na; we couldna gang to him, and he wouldna come
+to us. Father thinks he has clean forgot us. Thae holy
+men grow unco hard to their ain folk whiles. He’s no
+John Wigton ony mair, he’s Sir John Wigton the priest.
+I dinna ken whaur he is the noo, and gin we met in
+the street ane ’id pass the ither by.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“When yer mither dee’d did ye no tell him?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“How could we? We’re nae scholars, father nor I.
+But I trow he helped mither to her grave.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>“Weel, our Jamie’s no <i>that</i> religious; but he gaes to
+his kirk regular, and says his <i>aves</i> and minds his puir
+soul as he can.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Seems to me,” said Mary, “it’s a hard case gin puir
+folks canna save their souls but they break their parents’
+hearts. But here’s father!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet stayed to exchange greetings with an elderly
+man of respectable appearance, but with something in
+his step, voice, and manner, that betrayed a certain
+weakness and indecision of character. Having answered
+his remark, “It’s by-ordinar hot and heavy for the time
+o’ year,” with a heartfelt, “Ye may weel say that,” she
+bade Mary good-bye, and hastened upstairs to the rooms
+in the same “land” which the Duncan family occupied.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>While the father and daughter partake of their simple
+meal, a few words may be added in explanation of the
+religious history which Mary had recounted to her
+friend, much as an ignorant person might describe the
+appearance of some curious piece of mechanism, the
+construction and uses of which he was alike unable to
+comprehend.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>John Wigton was no very unusual character. There
+have been obscure Dominics and Loyolas, as well as
+village Hampdens and mute inglorious Miltons. Naturally
+of a thoughtful temperament, as he passed from
+boyhood into youth he began to ask himself some of
+those solemn questions which are the birthright of every
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>human soul. He knew but little of the great realities of
+the eternal world, but that little sufficed to make him
+first anxious and then miserable. He knew that sin
+was hateful to God, and he felt himself a sinner. His
+convictions partook of the ardour and intensity of his
+character, he was willing to do or suffer anything so that
+he might escape from the wrath to come. At this time
+perhaps John Wigton was not very far from the kingdom
+of heaven. Had a copy of Tyndale’s New Testament
+fallen into his hands, had he heard some enlightened
+reformer preaching Christ and him crucified, his character,
+humanly speaking, might have differed from what
+it actually became as light differs from darkness. But
+Rome had him in her hands to mould, and out of such
+materials Rome moulds fanatics—from this wine she
+distils her sourest vinegar. She did not seek to obliterate
+his convictions; she rather strengthened, though she did
+not, properly speaking, deepen them. She told him
+little of the holiness of God’s character and of the true
+nature of sin; but she told him much of the sinner’s
+awful doom, of the fire and brimstone and the never-dying
+worm. She employed almost exclusively images
+of physical suffering, and employed them to terrify the
+imagination and to shake the nerves, rather than to touch
+the heart or the conscience. And when he sought for a
+way of escape from all these horrors, the path of penance
+and self-mortification was opened before him. He was
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>taught to torture himself here that God might not torture
+him for ever hereafter; for it was in such an aspect that
+the Lord merciful and gracious, slow to anger and
+plenteous in goodness and truth, was presented to his
+mind. Being sincere and earnest, he did all, and more
+than all, that was required of him. He scourged himself,
+he starved himself, he deprived himself of necessary
+sleep, and in many other ways, which it would be
+neither pleasant nor profitable to enumerate, he practised
+“will-worship and neglecting of the body.” But it would
+not do. If the blood of bulls and goats cannot take
+away sin, neither could a man’s own blood, though he
+were to pour it forth drop by drop, and in the most
+painful way that even the depraved imagination of
+monkish inquisitors could devise. John Wigton’s conscience,
+like that of many another miserable victim of
+Rome, bore sad witness to this truth. He was not at
+peace, he was not forgiven. On he went, further and
+further, upon the painful path prescribed to him, still
+pursuing a phantom that, like the mirage of the desert,
+always eluded his grasp. He did not find what he sought,
+but something he did find which, in the abnegation of all
+possible enjoyment, and the endurance of almost all
+possible suffering, still made life tolerable to him—he
+found excitement, he found employment for his powers,
+and food for his pride. Even apart from the praise it
+brought him (and he who <i>knew</i> himself a miserable
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>unpardoned sinner liked to hear himself called a saint),
+he began to take a morbid but real pleasure in self-infliction.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But there is an old and wise saying, “When water
+ceases to quench thirst, what will you drink after it?”
+It is the character of every unnatural excitement to pall
+with indulgence; and thus John Wigton found at length
+that his bodily austerities ceased to afford him even
+temporary relief and satisfaction. A stronger stimulant
+was required, and he found it. He set himself to
+mortify, not the nerves and muscles of his body, but the
+desires of his mind and the feelings of his heart. Family
+affection, friendship, the love of study, the free exercise
+of reason and judgment, all were ruthlessly sacrificed on
+the altar of his faith. In process of time he came to
+regard an impulse of tenderness towards his parents or
+his little sister as a kind of sinful self-indulgence, only
+greater than a soft bed or a luxurious meal. And there
+is this difference between the grosser and the more subtle
+forms of self-torture, that while a man may perhaps
+educate himself into an unnatural insensibility to bodily
+pain without injury to the rest of his character, the
+process of hardening his soul is equivalent to a moral
+self-murder. John Wigton dared not allow himself to
+love or to pity, and he succeeded (or <i>thought</i> he did) in
+conquering these weaknesses of human nature; but he
+paid a heavy price for his success. He soon learned to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>regard the sufferings of others with indifference, nay,
+with joy and triumph, when they advanced the interests
+of the Church. In her service he was willing (or
+thought he was) to give his own body to be burned, and
+it was quite as meritorious, and on the whole rather
+more convenient, to burn the bodies of other men. At
+this point his education may be considered finished. At
+thirty years of age he was a thorough fanatic, with
+conscience and feeling both absorbed in one master
+passion. And then cooler heads began to take note of
+him as a man who might make a useful tool when there
+was work to be done from which ordinary men would
+shrink in horror.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Is this a fancy sketch? Alas! history answers, No;
+and from amongst the dim and shadowy forms of that
+multitude whom Rome has crowned with her doubtful
+honours there rises before the memory more than one
+so-called “saint” who might have sat for the portrait.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_020.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_021.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>II.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>Clouded Death.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“O God! to clasp those fingers close,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>And yet to feel so lonely:</div>
+      <div class='line'>To see a light on dearest brows,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>That is the sunlight only!</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>Be pitiful, O God!”</div>
+      <div class='line in28'><span class='sc'>E. B. Browning.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_021b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_023.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>II.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>Clouded Death.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_023.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+When we look from a distance upon some
+great mountain, we are apt to form rather
+mistaken ideas, not only of its dimensions,
+but of its relation to the surrounding landscape. It
+seems to stand before us alone in its majesty, rising like
+an altar to heaven, and sundered by some sharp dividing
+line from the plain beneath. But usually it is not so. A
+nearer approach brings us to gentle slopes, green with
+pasture or waving with corn, rising higher and higher,
+sometimes almost imperceptibly, till at last, by slow
+gradations, we arrive at the region of jagged rock and
+frowning precipice. Something like this we may find
+in the moral world. To the distant observer, a time of
+terror and anguish stands out in bold relief from the
+ordinary level of common life; and he forgets the subtle
+gradations, the diversified incidents, some of them trivial
+enough, through which men usually pass from one kind
+of life to another.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>So passed the men of Dundee, in the summer months
+of that terrible year, step by step from vague apprehension
+to vivid, actual terror; as the pestilence that
+walketh in darkness first struck down one, and another,
+and another; then gradually multiplied its victims
+until the voice of lamentation filled the city, and no
+man felt his own life safe from the destroyer for a single
+hour.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Not very long after the first appearance of the pestilence,
+Archie Duncan came back one morning in high
+glee from the grammar-school, whither he had been
+despatched by the careful Janet only half an hour
+before.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nae mair schule,” he cried, flinging his book on the
+table; “maister’s awa’, for fear o’ the sickness;—and may
+guid gang wi’ him!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie, who happened to be in the room, brought his
+brother’s ill-timed hilarity to a close by a smart box
+on the ear. “Hae ye no feeling, callant?” he asked
+angrily. “Ye suld be on yer twa knees, praying the
+blessed saints to pity us, instead of jesting and daffing.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>There was justice in the reproof, and Archie was
+abashed. He withdrew quietly to the window where his
+little sister was standing, and Jamie presently resumed:
+“A’ the rich folk’ll soon be awa’, and naebody left in
+the toun but puir bodies, wha maun just bide because
+they canna quit.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>“There’s a hantle shops shut up alang by the High
+Street and the Nethergate,” remarked Janet.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Folk dinna care to buy, these times,” responded
+Jamie. “I hae thocht it an ill trade enoo’ to be naething
+but a puir baxter lad, Janet; but noo I thank
+Saint Andrew for the same, for folk maun <i>eat</i>, so lang’s
+they’re alive.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At this moment the door was partly opened, and a
+low, startled voice called, “Janet!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Come ben, Mary,” said Jamie, at once recognising
+that of Mary Wigton.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary did not come in, however, and Janet went outside
+the door to speak to her. The poor girl’s face was
+deadly pale, and her eyes were large and wild with terror.
+“What’s wrang wi’ ye?” asked Janet, in alarm.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Na sae muckle,” said Mary, trying to hide her fears,
+not so much from her friend as from herself. “Father’s
+head’s licht the day, and he’s no himsel a’ thegither,—but—but—he’s
+no <i>that</i> ill, Janet.” She was trembling
+violently and clinging to the handle of the door for
+support.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Puir lassie,” said Janet, compassionately.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Will ye come and see him the noo? Do, Janet, <i>do</i>—for
+mercy’s sake!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet was a brave girl, and she loved Mary Wigton
+dearly. But for the sake of the other members of her
+family she felt she durst not enter the infected room.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>She answered, therefore, after a moment’s hard struggle
+with herself, “Wae’s me! I daurna, for Jamie and the
+bairns.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary did not remonstrate, but the sorrowful expression
+of her face touched Janet deeply. She said, “I’ll
+gang in and gar Jamie fetch ye a leech.<a id='r3'></a><a href='#f3' class='c014'><sup>[3]</sup></a> He’ll ken
+what’s wrang wi’ yer father. Aiblins it’s no the
+sickness.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary thanked her, and returned sadly to her watch
+beside her father’s bed; still hoping against hope that
+this might prove some passing ailment, and not the
+dreaded “sickness.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>James Duncan found it difficult to procure a physician;
+as some, who thought their own lives of more
+value than those of their patients, had quitted the town,
+and of course those who remained had their hands full
+of work.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At length, however, he succeeded; though at the
+heavy price of presenting himself late at his master’s
+shop, and being obliged to admit that the sickness
+had made its appearance in the house where he
+lodged.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The physician, a compassionate man, reluctantly pronounced
+the verdict poor Mary most dreaded. He
+then prescribed some remedies, which were probably
+calculated to do neither good nor harm to the sufferer;
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>and left, promising to send a hired nurse, and to return
+himself on the morrow.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The presence of the nurse probably saved Mary’s
+reason, if not her life. All that day, and the night that
+followed it, they two kept their awful watch beside the
+suffering and delirious patient. When the morning
+broke, and all things looked weird and strange in the
+faint gray light, then there came a change. Mary had
+risen to extinguish the useless lamp, when to her great
+joy her father quietly asked her to leave it burning still.
+Reason had returned, but alas! it was only the last look
+cast upon earth by the parting soul ere its dread flight to
+the unknown world.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I hae been vera ill, Mary!” said the dying man.
+“I maun hae a priest. Where’s our John?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary started. Up to this moment, terror and anguish
+had so bewildered her, that, as she afterwards thought,
+with bitter self-reproach, she had forgotten her dear
+father’s soul in ministering to his body. “John’s no
+here,” she said, “but I’ll fetch ye a priest.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Na, na,” said Wigton, holding her hand in his; “ye
+maunna leave me, my lassie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Nor could she part with the nurse, so she again had
+recourse to the Duncans. Standing this time at the
+foot of the stairs, she called Janet, and in a few agitated
+words made her request.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie was out, his business requiring his attendance
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>at an early hour, but Janet herself readily undertook the
+mission; while Mary returned to her place, and heard
+the nurse whisper as she passed her, “He’s sinking fast.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Two long slow hours wore away, and then Janet
+returned. Mary met her in the passage. “He’s amaist
+gone!” she gasped.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wae’s me! I hae travelled the hail toun, and the
+never a priest could I get!” said Janet, in much distress.
+“The mair part hae gone awa’ like ither folk, and the
+lave willna come when it’s the sickness. There’s ane
+frae St. Mary’s Kirk might hae come, but he’s ill himsel
+the day. Anither—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But Mary did not stay to hear the detailed account
+of her failures. With a look of anguish she put her
+hand to her head, murmuring, “Too late! Too late!”
+then hurried back to her father, and knelt down beside
+his bed.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She took his cold hand in hers, and said, as calmly as
+she could, “Father dear, we canna get a priest. We
+maun trust in the guid God aboon, and in the blessed
+Virgin.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nae priest—nae priest!” said the dying man, with
+a bewildered look. “But where’s our John?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“We maun try to pray,” answered Mary, and she
+began in faltering tones to repeat a Paternoster. But
+the Latin words, which she could not understand, were
+soon exchanged for a wild agonized cry for mercy in her
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>native tongue. And almost before she had finished, the
+spirit of Hugh Wigton passed away.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It is painful to linger over scenes like this, and the
+heart yearns to escape from the thoughts they suggest.
+But for once, at least, let us dare to face the bitter,
+bitter truth; it may have its lessons for us. Were there
+not many deathbeds in the plague-stricken town no
+brighter than that of Hugh Wigton? We have every
+reason to suppose it. For it must be remembered, that
+even had Janet Duncan succeeded in procuring a priest,
+the rites he would have administered might have made
+the dying man more comfortable, but could not have
+made him safer. Not having Christ, what had he in
+which to trust?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Are not the same awful tragedies still enacted before
+us day by day? Dare we ask ourselves how many, even
+from the midst of a nominally Christian land, “go to
+the generation of their fathers, and never see light?”
+And meanwhile <i>we</i>—even we who have tasted the good
+Word of God and the powers of the world to come—do
+we not too often eat and drink, buy and sell and get
+gain, and pursue our various schemes of business and
+pleasure, all too heedless of “the exceeding great and
+bitter cry, which seems as it were to go up from the
+waste places of the earth, Bless us, even us also, O our
+Father?”</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_031.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>III.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>God’s Messenger.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Across the fever’s fiery path he trod,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And one went with him like the Son of God.”</div>
+      <div class='line in32'><span class='sc'>Rev. W. Alexander.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_031b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_033.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>III.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>God’s Messenger.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_033.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+After the death of Hugh Wigton, the Duncans
+took his desolate and broken-hearted
+orphan to their own home. Mary’s grief
+was not wild—that was not in her character—but it was
+intense and crushing. Except the absent brother, her
+father had been her only surviving relative, and all the
+tendrils of her loving nature had entwined themselves
+around him. He was snatched from her in a single
+day; and that in a manner so bitter and heart-rending
+that horror was at first almost stronger than sorrow.
+One thought, above all others, cruelly aggravated her
+distress, and it was rarely absent from her. He died
+without the sacraments of the Church—what then would
+become of his soul? This anguish was too deep for
+words, and almost for tears; it was only upon one occasion
+that she even alluded to it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I wonner,” she said to Janet one day, while she
+helped her in some humble household work, “I wonner
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>gin the kirkmen be richt sure themsels that a’ they tell
+us is true,”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, Mary!” exclaimed Janet, whose mind was the
+reverse of speculative in its tendencies, “what gars ye
+speir sic’ a thing?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But Mary answered intelligently, for sorrow is a good
+master in the art of thinking, “Did they no care for their
+ain lives, and let my dear father dee like a puir dumb
+beast, that has nae soul ava’?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Tut, lassie, a’body cares for his life,” said Janet,
+going on vigorously with her work.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary shook her head. “But they suld hae mair
+pity. They suld hae a thocht o’ the puir souls that are
+deeing around them. God forgie me, I canna bide the
+thocht of it! My puir, puir father! An’ there’s mony
+sic’ as he, Janet; mony sic’!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Weel, it’s no for the like of us to be deaving our
+heads wi’ sic’ things;—gie us a hand wi’ the spurtle,
+Mary; Jamie’ll come ben keen for his parritch,—tho’
+there’s unco little meal left in the kist.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary was silenced, but not comforted. Soon, however,
+other troubles came. The victims of the pestilence
+were every day more numerous; and although Mary
+cared but little just then for her own life, she took part
+in the fears of the Duncan family for each other; nor
+could any of them remain unmoved by the universal
+terror and distress. To their trials that of want was now
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>added; for James Duncan’s master had dismissed him
+from his employment on hearing that a person had died
+of the plague in the “land” where he lived; and
+although the girls could spin and sew, they found it,
+for the same reason, impossible to dispose of their work.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Knowing it would be useless to seek another situation
+at present, Jamie had no alternative but to sit at
+home, idle, hungry, and miserable. Naturally, these
+circumstances did not tend to improve his temper, which
+was further soured by various collisions with Archie.
+It was not to be expected that a bright active boy
+would be content to stay indoors all day without occupation
+or amusement; and yet it seemed little less than
+madness to allow him to wander about the streets at
+his will. Janet’s good sense fortunately led her to compromise
+matters by sending him, whenever she could, upon
+necessary errands, cautioning him to “gang hoolie,”<a id='r4'></a><a href='#f4' class='c014'><sup>[4]</sup></a> to
+keep the middle of the street, and above all not to
+linger with idle boys, “wha might gie him the sickness.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>On one of these occasions he delayed such an unreasonable
+time that Jamie vowed summary vengeance on
+his return. His absence being still further prolonged,
+annoyance changed to serious anxiety, as instances had
+occurred of persons being suddenly seized with the
+pestilence in the streets, and unable ever to regain their
+homes. But towards the end of the second hour,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>Archie reappeared, and with a countenance and
+manner which showed there was nothing amiss.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Laying down the loaf he had been sent to purchase,
+he exclaimed, “Eh, but there’s braw news the day! A’
+the tounfolk are weel nigh daft wi’ joy, sae that a body
+wad think the sickness was awa’. Maister Wishart’s
+come back again.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wha’s he?” asked Effie, who thought that what
+pleased Archie ought to interest her.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hoot! a’body kens Maister George Wishart. He’s
+a guid priest (but they ca’ him the minister), and nae
+common priest either; he’s a braw gentleman, and
+sae guid to the puir folk, forbye preaching like an
+angel.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He’s nae priest ava’,” said Jamie. “He’s naebut a
+preacher; and he’s a muckle heretic. Do ye no mind
+when he was here before, how the lord cardinal put the
+tounfolk in fear, and they bade him gang his ways?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He’s nae heretic!” returned Archie, who was not
+sorry to contradict his elder brother, and who besides
+had spent the greater part of the last two hours taking
+lessons in “heresy” at the street corners and in the
+shops. “He’s nae heretic. It’s naebut the bishops ca’
+him that, because they canna preach like him theirsels,
+the doited loons!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Whist, laddie! ye suldna misca’ yer betters.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But what gars him come back the noo, when a’body
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>wha could do it has just rin awa’? Is he no fear’t o’ the
+sickness?” asked Janet.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He’s no fear’t of <i>onything</i>,” said Archie, with genuine
+admiration, for courage is perhaps the only virtue a boy
+can thoroughly appreciate. But at these words Mary
+dropped her thread (she had been spinning), and fixed
+her eyes on his face with a sudden look of interest. “And
+he’s gaun to preach the morn frae the Cowgate.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Frae the Cowgate!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Frae the top o’ the Cowgate. And the folk wha hae
+had the sickness amang them maun gang outside; and
+the <i>free</i> folk maun bide inside.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then we maun gang out,” said Janet.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye’ll gang neither out nor in wi’ my guid will,”
+Jamie interposed.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Gin our puir souls havena enoo’ upon them, these
+ill times, without fashing oursels wi’ his heresies. He
+was weel awa’. What gars him come back to set the
+town in a bleeze wi’ sic’ fooleries?” An ungenerous
+speech, which James Duncan afterwards repented.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He maun hae a guid heart to Dundee,” Janet
+ventured to remark, “or he wadna come here sic’ a
+time. Mair pity gin he is a heretic.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Gin!” repeated Jamie ironically; “gin my lord
+cardinal had him in his grip, nae doot but he’d burn
+him quick, and gie the silly folk wha gang to hear him
+something to remember.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>“Atweel,” said Archly smartly, “let my lord cardinal
+come and gie us a sermon himsel, and we’ll a’ leave
+Maister Wishart and gang to hear <i>him</i>. But I wad ye
+a plack, he’ll put mair than the length of his muckle
+cross between us and him the noo!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye may hand yer clavers,” said Jamie, who did not
+feel himself equal to a discussion of the subject “Ye’re
+nane gaun to the Cowgate the morn.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Archie vigorously remonstrated against this decision.
+“It’s no for the heresy,” he said in self-vindication,
+“but I want to see a man preach frae the top o’ the
+gate.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet however, as in duty bound, threw her weight
+into the scale of Jamie’s lawful authority. “Ye’ll be a
+guid lad and mind yer brither,” she said to Archie; “and
+forbye the heresy, wha kens but we micht tak’ the sickness,
+gaun promiscuous into sic’ a muckle crowd.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Here the matter might have ended, but for Mary
+Wigton, who looked up and said very quietly, “I hope
+ye’ll no be fashed or think hard o’ me, but I maun gang
+to hear Maister Wishart.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This took them all by surprise, for since her father’s
+death Mary had been as it were quite passive, not seeming
+to have any will or purpose of her own.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“An’ what for, Mary, lass?” Jamie asked, in the
+softened tone he always used when speaking to her.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Because he hae ta’en thocht o’ the puir folks’ souls,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>and doesna think muckle to set his ain life i’ the bawk.
+God bless him for it! Gin he had been here, father
+needna hae dee’d like—like—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Atweel, he maun hae the love o’ God in his heart,
+and the Word o’ God on his lips, let them ca’ him
+heretic as they may.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>When James Duncan gave himself time to reflect,
+he began to modify the opinions he had expressed.
+Granted that Wishart was a heretic, he was still a man
+of rank and talent, admired and beloved not only by
+thousands of the people, but by many of the nobles of
+the land. That such a man should put his life in his
+hand, and voluntarily hasten to the city where death
+was raging, and whence all who could do it had fled in
+terror, served at least to impress one lesson on his
+mind. The men of Dundee were not, as in his dejection
+he had begun to think, quite forsaken both of
+heaven and earth. One man at least there was who
+had found it in his heart to come to them in this time
+of trouble, for the express purpose of giving them all
+the help and comfort he could. Might not his courageous
+charity be a sign that God’s mercy was not so far
+away as they were tempted to imagine? Thus, at last,
+Wishart’s coming began to look very like a single ray of
+light in their clouded sky, and in his heart he “blessed
+him unawares.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet having ascertained next morning that Mary
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>still persisted in her intention of going to the preaching,
+was considerably surprised to see her brother take from
+the “kist” in which it was deposited, a gown which had
+belonged to his father, and which he carefully reserved
+for important occasions.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye’re no gaun out the morn?” she asked.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Do ye think, woman, I could let the lassie gang
+her lane to the Cowgate?” was the answer.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“An’ <i>you</i> maun gang, <i>I’ll</i> not be left behind,” said
+Janet.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Please yersel,” was Jamie’s laconic reply.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But we daurna leave the bairns,” suggested Janet.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The “bairns” overhearing this, entreated to be of
+the party; and after a little more discussion it was
+decided that all were to go, Jamie quieting his conscience
+with the reflection, “Ane sermon willna dae us
+muckle harm, an’ it were as full of heresies as Glasgow
+is of bells.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>They were soon a part of the crowd that thronged
+about the east gate of the town. Janet and Mary stood
+together; Jamie took little Effie in his arms; while
+Archie, to his great joy, succeeded in dislodging a taller
+boy than himself from the top of a particularly eligible
+heap of stones. Mary could not help remarking the
+mournful expression of all the faces that surrounded
+them. Pallid, sickly, worn-out faces they were, for the
+most part; many of them bearing the traces of just such
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>agonies as she had passed through when she watched by
+her father’s death-bed. And not a few had a wild and
+reckless look, as if, in the effort to escape from anguish,
+they were hardening themselves into despair.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Suddenly every eye was raised upwards with a look
+of eager interest and expectation. Very touching was
+the gaze of that great multitude, in its wistful, silent
+appeal to the heart of him who had come among them,
+promising to tell them something which could make
+life more tolerable, and death less bitter. Mary looked
+where others did, and her eye rested with involuntary
+admiration on the stately figure of the preacher, a tall
+man, dark-haired, and of dark complexion, with a noble
+countenance, and singularly graceful manner. Something
+else there was, not so easy to describe or to
+analyze, which insensibly attracted her. It may have
+been the love and pity that beamed from his face as he
+looked on those sorrowing thousands—the love that
+winged his footsteps to that scene of death, because, as
+he said, “They are now in trouble, and need comfort;
+and perhaps the hand of God will make them now to
+magnify and reverence that Word which before, for fear
+of men, they set at light part.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But besides this, a man could scarcely live as George
+Wishart did—so very near to Christ that he loved to
+spend whole days and nights in direct communion with
+him, or follow so closely in the footsteps of his self-denying
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>charity—without reflecting, even in outward
+appearance, some little of the glory of that land in which
+his spirit dwelt. For there is a calm and an elevation
+which nothing but the peace and the presence of God
+can impart to the countenance of man.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Amidst a deep silence he read aloud the text he had
+chosen: “He sent his Word, and healed them.” “It
+is neither herb nor plaster, O Lord,” he said, “but thy
+Word that heals all.” And then, for the first time,
+Mary Wigton heard Christ preached. She heard that
+there was a disease more deadly than the dreaded
+pestilence; that she herself had breathed its poison;
+that it had entered her being and become a part of it;
+and her heart and her conscience answered “yes” to
+the charge. Then she heard of the Deliverer, the “Word”
+of God, who, because he loved mankind, because he
+loved <i>her</i>, had left his home which was the Heaven of
+Heavens, to suffer and die upon earth, that all who
+believed on him might be healed of their deadly sickness,
+forgiven their transgressions, renewed in the spirit
+of their minds, and made the sons and daughters of the
+Lord Almighty.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Are “the words of this life” in our ears as an oft told
+tale? If so, let us thank God for it, while we ask him
+never to allow their familiarity to let them seem less
+precious. But to Mary, and to many who heard them
+with her, they were new and wonderful as the glory of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>the sunrise in the eyes of one who has dwelt all his life
+in a darksome cave. The love of the blessed Son of
+God, and of the Father who sent him, sank to the very
+depths of her heart. She believed that love was for her;
+she received and embraced it, without so much as
+staying to question whether this was indeed the faith
+upon which the preacher insisted. For her the fiat had
+gone forth, “Behold, I make all things new!” and peace
+and joy took the place of the deep dejection which
+before had threatened to overwhelm her. Lonely and
+sorrowful, an “orphan of the earthly love and heavenly,”
+had she come thither that morning; she returned home
+with a happy, thankful heart,—God’s forgiven and accepted
+child.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Nor was hers the only heart to which George Wishart
+was made the messenger of peace that day. The great
+reformer Knox, who loved and reverenced him deeply,
+tells us that by this sermon “he raised up the hearts of
+all that heard him, that they regardit not death, but
+judgit thame mair happie that sould depairt, than sic
+as sould remain behind.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And was not the joy of bringing this joy to thousands,
+who otherwise would have lain in darkness and the
+shadow of death, worth all he braved and all he suffered
+for it? This was far more than the peril of infection;
+inasmuch as the wrath of wicked men is more deadly
+than the breath of disease, and as we have yet to learn,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>they gave him “cruel thanks” for his labours of self-devoted
+love. Yet it is true that “he that reapeth
+receiveth wages” here and now, as well as “gathereth
+fruit into life eternal.” It does not need the heart of
+a hero or a martyr, it only needs a little sense of the
+value of one human soul, and a little love to Him who
+died to redeem it, to enable the humblest Christian to
+comprehend what that wages is, and to esteem such a
+life as George Wishart’s, not only grander and nobler,
+but actually <i>happier</i> than the most triumphant career
+the lofty ambition of youth ever pictured forth in the
+future.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_044.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_045.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>IV.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>Fruits of the Message.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“The shadow had passed from her heart and brow,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>And a deep calm filled her breast;</div>
+      <div class='line'>For the peace of God was her portion now,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>And her weary soul found rest.”</div>
+      <div class='line in20'><cite>Lays of the Kirk and Covenant.</cite></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_045b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_047.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>IV.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>Fruits of the Message.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_047.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+The Duncans walked home from the East Port
+in thoughtful silence, which Mary Wigton did
+not feel inclined to disturb. Her own heart
+was full of new strange feelings, which she could not as
+yet understand or arrange; but they filled her with joy,
+and with a love which seemed to pour itself forth on
+every one around. She could not join in Janet’s lamentations
+over the spare meal that awaited their return, for
+was it not provided by that heavenly Father of whose
+love she had just heard, and would he not send whatever
+they really needed? To her it was a feast; and she
+quietly enjoyed the luxury of a clandestine transfer of
+more than half her own portion to poor Archie, who,
+being a healthy, growing boy, suffered keenly from the
+want of sufficient food.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At length they began to discuss the sermon; it was
+little Effie, the youngest of the party, who introduced the
+subject.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>“Didna yon man on the gate speak braw words o’ the
+guid Lord Jesus’?” she said, addressing Jamie, who was
+very fond of her.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I didna ken ye were minding him, bairnie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ou ay, I minded every word. I never heard the
+like before.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“There’s mair than you can say that, Effie, dear,”
+added Mary, with a beaming face. “God be thankit
+for thae guid words. Mony’s the sair heart they’ll hae
+healed the day.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Weel,” said Janet, “I dinna think sae muckle on’t.
+He seemed to jalouse we were a by-ordinar sinfu’ folk;
+and, sae far as I ken, we’re nae waur than the lave.
+What do you say, Jamie?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Thus directly appealed to, Jamie answered oracularly,—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He’s a braw preacher, Janet; but he’s a muckle
+heretic.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Nor could he be induced to commit himself to any
+more explicit opinion.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He manifested, however, an extraordinary desire to
+hear the “muckle heretic” on every possible occasion.
+When, a short time afterwards, he was fortunate enough
+to be taken back by his former master, who set a high
+value on his uprightness and industry, he announced the
+fact to Janet with the following commentary—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It was no that easy to settle between maister and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>me; for he’s unco keen after the preaching himsel, and
+didna like to leave the shop; but I gared him promise
+to shut it up the while, though I hae tint<a id='r5'></a><a href='#f5' class='c014'><sup>[5]</sup></a> a trifle wages
+thereby.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, Jamie lad, wasna that a silly thing, wi’ sae mony
+mouths to fill, and the meal sae dear?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Tut, lassie, wad ye no let a man pleasure himsel
+whiles?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And so not one of the very frequent preachings from
+the East Port was missed by any of the Duncan family,
+or by Mary Wigton. All loved to go, though from
+different motives. Mary, as a new-born babe, desired
+the sincere milk of the word, that she might grow
+thereby. She was very ignorant, not only of the
+doctrines of the Christian faith, but even of the great
+facts that underlie those doctrines. She could not read;
+and had she been able to do so, she had never so much
+as seen any portion of the Word of God in her own
+tongue. She was therefore entirely dependent, both for
+instruction and edification, upon the sermons of Wishart;
+and she valued those precious means of grace perhaps
+more highly than those can conceive who are surrounded
+with churches and Bibles, with Christian friends and
+religious books. She soon learned that prayer was not
+the vain repetition of words she could not understand,
+but the lifting up of the heart to a reconciled God and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>Father; and she found the way into his presence opened
+to her through the merits of Him in whom alone she
+trusted. When perplexities arose in her path (and to
+the thinking mind, whether educated or ignorant, they
+surely will arise), she either prayed over them until they
+vanished, or the preacher took them up and solved them
+for her in one or other of his discourses. But she was
+saved from many difficulties by the simple, childlike
+faith with which she had been led to receive the word of
+God, and in a lesser degree by the fact that religion had
+previously been with her merely the sentiment of a
+naturally devout and amiable character. She had not
+been either deeply acquainted with, or strongly attached
+to, the peculiar tenets of Popery; and she gave them up
+almost without a struggle, when convinced, less by the
+reformer’s eloquence than by the instincts of her own
+renewed heart, that they were dishonouring to the
+Saviour she loved.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>With James Duncan it was far different. The battle
+between the old faith and the new had to be fought out
+step by step in his slow but thoughtful mind. The good
+words of the gospel, its free invitations and promises of
+mercy, seemed every day more suited to his need, and
+more grateful to his longing heart. But he found that
+this pure and lofty faith could not be made to harmonize
+with the creed to which he was still so strongly attached.
+In his soul, that which letteth would let, until it was
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>taken out of the way. He was sometimes roused to
+vigorous, even bitter opposition, by the preacher’s
+powerful though temperate exposure of Romish superstition.
+To the mass, to purgatory, to the invocation of
+saints, he clung almost with the energy of a drowning
+man; but he felt them, as it were, dragged one by one
+from his unwilling hands by a moral force greater than
+his own.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But no doctrine irritated him so much as that of justification
+by faith only, which Wishart, who was lecturing
+on the Epistle to the Romans, set forth with all the
+power and clearness for which the reformers were so
+peculiarly remarkable. Yet even when he was most
+opposed to it there was a voice within him that witnessed
+to its truth; and sometimes he was not very far from
+suspecting that the secret of the peace he longed for lay
+in the doctrine he despised.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>As for Janet, the preaching did not, in the first instance,
+either perplex her mind or touch her heart, but
+it troubled her conscience. She did not hear it as a
+bigoted Romanist, nor yet as a candid inquirer after the
+truth, but as a sinner, who had hitherto lived in careless
+security, without God in the world. She grew miserable,
+and at one time would gladly have discontinued her
+attendance; but she would not refuse to accompany her
+brother, and besides she was herself not insensible to
+the fascination which the preacher exercised. She could
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>not speak of what she felt; and, fearing to betray herself,
+she joined energetically in Jamie’s condemnation of his
+heresies, while, in fact, she scarcely understood in what
+they consisted.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The children loved to attend sermon almost as much
+as their elders. Archie, while he remained utterly indifferent
+to the doctrines taught by Wishart, contracted
+a boy’s first enthusiasm for his person; and little Effie
+always liked to go where she might hear “mair o’ the
+guid Lord Jesus.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Upon one occasion Jamie returned from the East
+Port in a state of more than usual apparent irritation,
+but real doubt and perplexity. They had just heard a
+very full and luminous exposition of the way of the sinner’s
+acceptance before God.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It’s ill to ken what a man suld think,” he said.
+“Naebody does what he preaches, or preaches what he
+does. Maister Wishart and the priests are like enoo;
+there’s nae muckle to choose between them.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What gars ye sae sic a thing?” asked Archie indignantly.
+“Maister Wishart’s no like the priests; he
+proves a’ he says, frae his wee book.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Do ye no mind that the priests are aye and aye
+telling us to do guid warks for our puir souls? And
+they never do ane themsels that <i>I</i> hae seen; while
+Maister Wishart, wha does a hantle guid warks himsel,
+tells folk they’re nae manner o’ use.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>“Ye may weel say he does guid warks,” said Archie,
+who preferred the concrete to the abstract, and was glad
+to escape from a theological discussion to a matter of
+fact. “A’ the toun says he does naething in the warld
+(when he’s no preaching) but gang up and doun amang
+the sick folk, wi’ neither fear nor care for his ain life,
+telling them the guid words, and gieing them a’ the
+comfort he can, for their puir bodies as weel as their
+souls. I hae heard that whiles, when he’s got nae mair
+siller, he’s gien his vera claes awa’.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Mair’s the wonner what he can be thinking on, to
+tell us its nae use our doing warks ava’, and that we hae
+nocht to do but just <i>believe</i>. It’s owre easy ganging to
+heaven that gait.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye’re wrang, Jamie,” said Janet, turning suddenly
+round on him. “It’s no easy ava’, but owre <i>hard</i>, the
+way he puts it. Does he no say we maun love the Lord
+better than father, or mither, or brither? an’ that we
+maunna gie up his Word, aince we ken it in our hearts,
+no, not to save our vera lives? It’s owre muckle that
+for flesh and bluid, say I.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary, who had not spoken before, now quietly put in
+a word.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay, Janet, ye’d be richt enoo, gin we had to do it
+oursels. But the guid Lord wha loved us, and gied his
+ain bluid for our sins, forbye a’ that, he gies us <i>the heart</i>
+to do what he bids.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>“Then,” said Jamie quickly, “we maun do what He
+bids, and no just believe and nae mair.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary was a little puzzled, not exactly for thoughts,
+but for words in which to clothe them. At last she
+said—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ane couldna believe and nae mair. Aebody wha
+kens the guid Lord loved and forgave them, maun just
+be trying the haill day lang to do bits o’ things by way
+o’ thanks to him. But gin he didna make us free to the
+love and forgieness <i>first</i>, what wad become of us ava’,
+puir sinners that we are?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She said this with much feeling; for it was with her
+as with many others whose hearts are opened to receive
+the word immediately and with gladness. Conviction
+rather followed conversion than preceded it; and she
+grew day by day, as well in the knowledge of her own sin
+as in that of her Saviour’s grace.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She was about to leave the room, and Jamie asked
+her whither she went.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But to the guidwife wha bides in the top back room.
+Her wee bairnie’s vera ill the day.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“God grant it’s no the sickness.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Na, na; but she couldna gang to the preaching, sae
+I hae promised to tell her the sermon.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nae harm in that,” said Janet. “But ye maunna
+bide wi’ her the haill nicht, to help caring the bairn.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Did ye do that, Mary lass?” asked Jamie.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>“Ay, did she, twice over,” said Janet.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Weel, the puir thing was sair troubled and forfoughten.
+And she has naebody to fend for her; her
+guidman’s at the sea.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>When she was gone, Janet remarked to her brother—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wad ye think, Jamie, it was the same lass that used
+to sit at yon wheel a wee while ago, like a puir dead
+thing, wi’ neither wish nor care for hersel or onybody
+else?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie shook his head.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I wonner,” he said, “how ane can keep sic’ a bricht
+face and happy heart in the midst of a’ this fear and
+trouble.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It’s naebut she frets hersel whiles, because she’s
+sorning upon us, as she says.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hoot awa’!” cried Jamie indignantly. “Ye’re no
+worth a plack, Janet woman, gin ye let the lassie think
+<i>that</i>. She has brought us nought but comfort and
+blessing.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That’s owre true, Jamie; forbye she’s unco quick
+and handy in fending for the bairns, and sic’ like. Sin’
+the time she cheered up sae wonnerfu’ hersel, she’s no
+had a thocht but to save and help us a’ she could. And
+it’s clear she maun bide wi’ us, for she couldna find a
+service the noo’, let her seek as she may.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie expressed his entire acquiescence, even more by
+his looks than by his words.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>“Ony ither time idle folk might hae their clavers, ye
+ken,” Janet added, with a little hesitation.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What care I for that?” said Jamie. “Not ane
+bodle. Forbye, the hand o’ God is upon us; and the
+folk wha he has brought thegither, to help and comfort
+ane anither in this sair distress, maun just be thankfu’
+an’ bide as he pleases. Gin he send us better days—”
+But here he stopped abruptly, either because he was a
+man of few words, and had already said more than his
+wont, or because some purpose was stirring in his heart,
+to which as yet he did not choose to give words at all.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_056.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_057.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>V.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>More Fruits of the Message.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“God took thee in his arms, a lamb untasked, untried;</div>
+      <div class='line'>He fought the fight for thee, He won the victory;—</div>
+      <div class='line'>And thou art sanctified.”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_057b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_059.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>V.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>More Fruits of the Message.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_059.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+As day after day passed quietly on, the Duncans
+began to hope, with trembling, that
+they were destined to escape the sufferings
+which surrounded them on every side. But they were
+to enjoy no such happy immunity; the fiery trial had its
+work to do for them as for others, and they must needs
+pass through it. At first, however, it did not assume the
+form they most dreaded, but one to which they were
+already in some degree inured.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>One morning Jamie returned from his master’s shop at
+an unusual hour; coming in with his blue bonnet pulled
+over his face, and his whole demeanour showing that
+something was amiss.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet, who was giving Archie and Effie their “morning
+pieces,” turned round, and uttered an exclamation of
+surprise.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Maister dee’d this morn at the fourth hour,—God’s
+guid will be done!” said Jamie, uncovering his head.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>“Wae’s me!” cried Janet, dropping her arms by her
+side. “There’s our bread gane again.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Little Effie began to cry; and Archie, who would not
+of course condescend to any such demonstration, certainly
+looked mournful enough. Both well knew what it was to
+want for bread.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“We’re no waur than mony ither puir folk,” said Jamie.
+“And we maun just thole<a id='r6'></a><a href='#f6' class='c014'><sup>[6]</sup></a> it as we may, and thank the
+guid Lord wha hae keepit us frae the sickness.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It’s no true that we’re like the lave,” said Archie.
+“Ither puir folk ’ill beg for bread and get it,—but the
+Duncans never beg;” and the boy held up his head
+proudly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Nor did he say more than the truth. The Duncans
+had their faults; but they were brave and honest, as well
+as strongly attached to each other. The noble struggle
+made by James and Janet to keep the family together
+after their father’s death, had developed and strengthened
+these qualities. They had learned to endure privation
+cheerfully, to practise self-denial for each other’s sakes;
+and when things were at the worst, not to lose courage,
+but to look hopefully for better days.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was now the time to put all these lessons into
+practice. Not poverty alone, but starvation, seemed before
+them. Most of the resources to which the poor betake
+themselves in the day of need were cut off by the state
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>of the city. Provisions were at famine price, so that
+“mony people died with great scant and want of
+victuallis.” Employment could not be had; nor was it
+even easy to barter their clothes and furniture for food,
+on account of the terror of infection which everywhere
+prevailed. And yet they would not beg. Those who
+survived to tell the tale in happier times, found it difficult
+to understand how they lived on from day to day.
+As Jamie said, “they tholed it as they might.” Each
+spared the other, and Jamie, as far as possible, spared
+them all. He was naturally somewhat of a despot, and
+his circumstances had fostered this tendency. His
+despotism now assumed the form of an obstinate determination
+to bear the worst of every privation himself;
+nor could Janet ever prevail on him to allow their scanty
+provisions to be divided on the good old principle of
+“share and share alike.” He always said he was a
+man, and “the lassies and the bairns maun be thocht
+on first.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He was much less irritable and impatient than he had
+been when without employment on a former occasion.
+This was partly perhaps because Archie tried him less.
+The boy had a new interest now; and although not
+deeply impressed by what he heard, he still preferred a
+preaching at the East Port to a stolen game of play in
+the streets, or a visit to the quays.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The same influence told, and in a greater degree, upon
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>every other member of the family. No sudden change
+took place in either Jamie or Janet; but both kept the
+words they heard, and pondered them in their hearts.
