BOOK III.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 1, 4 January 1908, Page 17

BOOK III.

her presence. Claverhouse assured her on those happy days when he was living at Dudhope, and when they could be lovers among the woods there, as they had been in the pleasaunce at Paisley Castle, that he never regretted his choice, and that she was the inspiration of his life. It was pleasant to hear him repeat his love vows, with a passion as hot and words as moving as in the days of their courtship, and the very contrast between his unbending severity as a soldier and his grace as a lover made him the more fascinating to a woman who was herself of the lioness breed. All the same, she could not forget that Claverhouse would have done better for himself if he had married into one of the great Scots houses of his own party—and there were fe win which he would not have been welcome —and that indeed he could not have done much worse for his future than in marrying her. It was a day of keen rivalry amongst the Royalists, and a more unprincipled and disreputable gang than the king’s Scots ministers could not be found in any land; indeed Claverhouse was the only man of honour amongst them. His battle to hold his own and achieve his legitimate ambition was very hard, and certainly he needed no handicap. Jean Graham was haunted with the reflection that Claverhouse’s wife, instead of being a help, was a hindrance to her husband, and that if it were not for the burden of her Covenanting name, he would have climbed easily to the highest place. Nor could she relish the change of attitude of the common people towards her, and the difference in atmosphere between Paisley and Dundee. Once she had been accustomed to receive a respectful, though it might be awkward, salutation from the dour West Country folk, and to know that, though in her heart she was not in sympathy with them, the people in the town, where her mother reigned supreme, felt kindly towards her, as the daughter of that godly Covenanting lady. In Dundee, where the ordinary people sided with the’ Presbyterians and only the minority were with the Bishops, men turned away their faces when she passed through the place, and the women cried “Bloody Claverse!” as she passed. She knew without any word of abuse that both she and her husoand were bitterly hated, because he was judged a persecutor and she a renegade. They were two of the proudest people in Scotland, but although Claverhouse gave no sign that he cared for the people’s loathing, she often suspected that he felt it, being a true Scots gentleman, and although Jean pretended to despise Covenanting fanaticism, she would rather have been loved by the folk round her than hated. While she declared to Graham that her deliverance from her mother’s party, with their sermons, their denunciations, their narrowness and that horrible Covenant, had been a passage from bondage to liberty, there were times, as she paced the terrace alone and looked out on the grey sea of the east coast, when the contradictory circumstances of her life beset her and she was troubled. When she was forced to listen to the interminable harangues of hill preachers, sheltering for a night in

the castle, and day by day was resisting the domination of her mother, her mind rose in revolt against the Presbyterians and all their ways. When she was among men who spoke of those hillmen as if they were vermin to be trapped, and as if no one had breeding or honour or intelligence or sincerity except the Cavaliers, she was again goaded into opposition. Jean had made her choice both of her man and of her cause —for they went together—with her eyes open, and she was not a woman to change again, nor to vex herself with vain regrets. It was rather her nature to decide once for all, and then to throw herself without reserve into her cause, and to follow with out question her man through good report and ill, through right, and, if need be, wrong. Yet she was a shrewd and high-minded woman, and not one of those fortunate fanatics who can see nothing but good on one side, and nothing but ill on the other. Life had grown intolerable in her mother’s house, and Jean had not in her the making of a convinced and thorough-going Covenanter, and irt going over to the other party, she had. on the whole, fulfilled herself, as well as found a mate of the same proud spirit. But she was honest enougN to admit to herself that those Ayrshire peasants were dying for conscience’ sake though she might think it a narrow conscience, and were sincere in theic pietv, though she might think it an un attractive religion. And she could not shut her eves to the fact that there was little glorv in shooting them down like muirfowl, or that the men of C'laver house’s side were too often drunk and evil-living bravos. Jean was feeling the situation in its acuteness that evening as she read for the third time a letter whieh had come from Edinburgh bv the hands of Grimond. At the sight of the writ’— =; her pulse quickened, and Grimond marked with jealous displeasure (for that impracticable Scot never trusted Jean), the flush of love upon her cheek and its joy in her eyes. She now drew the letter from her bosom, and this is what she read, but in a different spelling from ours and with some silght differences in construction, all of which have been translated: — Sweetheart: It is my one trouble when I must leave you and save when f am engaged on the king’s work my every thought is with you. for indeed it appeareth to me that if I loved you with strong desire on the day of our marriage, 1 love you more soul and body this day. When another woman speaks to me in the daytime, though they say that she is fair, her beauty coming into comparison with yours, is disparaged, beside the sheen of your hair and the richness of your lips, and theugh she may have a pleasant way with men. as they tell me. she hath no lure for me, as I picture you throw back your head and look at me with eyes that challenge my love. When the night cometh. and the task of the day is done, 1 hold you in my embrace, the proudest woman in Scotland, and you say again, as on that day in the pleasaunce. “For life, John Graham, and for death,”