+What was more important, both prayed earnestly in
+secret; Jamie asking for light that he might find the
+Truth, while the burden of his sister’s cry was ever this,
+“O Lord, I beseech thee, pardon mine iniquity, for it is
+great.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was well for Mary Wigton that in this evil day her
+heart stayed itself upon the Lord. It caused her bitter
+grief to feel that she added daily to the privations of her
+kind and generous friends. Much did she ponder, and
+often did she pray that she might be shown some way
+out of the difficulty. But what was she to do? She
+could not, in the present state of things, hope to obtain
+any employment; especially as she had not, except the
+Duncans, a single friend in the city. Once or twice she
+thought of applying to Wilson; but she felt she could
+scarcely hope that a man who had treated her father
+with so much injustice would prove a friend to her in
+the time of need. Perhaps the idea would not even
+have occurred to her, were it not that she had frequently
+seen him amongst the crowd at the East Port, where he
+seemed not only an attentive, but sometimes a deeply
+affected listener. Still it did not appear to her that any
+good was likely to result from an application to him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>One morning she succeeded, to her great satisfaction,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>in disposing of some little article of personal decoration,
+a relic of more prosperous times. Having purchased a
+loaf of bread, she brought it to the Duncans with a
+pleasant anticipation of Archie and Effie’s delight. But
+she had no sooner opened the door of their room than
+she drew back in surprise and alarm. Jamie stood at the
+window, shading his face with his hand. He did not
+notice her, but Archie, who was beside him, turned
+quickly round, and she saw that his eyes were red with
+weeping. Janet was in another part of the room, bending
+over Effie’s little bed. Before Mary could find breath
+to ask what was amiss, Archie touched his brother’s arm,
+and said softly, “It’s Mary.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The young man started, and looked towards her, his
+face pale and quivering with emotion. In another
+moment he took her hand, led her from the room, and
+gently closed the door.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Mary, lass,” he said, “we’re stricken vera sair. It’s
+the bairn Effie, our youngest. Wae’s me! I didna think
+o’ fearing for her.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Is it not often thus? Is not the keen arrow sure to
+smite us through some “joint in the harness,” at some
+point where we never thought of strengthening ourselves?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Is she vera ill?” asked Mary.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie shook his head. “I canna thole to part with
+her,” he said presently. “She was the wee bairn o’ the
+house, the bit plaything wi’ us a’. We fought through
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>the hard times thegither, and kept her frae scaith and
+sorrow as we could. An’ noo—just in ane day, wi’ this
+cruel sickness—oh, Mary, it’s owre hard!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, Jamie, dinna say that. It’s the Lord sends
+it. It’s his ain hand—‘His ain gentill visitation that
+man cannot eke or paire,’<a id='r7'></a><a href='#f7' class='c014'><sup>[7]</sup></a> as guid Maister Wishart
+says.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It’s the Lord sends it?” repeated Jamie, and he
+raised his head and gazed upwards as one who earnestly
+looks for something he cannot see. “Does the Lord
+care about us ava’?” At another time he would not
+have said this; but in that moment of agony the gnawing
+doubt hidden far down in his heart rose to the surface,
+and forced itself into words.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Is it the blessed Lord Jesus wha dee’d for us? Jamie,
+lad, he cares for us mair than we care for our ainsels.
+He kens a’ about ye, and how loath ye are to part wi’
+the bairn; and maybe—” Here her own voice faltered,
+but after a moment she resumed, “I maun gang in to
+Janet.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Na, na! Dinna gae in—whaur’s the use?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, Jamie, ye wadna say that! Is it to bid me awa’,
+and ye all in sic’ trouble?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie considered a moment, then opened the door.
+“Be it sae,” he said. “For guid or ill we maun bide
+thegither.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>Mary entered the sick room; and with that quiet self-possession
+which in a sick room is such a treasure, she
+spoke to Janet, and took counsel with her as to what
+they should do.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A physician seemed unattainable; but many panaceas,
+under the names of plague water, plague pills, plague
+elixir, &#38;c., were popularly believed in, and might be
+purchased at a trifling expense. Most people maintained
+the sovereign efficacy of some one or other of these,
+nor was Janet any exception to the rule. She was very
+anxious to procure her favourite remedy; and the remainder
+of the sum obtained by Mary for her silver
+brooch was appropriated to this purpose. Archie was
+despatched to the shop, and it is needless to say he did
+not linger upon this errand. But when he returned his
+little playfellow no longer recognised him. Her mind,
+like a shattered mirror, reflected only confused and
+broken fragments of the experience of her young life.
+She talked of merry games with Archie, of walks along
+the heathery slopes of the Law, of easy household tasks
+performed under Janet’s direction. But there ran through
+all, like a silver thread through some dark pattern, words
+of childlike trust in “the guid Lord Jesus, the blessed
+Saviour.” Now and then it was a text of Scripture, or
+some simple saying out of one of the sermons she
+had heard, but oftener still the words were those of
+prayer.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>At length there was a gleam of returning consciousness.
+Seeing her favourite brother beside her, she asked
+him to take her in his arms. Jamie did so, with a calm
+face but a heavy heart, for by this time they all “perceived
+that the Lord had called the child.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Effie, dear, do ye ken ye’re vera ill?” he asked.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The child’s blue eyes sought his wistfully, perhaps
+wonderingly. At last she said softly, “Yes.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Are ye no fear’t, darling?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What for? The Lord Jesus ’ill take care o’ me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What gars ye think that, bairnie?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“The minister tald me at the gate. The Lord Jesus
+loves me. But I’m unco tired, Jamie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The blue eyes closed wearily, the little head rested
+heavily upon Jamie’s shoulder; and it was not long
+before the tired child slept—that deep and quiet
+sleep from which they do not awake until the heavens
+be no more. Many who remained might have envied
+her that tranquil rest. “Short and narrow her life’s
+walk” had been; but long enough, since in its brief
+span she had found Christ, or rather, had been found of
+Him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Type of a vast multitude whom in all ages the Good
+Shepherd has carried in his bosom; so keeping them,
+in his love and tenderness, that their feet do not touch
+the waters of the dark river, nor their eyes even behold
+the conflict and the anguish through which others have
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>to pass. Theirs is the crown almost without the cross.
+Thrice happy they! Yet happier still are those who
+have come out of great tribulation, because more closely
+conformed to the image of the Captain of their salvation,
+and more highly privileged to work and to suffer for
+Him.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_067.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_069.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>VI.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>The Darkest Hour.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“The corpse is calm below our knee,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Its spirit bright before Thee;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Between them, worse than either, we,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Without the rest or glory,—</div>
+      <div class='line in16'>Be pitiful, O God!”</div>
+      <div class='line in28'><span class='sc'>E. B. Browning.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_069b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_071.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>VI.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>The Darkest Hour.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_071.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+On the following morning, the Duncans and
+Mary Wigton sat together in the desolate
+stillness that succeeds bereavement. Already
+their dead had been buried out of their sight,—buried
+hastily, by cold, unloving hands. Nor might they even
+hope to visit the spot where she lay, for a common and
+unhonoured grave must receive the victims of the pestilence.
+This was one of the lesser sorrows in their cup.
+For the most part they sat silent, neither weeping nor
+speaking, but thinking sadly of what they had lost, and
+trembling for what still remained to them. For now
+that one link in the chain was broken, it seemed as if all
+were loosened and ready to fall asunder.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>They were very helpless in their time of trouble. If
+they could have prayed together, if they had possessed
+a copy of the Scriptures, it would have fared better with
+them. But the Duncans were groping after comfort in
+the dark; and even Mary, who knew more herself, was
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>hardly able to explain her own convictions to others, and
+shrank from the attempt.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Archie was the first to suggest a thought of consolation.
+“Effie ’ill no be hungry ony mair,” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“True, callant,” answered Jamie; “and what for suld
+we greet? It’s better far wi’ her than wi’ us the day.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But, Jamie,” said Janet, looking up with a puzzled,
+half-frightened air, “what do you think about—purgatory?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hoot! Is it that wee bairn, and she to dee as she
+did? I tell ye, I’d gie a hantle siller, gin I had the same,
+for the lassie’s simple faith. Na, na, my mind is clear;
+she’s wi’ the blessed saints this minute.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nay, but wi’ the guid Saviour she loved sae weel,”
+said Mary. “Forbye, I’m unco sure there’s nae sic
+place ava’ as purgatory. Gin the Lord were to send his
+messenger for you or me the day, Janet (sae’s we
+believed his Word), we’d gae right up to him; and neither
+sin, nor death, nor Satan himsel, could keep us ane
+minute from his presence.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Eh, but that’s guid tidings,” said Janet.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ower guid to be true,” added Jamie. “At least,
+I’m no that certain yet. Though,” he continued after
+a pause, “Maister Wishart does say, he has ‘oft and
+divers times read ower the Bible, yet such a term fand
+he never, nor yet any place of Scripture applicable
+thereunto.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>“And do ye no mind the braw words he tells us about
+the rest of God’s children, and the guid hame Christ is
+keeping for them up in heaven?” said Mary. “It’s enoo
+to make us lang to gae there oursels, and feel like
+kneeling down to thank God for taking ane we love frae
+this sad warld to that better place.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>There was a long silence, which Jamie broke. “It’s
+a’maist time for the preaching.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Every one looked surprised, and Janet said, “Ye’re no
+gaun the day, Jamie?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why suld we bide awa’? God’s hand is on us (his
+voice trembled), we’re in sair trouble—is that a reason
+we’re no to gang to the ane place on airth whaur we’re
+like to get comfort?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’d a hantle rather gang than bide,” said Archie;
+and as the rest appeared to agree with him, they began
+to prepare.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>All were soon ready except Jamie himself. After
+rising to fetch his gown and bonnet, he sat down again,
+looking very pale.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What’s wrang wi’ ye?” asked Janet, in a frightened
+voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hoots! naething but a kind o’ dizziness. Dinna
+look sae fear’t, lass.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Aiblins it’s the hunger. Ye havena broken fast the
+day,” said Janet, having recourse to Mary’s loaf.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But he rejected the food, and asked for water instead.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>Archie ran to fetch it, and Jamie presently added,
+“Gang to the preaching, and dinna mind me. I’ll try
+to sleep.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But no one went to the preaching that day. Instead
+of listening to the words of life, they sat in the chamber
+of sickness, soon perhaps to be again the chamber of
+death. For the fiery arrow of the pestilence had struck
+down their best and noblest, the prop and stay of the
+household. The morning had risen in gloom upon the
+empty place of their youngest, the child Effie, but that
+gloom seemed brightness itself compared with the horror
+of the night.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Their hearts sank within them; from his first seizure
+they gave him up for lost. Nor did he himself take a
+more cheerful view of his condition. The attack differed
+considerably from those they had witnessed before;
+though it still presented certain unmistakable symptoms
+marking it as the dreaded sickness. There was
+no delirium, and but little acute suffering, but there was
+a low wasting fever, and ever-increasing exhaustion.
+There are cases, it has been said, “when a person has
+so long and gradually imbibed the fatal poisons of an
+infected atmosphere, that the resisting powers of nature
+have been insidiously and quietly subdued.” Whether
+Jamie’s was really such or no, it looked very like it.
+It seemed as if his frame, weakened by a long course of
+severe privation, must sink and that speedily, beneath
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>the attack of the destroyer. Those around him longed,
+more than words can tell, for the strong wine and
+nourishing food that they felt instinctively might save
+him even yet. But what could they do?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet’s courage and calmness gave way when she saw
+this beloved brother about to be snatched from her.
+Any other sorrow she could have borne,—but this
+was too terrible. Once or twice the usually strong
+self-possessed girl was obliged to leave Mary and
+Archie to watch by that sick bed, whilst for a brief
+space she sought relief in tears. Mary did all that
+was required of her; and if she learned to conceal a
+breaking heart beneath a countenance that was almost
+cheerful, she did no more than many women do every
+day. Yet Janet did not suffer more than Mary, perhaps
+not so much. She never asked herself why this was so,
+or whether it should be; it seemed quite natural and
+inevitable. They were a family, bound together by the
+strong links that sorrow forges, and what touched one
+touched all equally.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Is it you, Mary?” asked the sick man upon one
+occasion when Mary kept watch beside him. “I hae
+twa or three things that are vexing me sair, aiblins ye
+could help me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Dinna vex yersel noo, Jamie; but think o’ the guid
+Lord Jesus, wha dee’d to tak’ yer sins awa’.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Eh, but that’s just it, Mary lass. I ken a’ about the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>blessed Lord wha dee’d for sinners; but what’s that to
+me, sae lang’s I’m no sure <i>I’ll</i> get the guid on’t? There’s
+bread enoo at the baxter’s, but we maun jist starve for
+a’ that, gin we’ve no a plack to pay for it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But He gies it to us, Jamie, ‘without money and
+without price.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“<i>Wha</i> does He gie it to? O Mary! gin I couldna
+think it out an’ I strong an’ weel, what chance hae I,
+noo that I lie here weak and feckless, and canna put twa
+thochts thegither? The Lord hae mercy on me! An’ I
+had a priest—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That wad do ye nae guid ava’, Jamie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wae’s me! I ken the same. I hae dooted lang;
+but noo I’m unco clear; they’re nae better than idle
+paivies—the oil, and the cross, and sic’ like. But I
+maun hae <i>something</i>, Mary. Death’s a gruesome thing
+to look at, and I’m sair afear’t.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Dinna fear, look on the Saviour’s face. ‘Only
+believe.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Very touching was Jamie’s wistful gaze of intense
+anxiety. “Is it ‘Only believe,’ Mary? Can I mak
+siccar there’s naething mair to do? Forbye, what’s the
+right gait to believe?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“To believe is naething but to trust. It’s to trust the
+guid Lord as I’d trust ye or Janet—(anely a hantle mair)—kenning
+weel as I do that ye’d no wrang me, but keep
+yer ain promise fast. Whilk promise frae God is just
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>this, ‘I’ll forgie yer transgressions, and yer sins an’
+iniquities I’ll remember nae mair.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Mary, could ye pray for me?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary first lifted up her own heart in silent supplication;
+and then said in a low voice, “I’ll try.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But at that moment Archie, who had stretched himself
+in a corner of the room to make up for a lost night’s
+rest, startled them both by showing he had heard the
+conversation.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Eh, Jamie!” he cried, thrusting up his head, “<i>I’d</i>
+do mair for ye than a’ that.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>As no one replied to this strange announcement, he
+went on: “What for suld I no just gang to guid Maister
+Wishart and ask him to come and see ye? Nae doot
+but he’d do it, for the love o’ God; and he’d tell ye a’
+the things ye’re speiring after.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This audacious proposal, as Mary considered it, fairly
+took away her breath; while it brought a moment’s
+colour to Jamie’s pale face. “Is it for the like o’ me?”
+he said; “a puir baxter lad! Callant, ye’re clean daft.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m no daft ava’. He gaes to waur than us, aft an’
+aft. Ye’re in trouble and hae the sickness—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And hae the sickness!” repeated Jamie indignantly.
+“Guid reason <i>that</i> to bring him here! Na, na, Archie,
+let me fend as I may, I’ll no hae the precious life that’s
+help and comfort to sae mony risked for me. What
+wad we a’ do without him? He’s just like ane licht in
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>a dark sky to the puir folk in this stricken toun.” He
+was growing excited, and might have injured himself,
+had not Janet re-entered the room at that moment.
+She looked pale and haggard; and when, at Jamie’s
+request, she brought him a drink of water, she could not
+help expressing her sorrow that she had nothing better
+to give him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Weel,” said the sick man with a sigh half sorrowful,
+half resigned, “we maun thole it. It’s no for sae lang.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Shortly afterwards he fell asleep, and Mary beckoned
+Janet from the room, leaving Archie with his brother.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Janet,” she said, as they stood together in the
+passage, “something maun be done.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I dinna ken what to do, but to dee a’ thegither,”
+answered Janet, hopelessly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Let us dee, then, by God’s visitation, no by our ain
+fecklessness. Janet, we’re like to starve, and Jamie—”
+her voice faltered, but she presently resumed, “gin he
+had the meat and drink a sick man suld hae, I doot but
+he’s no that ill, after a’.—Listen, I hae seen my ain
+dear father dee o’ this awfu’ sickness; forbye that, I hae
+watched the bairn Effie. It’s no easy to mak me
+fear’t, and ye say I’m gleg an’ handy. Sae I might find
+a place to nurse some o’ the sick folk. Dinna think to
+hinder me, Janet, my mind is set on it; I’ll just gang
+my gait to the guid leech wha came to father, and ask
+him to help me. An’ I daur think God ’ill prosper me,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>sin’ I hae prayed to him wi’ a’ my heart. I’ll bring, or send
+ye help, the first minute I can. But dinna tell Jamie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet at first objected to the plan, but Mary’s resolution
+conquered. Weak herself from watching and fasting,
+she set out on what her reason told her was a sufficiently
+hopeless errand. But she trusted in God; and
+having earnestly prayed for help in the dark hour of
+trial, she believed he would give it, either by this or by
+some other means.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Bitter, therefore, was her disappointment to find that
+the physician whom she sought had himself fallen a
+victim to the disease with which he had so bravely
+striven on behalf of others. She sat down on the doorstep
+to consider what next to do; and it was with difficulty
+she could prevent herself from giving way to tears.
+She knew no other physician even by name. To whom
+then could she go? Again the thought of Wilson
+occurred to her, and finding any sort of action a relief,
+she rose half mechanically and moved in the direction
+of his house. The walk was long enough, and she was
+very weary. But it seemed as if her limbs must fail her
+utterly, when, upon arriving at the spot, she found the
+door shut, and inscribed with the well-known mark that
+told the plague was within.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>If ever she felt despair, it was at this moment. Why
+should they struggle any more for life? It was useless—they
+were doomed. Like the wave to a shipwrecked
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>mariner, clinging desperately, hopelessly to some fragment
+of rock—that cruel sickness, with its fell ally
+starvation, came on slowly—surely—nearer—nearer—nearer.
+It was but the work of days, perhaps of hours
+now. Death reigned everywhere. Her father, little
+Effie, the physician, all were dead; Wilson was probably
+dying, and Jamie;—a chill came over her. Should she
+ever see his face again, that bright young face, except
+fixed in the awful stillness of death? She scarcely
+dared to return home. And yet she must. She began
+to grow dizzy and faint, and to think, almost to <i>hope</i>,
+that she was dying too. She thanked God that for herself
+she had no fear. And she sought to trust him with
+those so dear to her; but it was one of those dark hours
+when Faith droops her pinions, and the tried heart sinks
+to the very depths, refusing to respond even to the holy
+thoughts upon which in other seasons it was wont to
+stay itself.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Once or twice she paused on her weary homeward
+way, as the last resource of penury presented itself to
+her mind. Should she ask an alms? Her cheek crimsoned
+with pain and shame at the thought, but for
+Jamie’s sake she could conquer this weakness. Still,
+amongst the passers-by she saw none to whom she could
+apply for the purpose, so at least it seemed to her; and
+she had not the physical strength to go further.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Thus, at last, having accomplished nothing to help
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>those she loved in their sore distress, she found herself
+again at the familiar door. She was able to admit herself;
+and after standing still for a moment or two in
+silent dread of what she might meet above, she began
+to ascend the narrow staircase with trembling limbs and
+an aching heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She had not gone half way when the sound of a voice
+arrested her. It was Archie’s. Great was her astonishment
+at the quiet measured tones in which the boy
+continued to speak. No; he was not speaking, but
+reading or reciting something. She drew a few steps
+nearer, and found she could distinguish the words.
+They thrilled her heart with a strange sense of wonder
+and delight; for although she had never heard them
+before, she felt instinctively that they were the words
+of God. Allowing for the difference (here but very
+slight) between the quaint language of Tyndale’s New
+Testament, and that into which our own minds and
+hearts have grown, this was what she heard:—“Seek
+not ye what ye shall eat or what ye shall drink, neither
+be ye of doubtful mind. For all these things do the
+nations of the world seek after: and your Father knoweth
+that ye have need of these things. But rather seek ye
+the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be
+added unto you. Fear not, little flock; for it is your
+Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary’s soul was refreshed by this cup of cold water
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>from the living fountain, and hope began to take the
+place of her despondency. She was soon at the chamber
+door. It was wide open; and, for a marvel, so was the
+little window (despite all Janet’s theories), letting in an
+evening breeze laden with pleasant messages from the
+fresh and open sea. But then there was also a fire,
+before which Janet was standing, busy with some cooking
+operation. Best of all, Jamie, whose face was turned
+towards her, was sitting propped up in his bed, a faint
+flush, not from fever, in his cheek, and a look of earnest
+living interest in his face, as he listened to Archie’s reading.
+He was the first to perceive Mary, and he cried
+out, “Come ben, Mary lass, and praise the guid Lord
+wi’ us! He <i>hae</i> cared for us, after a’.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Come an’ tak’ yer supper,” said Janet, “ye maun be
+amaist starved.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Archie at the same moment laid down his book, and
+exclaimed with characteristic vehemence, “We’re a’
+richt noo, Mary! Our Jamie’s no to dee, but to live!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But Mary, instead of responding to these joyful
+words, threw herself upon the nearest seat; and, worn
+out with sorrow, fatigue, and excitement, wept long and
+unrestrainedly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Who dreams that tears are the saddest things on
+earth? Sorrow has often failed to bring them, when the
+gentle summons of joy and hope has called them forth
+from their hidden cells.</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_083.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>VII.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>New Friends and Old.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Oh! are not meetings in this world of change</div>
+      <div class='line'>Sadder than partings oft?”</div>
+      <div class='line in28'><span class='sc'>Hemans.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_083b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_085.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>VII.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>New Friends and Old.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_085.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+It was some time before Mary could obtain
+any distinct idea of what had taken place in
+her absence. Janet and Archie, so eager to
+tell all that they were in danger of telling nothing clearly,
+talked together, and nearly drowned each other’s voices.
+At last, however, Jamie found opportunity to put in a
+word. Taking the New Testament in his hands, he said
+reverently, “Thank God for his guidness to me and
+mine the day. He hae sent his ain dear servant to
+speak the words my soul langed for, and to set my feet
+on the rock. We were no worthy o’ the like, and we
+didna think on’t.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“<i>Wha</i> has been here?” asked Mary, with a bewildered
+look.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Mary!” cried Archie, “I hae telled ye thae ten
+times—just Maister Wishart himsel!”<a id='r8'></a><a href='#f8' class='c014'><sup>[8]</sup></a></p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>And then by degrees they told Mary all that had
+happened. It was a very simple story, and not in the
+least wonderful, though they were disposed to think far
+otherwise. The minister of Christ who spent his days
+in such labours of love, and in whose eyes the soul of
+the poor man was as precious as that of the rich, had
+heard of the Duncans from some neighbour whom he
+chanced to visit. For although in more prosperous
+times the family had rather the reputation of “hauding
+their heads high,” and “keeping theirsels to theirsels,”
+they were generally respected, as those are sure to be
+who in difficult circumstances “learn and labour truly to
+get their own living,” making no complaint and asking
+no help. When Effie’s death became known, people
+gave them a passing sigh of pity; but the sorrow seemed
+a light one in comparison with that of so many others.
+It was different when the tidings, “Our Jamie’s down
+wi’ the sickness,” came from Archie’s lips, as he stood at
+the window to answer some neighbourly inquiry from
+the street. Every one knew what that eldest brother
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>had been to the family; and men shook their heads
+mournfully as they acknowledged that “the puir Duncans
+were in sair trouble—God help them!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The servant of Christ was thus furnished with the
+only motive he ever needed for going anywhere, the
+motive that had brought him from the midst of his
+honoured successful ministry in Ayrshire back to plague-stricken
+Dundee—“They are now in trouble, and need
+comfort.” To enter the humble dwelling, to take his
+seat by Jamie’s bedside, and in simple language suited
+to his need and his weakness to offer him the precious
+consolations of the gospel—this was easily done. But
+then the sick man had perplexities to solve, and doubts
+to set at rest. “It was that easy to speak to him, just
+as it is to yer ain sel, Mary,” he said afterwards. Nor
+was this wonderful, from the peculiar grace and gentleness
+which everything that has come down to us of
+George Wishart leads us to attribute to him. One who
+watched him closely describes him as “courteous, lowly,
+lovely,” in his intercourse with others. There must have
+been fine elements of natural character; but independently
+of these, men who live very near to Christ
+not seldom learn to deal with their fellow-men in a
+loving, tender, self-forgetting spirit. One by one Jamie’s
+difficulties, like shadows, fled away before the light of
+the Word of God, patiently and skilfully brought to bear
+upon every dark perplexing point. Power was given
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>him from above to receive and embrace the truths thus
+clearly set before him; and with a heart eased of its
+heavy burdens, he was able to tell the minister (who
+talked not <i>to</i> him alone, but <i>with</i> him) of the death of
+their little sister. They ventured to ask him some of
+those questions which are so dear to every bereaved
+heart—where and what was their lost one now?—were
+they not right in thinking she was at rest, was happy?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wishart told them in reply, that if any one “had
+begone to have the faith of Jesus Christ,” as had their
+sister, his or her soul “shall never sleape, bot ever shall
+leve ane immortal lyef; the which lyef from day to day
+is renewed in grace and augmented; nor yett shall ever
+perish, or have ane end, bot shall ever leve immortal
+with Christ thare Head. To the which lyef all that
+beleve in him shall come, and rest in eternal glorie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Prayer followed, such prayer as could only be offered
+by one who habitually talked more with God than with
+man. Was the minister’s work done then? Enough
+was done to fill at least three hearts with grateful love,
+and to leave with them a hallowed memory that should
+last long, long after—what we must not now anticipate;—but
+there soon came a day from which this day could
+not be looked back upon except through blinding,
+burning tears.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Another duty however remained, and one in which
+he especially delighted. They had not confessed their
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>necessities, nor would they have done so, but it needed
+not to be, as he was, “maist scharp of eye and judgment”
+to perceive what was amiss. The bare unfurnished
+room told its own story, as did also the pale and
+sharpened features of the inmates. He gave what they
+needed; and in a way that made it, if more blessed to
+give, at least blessed also to receive—for much of this is
+in the giver’s power. He spoke words of hope and
+cheer, for he guessed rightly that the supply of the sick
+man’s wants would go far towards ensuring his recovery;
+he gave Jamie the Testament out of which he had read
+to him, knowing that the book could not easily be
+procured elsewhere; and then he took his leave “as
+tho’ we’d been a’ braw gentlefolk like himsel,” as the
+delighted Archie afterwards declared.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary heard all this, and much more in the shape of
+blessings invoked by grateful hearts upon the good
+minister, with much wonder and thankfulness. It was
+impossible not to regret that she had been absent; but
+since every step of her way, even the smallest, was
+ordered by One who thought and cared for her, she
+knew that this also must be right. And the quiet depth
+of that love and reverence with which she regarded the
+man who had been the messenger of God’s mercy to her
+soul, could scarcely have been increased by standing
+face to face with him in a room, and touching his hand
+with hers.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>“Weel,” said Jamie, “it’s no to look for that we’ll
+ever see his face again, ony o’ us, forbye at the preaching.
+But here’s the Testament—the vera Word o’ God!
+Is no that wonnerfu’?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Let me hand it in my ain hand, Jamie,” said Mary.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>No one that reads these pages will be able to understand
+from experience what Mary felt as, loving Christ
+more than her life, she held in her hand for the first
+time the Book that contains the words of Christ. Day
+by day she had gone with eager willing footsteps for
+draughts from that fountain; and now, behold! the
+fountain was hers, was theirs, to draw from whenever
+they would. She raised the Book to her lips and
+kissed it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m to read it for ye a’,” said Archie, for the first
+time in his life proud of his scholarship.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m nae but a puir scholar,” added Jamie, “but
+ainst I’m weel again, I’ll try hard to learn; and then,
+Mary, I’ll teach you and Janet.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet, on hearing him speak with such confidence of
+his own recovery, exchanged glances of satisfaction with
+Mary, and shortly afterwards remarked: “The first
+words we heard Maister Wishart say, the day ye gar’d
+us a’ gang to the Cowgate, Mary, will we or nill we, was
+just this, ‘It’s nae herb nor plaister, but God’s Word
+that heals the folk,’ an’ I’m thinking it’s owre true.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Yes; the worst was over now. The sunshine of that
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>day abode with the Duncans. By the aid of that best
+medicine, a happy because a trustful heart, Jamie
+recovered surely though slowly. No other member of
+the family took the sickness; and when the minister’s
+gift was exhausted, other friends (perhaps through a hint
+from <i>him</i>) were raised up to supply their necessities.
+For the preacher of righteousness by faith had provoked
+men everywhere to love and good works. “The toune
+was wonderouse beneficiall;” and the rich were becoming
+day by day not only more willing to impart to
+the poor, but more active and self-denying in searching
+out those cases of distress which are all the more worthy
+of succour because carefully hidden from the public
+eye.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie was not yet able to leave his bed, when one
+evening, as they were all together listening to Archie,
+who was reading aloud from the Testament, some one
+knocked at the street door. Archie put down the book,
+and ran to open it, speedily returning with the tidings,
+“Yon’s a gentleman speiring after Mary Wigton.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Did ye tell him the sickness was here, callant?”
+asked Jamie.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He had his een,”<a id='r9'></a><a href='#f9' class='c014'><sup>[9]</sup></a> returned Archie, “sae he micht
+hae seen the mark. But he gaed richt into the first
+room on the left han’ side, asking nae leave o’ me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary knew that was the room where her father died.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>She could scarcely tell why, but she felt a shade of
+apprehension as she silently went down to meet the
+stranger.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She soon found herself face to face with a well-dressed
+man, who looked about forty years of age, though he
+was in reality ten years younger. He was pale, and had
+dark rings about his eyes, which were large and mournful,
+indeed almost wild in their expression, and certainly the
+most striking features of a face otherwise not prepossessing.
+His forehead was high but narrow, his lips
+were large and full, and his whole countenance had an
+anxious, restless look.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary courtesied, and asked, “Is it me ye were
+wanting, sir?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Do ye no mind me, Mary? I’m yer brother, John
+Wigton,” said the stranger, taking her in his arms and
+embracing her.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>For a moment she shrank back half frightened.
+Could this be the brother from whom she parted, as a
+little child, so long, long ago? She only remembered
+him a bright, noble-looking young lad; could this man
+of middle age, with that sallow, care-worn face, be really
+John Wigton? And again, could he be Sir John Wigton,
+the priest? If so, where was his priest’s frock? Almost
+before she was aware of it, this question had passed
+her lips.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nae matter o’ that,” was the reply. “Do ye no
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>ken a kirkman may lay it by when his superiors order
+the same, as mine hae done me?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, but, John, hae ye heard that father’s dead?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A look of hard repressed sorrow passed over Wigton’s
+face as he answered briefly, “Ay.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He askit for ye, John, a’maist wi’ his last breath.
+His word was aye and aye, ‘Whaur’s our John?’ Wae’s
+me! why did ye no come to us before?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I couldna, lassie,” he said, his voice trembling a
+little. “And noo, I hae searched the haill town through
+to find ye.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wha telled ye I was here?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Sin’ I left St. Andrews meaning to come here, I hae
+been at the auld farm.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then ye didna come here o’ purpose to speir after
+<i>us</i>,” said Mary, in some surprise. “What gar’d ye come
+to sic’ a place ava’, gin it wasna for that? Did ye no
+hear o’ the sickness?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m a servant o’ Holy Kirk, Mary; and I daur gae
+<i>onywhaur</i>, were it into the vera jaws o’ death, to do my
+duty by the same.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary thought this was certainly a noble sentiment,
+and one which Wishart would approve; though at the
+same time it occurred to her that <i>he</i> had never said so
+much for himself, while he acted upon the principle
+every day.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wigton presently resumed: “Forbye, whaur the deil’s
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>ain children are no fear’t to gang upon their father’s evil
+wark, guid men and true suldna shrink frae following
+them.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I didna ken we had ony sic’ wicked folk amang us,”
+said Mary, with a puzzled look.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Atweel, never mind that. Tell me—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Of our puir father and mither. Oh, ay—but ye suld
+hae been wi’ us, John.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wigton, who had seated himself, now rose and turned
+his face away. After a few moments he said, “Dinna
+talk o’ them. No the nicht. Tell me o’ yersel. Wha
+has fended for ye sin’ ye’ve been left yer lane?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary told him of the kindness she had experienced
+from the Duncans, admitting however that they had
+endured many hardships together, and been in great
+want. Her brother warmly expressed his regret that
+such should have been the case, adding, “Ye’ll no hae
+that to say ony mair, lassie. I hae siller enoo’ for baith,
+and to spare.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In proof of his assertion, he drew out a purse certainly
+much heavier than that which had so lately relieved their
+necessities, and took from it several pieces of gold.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary’s eyes sparkled. For herself, having food and
+raiment, although of the humblest kind, she was more
+than content; but she could not help rejoicing at the
+thought of having wherewith to assist those kind and
+self-denying friends who had done so much for her.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>“Jamie and Janet hae mony a time gone hungry
+theirsels that I might share the bit bread,” she said.
+“An’ it’s blythe I’d be to bring them thae broad pieces
+the nicht.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Sae ye sall,” answered John. “’Twas for you and
+father I took the gowd; and noo, I’ve naebody but
+yersel to share it wi’.” After a pause he added, “Can
+I bide here?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“There’s naething to hinder but fear o’ the sickness.
+Sin’ father dee’d here (John Wigton started), naebody
+daured tak’ the room.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Was it <i>here</i>, in this room, then?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay, in this vera room. There he lay, calling for
+you, John, and moaning like, because he couldna get a
+priest.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That was awfu’,” said John, growing very pale.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, John, it a’maist broke my heart to think on’t.
+I daurna tell ye a’ the gruesome, fearfu’ thochts I used
+to hae. But God be thanked, a’ that’s by lang syne.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Her brother did not answer; he may not even have
+heard her. He was sitting with his head buried in his
+hands, absorbed in bitter reflection. For the thought of
+his father’s death, without priest or sacrament (as he
+would have expressed it), was more terrible to him than
+it had ever been even to Mary.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>After a while, his sister returned to the subject upon
+which they had been speaking. “Ye could hae a room
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>upstairs, John, and there wadna be sae muckle risk in’t.
+There’s naebody in the haill land noo but guidwife
+Brown and—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Brown!” repeated Wigton, rousing himself. “It
+was thanks to her guidman, I fand ye ava’.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He’s but just hame frae the sea,” said Mary.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay; I forgathered wi’ him at the tavern whaur I
+dined. We talked thegither, and as seamen use, he was
+by-ordinar free, and willing to tell me a’ his matters.
+His guidwife, he said, had been sair troubled wi’ the
+sickness o’ her bairn; but he couldna say enoo’ o’ the
+kindness o’ a lassie—ane Mary Wigton—wha bided in
+the same land.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“’Twasna sae muckle what I did for her, puir thing,”
+said Mary. “Still, I’m unco blythe ye fand me, John.
+But I daurna bring ye to the Duncans, seeing Jamie’s
+no weel yet.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Did ye tell them ye had a brither a priest?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, ay; I hae telled them that.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then ye maunna say I’m yer brither, Mary.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What for?” asked Mary, evidently distressed.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It doesna look sae weel for a priest to gang without
+his frock; forbye there are reasons. Ye can just say
+I’m a friend.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary shook her head. “I maun say what’s true,”
+she answered.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Weel, say a kinsman. Nae doot but that’s true.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>With this compromise Mary, who hated unnecessary
+mysteries, was obliged, though reluctantly, to content
+herself for the present. At her brother’s request she
+left him alone for the night in the room where his father
+died, having first tried in vain to induce him to seek
+quarters where he would be less exposed to the danger
+of infection. Taking with her the gold he had given,
+she returned to the Duncans, told them as much as she
+was permitted to do, and in all simplicity and with the
+freedom of a sister gave the money into Janet’s keeping
+for the family use.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The supply was very seasonable, though Jamie
+scrupled to accept of it. But had they known from
+whose hands it came, and how it was obtained, not
+Jamie alone, but Mary herself, Janet, and most certainly
+Archie, would have died of absolute starvation rather
+than have touched it.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_097.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_099.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>VIII.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>The Cardinal’s Missionary.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“The blood-thirsty hate the upright; but the just seek his soul.”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_099b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_101.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>VIII.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>The Cardinal’s Missionary.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_101.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+The next morning Mary saw her brother again.
+First interviews between relatives or friends
+who have been long parted are almost
+always unsatisfactory. It is neither the things of most
+importance, nor those nearest the hearts of the speakers
+that rise to the lips; the waters are as yet too much
+troubled; they must have time to settle ere their depths
+become visible. But after the night (though that night
+had been sleepless to both, and to one very miserable),
+they talked more at their ease. John Wigton was most
+incommunicative about everything that concerned himself;
+but he seemed really anxious to hear every particular
+about his family. He had previously learned
+the fact of his mother’s death, but little more than this.
+Mary therefore began her story at this point, and then
+told of the relinquishment of their farm, of the journey
+to Dundee, and the hardships endured since their arrival
+there. The narrative of her father’s death naturally
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>followed, and was given much more at large than on the
+preceding evening. John heard it almost in silence;
+but he looked very sad, and now and then he sighed
+heavily. Perhaps conscience was at work within him,
+whispering that if he had done his duty, and honoured
+his father and mother according to God’s commandment,
+all this sorrow need not have been. But John
+Wigton’s conscience could not, in the present state of
+things, be greatly relied upon. Not that it was by any
+means silent or dead; on the contrary, it was in continual
+active exercise; but, like a chronometer wrongly
+set, it was regulated upon such false principles that
+every beat tended only to mislead.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Seeing him so much cast down, Mary essayed to
+speak some words of comfort. “Ye ken, John,” she
+said, “gin a hantle priests had been wi’ my puir father,
+they wadna hae done him muckle guid. When I kenned
+that mysel, my ain heart grew lichter. An’ oh, but a’
+the weary burdens were taken aff me for aye and aye,
+aince I learned that the blessed Lord loved me, and
+cared for me. Sin’ that wonnerfu’ sermon o’ Maister
+Wishart’s—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“<i>What!</i>” interrupted Wigton, with a start. “Ye hae
+heard <i>him</i>?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That I hae, and blessed God for the same. Wae’s
+me, what ails ye, John?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was no wonder she asked, for John Wigton’s face
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>was white to the lips, and his eyes were gleaming with
+passion.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“This is waur than my puir father deeing like a
+dog, but shrift or housel. Lass, lass! yer soul‘ll be
+lost for aye an’ aye. Do ye believe his abominable
+heresies?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Although pale and trembling at this outburst of rage,
+Mary answered bravely, “I believe that he speaks the
+true word o’ God, whase servant he is.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He’s no God’s servant; he’s the devil’s ain—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Whisht!” said Mary, laying her hand on his lips,
+and speaking in a tone almost of authority, “Ye sallna
+say thae wicked words in my hearing. It’s no that ye
+can hurt or harm God’s dear servant, but ye’ll sair hurt
+yer ain soul.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“How lang may it be sin’ ye hae been ta’en wi’ thae
+fooleries?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“They’re nae fooleries, brother. Is it foolery, think
+ye, to ken for sure that the guid Saviour dee’d for me,
+to hae a’ my sins forgien?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Haud yer clavers!” interrupted John Wigton,
+angrily. “It’s no sae easy, the forgieness o’ sins. I tell
+ye, lass, there hae been blessed saints whase shoon the
+like o’ you and me are no worthy to unloose, wha hae
+toiled, and tholed, and striven their haill lives lang, and
+after a’ hae been no sure, no <i>that</i> sure. And noo, forsooth,
+lads and lasses wha canna read or write, daur to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>prate o’ the forgiveness o’ sins, a’ because a leeing, thieving
+loon—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary rose with a crimsoned cheek, and walked towards
+the door.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Angry as he was, John Wigton perceived that if he
+desired to be heard to the end, he must use different
+language. “Weel,” he said with a sneer, “because
+Maister George Wishart tells them a hantle lees and
+clashes out o’ his ain head. What’s <i>he</i>, that folk suld
+tak’ his word before that o’ my Lord Cardinal, and the
+Bishops, and the Doctors, and Holy Kirk hersel?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It’s no <i>his</i> word, John, it’s the Lord’s.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hoot awa’! But there’s ane comfort, ye’ll no hear
+the like aft again, I wad ye.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary now looked not only distressed but alarmed.
+“What gars ye say that?” she asked. “It’s nae manner
+o’ use for the Cardinal or the Governor to bid Maister
+Wishart awa’, as they did aince before, for noo the townfolk’ll
+a’ stan’ by him like ane man. They a’maist worship
+the ground he walks on; and that’s no wonnerfu’.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wigton’s pale face grew a shade paler, and he compressed
+his lips firmly. Could Mary have read his
+secret thoughts she would have been profoundly astonished.
+He was balancing <i>his own</i> chances of martyrdom,
+and arming himself with courage to meet them.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She broke the silence at last with the very pertinent
+question, “Hae ye ever heard him yersel?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>“Me? Na; thank the saints. And hark ye here,
+Mary. Gin you and I are to be brither and sister,
+<i>friends</i> and no faes and strangers, ye maun gie yer word
+to me this vera hour that ye’ll no gang ony mair to that
+heretic’s preaching. Will ye dae that?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’ll dee first,” answered Mary, very quietly. But
+there looked out from her soft brown eyes a soul as
+strong and more resolved than that of John Wigton.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He gazed at her for a moment or two, and then said
+bitterly, “I hae said my say. God’s malison and mine
+I gie the traitor wha hae driven ye daft wi’ his clavers,
+ye silly lass!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He turned, and was about to leave the room, but
+Mary stopped him. “Bide a wee, John Wigton,”
+she said. “It’s unco ill to thole that my ane brither
+suld come back to me after a’ these years, naebut to say
+thae cruel, bitter words. Wi’ father’s an’ mither’s twa
+graves between us, it micht hae been different. But this
+maun be <i>the cross</i> that Maister Wishart talks of—God
+help me to bear it patiently. Atweel, John, it’s no <i>that</i>
+gars me speak. Sma’ matter for me, but muckle for yer
+ain puir soul, gin ye put the word o’ God frae ye. Dinna
+mind what silly folk hae telled ye, but use yer ain een,
+and the guid wit God gied ye. Is it to look for, think
+ye, that a man wha hae put the dear life in his hand, and
+come amang us at sic a time, like God’s ain blessed
+angel, suld be what you daur call him, though <i>I</i> daurna
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>speak the word? Wha hae said, ‘By their fruits ye sall
+ken them?’ And did ye ever see sic’ fruit as that grow
+on ony tree <i>He</i> hasna planted?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Satan himsel can tak’ the likeness of an angel o’
+licht,” answered John Wigton. No words that human
+lips can utter sound as mournful as the words of Scripture
+when quoted thus.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m no asking ye to trust what ye havena heard and
+sifted,” answered Mary. “But I think that when a
+man hae <i>done</i> like Maister Wishart, ither folk are bound
+at least to hear what he has got to say. Gang to the
+Cowgate yersel, hear his doctrine, and pray God to show
+ye the truth.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m content wi’ the truth o’ Holy Kirk,” said Wigton
+in reply, and with these words they parted.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>How often it happens that the thing we most earnestly
+desire, when at last we obtain it, wears an aspect so
+different from all we anticipated, is in such dark sad
+contrast to our brilliant hopes, that the desire accomplished,
+instead of sweetness, proves very bitterness to
+the soul. As in the fabled fairy gifts, the silver sheen
+changes into dust, the glory has departed. Mary had
+longed for that lost brother, had wept and prayed for
+his return through years of anxiety and sorrow. Not
+alone from her dying father’s couch had that sad cry,
+“Where’s our John?” re-echoed and found no answer.
+Night and day, and often with bitter tears, had the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>same question been asked, first by the motherless, then
+by the wholly orphaned girl. There is something very
+sorrowful in being left in early youth without any near
+household ties. And although He that setteth the
+solitary in families had dealt with Mary in fatherly pity,
+there was still a waste and desolate place in her heart
+that no one save the brother of her childhood could fill.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>That brother had returned, but only to cast scorn on
+what she most loved and revered, and to demand from
+her, as the price of his affection, the renunciation of
+what was dearer to her than life itself. If tears were
+mingled with her prayers that night, was it any marvel?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But her distress, keen though it was, was happiness
+compared with the anguish her brother was enduring.
+For the fire of fanaticism, a fire kindled from beneath
+and not from above, burned and tortured the heart
+upon which it fed. They had the greater sin who had
+worked upon the sensibilities of an awakened conscience,
+and an excitable nervous organization. In
+that condition of mind and body which was the natural
+result of years of mental distress, physical suffering, and
+intense and continued excitement, and which might
+not improbably have been the precursor of insanity,
+John Wigton had fallen into the hands of remorseless
+designing men, who, being by no means fanatics
+themselves, knew how to use a fanatic to the best
+advantage. Whatever his capabilities or endowments
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>may or may not be, a man who, for any reason, has
+learned to despise death, always possesses a kind of
+strength which other men have not. It was probably
+the fact that he had no objection to the honours of
+martyrdom, that recommended “Schir John Wighton,
+a desperat preast,” to the notice and employment of a
+personage of very different character, David Beaton,
+Cardinal and Archbishop of St. Andrews.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Great and signal service to be done to the Holy
+Catholic Church, full pardon at last for all his sins, and
+immortal renown and glory, these chiefly were the allurements
+that baited the hook. But alas for the melancholy
+inconsistencies of human nature! The man who
+could feel the power of these motives was at the same
+time not above taking gold in payment for a deed of
+blood. For, on the one hand, fanaticism does not expel
+the sordid passions of our nature; nor had it, on the
+other, succeeded in stifling every sentiment of affection
+in the heart of John Wigton. He hoped to atone for
+his past neglect by making ample provision for his father
+and young sister; and he thought himself the rather at
+liberty to do this, since he was about to perform an act
+of such exceptional virtue that its merit might well obtain
+an indulgence for greater weaknesses than those of filial
+and fraternal affection. So thoroughly had he learned to
+put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The unhappy man had in an evil hour undertaken
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>a cruel and a perilous task. Beneath the gown for
+which he had exchanged his priest’s frock, he bore a
+sharp new dagger, which he had sworn to sheathe in
+the heart that had brought so much help and comfort to
+Dundee. Such were the convincing arguments Cardinal
+Beaton employed to silence obstinate heretics like George
+Wishart.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And this is “an owre true tale.” There is no room
+for the so-called liberality of the present day to accuse
+us of libelling our adversaries, and drawing from a heated
+fancy pictures of crimes never committed, in order to
+calumniate the characters of men whose opinions we
+detest. Those who accuse Protestant writers of doing
+this are recommended, if their nerves will bear it, to
+study for themselves the history of past ages in contemporary
+records. They will probably rise from the
+study sadder and wiser, and in a temper to comprehend
+that sublime burst of angelic thanksgiving, “Thou
+art righteous, O Lord, which art, and wast, and shalt be,
+because thou hast judged thus. For they have shed the
+blood of saints and prophets, and thou hast given them
+blood to drink; for they are worthy.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>They who know the depths of Satan, as exemplified
+in the history of the Romish apostasy, will respond from
+full hearts, Amen and Amen!</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_111.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>IX.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>How the Mission Sped.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“’Tis sweet to stammer one letter,</div>
+      <div class='line'>From the Eternal’s language; on earth it is called Forgiveness.”</div>
+      <div class='line in48'><span class='sc'>Longfellow.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_111b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_113.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>IX.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>How the Mission Sped.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_113.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+Without exactly fulfilling his threat of becoming
+to his only sister as a stranger or an
+enemy, John Wigton withdrew himself almost
+entirely from her society. He took up his quarters in a
+different lodging, and only came to see her upon two or
+three occasions for a short time. Nor were these visits
+productive of much enjoyment to either party; for controversy
+was sure to arise between them, and then the
+brother became violent, and the sister sorrowful though
+steadfast. It added to her grief that she could not help
+perceiving he was very unhappy, while she felt utterly
+unable either to aid or to comfort him. She tried once
+or twice to induce him to speak of himself, and to tell
+her where he had spent the past years, what he had been
+doing, and what he intended to do in future. But he
+repelled, in an irritable and impatient manner, every effort
+to win his confidence; until at last the poor girl, thus
+prohibited from inquiring into what might interest <i>him</i>,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>and dreading the mention of what interested herself for
+fear of raising a storm, was almost reduced to silence.
+Above all, she sedulously avoided any allusion to Wishart,
+as the name she most venerated seemed to awaken in
+his mind a fierce and bitter hatred that filled her with
+anguish and alarm. Thus it happened that she never
+told him of the minister’s seasonable visit to the Duncans.
+Nor was this perhaps to be greatly regretted. The circumstance
+that the man he intended to kill had saved
+his sister from perishing of want, would not probably
+have either softened the assassin’s feelings or altered his
+purpose. In his present temper of mind, John Wigton
+would have regarded the heretic’s good offices in the
+light of injuries and insults, intended to beguile and
+calculated to degrade those who accepted of them.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Upon one occasion, however, he himself opened the
+forbidden subject by asking abruptly, “Are ye bound for
+the heretic preaching the morn, Mary?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She answered quietly, “Yes.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Dinna gang, lassie,” said John, in a tone rather of
+entreaty than of command.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The kindness of his manner touched her, and she
+answered, “I’m sair vexed ye dinna like it, John, but I
+maun gang whaur I hear o’ my Saviour Christ.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye hae gone aft and aft, can ye no bide at hame,
+just for aince!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary shook her head; the matter was not only one
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>of inclination but of principle with her. She did not
+think she would be doing the will of her Lord in forsaking
+the assembling together of those that loved his name,
+and forfeiting even one of her precious opportunities of
+hearing more about him. Who could tell how long those
+opportunities might be granted, since the sword of the
+pestilence was still suspended over the heads of both
+minister and people? She therefore steadily refused
+to grant her brother’s request, that only this once, for
+his sake, she would absent herself from the preaching.
+She expected a burst of passion, but this time John
+Wigton exercised unusual self-control, merely saying,
+“Weel, gang yer ain gait. It’s naebut for yer guid I
+spoke the word. Guid nicht.” And as they parted he
+kissed her—a mark of affection he had not shown since
+their first bitter quarrel about the preaching.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie being still unable to leave the house, Mary,
+Janet, and Archie, went together the next day to the
+East Port; taking their places of course amongst the
+congregation who worshipped outside the gate. They
+were unfortunate in the position into which they were
+forced by the pressure of the crowd. Without much
+will or design of their own, they were gradually pushed
+under the gateway, and quite close to the massive bars
+of the gate. In this situation they could hear very well,
+but were unable to see; a loss always considerable, but
+especially so where the earnest speaking countenance of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>the preacher lent additional weight to his words. Archie
+loudly deplored the privation, but Mary soon felt herself
+more than repaid for it. She could scarcely indeed
+believe the testimony of her eyes—there, within the
+gate, not a yard from her, stood her brother! He
+looked pale and haggard, but at this she did not marvel,
+since it must have been after a hard struggle with the
+prejudices and prepossessions of half a lifetime, that he
+prevailed on himself to take his place amongst the
+hearers of the great heretic. But was not this the dawn
+of a brighter day for both of them, and the earnest of an
+answer to her many fervent prayers on his behalf? Her
+heart went up silently in words of thanksgiving, and it
+must be owned that she was rather in danger of yielding
+to the subtle temptation of listening to the Word of God
+with the ears of those in whom we are interested rather
+than for our own edification. More fortunate, however,
+than the listeners without the gate, her brother soon
+succeeded in obtaining a better position, and passed on
+to where her eye could not follow him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>We must follow him thither. With the successful
+pertinacity of a man in a crowd who has a settled purpose,
+while those around him have only a vague desire
+to make themselves as comfortable as they can, he
+slowly pushed his way until he reached the very foot of
+the narrow stair by which the preacher always descended
+into the street from his elevated position on the top of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>the gate. Then, for the first time, John Wigton saw
+the man he purposed to slay. In spite of sleepless
+nights and weary days spent in prayer to all the saints
+in the Calendar for a strong and steady heart, a tremor
+ran through his frame at the moment. Wishart was
+kneeling for the prayer that preceded his sermon, but
+he soon rose and began to speak. Wigton however did
+not hear a word, he only saw the speaker. A morbid
+but most natural fancy that he was looking at <i>him</i>, at
+him alone in all that crowd, took possession of his
+mind. He could not endure the gaze of that dark,
+mournful, noble countenance. It was one thing to think
+of George Wishart as a kind of abstraction, the representative
+of those ideas which his heart most loathed
+and detested; another to stand and look him in the
+face, a living man, whom that sharp “whinger” beneath
+his gown, upon the hilt of which his hand was resting,
+must, in two hours at the most, change into a ghastly
+corpse. It was gruesome work at the best,—<i>why</i> had
+he undertaken it?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But it had to be done. The interests of Holy Kirk,
+the salvation of his own soul, the rescue of many others
+from fearful peril, all demanded it. His heart was resolved,
+and he would not look at the man again; where
+was the use of it? But he <i>did</i> look again, in fact he
+neither looked, nor could look, away from him. A kind
+of fascination held his eyes fixed to the spot. With
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>that curious minuteness of perception which is sometimes
+the result of intense excitement, his mind took in
+everything however trifling—his victim’s dress, simple
+in fashion and coarse in texture;<a id='r10'></a><a href='#f10' class='c014'><sup>[10]</sup></a> the long frieze mantle
+with the plain black “millian” doublet underneath,
+relieved by snow white cuffs and Geneva bands,—all
+such as a poor man might have worn, and yet so worn
+by him as to add to the impression which made every
+one instinctively describe him as “a braw gentleman.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then with a start Wigton tried to recall his wandering
+thoughts. But before he was aware of it, he actually
+found himself, in spite of all his previous resolutions,
+listening to the heretic preacher. The words so often
+repeated in his heart, “the forgiveness of sins,” struck
+on his ear, and beguiled him even into a few moments’
+forgetfulness of his purpose. What he heard was so
+unlike all his anticipations that very wonder made him
+listen still for more. He expected to hear a torrent of
+coarse and scurrilous abuse poured upon the dogmas and
+ceremonies of the Church; not worse perhaps in point
+of good taste and good feeling than the average sermons
+of the Gray or Black Friars, but necessarily most offensive
+to a devout Catholic. He heard nothing of the
+kind. The preacher’s soul was intent on “this one
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>thing,” to bring other souls to Christ; and he only
+stooped to notice error when it lay so directly in the way
+between the sinner and the Saviour that he must needs
+clear it thence and cast it forth. “To the pure word of
+God he gave his labooris.” Christ, in his person and
+his work, was the theme of his discourse.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He only is our Mediator,” he said, “and maketh
+intercession for us to God his Father.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He is the door, by which we must enter in.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He that entereth not in by this door, but climbeth
+ane other way, is a thief and a murderer.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He is the Verity and Life.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He that goeth out of this way, there is no doubt but
+he shall fall into the mire; yea, verily he is fallen into it
+already.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then he “exhorted all men equally in his doctrine,”
+to put their trust in that Saviour, and to receive from
+him what he was exalted to God’s right hand on purpose
+to give, and that freely, repentance and remission of sins.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Had John Wigton heard these words twelve years ago,
+how different might all have been! Then indeed for
+him might the parched ground—the mirage of the desert—have
+become a pool, and the thirsty land springs of
+water. Too late now! And yet it might be that a few
+drops of that living water, poured so freely upon all
+around, forced their way through the hard crust of
+fanaticism to the human heart that still throbbed beneath
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>it. For old feelings long forgotten, new feelings struggling
+for life, began to stir within him. There was a
+strange sweetness in all this, mingled with a kind of pain;
+as if those re-awakened longings, never satisfied before,
+scarcely hoping to be satisfied now, cried aloud in his
+heart, “Wherefore hast thou disquieted us to bring us
+up?” Glorious thought of forgiveness, of peace with
+God, once, oh how ardently desired! Might it even still
+be realized? Was it in this way,—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Where was he? What was he doing? Was he dreaming?
+No; at least the hard hilt of the whinger, pressed
+by his right hand, was real enough. But he had actually
+been listening to the heretic; and so listening that he
+had forgotten himself, what he came to do, everything,
+except those wonderful words. Had he forgotten his
+faith? Was the numbing spell of heresy creeping over
+his senses, even over <i>his</i>? Horrible thought! “Holy
+Mother of God, aid and keep thy servant,” he said within
+himself. And then there came over him a great and
+sudden revulsion of feeling. The very fact that for a
+few moments his heart had been half won, made the
+strong rebound to his old hatred and fanaticism all the
+quicker and surer. How subtle must be that poison
+which, in spite of all his precautions, had well-nigh stolen
+into his own veins.  How fatally sweet the voice of that
+charmer to whom, trained and guarded as he was, he
+had almost been seduced into listening! They who
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>listened should no doubt repent it where there was no
+more place for repentance, in the fire that is not quenched
+for ever and ever. It was time all this were ended. The
+murderer of souls had earned his doom, and his blood
+should be upon his own head. Heart and hand were
+strong enough now, and ready for the work of vengeance.
+It was well they were; for the heretic’s sermon was over,
+and he was about to descend from the gate.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>After the concluding prayer there was a pause of
+solemn silence, then the people began soberly to disperse.
+Wigton, who was fully aware of the hazard of the deed
+he had undertaken, had planned a quick escape through
+the startled crowd after its accomplishment. He now
+retained sufficient composure to look round and decide
+upon the way he should take. By the time this was
+done, the preacher was descending the narrow staircase.
+In a moment the two are face to face. Now—now!
+One blow for Holy Mother Church!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Before that blow could be struck, George Wishart
+calmly laid his hand on the assassin’s arm, saying,
+“Friend, what wad ye do?” Then, with a gesture at
+once gentle and commanding, he threw back his gown,
+and took the now useless whinger from his nerveless unresisting
+grasp.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>John Wigton was the superstitious child of a superstitious
+age; and he had long been in that peculiar temper
+of mind from which the thought of the supernatural is
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>never far removed. With nerves and brain stimulated
+to a pitch of intense excitement, it was most natural that
+he should take for a miracle what was in reality only an
+instance of wonderful quickness of perception and presence
+of mind. Clearly God was on this man’s side, and
+had interposed his own arm to protect and deliver him!
+Then had <i>he</i> been fighting even against God!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Overwhelmed by the thought, and conscience-stricken,
+he threw himself at the feet of the man whose life he
+sought, confessing in broken accents what he had been
+about to do, and why. He even named the Lord Cardinal
+as the instigator of the crime. Beaton had indeed
+been guilty, not only of a crime but of a blunder, when
+he selected for so tough a piece of work an instrument
+at once too weak and too fine.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But in betraying his employer, the miserable man had
+also betrayed himself, and that to an instant and horrible
+death. He knew and felt this as he stood there like
+one turned to stone, with cheeks and lips of ashy whiteness,
+and eyes wild with terror. The revelation of his
+purpose, made by himself alone, and overheard by the
+bystanders, had transformed the quiet orderly assembly
+into a frantic mob, thirsting for his blood like one man,
+or rather like some fierce beast of prey springing with
+eyes of fire upon its terrified, palsied victim. All mobs
+have not had so fair an excuse for violence. Should a
+company of men who are treading in the dark some
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>perilous path that skirts a precipice, arrest a stranger in
+the act of hurling their solitary light-bearer down the
+rock, they would not probably be very scrupulous in
+their treatment of the criminal. Every man in the crowd
+who had a sword or whinger, drew it, and rushed towards
+the assassin, while the rest brandished staves or caught
+up stones from the street. And “the noyse rising, and
+coming to the ears of the sick (without the gate), they
+cried, ‘Deliver the traitor unto us, or ellis we will tack
+him by force;’ and so they birst in at the gate.”<a id='r11'></a><a href='#f11' class='c014'><sup>[11]</sup></a></p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wigton tried hard to cry to God for the mercy he
+dared not hope from man; but no word would come to
+him, nor any thought except a fearful looking for of
+judgment and fiery indignation. His head dropped on
+his breast; his arms were folded in despair. A lifetime’s
+agony seemed compressed into those horrible moments.
+He must die, and unforgiven. All was lost—lost—lost—for
+ever.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>No; he is saved! In the tumult he had not heard
+the voice of one who pleaded for his life, nor perhaps
+could others hear it. But George Wishart did not trust
+to words alone when the life of an enemy was at stake.
+A moment more, and Wigton felt himself clasped in the
+minister’s arms, shielded thus with his own person from
+sword and stave and whinger. “Whosoever troubles
+him shall trouble me,” cried the noble-hearted reformer.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>“He has hurt me in nothing, but has done great comfort
+both to you and me, for he has letten us understand
+what we may fear. In times to come we will watch
+better.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This was George Wishart’s only vengeance. Rarely,
+perhaps, have such an assemblage of qualities been displayed
+in so brief a moment of time. But the flash of
+lightning which, in the space of a second, illumines a
+whole landscape, creates nothing of what it reveals;
+all was there before. Thus the occasion proved
+the man; what he did was but the evidence of what
+he was. Through patient years of “the unremitting
+retention of simple and high sentiments in obscure
+duties,” had been trained the brave and loving heart, as
+well as the “maist scharp eye and judgment,” which
+saved, that day, two lives—his own and his intended
+murderer’s.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Our friends without the gate had their full share in
+the general excitement and confusion. Archie strove
+and pushed and shouted with the best; no man in the
+crowd more eager to be avenged upon the cowardly
+assassin.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’d hae dinged his skull in wi’ a muckle stane,” he
+boasted afterwards, “but I daurna for guid Maister
+Wishart.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie told him in reply that he’d “better hae been
+caring the lasses,” which was true enough. For some
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>minutes Janet and Mary, pressed as they were against
+the gate by those immediately behind them, were in
+actual peril. When at last it gave way, they were borne
+through it by the crowd, and swept onwards without any
+power of resistance. Still they clung together, sorely
+terrified, but unhurt, until in one unhappy moment Mary
+chanced to look up, and caught a glimpse of the two men
+on the staircase, locked together in that strange embrace.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Well did she recognise the white agonized face of her
+brother. At once the whole terrible truth flashed upon
+her mind. Her head sank on Janet’s shoulder; and had
+there been room to fall, she would have fallen senseless
+to the ground. Janet fortunately possessed a degree of
+muscular strength unusual in a girl; and she exerted
+herself to the utmost to drag her friend out of the throng.
+When the bystanders understood what was the matter,
+they made way for them as well as they could; and one
+or two men good-naturedly volunteered their assistance.
+That a girl in the crowd should faint, in circumstances
+of such excitement, seemed to all the most natural thing
+in the world. At last she was carried to a quiet spot
+some distance down a neighbouring wynd. Here, just
+as Archie and some others joined the group, she recovered
+consciousness, and looking round her, asked
+with a bewildered air, “Hae they killed him?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Of course every one misunderstood the question.
+Janet answered eagerly,—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>“Na, na! He’s as safe as you or I. God gied his
+angels charge over him!” she added, for once in her
+life kindling into enthusiasm, and even quoting Scripture.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Eh, and what wad the saints hae got to do, gin they
+couldna tak’ care o’ <i>him</i> amang them a’!” cried Archie,
+his creed rather in confusion, but his heart glowing with
+the delicious passion of a boy’s first hero-worship.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary’s pale face scarcely showed relief or pleasure.
+She was bowed down beneath a weight of sorrow those
+around her could not comprehend. Too sick at heart
+to repeat her question, a little reflection sufficed to convince
+her it was scarcely a necessary one. She did not
+fear for her brother’s <i>life</i>; she had such absolute trust
+in him under whose protection she had seen him, that
+to doubt either his good-will or his ability never occurred
+to her.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At length she turned to Janet and whispered, “Let
+me gang hame.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet and Archie took her home, still feeling as one
+who dreamed. She hardly spoke to them; and she
+thought she dared not face Jamie then, or indeed ever
+again upon earth. Still she ought to tell them—she
+<i>must</i> tell them—all; but oh, not yet!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She went at once to the little room where she slept,
+shut the door, and threw herself on her knees. Only
+before her God could she pour forth the anguish of her
+soul. Her own—her only brother—had raised his hand
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>against the life of the man to whom she owed far more
+than life. For a while she must be left to the shame and
+the bitterness of that thought. By and by she will see
+comfort, rich comfort, in the mercy of Him who interposed
+to shield his servant from the malice of wicked
+men, to save her misguided brother from a fearful crime,
+and to give him still time for repentance.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But while Mary mourned, the men of Dundee rejoiced
+and gave thanks, each one as if for his own personal
+deliverance from terrible danger. For the cardinal’s
+mission had failed. Well was it for them, well for John
+Wigton, well for thousands who had yet to hear the word
+of truth from the lips he sought to silence. But was it
+well for George Wishart? That is not so clear. Little
+cause indeed had he to fear the assassin’s knife. Had
+the murderer done his worst, it would still have been—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“But one step for those victorious feet,</div>
+      <div class='line'>From their day’s walk into the golden street!”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>Only a moment’s shock, a death-pang scarcely felt,—then
+a joyful waking in his Saviour’s presence. Were
+not this better far for him than the dark and painful
+path he was destined to tread? Yet no. “The righteous,
+and the wise, and their works, are in the hand of God,”
+and best in the end for them the ways He chooses are
+sure to prove. Those who, in all ages, have dared to
+resign themselves to his guidance, have borne triumphant
+witness to the Light that illumined and the Hand that
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>led them throughout. Many doubtless there are on
+earth, who, bending wearily beneath the weight of the
+cross, wish that weight were lightened; but we may be
+sure that amongst the white-robed choir before the
+throne there stands not one who would now be willing
+to have had his cross less heavy, or to have done or
+suffered the least fraction less for his Master’s sake.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_128.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_129.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>X.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>What became of the Cardinal’s Missionary.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Oh, if before thy death, our God</div>
+      <div class='line'>Will thee reclaim and own;</div>
+      <div class='line'>No dearer face than thine I’ll hail,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Around his judgment throne.”</div>
+      <div class='line in24'><span class='sc'>Rev. R. S. Brooke.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_129b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_131.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>X.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>What became of the Cardinal’s Missionary.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_131.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+It was late in the afternoon, but Mary had not
+yet left her room, nor would she admit even
+Janet. To the anxious inquiries of her
+friends she only answered that she was not ill, and that
+she would come to them by and by, but she needed rest
+and wished to be alone. In the meantime Archie told
+his brother all that had happened; and it may well be
+guessed the story did not lose any of its striking features
+by his telling.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie, who was considerably better, was amusing
+himself by walking up and down the hall and passages
+of the house, when some one knocked gently at the
+street door. Being near at the moment, he had it
+opened before Archie, the usual porter, could bound
+down the stairs for the purpose. But had Mary heard
+that knock, she would at once have recognised it, and
+with her will no hand save her own should have opened
+the door.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>A gentlemanly person, unknown to Jamie, stepped
+inside. He had just asked the stranger what he wanted,
+when, to his equal surprise and horror, Archie sprang
+at the man’s throat like a wild cat, his fair boyish face
+darkened by a scowl of positive hatred.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hae ye tint yer senses, callant?” cried Jamie,
+exerting all his strength, which at the time was not
+great, to drag them asunder.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Haud yer hand aff!” shouted Archie. “Yon’s the
+loon wha hae tried to kill Maister Wishart.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie, however, succeeded in separating them, but
+only in time to save Wigton (who seemed to lack the
+spirit to resist his youthful assailant) from a severe fall.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Is that true, sir?” he demanded then, much in the
+tone of a judge interrogating a prisoner.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The unfortunate man raised his eyes for a moment to
+those of his questioner, then dropped them again as if
+unable to bear his gaze, and after making an ineffectual
+effort to speak, turned quickly towards the door. But
+Archie, either from accident or design, was standing
+directly between him and it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Let him pass, brither,” cried Jamie; then turning
+to Wigton with a manner expressive of the most bitter
+contempt and loathing, “Nae hand o’ ours sall be upon
+ye, traitor tho’ ye are, for his sake wha askit yer life; but
+tak’ yer foot frae an honest man’s threshold.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>John Wigton hesitated, and, to do him justice, his
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>thoughts at the moment were not selfish ones. His
+natural impulse would have been to say, “Where’s
+Mary Wigton? She is my sister.” He had counted
+upon her affection, sorely as it had been tried, for the
+shelter or the disguise which might yet be necessary
+to save his life. But were it well done to betray their
+relationship, and thus perhaps to deprive her of the
+only friends now remaining to her on earth? For he
+himself, as friend or foe, must henceforward count as
+nothing.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Archie eagerly flung the door wide open, Jamie sternly
+watched to see him go, but still he stood irresolute. At
+last, looking full in the young man’s honest though
+angry face, he said boldly, “Gin ye fear God, and pity
+the unfortunate, let me bide here the nicht.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie’s eyes flashed, “An’ I do I’ll be——,” and
+there he stopped abruptly, and bit his lip until the blood
+came; for an evil word had well-nigh escaped him
+unawares. But presently his anger changed to disdain.
+“What hae ye got to fear, gin it’s no yer ain ill conscience,
+ye puir spirited loon? The law ’ill no touch a
+hair o’ yer head, sin’ (God forgie the wicked men wha
+hae done it) Maister Wishart’s been put to the horn.<a id='r12'></a><a href='#f12' class='c014'><sup>[12]</sup></a>
+Ye kenned that unco weel, ye dastard, when ye thocht
+to raise yer hand against his life.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wigton unconsciously answered him almost in the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>very words of the first murderer. “But aebody wha
+finds me ’ill kill me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye suld hae thocht o’ that afore ye took sic’ a bluidy
+trade in hand,” said Jamie scornfully.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Dinna fash yersel wi’ his clavers,” cried Archie.
+“Fling him across the street!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Whisht, Archie!—Gin ye’re sae fear’t for yersel”—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I do fear,” said Wigton, in a low voice. “I darena
+dee—<i>no just yet</i>.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie looked at him steadily, and the hard expression
+of his face began to soften a little. “Be you a Dundee
+man?” he asked.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Na.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“God be thankit for the same! I couldna thole the
+thocht that <i>he</i> had come amang us, sae brave and kind,
+to do us a’ the guid he might for soul and body, and that
+we had sought to pay him—wi’ the murderer’s knife! I
+was aye proud to be a Dundee man, but I thocht to-day
+I maun be shamed of it. Weel, that’s bye. What for
+can ye no gang hame? The sooner ye free the toon o’
+the presence of a traitor carl, the better.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Daur I pass the gate in this gear?” asked John Wigton.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie had no answer to this question ready. It had
+now become clear to him that the unhappy man was
+really in danger, and that either a change of clothing or
+a night’s lodging was absolutely necessary to give him a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>reasonable chance of safety. But what was that to him?
+For one short moment he was glad—glad to think that,
+without overt act of his, the man who had raised his
+cruel hand against the life so dear to them all should pay
+the just forfeit of his crime. But then another thought
+came to him,—and he stood irresolute, gazing on the
+pale troubled face before him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>After a short pause, he turned abruptly and opened
+the door of the room where Wigton once before had
+passed the night. “Gang in there,” he said; “I maun
+think.” About to walk hastily upstairs, he fortunately
+recollected Archie, and mindful of the explosion that
+would certainly follow if he were left with that man, he
+seized the boy by his collar, and marched him before
+him with little ceremony and much decision.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Whilst Archie told the astonished Janet who was in
+the house, Jamie walked silently to the window and stood
+there, his head resting on his hands. Not long since
+had his heart’s choice been made to serve and follow his
+Master Christ; and this was the first time his faith had
+been put to the proof by the solemn question, “Shall I
+do in this matter the thing that <i>I</i> please, or shall I deny
+myself, and do the will of Christ my Saviour?” What
+that will was, he could not doubt. He from whose lips
+he had learned “the mercies of God,” was very earnest
+and explicit in beseeching those who tasted them to
+yield themselves living sacrifices, holy, acceptable unto
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>him. “If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst,
+give him drink;”—Jamie well knew the words, and felt
+them at that moment directly addressed to him. But his
+eyes were resting on the spot where so lately Wishart had
+knelt by his sick bed in prayer; the Book he had given
+lay near him on the table; and all the blessed words or
+help and healing, all the noble deeds of Christian love,
+which he and others owed to him, came crowding on his
+memory. A personal wrong would have been, oh how
+easy to pardon! But to attempt his life—<i>his</i>! That
+was too cruel; it was beyond all pardon. He had yet
+to learn the last and hardest lesson of Christian charity
+(witness any who have tried it)—to forgive the injuries
+done to those we love and reverence. But then, who
+possessed, after all, the right to decide the question, and
+to dispose of the man’s life? And had not he, in the
+plainest possible manner, already made known his decision!
+This thought softened him; his lip trembled, and
+a mist came over his dark eye.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At last he spoke aloud, but as if addressing himself:
+“I’ll do it, sin’ Maister Wishart willed it thus.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, Jamie!” cried Janet, who for some moments
+had been watching him earnestly, “dinna do it for
+Maister Wishart’s sake, but for the guid Lord Jesus, wha
+prayed on the cross for his murderers!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie was surprised at this burst of feeling from the
+ordinarily reserved and silent Janet. But not the less
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>had the arrow she sped winged its way to his heart.
+“Ye’re richt, lass,” he said, in an altered tone. Then,
+turning to the large “kist” which did duty as the family
+wardrobe, he began to ransack its contents with a hasty
+hand.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What gars ye make sic’ a litter?” asked Janet, subsiding
+in a moment into her ordinary sphere of common
+life and practical activity. “Tell <i>me</i> what ye’re seeking,
+an’ I’ll find it for ye without turning aething topside
+down.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But Jamie silently held up the object of his search—a
+suit of coarse clothing which he had been accustomed
+to wear when about his daily work.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Just then Mary entered the room, looking very pale.
+She had heard the loud voices in the passage, and at
+once the idea occurred to her that her brother might
+have ventured to the house. As hitherto, in compliance
+with his own request, she had always been careful to
+watch for his knock and to admit him herself, he would
+naturally calculate upon this. Alarmed at the thought
+of his being recognised by any one else, she was going
+down to meet him, when, in passing by the open door
+of the Duncans’ room, she overheard part of their conversation.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Jamie,” she said, in a low but tolerably calm voice,
+“yon man is my brither, John Wigton.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet and Archie uttered exclamations of surprise,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>perhaps of horror. Jamie remained silent, but drew his
+hand across his face.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary’s soft eyes were fixed on that shaded face with
+a wistful inquiring gaze, very touching in its sorrowful
+earnestness. “Do <i>you</i> indeed despise me?” they seemed
+to ask.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At length Jamie spoke, and in that peculiarly gentle
+tone which a keen observer might have noticed he never
+used except in addressing her: “Mary, lass,” he said,
+“wad ye rather see him again or no?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I maun see him, Jamie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then bring him thae bit claes; an’ he wants meat
+or drink, ye ken whaur to get it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“God bless ye,” answered Mary; and taking the
+clothes with her, she left the room.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mere courage, or the absence of it, is not always a fair
+test of a man’s moral condition. That morning John
+Wigton had been ready enough to brave a violent death;
+that evening, he was willing to do or suffer almost anything
+in order to retain for a little longer.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“The poor common privilege of breathing.”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c016'>But in the meantime a revolution had passed over him;
+and the man who shrank from death was in some
+respects better and wiser than the man who faced
+it fearlessly. His daring had been the offspring of
+ignorance and superstition; his fears were at least
+reasonable. A weight of conscious guilt was on his
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>soul, how then could he venture to enter his Maker’s
+presence?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He was sitting at the table, his head bowed down
+between his hands, when Mary entered the room, came
+towards him, and said softly, “Brither.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He started and looked up, but in an instant afterwards
+his head sank and he covered his face again.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’ll no reproach ye,” said Mary, her voice trembling,
+“but gin it’s no wrang to think it, I could wish God
+wad hae taken me hame afore this bitter day. Brither,
+brither—what gared ye dream o’ sic’ a deed?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I hae nae will to blame him that bade me do the
+wark, my ain guilt is owre heavy for that,” he answered;
+and Mary saw that his heart was crushed within him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Thank God it was nae waur,” she said gently; “it
+gars me grue to think what micht hae been the day.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Sister, ye were richt. Maister Wishart preaches the
+true Word o’ God. Miserable sinner that I am, I hae
+focht against God himsel!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“God can pardon, brither.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh ay, he can, but I sair misdoot,—atweel, Mary,
+we maun part the noo for aye and aye. Ye ken yersel
+it’s better sae.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary did not deny it. Tearless, but with a look more
+sad than many tears, she answered, “Brither, I’ll pray
+for ye night, noon, and morn—I’ll nae mair forget yer
+name than I could <i>his</i> whase life ye sought. And I hope
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>in God’s mercy we’ll meet ainst again at his right
+hand.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then we part friends, Mary?” said Wigton, extending
+his hand.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh ay,” replied Mary quickly; but a sudden thought
+of the deed that hand had been about to do overcame
+her at the moment, and she hesitated to take it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye willna touch me,” said her brother. “<i>He</i> took
+me in his arms.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Overpowered by the recollection, he buried his face
+once more in his hands and wept aloud. George
+Wishart’s forgiving love had conquered. All the ice of
+fanaticism, that for years had been gathering around the
+heart of Wigton, melted beneath its beams in a single
+hour. Since he left his father’s home he had scarcely
+known what it was to weep; for men who harden their
+hearts as he did, do not often yield to the softening
+thoughts that bring tears. But now he was sobbing like
+a child; not for sorrow, not for shame, not even for the
+sense of sin, but only at the memory of those arms
+clasped around him—that voice pleading for him—“Whosoever
+shall trouble him troubles me.” And he
+had hated the man so bitterly, had believed so firmly
+that by killing him he should do God service! Truly,
+as Martin Luther said, “Satan cannot cast out Satan,”
+nor hate vanquish hate, “but the finger of God, which
+is love, will do it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>When men weep thus they do not soon grow calm
+again. Mary saw that every nerve in her brother’s
+frame was quivering with emotion. She came very
+close to him <i>now</i>, wound her arms about his neck and
+pressed her lips to his. “God will pardon thee,” she
+said again.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“God’s servant pardoned,” murmured Wigton.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“An’ I dinna think the Maister’s ain heart ’ill be less
+full o’ love than the servant’s. Whaur but frae the
+blessed Lord himsel did Maister Wishart learn to forgie
+like that? Gin <i>he</i>, wha ye thocht to kill, could shield
+ye wi’ his ain body frae them that sought yer life, ye
+may ken for sure that the guid Lord ’ill no refuse, an’ ye
+turn to him, to tak’ ye in <i>his</i> arms and keep ye safe frae
+scathe and harm.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“O Mary, what a refuge for the like o’ me! Na—na—it’s
+owre guid.” And he shook his head despondingly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He saves to the uttermost, he forgies e’en the chief
+o’ sinners,” answered Mary.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But I maun gang,” said Wigton, rising. “It’s
+wearing late, and they’ll hae shut the gates.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary gave him the clothes she brought, and proffered
+food, which he declined. He changed his dress in a
+small adjacent room where Mary used herself to sleep
+before her father’s death; and then returning to her, said,
+“I dinna think aebody’s like to ken me noo, forbye it’s
+weel nigh dark.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>“Could ye no bide here the nicht, John?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I daurna; an’ what guid wad it do?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Will ye no tell me whaur ye’re gaun?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I dinna just ken mysel. But I ken unco weel
+whaur I’m no like to gang, and that’s to St. Andrews.
+Aebody’s hand ’ill be again me noo; and my lord the
+Cardinal wad gie me sharp thanks for this morn’s wark.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary shuddered. “He maun be a bluidy blackhearted
+man, God forgie him,” she said. “What gars
+him hate guid Maister Wishart, wha never did him or
+ony man harm?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>To this question John Wigton was scarcely competent
+to give an answer. But he gave the best he could,—“Because
+he is—he was—that is, they ca’ him—an
+awfu’ heretic. But heretic or no,” he added very
+earnestly, “wi’ a’ my heart I pray God bless him, an’
+I’ll pray the same ilka day until I dee, gin the prayer
+o’ sic’ a puir wretch as I can be worth aething ava.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Again his voice faltered and his lips trembled. But
+steadying both with an effort, he said, “Guid nicht,
+Mary. Aiblins ye’ll hear o’ me again, but maist like ye
+willna.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Brither!—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Dinna fret for me. I’ll no starve, I’ll fend for
+mysel some gait or ither. It’s an ill pairt I hae done
+by you, lass, but ye’ve better friends than me noo.
+Guid nicht!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>Mary threw herself into his arms. One moment she
+was locked in his embrace, the next he was gone.
+Where he sat and wept, there she too seated herself,
+and her tears began to flow. “Brither! brither!” was
+the cry of her heart, though her lips uttered no sound—“My
+puir, puir brither!” Love and pity were now the
+only feelings that found place in her soul. Pity for his
+shame and sorrow; mingling with the old familiar
+childish love, the love that never grows up save between
+those whose</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Voices mingled as they prayed</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Beside one parent’s knee.”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c016'>Oh, might they meet again, here if it were her Father’s
+will; if not, hereafter, in that home where shame and
+sorrow can never come!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But did John Wigton really repent? Towards the
+man whose life he sought he certainly repented; did he
+towards that God against whom he had sinned so deeply?
+We cannot answer. It is God’s own high prerogative
+to <i>give</i> repentance. He alone who made the heart can
+re-make it, changing its stony hardness into flesh “like
+a little child’s.” Man’s love and forgiveness may soften
+even obdurate hatred towards man; but it needs the
+revelation of a divine tenderness, divinely made, to
+subdue that awful and mysterious enmity of the depraved
+mind against Him who is the source of all good and all
+happiness.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>Mary’s tears were changing into prayers for the now
+doubly lost one, when some one quietly entered the
+darkening room. She knew Jamie’s footstep,—but why
+should she tremble so? How glad she was that in the
+waning light they could not see each other’s faces! She
+could not help the strange fear that thrilled her heart.
+Fear of what? His contempt? He was too generous
+for that; but generous as he was, the sister of John
+Wigton could never be to him, or to any of them, what
+she had been before. The very name was infamous
+now. She would go away—would hide herself from
+them all.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>James Duncan walked straight up to her, and took
+her passive hand in his. “Mary, lass?” said his gentle
+voice,—the voice of a strong man’s tenderness.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary steadied hers to answer him. “Jamie,” she said,
+“ye ken God has laid his hand on me the day. For I
+maun think, it’s my comfort, that a’ the grief and dolour
+comes straight frae his ain hand; an’ no be minding the
+wicked, cruel men wha hae had to do in’t. And, oh
+Jamie! there hae been ithers mair to blame than my
+puir misguided brither. God forgie him; and I hae that
+faith He will. For sure he repents.—But that’s no what
+I want to say.” She paused a minute; and the darkness
+hid the deepening crimson of her cheek, but not the
+faltering of her voice, as she resumed, “Puir we hae
+been, but dishonour ne’er came to our house till the day.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>It has come noo, God help me to bear it! Na Wigton
+’ill ever haud up the head again in a’ the country. God
+may forgie this day’s wark, but men willna forget it;
+aiblins they suldna. And I’m Mary Wigton, John
+Wigton’s sister. Archie and Janet—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The rest of the sentence was never spoken, for Jamie
+quickly interrupted, “Janet hauds ye her ain dear sister,
+an’ I—hear me, Mary—I love ye as I love naething else
+in a’ the muckle warld.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And he added a great deal more, which need not here
+be written. If the sober, quiet, but deep-feeling young
+man grew actually eloquent, it was no marvel, for
+eloquence is the language of strong emotion, and his
+soul was moved to its centre. What he said might, and
+probably would, have been said weeks before, but for
+the circumstances of danger and trial in which they had
+been placed, which seemed to render such thoughts
+untimely and unsuitable. Or it might still have been
+deferred for weeks, had not Mary’s grief and shame for
+her brother smitten the rock of reserve and caused the
+waters to gush forth. However this may be, it <i>was</i> said
+now. There, in the soft autumn gloaming, the faces of
+the speakers unseen, but their hands clasped together,
+simple earnest vows were exchanged, vows which they
+prayed God to bless and confirm. They believed he
+would look down in love upon his two poor children,
+whose hearts he had bound together by such a close and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>tender tie. They had no dream of happiness  apart
+from his favour and blessing; whatever he might give
+them in each other, the cry of both their hearts was still
+the same,—“Thou, and Thou alone art our portion.”
+They could not have loved each other so well, if they
+had not loved Him better.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>That bitter day did not close in bitterness upon Mary
+Wigton. Subdued and chastened but most heartfelt
+thanksgivings for God’s mercies to herself, mingled with
+her prayers for her misguided, wandering, but as she
+hoped, repentant brother.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_146.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_147.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>XI.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>Clear Shining after Rain.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Bent on such glorious toils,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>The world to him was loss;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Yet all his trophies, all his spoils,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>He hung upon the cross.”</div>
+      <div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>Montgomery.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_147b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_149.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>XI.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>Clear Shining after Rain.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_149.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+Janet Duncan gave Mary a sister’s welcome
+with heartfelt pleasure and affection. With
+her, as well as with her brother, ties were
+slowly formed, though when once formed they were strong
+as adamant. She contracted friendships rather from long
+association and mutual service than from congeniality of
+disposition or sentiment. Mary had shared her watch
+beside little Effie’s dying bed, had helped to tend Jamie
+during his long illness, and had struggled and suffered
+with them through their sorest trials;—these were cogent
+reasons for taking her at once to her warm and honest
+heart. Nor was Archie less satisfied with his brother’s
+choice; though he pertly suggested, that the sooner
+Mary Wigton changed her name to a less objectionable
+one the better it would be for all parties.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But there were difficulties about ways and means sufficient
+to have perplexed much more thoughtful heads
+than Archie’s. James and Mary, however, were quietly
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>happy in the present, and therefore content to “bide
+their time.” Upon one point they were both agreed:
+they must wait at least until God was pleased to remove
+“the great plague and sickness” from the city where
+they dwelt. Had not the worst been already over, the
+matter would scarcely have become even one for deliberation.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The worst <i>was</i> over. Joy and thankfulness were
+about to take the place of universal sorrow and fear.
+Day by day, and more and more rapidly, the number of
+deaths decreased. Life began to return to its usual
+course; shops and other places of public resort were
+re-opened; people no longer threaded their way cautiously
+through the middle of the streets, jealously guarding
+themselves from every touch that might convey
+infection, but began to jostle the passers-by on the
+footways, or to stop and talk with their neighbours as in
+former times. Devout and fervent were the thanksgivings
+that arose from many hearts; nor were the Duncans
+and Mary Wigton among the least grateful of the
+inhabitants of Dundee.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>James Duncan was now anxiously seeking another
+situation. Since the memorable day of Wishart’s visit
+the family had not known want; but they were not of a
+temper to eat the bread of charity one hour longer than
+was absolutely necessary. Besides, Jamie had now an
+object before him sufficient to animate him to tenfold
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>energy and activity. A very frugal livelihood, it is true,
+would suffice for them. Janet and Mary could help in
+various ways (for as a matter of course they were all still
+to remain together); and it was fully time even for
+Archie to take the matter of earning his own bread into
+consideration. But the first thing necessary was, that
+James should procure employment. Poor in everything
+else, the young man was rich in character; the family
+of his late employer and many of his customers were
+ready to give him those “goodly words,” which in certain
+cases are the reverse of useless. Still, for some time
+his efforts proved unsuccessful; and he was beginning to
+feel disheartened and seriously anxious, when a circumstance
+occurred which diverted his hopes and his
+exertions into an entirely new channel.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary had gone out one day to take home some fine
+sewing which had been given her through her friends
+the Browns; for people were again beginning to care,
+not only for the necessaries, but for the elegancies and
+superfluities of life. On her return, Janet surprised her
+with the intelligence that no less important a personage
+than Maister Wilson from the Nethergate had been inquiring
+for her, and requested her to call at his house as
+soon as she could. Mary’s feelings towards the man
+who had wronged her father had once been very bitter;
+for it is possible for gentle natures to harbour very bitter
+feelings when those they love are injured. She could
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>not forget that her father’s desire to recover the debt so
+dishonestly repudiated had occasioned the removal of
+the family to Dundee, and been thus, in a manner, the
+cause of the troubles that had ensued. But her resentment
+against this man was amongst the old things that
+had passed away from her when the great change came
+over her heart and life. When she found that he too
+had been smitten with that terrible plague, she had not
+failed earnestly to pray that God would have mercy both
+on his body and his soul; and it was with pleasure she
+learned that his sickness was not unto death. Still the
+thought of an interview was embarrassing; and the more
+so as the recollection of the father to whom she had been
+so tenderly attached naturally came back very vividly on
+her mind, and threatened almost to overcome her.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Not choosing, however, to defer a disagreeable duty,
+she at once repaired to the mercer’s dwelling; and it
+was fully two hours before she returned. When she did
+so, she looked agitated, and there were traces of recent
+tears on her countenance. Seeing that Janet remarked
+them, she said in explanation, “It’s no that I’ve been
+fretted, Janet; but it’s an unco thing to think that Maister
+Wilson suld come to himsel the noo, and make a’
+richt between us—and my puir father in his grave.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye dinna mean to say he’s gien ye back the siller,
+lassie?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay, has he. Ilka plack and bodle o’t. Forbye, it’s
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>a hantle mair than the twa hundert merks, for there’s
+what he ca’s <i>interest</i>.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Eh, but that’s guid news!” cried Janet and Archie
+in a breath.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m blythe to win it—for Jamie,” said Mary softly,
+and with a blushing cheek.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hae ye brought it wi’ ye?” asked Archie.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Na; I was fear’t to carry sae muckle gowd. I
+thocht Jamie wad gang and fetch it for me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Weel for him an’ he has nae waur wark to do,” said
+Archie.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Maister Wilson maun hae gone clean wud, I’m
+thinking,” said Janet. “I hae never heard the like!