It has not been easy living for you, Jean, since that marriage-day, when the trumpets were our wedding-bells, and your mother's curse our benediction, and 1 take thought oftentimes that it has been harder for thee, Sweetheart, than for me. I had the encounters of the field with open enemies and of the Council with false friends, but thou hast had the loneliness of Dudhope, when I was not there to caress you and kiss away your cares. Faithful have you been to the cause, and to me, and I make boast that I have not been unfaithful myself to either, but the sun has not been always shining on our side of the hedge and there have been some chill blasts. 1 et they have ever driven us closer into one another’s arms, and each coming !he' e ’ ''J?* 9 been ' ike the first from ‘not X.. th ' r '■■>« '-»■»* ~ ;g- J •£.«? Pollock and " e ’&hted upon Henry week Th v a PartV -° f his P p °P' p ing and were g ° ,nff to SOme P reach - and^drink" 11 We ZonS* hi” had , meat back to Edinburgh h T- ° n horße ’ other, I flo not denv ck c? • Bou « hfc no C".ndT’’XX bi,,.. "X that he was declared miilK, ? i,. th. condemned to death. None other r do. Jean for he that spared so dan gerous and stalwart an enemy as Pol lock, is himself a traitor, but when the Council were fain to insult him I re buked them sharply and told them to the..- face that among them there was no spirit so clean and brave. This morn ■ng he was executed and since there was a fear lest the people who have greatly loved him should attempt to rescue I was present with two troops of horse It needeth not me to tell you that he died well, bidding farewell to earth and welcome, to heaven in words I cannot forget. tho’ they sounded strange to me. Sweetheart. I will say something boldly in thine ear. I have had little time to think of heaven and little desire for such a place, but I would count myself fortunate if in the hour of Heath I were as sure of winning there as Henry Pollock. So he died for his side, and I helped him to his death; some day I may die for my side, and his friends will help me to my death. It is a dark day and a troubled nation. Hetiry Pollock and

John Graham have both been through. God is our judge, wha kens but He may accept us baith? But I cannot deny he was a saint, as ye once said of him, and that I shall never be, neither shall you, Jean Graham, my love and my heart’s delight. This is sore writing to me, but I would rather ye had it from my hand than from another’s, and I fear me ye will hear bitter words in Dundee of what has been done. This is the cup we have to drink and worse things may yet be coming, for I have the misgiving that black danger is at hand and that the king will have to fight for his crown. Before long, if I be not a false prophet, my old general, the Prince of Orange, will do his part to wrest the throne from his own wife’s father. If he does the crown will not be taken without one man seeing that other crowns be broken, but I fear me, Jean, I fear greatly. In Scotland the king’s chief servants be mostly liars and cowards, seeking every man after his own interest, with the heart of Judas Iscariot, and in London I doubt if they be much better. These be dreary news, and I wish to heaven I had better to send thee. This I can over give, unless ye answer me that it is yours before, the love of my inmost heart 'till I am able to give you it in the kiss of my lips, with your arms flung about me, as on that day. Till our meeting and for evermore, my dearest lady and only Sweetheart first and last, I am your faithful lover and servant, JOHN GRAHAM. So it had come to pass as she had often feared, that Pollock would die by Claverhouse’s doing, and now she had not been a woman if her heart were not divided that evening between her lovers, although she had no hesitation either then or in the past about her preference. Jean knew she was not made to be the wife of an ascetic, but never could she forget the look in Pollock’s eyes when he told her of his love, nor cease to be proud that he had done her the chief honour a man can render to a woman. She knew then, and she knew better to-day, that she had never loved Pollock, and never indeed could have loved him as a woman loves her husband. But she revered him then, and he would have forever a place in her heart like the niche given to a saint, and she hoped that his prayers for her—for she knew he would intercede for her—would be answered in the highest. Nor could she refrain from the comparison between Pollock and Graham. In some respects they were so like one another, both being men of ancient blood and high tradition, both carrying themselves without shame and without fear, both being fanatics—the one for religion and the other for loyalty—and. it might be, both alike to be martyrs for their faith. And so unlike—the one unworldly, spiritual, and, save in self-defence, gentle and meek; the other charged with high ambition, fond of power, ready for battle, gracious in gav society, passionate in love. Who had the better of it in the fight—her debonair husband, with his bodyguard of dragoons, striking down and capturing a minister and a handful of shepherds, or that pure soul, who lived preaching and praying, and was willing to die praying and fighting against hopeless odds? She had cast in her lot with the Royalists, but it came over her that in the eternal justice Pollock, dying on the scaffold, was already victor, and Graham, who sent him there, was already the loser. If it had been cruel writing for Claverhouse, it was cruel reading for his wife, and yet, when she had read it over again, the passage on Pollock faded away as if it had been spiritualised and no longer existed for the earthly sense. She only lingered over the words of devotion and passion, and when she kissed again and again his signature she knew that whether he was to win or to be beaten, whether he was right or wrong, angel or devil—and he was neither —she belonged with her whole desire to Claverhouse. Claverhouse’s letter to his wife was written in May. and by October his gloomy forebodings regarding the king were being verified. During the autumn William of Orange had been preparing to invade England, and it was freely said he would come on the invitation of the English people and as the champion of English liberty. From the beginning of the crisis James was badly advised, and showed neither time nor discernment, and among other foolish measures whs the withdrawal of the regular troops from Scotland and their concentration at London. From London James made a feeble campaign in the direction