+And naebody e’en speiring after the siller.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was a moment or two before Mary answered; and
+then she said, in a quiet, reverent voice, “God has
+changed his heart, Janet.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And was <i>that</i> what gared him pay the debt?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Just that. And he’s sair grieved to think of a’ the
+sorrow that he—” here her voice faltered, and she
+stopped. “I telled him that was a’ bye, and suldna be
+thocht on again. Forbye, God meant it for guid to me;
+for ye ken, gin it hadna been for the siller we’d hae
+never come here, whaur the true Word o’ God is preached.
+But he askit o’ my puir father, and wad hear the haill
+story, sair vexed as I was to tell it. It gaed hard wi’
+him, Janet—he a’maist grat before I had done. And
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>he said to me that he kenned full weel God had
+forgien him, but he couldna forgie himsel. I tried
+to gar him see that he suldna hae sic’ thochts; but
+I’m naebut a puir body for words, and no gleg wi’ my
+tongue.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“How did he find ye out, Mary?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I dinna just ken; gin it wasna through the guid folk
+wha hae helpit Jamie. He has aft seen my face at the
+preaching, little dreaming wha I was. Eh, but ye suld
+hae heard him talk o’ the preaching, Janet.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At that moment Jamie entered, and was soon told the
+pleasant news. Mary had now a “tocher” that many a
+lass in a higher grade might have envied.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And it’s a’ anent Maister Wishart,” said Archie, “wha
+tells folk they canna be saved for doing guid warks; and
+gars them do mair in a day than a’ the priests in Scotland
+wadna in a year.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A discussion of their plans naturally followed. The
+possession of this sum of money removed most of the
+obstacles to Jamie and Mary’s union. The first and
+apparently the most feasible proposition was, that Jamie
+should undertake a shop of his own, in which Archie
+might assist. This was not at all to Archie’s taste; but
+had his been the only dissentient voice, it might still
+have been carried. Mary had been for some time a
+silent listener to the conversation between Jamie and
+Janet, but when directly appealed to by Jamie, she said
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>gently, “I dinna doot it’s a’ richt, Jamie. Aiblins it’s the
+best thing we can do.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But I’m fear’t ye dinna like it, Mary.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh ay.” Then after a pause, and rather timidly,
+“Whiles I canna help thinking lang for the bonnie Sidlaw
+Hills.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wad ye like to gang <i>there</i>, lassie?” asked Jamie,
+eagerly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, <i>brawly</i>,” answered Mary, with sparkling eyes.
+“An’ John tald me father’s farm’s to let. But it’s a
+fule thocht,” she added; “ye couldna mind a farm,
+Jamie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It’s a’maist time I was awa’ to the Nethergate to
+Maister Wilson,” said Jamie, evading a direct reply.
+But though he spoke little, he thought much. Intensely
+anxious to gratify Mary, and conscious of his own power
+to master almost anything in the way of business in
+which his strong will was sufficiently interested, he
+revolved the plan she had suggested in his mind. Now
+that he was possessed of the requisite capital, could he
+not turn farmer, and thus secure, not only a comfortable
+livelihood, but a healthy country home to Mary and
+Janet? Part of his own boyhood had been spent with a
+relative in the country; and he had thus acquired a taste
+for rural occupations, as well as a little elementary knowledge
+on the subject. For the rest, he could engage
+competent assistance, and feel his way, trusting to his
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>natural shrewdness to protect him from imposition. If
+he was imprudent, he had at least a very valid excuse.
+“It will please Mary so much,” was a reason weighty
+enough to counterbalance many difficulties.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>His visit to Wilson proved much longer than he
+anticipated. The mercer, a new convert to “Christ’s
+Evangel,” and full of life and zeal, was glad to find a
+kindred spirit in Mary Wigton’s “weel-wisher.” A very
+short time sufficed for the transaction of their business;
+and they then entered into conversation upon the higher
+themes so dear to both their hearts. Wilson was struck
+by the young man’s general intelligence, as well as by
+his knowledge of the Word of God, which indeed had
+been his meditation day and night since he obtained
+possession of it. No subject makes strangers friends so
+quickly as this. Ere they parted, Jamie could not help
+yielding to the impulse that prompted him to ask the
+advice of Wilson upon the project Mary had suggested.
+Wilson thought it might be accomplished, and volunteered
+his counsel and assistance, which in many ways were
+very useful.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Anxious to perform a service for the family Mary was
+about to enter which might in some degree atone for
+past injuries, he offered to take the young brother, whom
+Jamie had casually mentioned, as his apprentice; and if
+he liked the business, to establish him in life without
+cost to his relatives. Archie’s future was just then a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>matter of serious consideration to Jamie, and he was
+deeply grateful for an opening much more eligible than
+any he could have dreamed of securing for him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Having duly thanked Wilson on his brother’s account
+and his own, he hurried home freighted with pleasant
+tidings. Great was his astonishment when Archie declared
+that no persuasion could induce him to be bound
+to a trade. He who in past days had so hated school,
+would now do anything, possible or impossible, would
+work half the night, would live on one meal a day,—if
+Jamie would only consent to keep him there for another
+year. Most earnestly did he entreat his brother to grant
+him this boon; but when pressed to say what he proposed
+doing at the year’s end, he continued obstinately
+silent. Jamie reasoned, remonstrated, and finally grew
+angry and threatened, all to no purpose. Even when an
+elder brother performs a father’s part, he seldom possesses
+in full measure a father’s authority.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet’s well-meant expostulations did not tend to
+smooth matters. Archie was probably not mistaken in
+thinking that if he explained himself freely, his practical
+sister would ridicule him as an absurd dreamer, and he
+dreaded nothing in the world so much as ridicule.
+Therefore no more could be got from him than this, “I
+willna be Maister Wilson’s, or ony man’s ’prentice.”
+Jamie was fain to treat his extraordinary conduct as the
+result of a fit of boyish naughtiness, and to tell him
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>he would give him until next morning to recover his
+senses.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Meanwhile the old farmstead on the slope of Dunsinnan,
+amongst the bonnie Sidlaw Hills, grew fairer
+and fairer in prospect. Difficulties seemed to vanish
+away upon closer inspection; and after a long happy
+talk together that evening, Jamie said, “My mind is set
+to try it, Mary, and I think God ’ill help me; for I hae
+askit him to show us the gait we suld gang.” Very
+thankful was Mary for this decision. It was her
+character to cling fondly to old cherished scenes and
+associations, and even with Jamie she felt as if a narrow
+room in a crowded “land” could scarcely ever be
+“hame” to her. Besides, he had not since his illness
+at all recovered his wonted strength; and for his sake,
+as well as for her own and Janet’s, she longed for those
+fresh mountain breezes that “sweep disease on their
+breath away.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A night’s reflection strengthened Jamie’s determination;
+neither, unfortunately, did it alter Archie’s. Jamie,
+anxious to avoid a sinful loss of temper on his own part,
+told the boy as quietly as he could, that if he refused
+Wilson’s generous offer, he did so on his own responsibility,
+and very much to his own disadvantage. He
+added, that he could only maintain him by taking him
+with him to the country, where he must expect to work
+hard and fare hard; and that as he did not see fit to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>entrust him with the motives of his strange behaviour, he
+must at least go with him to the Nethergate, thank the
+mercer himself for his kind proposal, and give his own
+reasons for declining it. He was of an age to speak for
+himself, Jamie said, and certainly in this instance <i>he</i>
+could not undertake to speak for him. To this Archie
+agreed, and prepared to accompany his brother. A consciousness
+that all his friends were displeased with him,
+made him sullen in manner and extremely uncomfortable
+in feeling; but he was cherishing a purpose that he believed
+in his heart of hearts to be a good and noble one,
+and like an inconsiderate boy, he resolved upon pursuing
+it, without pausing to reflect whether it was practicable
+or no.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m sair fashed for Archie,” said Mary to Janet when
+he was gone. “The callant has some notion or ither in
+his head, gin a body could come by it. Do ye no mind
+how he’s changed, Janet? He’s grown sae douce and
+still; and he’s aye and aye reading at ‘Maister Wishart’s
+wee bookie,’ as he ca’s it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>To Jamie and Janet and Mary the New Testament
+was “God’s Word,” to Archie it was only as yet “Maister
+Wishart’s book.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hoot,” cried Janet contemptuously, “the laddie’s
+clean wud, that’s a’. An’ I had my will, he suld e’en
+want his parritch till he fand his wits.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In the meantime Jamie and Archie walked silently to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>the Nethergate, and soon found themselves in the mercer’s
+comfortable parlour. The rich man greeted Jamie
+cordially, and noticed his young brother with frank kindness,
+but he appeared grieved and pre-occupied.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“There’s news to-day,” he said, “mony a heart in
+Dundee ’ill be sair to hear.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Is the sickness waur again, sir?” asked Jamie.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No, God be praised, the sickness is a’maist gone;
+but I hae just seen Maister James Wedderburn, wha’s
+weel acquaint wi’ Maister Wishart, and its owre true he’s
+gaun awa’.  Neist sermon ’ill be his last here.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie’s exclamation was drowned by a real cry of distress
+from Archie, a cry that made Wilson turn and look
+at the boy more attentively than he had done before.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That’s ill news indeed for Dundee,” answered Jamie,
+with a face that said more than his words. “But is it
+sure he maun gang, sir? Couldna the Lord Provost or
+Maister Robert Mill, or Maister James Wedderburn, gar
+him bide wi’ us?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wilson shook his head. “Na, na. He says ‘God
+has weel nigh put an end to this battle, he finds himsel
+called to ane ither.’ But there’s mony amang us ‘id gae
+thro’ a’ the trouble and dolour o’ this waefu’ year again,
+anely to hae him still to comfort us.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“God’s will maun be done,” said Jamie sadly. Then
+after a pause, “Does aebody ken whaur he’ll gang the
+noo, sir?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>“Maister Wedderburn’s no sure yet. Aiblins to
+Montrose, whaur he first began to preach, aiblins back
+to Kyle.” Some conversation followed upon Wishart’s
+brief but brilliant ministry in the west. Jamie and
+Archie knew very little of their venerated pastor, except
+what they had themselves seen and heard. They listened
+therefore with much interest to Wilson’s animated description
+of his “offering Goddis Woord” in Ayr and the
+surrounding places. For everywhere, as amongst them,
+had he approved himself the minister of God, “by pureness,
+by knowledge, by longsuffering, by kindness, by
+the Holy Ghost, by love unfeigned.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>One story amongst others the mercer told them, which
+Knox has preserved for us, bestowing upon the picture
+one or two of those rare touches of grace and tenderness
+of which his strong bold hand was not incapable.
+Having been invited to preach in the church of Mauchline,
+Wishart found himself on his arrival excluded by
+the Sheriff and a strong party of Romanists, who, acting
+under his orders, had seized upon the building. The
+high-spirited gentlemen, his friends and adherents, were
+indignant at this treatment, and vowed to enter the
+church by force. But the servant of the Lord would not
+strive. Taking Hugh Campbell of Kinyeancleugh, the
+most zealous of his followers, aside, he said to him:
+“Brother, Jesus Christ is as potent upon the fields as in
+the kirk; and I find that he himself more often
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>preached in the desert, at the sea-side, and in other
+places judged profane, than that he did in the Temple
+of Hierusalem. It is the word of peace that God sends
+by me: the blood of no man shall be shed this day for
+the preaching of it.” And so, followed by all the people
+of the town, he withdrew to the hillside, where they
+stood or sate around him while he preached from “a
+dyke in the moor edge.” And Knox forgets not to tell
+us, that “God gave the day pleasing and hote.” Modern
+church-goers may be surprised to hear that the sermon
+lasted more than three hours; but the preacher knew
+his time was short, nor were the hearers weary, for “the
+word of the Lord was precious in those days.” And
+“in that sermon God wrought so wonderfully with him,
+that ane of the most wicked men that was in that
+country, named Laurence Rankin, laird of Sheill, was
+converted. The tears ran from his eyes in such abundance
+that all men wondered.” And his life thenceforward
+was such as to evidence the reality of the
+change.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Here Wilson paused, struck by the eager attention of
+his younger listener. Archie’s bright young face was
+indeed glowing with interest and enthusiasm; and the
+mercer, pleased with the boy’s appearance, felt the more
+desirous to receive him into his household. He therefore
+asked him kindly if his brother had told him of his proposal,
+and what he thought of it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>“Ye’re unco guid, sir,” said Archie, so fired by all he
+had been hearing that reserve and shyness were forgotten,
+“but I willna hae a trade. I maun gang to the
+schule and learn my book. Aiblins God’ll gie me sae
+muckle grace that when I’m a man grown I may preach
+his holy Word—like guid Maister Wishart.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie stood aghast at this revelation of his brother’s
+ambition. Had the friendless orphan boy declared his
+intention of one day becoming lord provost of Dundee,
+or even lord high sheriff of Angus, he would have
+deemed his aspirations comparatively moderate and
+reasonable. “Ye puir fule callant!” he said, too deeply
+compassionate to entertain the least thought of ridicule,
+“ye’ll no ever be like <i>him</i>. What gars ye cry for the
+moon, like a senseless bit bairn?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Leave him his lane,” interposed Wilson. “He’ll no
+be the waur, ony gait, for having dreamed that dream;
+and he’s like to be the better his haill life lang.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The famous words,</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in14'>“Who aimeth at the sky,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Shoots higher far than he that means a tree,”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c016'>had not yet been penned; but they would not be so
+famous if they did not embody a truth which thoughtful
+spirits had recognised and acted upon long before.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wilson then spoke to James Duncan about his plans;
+and having ascertained his determination to remove to
+the country, he finally offered Archie a home in his
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>house for the next year; telling him he might attend
+school with his own bairns and show what progress he
+could make; and adding, for Jamie’s benefit, that if it
+seemed advisable, at the end of that time, he might still
+be bound to the trade.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Archie “wasna blate,” as Jamie afterwards declared.
+He frankly and gratefully embraced the proposal, leaving
+his brother little opportunity for showing the reluctance
+he felt at accepting so great a boon from a comparative
+stranger.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The brothers did not return as silently as they came.
+Their brief misunderstanding had been swept away by
+a common interest and sympathy; and if the elder remonstrated
+with the younger on the wildness of his
+ambition, it was in the spirit of love and meekness. For
+he had reason to fear that the boy had not yet in his
+own heart felt the power of the truths that Wishart
+preached; and that what looked so like an ardent
+attachment to the doctrines of the gospel, was, in fact,
+only the result of a passionate admiration for the best
+and noblest man he had ever known. Archie’s answers
+to the questions he put, though both frank and intelligent,
+confirmed him in this opinion; and he warned
+him, gently but faithfully, against the danger of self-deception.
+He was so far impressed and sobered, that
+on his return home he actually allowed Jamie to narrate
+to Janet and Mary all they had heard; not interposing
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>a single word until his brother told Wishart’s reason for
+leaving Dundee, when he could not refrain from saying,
+“Eh, but I think it’s unco hard. <i>Our</i> troubles are bye
+noo, and we’re gaun to rest. An’ is <i>he</i> naebut to gang
+to some ither battle, aiblins as hard as this ane?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay, lad,” said Jamie, “there’s nae rest for the
+preacher o’ God’s Word till God gies rest himsel. How
+could it be ony ither gait, sae lang as the haill country
+lies in darkness and the shadow o’ death, and men are
+deeing ilka day without the fear o’ God or the hope o’
+heaven? Atweel,” he added after a pause, “he’ll no
+ever ken here a’ the guid he’s done us, and a’ the love
+we bear him for it; but an’ it’s no wrang, I like to think
+whiles that we’ll get to tell him up yon in heaven. For
+doesna the Book say that sic’ as we ’ill be the minister’s
+joy and crown o’ rejoicing in Christ’s presence by and
+by?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But I’m no just sure, Jamie,” said Mary thoughtfully,
+“that it’s richt to leave a’ the doing and suffering
+in Christ’s cause to Maister Wishart. What has the
+guid Lord done for him he hasna done just the same for
+ilka ane of us?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But ye ken we canna preach, Mary,” remarked Janet.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That’s owre true, Janet, but we can <i>live</i>. Forbye,
+Jamie, when we gang to Dunsinnan, do ye no think we
+can tell our puir neebors the Word o’ God, and read
+them a wheen chapters out o’ the Book?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>“Sae we will, God helping us,” said Jamie. “Gin
+trouble suld come to us for the same (I’m no saying it’s
+like to come, Mary, but ye ken it <i>might</i>), we’d be blythe
+to thole it for his sake wha tholed the bitter cross for
+ours.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ony gait, Jamie, we’re unco safe in his keeping.
+An’ how weel he has fended for us! I canna but mind
+that bit verse in the wee psalm book ye bought me
+yestreen for a propine.<a id='r13'></a><a href='#f13' class='c014'><sup>[13]</sup></a> ‘The lot is fallen to me in a
+fair ground: yea, I hae a guidly heritage.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“God be praised,” answered Jamie; “the year o’ the
+muckle sickness has been the best year I hae seen in a’
+my life.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Many besides James Duncan could have borne this
+witness. The dark year of Dundee proved one of the
+brightest in her history. Never before, and perhaps
+never since, until the great revival of the present day,
+had such numbers there been turned from darkness to
+light and from the power of Satan unto God. It was
+but a little while until that light so increased and
+brightened, that it chased the shades of darkness away
+before it,—nay, until its beams, concentrated as in a
+burning-glass, shrivelled to ashes the worn-out gauds
+and trappings of Romish superstition. Dundee was the
+first of all the Scottish burghs that declared for the
+Reformation; and by her whole-hearted steadfastness
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>in the good cause she won the honourable name of the
+Second Geneva.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Three hundred years, with all their changes, lie between
+us and those stormy days of conflict and victory.
+Yet they are not quite forgotten. The old walls of
+Dundee have indeed been laid level with the ground;
+but reverent grateful hearts have spared the antique
+gateway, hallowed so long ago by the feet of him who
+brought glad tidings and published peace. Fitting
+emblem of a grand truth! Thus shall perish the
+memories of mere human greatness—the renown of kings
+and captains—the gaudy trophies of successful warfare.
+But the work of faith and labour of love, wrought in
+Christ and for him, stands secure of a double immortality.
+Its blessed results here shall last as long as the earth
+herself, while its bright memorial and recompense above
+are imperishable as the stars, like which they that turn
+many to righteousness shall shine for ever and ever.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_167.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_169.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>XII.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>The Reward of God’s Messenger.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“I bless Thee for the light that dawns e’en now upon my soul,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And brightens all the narrow way, with glory from the goal.</div>
+      <div class='line'>The hour and power of darkness, it is fleeting fast away,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Light shall arise on Scotland, a glorious gospel day!</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>       ·       ·       ·       ·       ·</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Now let thy good word be fulfilled, and let thy kingdom come,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And in thine now best time, O Lord, take thy poor servant home.”</div>
+      <div class='line in32'><cite>Lays of the Kirk and Covenant.</cite></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_169b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_171.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>XII.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>The Reward of God’s Messenger.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_171.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+More than a year has passed away since James
+and Mary Duncan, with their sister Janet,
+left Dundee for their new home amongst the
+Sidlaw Hills. A very happy home they have found it.
+They have not been without cares and anxieties, but
+these have seemed light because borne together in loving
+sympathy. God has established the work of their hands
+upon them, and they have now every reason to believe
+that the old farm of Dunsinnan Brae will amply supply
+their simple wants. What is still better, they may hold
+and even profess the true faith in peace, none making
+them afraid. The neighbours are friendly, the parish
+priest careless and indifferent. Provided he receives
+his “teindis, rentis, and all uthir dewties,” he is quite willing
+to connive at the absence of the Duncans from their
+parish kirk; and even if he is aware that many of the
+neighbours find their way in the winter evenings to the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>farm-house spence,<a id='r14'></a><a href='#f14' class='c014'><sup>[14]</sup></a> to hear the Scriptures read in their
+own tongue, at least he is obliging enough to keep the
+knowledge to himself. Having thus learned in a humble
+way to water others, James and Mary Duncan are abundantly
+watered themselves. They often long, it is true,
+for the public ministrations of the gospel; but since the
+streams are at present denied them, they repair the more
+frequently to the fountain-head. Both can now read
+with ease and fluency; and to the Testament and
+Psalm book they possessed before leaving Dundee they
+have since added the remaining portions of the Word of
+God. These they study diligently and prayerfully, and
+the Lord himself is their teacher. Meanwhile, in their
+daily walk, and in all their dealings with others, they seek
+to show forth the praises of Him who called them out of
+darkness into his marvellous light.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Janet is now no longer an inmate of the Dunsinnan
+homestead. An honest-hearted farmer of the neighbourhood,
+who received the new doctrines from James Duncan,
+has learned to appreciate the sterling qualities of his
+teacher’s sister, and asked her to share his home. But a
+distance of only two or three miles separates Mary and
+Janet, who will always continue to be, what sorrow shared
+together made them to each other,—loving sisters and
+true friends.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Archie is still in Dundee, and bids fair to be one of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>the first pupils of the grammar-school. The good abilities
+of the once idle thoughtless boy are rendered
+available by the industry which is born of a cherished
+purpose. Wilson proves a true and wise friend, and
+allows him to lack for nothing; and, moreover, in a town
+like Dundee, there are prizes enough to be won by the
+talented and studious. A free education and maintenance
+at the University of St. Andrews might be easily
+obtained; but as things are at present, this would scarcely
+be an advantage to one of his views and opinions. He
+is not, however, either at an age or of a disposition to
+foresee difficulties, and is too happy in his present life of
+conscious progress and improvement to think much of
+the future.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The beginning of the year 1546 brings great joy to
+Dunsinnan Brae. A proud and happy man is James
+Duncan when he holds in his arms “a bonnie lad bairn,”
+his first-born; prouder and happier still when Mary’s
+gentle step again moves softly through the house, or her
+sweet voice chants for a cradle-song some verse from
+the “guid and godly Ballates” of Maister John Wedderburn.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was a cold inclement winter, but within that home
+there were warmth and light; even for the life that now
+is there were “all things richly to enjoy,” and there was
+a bright and sure hope for that which is to come.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Jamie,” said Mary softly, one day as she sat at work
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>beside her baby’s cradle, “do ye mind a bit promise ye
+made before we left Dundee?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I ken what ye mean, Mary,” answered Jamie, with
+a thoughtful face. “I said, gin the guid Lord gied me
+a bonnie bairn, I’d no hae it kirstened wi’ ‘spittle, salt,
+candle, coit, oil,’ and the lave, but according to our
+blessed Saviours ain simple ordinance.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye said mair than that, Jamie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay, and I’ll haud to the same. Nae hand but guid
+Maister Wishart’s sall bapteeze my bairn, an I hae to
+carry it across half Scotland ere I find him.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye’ll na hae that to do, for it’s maist like he’s still at
+Montrose.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then ye wadna think muckle o’ the journey, or be
+fear’t for the bairn, Mary?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary’s eyes shone very brightly through tears of grateful
+love as she answered: “Is it to see <i>his</i> face again,
+Jamie? That were weel worth it a’. Forbye, he’d pray
+a bit prayer for our bairn that wad bring it a blessing its
+haill life lang.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And ye ken, he’s sae kind and gentle, ane needna be
+fear’t to ask him. Gin the morn’s clear and frosty like
+the day, I’ll just gang to Dundee and talk the matter
+owre wi’ Maister Wilson.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay, and speir after Archie, puir lad. I jalouse he’s
+working owre hard wi’ that Latin.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The next day James Duncan put his resolve into practice.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>Nine or ten miles and back on foot were a small
+matter to him now; but Mary, a careful and tender wife,
+was grieved to see the day, which had begun in frosty
+brightness, become overclouded at noon, and end in rain
+and sleet. She exerted herself to make everything within
+the house present as favourable a contrast as possible to
+the gloom and dreariness without; and a brighter “inglenuik,”
+a warmer welcome, or a more comfortable supper,
+were never prepared for any tired wayfarer than those
+which awaited Jamie’s return that night. He was late,
+and Mary had dismissed the farm-servants to their beds
+long before she heard the well-known sound of his footsteps,
+and joyfully hastened to open the door for him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He scarcely answered her inquiries whether he was
+“wat through,” “owfre forfoughten,” and similar subjects
+of wife-like anxiety. Having thrown off his dripping
+cloak in the outer porch, he silently followed her into
+the cheerful spence, bright with fire and candle light.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>One glance at his pale agitated face made her exclaim,
+in tones faint with terror, “What’s wrang wi’ ye,
+Jamie?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“O Mary, they hae taken him at last!” was the
+sorrowful reply. No need to ask <i>who</i> he meant.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wae’s me!” said Mary, when she <i>could</i> speak. “I
+thocht God wad hae keppit him.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“His way is in the sea, his path is in the great waters,
+and his footsteps are no kent,” answered Jamie in a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>voice that showed how sorely his own faith was tried by
+the mystery of God’s dealings with his servant.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“<i>Wha</i> has taken him, Jamie?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Alas, that’s weelnigh the waurst of a’. My lord
+Bothwell has gien him up for gowd to the bluidy Cardinal.
+But he’ll wish sair that day’s wark were undone,
+when he comes to stand before the judgment-seat o’
+God.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then, whaur is he noo?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“In the cruel Cardinal’s dungeon at St. Andrew’s.
+God help and strengthen him!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“We can but pray. Oh, Jamie, do ye no mind wha
+answered prayer sae lang ago, and sent his angel to
+open the prison-door and set the captive free? I dinna
+misdoot he loves Maister Wishart just as weel as e’er he
+loved St. Peter.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He doesna send his angels noo, Mary.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I dinna ken; I think they were no that far awa’
+when he was saved sae strangely from sic’ a dreadfu’
+snare at Montrose.<a id='r15'></a><a href='#f15' class='c014'><sup>[15]</sup></a> But maist like the Lord of angels
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>himsel was by then. Ony gait, I’ll no gie up hope for
+him, Jamie. He that saved Daniel in the lions’ den,
+and the three children in the fiery furnace, can save
+his dear servant frae the cruel hand o’ him that hates
+him.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He <i>can</i>, Mary. He’s the God o’ the haill earth.
+But I doot it’s na his will to do it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What gars ye say the like o’ that?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Unco hard it is to say it, God wot. Oh, Mary, I <i>hae</i>
+prayed—I hae warsled sair wi’ the Lord a’ the time sin’
+I heard it, wi’ the bitter sleet and rain driving in my
+face, and a waur storm in my heart. And I could get nae
+licht or comfort ava’, God help me! But I ken by a
+sure token Maister Wishart’s wark is done.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>With trembling lips Mary asked him what he meant.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He kenned it weel himsel. But I maun tell ye
+frae the beginning what I hae heard the day. Maister
+Wilson tald me the waefu’ tidings; and by and by wha
+suld come in but Maister James Wedderburn himsel.
+Ane love and ane sorrow brought us twa thegither, and I
+think neither minded that are was puir and the ither rich.
+He sat down sae douce and kind, and tald me a’ that
+happened sin’ the time Maister Wishart left Montrose.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why did he leave it, Jamie?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>“The gentlemen o’ the Westland, wha were his
+friends, wrote to ask him to come to Edinburgh, and
+they wad keep tryst wi’ him there, and gar the bishops
+gie him leave to haud public disputation, and to preach
+the gospel. Dauntless as he ever was in the cause of
+Christ’s evangel, ye may weel guess he didna say them
+nay. Gin ither hearts had been as leal and true, it
+might hae fared better wi’ him and wi’ us a’. There was
+fearfu’ peril, for the cruel Cardinal was coming to Edinburgh;
+but this didna move him, nor counted he his life
+dear to himsel. He passed thro’ Dundee”—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I wish we had kenned that, Jamie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Sae do I. For noo, I wot weel that they amang
+whom he has gone preaching the word o’ God sall see
+his face nae mair.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>After a long pause he continued. “But he didna
+bide in the town. He stayed the night at Invergowrie,
+wi’ Maister James Watson. It’s his brither John wha hae
+tald Maister Wedderburn what happened there. In the
+dark nicht, a wheen before the daybreak, Maister Wishart
+rose and gaed forth o’ the house. Still and lane as it
+was that hour, the yard was no lane enoo’ for him,—he
+maun gang to and fro till he fand a bit quiet walk.
+Maist like he thocht nae closet wi’ the door steeked
+could be sae siccar as <i>that</i>, in the chill silent autumn
+night. But John Watson, wi’ ane friend o’ his, followed
+and marked a’ he did.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>“Eh, but that was no richt, Jamie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Owre true. Nae een but God’s suld hae watched
+the bitter struggle o’ that brave heart. For he fell upon
+his knees, and wept and groaned aloud like ane that
+tholed an awfu’ agony. <i>He</i>, sae grand and calm, and
+aye sae unmoved in trouble and danger! And at last
+he bowed e’en his vera face to the earth, and prayed thus
+for nigh an hour, in a low voice sair broken wi’ tears.
+But it seemed as tho’ God heard his prayer, for then he
+rose calm and stilled, and sae he gaed in.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“The twa friends met him, as by chance, and askit
+him whaur he had been. He wadna tell them; but in
+the morning they came again to him, and said: ‘Maister
+George, ye maun be plain wi’ us; for we hae seen ye,
+and heard your bitter mourning, baith on yer knees and
+on yer face.’ They kenned weel he was grieved at this,
+tho’ he wadna gie them an ungentle word. ‘I had
+rather you had been in your beds; and it had been
+more profitable to you,’ he said. But still they urged
+him to show them some comfort. Then at last he answered
+them: ‘I will tell you. I am assured my travail
+is nigh an end. Call to God for me that now I shrink not
+when the battle waxes hot.’ But this gared them baith
+greet, and say to him, ‘that was sma’ comfort unto them.’
+‘God shall send you comfort after me,’ Maister Wishart
+said again. ‘This realm shall be illumined with the
+light of Christ’s evangel, as clearly as ever was any realm
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>since the days of the Apostles. The house of God shall
+be built in it. Yea, it shall not lack (whatsoever enemies
+shall devise to the contrary) the very copestone. Neither
+shall this be long in doing. There shall not many suffer
+after me, till that the glory of God shall evidently appear,
+and shall anes triumph in despite of Satan.’—I hae gien
+ye word for word, Mary; a man doesna forget sic’ words
+as thae.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, Jamie,” said Mary, in tones full of awe and
+wonder, “did God himsel’ tell him a’ that?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Is it that strange gin he did, Mary? Might he no
+tak’ his servant, like Moses to the top o’ Pisgah, and gie
+him a glint of the guid land whaur he means to bring his
+ain faithfu’ folk? Forbye, ye ken there’s a power in the
+prayer o’ faith that passes thocht and comprehension. I
+canna think that Maister Wishart’s sair warsling wi’ the
+Lord that hour, wi’ strong crying and tears, was a’, or
+maistly for himsel. Nae doot the thocht o’ sic’ a death
+as he maun face is owre hard to flesh and bluid. And
+that’s no the bravest heart that feels the least, Mary; but
+that feels the <i>maist</i>, that kens a’ the bitter pain and dolor,
+and yet can thole it for the Saviour’s sake. But I believe
+Christ’s wark in this realm is mair a thousandfald
+to him than his ain life. I believe the strongest cry of
+his heart gaed up to heaven for thae puir souls he wared
+that life to teach and save. And wadna the guid Lord
+tell him, ‘See, I hae heard thee in this thing’—‘My
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>righteousness is near, My salvation is gone forth.’—‘But
+gae thou thy way till the end be, for thou shalt rest, and
+stand in thy lot in the end o’ the days?’—Still, it’s no
+for me to say muckle on’t; the place is owre holy, a man
+suld tak’ his shoon frae his feet.<a id='r16'></a><a href='#f16' class='c014'><sup>[16]</sup></a></p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“After that nicht’s agony and joy, he gaed forward,
+strong in the calm trust that kens nae fear. But when
+he came to Leith there was nae word frae the Westland
+gentlemen; and the peril being great, his friends were
+feart for him, and gared him keep close a wee while.
+But he waxed sorrowfu’ in spirit, and said: ‘What differ
+I from a dead man, except that I eat and drink? To
+this time God has used my labours for the instruction of
+others, and the disclosing of darkness; and now I lurk
+as a man ashamed, and dare not show myself before men.’
+Seeing that he willed to preach, they answered him:
+‘Maist comfortable were it unto us to hear ye, but because
+we ken the danger wherein ye stand, we daurna
+desire ye.’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“‘But daur you and others hear?’ said the brave
+preacher o’ righteousness,—‘then let my God provide
+for me as best pleaseth him.’ (It was aye <i>my</i> God wi’
+him.) Sae he preached in Leith, in Inveresk, in Tranent;
+and God wrought for him, and blessed his ain Word.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>Amang thae whase hearts he opened was Sir George
+Douglas, the Maister of Angus. After the sermon at
+Inveresk he said publicly, ‘I ken that my lord governor
+and my lord cardinal will hear I hae been at this
+preaching. Say unto them that I will avow it, and that I
+will not only maintain the doctrine I hae heard, but also
+the person o’ the preacher to the utmost o’ my power.’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But it was in Haddington he preached his last
+sermon. Ere he gaed to the pulpit, they brought him
+a letter frae the Westland, to wit, that the gentlemen
+couldna keep their tryst, or come to Edinburgh ava’;—maist
+like they feared the Cardinal. He called unto
+him ane Sir John Knox”—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wha’s he?” asked Mary, little dreaming that the
+name so unfamiliar to her ears was destined to become
+far more famous than that of her revered pastor. Thus
+also perhaps was the word fulfilled, “One soweth and
+another reapeth,”—if indeed this be worth noticing, now
+that for so many years he that sowed and he that
+reaped have been rejoicing together in their Saviour’s
+presence.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He’s a guid priest,” said James Duncan, “wha was
+maister to Sir Hew Douglas’s bairns. He has shown
+muckle love to Maister Wishart, waiting on him wi’ a’
+diligence, and blythe and proud to bear before him the
+twa-handed sword his friends gared him tak’ wi’ him sin’
+John Wigton—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>“Well, I meant—I was saying he ca’ed for his friend
+Sir John Knox, and tald him a’ his bitter grief at thae
+tidings. Nae thocht had he for himsel, that they had
+led him into cruel peril, and then left him his lane to
+dee; a’ his complaint was, that they were weary o’ God
+and his cause.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then, after sermon,—whilk he ended thus, ‘Let
+these my last words as concerning public preaching
+remain in your minds till God send you new comfort,’—‘he
+took good night, as it were for ever, of all his acquaintance.’
+Sir John Knox begged sair to bide wi’ him,
+but he wadna. He took frae him the twa-handed sword,
+and bade him gang his ways. Sir John still entreating,
+he answered (aye thoughtfu’ as he was for a’body but
+himsel), ‘Nay; go back to your bairns, and God bless
+you—<i>ane is enough for a sacrifice</i>.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was well for Scotland that the heart of George
+Wishart was thus “at leisure from itself.” Had he
+granted Knox’s affectionate entreaty, another name
+would probably have been added to the noble army of
+martyrs, but the Reformation would have lacked its
+great leader, the one man who could bend and sway the
+hearts of thousands. Little, however, did the Duncans
+suspect all this; and very lightly would they have
+esteemed the life of John Knox in comparison with <i>his</i>
+over whose head they saw the martyr’s crown suspended.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie continued, “Sae he gaed wi’ the laird and a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>wheen ither gentlemen to Ormistoun, whaur he was to
+sleep. It chanced they had to walk, by reason o’ the
+muckle frost. After supper he talked happily wi’ his
+friends o’ the death o’ God’s dear children; then, being
+weary, he said, ‘Methinks I desire earnestly to sleep.
+Will we sing a psalm?’ Near as he lived to Christ, the
+lowliest words o’ penitence and prayer seemed best to
+suit his heart’s need that nicht. Sae he waled the fifty-first,
+frae the “gude and godly ballates,’—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“‘Have mercy on me now, good Lord,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>After thy great mercy;</div>
+      <div class='line'>My sinful life does me remord,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Whilk sair has grievit thee;</div>
+      <div class='line'>But thy great grace has me restored,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Through grace to liberty:</div>
+      <div class='line'>To thy mercy with thee will I go.’</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Whilk being sung, he gaed to his chalmer, saying to
+his friends as they parted, ‘God grant quiet rest.’ But
+na quiet rest was for God’s weary servant that nicht.
+Ere midnicht Lord Bothwell, wi’ his men-at-arms, had
+beset the house.<a id='r17'></a><a href='#f17' class='c014'><sup>[17]</sup></a> Sae soon as he kenned their purpose,
+Maister Wishart said to the laird, ‘Open the gates, and
+let the blessed will of my God be done.’ Sair grieved
+was the laird to do it, but it had to be. Forbye, Lord
+Bothwell had gien express promise ‘that he should be
+safe, and that it should pass the power o’ the Cardinal
+to do him scaith or harm.’ And this said he owre again
+to Maister Wishart himsel, in the presence o’ the lairds
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>his friends. ‘Neither sall the Governor or the Cardinal
+hae their will o’ ye, but I sall retain ye in my ain hands
+and in my ain place, until that either I sall mak’ ye
+free, or else restore ye in the same place where I receive
+ye.’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And the lairds answered, ‘Gin ye do this, my lord, we
+will serve ye our haill lives lang, wi’ a’ the men o’ Lothian
+wha profess Christ’s evangel.’ Sae they a’ straik
+hands upon it, and made solemn promise as in God’s
+presence.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But sma’ thocht o’ God was in Lord Bothwell’s
+mind. Maist like he meant fair at first; but the Cardinal
+gied muckle gowd, and the Queen’s grace<a id='r18'></a><a href='#f18' class='c014'><sup>[18]</sup></a> gied guidly
+words, and sae—and sae—amang them a’ God’s servant
+was bought and sold. First the Lord Governor had him
+in his keeping in Edinburgh Castle. Wae’s me! but few
+days passed then, until he lichtly gied him up into the
+hands o’ him that sought his life.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What say the Dundee folk to a’ this, Jamie?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It’s no that lang sin’ the tidings came for sure, that
+they had haled him to St. Andrews. A’ the faithful
+make sair lamentation, but I needna tell ye <i>that</i>,
+Mary” (and his own voice faltered)—“The cry is aye
+and aye, ‘My father, my father, the chariot of Israel and
+the horsemen thereof.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary shuddered. “Oh, Jamie, do ye no think what
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>that minds me of? The chariot—of <i>fire</i>!” The last
+word was rather breathed than spoken; yet the loudest
+thunder-peal could not have sent such a thrill through
+both those hearts.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>James Duncan covered his face, and did not speak for
+a long time. At last he said, “Young folk like Archie
+are weel nigh daft, because the gentlemen and a’ the
+lave wha hae heard the blessed word o’ truth frae his
+lips, sit still the noo in their quiet hames while the
+Cardinal pays him for his message wi’—wi’ <i>that</i>. But
+they couldna save him. The haill power o’ the realm is
+against them.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Archie, puir lad, ’ill be sair troubled.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay; but he’s had his arm broken.” What would at
+another time have been considered a serious misfortune,
+now scarcely caused Mary a start. So true it is that “a
+great grief kills all the rest.” She asked, however, how
+it happened.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“A’ anent thae waefu’ tidings. There be some, of
+course, amang the tounsfolk wha haud still by the
+Cardinal and the priests. The lads fecht their forbears’
+quarrels owre again, and whiles they dinna spare to use
+waur weapons than their tongues. Our Archie wadna
+stint to gie as guid as he got, ony gait. But it chanced
+he fell in wi’ a wheen silly callants, wha had learned frae
+the priests to ca’ Maister Wishart a heretic. He gied
+them back the word, that he was na heretic, but the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>noblest man and the best Christian in a’ Scotland. That
+was unco weel; but then he was sae far left to himsel,
+that he maun curse the bluidy Cardinal in a loud voice,
+and pray God wad send him an evil end. Wi’ that
+somebody flang a muckle stane at him, and, lifting his
+arm to save his head, he had it broken.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m wae for that, ilka gait,” said Mary. “Sic’ paivies
+couldna do God’s servant ony guid.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“True; but the broken arm willna do Archie muckle
+harm. It’s a kind o’ comfort to him to hae something
+to thole, and keeps him a bit quiet. I gared Maister
+Wilson promise to send him here sae soon as he could.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Jamie,” said Mary after a pause, and rather hesitatingly,
+“will ye no tak’ yer supper, man?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie drew forward towards the table, which had
+been spread by Mary with such loving care. His eye
+rested on the little tokens of anxious thought for his
+comfort, then wandered round the cheerful pleasant room,
+to their store of treasured books—to the bright fireside—to
+the cot near it where their infant slept. With a
+quick movement he turned away, and veiled his face to
+hide the tears he could no longer restrain. “Oh, Mary,”
+he said, “I’m fear’t it’s no sae cheery as this the nicht—in
+the Sea Tower o’ St. Andrews!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But, Jamie, God can make the dark gruesome dungeon
+mair bright wi’ his presence than the summer sky
+wi’ sunshine. Can we no trust our dear father in Christ
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>in the loving hands o’ the guid Maister he served sae
+faithfu’? While yet he walked amang us God was his
+portion, why suld we doot that even noo he can be his
+exceeding great reward?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary Duncan’s words were true. No record indeed
+remains to us of the month during which he lay, “straitly
+bound in irons,” in that “nook in the bottom of the Sea
+Tower, a place where many of God’s children had been
+imprisoned before,”<a id='r19'></a><a href='#f19' class='c014'><sup>[19]</sup></a>—unless the faith and love, shown
+so soon afterwards by the captain of the castle, may be
+counted a record of work done for Christ in that solemn
+interval. But it has well been said, “There has been
+a joy in dungeons and on racks passing the joy of
+harvest. A joy strange and solemn, mysterious even to
+its possessor. A white stone dropped from that signet-ring,
+peace, which a dying Saviour took from his own
+bosom, and bequeathed to those who endure the cross,
+despising the shame.” If that white stone has been
+ever given (and most assuredly it has), we may presume
+it was not withheld, in the hour of loneliness and
+suffering, from Christ’s faithful soldier and servant,
+George Wishart.</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_189.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>XIII.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>“He giveth his beloved Sleep.”</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“I bless Thee for the quiet rest thy servant taketh now,</div>
+      <div class='line'>I bless Thee for his blessedness, and for his crownèd brow;</div>
+      <div class='line'>For every weary step he trod in faithful following Thee,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And for the good fight foughten well, and closed right valiantly.”</div>
+      <div class='line in32'><cite>Lays of the Kirk and Covenant.</cite></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_189b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_191.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>XIII.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>“He giveth his beloved Sleep.”</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_191.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+Heavy was the cloud of sorrow that brooded
+now over the once cheerful home at Dunsinnane
+Brae. “All joy was darkened, the
+mirth of the land was gone.” Mary moved with hushed
+footsteps about her household duties, speaking little, but
+praying much. Many a quiet tear dropped over her
+baby’s cradle; many a time the psalm she tried to sing
+died away in low sobs; nor could she even recall the
+precious words of Scripture for her own comfort, without
+too vividly recalling with them the thought of him who
+was suffering for the crime of having brought to her and
+to others that living water. Jamie’s grief was less
+resigned and patient than hers. Certain very old perplexities
+about the works of God and his ways with the
+children of men sorely haunted and troubled him. With
+these came thoughts of anger and bitterness, only too
+natural under the circumstances. Mary often heard him
+murmur, “How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>not judge and avenge?”—But he could never bear to
+complete the sentence.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Soon afterwards Archie, who was now wonderfully
+subdued and quiet, joined their party. He brought with
+him from Dundee the tidings that the Cardinal had
+asked the Governor for a temporal judge to pronounce
+sentence upon the heretic; but that it was hoped and
+expected he would refuse the request, which indeed he
+did, telling the Cardinal that “he would not meddle
+with the blood of that good man.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Further than this, for three slow and sorrowful weeks
+they heard nothing. One evening they had just concluded
+their wonted family worship, in which the prayer
+was never omitted, that God would hear his servant in
+the day of trouble, send him help from the sanctuary,
+and strengthen him out of Zion. Jamie’s voice faltered
+sorely as he offered it; and, on rising from his
+knees, he drew Mary aside and said to her, “It’s na use.