of the west, and Claverhouse, who was in command of the Scots Cavalry, and whose mind was tom between contempt for the feebleness of the military measures (and imjiatientte to Ibe at the enemy, wrote to Jean, sending her, as it seemed to be his lot, mixed news of honour and despair. “ For the fair hands of the Viscountess of Dundee, and Lady Graham of Claverhouse. My Dearest Lady: If I have to send ye evil tidings concerning the affairs of the king, which can hardly be worse, let me first acquaint you with the honour His Majesty has bestowed upon me, and which I count the more precious because it bringeth honour to her who is dearer to me than life, and who has suffered much trouble through me. Hitherto our marriage has meant suffering of many kinds, for my Sweetheart, though I am fain to believe there has been more consolation in our love, but now it is charged with the King’s favour and high dignity in the State. Whatever it be worth for you and me, and however long or short I be left to enjoy it, I have been made a Peer of Scotland by the titles written above, and what I like best in the matter, is that the peerage has been given—so it runs, and no doubt a woman loves to read such things of her man—for “ Many good and eminent services rendered to His Majesty, and his dearest Royal brother, King Charles 11., by his right trusty and well-beloved Councillor, Major-General John Graham of Claverhouse; together with his constant loyalty and firm adherence upon all occasions to the true interests of the crown.” Whatever befalls me it pleases me that the king knows I have been loyal, and that he is grateful for one faithful servant. So I kiss the hand of my Lady Viscountess, and were I at Dudhope I might venture upon her lips, ay, more than once. When I leave myself and come unto the King I have nothing to tell hut what fills me with shame and fear. It was not good policy to call the troops from Scotland, where we could have held the land for the King, but one had not so much regret if we had been allowed to strike a blow against the Usurper. Had there been a heart in my Lord Feversham—it hurts me to reflect on the King—then the army should have made a quick march into the West, gathering round it all the loyal gentlemen, and struck a blow at the Prinee before he had established himself in the land. By God’s help we had driven him and his Dutchmen, and the traitors who have flocked to him, into the sea. But it is with a sore heart I tell thee, tho’ this had better be kept to thy secret council, that there seemeth to be neither wisdom nor courage amongst us. His Majesty has been living in the Bishop’s Palace, and does nothing at the time, when to strike quickly is to strike for ever. Officers in high places are stealing away like thieves, and others who remain are preaching caution, by which they mean safety for themselves and their goods. “ Damn all caution,” say I, to Feversham and the rest of them, “ let us into the saddle and forward, let us strike hard and altogether, for the King and our cause! ” If we win it will me a speedy end to rebellion and another Sedgemoor; if we are defeated, and I do not despise the Scots Brigade with Hugh Mac Kay, we shall fall with honour and not be a scorn to coming generations. For myself, were it not for thee, Jean, I should crave no better end than to fall in a last charge for the King and the good cause. As it is, unless God put some heart into our leaders, the army will melt away like snow upon a dyke in the springtime, and William will have an open road to London and the throne of England. He may have mair trouble and see some bloodshed before he lays his hand on the auld crown of Scotland. When I may get awa to the North countrie I know not yet, but whether I be in the South, where many are co wands and some are traitors, or in the North, where the clans at least be true, and there be also not a few loyal Lowland Cavaliers, my love is ever with thee, dear heart, and warm upon my breast lies the lock of your golden hair. —Yours till death, “ DUNDEE.” God was not pleased to re-inforce the King’s advisers, and his cause fell rapidly to pieces. Claverhouse withdrew the Scots Cavalry to the neighbourhood of London, and wore out his heart in the effort to put manhood into his party, which was now occupied in looking after ♦ heir own interests in the inevitable revolution. And again Claverhouse, or, as

we should cal] him, Dundee, wrote to Jean: Dearest and Bravest of Women: Were ye not that, as I know well, I had no heart in me -fb -write this letter, for I have no good thing to tell thee about the cause of the King and it seems to me certain that, for the time at least, England is lost. I am now in London, and the days are far harder for me than when I campaigned with the Usurper, and fought joyfully at Seneffe and Grave. It is ill to contain oneself when a man has to go from one to another of his comrades and ask him for God’s sake and the King’s sake to play the man. Then to get nothing but fair and false words, and to see the very officers that hold the King’s commission shuffling and lying, with one eye on King James and the other on the Prince of Orange. Had I my way of it I would shoot a dozen of the traitors to encourage the others. But the King is all for peace —peace, forsooth! when his enemies are at the door of the palace. What can one man do against so many, and a King too tolerant and good-natured—God forgive me, I had almost written too weak? It is not for me to sit in judgment on my Sovereign, but some days ago I gave my mind to Hamilton in his own lodgings, where Balearres and certain of us met to take council. There were hot words, and no good came of it. Balearres alone is staunch,and yesterday he went with me to Whitehall and we had our last word for the present with the King. He was gracious unto us, as he has ever been to me when his mind was not poisoned by Queensberry or Perth, and ye might care to know, Jean, what your man, much daring, said to His Majesty: ”We have come, Sir, to ask a favour of your Majesty, and that ye will let us do a deed which will waken the land and turn the tide of affairs. Have we your permission to cause the drums to be beat of every regiment in London and the neighbourhood, for if ye so consent there will be twenty thousand men ready to start to-morrow morning. Before tomorrow night the road to London will be barred, and, please God, before a week is over your throne will be placed beyond danger.” For a space I think he was moved and then the life went out of him. and he sadly shook his head. “It is too late,” he said, “too late, and the shedding of blood would be vain.” But I saw he was not displeased with us, and he signified his pleasure that we should walk with him in the Mall. Again I dared to entreat him not to leave his capital without a stroke, and in my soul I wondered that he could be so enduring. Had it been your man, Jean, he had been at the Prince's throat before the Dutchman had been twenty-

four hours in England. But who am I to reflect upon my King? and I will say it, that he spake words to me that 1 can never forget. “You are brave men,” said the King, and, though he be a cold man, I saw that he was touched, “and if there had been twenty like you among the officers and nobles, things had not come to this pass. Ye can do nothing more in England, and for myself I have resolved to go to France, for if I stayed here I .would be a prisoner, and there is but a short road between the prison and the graves of Kings. To you,” he said to Balcarres, “I leave the charge of civil affairs in Scotland,” and, turning to me, “You, Lord Dundee, who ought before to have had this place, but I was illadvised, shall be commander of the troops in Scotland. Do for your King what God gives you to do, and he pledges his word to aid you by all means in his power, and in the day of victory to reward you.” We knelt and kissed his hand, and so for the time, heaven grant it be not forever, hade good-bye to our Sovereign. As I walked down the Mall I saw a face I seemed to know, and the man, whoever he was, made a sign that he would speak to me. I turned aside and found to my amazement that the stranger, who was not in uniform, and did not court observation, was Captain Carlton, who served with me in the Prince’s army and of whom ye have heard me speak. A good soldier and a fair-minded gentleman,, tho’ of another way of thinking from me. After a brief salutation he told me that the Prince was already in London and had taken up his quarters at Zion House. “Then.” said I to him, “it availeth nothing for some of us to remain in London, it were better that we should leave quickly.” “It might or it might not be,” he said, being a man of few and careful words, “but before you go there is a certain person who desires to have a word with you. If it be not too much toil will you lay aside your military dress, and come with me this evening as a private gentleman to Zion House?” Then I knew that he had come from the Prince, and altho’ much tossed in my mind as to what was right to do. I consented, and ye will be astonished, Jean, to hear what happened. There was none present at my audience, and I contented myself with bowing when I entered his presence, . for your husband is not made to kiss the hands of one king in the morning and of another in the evening of the same day. The Prince, for so I may justly call him. expected none otherwise, and, according to his custom—l have often spoken of his silence—said at once, “My

lord,” for he knows everything as is his wont, “it has happened as I prophesised, you are on one side and I am on another, and you have been a faithful servant to your master, as I told him you would be. If it had been in my power, I had not come so easily to this place, for the council you gave to the King has been told to me. All that man can do, ye have done, and now you may, like other officers, take service in the army under my command.’ 1 Whereupon I told the Prince that our house had never changed sides, and he would excuse me setting the example. He seemed prepared for this answer, and then he said, “You purpose, my lord, to return to Scotland, and I shall not prevent you, but I ask that ye stir not up useless strife and shed blood in vain, for the end is certain.” I will not deny, Jean, that I was moved by his words, . for he is a strong man, and has men of the same kind with him. So far I went as to say that if duty did not compel! me 1 would not trouble the land. More I could not promise, and I reckon there is not much in that promise, for I will never see the Prince of Orange made King of Scotland with my sword in its sheath. If there be any other way out of it, 1 have no wish to set every man’s hand against his neighbour’s in Scotland. He bowed to me, and I knew that the audience was over, and when I left Zion House, my heart was sore that my King was not as wise and resolute as this foreign Prince. The second sight has been given to me to-day, and, dear heart, I see the shroud rising till its reaches the face, but whose face I cannot see. What 1 have to do, I cannot see either, but in a few days I shall be in Edinburgh, with as many of my horses as I can bring. If peace be consistent with honour then ye will see me soon in Dudhope for another honeymoon, but if it is to be war my lot is cast, and, while my hand can hold it, my sword belongs to the King. But my heart, sweet love, is thine till it ceases to beat. Yours always and altogether, DUNDEE. CHAPTER 11. THE CRISIS. Early springtime is cruel on the east coast of Scotland, and it was a bitter morning in March when Dundee took another of his many farewells before he left his wife to attend the Convention at Edinburgh. It was only a month since he had come down from London, disheartened for the moment by the treachery of Royalists and the timidity of James, and he had found relief in administrating municipal aliairs as Provost of Dundee. If it had been possible in consistence with his loyalty to the Jacobite cause, and the commission he had received from James, Dundee would have gladly withdrawn from public life and lived quietly with his wife. He was an ambitious man, and of stirring spirit, but none knew better the weakness of his party, and no one on his side had been more shamefully treated. It had been his lot to leave his bride on their marriage day, and now it would be harder to leave her at a time when every husband desires to be near his wife. But the. summons to be present at the Convention had come, and its business was to decide who should be King of Scotland, for though William had succeeded to the throne of England James still reigned in law over the northern kingdom. Dundee could not be absent at the deposition of his king and the virtual close of the Stuart dynasty. As usual he would be one of a beaten party, or perhaps might stand alone; it was not his friends but his enemies who were calling him to Edinburgh, and the chances were that the hillmen would settle their account with him by assassination. His judgment told him that his presence in Edinburgh would be fruitless; and his heart held him to his home. Yet day after day he put off his going. It was now the thirteenth of March, and to-morrow the Convention would meet, and if he were to go he must go quickly. He had been tossed in mind and troubled in heart, but the instinct of obedience to duty which Graham had obeyed through good report and evil, without reserve, and without scruple, till he had done not only the things he ought to have done, but many things also which he ought not to have done, finally triumphed. He hail told Jean that morning that he must leave. His little escort of troopers were saddling their horses, and in half an hour they would lie on the rond, the dreary,