+I canna bide here ony langer. I maun gang to St.
+Andrews.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary started at this announcement.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“To St. Andrews, Jamie! What gars ye think o’
+that?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I wad learn a’ there, and—and—aiblins see his face
+again.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Eh, but that’s no like to be,—God wot,” she added
+very earnestly, “gin you could bring him but sae muckle
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>comfort as a cup o’ cauld water, I wadna haud ye back,
+an’ ye were to set your ain life in the bawk to do it. But
+ye couldna. Think on’t yersel; ye ken weel they wadna
+let you see him. It’s naebut a fule thocht, Jamie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No just that. We canna get the bit news our hearts
+are aching for, but I maun gang a’ the gait to Dundee.
+St. Andrews is no sae muckle farther.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay is it, owre twice as far. But it’s no the distance.
+It’s that I canna see the guid on’t. Forbye, Jamie, St.
+Andrews is the Cardinal’s ain town.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Weel, what matters that to a puir simple man like
+me, wha naebody kens?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye might be owre gleg wi’ yer tongue.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jamie shook his head impatiently, was silent for a few
+moments, and then wisely shifted his ground. He had
+made a mistake, in attempting to reason at all about
+what was not a matter of reason, but of feeling.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It’s a’ true what ye say, Mary. But ye maunna
+keep me back, for it’s <i>borne in on me</i> I suld gang. Fule
+thocht or no, I canna rest till I do it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The woman’s nature responded to this appeal. She
+answered immediately, “Then do a’ that’s in thine heart,
+Jamie. But oh,” she added, “for the sake o’ yon bit
+bairn in the cradle, be prudent, man, and dinna be
+thinkin’ out loud!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ne’er fear for me. I havena done sae muckle for
+my Lord that he suld honour me to suffer for him.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>But it’s my thought aye and aye, an’ I gae to St.
+Andrews, aiblins he’ll gie me an answer here to the
+question that’s rackin’ my heart baith day and nicht,
+‘Thou art o’ purer eyes than to behold evil, an’ canst
+not look on iniquity, wharefore lookest thou on them
+that deal treacherously, and haudest thy tongue when
+the wicked devoureth the man that is mair righteous
+than he?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>James Duncan acted on his impulse. It may be the
+highest wisdom of a wise man to do this occasionally;
+for “the heart has its reasons, which the reason cannot
+comprehend.” He was enough of a Scotchman, however,
+to be prudent in his way of doing even what might
+be considered an imprudent action. In order to cover
+his real purpose, he found a plausible business errand
+to a brother of Janet’s husband, one Walter Graham,
+who resided at St. Andrews. And being well aware
+how little Archie’s discretion could be counted upon, he
+steadily refused his passionate entreaties to be permitted
+to accompany him. It was perhaps fortunate
+that he had another very sufficient reason for this
+refusal, as the boy was still weak and suffering from the
+effects of his accident. Janet volunteered to remain
+with Mary and the invalided Archie at the farm during
+the few days of the master’s absence; and he set out on
+foot, intending to cross the Firth of Tay, and in this
+manner to accomplish the journey in a single day.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>Thus the man, as man ever will, found relief for his
+sorrow in action, in motion, in excitement; while the
+woman, as woman so often must, sat at home, and
+suffered and kept silence.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Three anxious days passed heavily by at Dunsinnane
+Brae. But on the evening of the third, a little after
+sunset, James Duncan returned home. So calm, it might
+almost be said so radiant, was his countenance, that at
+the first glance his impetuous young brother could not
+help exclaiming, “Is he saved, Jamie—tell us, is he
+saved?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Saved—ay, that he is! Ane day and nicht (but
+there’s nae nicht there) has he been in his Saviour’s
+presence, and is no that enoo to pay for a’ he suffered
+here?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh but, Jamie—did God let them do their waurst?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nae doot he kens noo that the <i>waurst</i> cruel men
+could do was just the <i>best</i> his Lord could appoint for
+him. And I’m amaist come to that mysel. What I
+hae seen is wonnerfu’.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Let my God provide for me as best pleaseth him,”
+had George Wishart said; and God had not denied him
+the request of his lips. But truly man’s worst is often
+His best for his chosen. Our love is timid, shrinking,
+more fearful even of inflicting than of enduring pain;
+His is broad, and strong, and far-seeing, as well as tender.
+Could we have our will with the dark tragedies of earth’s
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>history, should we not be often tempted to find for them
+some softer termination? But,—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“God himself is the true poet,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>And the real is his song.”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>And with deep meaning has it been said, that “he
+whom the poet loves he allows to suffer.” For the heart
+attuned to comprehend its beauty, no sweeter poem was
+ever sung than the life that ended at St. Andrews, upon
+that 1st of March 1546.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>As soon as the others were calm enough to hear it,
+James Duncan told his tale:—“I hae tint my gait,” he
+said, “after I crossed Tay Frith, and I fand mysel at
+Cupar—no that a’ that matters noo; but in sae far that
+it gared me bide there the nicht. Neist morn (and no
+sae early either, for I was owre forfoughten) I walked
+the sax mile to St. Andrews. Being come there, straight
+I ken’d that something by-ordinar was on hand. Castle
+and town were full o’ spearmen and jackmen, wi’ knapscall
+splent and axe; and folk were busy loading the
+muckle guns in the Towers. I thocht first it was for
+fechting, and that there maun hae been a stour in the
+town, but soon I changed my mind. Passing the East
+Tower, I saw nigh the Abbey, at the foot o’ Castle
+Wynd, men biggin’<a id='r20'></a><a href='#f20' class='c014'><sup>[20]</sup></a> <i>something</i>, I ken’d na what. But
+ainst I looked up at the castle, I had it a’ fixed: the
+folk were naebut making holiday, and they were biggin’
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>a stage for a clerk-play, or sic like. For the hail fore
+tower was decked out wi’ braw gear,—velvet cushions,
+tapestry curtains, and the lave,—as for the Cardinal and
+the kirkmen to look on and tak’ their ease. By-an’-by,
+I askit ane o’ the jackmen wha stood on guard what a’
+this suld mean. He answered me cold and careless,—‘They’re
+gaun to burn Maister Wishart, and yon’s naebut
+for my lord and the bishops to see the ploy.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“<i>Curse them!</i>” cried Archie.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Whisht, callant!—I cursed them ainst mysel, and
+that bitterly,—but I hae done wi’ cursing noo. Weel,
+I just said, ‘The Lord require it,’ and leaned back
+against the wa’. Na for a’ the muckle warld wad I
+fecht thro’ sic’ an hour again! I thocht my heart maun
+break, no just wi’ grief for <i>him</i>, but wi’ rage an’ bitter
+hate. Christ’s gentle, loving servant, wha had wared
+his haill life doing guid, to dee in cruel torture,—and
+thae fiends to sit yonder, in their hatefu’ pomp an’ pride,
+to <i>enjoy</i> the sight o’ his agony! ‘Serpents, generation
+o’ vipers, how wad they escape the damnation o’ hell?’
+I was blythe to think they wadna escape it. Wi’ an
+awfu’ thirl o’ joy the thocht gaed thro’ and thro’ me,
+that the smoke o’ their torment wad gang up for aye and
+aye in the presence o’ the holy angels. It’s nae word to
+say I wad hae slain the bluidy Cardinal wi’ my ain hand;
+I’d hae deemed a quick death like that owre muckle
+guid for him—it was no to <i>that</i> death he doomed his
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>victim. Sae I gied him up in my heart to God’s ain
+fearfu’ vengeance, and I lifted my hand to heaven to
+curse him in his holy name.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But when I thocht upon God I was troubled. For
+I minded that <i>he saw a’ this</i>. He beheld, frae his
+dwelling-place, the cruel triumph of his enemies, the
+bitter suffering of his dear, faithfu’ servant. Yet he
+bided still, and gied nae sign. The sky was clear and
+blue;—he sent nae thunnerstorm to smite the guilty
+town. Had he indeed forsaken him? Did he no care
+what happened? Were the murderer and the martyr
+alike to him? Ye may weel look fear’t, Mary, thae
+were gruesome wicked thochts—but God had mercy on
+me.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Belyve<a id='r21'></a><a href='#f21' class='c014'><sup>[21]</sup></a> a braw gentleman, wi’ sword and broidered
+doublet, passed quick by us. The man wha had spoken
+wi’ me made him a salute, and said, ‘Yon’s our captain.’
+Unkenning what I did, I gied ane glint at his face.
+Sadder face hae I never seen upon living man! He
+looked as he’d hae gien the haill warld just to greet like
+a bit bairn, but daredna do it <i>then</i>. I couldna help
+mysel, I gaed richt up to him, and said, ‘Sir, in God’s
+name, tell me gin this thing be true?’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He didna answer me sae quick; but he peered in
+my face as he’d hae read the vera thochts o’ my heart.
+Indeed, I trow ilka ane of us read the ither’s heart, for
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>the een whiles can say mair than the tongue. At last
+he speired o’ me, ‘Be you a friend o’ his?’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I said, ‘Nae mair than thousands wha hae heard the
+Word o’ Life frae his lips, and wad be blythe to dee for
+him the day, gin that might be.’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“‘Ye haud his faith?’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“‘Dearer than my heart’s bluid.’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“‘Follow me then,’ sayeth he, ‘in the name o’ our
+Lord Jesus Christ.’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Muckle wonnerin’, I did as he bade. As we passed
+alang to a postern o’ the castle, he spake but ane word
+mair to me,—‘He sall hae his last wish the day, despite
+a’ the bishops in Scotland.’ Then a familiar<a id='r22'></a><a href='#f22' class='c014'><sup>[22]</sup></a> having
+opened to us, he gied me in his charge, and we parted.
+I was led to a quiet, pleasant room, and left there my
+lane. Like ane in a dream I looked around me, and
+felt a kind o’ wonner at seeing ilka thing sae still and
+hame-like. As tho’ that day were like ither days, and
+folk could eat and drink, there was a fair white cloth
+laid on the table, wi’ bread and wine, and sic’, upon’t.
+Belyve, there dropped in quietly ane, an’ anither, an’
+anither. Aiblins the maist part were the captain’s ain
+househald, but I ken there were mair by than that.
+Ane thing was sure, they a’ feared the Lord. Strange
+it seemed to me to meet God’s children <i>there</i>, in the
+vera seat o’ Satan. But I soon learned frae their talk
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>what had happened. It was but that morn they had
+tried and condemned him.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Their feet were swift to shed bluid,” said Archie.
+“What need to try him ava’?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It was naebut for fear the folk suld say he was
+unjustly slain, as indeed they spared not to avow.”
+James Duncan paused for a moment, and suppressed a
+bitter sigh. “I canna just tell a’ they tald me o’ that
+trial as calm as I ought. Tho’ it’s a’ by noo, the heart
+maun burn still at the cruel insults heaped on Christ’s
+servant. They gied him to drink verra deep of his
+Maister’s cup; he was mocked, reviled,—even spit upon.
+But he tholed a’ wi’ grand and sweet patience; not ainst,
+they say, did e’en a change come owre his face. Sae
+calmly and bravely he defended God’s truth, that the folk
+wha filled the Abbey Kirk—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Auld wives and doited carles they maun hae been to
+bide it. They suld hae torn the Cardinal in pieces and
+saved him!” Archie burst forth impetuously, every nerve
+in his frame quivering with passion. Mary and Janet
+were weeping quietly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Callant, what could they do? I hae said the town
+was filled wi’ soldiers; and the gunners stood ready at
+the muckle guns till a’ was done. Ane hundert jackmen,
+wi’ spear, splent, and axe, guarded the prisoner. But
+the folk gied him what they could. Ainst, a priest wha
+said the devil was in him, had the word gien back to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>him quick by ‘ane young scholar boy’ in the crowd,
+‘It’s a devilish tale to say that. The devil never moved
+to speak as yon man speaks.’ Again, as he spake o’ the
+priesthood of a’ God’s children, the bishops drowned his
+voice wi’ a shout of insulting laughter. Sae soon as he
+might be heard, he said gently, ‘Do ye laugh, my lords?
+Though these sayings appear to your lordships scornful
+and worthy of derision, yet they are very weighty to me,
+and of great value, for they stand not only upon my life,
+but also upon the honour and glory of God.’ When
+folk’s hearts are owre full, a sma’ thing’ll gar them greet;
+many wha were present brake forth into tears at this,
+nor did they even fear to make lamentation for him aloud.
+And at last, ere their wark was done, the bishops were
+fain to put the people forth, for they daredna trust them
+mair.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ane that came in later than the lave, tald us that
+Dean John Wynram, the sub-prior o’ the Abbey, wha
+preached the sermon in the kirk that morn before them
+a’, having spoken afterwards wi’ Maister Wishart, was
+moved to the vera heart; sae that he gaed, weeping
+bitterly, to the bluidy Cardinal himsel, wi’ a’ his priests
+and bishops, and tald him plainly, that ‘Maister Wishart
+was an innocent man, and that he said this, not to intercede
+for his life, but to make known his innocency
+unto all men, as it was known already unto God.’
+May God remember that man for guid, and bring him,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>in his grace, to a clear knowledge o’ the Truth, for the
+whilk his servant suffered!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But maist eager for his death, after the cruel Cardinal
+himsel, was the Archbishop o’ Glasgow. Folk couldna
+fail to mind it was no that lang sin’ he came to Ayr, wi’
+his jackmen and spearmen, to tak’ the muckle heretic.
+But he fand him wi’ a’ the Westland gentlemen around
+him, sword in hand. Ye mind then how he seized the
+kirk, and how, as at Mauchline, the angry gentlefolk
+wad hae driven him forth waur than he came, hadna
+God’s servant withheld them, saying, ‘Let him alane;
+his sermon will not much hurt. Let us go to the Mercat
+Cross.’ Bitter thanks the bishop gied him for the same!
+But at least Maister Wishart had his will; ‘the Word sent
+by him was a word o’ peace,’ na bluid was shed for it—<i>but
+his ain</i>.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“We were talking o’ these things amang oursels wi’
+sad hearts, when the captain came again, and wi’ him—the
+man sae dear to us a’.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, Jamie! Then, ye saw him?” Jamie bowed his
+head.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Was he changed?” asked Mary in a trembling voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He was pale and worn-looking, but ye’d scarce hae
+thocht o’ that; for God’s peace was in his face, gin it’s
+ever been in man’s.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then he wasna fear’t?” asked Janet.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“<i>Fear’t</i>, Janet? He was naebut gaun ‘unto God, his
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>exceeding joy.’ But I couldna but mind the day he
+knelt by my bedside sae kind and gentle, and a great
+sob came up like a wave frae the bottom o’ my heart.
+Wi’ a’ my strength I forced it back, and kept still,
+warsling wi’ mysel, while the lave pressed round and
+talked wi’ him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But presently I heard him say, ‘I beseik ye, my
+brethren, to be silent for a little while, that I may bless
+this bread according to our Saviour’s ordinance, and so
+take my leave of you.’ He was sae calm himsel, that
+he calmed us a’. He gared us come to the table; and
+we were soon seated there, as for a simple meal, yet
+kenning full weel the place was na ither than the house
+o’ God, the vera gate o’ heaven.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And sic’ God made it to us. Oh Mary, it was
+wonnerfu’ to hear a man talk o’ Christ, wha we kenned,
+ere that day’s sun set, suld see Him eye to eye. It was
+amaist as though he <i>had</i> seen Him, even then. He
+seemed to tak’ us wi’ him—abune—ayont a’ earth’s grief
+and dolor, into the strange peace and quiet of our Lord’s
+ain immediate presence. He spake first o’ the institution
+of the Lord’s Supper, then of his sufferings and his
+death for us. He made us a’ think o’ that, till, looking
+at the Cross, we amaist forgot the stake that was sae
+near us. Nae doot but <i>he</i> forgot it!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But ye ken that in the old times, Mary, he never
+failed to bring the truth hame to our ain hearts and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>lives. And sae it was the noo. Maist lovingly he
+pleaded wi’ us, by that Death for us, to love ane anither
+‘as perfect members of Christ, wha intercedes continually
+for us to God the Father.’ And he bade us lay aside, for
+His name’s sake, a’ rancour, envy, <i>vengeance</i>!—Weel we
+kenned what he meant! Archie, lad, it seemed no hard
+to do it then, wi’ sic’ thochts before us. I looked for a’
+the rage and hate that a wheen agone had filled my soul
+wi’ the bitterness o’ death, and lo! they were gone;
+Christ’s love had melted them awa’. Frae the vera
+depth o’ my heart I forgave that hour—even the cruel
+Cardinal. And I think we a’ did the same. This was
+the last lesson <i>he</i> taught us.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then he blessed the bread and wine, and having tasted
+them himsel, he gied to ilka ane of us. I feel the thirl
+yet o’ his hand touching mine, and his voice saying to
+me, ‘Remember that Christ died for thee, and feed on
+Him in thy heart by faith.’ Still mair when he gied the
+cup, that the kirkmen say we daurna touch.”—Here at
+last Jamie’s voice failed, and he was silent for some
+moments. Presently he resumed, “After this he gied
+thanks, and prayed for us. Then he said, ‘I shall
+neither eat nor drink more in this life. There is a more
+bitter cup prepared for me, only because I have preached
+the true Word of God; but pray for me, that I may take
+it patiently, as from his hand.’ And sae, having bade
+us a’ farewell, he gaed forth.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>“Did ye greet?” asked Janet.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Not ane tear till he was awa’. We wadna grieve
+him wi’ our grief; forbye, ere he had done, our hearts
+were owre full of a kind of awfu’ happiness that left nae
+thocht o’ grief. But then—when a’ was by,”—again his
+voice died away.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Archie broke the silence,—“It was just like him to
+help and comfort a’body else to the vera last minute, wi’
+nae thocht nor care for himsel.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It was like his Lord,” said Mary’s low soft voice.
+“Thank God a’ yer life ye hae seen him thus, Jamie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I hae seen him ainst mair.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Sure ye daredna see the end?”—the question was
+Archie’s.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’d hae dared onything then. I said to mysel, ‘Am
+I sae weak that I canna thole to <i>see</i> what he maun
+suffer? Gin a’ that love him hae sic’ coward hearts, he’ll
+be left, that dreadfu’ hour, his lane amang faes and
+strangers.’ Sae I gaed wi’ the lave.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Archie, Mary, dinna ask me to say muckle on’t! I
+canna—no just yet. Aiblins when lang years are by,
+and our hairs are gray, we’ll talk it owre wi’ mair quiet
+hearts; but noo”—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>After a long pause he went on, shading his face, and
+bringing out every word slowly and with effort. “I saw
+him led to the stake—the gibbet I suld say, for nae
+shame or scorning they could devise was spared him.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>His hands bound behind him, a rope round his neck,
+and a muckle chain—oh Mary, dinna greet like that, it’s
+a’ by noo. Shame, did I say? God’s bright angels might
+hae envied him the glory o’ that hour. Gin ye’d seen
+his face as I did, ye’d hae thocht sae. His spirit had
+just been in sic’ close communion wi’ the Lord he loved;
+he was gaun straight to the mair perfect fellowship
+abune; and this was naebut a bit passage,—ane step
+between the twa,—Christ’s presence in grace here,
+Christ’s presence in glory up yonder.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Vera gentle were his words to a’, baith friend and
+fae. Even to the beggars, wha met him on the way, he
+couldna but gie a word o’ comfort. ‘I want my hands,
+wherewith I wont to give you alms. But the merciful
+Lord, of his benignity and abundant grace, that feedeth
+all men, vouchsafe to give you necessaries, both unto
+your bodies and souls.’ And when the Grayfriars
+troubled him, urging him to pray to our Lady, he
+answered meekly, ‘Cease to tempt me, I entreat you,
+my brethren.’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Being come to the place, he kneeled down and
+prayed, ‘O thou Saviour of the world, have mercy upon
+me. Father of Heaven, I commend my spirit into thy
+holy hands.’ Then he spake to the people. I hae
+brought ye his last message, Mary. I think my heart
+has gathered ilka ane o’ the words he spake. For the
+hot airn takes the stamp, and keeps it for aye.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>“‘I pray you,’ he said to them that stood around,
+‘show my brethren and sisters, which have heard me
+oft before, that they cease not nor leave off to learn the
+Word of God, which I taught unto them after the grace
+given unto me, for no persecutions or troubles in this
+world, which lasteth not. And show unto them, that
+my doctrine was no wives’ fables, after the constitutions
+made by men; and if I had taught men’s doctrine, I
+had gotten greater thanks by men. But for the Word’s
+sake and true evangel, which was given to me by the
+grace of God, I suffer this day, not sorrowfully, but with
+a glad heart and mind. Consider and behold my visage,
+ye sall not see me change my colour. This grim fire I
+fear not; and so I pray you for to do, if that any persecution
+come to you for the sake of the Word, and not
+to fear them that slay the body, and after that have no
+power to slay the soul. Some have said of me, that I
+taught that the soul of man should sleep until the last
+day; but I know surely that my soul shall sup with my
+Saviour this night, or it be six hours, for whom I suffer
+this.’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then prayed he for his enemies in sic’ words as
+thae: ‘I beseik the Father of Heaven to forgive them
+that have, of any ignorance, or else of any evil mind,
+forged lies upon me; I forgive them with all mine heart;
+I beseik Christ to forgive them that have condemned
+me to death this day ignorantly.’</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>“But no yet was done his last act o thoughtfu’ love.
+For we marked that the doomster<a id='r23'></a><a href='#f23' class='c014'><sup>[23]</sup></a> kneeled unto him,
+and maist earnestly prayed his forgiveness, saying he
+was in no ways guilty of his death. To whom he said,
+‘Come hither to me.’ When he was come, he kissed
+him on the cheek, wi’ the words, ‘Lo, here is a token
+that I forgive thee. My friend, do thine office.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A long, long silence followed. At last Archie murmured
+through his tears, “What then?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then—the end came. But my coward heart failed
+me; I could thole nae mair. Scarce kenning what I
+did, I gat me frae the place, frae the town. I dinna
+mind aething, till belyve I fand mysel in a bit quiet
+grassy spot. There I threw mysel on my knees, and
+tried hard to cry to God. It were sae easy for Him to
+tak’ a’ the bitter pain awa’, and gie his servant peace in
+that last awfu’ hour. The ‘grim fire’ needna hurt, gin
+He willed it sae. For fire and hail, snaw and vapour,
+alike fulfil His word. A’ my heart gaed up in ane last
+prayer for him; and I took nae thocht o’ time, till at
+length the sound of a bell frae the Abbey Kirk struck
+my ear. Then my prayers changed to praises. For I
+kenned it was the saxt hour, and I minded the martyr’s
+words, ‘Ere it be sax hours, my soul shall sup wi’ Christ
+my Saviour.’ Nae truer thirl o’ joy do I ever think to
+feel, were I to live a hundert year on earth. I couldna
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>but cry aloud, wi’ clasped hands, and tears that were a’
+for gladness, ‘Thou hast gien thy servant ‘quiet rest’
+at last. I thank thee, O my Father!’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“God be thanked for <i>him</i>. He rests frae his labours,
+and his warks do follow him.—But it’s the waefu’ day for
+us!” sobbed Archie, who although at an age when boys
+are more ashamed of tears than men, had for some time
+been weeping without restraint.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>James Duncan laid his hand gently on his shoulder.
+“Brither,” he said, “daur ye stand this day by the word
+ye spake when ye waled sic’ a life as his aboon ilka ither?
+Can ye drink o’ that cup, think ye?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The boy raised his head quickly, dashed his tears
+away, and said with deep emotion, “I’d rather live sic’ a
+life and dee sic’ a death, than be king owre a’ the muckle
+warld, wi’ a’ the honour and glory o’t. But,” he added
+presently, and in a lower voice, “it’s no by might or by
+power, but by the Lord’s ain Spirit; the whilk he’ll no
+deny e’en to a puir sinfu’ lad like me, wha asks it this
+day for his dear Son’s sake.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Amen,” said James Duncan.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then they wept together, long and bitterly, like
+orphaned children for a beloved father. But with their
+tears were mingled earnest prayers that they might be
+enabled to follow his faith, considering the end of his
+conversation.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George Wishart entered into rest at the comparatively
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>early age of thirty-three (as is supposed). His ministry,
+after his return to Scotland, did not last more than two,
+or at the most, three years. But both that ministry
+itself, and the martyrdom that crowned and consecrated
+it, were very fruitful in results. In the strong words of
+Burnet, “Not any one thing hastened forward the
+Reformation more than this did.... And it was now so
+much opened by his preaching, and that was so confirmed
+by his death, that the nation was generally possessed by
+the love of it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It seems strange, however, that the story of one of
+Christ’s gentlest servants should be so associated with a
+deed of blood and vengeance, that the martyrdom of
+Wishart is seldom mentioned without recalling at the
+same time the assassination of Cardinal Beaton. We
+may not account for the gleam of prophetic vision that
+crossed the martyr’s spirit, prompting those strange
+words, said to have been spoken from the midst of the
+flames to that faithful friend who stood so near him
+that he was himself actually injured by the fire, “Captain,
+God forgive yon man who sits so proudly on that
+wall-head; but I know that he shall soon lie there in
+greater shame than he now sits in glory.” But if life and
+death have both their many mysteries, above all “dark
+with light of mysteries” is the dim region between them.
+Who knows how God may then speak to the soul? The
+real difficulty is, not that in that hour he was pleased to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>reveal something to his servant, but that the thing
+revealed was not of a nature to have given him joy or
+comfort.<a id='r24'></a><a href='#f24' class='c014'><sup>[24]</sup></a></p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This much is certain, no one who has felt all the
+glory of that death, so bright with courage and patience,
+and with the gentleness of Christ, could regard the
+other death, in such dark sad contrast, with any feelings
+but those of mournful pity. The scene was not without
+a sombre grandeur of its own. The heart throbs yet at
+the solemn words of the avenger of blood, spoken with
+his sword at the breast of his trembling victim, “Repent
+thee of thy former wicked life, but especially of the
+blood of that notable instrument of God, Master George
+Wishart, which albeit the fire consumed before men, yet
+cries for vengeance upon thee, and we are sent from
+God to avenge it. For here, before God, I protest that
+neither the hatred of thy person, nor the love of thy
+riches, nor the fear of any trouble thou couldst have
+done to me in particular, moved or moves me to strike
+thee, but only because thou art an obstinate enemy of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>Christ Jesus and his holy evangel.” And still we seem
+to hear the echo of that “dismal cry, full of eternity’s
+despair,” with which the guilty spirit passed.—“All is
+gone!” The retribution was complete. That the townspeople
+might believe their Cardinal was really dead, the
+assassins flung his body, with scorn and insult, upon
+that very “fore tower” from which he beheld the martyr’s
+sufferings.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Perhaps other humble Christians may have felt as the
+Duncans did when the news of this event reached the
+quiet home of Dunsinnane Brae. Archie indeed could
+not help exclaiming, “‘Hell frae beneath is moved for
+thee at thy coming, it stirreth up the dead for thee.’
+Eh, and willna Herod, and Pontius Pilate, and a’ the
+wicked heathen kings be blythe to see him there?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But James Duncan said, “Whisht, callant. It’s no
+for us to tak’ sic’ awfu’ words in our mouths. Nae mair
+than it was for <i>them</i> to tak’ at their ain hands that
+vengeance, of the whilk God has said, ‘It is mine.’ But
+Mary, woman, sure ye’re no greeting for him?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No for the Cardinal, Jamie. But for ane wha, had
+he been alive the day, wadna hae let them touch a hair
+o’ his head. I amaist think,” added Mary, her tears
+falling faster, “I amaist think he’d hae said, as he did
+ainst before, ‘<i>He that troubles him troubles me.</i>’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But, ye ken, it was to avenge him they did it,
+Mary.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>“They suld hae left that to the Lord he loved. His
+cause was unco safe in his guid hand. Wae’s me! what
+gared them touch it ava’?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And thus, without unseemly triumph or exultation, they
+left the cruel Cardinal to the just award of his great Judge.
+They had once fought the battle with anger and hatred,
+and having, by God’s grace, gained the victory, it had
+not to be fought over again.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The quiet current of their own lives flowed on undisturbed
+by any striking event. James Duncan did for
+his child what other Christian laymen were at that time
+obliged to do for theirs. He baptized it himself, in the
+name of the Father, Son, and Spirit, commending it to
+the tender care of the Good Shepherd, and praying him
+earnestly to suffer this little one to come unto him.
+And his prayer was heard. George Duncan feared the
+God of his father from his youth upwards. There
+rested indeed upon all the family that blessing of the
+Lord which maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with
+it. James and Mary saw their children’s children, and
+peace upon the Israel of their native land, God’s faithful
+“congregation” in Scotland.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The minister’s martyr death was the message God
+sent home to Archie’s young ardent soul. He lived to
+realise his boyish dream; for</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>He became himself a preacher of the gospel, a good
+steward of the manifold grace of God. When, twelve
+years afterwards, his native town of Dundee “began to
+erect the face of a publick churche reformed, in the
+which the Worde was openlie preached, and Christ’s
+Sacramentis trewlie ministrat,” he was amongst those
+“zealous men who did exhort their brethren according
+to the gifts and graces granted unto them.” Thus the
+lips silenced by fire at St. Andrews spoke on still, as
+well in the living burning words which other lips caught
+up from theirs, as in the voiceless eloquence of thousands
+of holy lives, extending and transmitting their influence
+for good in wider and ever wider circles of blessing.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Two years after the establishment of the Reformation
+in Dundee, the faith for which George Wishart died
+became the recognised faith of Scotland. “Nor was
+this long in doing, nor did many suffer after” him; only
+two indeed—Adam Wallace, and brave old Walter
+Mill—were privileged to lay down their lives at the
+stake, before “the kingdom of God evidently appeared
+and triumphed in despite of Satan.”</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Round went the message, over rock and plain,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Like burning words from lips of prophet old;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Priest, lord, and king, opposed the voice in vain,—</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>It would not be controlled.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Wide o’er the land went forth the new-born day,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Brightening alike the cot, the hall, the throne;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Long years of darkness vanish at its ray,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Ages of night have gone.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>“The Christ has come, the breaker of all chains,</div>
+      <div class='line'>The giver of the heavenly liberty.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Peace, light, and freedom, to these hills and plains,—</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>The land—the land is free!”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>And after three centuries, still the land is free, and
+peace and light have their habitation there. Happy
+Scotland, land of Schools and Bibles, land of God-fearing
+men and women! As we climb thy glorious hills, or
+wander over thy peaceful plains, so rich in all that can
+please the eye or stir the fancy, and hear the voice of
+prayer and praise arise from hall and cottage, and behold
+the Sabbath esteemed a delight, the holy of the
+Lord, honourable—there floats back upon the ear, like
+sweet music from the distance, the echo of those words
+spoken so long ago by one of thy noblest martyr sons,—</p>
+
+<p class='c005'>“<span class='sc'>This realm shall be illumined with the light
+of Christ’s Evangel, as clearly as any realm ever
+was since the days of the apostles. God’s house
+shall be built in it; yea, it shall not lack the
+very copestone.</span>”</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_215.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_217.jpg' alt='THE PRIOR' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_219.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>I.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>Tithing the Fish.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“The boatie rows, the boatie rows,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>The boatie rows fu’ weel;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And muckle luck attend the boat,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>The merlin, and the creel.”</div>
+      <div class='line in28'><cite>Old Scotch Song.</cite></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_219b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_221.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>I.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>Tithing the Fish.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_221.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+“Tak’ guid counsel when ye get it, man,” said
+the Laird of Lauriston to his brother
+David, who was pacing up and down the
+hall of Lauriston Castle in a state of considerable
+excitement.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Thole it, Davie, thole it—‘He that tholes overcomes.’
+Forbye, ye suld ken it’s ill fechting wi’ kirkmen.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay,” returned David Stratton between his teeth,
+“’ill fechting wi’ them, but waur tholing them. A pack
+o’ greedy loons they be, ilka ane o’ them, bishop, priest,
+monk, and friar; taking the bread frae the mouths o’
+widows and fatherless bairns to keep their ainsels in
+pride and luxury, and a’ manner o’ sin. What wi’ the
+best cow, and the uppermost cloth, and the teind o’ meal
+and maut, and a’ the lave, were we no shaved close
+enoo’, but they maun come speiring after the vera fish o’
+the sea, that we get by the guid help o’ God and the hard
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>toil o’ our ain hands? Say what ye may, brither, neither
+Prior Patrick Hepburn nor Maister Robert Lawson sall
+hae the tenth fish o’ me.” And he confirmed his declaration
+by an oath.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David Stratton was a man whom either priest or layman,
+in those stormy days, might have preferred having
+as a friend than as a foe. Every movement of his powerful
+well-knit frame, every glance of his keen blue eye,
+bespoke energy and decision of character. A strong will
+and a brave heart, a good share of common sense, and
+an iron constitution, had hitherto enabled him, in whatever
+he undertook, to bear down opposition, and to carry
+out his purposes with a high hand. Still he had a rough
+but real sense of justice that might have disposed him
+to yield good humouredly to a fair demand. It only
+quickened his opposition to one that he considered obviously
+unjust and oppressive.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>His case was this. He had shrewdly invested part of
+his moderate resources (a younger brother’s portion) in
+the purchase of a fishing-boat, which brought him in a
+considerable profit. Hearing of this, the Prior of St.
+Andrews demanded the tithe of his gains, employing
+as his agent in the business, Robert Lawson, vicar of
+Ecclescreig.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The Laird of Lauriston, who did not equal his brother
+in courage and determination, urged compliance with
+the demand; but David, although well content to leave
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>his soul, with all its weighty interests, to the management
+of the kirkmen, had no disposition to permit
+their meddlesome interference with his temporal possessions.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Lauriston therefore remonstrated in vain, and he did
+so in the hesitating tone of one who foresees his remonstrance
+will be in vain. “Gie him the teind, Davie, that
+ye may keep the nine siccar.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Haud yer clavers! I’ll keep the nine siccar, and nae
+thanks to you or him.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Douce, man, douce. Do ye no ken the holy prior
+may curse ye wi’ the muckle curse, and aiblins yer net
+’ill break, or your boat ’ill gae down in the sea, or Hugh
+Peters, yer best fisherman, that ye set sic’ store by, ’ill
+fall frae the mast?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>For a moment David stared at his brother in surprise,
+then he burst into a loud fit of laughter.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“The <i>holy</i> prior! Heerd a man ever the like? Ye’ve
+been just taking a willy-waucht o’ yer guid French wine,
+or ye wadna talk sic’ fooleries. What wad gar me be
+fear’t for a kirkman’s curse, that aebody wha likes may
+buy for a plack<a id='r25'></a><a href='#f25' class='c014'><sup>[25]</sup></a> ony day? Forbye, the blessed saints
+hae got mair to do than to tak’ tent o’ Patrick Hepburn,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>when it’s his pleasure to curse better men than
+himsel.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Weel, a wilfu’ man maun gang his gait. Gin it were
+but for my sake, though, ye might speak him fair. Forbye
+that, ye’re a daft lad to be making faes for yersel
+when it’s <i>friends</i> ye suld be speiring after. An’ ye want
+to win favour wi’ the Lindsays it’s ill fechting wi’ the
+Hepburns, for they’re fast friends the noo.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David threw himself into the nearest seat, and remained
+silent for some minutes, during which a change
+passed gradually over his face, softening its hard and
+keen expression. At last he said, “Alison Lindsay’s a
+brave lass, and likes a man wi’ a will o’ his ain.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“There be ways enoo’ to show thy will, but meddling
+wi’ the priests.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I canna thole to hae the gear minished when I’m
+gathering it for her,” said David slowly, and in an altered
+tone.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hoot awa, man! There’ll be gear enoo’. I’ve nae
+but ane son”—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David stretched out his sinewy arm with a forbidding
+gesture. “Na, na, David Stratton ’ill never sorn upon
+ony, be it his ain brither ten times owre. Forbye,” he
+added with a laugh, “Maister Geordie ’ill need a’ the
+gear ye can win for him, for I wad ye a plack it’s na
+muckle he’ll win for himsel, wi’ his Latin and his logic,
+and a’ his ither fooleries, that hae never filled aebody’s
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>mouth, sae far’s I ken, wi’ onything better than idle
+clavers.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Lauriston looked annoyed, but controlled himself.
+“Atweel, David,” he said, “we’re no like to agree upon
+<i>that</i>. But never heed the gear. Alison’s father’ll gie
+her a braw tocher, never fear. She’s my wife’s ain cousin,
+and forbye that, she’s a guid lass and a bonnie, sae I
+wish thee guid luck wi’ her.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A very perceptible flush mounted to David’s bronzed
+cheek. Not choosing apparently to talk more of the
+matter, he turned his attention to the “good French
+wine” on the table, of which he drank a cup. Then he
+said with a smile, “Weel, Andrew, I’ll no stan’ against
+guid counsel. The prior may tak’ his teind, I’se no
+hinder him.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Lauriston looked keenly at his brother. He spoke
+fairly enough, but there was a light in his eye, and a
+smile lurking about the corners of his mouth, not pleasing
+in the sight of the prudent and peaceable laird.
+But at that moment the young Master of Lauriston
+entered the room, his usually open countenance wearing
+an expression of considerable impatience and vexation.
+His father and uncle had in fact delegated to him the
+very uncongenial task of entertaining the vicar of Ecclescreig,
+whilst they deliberated upon the demand of which
+he was the bearer; and the youth was both wearied and
+disgusted with his companion. Nor was he perhaps too
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>willing to sacrifice his own convenience to that of his
+uncle David, whom he could not help regarding with
+the kind of contempt a scholar usually entertains for the
+<i>wilfully</i> ignorant. And David repaid his contempt with
+interest, though upon different grounds. “He despysed
+all reading, chiefly of those things that are godly;” he
+regarded every scholar as a useless, effeminate character,
+but most of all a scholar who, like George Stratton, had
+“drunk of St. Leonard’s Well,”<a id='r26'></a><a href='#f26' class='c014'><sup>[26]</sup></a> and was even suspected
+of carrying about his person, for private perusal, a copy
+of Tyndale’s New Testament. At the same time, with
+considerable inconsistency, he also despised the clergy
+for their shameful ignorance and their abandoned lives.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Uncle,” said George, “yon priest wad needs be gone.
+I pray you stay him not, but give him an answer straightway,
+yea or nay.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“An answer, lad? That I will, and a better, I wad
+ye, than ye’d find in yer books frae this to Yule.” And
+he rose to go.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Tak’ tent,” said Lauriston, in a warning voice. “I
+jalouse ye’ll be playing some of your tricks upon the
+priest.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I?” said Stratton, with a droll look of assumed
+simplicity, “what for suld I play tricks upon Maister
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>Robert? I’d as soon play them upon my lord the prior
+himsel (which was probably quite true). Ye ken my
+boat lies in the creek, twa mile and a bittock frae this.
+I’ll just ride sae far wi’ the vicar, and he sall hear me tell
+my men to reserve my lord’s teinds at their peril. Gin
+that’ll no content him, ’twill be an ill case.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>With this assurance Lauriston was obliged to be satisfied;
+and a few minutes later saw the energetic David
+Stratton and Master Robert Lawson on their way together
+to the little harbour.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The sound of their master’s well-known whistle summoned
+the fishermen, who were engaged in preparing
+their evening meal on board the little vessel. They were
+a rough, wild-looking group; but they seemed warmly
+attached to “Maister Davie,” who had often shared their
+toils and dangers.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He addressed himself particularly to the two who
+stood foremost amongst them: “Hark ye, my lads. The
+Prior o’ St. Andrews hath sent this holy man unto me,
+speiring after the teind pairt o’ our fish. And we maun
+be guid Christians, and gie the kirk her dues, ye ken.
+Sae I command ye, gin ye be my true men, of a’ the fish
+ye tak’ frae this day for’ard—<i>throw the teind pairt
+back into the sea</i>!” The men listened to the first part
+of this address with ill-concealed annoyance and dislike.
+But when, in conclusion, their master gave his singular
+command, the expression of their countenances changed,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>first into surprise and wonder, then into undisguised
+satisfaction. “Ay, ay, maister!” shouted the two foremost
+heartily; and their shout was echoed by all the
+group, from gray-haired Hugh Peters to the brace of
+bare-legged, shock-headed boys, who stood at a respectful
+distance staring at the master and his unwonted
+companion the priest.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>To whom, as soon as the noise had subsided, Master
+David turned: “Gang yer ways, sir, and tell my lord the
+prior that he may <i>come and tak’ his teind frae the place
+whaur I get my stock</i>.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>To judge by their continued cheers and laughter, the
+joke was better relished by the fishermen than it was by
+the priest. “That’s a dour message, Maister David,”
+said he, “and ill to carry to a proud and scornful man
+like my lord the prior.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nae ither sall ye get frae me,” answered David
+briefly; and with a slight and rather contemptuous
+salute, he turned his horse’s head and rode quickly back
+to Lauriston.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Far indeed was he then from foreseeing all the
+sorrow his rude and thoughtless jest was destined to
+occasion. Yet out of that sorrow were to spring forth
+richer and purer blessings than as yet he could even
+conceive. But for the covetous demand of the prior
+of St. Andrews, and the reckless defiance it provoked,
+David Stratton would probably have lived and died
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>without God in the world. His fishing, his farm, his
+field-sports, his family, would have engrossed his
+thoughts, and (as far as these things can do it) have
+filled his heart. But He who is “wonderful in counsel
+and excellent in working” was leading the blind by
+a way that he knew not, which was yet for him
+“the right way, that he might go unto a city of habitation.”</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_229.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_231.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>II.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>The Excommunication.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“There is a forest where the din</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Of iron branches sounds!</div>
+      <div class='line'>A mighty river roars between,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And whosoever looks therein</div>
+      <div class='line'>Sees the heavens all black with sin,—</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Sees not its depths nor bounds.”</div>
+      <div class='line in28'><span class='sc'>Longfellow</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_231b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_233.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>II.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>The Excommunication.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_233.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+Whilst Patrick Hepburn, Prior of St. Andrews,
+was disputing about his “teindis” with David
+Stratton, the corrupt hierarchy, of which he
+was a most worthy member, was fast filling up the
+measure of its iniquity. What that iniquity was—how
+deep, how dark, how terrible—may still be read in the
+pages of contemporary history. But the heart turns
+sickening from the record, feeling it “a vexation only to
+understand the report,” a pain and a grief even to <i>know</i>
+what these men dared to do “in the face of the sun and
+the eye of light.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Some, indeed, there were, who amidst all that unutterable
+pollution yet “walked with Christ in white
+garments stainless.” For their names and their
+memories we thank God; and none the less because such
+names have oftenest come down to us surrounded by a
+mournful halo of martyr glory. Strange to say, it is
+usually those stories that end with stake and gibbet to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>which the student turns with relief and pleasure, and
+over which he lingers gladly. Bright to the thoughtful
+eye is the dungeon’s midnight gloom; dark with a horror
+of great darkness are the abodes of pomp and luxury,
+where cardinal, priest, and bishop held ungodly revelry.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>For they held revelry, as those who neither feared
+God nor regarded man. Like the nobles at Belshazzar’s
+feast, they drank wine, and praised their gods of silver
+and gods of gold; they profaned to every vile, degrading
+use “the vessels of the sanctuary,” those hallowed names
+and symbols which Rome has borrowed, or rather stolen,
+from the true temple of the Lord. But they saw not the
+writing of the man’s hand upon the wall, they knew not
+that even then they were weighed in the balances and
+found wanting, and that God had numbered their kingdom,
+and finished it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Already, at the period of which we write, the light of
+the glorious gospel of Christ was beginning to shine
+upon Scotland. Five years before<a id='r27'></a><a href='#f27' class='c014'><sup>[27]</sup></a> young Patrick
+Hamilton, the protomartyr of the Scottish Reformation,
+sealed his testimony at St. Andrews, and “the reek of
+his burning infected all that it did blow upon.” Many
+copies of Tyndale’s New Testament had found their way
+into the country, chiefly through the instrumentality of
+the merchants of the sea-port towns; and these were
+eagerly read by all classes of the people. Some of the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>principal teachers at the university of St. Andrews were
+strongly inclined to the reformed doctrines, and numbers
+of the young men who were educated there had imbibed
+their opinions.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But to return to the true history of David Stratton.