hopeless road it was his fate to be ever travelling. Jean and he were saying their last words before this new adventure, for they both knew that every departure might be the final parting. They were standing at the door, and nothing could be greyer than their outlook. For a har had come up from the sea, as is common on the east coast, and the cold and dripping mist blotted out the seascape; it hid the town of Dundee, which lay below Dudhope, and enveloped the castle in its cold garments, like a shroud, and chilled Graham and his wife to the very bone. “Ye will acknowledge, John, that I have never hindered you when the call came.” As she spoke, Jean took his flowing hair in her hand, and he had never seen her so gentle before, for indeed she could not be called a soft or tender woman. “Ye told me what would be the way of life for us, and it has been what ye said, and I have not complained. But this day I wish to God that ye could have stayed, for when my hour comes, and it is not far off, ye ken I will miss you sairly. Other women have their mothers with them in that strait, but for me there is none; naebody but strangers. If ony evil befall thee, John, it will go ill with me, and I have in my keeping the hope of your house. Can ye no bide quietly here with me and let them that have the power do as they will in Edinburgh? No man of your own party has ever thanked you for anything ye did, and if my mother’s people do their will by you, I shall surely die and the child with me. And that will be the end of the House of Dundee. Must ye go and leave me?” And now her arm was round him, and with the other hand she caressed his face, while her warm bosom pressed against his cold hard cuirass. “ Queensbery, for the liar he always was, said ye would be my Delilah, Jean, but that I knew was not in you,” said Dundee, smiling sadly and stroking the proud head, which he had never seen bowed before. “ You are, I believe in my soul, the bravest woman" in Scotland, and I wish to God the men on our side only had the heart of my -Lady .Dundee. With a hundred men, and your spirit in them, Jean, we had driven William of Orange into the sea, or at the worst, we should certainly save Scotland for the king. Well and bravely have ye stood by me since our marriage day, and if I had ever consulted my own safety or sought after private ends, I believe ye would have been the first to cfy shame upon me. Surely ye have been a true soldier’s wife, and ye are the same this morning, and braver even than on our wedding day. “ Do not make little of yourself, Jean, because your heart is sore and ye canna keep back the tears. It is not given to a man to understand what a woman feels in your place, but I am trying to imagine, and my love is suffering with you, sweetheart. I do pity you, and 1 could weep with you, but tears are strange to my eyes—God made me soft without and hard within—and I have a better medicine to help you than pity.” Still he was caressing her, but she felt his body straightening within the armour. “ When ye prophecy that the fanatics of the west will be at me in Edinburgh, I suspect ye are right, but 1 pray you not to trouble yourself overmuch. They have shot at me before with leaden bullets and with silver, trying me first as a man and next as a devil, but no bullet touched me, and now if they fall back upon the steel there are two or three trusty lads with me, who can use the sword fairly well, and though your husband be not a large man, Jean, none has had the better of him, when it came to swordplay. So cheer up, lass, for I may fall some day, but it will not be at the hands of a skulking Covenanter in a street brawl. "But if this should come to pass, Jean —and the future is known only to God —then I beseech you that ye be worthy of yourself, and show 7 them that ye are my Lady Dundee. If I fall, then ye must live, and take good care that the unborn child shall live, too, and if he be a boy—as I am sure he will be—then ye have your life-work. Train him up in the good faith and in loyalty to the king; tell him how Montrose fought for the good cause and died for it, and how his own father followed in the steps of the Marquis. Train him for the best life a man can live and make him a soldier, and lay upon him from his youth that ye will not die till he has avenged

his father's murder. That will be worthy of your blood and your rauk, aye, aud the love which lias been between us, Jean Cochrane aud John Graham.” She held him in her arms till the very breastplate was warm, aud she kissed him twice upou the lips. Then she raised herself to her full height—aud she was as tall as Graham —aud, lookiug proudly at him, she said: “Ye have put strength into me, as if the iron which covers your breast had passed into my blood. Ye go to-day with my full will to serve the king, and God protect and prosper you, my husband and my Lord Dundee.” For a space the heat of Jean’s high courage cheered her husband's heart, but as the day wore on, and hour by hour he rode through the cold gray mist which covered Fife, the temperature of his heart began to correspond with the atmosphere. While Dundee had always carried himself bravely before men, and had kept his misgivings to himself, and seemed the most indifl'erent of gay Cavaliers, he had really been a modest aud diffident man. From the first he had had grave fears of the success of his cause, and more than doubts about the loyalty of his comrades. He was quite prepared not only for desperate effort, but for final defeat. No man could say he had embarked on the royal service from worldly ends, and now, if he had been a shrewd Lowland Scot, he had surely consulted his safety and changed his side, as most of his friends were doing. Graham did not do this for an imperative reason —because he had been so made that he could not. There are natures which are not consciously dishonest or treacherous, but which are flexible and accommodating. They are open to tne play of every influence, and are sensitive to environment; they are loyal when others are loyal, but if there be a change in spirit round them they immediately correspond, and thev do so not from any selfish calculation, but merely through a quick adaptation to environment. People of this kind find themsleves by an instinct on the winning side, but they would be mightily offended if they were charged with being opportunists. They are at each moment thoroughly convinced of their integrity, and are ever on the side which commends itself to their judgment; if it happens to be the side on which the sun is shining, that is a felicitous accident. There are other natures, narrower possibly and more intractable, whose chief quality is a thoroughgoing and masterful devotion, perhaps to a person, perhaps to a cause. Once this devotion is given, it can never be changed by any circumstance except the last and most inexcusable treachery, and then it will be apt to turn into a madness of hatred which nothing will appease. There is qo optimism in this character, very often a clear-sighted and painful acceptance of facts; faults are distinctly seen and difficulties are estimated at their full strength, sacrifice is discounted, and defeat is accepted. But the die is cast, and for weal or woe—most likely woe — they must go on their way and tign the fight to the end. This was the mould in which Dundee was east, the heir of shattered hopes, and the descendant of broken men, the servant of a discredited and condemned cause. He faced the reality, and knew that he had onlyone chance out of a hundred of success; but it never entered his mind to yield to circumstances and accept the new situation. There was indeed a moment when he would have been willing, not to change his service, but to sheathe his sword and stand apart. That moment was over, and now he had bidden his wife good-bye and was riding through the cold gray mist to do his weary, hopeless best for an obstinate, foolish, impracticable king, and to put some heart, if it were possible, into a dwindling handful of unprincipled, self-seeking, double-minded men. The day was full of omens, and they were all against him. Twice a hare ran across the road, ami Grimond muttered to himself as he rode behind his master, “The ill-faured beast.” As they passed through Glenfarg, a raven followed them for a mile, croaking weirdly. A trooper’s horse stumbled and fell, and the 'man had to be left behind, insensible. When they halted for an hour at Kinross it spread among the people who they were, and they were watched by hard, unsympathetic faces. The innkeeper gave them what they needed, but with ill grace, and it was clear that only fear of Dundee prevented him refusing food both to man and beast. When they left a crowd had gathered, and as they rode out from the village a voice cried: “Woe unto the

man of Uiuod a uuuule woe; ue goeeu, but ue suuii uut return, ms uoum is uxeu. -iu approving murmur num me bearers suuweu wuat me ocuis ioik muugm ui uouu mauam. mimouu womu rain nave turueu aud auswereu Hus ueremiau and Uis chorus with a touch or me sword, bm. ins cummanuer loruaue linn sharply. "We Have omer men to deal with, Ue said to Grimond, "man country lanaties, and our work is before us iu Edinburgh. But Ue would uol have been a Scot it he Had been indinereui to signs, and this ravencroak me whole day long rang in Ins heart. The sun struggled for a litne through the midst, aud across Loch Leveu they saw on its island the prisonhouse of Mary. "Grimond, saiu Graham, "there is where they kept her, and by this road she went out on her last hopeless ride, aud we follow her, Jock. But not to a prison, ye may slake your soul ou that, ft was enough that oue Graham should die upou a seatlold. The uext will die in the open field. ’ It was late when they reached Edinburgh, aud a murky night when they rode up Leith Wynd; the tall houses of Edinburgh hung over them; the few lights struggled against the thick, enveloping air. Figures came out of oue dark passage, and disappeared into another. A body of Highlanders, in the Campbell tartan, for a moment blocked the way. Twice they were cursed by unknown voices, and when Claverhouse reached his lodging someone called out his name, aud added: "The day of vengeance is at hand. The blood of John Brown crieth from the altar!” Aud Grimond kept four troopers on guard all night. The next night Claverhouse and Balearres were closeted together, the only men left to consult for the royal cause, and both knew what was going to be the issue. “There is no use blinding our eyes, Balcarres,” said Graham, “or feeding our hearts with vain hopes, the Convention is for the Prince of Orange, aud is done with King Janies. The men who kissed his hand yesterday, when he was in power, and would have lieked his feet if that had got them place and power, will be the first to east him forth and cry huzza for the new king. There is a black taint in the Scots blood, and there always have been men in high position to sell their country. The lord>s of the congregation were English traitors in Mary’s day, and on them as much as that wanton Elizabeth lay her blood. It was a Scots army sold Charles I. to the Roundheads, and it would have been mair decent to have beheaded him at Edinburgh. And now they- will take the ancient throne of auld Scotland and hand it over, without a stroke, to a cold-blooded foreigner who has taught his wife to turn her hand against her own father. God’s ban is upon the land. Balcarres, for one party of us be raging fanatics, and the other party be false-hearted cowards. Lord, if we could set the one against the other. Argyle's Highlanders against the West Country Whigs, it were a bonny piece of work, and if they fought till death the country were weil rid o’ baith, for I know not whether I hate mail- bitterly a Covenanter or a Campbell. But it would set us better, Balcarres. to keep our breath to cool oor ain porridge. What is this I hear, that Athole is playing the knave, and that Gordon cannot be trusted to keep the castle? Has the day come upon us that the best names in Scotland are to be dragged in the mire? 1 sairly doot that for the time the throne is lost to the auld line, but if it is to be sold by the best blood of Scotland, then I wish their silver bullet had found John Graham’s heart at Drumclag.” “Ye tnaunna deal ower hardly with Athole, Dundee, for I will not say he isna true. His son, mind you, is on the other side, and Athole himself is a man broken in body. These be trying times, and it is not every ane has your heart. It may be that Athole and other men judge that everything has been done that can, and that a heavy burden o’ guilt will rest on ony man that spills blood without reason. Mind you,” went on Balcarres hastily, as he saw the black gloom gathering on Dundee’s face, “I say not that is my way of it, for I am with you while ony hope remains, but we maun do justice.” “Justice!” broke in Claverhouse, irritated beyond control by Balcarres’ apologies and his hint of compromise. If I had my way of it, every time-serv-ing trickster in the land would have justice—a rope round his neck and a long drop, for a bullet would be too