+For a short time after his bold message to the Prior of
+St. Andrews, all went on prosperously with him. His
+land brought forth abundantly, his nets gathered rich
+spoils from the sea. What was better still, Alison
+Lindsay was disposed to look favourably on his suit; nor
+did her relatives, at this time, seem to regard him with
+an unfriendly eye. But while he “blessed his soul,” and
+promised himself years of peace and plenty, a dark and
+threatening cloud had gathered unnoticed, and was about
+to burst over his head.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The proud and covetous Prior of St. Andrews answered
+his rude taunt with the thunders of a Romish
+excommunication. It might have been thought, even
+by zealous Romanists, that the punishment exceeded the
+offence; and that those thunders might better have been
+reserved for more important occasions, and more
+desperate and wilful offenders. “For, indeed, the man
+had <i>no</i> religion,” as we are gravely told of another
+person, by way of a sufficient reason for his full and
+triumphant acquittal from the charge of heresy. It
+is light that darkness hates, and light alone: Rome’s
+quarrel is not with ignorance and irreligion; though
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>these may sometimes provoke her bitter anger, when
+they lay their hands upon some of her cherished interests.
+This was just what David Stratton had done: striking
+blindly and recklessly, under the influence of momentary
+irritation, he had chanced to strike a very tender
+part. “One that shoulde have said that no tithes
+shoulde be payed” was a dangerous member of society
+in the eyes of those who by means of these very “teindis
+and rentis,” extracted from the fears or the superstitions
+of the laity, were clothed in purple and fine linen, and
+fared sumptuously every day.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It is not easy for us to understand what David Stratton
+felt when he found himself cursed with bell, book,
+and candle, and “delivered into the deville’s handes.”
+The lion’s roar has lost its terrors for us, who have
+only seen him caged and powerless; it was very different
+with the men who knew that the roar was but the
+prelude to the crouch and spring of the deadly destroyer.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But apart from the temporal consequences of excommunication,
+which were likely to be dreadful enough,
+other troubles, born of superstition, could not fail
+to arise in the soul of the excommunicated. Every
+man who is not religious in the highest sense of the
+word, must be in some way or other superstitious. For
+though many men can dispense with a creed, every man
+must of necessity have a faith; a belief in something of
+which his senses cannot take cognizance, in some power
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>greater than his own, yet not without its influence upon
+his being. David Stratton had thrust this belief away
+into the darkest corner of his soul—had smothered it
+with the pursuits, the interests, the pleasures of life—had
+almost become insensible to its existence. But the
+thunder of excommunication awakened it within him,
+and every superstitious fear or fancy he had felt or known
+since childhood nourished and gave it strength. Strange
+things began to haunt and torture him; memories of
+warnings from the lips of a dead mother; frightful stories
+of hell and purgatory from the friars’ sermons he had
+occasionally listened to; legends of the terrible punishments
+inflicted on those who despised holy Kirk, how
+their bodies could not rest in their graves, nor their souls
+find relief from anguish; all these mingled with recollections
+of his own sins since last he had confessed, and
+indeed during his whole life—a very miscellaneous
+catalogue, comprising such items as neglecting to hear
+mass, and running some one through with his whinger
+in a drunken brawl. But on all these points he was profoundly
+silent, covering a heart that ached and trembled
+in secret by a dauntless, or rather a defiant bearing.
+He paid the prior his Latin curses back with interest in
+good plain Saxon; and he boasted everywhere that he
+“wadna gie a brass bodle for a’ his cursing.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He would, however, have given half his worldly
+possessions with a cheerful heart to be well clear of the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>whole business, when he learned in what light it was
+regarded by Alison Lindsay and by her relatives. A
+cold message from her father, declining a proffered visit,
+stung him to the quick, especially as it was hinted that
+her own wishes on the subject entirely coincided with
+those of her family. About the same time, an intimation
+reached him from another quarter, that his open contempt
+of the sentence of excommunication was considered
+to savour of heresy, and might probably involve him in
+temporal pains and penalties.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Upon hearing this, he went to Lauriston to seek his
+brother’s counsel and countenance. The consolations
+the Laird administered to his wounded feelings were of
+a very common, but very unsatisfactory kind. “This
+came of rejecting good counsel—he had told him beforehand
+exactly what would happen.” Such was the
+substance of Lauriston’s exhortations; nor was it to be
+wondered at that under the circumstances he should
+look coldly on his imprudent brother. Naturally both
+shrewd and timid, he was keenly alive to the peril David
+incurred in provoking a prosecution for heresy, and no
+less sensible that the danger would not be confined to
+his own person, since the orthodoxy of other members of
+the family was by no means above suspicion. But
+reasonable as his displeasure may have been, David was
+not prepared to brook its expression. His anger was
+easily kindled, and an open quarrel between the brothers,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>the first since their childhood, followed. David at last
+strode out from the halls of Lauriston with flushed cheek
+and burning brow, protesting that nothing would induce
+him to remain, even for one single night, beneath the
+roof of a brother who used him so unworthily. He had
+come on horseback, and with a mounted servant, but he
+departed alone and on foot, leaving orders at the porter’s
+lodge for his attendant to follow him next day to his own
+dwelling with the horses.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was late; but the month was August, and the long
+twilight lingered still. Mechanically David went on,
+his mind too busy with its own bitter thoughts, to take
+note of anything around him. The kirkmen, the Lindsays,
+his brother, all were alike his enemies; and had
+either united together for his ruin, or were determined
+to abandon him to those who had. Every man’s hand
+was against him; but if he must die, he would die hard.
+He would give them all trouble enough before he had
+done with them, from Patrick Hepburn himself, villain
+that he was (and David clenched his hand), to Alison
+Lindsay’s scapegrace brother, who had delivered that
+bitter message with such a mocking smile. He wondered
+what had kept him from giving the lad a taste of his
+whinger in return, save indeed that he was but a
+“hafflins callant,” and slight and pale-faced like “Maister
+Geordie,—wha’ll be owre blythe to ken a plain man
+like me can make a muckle fool o’ himsel as weel as a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>body wha has been driven daft wi’ logic, and Latin, and
+sic’.” He was just about to retract the acknowledgment
+of his folly, when feeling a hand laid on his shoulder, he
+turned quickly round, and at the same moment placed
+his own on his sword, a very natural impulse in those
+rough uncertain times.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He was a good deal surprised to see the person who
+had just occupied his thoughts, his nephew George.
+“I a’maist took ye for a robber, lad,” he said, adding an
+expression that need not be chronicled. “Gang hame
+to yer bed, and dinna stop folk at midnight on the king’s
+highway.” He spoke however, all things considered,
+with tolerable good humour; for he remembered that he
+had no personal quarrel with George, who had not even
+been present during his stormy altercation with the
+Laird.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“The Laird of Lauriston’s brother,” answered the
+young scholar, “suld not be found on the king’s highway
+at midnight within three mile of Lauriston Castle.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That’s the Laird o’ Lauriston’s ain doing.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Not with his will.” And then the youth exerted
+himself to the utmost to act the part of peace-maker.
+As might be guessed, his mission was not exactly of his
+own choosing. His gentle mother, the Lady Isabel, had
+been much distressed by the quarrel between the Laird
+and his brother. This was not only because she liked
+David, and did justice to the genuine qualities that lay
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>beneath his rough exterior, but because she was warmly
+interested in her young cousin Alison, and had set her
+heart on the prosperous termination of a suit which,
+from the beginning, she had furthered in every way in
+her power. No sooner, therefore, had she heard the
+heavy tramp of David’s retreating footsteps, than she
+hastened to her son, who was reading in his own
+chamber, and entreated him to follow his uncle and
+prevent, if possible, the open and perhaps deadly rupture
+that must ensue if he quitted Lauriston at such an
+hour and in such a way. George hesitated, pleading
+the dislike and contempt with which his uncle evidently
+regarded him. But his mother’s earnestness overcame
+his reluctance, and he eventually consented to undertake
+the difficult and distasteful task.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Though for some time his explanations and remonstrances
+seemed unavailing, yet he was not discouraged,
+as he drew a favourable augury from the fact
+that his uncle was willing to hear him patiently to the
+end, which was much more than he expected at first.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At length he took the last arrow out of his quiver,
+and discharged it with due care and deliberation. “His
+mother,” he said, “greatly regretted his uncle’s departure,
+having a few days agone received a letter from a gentlewoman,
+her friend or cousin, concerning which she
+desired to hold purpose with Maister David.” Then,
+wisely changing the subject, he added, “Gif ye depart
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>thus, uncle, it will be a tale for all the country side, that
+the Laird and his brother have quarrelled. But come
+home with me, and bide till the morning breaks, and
+servants and horses will haud themselves ready to do yer
+pleasure. So shall ye go, gif ye maun go, as Stratton of
+Stratton suld frae the halls of Stratton of Lauriston.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Atweel—aiblins—for the honour o’ the family,” said
+David, slowly turning; “but I’ll keep my word, and no
+see Andrew’s face again.”</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_242.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_243.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>III.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>The First Prayer.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Oh, that I knew where I might find Him!”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_243b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_245.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>III.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>The First Prayer.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_245.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+When George Stratton returned with David
+to the Castle, he found that his parents
+had already retired to rest. This was only
+what he expected and wished; he therefore himself
+cheerfully accompanied his uncle to the chamber which
+had been prepared for him; where he waited upon him
+with a respect and attention that evidenced something
+more than the mere desire to discharge the duties of
+hospitality towards a guest beneath his father’s roof, and
+that guest his father’s brother. We usually conceive a
+liking for any one for whom we exert ourselves to do a
+kindness; and in this way, perhaps, it happened that
+George was disposed to regard his uncle’s character
+from a more favourable point of view that night than
+he had ever done before. Besides, the attitude of fearless
+independence which David had assumed was not
+entirely without its charms in his eyes, little as he
+found to admire in the feelings that had, in the first
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>instance, inspired his resistance to the prior’s covetous
+demand.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>During their walk they had scarcely interchanged a
+word, but as they stood together before parting for the
+night, David remarked, with a laugh: “I doot but yon
+Sir William, the Capellan, ’ill come here sae soon as I’m
+awa’, and sprinkle the chalmer<a id='r28'></a><a href='#f28' class='c014'><sup>[28]</sup></a> wi’ holy water, for fear
+I might chance to leave the tail o’ the prior’s curse behind
+me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George laughed also as he answered, “Sir William
+maun just bide yer presence, as he has to bide many a
+thing he likes scarce as weel.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye’re daffing, lad. I thocht ye were a’ good Christians.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But we’re not dumb; an’ if a chance word against
+the priests is to earn a man the name of heretic, there’ll
+be mair in it than you, uncle.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David turned, and gave George the benefit of one of
+the keenest glances of his keen blue eyes. Had the lad
+more in him than he had ever given him credit for?
+Was he, in spite of his “book lear,” neither coward nor
+fool? Resolved at least to test him a little further, he
+told him his opinion of the kirkmen in general, and of
+Patrick Hepburn in particular, using language much too
+plain and forcible to be transferred to these pages.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George listened in silence to his angry diatribe; and,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>when he had finished, allowed a few moments to elapse
+before he attempted an answer. Then he said, in tones
+unusually quiet and gentle, “When our blessed Lord was
+here on earth, he said many things of the wicked priests
+and Pharisees of his time, that to my thinking are owre
+true yet.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay, did he?” asked David, with a look of interest.
+He had the vaguest possible ideas of the time of which
+his nephew spoke, and we fear we may add, of the Person
+whom he named with such reverence; but he was glad
+to hear that any one had told hard truths of “thae
+greedy loons, the priests.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wad ye like to hear what he said?” continued George.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Unco weel,” answered David, eagerly enough.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George drew his New Testament from the sleeve of his
+doublet, opened it at the 23rd of St. Matthew, and began
+to read. “Then spake Jesus to the multitude, and to
+his disciples, saying, The scribes and Pharisees sit in
+Moses’ seat: all therefore whatsoever they bid you
+observe, that observe and do.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Eh, but that’s nae guid ava’,” interrupted David
+angrily.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Bide a wee, uncle, and have patience,” said the
+reader, and he went on: “But do not ye after their
+works, for they say and do not.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David was all attention now, nor did he again interrupt
+until George came to the words, “Ye devour
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>widows’ houses, and for a pretence make long prayers,
+therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation,” when
+he could no longer contain his delight,—“Yon’s the
+brawest sermon I hae heard in a’ my life,” he cried;
+“it’s a’ true, but the lang prayers. Our priests dinna fash
+theirsels owre muckle wi’ <i>them</i>, I’m thinking.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George was too intent upon another and very different
+object to waste the precious moments in discussing this
+point; though he certainly thought that the frequent
+masses, and many of the other services of the Church,
+might be not inaptly described as “long prayers made
+for a pretence.” He read on, therefore, without note or
+comment, to the close of the chapter.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Is that a’?” asked David, quickly. “Does he tell us
+naething o’ the proud bishops and priors, and a’ the lave?—but
+aiblins they werena sae bad in those times as they
+be the noo.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“They did not use the same names to call them by,”
+said George; “but ye see, uncle, they were bad enough,
+and to spare.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Did they curse honest folk, and drive them frae the
+kirk, naebut for standing on their right, and no letting
+theirsels be fleeced like sae mony puir feckless bits of
+sheep? and what did the Saint—I mean our blessed
+Lord (and he crossed himself)—say to sic cantrips?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“They did worse than all that, uncle; they cursed
+good and honest men, cast them out of the kirk, ay and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>killed them an they could, gif they dared to confess that
+Jesus was the Christ, or to say they believed in him,”—and
+a dark shadow passed across young Lauriston’s face.
+Perhaps he was thinking of a scene he had witnessed,
+not so many months before, at St. Andrews,—the death
+by fire of “ane Henry Forrest, a young man born in
+Linlithgow,” “for none other cause but because he had
+ane New Testament in Englis,” and that he constantly
+affirmed “that Maister Patrick Hamilton was a martyr,
+and that his articles were true, and not hereticall.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But he only said, “I can give you, from my book, a
+true history of one they cast out.” And then he half
+read, half repeated, the story of the man blind from his
+birth, whose eyes the Saviour opened, and who afterwards
+confessed his name so boldly before the Pharisees.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David Stratton did not, by word or sign, evidence
+either interest or impatience. He stood still, leaning
+against the casement, and looking out upon the moonlit
+castle-yard, and the pasture-lands beyond, with rows of
+stately trees. Ever afterwards with that scene was
+associated in his mind the first hearing of those marvellous
+words, “I am the light of the world,” and the vague
+awe, and wonder, and sense of mystery they awoke
+within him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At last George read, “Thou wast altogether born in
+sins, and dost thou teach us? and they cast him out.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“<i>That’s just like me</i>,” said David emphatically, turning
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>towards him again. “Na, na,” he added, in a lower voice,
+“they cast <i>him</i> out because he told them the truth anent
+our Lord’s wonderfu’ wark,—<i>I’ve</i> nae done like that.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George went on quietly: “Jesus heard that they had
+excommunicate him; and as soon as he had found him,
+he said unto him, Dost thou believe on the Son of God?
+He answered and said, And who is it, Lord, that I might
+believe on him? And Jesus said unto him, Thou hast both
+seen him, and he it is that talketh with thee. And he
+said, Lord, I believe. And worshipped him.”<a id='r29'></a><a href='#f29' class='c014'><sup>[29]</sup></a> Then,
+without a word of comment, he closed the book and
+restored it to its hiding-place.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David’s eyes followed it wistfully. “It’s a braw thing
+ye hae got book lear, Geordie,” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George was naturally not displeased at this unwonted
+admission on his uncle’s part. “And there’s no book
+like this book,” he answered; “God’s ain hand has
+written every line and letter in it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But can ye mak’ the meaning out, callant? For I
+misdoot that’s unco hard.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Whiles,” said the youth humbly; “and I pray God
+day by day to teach me more and better. But the hour
+is late, and your foot is aye early in the stirrup, uncle, so
+that I should not tarry.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Good-nights were then exchanged, and without further
+conversation George left the room.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>David Stratton stood long at the lancet window—how
+long he never knew. Strange new thoughts filled
+his mind, and for the first time for weeks even the Prior
+of St. Andrews and the Vicar of Ecclescreig were forgotten.
+For he did not, as might be imagined, amuse
+and gratify himself by applying the fiery denunciations
+he had just heard to these his personal enemies. They
+had indeed impressed and delighted him at the time;
+but what he afterwards heard almost swept them from
+his memory. Unaccustomed to abstract thought, though
+full of practical shrewdness, a mere exposition of doctrine
+would perhaps hardly have left a clearer impression
+on him, when delivered in his native tongue,
+than if it had been couched in Latin; but his mind was
+quick to grasp and strong to retain the circumstances
+of a story. Nor did he only retain them passively: he
+was accustomed to reflect, after a fashion, upon his own
+doings and those of other men; and to his imagination,
+the blind man of the gospel was as real, and not more
+distant, than if he had lived or was living then in Edinburgh
+or St. Andrews. For what did he know or care
+about those fifteen long weary centuries that lay between?
+The restoration of sight to the blind—that was
+very wonderful, to be sure. He knew a blind man, who
+used to sit at the door of St. Mary’s Abbey Kirk in
+Dundee, and to whom he had many a time given an
+alms as he passed. He wondered what would old
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>Simon think if some one were to come one day and open
+<i>his</i> eyes. And who was that <i>some one</i> whose word, whose
+touch, had such power? It was Jesus, the Son of God.
+How good it was of him to do it—and to do it for a poor
+unknown man, a blind beggar, no better than old Simon
+Hackett! And, moreover, he did not send one of the
+holy apostles to him, though that would have been
+marvellously kind and condescending—he did much
+more. He himself spoke to him, and touched him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Here it will be observed that the goodness of the act
+impressed David far more than its greatness. There was
+a reason for this. It is the tendency of all spurious imitations
+to lower the value of the thing imitated in the
+popular mind. Thus, Rome’s lying legends had, as it
+were, cheapened miracles in the eyes of men. They were
+accustomed to hear, and to believe, stories of wonderful
+works, which, as mere exhibitions of superhuman <i>power</i>,
+apart from wisdom or goodness, are to the calm and
+dignified narratives of the gospel as the blaze of an
+illuminated city to the pale and distant, but enduring,
+glories of the starry heavens. A hundred blind men,
+or a thousand, restored to sight, would not have astonished
+David beyond measure, or too sorely taxed his
+faith. But the personal human kindness with which
+that awful Being, the Son of God (of whom, when he
+thought at all, he thought with vague terror as the Judge
+of mankind), stooped to deal with this one poor blind
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>man, surprised and touched him deeply. Little wonder, he
+thought, that the man spoke up so bravely before the Pharisees
+(David called them the <i>Bishops</i>) to bear witness to his
+goodness! And very like them to cast him out for it!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But how did the poor man feel when he found himself
+an outcast, cursed by the kirkmen, abandoned by
+all his friends, and in danger of worse harm to follow,
+belike both to soul and body? Probably he was sore
+perplexed and terrified. Ay, but then “Jesus found
+him.” Found him, was it, or met him—which did
+Geordie say? <i>Found him</i>; he was sure of it. “It wasna
+that he forgathered wi’ him by chance in the highway,
+but he <i>speered after</i> him, for he heard that they had excommunicated
+him.” And he spoke to him so gently and
+kindly, and gave him, no doubt, a short and clean shrift
+from all his sins, better than all the bishops in that
+country could do. Would, oh would that he were alive
+now! However distant he might be, David Stratton
+would go to him, were it twice as far as the shrine of St.
+James of Compostella—twice as far even as that Hierusalem
+whither Friar Scott had travelled lately—he cared
+not. Had he to go the whole “gait” on foot, he cared
+not, if so be that at the end he might throw himself at
+the feet of that great and good One, and say to him,
+“Lord, I too am cast out of the Kirk by these wicked,
+covetous bishops, wilt thou not let me confess my sins
+to thee, and give me thy pardon?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>But the Lord Jesus was not to be found at Compostella,
+nor yet in Hierusalem—he knew that. It would
+be a good thing, doubtless, for a man to pray in these
+holy places, or to bring back relics of wonderful virtue,
+as Friar Scott had done—fragments of stone from the
+pillar to which Christ was bound, and such like; but to
+meet our Lord himself personally, and to speak with him,
+that was another matter clearly. Friar Scott, with all his
+bragging, had never bragged of <i>that</i>; nor would he have
+believed him if he had. Yet nothing less would do for
+him, in his present sore distress and difficulty—for such he
+now confessed it to be. And then he remembered that
+the Lord was not on earth at all, in any place—he was in
+heaven, at God’s right hand. Could he not pray to him
+there?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This was the first glimmering perception of the real
+purpose and meaning of prayer that dawned upon the
+mind of David Stratton. Hitherto he had always
+thought of it as a meritorious action, by means of which
+good things might be obtained and evil ones averted,
+through the assistance and mediation of the Virgin and
+the saints, to whom by far the greater part of the prayers
+he knew were addressed. Now he began to think it
+might possibly be a way of communication between this
+world and the other, by which he might actually succeed
+in conveying a request about which he was very much in
+earnest to the ear of the great Son of God himself.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>His prayer, if prayer it may be called, was couched
+in words like these: “Lord, they hae cast me out. I
+wad find thee an’ I could; but sin’ I canna do that, I
+ask thee to find me. And gie me, thysel, shrift and
+pardon for a’ my sins; for ye ken I canna get it frae the
+kirkmen, and I’m a muckle sinner in thy sight the day—God
+help me. Amen.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Such were some of the thoughts that filled the mind
+of David Stratton during the silent hours of that night,
+to him for ever memorable. What he felt cannot be
+traced so easily as what he thought. There is a sanctuary
+in almost every soul into which no other human
+soul can penetrate. None but He who has searched and
+knoweth the hearts he made, could understand the strange
+new-born impulse which brought David Stratton, in his
+trouble and danger, to the feet of the merciful Saviour,
+of whose grace he had heard that night for the first time.
+“He is great, he can help me—he is good, perhaps
+he will.” Thus much could be expressed in words; but
+not so the strong sense of his goodness, and the first
+dawnings of love and trust in the heart that was
+ignorantly and half unconsciously, yet really, turning
+towards Him.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_255.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_257.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>IV.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>Dawnings of Light.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“I bring my guilt to Jesus,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>To wash my crimson stains,</div>
+      <div class='line'>White in his blood most precious,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Till not a spot remains.”</div>
+      <div class='line in28'><span class='sc'>Rev. H. Bonar.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_257b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_259.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>IV.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>Dawnings of Light.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_259.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+Other eyes were wakeful that night, and
+other minds were busy, upon Master David
+Stratton’s account. The Lady of Lauriston,
+as we are already aware, had set her heart upon bringing
+about a reconciliation between him and her husband.
+She did not anticipate much difficulty with the Laird,
+over whom she possessed almost unbounded influence.
+And even without her interference, he would probably
+have speedily regretted his quarrel with a brother to
+whom he was really attached; and the rather because of
+the dangers and difficulties of David’s present position.
+His wife’s persuasions, therefore, combined with his own
+relentings, soon brought him to a state of mind to hear
+with much thankfulness of the mission George had
+undertaken in the capacity of peace-maker.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But it’s na use,” he answered, with a desponding
+shake of the head. “I ken Davie unco weel; he’s that
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>stubborn, a man might cut him in twa, and no gar him
+turn frae his ain gait.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Leave him to me,” said the lady in reply. “I ken
+for sure he came back with George last night, for I
+heard his foot as he gaed to his chalmer; and ye’ve but
+to keep still, Andrew, and to speak him fair, when I bring
+him into the hall to breakfast, as, the saints helping
+me, I’ll try to do. Speak him fair anent his kine or
+his boat, or his braw new house that he’s plenishing in
+Dundee—onything ye list but the kirkmen and the
+cursing.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And yer bonnie cousin Alison, that he’s like to tyne<a id='r30'></a><a href='#f30' class='c014'><sup>[30]</sup></a>
+for his foolery?” asked the Laird, with a smile.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay, Laird, that were best left to me too. Weel as
+ye think ye ken Maister David,” she added after a
+pause, “<i>I</i> ken him better. He’s a dour chield, and
+unco stubborn, but he’s manful; and it’s a lang gait he
+wadna gang for the man or the woman he truly loves.
+And he loves Alison Lindsay.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And she—what of her, Isabel?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Tut, Laird; ye mauna be speering owre mony questions.
+I’m not my cousin’s father confessor.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye’ll be plainer with David, I hope.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No need for that. He that loves can understand
+what is but half spoken.” And Lady Isabel could not
+be induced to explain herself farther.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>The Laird’s question, however, was a very natural
+one; nor was the fact that Alison Lindsay had been
+promised by her father to David Stratton in reality any
+answer to it, for every one knows that the sacrifice of a
+girl’s inclinations to the interest or convenience of her
+kinsfolk was a matter of daily occurrence in those rough
+times. David was ten years older than his intended
+bride; he was neither very handsome nor very rich, and
+he was greatly her inferior in refinement and cultivation—for
+both Isabel and her young cousin had received
+their education in a convent, where, besides the peculiarly
+feminine art of skilful embroidery in its various
+branches, they were carefully initiated into the mysteries
+of reading and writing; and were, in fact, for their time,
+well educated if not accomplished women. Yet, in spite
+of all this, Alison Lindsay <i>did</i> return David Stratton’s
+affection. If a reason should be asked, it may perhaps
+be rendered (strange as this may appear) in the very
+words by which the Lady Isabel described her brother-in-law’s
+character: “He’s a dour chield, and unco
+stubborn; but he’s <i>manful</i>.” As men admire nothing
+so much in women as perfect womanliness, so women,
+even the gentlest, usually admire manliness in men more
+than any other characteristic. In Alison’s eyes, “Maister
+David Stratton of Stratton” was a hero; nor need we
+pause to inquire whether or not he was transfigured by
+her imagination into something essentially different from
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>what he really was; it is enough to have stated the fact,
+that the life of this rude, obstinate, daring gentleman of
+Angus was far more precious in the eyes of some one
+else than it was in his own.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Without a great deal of difficulty, George succeeded
+the next morning in detaining his uncle until the Lady
+Isabel appeared. Purposely abstaining from any allusion
+to what had passed the night before, he sought to
+wile away the time by conversation upon indifferent
+subjects. Amongst other things, he chanced to ask
+what had become of a favourite bay mare, which he had
+been wont to ride when he came to Lauriston. David
+told him, with some regret, that he had sold her before
+Pasche, being then anxious for a sum of money to complete
+the purchase of his new house in Dundee.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George asked who had bought her; perhaps thinking
+the mare a safer subject of conversation than the house,
+which he well knew had been destined by his uncle for
+the reception of his bride.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wae’s me!” answered David; “wha suld buy her
+but John Erskine o’ Dune. Mair’s the pity! Owre guid
+for him to hae sic a bonny beast to carry him, wi’ a’ his
+outlandish nonsense.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But George’s face brightened wonderfully at the mention
+of John Erskine’s name.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then you’re acquaint with the Laird of Dune,
+uncle?” he asked.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>“As weel as I’m like to be. Leeze me on a man wi’
+a guid Scot’s tongue in his head, forbye a guid Scot’s
+heart in his bosom, and tak a’ yer newfangled outland
+folk.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“There’s no truer Scottish heart in all the realm than
+that of John Erskine of Dune!” cried George, unable
+any longer to keep silence. “Uncle, you know him not.
+But I pledge ye my word there are few like him. A
+learned, godly gentleman”—But here he stopped suddenly,
+recollecting that the praise he was so liberally
+bestowing on his friend would hardly sound well in his
+uncle’s ears.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh ay, unco learned, nae doubt. I hae heard he’s
+gaun to set up a schule at Montrose, to lear the puir
+bairns Greek, forsooth! Guid wark that for a laird!
+He’d better hae them taught to put the stane and to
+shoot at the popinjay, sae he’d hae a chance to make
+<i>men</i> o’ them, at least.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George could not help laughing at this representation
+of the case; but he admitted that the Laird of Dune was
+endeavouring to found an academy at Montrose for the
+study of Greek, being anxious that the intelligent youth
+of his native land should learn to read the word of God
+in the language in which it is written. “For he loves the
+word of God with his haill heart,” said George. “And
+I ken no one who understands it so weel. He hath expounded
+mony things unto me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>Here the entrance of the Lady Isabel put a stop to
+the conversation. It will be easily seen that a woman
+like the Lady of Lauriston was sure to come off victorious
+from any verbal encounter with a man like David
+Stratton. But beside all other advantages, she had a
+powerful though silent ally in the piece of folded paper
+she held in her hand. Alison Lindsay’s letter was
+indeed no more than a quaint and rather formal appeal
+to her “loving cousin,” asking her to entreat the Laird
+to take into his service a certain old retainer of the
+Lindsays, “muckle Sawney Gordon,” who had been so
+unfortunate as to displease one of her hot-headed young
+brothers. But then there was a brief postscript, which
+ran thus:—</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Shoulde Maister Stratton come unto Lauriston, it
+were as weall to tell him that all his friendis, and they
+that were his friendis, merveille at his temeritie, or rather
+proude rashnesse. For his soule’s wealle, no to say for
+that of his temporall Estaite, entreate him to reconseille
+himselfe to Holie Kirke, quhill as yett thare is tyme.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Perhaps the words might have seemed cold and harsh,
+had not Isabel shown David the paper upon which they
+were written. It was blotted with tears. He took it in
+his hand, and held it there for one moment, his strong
+fingers closing over it with a nervous grasp, and trembling
+as they closed. Then he silently gave it back, rose from
+his seat, and strode across the room.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>When he reached the door, he paused, as if in doubt.
+Lady Isabel took advantage of his momentary irresolution;
+she had something still to say which he could
+not choose but hear. She told him quietly she had long
+been desirous to receive a visit from her cousin Alison,
+as she knew the motherless girl was often lonely in her
+father’s house; and that she thought she could overrule
+any objection her relatives might make to her coming to
+Lauriston. Should this plan succeed, Maister David
+would have many opportunities of pleading his own
+cause, and it would be very much his own fault if he did
+not turn them to good account. She did not <i>say</i>, but
+she hinted, that in reality one thing, and only one, was
+necessary in order to the accomplishment of all his
+desires—and that was his reconciliation with the Church.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In the meantime, he could not but feel—and he did
+feel—that the Lady of Lauriston was his warm and true
+friend. As might have been anticipated under the circumstances,
+his quarrel with the Laird terminated
+speedily. No formal reconciliation took place, nor did
+many words pass between them; but both were willing
+to bury their last night’s altercation in oblivion; and
+Isabel obtained her wish, and saw David seated by her
+side at the table in the great hall, to partake of their
+substantial morning meal.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The brothers spent the day in hunting, accompanied
+by a party of the Laird’s retainers, and by George,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>whose studies did not indispose him for manly sports and
+exercises.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>On the following morning, however, David asked his
+nephew if he had not some good falcons, and proposed
+that they two should go out hawking together. George,
+who was not particularly fond of the pastime of falconry,
+consented, at first rather unwillingly, then joyfully and
+eagerly, as he began with trembling hope to guess the
+wish that prompted his uncle’s request. They set out,
+with falcons on their wrists, but declining the attendance
+of the Laird’s falconer or of his assistant. And when they
+reached a quiet place in the fields, David, without a
+word, hooded his falcon and sat down, motioning George
+to do the same.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then he said, in a low but eager voice, “Hae ye
+brought yer book, callant?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George produced it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Read me mair o’ yon blind man the guid Lord Jesus
+speered after.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“There’s no more told of him,” said George. “The
+last thing is this: ‘He said, Lord, I believe. And he
+worshipped him.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And does the Book no tell us gin the guid Lord gied
+him shrift or pardon? For I mind weel the kirkmen cast
+him out, and wad hae naething to do wi’ him. Not ane
+priest or friar amang them a’ wad hear his confession, I
+wad ye.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>“What I hae read ye tells us all. He believed on the
+Lord Jesus Christ; and he who thus believes <i>is</i> pardoned,
+whether the priests say it or no.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“How do ye ken that?” asked David, with a wondering
+look.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>By way of reply George read the 3rd of John, adding
+from time to time such brief explanations as he thought
+necessary, and in particular telling, very simply and
+clearly, the story of the brazen serpent.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>So still and silent was the listener, that George almost
+feared he had fallen asleep. He was undeceived, however,
+when, drawing a deep breath and fixing his eyes
+upon him with a look of intense interest, David asked,
+“But what can a man do wha has been a muckle sinner
+a’ his life?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I have told you, uncle. ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus
+Christ.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That’s unco weel for douce honest folk. But I hae
+stuck Black Will o’ the Hirst wi’ my whinger.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Gif ye had done waur than that, uncle, still the Lord
+Jesus wad forgive ye, and wad be blythe to do it. See,
+I will tell ye—” and he found the 23rd of Luke, intending
+only to read the story of the dying thief; but he read
+instead the whole of the grand and touching narrative in
+which it is set, like a gem in a diadem of gold. “And
+thus,” said George Stratton, “He suffered for our sins,
+‘the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God.’
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>For ‘He himself bare our sins in his own body on the
+tree.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Bare our sins?—I dinna just tak’ ye up, Geordie.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Though you stuck Black Will with yer whinger, the
+Lord Jesus’ll <i>pay the wyte</i>.<a id='r31'></a><a href='#f31' class='c014'><sup>[31]</sup></a> On the Cross, with his
+ain bluid, he paid the wyte for all our sins. And ye’ve
+nought to do, but just to plead what he has done with
+the Lord Almighty, and to take the guid comfort of it
+to yer ain heart.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, Geordie—Geordie, lad—it’s owre guid—it canna
+be—” David’s voice was trembling with emotion.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But it’s <i>true</i>, uncle; I could find ye mony other places
+in God’s book that tell the same.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David was silent for a moment or two, then he said,
+very seriously, “George, my lad, I’m right siccer ye
+wadna deceive me, for ye ken I lippen<a id='r32'></a><a href='#f32' class='c014'><sup>[32]</sup></a> to ye. But I’m
+no that siccer ye mightna be misled yersel, for ye’re but
+a haflins callant, wi’ a’ yer book lear. And I’d gie a’ the
+warld just to find the truth. But wae’s me! wha’s to
+tell it? The priests are a pack o’ misleared carles
+themselves; they ken neither new law nor auld, like the
+puir doited Bishop o’ Dunkeld.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“The Lord himself will teach you, an’ ye ask him.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wha has taught <i>you</i>?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I think He has,” said George reverently, and in a
+low voice. “But as for men’s teaching,” he added, “it
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>was some of the lectures of Maister Gawin Logie gared
+me first think of these things, when I was a determinant
+at St. Leonard’s College. Afterwards I forgathered with
+the Laird of Dune, and he gave me this Testament, and
+told me mony things whilk have helped me to understand
+it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Soon afterwards they returned to the castle.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David was unusually silent and thoughtful during the
+rest of the day; and, to the surprise and regret of his
+brother, and still more of his nephew, he announced his
+intention of leaving them the next morning. Having
+remonstrated in vain against this decision, they asked
+him where he intended to go.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He hesitated a little, then said: “Weel, to be plain,
+it’s a’ anent my bonny bay mare—fool that I was to part
+wi’ her. I’m sair wirried wi’ yon puir beastie, that’s nae
+mair fit for a gentleman than ony aver<a id='r33'></a><a href='#f33' class='c014'><sup>[33]</sup></a> ye’d tak’ frae
+the pleugh. Sae I’ll just gang to Erskine o’ Dune,
+aiblins he’ll gie me my ain back again.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The Laird shook his head. “Ye’re no that wise,
+brother,” he said, “to twine wi’ yer siller the noo.”
+And he kindly offered him the use of an excellent horse
+of his own, saying that Geordie would show him the
+animal, and could tell his merits from experience.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George, however, evidenced a decided want of alacrity
+in the business; and being too keenly interested in the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>proposed visit to the Laird of Dune to behave with his
+usual tact and readiness, he actually drew upon himself
+a sharp reproof from his father for his unwillingness to
+accommodate his uncle. “It sets ye weel,” he said,
+“wi’ twa guid horses o’ yer ain, to grudge brown Rob
+to yer uncle. In my day, young folk didna set sic’
+store by themsels, and had mair thought for their forbears.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Leave him his lane, Andrew,” said David, warmly.
+“He’s a guid lad, is Geordie—nae better between this
+and the Solway.” A speech that surprised the Laird a
+little, but pleased him considerably.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>So the next morning they parted; David promising
+soon to revisit his brother, and in the meantime to
+behave with as much circumspection as he could, and
+to avoid any course of action calculated to increase the
+hostility he had provoked. But he would promise no
+more than this; nor did he express the slightest inclination
+to seek a reconciliation with the Church.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_270.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_271.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>V.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>The Great Change.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“He came to me in love—and my heart broke,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And from its inmost depths there rose a cry,</div>
+      <div class='line'>‘My Father, oh, my Father, smile on me!’</div>
+      <div class='line'>And the great Father smiled.”</div>
+      <div class='line in32'><cite>Night and the Soul.</cite></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_271b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_273.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>V.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>The Great Change.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_273.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+Some time elapsed before David Stratton fulfilled
+his promise of revisiting his relatives
+at Lauriston; nor did they hear much about
+him during his absence. One winter evening, however,
+they were all assembled at supper in the great hall; the
+Laird and his Lady, with her young Cousin Alison—then
+a guest at the castle, the Master of Lauriston, and the
+Capellan, Sir William Ker, occupying the upper end of
+the board; while “below the salt” the numerous retainers
+of the Laird took their places according to their
+respective ranks. The sound of horse-hoofs, and then
+the blast of a horn, gave intimation of the approach of
+a visitor; and in a very short time David Stratton,
+followed by two or three attendants, strode into the hall.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He was warmly welcomed by the Laird and Lady;
+and there were others present who, although less demonstrative,
+were probably no less pleased at his arrival. A
+seat was soon placed for him at the Lady’s right hand,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>and the butler despatched for a stoup of the best wine
+in the laird’s cellar, to improve the cheer and to celebrate
+his arrival.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>All went merrily forward for some time, and every
+one present seemed in high good humour. There was
+no lack of conversation; although David was not communicative
+on the subject of his own proceedings since
+they parted. He had always enough to say upon the
+usual country sports and occupations; and, much to the
+surprise of his hearers, he added upon this occasion
+several amusing stories of the manners and customs of
+foreign nations, and particularly those of the French, in
+whom the Scotchmen of that day took such a lively
+interest. He said they had been lately told him by a
+friend, and he retailed them with great spirit, so as to
+occasion a good deal of harmless merriment. But one
+thing George particularly noticed, no oath or profane
+expression of any kind passed his uncle’s lips. Did the
+presence of Alison Lindsay refine and soften him, or
+was there any other influence at work?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Seems to me there’s something no just canny about
+ye, Davie,” remarked the Laird at last. “Ye couldna
+talk better, gin ye were as weel travelled a gentleman as
+holy Friar Scott himsel.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Dinna tell <i>me</i> o’ Friar Scott,” said David, with a
+strong expression of disgust. “Hae ye heard of his
+cantrips in Edinburgh?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>“Oh, ay; I hae heard that he fasted frae meat and
+drink twa and thirty days—gin it wasna for ane drink o’
+cauld water.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Lees and clashes!” returned David, very unceremoniously.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Sir William Ker here thought it his duty to interpose;
+and ventured to reprove Maister David for his scepticism,
+telling him that Friar Scott’s miraculous fast was,
+as he himself stated in a sermon preached at the Market
+Cross, “be helpe of the Virgin Mary,” and ought not
+therefore to be spoken of lightly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David answered, with a seriousness that took all present
+by surprise, that he did not believe the blessed
+Virgin possessed the power to do what Friar Scott attributed
+to her; but that if she did, he thought better
+of her than to suppose she would exercise it for the purpose
+of enabling a man of notoriously evil character to
+escape the payment of his just debts.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Upon this Sir William, who had for a long time
+cordially disliked David, lost his temper, and availing
+himself of the licence usually allowed to those of his
+profession, even dared to tell the Laird’s brother to his
+face that he was no better than a heretic and a reprobate.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The Laird fully expected to see David’s whinger
+spring from his belt, and flash across the table. He
+looked helplessly towards Isabel, as indeed he was
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>accustomed to do in most of his difficulties, in the
+expectation that her ready wit would find a way out of
+them.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In this case, however, her interposition was not
+necessary. David’s cheek burned, but he answered
+quietly, “It’s no sae wonnerful <i>you</i> should say that, sir
+priest.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Perhaps there is no greater test of a gentle nature, or
+its opposite, than the manner of meeting unexpected
+forbearance in an antagonist. A gentleman is softened,
+and repays courtesy with courtesy; a man of vulgar
+nature regards moderation as a sign of weakness, and
+presumes accordingly. Sir William thought the usually
+rude and overbearing Maister David must have some
+good reason for being afraid of him; he therefore boldly
+followed up his fancied advantage by requiring him to
+retract what he called his blasphemy against the blessed
+Virgin, saying there were present unlearned persons who
+were scandalized, and might be injured by what he had
+said.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This second impertinence was too much to bear.
+David relaxed his strong guard over himself, and answered
+hastily: “That which I say I never unsay, least
+of a’ at the bidding of a knave priest.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Thou hast thine answer, Sir William,” cried the
+Laird, with undisguised satisfaction; “so eat thy supper,
+man, and haud thy tongue.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>But David looked very ill at ease. “Yon was na
+answer ava’,” he said at length, and with an evident
+effort. “Sir William, I pray your pardon.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The priest would have felt much less astonishment
+had he struck him in the face. He stared at him in
+silence, unable to think of a suitable reply, while the
+Laird muttered, “Hech, sirs!—what’s got into ye,
+Davie?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But Sir William had not tact or common sense
+enough to make some courteous answer, and then
+quietly drop the subject. It should perhaps be mentioned
+in his defence, that he entertained well-founded
+suspicions of the orthodoxy of his patron’s son; and
+while a due regard for his temporal interests had
+hitherto prevented his openly attacking the Master of
+Lauriston, he compounded with his conscience by making
+as many general demonstrations against heresy as
+he could in his presence. Besides, Maister David
+being already excommunicated and under the ban of
+the Church, it was both meritorious and comparatively
+safe to attack him. He therefore attempted to “improve
+the occasion.” <i>His</i> pardon for any personal
+insult, he said, was granted before it was asked, as he
+cherished no resentment except against the enemies of
+Holy Kirk; but he trusted Maister David would ask
+the forgiveness of the blessed Virgin for what he had
+presumed to say of her, which he again averred (crossing
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>himself while he spoke) to have been downright blasphemy,
+and near akin to “the Englishmen’s opinions.”
+“Thae pestilent heretics,” he continued, “hae even
+dared to say there’s na sic’ thing ava’ as purgatory.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That hae <i>I</i> never said, nor shall I, wi’ the guid help
+o’ God,” answered David, with a quick glance of his
+blue eye, but a quiet thoughtful face.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m blythe to hear it,” said the priest; and he cast
+an unmistakable look of triumph upon George, who,
+like every one else at the table, was watching his uncle
+with wonder and interest.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But David presently resumed: “I believe in ane
+purgatory, by the whilk folk are cleansit frae a’ their
+sins—<i>the precious bluid of our Saviour Christ</i>. Forbye,”
+he added in a lighter tone, “ye may ca’ the troubles o’
+this present evil warld a kind o’ purgatory, an’ ye list.
+But these twa, I ken nae ither.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George, who for months had thought the same, and
+yet never dared to utter his thoughts with such boldness,
+now deeply felt the truth of our Lord’s words,
+“The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.”