honourable a death. But let Athole pass. He was once a loyal man, and there may be reason in what ye say. I have never known sickness myself, and doubtless it weakens even strong men. But what is this I hear of Gordon! Is it a lie that he is tratlicking with Hamilton and the Whig lords to surrender ths castle? If so, he is the most damnable traitor of them all, and will have his place with Judas Iscariot.” “Na, na, Dundee, nae Gordon has ever been false, though I judge maist o’ them, since Mary’s day, have been foolish. Concerning the castle, this is how the matter stands, and I pray you to hear me patiently and not to fly out till I have finished?’ “For God’s sake, speak out and speak on, and dinna sit watching me as if you were terrified for your life, and dinna pick your words, like a double-dealing, white-blooded Whig lawyer, or I will begin to think that the leprosy of cowardice has reached the Lindsays.” “Weel, Dundee” —but Balcarres was still very careful with his word —“I have reason to believe, and, in fact, I may as well say I know, that there have been some goings and comings between Gordon and the Lords of Convention. I will not say that Gordon isna true to the king, and that he would not hold the castle if it would help the cause. But I am judging that he isna minded to be left alone and keep Edinburgh Castle for King James if all Scotland is for King William.” And Balcarres, plucking up courage in the face of his fierce companion, added: “I will not say, Dundee, that the duke is wrong. What use would it be if he did? But mind you, went on Balcarres hastily, “he hasna promised to surrender his trust. He is just waiting to see what happens.” "Which they have all been doing, every woman’s son of them, instead of minding their duty whatever happens; but I grant there’s no use raging, we maun make our plans. What does Gordon want if he’s holding his hand? Out with it, Balcarres, for I see from your face ye ken.” “If the duke,” replied Balcarres, “had ony guarantee that a fight would be made for the auld line in Scotland, and that he would not be left alane, like a sparrow upon the housetop in Edinburgh Castle, 1 make certain he would stand fast; but if the royal standard is to be seen nowhere else except on one keep—strong though that be — the duke will come to terms wi’ the Convention. There ye have the situation, mak’ o’ it what ye will.” “By God, Balcarres, if that be true, and 1 jalouse that ye are richt, Gordon will get his assurance this very nicht It’s a fair and just pledge he asks, and I know the man who’ll give it to him. Edinburgh will not be the only place in the land where the good standard flies before many days are passed. Man! Balcarres, this is good news ye have brought, and 1 am glad to ken that there is still red blood in Gordon’s heart. I’m thinking ye’ve had your own communings wi’ the duke, and that ye ken the by-roads to the castle. Settle it that he and I can meet this very nicht, and if need be I’ll be ready to leave the morrow’s morning. Aye, Balcarres, if the duke holds the fastness, I’ll look after the open country.” And before daybreak there was a meeting between the Gordon and the Graham. They exchanged pledges, each to do his part, but both of them knew an almost hopeless part, for the king. Many a forlorn hope had their houses led, and this would be only one more. While his master had been reenforcing the duke’s determination and giving pledges of thoroughness, Grimond had been doing his part to secure Dundee’s safety in the seat of his enemies. Edinburgh was swarming with West Country Whigs, whose day of victory had come, and who hurried to the capital that they might make the most of it. No one could blame them for their exultation, least of all Claverhouse. They had been hunted like wild beasts, they had been scattered when worshipping God according to the fashion of their fathers, they had been shot down without a trial, they had been shut up in noisome prisons—and all this because they would not submit to the most corrupt government ever known in Scotland, and that most intolerable kind of tyraigiy which tries, not only to coerce a man as a citizen, but also as a Christian. They had many persecutors, but, on the whole, the most active had been Graham, and it was Graham they hated most. It is his name rather than that of Dalzell or

Lauderdale which has been passed with execration from mouth co mouth and from generation to generation in Scotland. The tyrant James had fled, like the coward he was, and God’s deliverer had come—a man of their own faith—in William of Orange. The iron doors had been burst and the fetters had been broken, there was liberty to hear the word of the Lord again, and the Kirk of Scotland was once more free. Justice was being done, but it would not be perfect till Claverhouse suffered the penalty of his crimes. It had been the hope of many a dour Covenanter, infuriated by the wrongs of his friends, if not his own, to strike down Claverhouse and avenge the sufferings of God’s people. Satan had protected his own, but now the man of blood was given into their hands. Surely it was the doing of the Lord that Dundee should have left Dudhope, where he was in stronghold, and come up to Edinburgh, where his friends were few. That he should go at large upon the streets and take his seat in the Convention, that he should dare to plot against William and lift a hand for James in this day of triumph, was his last stroke o£ insolence —the drop which filled his cup to overflowing. He had come to Edinburgh, to which he had sent many a martyr of the Covenant, and where he had seen Henry Pollock die for Christ’s crown and the Scots kirk. Behold! was it not a sign, and was it not the will of the Lord that in this high place, where godly men had been murdered by him, his blood should be spilled as an offering unto the Lord? This was what the hillmen were saying among themselves as they gathered in their meetings and communed together in their lodgings. They were not given to public vapouring, and were much readier to strike than to speak, but when there are so many, and their hearts are so hot, a secret eannot be easily kept. And Grimond, who concealed much shrewdness behind a stolid face —which is the way with Scots peasants —caught some suspicious words as two unmistakable Covenanters passed him in the high street. If mischief was brewing for his master, it was his business to find it out and take a hand in the affair. He followed the pair as if he were a countryman gaping at the sights of the town and the stir of those days, when armed men passed on every side and the air was thick with rumours. When the Covenanters, after glancing round, plunged down a dark entry and into an obscure tavern, Grimond, after a pause, followed cautiously, assuming as best he could—and not unsuccessfully—the manner of a man from the west. The outer room was empty when he entered, and he was careful when he got his measure of ale to bend his head over it for at least five minutes by way of grace. The woman, who had glanced sharply at him on entry, was satisfied by this sign of godliness, and left him in a dark corner, from which he saw one after another of the saints pass into an inner chamber. Between the two rooms there was a wooden partition, and through a crack in the boarding Grimond was able to see and hear what was going on. It was characteristic of the men that they opened their conference of assasination with prayer, in which the sorrows of the past were mentioned with n certain pathos, and thanks given for the great deliverance which had been wrought. Then they asked wisdom and strength to finish the Lord’s work, and to rid the land of the chief of the Amalekites, after which they made their plan. Although Grimond did not catch everything that was said, he gathered clearly that when Claverhouse left his lodging to attend the Convention on the morning of the fifteenth of March, they would be waiflipg in the narrow way, as if talking with friends, and would slay the persecutor before he could summon help. When it was agreed who should be present, and what each one should do, they closed their meeting, as they had opened it, with prayer. One of them glanced suspiciously round the kitchen as he passed through, but saw no man, for Grimond had quietly departed. He knew his master’s obstinate temper and reckless courage, and was afraid if he told him of the plot that he would give no heed, or trust to his own sword. “We’ll run no risks,” said Grimond to himself, and next mornijig a dozen troopers of Claverhouse's regiment guarded the entry to his lodging, and a dozen more were scattered handily about the street. They followed him to the Convention, and waited till he re-

turned. That was how Claverhouse lived to fight the battle of Killiecrankie, but till that day came he had never been so near death as in that narrow way at Edinburgh. Dundee was not a prudent man, and he was very fearless, but for once he consulted common-sense and made ready to leave Edinburgh. It was plain that the Convention would elect William to the throne of Scotland, and as the days passed it was also very bitter to him that the Jacobites were not very keen about the rising. When he learned that his trusted friends were going to attend the Convention, and did not propose with undue haste to raise the standard for the king, Dundee concluded that if anything should be done, it would not be by such cautious spirits. As he seemed to be the sole hope of his cause, the sooner he was out of Edinburgh the better. When he was seen upon the streets with fifty of his troopers, mounted and armed, there was a wild idea of arresting him, but it came to nothing. There was not time to gather the hillmen together, and there was no heart in the others to face this desperate man and his body - guard. With his men behind him, he rode down Leith Wynd unmolested, and when someone cried, “Where art thou going, Lord Dundee? he turned him round in the saddle and answered, “Whither the spirit of Montrose will lead me.” A fortnight later, in front of his house at Dudhope, he raised the standard for King James, and Jean Cochrane, a mother now, holding their infant son in her arms, stood by his side before he rode north. As he had left her on their marriage day with his troopers, so now he left her and their child, to see her only once again—a cruel meeting, before he fell. Verily, a life of storm and stress, of bitter conflicts and many partings. Verily, a man whom, right or wrong, the fates were treating as a victim and pursuing to his doom. (To be continued.)