+But he could not do less than come promptly to his
+uncle’s support, and follow the example of his fearless
+confession.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You have spoken truly,” he said, “for God himself
+doth testify in his holy Word that the bluid of Jesus
+Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from <i>all</i> sin.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>If Lady Isabel had been slow to interpose between
+David and the priest, she was prompt enough in stopping
+the discussion when she saw her son so disposed
+to compromise himself. She begged there might be no
+more talk of such “gruesome things” as heresy and
+purgatory and the like; and the Laird followed up her
+efforts by pressing David to take more wine, assuring
+him it was the part of a wise man to eat and drink, and
+to do his duty by his family and his estate, leaving all
+these puzzling questions to be settled for him by the
+priests and the doctors. “Forbye,” he added with a
+laugh, “an’ the said priests catch us meddling wi’ what
+doesna concern us, it’s like enough they’ll gie us, for our
+sins, a taste o’ the kind o’ purgatory <i>you</i> talk of, Davie—to
+wit, a hantle grief and dolour in this life.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Aiblins,” answered David; “but <i>he that saves his
+life shall lose it</i>.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>As soon as George could find an opportunity of
+speaking to his uncle alone, he warned him against Sir
+William Ker, saying that their opinions were by no
+means safe with him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I ken that, lad,” answered David; “but I maun
+speak the truth.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Uncle,” said the young man humbly and sorrowfully,
+“your courage shames my weakness.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I havena sae muckle to twine as you,” replied
+David; “forbye, I hae had muckle mair forgien me.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>Oh, Geordie lad, I dinna mind that the guid Lord hae
+ever done sic’ wonnerfu’ things for ony puir sinner!
+Think on’t yersel. I had nae thocht o’ him; I cared for
+naething but thae puir bits o’ gear, and—and the hopes
+and pleasures o’ this life. But then, first, he gied me a
+kind o’ start anent my ain foolishness, fechting wi’ the
+prior for the teinds. He let them cast me out o’ the
+Kirk (that’s nae God’s Kirk ava’, but the synagogue o’
+Satan); and when my heart was sair vexed, and I didna
+ken whilk gait to gang, and a’ was black as midnight—na
+shrift nor pardon for me, and I just beginning to
+think I was the maist awfu’ sinner in a’ Scotland—<i>then</i>,
+lad, He speered after me. He sought me his ainsel, he
+showed me how a’ my sins were clean forgiven, naebut
+because he deed on the Cross to tak’ them awa’. And
+noo I hae naething mair to do but to love him, and to
+witness for him, and to tell ither folk ilka day how guid
+he is.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George’s eyes were dim with tears of joy and thankfulness.
+“Blessed art thou,” he could not help saying,
+“for flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but
+our Father in heaven.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That’s owre true,” answered David. “Yersel, or
+the Laird o’ Dune, or ony man, might hae tald me thae
+things twa hundert times, and I wadna hae minded ane
+word. But the guid Lord has gien me—I canna find
+the name for’t, gin it’s no a new eye to see, a new ear
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>to hear, and a new heart to feel. It’s like as I hae been
+a dead man a’ my days, and I’ve naebut wakened up
+and begun to live the noo. Eh, but, Geordie, its wonnerfu’!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wonderful it certainly was, as all who came in contact
+with David Stratton could not fail to acknowledge.
+We who are accustomed to breathe an atmosphere pervaded
+by Christian sentiment and opinion, may find it
+hard to realize the greatness of the change—even the
+outward change—which was wrought in him. The
+entrance of God’s word had indeed given light, and
+given understanding to the simple. But love as well as
+light was shed abroad in his heart, and that richly. He
+who had once been overbearing, rude, violent, ready to
+offer offence and quick to take it, was now “ane
+vehement exhortar of all men to concord, to quietness,
+and to the contempt of the warld.”<a id='r34'></a><a href='#f34' class='c014'><sup>[34]</sup></a> Nor did he fail to
+practise that to which, with the “vehemence” that belonged
+to his character, he thus exhorted others. He
+was noways inclined to hide his light under a bushel; it
+was too real, too marvellous for that. Like the little
+child who, seeing the first star appear in the shaded
+evening sky, cried out in wonder and delight, “God has
+just made a new star in heaven;” so, when the light
+which had been shining from the beginning of the world
+first reached his soul, David felt as if for him God had
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>“made a new thing in the earth;” and he could not but
+tell the marvel to all those around him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He had therefore scarcely been three days at Lauriston
+ere more of Scripture truth was heard from his lips than
+there had been in two years from those of the cautious
+and thoughtful George. He avowed his convictions
+openly, for he was a stranger to fear. He spoke to his
+brother, to the Lady Isabel, to many of the retainers;
+and above all, he was eager to communicate to Alison
+Lindsay the knowledge he esteemed so precious. For
+with him faith was <i>knowledge</i>. That which he had seen
+and heard he declared to others. He was totally untroubled
+by doubts, either of any of the doctrines of
+Scripture or of his own interest and acceptance in Christ.
+His natural character contributed to this: in his mind
+there were no half lights and shadows; all lay in clear
+sunshine or in utter darkness, all was positive, welldefined,
+certain.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Though David’s knowledge of the Word of God often
+surprised his nephew, he was still dependent upon others
+for all he acquired, being himself unable to read. It
+was his special delight, during his stay at Lauriston, to
+induce George to accompany him to some quiet place
+in the fields, and to make him read for him chapter
+after chapter from the New Testament. George loved
+this occupation as much as his uncle did; and found
+the readings, and the conversation that always followed
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>them, very profitable to his own soul. Their positions
+were strangely reversed. He who had once been the
+pupil was now himself so deeply taught of the Spirit
+that he became in his turn the teacher; and many were
+the passages in the Word of God upon which he was
+able to throw the light of experience.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George and David often talked together of their friend
+and instructor, the Laird of Dune. From this remarkable
+man, whom Knox tells us “God had in those days
+marvellously illuminated,” David received nearly all the
+human teaching he ever had. He consequently so loved
+and revered John Erskine, that he even came to regard
+his favourite project of the Greek Academy at Montrose
+not only with approval, but with enthusiasm. There
+was indeed something touching in the desire this unlearned
+man evinced to secure to others the best fruits
+of learning. “Wha cares a bodle,” said he to George,
+“whether the bairns get the lear in Greek or in Latin,
+or in our ain guid Scot’s tongue, sae’s they <i>do</i> learn
+that the blessed Lord loved them, and deed for a’ their
+sins?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then you think, uncle, that the Greek school will
+prosper?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nae doot o’ that. There’s ane young man has
+begun to teach the bairns the New Testament—<i>vera</i>
+young, but by-ordinar learned, and o’ guid family, brither
+or brither’s son to the Laird of Pitarrow—ane <i>George
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>Wishart</i>. He’ll do something, gin the bishops dinna
+burn or banish him, as they’re like enough to do to ony
+man wha reads the Word o’ God, either in Greek or
+English.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George often wondered at the apparent coolness with
+which David alluded to such terrible probabilities, and
+tried to exhort him to caution and prudence. But he
+was not so indifferent as his nephew supposed to the
+dangers that menaced every one who dared to profess
+“the new Faith;” and if he received his well-meant
+warnings in silence, it was only because he could not
+argue, while he felt at the same time that but one course
+of conduct was possible to him, and that he must pursue
+it, lead where it might.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Perhaps this day his heart was softened by the recollection
+of a promise which only the night before he had
+obtained from Alison Lindsay; for a look of pain, almost
+of perplexity, stole over his face, and it was some time
+before he spoke again.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But at last he said, quietly, “Whaur’s the Book,
+Geordie? We’ll hae tint a’ our reading time.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What shall I read ye?” asked George; for David
+nearly always selected the portions they read together.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He said at once, “The tenth o’ Matthew;” and
+George read the precious words of comfort addressed by
+the Saviour to those whom he sent forth as sheep in
+the midst of wolves. His double command, “<i>fear not</i>,”
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>and “<i>fear</i>”—fear not them which kill the body, fear
+Him who is able to destroy both soul and body—sounded
+very full of meaning in the ears of men who knew that
+those who could kill the body were not far off. And
+very precious was his assurance that, notwithstanding
+every danger that menaced them, “the hairs of their
+head were numbered” by that Father who loved and
+would protect them.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But when George read, “Whosoever shall deny me
+before men, him will I also deny before my Father which
+is in heaven,” David Stratton could no longer control
+his emotion. Rising from his seat on the trunk of a
+fallen tree, he threw himself suddenly on his knees, and
+lifted up his eyes and hands to heaven as one in an
+ecstasy of prayer. For some moments he was silent,
+but at length he spoke aloud, or rather “burst forth in
+these words:” “O Lord, I hae been vera wicked, and
+justly mightest thou take thy grace frae me. But, Lord,
+for thy mercy’s sake, let me never deny thee, or thy
+truth, for the fear of death or corporal pain.”<a id='r35'></a><a href='#f35' class='c014'><sup>[35]</sup></a></p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George said “Amen” to his prayer, but he felt awed,
+as well as touched and solemnized. And it may be that
+his heart shrank in terror from the prospect that prayer
+unveiled before him. For his uncle had become very dear
+to him, “both in the flesh and in the Lord.” And still,</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Howe’er assured be faith,</div>
+      <div class='line'>To say farewell is fraught with gloom;”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c016'><span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>and “death and corporal pain” are fearful realities to
+contemplate. Far more fearful for those we love than
+for ourselves! For who does not know how hard it
+sometimes is to acquiesce in God’s dealings with our
+beloved ones, and by what agonizing lessons the heart
+is taught that for them “it was good to suffer <i>here</i>, that
+they might reign <i>hereafter</i>; to bear the cross <i>below</i>, that
+they might wear the crown <i>above</i>;” and that it was that
+they might be made like unto Him, that “He had placed
+them in the furnace, sitting by as a refiner of silver, until
+they should reflect his image.”</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_286.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_287.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>VI.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>Entering into the Cloud.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Know then, my soul, God’s will controls</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Whate’er thou fearest:</div>
+      <div class='line'>Round him in calmest music rolls</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Whate’er thou hearest.”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_287b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_289.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>VI.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>Entering into the Cloud.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_289.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+Mistress Alison Lindsay sat alone in
+one of the smaller apartments of Lauriston
+Castle. She had scarcely moved since Lady
+Isabel quitted the room, more than an hour before; the
+cunning “stitch-work,” with which she had been occupied,
+lay unheeded on the table; her fair face was clouded
+with care and anxiety, and her large dark eyes, which so
+often sparkled with merriment, were full of thoughtful
+sadness, and now and then dimmed with tears.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Alison’s heart was indeed sorely troubled and cast
+down within her; but why was this? The answer is easy;
+the same Word that had brought peace and joy to the
+heart dearest to her on earth, had brought bitter sorrow
+and perplexity to hers. For the present life, fear and
+anguish where all had been bright before; for the future,
+light indeed, but light that disturbed and dazzled, without
+guiding or cheering the bewildered soul. It perplexed
+and troubled her that the peace of her little world should
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>have been invaded by these “new doctrines.” The old
+faith was good enough for her, good enough for her
+kindred and her friends, and certainly good enough for
+Maister David Stratton. She knew him ere this strange
+spell had fallen upon him; she thought him then as
+brave and bold a gentleman as ever claimed a lady’s
+hand; and she would not willingly have had him
+changed. She had been so happy, so content with her
+lot, envying no one, desiring nothing beyond what she
+had either in possession or in prospect, when the consequences
+of David’s perverse quarrel with the Prior fell
+like a thunderbolt upon her, causing her the first real
+sorrow she had ever known. Yet even while she blamed,
+in her heart she half admired his reckless courage and
+daring. And she never ceased to anticipate a satisfactory
+termination of the dispute, through the mediation of his
+friends, and the slow but sure actings of his own good
+sense.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Great, therefore, was her horror when, upon his late
+arrival at Lauriston, he committed himself openly to sentiments
+which put a more formidable obstacle in the
+way of his reconciliation with the Kirk, than personal
+quarrels with half the kirkmen in Scotland would have
+done. Naturally intelligent and thoughtful, she had
+more definite ideas on the subject of heresy than any
+one in the castle, except Sir William Ker. It would
+not have been possible for her to become, without
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>knowing it, more than half a Protestant, as her less
+reflective cousin Isabel had already done. She was too
+well informed upon the tenets of her own faith for this;
+and besides, she did not possess one of those illogical,
+though perhaps in some respects happily constituted
+minds, in which opinions actually inconsistent with each
+other can remain together as peaceably as the leopard
+and the lamb will do in the future millennium. She
+knew only too well that David’s words were heresy; and
+she believed that heresy meant <i>ruin</i>, both to soul and
+body. And for life or death, for good or evil, his fate
+and hers were bound together. She had never loved him
+half so well, and yet she had never felt half so indignant
+with him. Nor was her anger unreasonable; since, as
+she then supposed, it was solely in the pride of his heart,
+and in his unreasoning wrath against the kirkmen, that
+he threw himself into that yawning gulf of heresy, thus
+very nearly committing an actual as well as a spiritual
+suicide. She did not think that any form of doctrine,
+as such, could possess much interest or significance for
+David Stratton. She supposed that in his eyes the
+errors of the Catholic Faith consisted in its being upheld
+by such men as the Prior of St. Andrews; and that the
+charm of the new doctrines might be found in the fact
+that, if they prevailed, neither priories nor parishes, nor
+the rents and tithes accruing therefrom, would be left
+to Patrick Hepburn and Robert Lawson.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>But after her first interview with him, she began to
+feel she had done him an injustice. She could not fail
+to perceive how marvellously these new doctrines had
+quickened both his mind and his heart. The earnestness
+with which he explained and enforced them first
+surprised, then touched her. She thought it only fair
+and generous not to condemn him unheard, but to
+allow him a full opportunity of stating his convictions.
+Otherwise, how could she combat them successfully?
+And she was resolved upon making the attempt;
+though less from any abstract zeal for the conversion of
+heretics in general, than from her intense and personal
+interest in the fate of this one particular heretic. On
+the other hand, he was as anxious for her conversion as
+she could possibly be for his; so that their conversations
+on the subject of religion were naturally neither few nor
+passing.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The consequences soon became apparent to those
+around them, and very painfully so to Alison herself.
+The faith of her childhood was first shaken, then
+actually overthrown. In any sensitive mind, this process
+must necessarily be attended with great suffering;
+but especially so if nothing be accepted as a substitute
+for that which is displaced. This in a sense, though
+only in a sense, was the case with Alison Lindsay.
+David had indeed presented her with the jewel of Truth,
+and she had taken it from his hand, and laid it up
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>amongst her treasures; still it might be said that she
+knew nothing of its beauty or value. For her no ray of
+light from above had fallen upon it, calling forth its
+brilliancy and lustre; it was a diamond, but a diamond
+unillumined by the sunshine; clear indeed and pure, but
+cold and colourless. How could such a possession as
+this repay her for all she must surrender for it—for the
+sparkling brilliant of earthly happiness, as well as for her
+early faith—once accounted a precious gem, though now
+discovered to be only a clever, beautiful imitation?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>To drop the metaphor, she had received a creed, but
+she had not yet received life. And something more
+than a creed is necessary to enable a man—that we say
+not, a woman—to abandon all that the heart holds dear,
+whether of association with the past, or of hope for the
+future. Such sacrifices she felt might now be demanded
+from her, and her heart shrank back in terror from the
+demand. It was no wonder, therefore, that as she sat
+alone that morning her thoughts were very mournful
+ones.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But the sound of an approaching footstep made her
+start, and brought a deeper colour to her cheek. She
+hastily took up her work; but had not added a single
+stitch to the “pearling” she was embroidering, ere David
+Stratton stood beside her.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Mistress Alison, I hae twa or three things to say to
+ye; hae ye time to hear me?” he asked, in tones which
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>showed that the gentleness and deference with which he
+always addressed her were mingled in this instance with
+a shade of embarrassment.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“There’s nothing to hinder, that I ken,” said Alison,
+glancing at her work. “Isabel’s in the wool-room, sorting
+wool for the lasses to spin.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David drew nearer the carved oak chair in which
+Alison sat. They formed rather a striking contrast.
+Alison wore a kirtle of fine taffetas of a deep full blue;
+a silken snood of the same colour edged with silver confined
+her rich dark hair; and seldom did the bright cold
+sunshine of March rest on a more graceful form or a
+fairer face than hers. David was dressed in a maud, or
+rough gray overcoat, and buskins of untanned leather,
+which were splashed here and there with mud. The
+wind had been dealing rather rudely with his brown
+hair, and his honest and manly, though not handsome
+face, was flushed with exercise. Thus much the eye
+could take in at a glance; there were other things, not
+so apparent, but of deeper significance. In <i>her</i> countenance
+there was a kind of surface quiet and repose, but
+underneath this all was restless, and fear and anxiety
+flowed on in dark waves; in <i>his</i> there was momentary
+agitation, as if he had just heard some disturbing tidings,
+but beneath the disturbance there was a settled calm,
+telling that his soul dwelt habitually in a peace no outward
+agitation could destroy.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>“I hae ridden hame this morn, and I’m but just back
+again,” he began, in his rather abrupt way.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nae need to tell that,” Alison could not help saying,
+with a quick glance at the mud on his boots. Little
+heed would she have given to such trifles, had she
+guessed the thoughts that were occupying his mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I fand there ane young man, familiar to the Laird o’
+Dune, wha was speiring after me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Weel?” said Alison, rather wondering what this
+would come to.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He brought me tidings;—Mistress Alison, I maun
+gang my ways, I daur bide here nae langer.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Alison’s colour changed rapidly from red to pale, and
+from pale again to red. “But what danger threatens
+you?” she asked quickly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye ken that unco weel yersel,” answered David.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, but they darena touch a gentleman, a laird’s
+brother”—yet the lips that uttered these confident words
+were growing white with terror.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Na, na, Mistress Alice,” said David gently, but
+with great earnestness, “ye mauna stay yersel on what’s
+no <i>true</i>. Maister Patrick Hamilton was better than a
+laird’s brither, he was Abbot o’ Ferne; and forbye that,
+he had the best bluid o’ Scotland in his veins; yet ye
+ken they brent him to ashes at the stake. But the
+guid Lord is aboon them a’; gin it’s his will to save me
+alive, a’ the kirkmen in Scotland canna touch a hair o’
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>my head; gin it’s his will I suld dee, his holy will be
+done!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But why do ye say sic’ awful things?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Because I’m <i>warned</i>, Mistress Alice; Erskine sent
+his servant to warn me. He hath had certain tidings
+that the Prior and the Bishop o’ Ross (God forgie them)
+’ill no rest till they finish their wark. Sae I maun just
+gang awa’.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Do no such thing,” interrupted Alison hastily.
+“Bide here, Maister David. There’s no place in Scotland
+sae safe for ye as the laird yer brither’s castle.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay, but then there’s Geordie. Gin folk begin to
+speir after heretics at Lauriston Castle, it’s like they
+wadna end wi’ David Stratton. And that’s why I darena
+quit the country, lest the blame might fall whaur it
+suldna, and better men pay the wyte for me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye’re no right there,” said Alison eagerly, almost
+sharply. “Ilka man should fend for himself. Forbye,
+there are others as deep or deeper than you in it, David.
+What have ye done mair than John Erskine o’ Dune?
+Yet he bides safe and siccar—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And God keep him safe and siccar, for the sake of
+a’ that love his name in this puir country. Mistress
+Alice, when first I kenned the Lord, I was sair fashed
+wi’ mysel for a’ my foolery anent the Prior’s tithe. But
+noo I’m richt sure it was God himsel let a’ that be. Gin
+it hadna been for that, I might hae never learned his
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>truth ava’; and forbye, it’s unco weel the bishops suld
+misdoot a simple man like me, and hunt me down for
+a thing like that, or wha kens but they might be doing
+waur?—Aiblins speiring after Geordie, or Erskine o’
+Dune, or that braw young scholar—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“O David, dinna say such words!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But her tones, though just a little reproachful, were
+very low and quiet; and he did not see her face—she
+had veiled it with her hand. Else surely he would not
+have gone on—“For the folk wha hae got lear can do
+sae muckle for the Lord. He canna spare sic’ as thae.
+He has sair need o’ them to speed his wark here, and to
+tell ither folk about him. But I’m aye unco slow wi’
+my tongue; sae I think, an’ the guid Lord wad let me
+suffer for him, it wad be just the best—Wae’s me!
+what hae I done? Alice—<i>dear</i> Alice!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>For Alison could no longer either restrain or conceal
+the anguish his words inflicted. Did David know <i>what</i>
+he was doing? There he stood, cold and calm, reasoning
+about that, to her, dim abstraction he called “the
+Truth,” and the best way in which its interests might be
+forwarded, while his own life—his precious life—was an
+item in the calculation. A mere figure, a something to
+be carried to this side or that, to be preserved or blotted
+out, as best might help to produce the wished-for result!
+To her this indifference seemed horrible. If, in her
+bitter pain, she could have found words at all, those
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>words would have been, “You care not for yourself,
+but care you nothing for me?” But words would not
+come, only tears, and low choking sobs.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David Stratton soothed her with a tenderness of which
+few would have believed him capable. Not now indeed,
+but often during the long after years, Alison confessed
+to herself that it was worth while to have shed some
+tears and suffered some pain, in order to be comforted
+thus, and to win such words and looks from that silent,
+undemonstrative nature.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>When she grew calmer, he said remorsefully, “I hae
+done wrang to say sic’ things. For ye ken, a’s no tint
+that’s in danger. The king’s aboon the bishops, and our
+King Jamie makes na muckle count o’ kirkmen. But I
+lippen a’ to the guid Lord, and Alice, ye maun just do
+the same.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But I canna, David. I’m no like you.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye haud the Truth, Alice?—ye love the guid Lord
+Jesus?” The two questions were asked in a quick,
+eager whisper, and without any pause between, as if
+they were indeed but one.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Alice answered slowly and sadly, perhaps reluctantly,
+“I haud what you taught me, David. I dinna pray to
+saints, I dinna believe in purgatory, I dinna think our ain
+works can save our souls. But all that doesna make
+it an easy thing to dee, or—whilk is waur—to see ithers
+dee.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>What David Stratton felt at that moment came nearer
+the bitterness of death than anything he had ever known
+before. “Alice”—he began; but his broad chest heaved
+with emotion, and for some time the words struggled in
+vain for utterance. “Alice,” he said at length, stretching
+out his hand to her—“Alice, forgie me; for I misdoot
+sair I hae done an ill pairt by ye. I suld hae bided
+awa’. I suld hae never seen yer face again (though it’s
+dearer, God wot, than heaven’s ain licht to me!)—that
+were better far than to drag ye down into a’ this grief
+and dole. No that it’s dole to me, but for the thocht o’
+<i>you</i>, Alice. But is it owre late yet to say good-bye—God
+speed ye—forget a’ that’s been between us?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Alison rose calm and pale, and put her small hand
+into his. There was a light in her dark eyes, and her
+voice, though low and quiet, had no trembling in its
+tones. “David Stratton,” she said, “it <i>is</i> owre late.
+There be some gifts that can never be taken back; and
+of such I hae given you. No that I’m wae for that.
+Gif I could, I would not be again the merry lass I was
+ere I kenned you, David. I—I—canna say mair on’t,
+but take that thought with you through all that may
+happen to us baith. Whatever God sends, you shall
+hear no murmur frae my lips. But pray for me, for I
+wot weel I havena your faith.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David Stratton did not exaggerate his own danger.
+But the fear of involving others in the same peril made
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>him deaf to his brother’s affectionate, and under the
+circumstances really generous entreaties that he would
+still remain a guest at the castle. On the following
+morning he returned to his own secluded residence on
+the sea-coast, intending to live there, in as private a
+manner as he could, until the storm either broke or blew
+over.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Isabel tried hard to console her young cousin, and to
+persuade her that all would yet end happily. David had
+powerful friends, she said; the Strattons stood well with
+the king, and he would never allow the kirkmen to proceed
+to extremities against one of the name. “It was
+not to be denied,” she added, “that David had advanced
+very strange opinions, and been very imprudent in his
+conduct; but yet—”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Here Alison indignantly interrupted her. “Ye’ve no
+right to say that, Isabel. Gif Maister David makes sma’
+count of this world, it’s because he’ll hae a better portion
+in the world to come than you or I, or aebody else. His
+faith in God is just wonnerful; it’s nigh the grandest and
+noblest thing I hae ever seen. But wae’s me!” she
+added, in an altered tone, “why might we no have
+been left to live and die in peace like other folk?
+Wherein have we offended, that all this should come
+upon us?—I wot weel <i>he</i> would say, ‘God’s will be
+done.’ But oh, Isabel, <i>my heart</i> willna say it!—at least,
+no yet.”</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_301.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>VII.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>Voices in the Cloud.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Thanks for the little spring of love,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>That gives me strength to say,</div>
+      <div class='line'>If they will leave me part in Him,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Let all things pass away.”</div>
+      <div class='line in24'><span class='sc'>A. L. Waring.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_301b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_303.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>VII.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>Voices in the Cloud.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_303.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+Three months after that sunny March morning,
+the young Master of Lauriston rode one day
+to the gate of his uncle’s dwelling, usually
+called Stratton House. This was a rude building, half
+castle, half farmstead, erected by some Stratton of a
+former generation, who having quarrelled with the laird
+of his time, chose to lead a life of independence in his
+own abode. It was situated on a hill, and close to the
+sea-shore; and many a time from the narrow windows
+had David watched his little ship as it struggled with the
+breakers; oftener still, in the gray morning light, had he
+trod the rough footway to the beach, prepared for a
+cruise along the coast of Angus, half for business and
+half for pleasure. Or after such an expedition, he had
+landed there, bringing with him his troop of swarthy,
+sunburnt fishermen, to drink huge flagons of double ale,
+and to fill the gloomy hall with their rough merriment.
+But these days were passed now, passed for ever. At
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>the time of George’s visit, all within the house was still
+and silent. David was busy superintending the concerns
+of his little farm, and the servants were assisting him in
+the field work. He perceived, however, the approach
+of his guest, and quickly came to meet him, soiled and
+heated, but with a face beaming with pleasure.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Eh, but I’m unco blythe ye’ve come, lad: guid day
+to ye. Here, Jock,” addressing a boy who had followed
+him from the field, “tak’ young Maister’s horse.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George warmly grasped his uncle’s extended hand, and
+then followed him into the hall, which presented a rather
+bare and comfortless appearance, having scarcely any
+furniture but a long table and some benches and settles
+by the wall. He was pressed to take a cup of sack, a
+draught of French wine (his father’s present), or even a
+horn of ale, with other more substantial refreshments,
+but he declined, promising to wait for the evening meal.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>After some little conversation on indifferent subjects,
+he drew out his precious New Testament, saying, “I
+think ye wad scarce give me a welcome without this,
+uncle.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David’s blue eyes kindled with eagerness; then a shade
+of sorrow crossed his face, and he said mournfully, “Gin
+I had to live owre again, I wad tak’ tent, and get book
+lear while I might, and no be like yon puir cripple at
+the pool o’ Bethesda, wha had to lie there his lane the
+haill day lang, and see ither folk gang in and get the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>blessing, a’ because he couldna fend for himsel, and
+there was naebody by that wad fend for him, for the
+love o’ God.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But then, uncle, ye ken the Lord Jesus did the
+wark <i>himsel</i>, with ane word of his mouth. It was He
+wha gave the waters their power to heal, sending his
+angel to trouble them. An’ if he pleased, he could heal
+just as well without them.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh ay, Geordie, I ken what ye’re ettling after.<a id='r36'></a><a href='#f36' class='c014'><sup>[36]</sup></a>
+Folk might read yer wee book frae ane end to the ither,
+and no be the wiser, gin the guid Lord didna speak
+himsel to their ane hearts the while. When it’s his
+will to speak, he can do it, an’ he pleases, but book, or
+priest, or sacrament. For he’s the Lord.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That’s owre true, uncle.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ay, but ye’ve no a chance to learn <i>how</i> true, sin’ ye
+dinna stan’ as I do, like a wrecked seaman on a bit
+rock, between life and death as a man might say.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George looked at his uncle in some surprise. Never
+from the lips of David Stratton had friend or foe heard
+words of complaint before. He had always made light
+of danger; almost too light, George had often thought.
+He answered, with a smile, “It’s time I suld come to
+speir after you, uncle. I think ye have bided your lane
+owre lang.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Na, it’s no that, Geordie. No that I wadna be blythe
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>to see ye ony day, lad; for yer ain sake, and for the
+book ye aye bring wi’ ye. But I’m no my lane here
+ava’. What wi’ the lads and the lasses, and the fisherfolk,
+there’s enoo to tell the Lord’s love to, and mony’s
+the hour I spend in the house or the field, or by the sea-shore,
+just talking wi’ Him. Geordie lad, I kenned
+him first as the Saviour—the guid Lord that deed for
+me. But forbye that, I hae come to ken him noo as
+my ain, anely friend, wha can read off ilka bit thocht or
+trouble in the heart as easy as you can read thae wee
+crooked marks in your book.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But for a’ that, uncle, are ye no cast down and
+sorrowfu’ whiles?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No that sorrowfu’ Geordie. This life’s no sae lang,
+nor sae guid either, that a man suld sit down and greet
+for it, like a bairn wha hae tint a play-toy.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But methinks ye’ve no tint all yet, even for this
+life?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David’s brow was mournful, though his blue eyes were
+full of light, as he answered, “Do ye no mind the story
+ye hae tald me ainst o’ the great King and the puir man,
+Geordie? The king (David mixed the allegory and its
+application together)—the king had graith and plenishing
+and gear enoo, and braw flocks and kye, the puir man
+had naebut ane wee lambie.” Here his voice failed,
+and a few moments passed before he was able to resume.
+“I hae never cared for onything as I care for <i>her</i>. And
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>noo, it’s no like I’ll ever see her face again, till we stand
+thegither at the judgment-seat o’ Christ. But that’s no
+the waurst to bear. Aft and aft hae I cried shame on
+mysel for a feckless tentless coof. Why could I no
+haud my peace and bide my time? What gared me
+turn my face to Lauriston ava’, quhill that she was there?
+Gin trouble suld come to me, its nae wonner, I hae done
+enoo to earn it, owre and owre again. And I thank the
+Lord I can thole it, thro’ his guid grace. But God help
+me! I canna thole the thocht o’ her sorrow.” David’s
+head was bowed upon his hands, and his face was hidden
+from sight.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“God will help thee, uncle. He hears prayer,” George
+said compassionately, almost tenderly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hears prayer! I wad ye, lad, he does, or I’d hae
+gane clean daft ere this. But it’s ill to ken what a man
+suld pray for whiles. When it’s naebut mysel that’s in
+it, it’s a’ plain enoo.” His head was raised now, and his
+eyes shone through the tears that had gathered in them.
+“Sma’ matter what he gies, or what he taks awa’, sin’ he
+has gien me his ainsel. And his ‘loving-kindness is
+better than the life itself; my lips shall praise him.’ Gin
+I could, I wadna wale to turn ane step frae the gait
+he has markit for me. For weel I wot, that I’d tyne
+mair than I’d win by that. I’m just in his guid hand,
+and there’s nae better place to be in a’ the muckle
+warld.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>“And Alison?” asked George gently, “is not she there
+too, in the same guid care and keeping?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nae doot of it,” answered David, who, fortunately
+for himself, was too simple-minded to doubt that Alison’s
+clear intellectual perception of the truth was accompanied
+by genuine faith and love. “Still I canna just mak’ it
+out. It’s no that easy to trust the Lord wi’ her. Mony’s
+the time I pray that he wad gie her a bit portion <i>here</i>,
+as weel as in the guid hame aboon—a wee bit joy or
+comfort, ye ken, even for this puir life. But it’s a’ dark;
+I canna see ane glint before me, or bring to my mind
+what he thinks to do wi’ her ava’.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Uncle,” said George, slowly and reverently, “he loves
+her mair than you do.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wonder and incredulity mingled in the gaze David
+bent on him; but after a time these passed away,
+changing gradually into a full content, calmer than
+common joy and deeper than earthly gladness. His
+silence was long; ere he spoke again his ear had caught
+the sound of footsteps and voices outside, but he heard
+them as one in a dream, a happy dream, from which he
+would not willingly be awakened.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ye’re richt, lad,” he said at length. “Unco hard
+it seemed to me to think there <i>could</i> be love mair deep
+and true than mine. Fule that I was for that! For I
+ken in my ain heart, just a wee bit, what his love is and
+can be; and kenning that, whaur I trust my ain soul I
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>can trust my soul’s treasure too, God helping me.” And
+he stopped, overcome by the fear and shame that so
+often seizes upon reserved natures when betrayed by
+strong emotion into unwonted self-utterance.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was only too easy for George to turn the conversation.
+Not quite so absorbed as his uncle, outward things
+had been making rather more impression upon him. “Is
+it your wont, uncle, to have guests at Stratton House?”
+he asked, with a glance towards the little window.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Aiblins it’s the fisher folk,” answered David. “Tho’
+that’s no like to be; the boatie suld be unco far by this,
+maist awa’ to Arbroath.” But he rose and walked quickly
+towards the door, followed by George, whose curiosity
+was excited by the arrival of strangers in a place so
+remote and difficult of access.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Both involuntarily recoiled for a moment from the
+scene that met their view. The yard seemed filled with
+armed men, dressed in “jacks” or stout buff leather
+jerkins, and with steel caps on their heads and spears in
+their hands. They had entered unchallenged, for the
+servants were all absent at their work in the fields, and
+had left wide open the substantial “yetts,” which, if closed,
+might have been defended for a considerable time even
+against overwhelming odds. But no one dreamed of
+danger then. No one knew, that while David Stratton
+walked quietly by the sea-shore, holding sweet communion
+with Him whom having not seen he loved, or spoke of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>Him in simple strong words to his poor farm-servants
+and fishermen, two such important personages as the
+Prior of St. Andrews and the Bishop of Ross, assisted by
+other Churchmen of less degree, had been taking grave
+counsel together as to the best means of apprehending
+so dangerous a heretic. They had come to the conclusion
+that the business required careful management, as a
+desperate resistance might be looked for from the reckless
+and daring Stratton of Stratton. Like other great
+Churchmen of the day, the Prior maintained a number
+of armed men at his own expense and on his own account.
+A troop of these “jackmen,” as they were called, were
+accordingly destined to this service, supposed to be one
+of danger; and they were purposely placed under the
+command of a certain Halbert of the Hirst, cousin to
+that “black Will” whom David once stabbed in a quarrel
+in Dundee. It was with this man that he now stood
+face to face, with an instant consciousness of his errand
+and of all its terrible import. How often do the great
+moments of our lives steal upon us thus with noiseless
+footsteps! We may have been watching long for some
+great joy or sorrow with strained eyes and parted lips;
+but at last there comes an unguarded hour, when weary
+lids close unconsciously, and mind and body are at rest,
+and then, just then, expectation becomes reality, and the
+very event for which we watched and waited takes us by
+surprise.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span>Thus it was that, while a man might count twenty,
+David stood amazed and silent before Halbert of the
+Hirst, who briefly and rudely explained his errand, at the
+same time showing his warrant for the apprehension of
+the excommunicated heretic. But in another moment
+Stratton of Stratton was himself again. Not in vain, after
+all, had he anticipated this solemn hour.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m fain to gang wi’ ye,” he answered, calmly and
+simply; “and I thank my God I’m no feart to answer
+for his truth the day.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Here George interposed impetuously; entreating Halbert
+to come with him to Lauriston Castle, and promising
+that, if he did so, his father the Laird would give ample
+securities for his uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But Halbert shook his head. His orders were precise,
+he said: he was to bring Maister David Stratton, dead
+or alive, to St. Andrews, and he would not be found
+wanting in his duty to those that sent him for all the
+lairds in Scotland, be they who they might.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George would have pleaded further, but David silenced
+him, saying, “Na, na, Geordie; dinna fash yersel, it’s a’
+richt.” Then turning to Halbert, “Ye’ll bait yer horse
+and tak a drink? Yon puir lads’ll no be laith for that,
+seeing the day’s unco het, and it’s a lang gait up the
+hill.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Halbert, however, declined the proffered hospitality,
+which he feared might cover some snare. His impatience
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_312'>312</span>to set out on his way was extreme. He could scarcely
+believe his own good fortune, in having so easily secured
+his captive, and every moment’s delay seemed to him
+fraught with unknown perils of rescue, flight, or evasion.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The farm-servants, as yet surprised and curious rather
+than alarmed, now came running in from all directions.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>One of them was immediately desired to saddle a
+horse for his master, but on no account would Halbert
+lose sight of the prisoner even for a minute. Perceiving
+this, David asked George to bring him a little money
+and a few other necessaries for his journey, giving his
+directions with a calmness that contrasted strongly with
+his nephew’s ill-concealed agitation.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>When George returned, David was already taking a
+hasty but kind farewell of the perplexed and terrified
+servants. Halbert of the Hirst stood a little apart,
+leaning upon his spear; perhaps he was beginning, in
+spite of himself, to feel a sort of respect for his captive.
+George turned towards him, and in a few words bespoke
+his courtesy and good offices for Maister David, making
+very free use of the name and influence of the Laird of
+Lauriston. This was little, certainly, to do for a relative
+so dear to him, but it was all he could under the circumstances.
+Then came the parting moment.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David lowered his voice, “Geordie, lad, will ye do me
+ane kindness the day, for auld lang syne?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Onything ye list, uncle.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_313'>313</span>“Then stay not—ride quick to Edzell (the family-seat
+of the Lindsays), and tell the tale o’ what has chanced
+wi’ me. For I’m feart the country folk’ll hae a phrase
+about it, and mak’ it waur than it is, ten times owre.
+But I lippen a’ to you, Geordie. Ye’ll do the best ye
+can, and help and comfort <i>her</i>, for my sake. Tell her
+God is wi’ me, and he’ll no leave nor forsake me, even
+to the end. And I’ll pray day and nicht for her, for thy
+guid faither and mither, and for thee, Geordie. God
+bless thee, lad!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was no shame to that brave man that he took his
+young kinsman in his arms, strained him to his heart,
+and pressed his lips to his. Nor to George that his tears
+fell fast, and his voice was not calm enough to return his
+uncle’s blessing. For they were parting beside the grave,
+and they knew it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A few minutes afterwards George stood alone, watching
+the soldiers as they marched down the hills, with the
+sun flashing upon their steel caps and spears. The blow
+had fallen so suddenly that he could scarcely realize
+it; yet its very suddenness was, in some respects, a
+merciful provision. Had there been time and opportunity,
+the habits of his previous life might so far have
+prevailed with David Stratton as to induce him to offer
+some resistance. The manners of the age, and the lawless
+state of the country would have excused such a
+course; and, moreover, David might well have felt that,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span>though he owed loyal obedience to “the king as supreme,”
+he owed none to proud and domineering
+Churchmen, who, according to their too frequent practice,
+were taking justice—or injustice—“at their own hand.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Yet, natural and excusable as a violent resistance
+might have been, David would have forfeited much
+thereby. There is great dignity in submission; dignity
+which the heart feels, even when the reason cannot
+analyze it. No rebuke is so crushing as that which the
+apostle addressed to the persecutors of his day, “Ye
+have condemned and killed the just, and <i>he doth not resist
+you</i>.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And “he who suffers conquers;” that is, he who
+suffers willingly, patiently, bravely. Victories thus won,
+silent and often unnoticed though they be, are the best
+and noblest earth’s trampled battle-field has ever witnessed;
+nor, however times may change, shall they
+wholly cease, until He comes who shall bring peace to
+the nations.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_314.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_315.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>VIII.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>The Cloud Breaks.</span></h2>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in10'>“God’s Spirit sweet,</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>Still thou the heat</div>
+      <div class='line'>Of our passionate hearts when they rave and beat.</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>Quiet their swell,</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>And gently tell</div>
+      <div class='line'>That his right hand doth all things well.”</div>
+      <div class='line in44'><span class='sc'>C. F. Alexander.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_315b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_317.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>VIII.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>The Cloud Breaks.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_317.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+David Stratton’s heart was not likely to
+sink when the trial he had anticipated actually
+came. He was constitutionally brave; gifted
+indeed with</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“A spirit that would dare</div>
+      <div class='line'>The deadliest form that death could take,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And dare it for the daring’s sake.”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>Not that his fortitude was of the very highest and noblest
+kind; of such fortitude, strange as it may seem, that
+nature is only capable which is also capable of the intensest
+agony of fear. It is the heart sensitive enough
+to apprehend and to feel in its utmost bitterness every
+pang that can be inflicted, that will rise, by God’s grace,
+to the loftiest height of gentle, self-forgetting heroism in
+the hour of anguish. But even if David Stratton’s courage
+was not, like one of Solomon’s targets, of beaten gold
+pure and precious, it was at least “a right good shield of
+hides untanned,” strong and serviceable in the day of
+battle.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>When, therefore, he was apprehended and brought a
+prisoner to Edinburgh, he was probably not by any
+means the greatest sufferer himself. Other hearts
+trembled more than his, when at last he was “produced
+in judgment in the Abbey of Holy rood House,
+the king himself (all clad in red) being present.” A
+priest named Norman Gourlay was his companion in
+faith and suffering. The priest was accused of having said
+“that there was no such thing as purgatory, and that the
+Pope was not a bishop, but Antichrist, and had no jurisdiction
+in Scotland.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Against David the old accusation was revived. Robert
+Lawson, vicar of Ecclescreig, deposed to his unmannerly
+refusal of the tithes demanded by him on behalf of the
+Prior of St. Andrews. To this was added an offence
+more recently committed—“that he said there was no
+purgatory but the passion of Christ and the tribulations
+of this world.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The king, most anxious to save him, earnestly
+entreated him to recant, and to “burn his bill.” But in
+vain. “I have offended in nothing,” said brave, honest
+David Stratton.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>His was not the tongue of the learned; he had no
+words of burning eloquence wherewith to explain and
+defend the faith so precious to his heart; yet, as was once
+said by another of Christ’s true disciples, he “could not
+speak for him, but he could die for him.” No threats—no
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>persuasions could turn him from his simple strong
+adherence to the cause of truth and right. He “stood
+ever at his defence,” maintaining that he had done no
+wrong, and therefore refusing to retract.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then, before all that awe-struck assembly, the terrible
+sentence was pronounced—<i>death by fire</i>.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>David heard it with undaunted courage. Death had
+no terrors for him, for he knew in whom he had believed,
+and was persuaded that He was able to keep that which
+he committed to him against that day. Still, for the sake
+of one far away whose heart would bleed, he desired to
+live, if life might be preserved without unfaithfulness to
+his God. He made, therefore, one last effort to save
+himself by appealing to the king and asking his grace.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The king’s heart was touched, and words of mercy and
+pardon trembled on his lips. But the Bishop of Ross,
+who managed the prosecution upon this occasion,
+proudly interposed. “Your hands are bound in this
+case,” said he. “You have no grace to give to such as
+are condemned by the Church’s law.” So little did a
+king’s compassion avail the victims of priestly cruelty.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>There is no need to linger over the rest of the story;
+a few brief words may suffice to tell it. On the 27th of
+August 1534, Norman Gourlay and David Stratton sealed
+their testimony with their lives. They were strangled,
+and their bodies burned at a place “besydis the rood of
+Greenside;” probably near the road that now leads from
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>the Calton Hill to Leith. It is recorded that David
+Stratton consoled and encouraged his fellow-sufferer
+to the last. We know not why a less painful death
+was granted these two than that which in those days
+usually fell to the lot of the witnesses for Christ. But
+after all, it mattered little through what gate they passed
+from earth, with its sin and sorrow, to the brightness
+of their Saviour’s presence. In that presence it was
+well with them—nay, it <i>is</i> well—for years and centuries
+make no change in the blessedness of those who, absent
+from the body, are present with the Lord, and “await
+their perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and
+soul, in his eternal and everlasting glory.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But how was it with the inmates of Lauriston Castle
+when these sad tidings reached them? How the Laird
+mourned his brother, or George his uncle—rather his
+loved and valued friend—might indeed easily be told.
+But Alison Lindsay, in the restlessness of her anxious
+and sorrowful heart, had once again sought the shelter
+of that roof, only to learn the terrible truth from the
+lips of her cousin Isabel—and who shall paint anguish
+such as hers?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>We know, alas!—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“What bitter words we speak,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>When God speaks of resigning;”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c016'>though it is his own voice that asks us to give up our
+treasure, and his own loving hand, not the cruel violence
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>of men, that takes it gently from our arms. We know
+how hard it is to bury our dead out of our sight, even
+when, as oft as we will, our tears may water the seed
+sown in “God’s acre” against the harvest of the resurrection.
+What would it be if, without farewell, without
+last look or parting word, that to which our hearts cling
+so fondly were snatched from us; and even the lifeless
+form—still so precious—denied a grave, burned to ashes,
+and scattered to the winds of heaven? Yet all this
+many women have borne, and borne bravely and meekly,
+not cursing God or man, but learning day by day to love
+and pray through all, and to possess their souls in
+patience. Surely, besides that written here below, there
+is another “Book of Martyrs”—a book in which He
+who himself wept over the dead, has recorded those
+tears and agonies, worse than stake or gibbet, shed in
+secret and endured in silence, for his name’s sake.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But if it be only the willing sacrifice He accepts,
+Alison could not yet receive the joy of that sacrifice to
+compensate for her bitter pain. While hope remained
+she had prayed for David’s life, if indeed the cry sent up
+from her agonized heart to him who was as yet to her
+the unknown God, could be called prayer. ‘Surely’ (she
+thought), ‘the God whom he served continually could and
+would deliver his faithful witness from the hands of his
+enemies. He would never suffer the bad to triumph,
+and the good to perish thus. He would take care of his
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span>own cause.’ So, even to the last, she sought to reason
+herself into trustful hope, if not into confidence. And
+then the blow came. Her life was desolate; earth was
+dark—dark for ever; nor did any light from Heaven
+shine in upon its midnight gloom. For had not her hope
+deceived her? was not her prayer given back into her
+own bosom? And yet she could not say, “It was a
+chance that happened us.” She could not forget God—there
+are situations in which this is impossible; she recognized
+his mighty hand, and bowed beneath it—alas!
+not in resignation, but in despair. The language of her
+heart was not, “It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth
+him good;” but rather, “O Lord, take, I beseech thee,
+my life from me, for it is better for me to die than to
+live.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Those around her, though they longed to comfort, yet
+had to stand apart, for it is God’s ordinance that through
+all deep waters the soul must pass alone. In the great
+silence that he makes around the mourner, every human
+voice dies away that his, and his alone, may be heard.
+It is a fearful thing when <i>He</i> is silent! Then to the
+tried and tortured heart come the whispers of the
+tempter, the “adversary” of God and man. Such
+whispers came to Alison. First, they said to her,
+“There is no God;” but well she knew that was false.
+Then came the more subtle suggestion, “There is a God,
+but he cares not for you. He does what he pleases in
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span>heaven and upon earth, heedless of the happiness or the
+misery of the creatures his hand has made.” And
+Alison said in her heart, “It is so in truth;”—thus from
+despair she passed into rebellion, and again rebellion
+engendered despair.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>All this time she did not weep, or wept but seldom.
+Nor would she speak of the past even to her cousin
+Isabel, after having once heard, with a calmness that
+seemed terrible to those who told it, the tale of David’s
+trial, condemnation, and martyrdom. But George took
+care frequently to leave in her way the Testament from
+which David had so loved to hear the words of truth.
+Remembering how earnestly he had urged its study
+upon her, she took it to her own apartment, and there
+read it, often for hours together. At first her attention
+wandered, and she scarcely tried to fix it, believing herself
+already sufficiently familiar both with the history and
+the doctrines of the book. But gradually she became
+interested in what she read. Now and then a passage
+would arrest and touch her; some parable or narrative it
+might be, which she had heard in David’s presence, or
+he had spoken of to her. And then tears would come,
+welcome tears, that relieved the heart of some of its
+heavy burden. She began to grow humbler in her
+sorrow, to take sympathy gently if not thankfully, and to
+long to hear of him she had lost from those who knew
+and loved him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>Thus it happened that George told her one day of his
+last interview with David. She heard all in silence,
+determined to restrain her emotion, at least in George’s
+presence; with Isabel it might have been different. But
+when she heard that David had been willing to trust her
+where he trusted his own soul, because he knew by
+experience even a little of that love passing knowledge,
+wherewith he had been loved, so strong was the rush of
+feeling, that in spite of all self-restraint, there were
+heavy sobs and tears, though they were not wholly for
+sorrow.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>George would willingly have consoled her, but he
+knew not what to say or do. He was about to leave the
+room, when the thought occurred to him that if he did
+not finish his story now he might probably never have
+another opportunity. Before the conversation began, he
+had been reading the Testament to his mother and
+Alison; but Lady Isabel having been called away, he
+had laid the book aside. He now quietly resumed
+where he had left off; and these were the words that fell
+upon the ear of Alison: “And when even was now come,
+his disciples went down unto the sea, and entered into a
+ship, and went over the sea toward Capernaum. And it
+was now dark, and Jesus was not come to them. And
+the sea arose, by reason of a great wind that blew. So
+when they had rowed about five and twenty or thirty
+furlongs, they see Jesus walking on the sea, and drawing
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>nigh unto the ship: and they were afraid. But he saith
+unto them, It is I; be not afraid. Then they willingly
+received him into the ship: and immediately the ship
+was at the land whither they went.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>No words she ever heard had been to Alison what
+those words were then. To her sorrowful but softened
+heart they seemed an image of her own condition. Was
+she not alone—as it were—on a stormy sea, amidst wild
+and tossing breakers? “And it was now dark, and Jesus
+was not come.” Was it because he cared not? Oh,
+no; his heart was full of love. Whatever else she
+doubted, henceforward she would not doubt of this.
+But would he come to her? Surely she would “receive
+him willingly.” Would he but say to her: “It is I;
+be not afraid?” Would he but reveal himself as he
+had done to one she loved? Then all might yet be
+well, and a bright and blessed morning dawn upon
+her night of weeping.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She thanked George calmly enough, and then withdrew
+to the welcome refuge of her own room. As her
+heart had known its own bitterness, so with this newly
+awakened hope no stranger might intermeddle. Thus it
+is, almost always, with deep natures. Whether we lose
+or win, we must fight our great battles alone. Alone!
+but if once we have learned to “cry to the strong for
+strength”—because we know that the strong is also the
+loving One, and therefore will surely hear us—it is no
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_326'>326</span>longer doubtful whether victory will be ours or no.
+Weary and heavy laden heart, be comforted; “thou
+wouldst not be seeking him, if he had not already
+found thee.”<a id='r37'></a><a href='#f37' class='c014'><sup>[37]</sup></a></p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Very soon Alison’s prayer was answered, and the desire
+of her heart was given her. She found rest in Christ;
+and though still she wept for the earthly treasure his
+hand had taken, she wept like a child sobbing out its
+grief in its mother’s arms; not like one standing outside
+in the cold and dark, knocking in vain at a closed door.
+Christ had revealed himself to her as her Saviour, her
+Redeemer, her ever-living Friend. And having seen him,
+she had seen the Father also; she knew him as her
+Father who loved and cared for her. Once she could
+not say: “It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him
+good;” <i>now</i>, “Even so, Father, for so it seemeth good
+in thy sight,” was the voice of her resigned and grateful
+heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The great sorrow of her life had come to her in midsummer,
+when skies, and leaves, and flowers were
+brightest, and all nature seemed to rejoice. Peace and
+comfort came when the November winds were whistling
+through the leafless trees, and the first snows of winter
+were whitening the ground.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And even then she arose and went to her own home.
+When God visited her and gave her peace, he taught
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_327'>327</span>her that she had a work to do for him, and that the
+command, “Occupy till I come,” was as truly addressed
+to her as though her life had been filled with earthly
+ties and earthly happiness. Nay, perhaps it is addressed
+to her and to those like her, for their comfort and
+blessing, in a sense peculiarly full of meaning; for was
+she not called and set apart, even more than others, to
+care for the things of the Lord, that she might be holy
+both in body and in spirit?</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_327.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_329'>329</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_329.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h2 class='c004'><span class='c010'>IX.</span><br> <span class='blackletter'>Left Alone.</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c011'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in25'>“Thy love</div>
+      <div class='line'>Shall chant itself its own beatitudes</div>
+      <div class='line'>After its own life-working. A child-kiss</div>
+      <div class='line'>Set on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad;</div>
+      <div class='line'>A poor man, served by thee, shall make thee rich;</div>
+      <div class='line'>A sick man, helped by thee, shall make thee strong;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense</div>
+      <div class='line'>Of service which thou renderest.”</div>
+      <div class='line in36'><span class='sc'>E. B. Browning.</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_329b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_331'>331</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_331.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>IX.</div>
+    <div><span class='blackletter'>Left Alone.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c005'>
+  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_331.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
+</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
+Alison Lindsay found her father and her
+brothers full of sympathy for her, and of indignation
+at the fate of Stratton. As so often
+happens, death had proved a great peace-maker. David’s
+punishment had so vastly exceeded his offence, that the
+offence itself was altogether consigned to oblivion. Nothing
+more was heard of the petulance and obstinacy
+with which he had involved himself in the quarrel which
+provoked the Lindsays of Edzell to deny him the honour
+of their alliance; only his dauntless courage and fortitude
+were remembered now. Even young Gavin, who
+had once been so glad to bring David his father’s hostile
+message, was upon more than one occasion heard to call
+him “a martyr.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Knowing something of Alison’s strong affections and
+of the determination of her character, and not knowing
+the change that had taken place in her views, they half
+expected her to evidence her grief for David by bidding
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_332'>332</span>the world farewell and retiring to a convent. Great
+was their relief to find that the only daughter of their
+house had formed no such intention; greater still their
+wondering admiration of the quiet fortitude and resignation
+with which she bore her heavy sorrow. They had
+always known that “our Alison was a brave lass, and
+had a great spirit,” but they never thought so highly of
+her as when they saw her resuming with energy, and
+even with apparent cheerfulness, the occupations (though
+not the amusements) suitable to her age and position.
+Into all their interests and their harmless pleasures she
+entered fully, giving them a sympathy and a toleration
+which they in turn learned to extend to her. It was
+a signal mark of this toleration that when, in the course
+of time, other offers were made for her hand, and
+amongst them more than one which, if accepted, would
+greatly have advanced family interests; her indulgent
+father only said, “Please yerself, my lass;” and her
+brothers refused to interfere, on the plea that “our Alice
+will aye gang her ain gait.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>To her religion they were gradually led to extend
+something more than toleration; and to win their hearts
+to it became the great interest, because the great duty,
+of her life. The impression made by David’s martyrdom
+was not suffered to die out. The precious season of
+natural re-action against priestly tyranny was eagerly,
+yet wisely, spent in leavening their minds with as much
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_333'>333</span>of Scripture truth as they were willing to hear from her
+lips. During the five or six following years nearly all
+the members of her family were won, at different intervals
+and more or less gradually, to the cause of the
+Reformation. In some, indeed, the change was merely
+outward, but in others it was deeper and more real;
+and more than once or twice was Alison given to taste
+the full blessedness of leading those she loved to her
+Saviour’s feet. Nor was her quiet but effectual work
+for him limited to her immediate family. The servants,
+the retainers of the household, the poor of the neighbourhood,
+all felt her sweet influence for good; she was
+unwearied in ministering to their bodily necessities, but
+still more anxious to bear to their thirsting souls the
+living waters of the Word of God.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Yet it must not be concluded that Alison’s life, whilst
+thus rich in blessing for others, was for herself either a
+perfectly happy or a perfectly healthful one. In a sense,
+indeed, the wound of her heart was healed; but “what
+deep wound ever healed without a scar?” and to tell
+where <i>that</i> wound had been, a broad deep scar remained.
+There was an incompleteness in her life, a sense of want,
+a hunger in her heart; and this was felt not so much during
+the first year after David’s martyrdom, as during those
+that followed it. For when, in that hour of deepest need
+and sorrow, God had revealed himself as the strength
+of her life and her portion for ever, it seemed as though
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_334'>334</span>want or woe could never again come near the heart
+he had satisfied with his own fulness. Had he not
+made the wilderness to rejoice and blossom as the rose?
+Had he not given her songs in the night, as when a holy
+solemnity is kept; and with these upon her lips, should
+she not come to Zion with everlasting joy, and sorrow
+and sighing flee away?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But weeks and months and years rolled on in slow
+monotonous succession. Life, with its cares and struggles
+and dull every-day realities, drew its meshes around
+her again. The brilliant hues and colours of the morning—“the
+gold, the crimson, and the scarlet, like the
+curtain of God’s tabernacle”—which had heralded the
+shining of the sun of righteousness upon her soul, faded
+from her, and passed into the light of common day.
+True, it was light still and not darkness,—light to live
+in, light to work by, light to be thankful for as heaven’s
+best gift; and yet sometimes, in spite of all this, tears
+would start,—tears not of rebellion, scarcely even of
+sorrow, but rather of weariness and loneliness. She
+wanted something, she knew not what; and she often
+felt that if it were not very wrong, it would be very
+sweet to think that the time of her rest in heaven was
+not far away.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Those around her understood but little of her inner
+life, else, perhaps, they might not inaptly have described
+her in the poet’s words,—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_335'>335</span>“You never heard her speak in haste;</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Her tones were sweet,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And modulated just so much</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>As it was meet.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Her heart sate silent through the noise</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>And concourse of the street;</div>
+      <div class='line'>There was no hurry in her hands,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>No hurry in her feet;</div>
+      <div class='line'>No joy drew ever near to her,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>That she should run to greet.”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>One thought indeed there was that came to her with
+something like a thrill of rapturous hope. As she indulged
+it, it returned again and again, and with such
+force, that in process of time it became the strongest
+temptation of her quiet secluded life. She had early
+learned contented acquiescence in God’s dealings with
+him she loved, as far as he himself was concerned. She
+thought of David Stratton not with resignation only,
+but with deep and solemn joy. For she rightly considered
+his fate as the most glorious possible to the
+sons of men. None of the diadems of earth appeared
+to her imagination half so bright as the martyr’s crown.
+Was it then so strange, if she gazed on that crown until
+she began to long that it might be hers also? Or if she
+looked upon the bright pathway by which the martyr had
+gone to his rest, until her eyes were so dazzled that the
+common beaten road in which God appointed her to
+tread seemed dark and void of beauty and interest? That
+longing for martyrdom,—is it hard to comprehend, even
+for us; knowing as we do, that there are many things
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_336'>336</span>worse than death, and sometimes dreaming, as we may, of
+the strange sweetness of proving by some great sacrifice
+our love to him whose love to us was so great? Does
+it seem a thing incredible to us that the men and women
+of other days should have rushed unsummoned before
+the heathen tribunals, stretching out rash hands to grasp
+the fiery cross, and even sinning that they might attain
+what so many through the weakness of nature have sinned
+that they might avoid? Surely we can sympathize with
+Alison Lindsay if, in the loosening of earthly ties, and
+the daily strengthening of those that bound her to the
+unseen, the thought of such a fate often presented itself
+to her mind as a consummation devoutly to be wished
+for. Why could not she have died as David Stratton
+did?—“for the word of God and for the testimony of
+Jesus Christ.” It would have been so easy and so
+blessed to give up life in such a cause. That would be
+indeed to serve and glorify her Lord and Saviour; and
+to enter in joyfully, and with an “abundant entrance,”
+within the veil, where her longing heart desired to
+be. But her desire was not given her. There was
+indeed little fear, or as perhaps she would have phrased
+it, little hope, that a life so retired as hers, and so carefully
+guarded by loving hearts and hands, should be cut
+short by martyrdom.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>With an intensity of sympathy and interest which it
+is difficult for us to realize, Alison watched the fate of
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_337'>337</span>those brave sufferers who—after David Stratton and
+Norman Gourlay—sealed their faith with their blood in
+Scotland. It almost seemed as if she went with each
+one of them in spirit to the very gate of heaven, hoping
+that, as it opened to admit the new comer, some gleam
+of the glory within might fall on the solitary watcher
+outside; and then, when all was over, many a quiet tear
+was shed, and many a prayer was whispered,—“How
+long, O Lord? Is it not yet enough? Wilt thou not
+soon make an end of this tyranny, and give peace and
+freedom to thy people in this realm?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Those for whom she wept thus were not too many to
+be briefly enumerated here. Four years after the
+martyrdom of Stratton and Gourlay, several persons
+were burned in one fire on the Castle Hill, Edinburgh,
+“when they that were first bound to the stake godly
+and marvellously did comfort them that came behind.”
+Of four of these brave and faithful witnesses—Kyllour,
+Beverage, Sympson, and Forrester—little is known to
+us; but the fifth, Dean Thomas Forrest, stands before
+us in striking and interesting individuality; his story may
+be read in Fox’s “Book of Martyrs.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Alison’s heart thrilled at Forrest’s dying challenge to
+one who sought to persuade him to retract—“Before
+I deny a word which I have spoken, you shall see this
+body of mine blow away with the wind in ashes.” But
+she gave perhaps a tenderer sympathy to the two Glasgow
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_338'>338</span>martyrs who suffered shortly afterwards. Russell’s gentle
+disposition, and Kennedy’s extreme youth (he was only
+eighteen), seemed to have softened the hearts of some
+of their persecutors; and even the Archbishop of Glasgow
+would have allowed them to escape, but for the ferocious
+zeal of Cardinal Beaton’s emissaries. Kennedy “at first
+was faint, and gladly would have recanted;” but God so
+wonderfully revealed himself to him, raising himself
+above all fear, and filling his heart with joy and peace,
+that he met his doom triumphantly. Nor was Russell
+less steadfast. “Brother, fear not,” he said to his young
+companion. “More potent is He that is with us than
+he that is in the world. The pain that we shall suffer is
+short, and shall be light; but our joy and consolation
+shall never have an end. And, therefore, let us contend
+to enter in unto our Master and Saviour by the same
+straight way that he has trod before us. Death cannot
+destroy us, for it is destroyed already by him for whose
+sake we suffer.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Four years passed ere there were martyr-deaths again
+in Scotland. During that interval King James died, and
+the Earl of Arran, who succeeded to the principal
+authority under the title of Governor, favoured at first
+the cause of the Reformation. But this gleam of prosperity
+soon faded away, no doubt to the bitter sorrow
+and disappointment of many a waiting heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>That of Alison Lindsay was still beating high with
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_339'>339</span>hope for her country and her faith, when a friend of her
+father’s, newly arrived from Perth (or, as it was then
+called, St. Johnstone), told a tale that awoke deeper and
+sadder feelings within her than any she had heard for
+the last nine years. Four burghers of that city had been
+tried, condemned, and executed, for heresy. They were
+humble and simple men, but God-fearing and intelligent,
+able to give a reason for the hope that was in
+them, and willing to die rather than surrender it. But
+the martyr-band also included a woman. Helen Stirk,
+the wife of the most advanced and fearless of the
+“heretics,” was accused of heresy, and condemned to
+die because she refused to pray to the Virgin Mary.
+“She desired earnestly to die with her husband, but she
+was not suffered; yet, following him to the place of execution,
+she gave him comfort, exhorting him to perseverance
+and patience for Christ’s sake, and, parting
+from him with a kiss, said in this manner: ‘Husband,
+rejoice, for we have lived together many joyful days; but
+this day in which we must die ought to be most joyful
+to us both, because we must have joy for ever. Therefore
+I will not bid you good night, for we shall suddenly
+meet with joy in the kingdom of heaven.’ The woman
+after was taken to a place to be drowned, and albeit
+she had a child on her breast, yet this moved nothing
+the unmerciful hearts of the enemies. So, after she had
+commended her children to the neighbours of the town
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_340'>340</span>for God’s sake, and the sucking bairn was given to the
+nurse, she sealed up the truth by her death.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Bitterly did the Lindsays execrate this cruelty, exceptional
+even in that cruel age, and many were their
+invectives against him by whose authority it was perpetrated;
+“curses not loud but deep” added to those
+already “waiting in calm shadow around” the wicked
+Cardinal, until the memorable day when he filled up the
+measure of his iniquity, and the land was no longer able
+to bear him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But Alison heard the tale in silence; not until she
+had entered into her chamber, and shut the door, did
+the torrent of mingled feelings it awakened find vent in
+tears. How she envied that unknown sister in Christ,
+to whom he had given this great joy and glory of suffering
+for his name’s sake. How blessed seemed <i>her</i> lot,
+to go with him she loved not only to the gate, but within
+it. Not to turn back to earth, weary and sorrowful,
+to tread that long, long path of life alone,—</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“With aching heart, and weeping eyes,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And silent lips;”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c016'>but neither by life nor by death to be divided from him,
+the pain of the brief parting to be swallowed up in the
+joy of the near and certain re-union, and for all farewell
+only those sweet words, “I will not bid you good night,
+for we shall suddenly meet with joy in the kingdom of
+heaven.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_341'>341</span>“Father, Father!” sobbed Alice on her knees,
+“thou hast been very gracious to thy poor, weak, sinful
+child. And thou knowest I would not murmur.
+Righteous art thou in all thy ways, and holy in all thy
+works, <i>yet</i> let me talk with thee of thy judgments.
+Wouldst thou but grant me a portion like to <i>hers</i>?
+None ever raised such a triumphant song of praise for
+life restored as I would do for that death—better and
+brighter than any other lot on earth.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Thus she prayed, if these words can be called a prayer.
+But she rose uncomforted, because in part at least unsubmissive.
+“Happy, happy Helen Stirk!” were the
+words on her lips; and in spite of her resolves, perhaps
+the contrast her heart drew the while was more than half
+a murmur.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But as she lay awake through the long silent hours of
+the winter night, other thoughts came to her—visions
+of little lonely orphan children, fatherless and motherless,
+wandering desolate and uncared for, or tended only
+by the unloving hands of strangers. Had such thoughts
+saddened the last hours of the martyr-mother? Had
+she dreamed, as she pressed that last kiss on the lips of
+her babe, that perhaps in after years those lips would
+be taught to lisp the “Aves” <i>she</i> died rather than repeat?
+Or was it given her to see the untwining of
+those tender ties without a pang? Could she part from
+all in full unfaltering reliance on his promise who has
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_342'>342</span>said, “Leave thy fatherless children, and I will preserve
+them alive?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Alison felt very sure that He would make that promise
+good. But by and by it occurred to her that he usually
+worked by means, and that when he wanted the lambs
+of his flock fed and cared for, it was his way to say to
+some one, “Feed my lambs.” What if he said it that
+hour, even unto her? Why not? There was meal
+enough in their “girnels” to feed twenty orphan children,
+wool enough in their stores to clothe them, and
+little danger that her liberal and kind-hearted father
+would object to any use she pleased to make of either.
+Every detail of her plan was soon settled. It was
+simple, natural, easy; requiring no romantic effort, no
+heroic sacrifice; only some forethought, and a little
+daily self-denial. She felt it would be so sweet to do
+this work of love for her martyred sister, and for Him
+for whom she gave her life. And thus she learned that
+it might be as blessed a thing to do as to suffer his will,
+to live unto him as to die unto him. For living or
+dying, she was his. Her morning prayer began as her
+evening prayer should have ended. “Not my will, but
+thine be done, O my Father. I see thy will is the best,
+and I know now thou carest as tenderly for her thou
+leavest here to work and pray, as for her thou calledst
+up yonder to rejoice and praise.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It seemed as if the orphan children that Alison brought
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_343'>343</span>from St. Johnstone to her home at Edzell, brought with
+them a kind of completion, as well as manifold comfort
+and blessing to her own life. Their love—childhood’s
+love, so easily won, so freely expressed—was a joy to her
+lonely heart; and the task of training them for Christ, an
+ever-fresh interest and occupation. And besides, this
+work, undertaken directly for her Lord, helped her to
+feel that all her other work was for him also. Thus
+quietly and peacefully her days glided on, like waters
+that fertilize where they flow. No praise she sought
+from man, and but little she received; but he that hath
+“his eyes like a flame of fire” to search the hidden
+things of darkness, would surely have said of her, “I
+know thy works, and charity, and service, and faith, and
+thy patience, and thy works; and the last to be more
+than the first.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She lived to see the morning of the Reformation—which
+had dawned upon Scotland amidst cloud and
+storm—settle into the noonday of gospel light and
+liberty. Although by that time her dark hair was mixed
+with gray, her heart was still fresh and young. A joyful
+day it was for her, when being on a visit with George
+Stratton, Laird of Lauriston, who both as a youth and a
+man was a zealous and consistent friend of the Reformation,
+she accompanied him and part of his family to
+the house of Erskine of Dune, to hear John Knox
+preach the word of God, and to receive the sacrament
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_344'>344</span>from his hands. And when a young David Stratton (so
+named by the Laird in affectionate remembrance of his
+martyred uncle) asked her on their return if she had
+been happy, adding significantly, “but I mind <i>you’re</i>
+aye happy, Mistress Alison,” she did not contradict him,
+but answered simply, “Yes, my bairn; and why should
+I not? Loving-kindness and mercy have followed me
+all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of
+the Lord for ever.”</p>
+
+<p class='c005'>Nothing more remains to be told. Short and simple,
+as it has come down to us, is the true story of David
+Stratton; and we have purposely avoided obscuring its
+few salient features by any redundancy of ornament.
+The Reformation martyrs of Scotland were not numerous,
+in comparison with those that suffered in other
+countries. But they were in many ways fitting representatives
+of their nation, its true “first-fruits” offered up
+to God. Every age was there: <span class='sc'>Walter Mill</span>, who had
+passed the fourscore years allotted to man, and might
+have laid his hoary head in the grave in peace, but that,
+as he said, he was “corn and no chaff, and would not be
+blown away with the wind nor burst with the flail, but
+would abide both;” <span class='sc'>Ninian Kennedy</span>, who had scarcely
+reached the age of manhood, but yet had lived long
+enough, since he found his Saviour owned him and
+died for him. Every rank was there: young <span class='sc'>Patrick
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_345'>345</span>Hamilton</span>, with his royal blood and brilliant prospects;
+<span class='sc'>Adam Wallace</span>, “in appearance a simple, poor man,”
+but deeply taught of God, and moreover, “having read
+the Bible and Word of God in three tongues, and understood
+them so far as God gave him grace.” In <span class='sc'>George
+Wishart</span> profound learning, deep thoughtfulness, and
+winning sweetness and nobleness of natural character,
+had their representative: <span class='sc'>David Stratton</span>, on the other
+hand, was remarkable for none of these—he held the
+treasure in an earthen vessel, that the excellency of
+the power might be of God.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Yet this very fact imparts peculiar significance to his
+history. We are prone to look upon the noble army of
+martyrs through the haze of a vague admiration, that
+on the one hand magnifies their forms to something
+larger than human, but on the other robs their outlines
+of individual distinctness. That they were, in the fullest
+sense of the word, good men, scarcely any one, even
+amongst those who regard the truths for which they
+suffered with indifference, will think of denying. But
+we have a tendency also to regard them as great men;
+the chosen of their age for thoughtfulness, for nobleness,
+for all the intellectual and moral qualities by which man
+differs from his fellow. No doubt some of them were
+such. But as in the Church of Christ itself, so amongst
+those “white-robed warriors” who form its honoured
+vanguard—all classes, all grades, all types of character
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_346'>346</span>are represented. They were men of like passions with
+us, and of like temptations, faults, and weaknesses. That
+which made them to differ was nothing in or from themselves;
+it was the sublime power of that faith of which
+the great Head of the Church is himself the Author and
+the Finisher, and of that love which his Spirit alone can
+shed abroad in the heart of man.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_346.jpg' alt='FINIS' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<hr class='c017'>
+<div class='footnote' id='f1'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. Baker.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f2'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. Without.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f3'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r3'>3</a>. A doctor.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f4'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r4'>4</a>. That is, cautiously.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f5'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r5'>5</a>. That is, lost.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f6'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r6'>6</a>. That is, endure.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f7'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r7'>7</a>. Increase or diminish.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f8'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r8'>8</a>. As it is intended that the reader should understand that whatever is told of
+George Wishart throughout is pure history, a word of explanation, perhaps of
+apology, may be necessary here. It does not seem any deviation from the rule
+thus laid down, to suppose his doing for the personages of the story what, at this
+time, he did for so many. Knox tells us “he spared not to visit thame that lay
+in the verray extreamitie; he comforted thame as that he might in such a
+multitude; he caused minister all things necessarie to those that might use meat
+and drink.” And Emery Tilney, who, during the year that he taught at Cambridge,
+was his affectionate and admiring pupil, writes of him, “His charity had
+never an end, night, noon, nor day;” and again, “If I should declare his love
+to me and all men, his charity to the poor, in giving, relieving, caring, helping,
+providing, yea, infinitely studying how to do good to all and hurt to none, I
+should sooner want words than just cause to commend him.”</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f9'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r9'>9</a>. Eyes.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f10'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r10'>10</a>. Not from affectation, but because it was his custom to wear nothing he might
+not suitably give away to the poor. In order to supply their necessities, he seems
+to have habitually practised the most rigid self-denial. “<i>He that is faithful in
+that which is least, is faithful also in much.</i>”</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f11'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r11'>11</a>. Knox.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f12'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r12'>12</a>. Outlawed.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f13'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r13'>13</a>. Present, gift.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f14'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r14'>14</a>. Parlour.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f15'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r15'>15</a>. The following is the circumstance alluded to above. During Wishart’s stay
+at Montrose, the Cardinal, whom Knox may be excused for calling the “devill’s
+awin sone,” again attempted his life. “He caused to write unto him a letter, as
+it had been from his most familiar friend, the Laird of Kinneyre, ‘desiring him
+with all possible diligence to come unto him, for he was stricken with a sudden
+sickness.’ In the meantime had the traitor provided three score men, with
+jacks and spears, to lie in wait within a mile and a half of the town of Montrose,
+for his despatch. The letter coming to his hand, he made haste at the first (for
+the boy had brought a horse); and so, with some honest men, he passes forth of
+the town. But suddenly he stayed, and musing a space, returned back; whereat
+they wondering, he said, ‘I will not go; I am forbidden of God. I am assured
+there is treason. Let some of you go to yonder place, and tell me what ye
+find.’ Diligence made, they found the treason as it was; which being shown
+with expedition to Maister George, he answered, ‘I know that I shall end my
+life in the hands of that blood-thirsty man; but it will not be of this manner.’”—<span class='sc'>Knox.</span></p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f16'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r16'>16</a>. In connection with this narrative, there naturally recurs to the mind the
+suggestive remark of Pascal upon “the qualities of a perfectly heroic soul:”
+“Capable of fear before the necessity to die is actually present, then altogether
+fearless.... Troubled when he troubles himself; when other men trouble him
+altogether strong.”</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f17'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r17'>17</a>. The Earl of Bothwell, “made for money bucheour to the Cardinall,” was at
+this time High Sheriff of Haddington.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f18'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r18'>18</a>. The Queen Mother, Mary of Guise.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f19'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r19'>19</a>. This dungeon may still be seen, and is thus described by one who has
+recently visited it: “It is in shape like a champagne bottle, the neck or narrow
+part might be nine feet deep, and the whole depth twenty-four feet. It is six feet
+wide at the top, but widens into about eighteen below. Prisoners were let down
+into it by means of a chain, which was fastened to an iron bar placed across the
+mouth of it. There are no doors or windows.”</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f20'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r20'>20</a>. That is, building.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f21'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r21'>21</a>. By and by.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f22'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r22'>22</a>. Servant.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f23'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r23'>23</a>. That is, executioner.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f24'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r24'>24</a>. Nor was this, as it is well known, the only instance in which Wishart was
+believed by his contemporaries to have spoken under the influence of prophetic
+inspiration. John Knox says (and his testimony is remarkable as that of one who
+had an intimate personal acquaintance with him): “He was not only singularly
+learned, as well in godly knowledge as in all honest human science, but also he
+was so clearly illumined with the spirit of prophecy, that he saw not only things
+pertaining to himself, but also such things as some towns and the whole realm
+afterwards felt, which he forspake not in secret, but in the audience of many.”
+But may not the instances of this strange foresight which Knox adduces be resolved
+into the results of deep thoughtfulness, intense prayerfulness, and very
+close walking with God?</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f25'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r25'>25</a>. Knox, in his “History of his own Times,” quotes from a sermon of Friar
+William Arth, in which a poor man is made to say, “Know ye not how the
+Bishops and their officials serve us husband men? Will they not give to us a
+letter of cursing for a plack, to last for a year, to curse all that look owre our
+dyke, and that keeps our corn better than the sleeping boy, that will have three
+shillings of fee, a sark, and pair of shoon in the year?”</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f26'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r26'>26</a>. “Gawin Logie, Rector of St. Leonard’s College, was so successful in instilling
+them (the Reformed opinions) into the minds of the students, that it became proverbial
+to say of any one suspected of Lutheranism, that he had ‘drunk of St.
+Leonard’s Well.’”—<cite>M‘Crie’s Life of Knox.</cite></p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f27'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r27'>27</a>. 1527.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f28'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r28'>28</a>. Chamber.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f29'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r29'>29</a>. Tyndale’s New Testament.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f30'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r30'>30</a>. Lose.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f31'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r31'>31</a>. Penalty, fine.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f32'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r32'>32</a>. Trust.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f33'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r33'>33</a>. Horse used in farm work.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f34'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r34'>34</a>. Knox.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f35'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r35'>35</a>. Knox.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f36'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r36'>36</a>. Trying to say.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='footnote' id='f37'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r37'>37</a>. Pascal.</p>
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c003'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
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+  </div>
+</div>
+
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+described and characters sketched, which we believe many readers will recognise as their
+own.”—<cite>Church of England Sunday School Magazine.</cite></p>
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+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+    <div><i>Foolscap 8vo, Cloth.</i></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c019'>FAIRY KNOW-A-BIT; or, A Nutshell of Knowledge. Illustrated.
+Price 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>IDOLS IN THE HEART. A Tale. Price 3s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>PRECEPTS IN PRACTICE; or, Stories Illustrating the Proverbs.
+Illustrated. Price 3s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>THE YOUNG PILGRIM. A Tale Illustrative of the Pilgrim’s Progress.
+Illustrated. Price 3s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>THE SILVER CASKET; or, Love not the World. A Tale. Illustrated.
+Price 3s.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>WAR AND PEACE. A Tale of the Retreat from Cabul. Illustrated.
+Price 3s.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>MIRACLES OF HEAVENLY LOVE IN DAILY LIFE. A Tale.
+Illustrated. Price 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>WHISPERING UNSEEN; or, “Be ye Doers of the Word, and not
+Hearers only.” Illustrated. Price 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>PARLIAMENT IN THE PLAY ROOM. Illustrated. Price 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>THE MINE; or, Darkness and Light. Illustrated. Price 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>THE GIANT-KILLER; or, The Battle which all must Fight. Illustrated.
+Price 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>THE ROBY FAMILY; or, Battling with the World. A Sequel to the
+Giant-Killer. Illustrated. Price 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>FLORA; or, Self-Deception. Illustrated. Price 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>THE CROWN OF SUCCESS; or, Four Heads to Furnish. A Tale for
+the Young. Illustrated. Price 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>THE ROBBER’S CAVE. A Story of Italy. Illustrated. Price 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>MY NEIGHBOUR’S SHOES; or, Feeling for Others. Illustrated.
+Price 2s.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>RAMBLES OF A RAT. Illustrated. Price 2s.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. Illustrated. Price 2s.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>STORIES FROM THE HISTORY OF THE JEWS. Illustrated. 1s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>STORY OF A NEEDLE. Illustrated. Price 1s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c019'>WINGS AND STINGS; or, Lessons from Insect Life. With Six Steel
+Plates from Designs by <span class='sc'>Harvey</span>. Price 2s.</p>
+
+<p class='c020'>18mo Edition. Illustrated. Price 1s.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c1'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+    <div><span class='large'>HISTORY AND TRAVEL.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c021'>THE LAND AND THE BOOK.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>With numerous Illustrations. By <span class='sc'>W. M. Thomson</span>, D.D., twenty-five
+years Missionary in Palestine. Crown 8vo. Price 7s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>TWENTY-NINE YEARS IN THE WEST INDIES AND CENTRAL AFRICA.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>A Narrative of Missionary Work and Adventure. By the
+Rev. <span class='sc'>Hope M. Waddell</span>, formerly Missionary at Old Calabar. One
+volume, crown 8vo, with Illustrations. Price 10s.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>KANE’S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>With Eight Steel Plates and numerous Wood Engravings. Crown
+8vo. Price 7s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>HISTORY OF BRITISH INDIA.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>By <span class='sc'>Hugh Murray</span>, Esq., F.R.S.E. With Continuation to the Close
+of 1854. Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>BARTLETT’S JERUSALEM REVISITED.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>With fine Steel Engravings. Royal 8vo, cloth extra, gilt top, bevelled
+boards. Price 6s.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>PICTURES FROM SICILY.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>By the Author of “Forty Days in the Desert,” &#38;c. With fine Steel
+Engravings. Royal 8vo, cloth extra. Price 6s.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>THE PILGRIM FATHERS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>By the Author of “Forty Days in the Desert,” &#38;c. With fine Steel
+Engravings. Royal 8vo, cloth extra. Price 6s.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>THE PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY OF THE SEA.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>By Lieutenant <span class='sc'>Maury</span>, U.S.N., Superintendent of the National Observatory,
+Washington. With Thirteen Charts, &#38;c., printed in
+Colours. Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 5s.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>HISTORY OF THE CHURCH OF CHRIST:</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>With a Special View to the Delineation of Christian Faith and Life.
+With Notes, Chronological Tables, Lists of Councils, Examination
+Questions, and other Illustrative Matter. (From <span class='fss'>A.D.</span> 1 to <span class='fss'>A.D.</span> 313.)
+By the Rev. <span class='sc'>Islay Burns</span>, M.A., St. Peter’s Church, Dundee. Crown
+8vo. Price 5s.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>WANDERINGS OVER BIBLE LANDS AND SEAS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>By the Author of “Tales and Sketches of the Christian Life,” “The
+Voice of Christian Life in Song,” &#38;c. Post 8vo, cloth extra. With
+Steel Engravings. Price 5s.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>THE HISTORY OF INDIA,</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>From the Earliest Ages to the Fall of the East India Company and
+the Proclamation of Queen Victoria in 1858. By the Rev. <span class='sc'>Robert
+Hunter</span>, A.M., formerly Missionary at Nagpore in Central India.
+Foolscap 8vo, cloth. Price 1s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>SCENES OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE IN FOREIGN LANDS—(SOUTH AMERICA).</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>By B. B. Illustrated. Foolscap 8vo. Price 2s. 6d.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c1'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+    <div><span class='large'>BY THE LATE REV. JAMES SMITH, CHELTENHAM.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c021'>THE BELIEVER’S TRIUMPH;</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>Or, No Condemnation in Christ, and no Separation from Christ.
+Post 8vo, cloth antique. Price 3s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>THE PLEADING SAVIOUR;</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>Or, The Wondrous Love of Christ as Displayed in his Intercessory
+Prayer. 18mo, cloth. Price 1s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>DAILY BIBLE READINGS FOR THE LORD’S HOUSEHOLD.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>Imperial 32mo, cloth, gilt edges, price 2s.; morocco plain, 3s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>GREEN PASTURES;</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>Or, Daily Food for the Lord’s Flock. 32mo. Price—cloth, gilt
+edges, 1s.; calf limp, 1s. 6d.; morocco plain, 2s.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>STILL WATERS;</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>Or, Refreshment for the Lord’s Flock at Eventide. 32mo. Price
+cloth, gilt edges, 1s.; calf limp, 1s. 6d.; morocco plain, 2s.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>BRIEF PORTIONS FOR DAILY USE.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>64mo, cloth limp. Price 6d.; calf limp, 1s.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>SHORT READINGS FOR DAILY USE.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>64mo, cloth limp, price 6d.; calf limp, 1s.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c1'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+    <div>The following in 18mo, Large Type, Paper Cover, Price 4d.; Cloth Extra, Price 6d.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c022'>THE BETTER LAND. A Book for
+the Aged.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>WELCOME TO JESUS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>OUR HEAVENLY FATHER.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>SACRAMENTAL MEDITATIONS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>CHRIST ALONE.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>THE GREAT COMFORTER.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>IMPORTANT QUESTIONS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>MORNING SACRIFICE. Helps to
+Devotion.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>THE EVENING SACRIFICE.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>WORDS OF COMFORT.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c1'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+    <div><span class='large'>PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c1'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>Various Editions.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c021'>BUNYAN’S PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>With Mason’s Notes. Illustrated. Post 8vo, cloth, gilt edges,
+price 3s. 6d.; morocco extra or antique, 7s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>BUNYAN’S PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>With Mason’s Notes. Foolscap 8vo, with Illustrations Price 1s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>BUNYAN’S PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>18mo Edition. Double Columns. Paper Cover, price 6d.; cloth, 1s.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>BUNYAN’S PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>18mo Edition. Thick Paper, with Eight Plates. Cloth. Price 1s. 6d.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>BUNYAN’S PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>32mo Edition. Illustrated. Roan, gilt edges. Price 1s.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c1'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div><span class='xlarge'><span class='blackletter'>T. Nelson and Sons’ Publications.</span></span></div>
+    <div class='c002'><span class='large'>ILLUSTRATED THREE AND SIXPENNY BOOKS.</span></div>
+    <div class='c003'>Gilt Edges and Gilt Sides.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c021'>BRITISH ENTERPRISE BEYOND THE SEAS;</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>Or, The Planting of Our Colonies. By <span class='sc'>J. H. Fyfe</span>, Author of “The
+Triumphs of Invention and Discovery.” Illustrated. Post 8vo.,
+cloth.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>TRIUMPHS OF INVENTION AND DISCOVERY.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>By <span class='sc'>J. Hamilton Fyfe</span>. With Illustrations. Post 8vo.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>SEA STORIES.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>By an Old Sailor. Post 8vo, cloth.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>PERILS AND ADVENTURES ON THE DEEP;</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>Or, Interesting Narratives of Naval Adventure and Suffering. Including
+Accounts of the Shipwreck of the Birkenhead—The Tweed—The
+Royal Charter—The Anglo-Saxon, &#38;c. Eight Illustrations.
+Post 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>ROMANTIC INCIDENTS AND SCENES OF TRAVEL.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>By Miss <span class='sc'>C. L. Brightwell</span>, Author of “Byepaths of Biography,” &#38;c.
+Post 8vo. With Illustrations.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>BYEPATHS OF BIOGRAPHY.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>By Miss <span class='sc'>C. L. Brightwell</span>. Author of “Romantic Incidents in the
+Lives of Naturalists and Celebrated Travellers.” Post 8vo, cloth.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>THE VILLAGE GARLAND.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>Tales and Sketches by Mrs. <span class='sc'>S. C. Hall</span>. With Plates. Foolscap
+8vo, cloth.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>MEMORIALS OF EARLY GENIUS AND ACHIEVEMENTS IN THE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>With Illustrations. Post 8vo, cloth.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>STORIES OF BOY GENIUS FROM THE LIVES OF GREAT PAINTERS.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>Plates. Foolscap 8vo, cloth.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>TRUTH AND LOVE;</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>Or, School Boys and their Teachers. By the Rev. <span class='sc'>J. W. Alexander</span>.
+Foolscap 8vo, cloth.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>PATIENCE TO WORK AND PATIENCE TO WAIT.</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>By Miss <span class='sc'>Marion E. Weir</span>. Foolscap 8vo, cloth.</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>THE ENGLISH BOY IN JAPAN;</p>
+
+<p class='c022'>Or, The Perils and Adventures of Mark Raffles among Princes,
+Priests, and People of that Singular Empire. By <span class='sc'>William Dalton</span>.
+Foolscap 8vo, cloth.</p>
+
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c003'>
+</div>
+<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'>
+
+<div class='ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c1'>
+<div class='nf-center c012'>
+    <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+ <ul class='ul_1 c002'>
+    <li>Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
+
+    </li>
+    <li>Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last chapter.
+    </li>
+  </ul>
+
+</div>
+
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77324 ***</div>
+  </body>
+  <!-- created with ppgen.py 3.57e (with regex) on 2025-11-24 15:48:53 GMT -->
+</html>
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diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt
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@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
diff --git a/README.md b/README.md
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@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #77324
+(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77324)