the Sabbath to a cold, worldly, time-serving discourse, from one who forgets his high commission so much as to hold his apostleship by the favour of the courtiers and the false prelates, and ye call that hearing the word! Of all the baits with which the devil has fished for souls in these days of blood and darkness, that Black Indulgence has been the most destructive. An awful dispensation it has been, a smiting of the shepherd and a scattering of the sheep upon the mountains — an uplifting of one Christian banner against another, and a fighting of the wars of darkness with the swords of the children of light!”
“My uncle,” said Morton, “is of opinion, that we enjoy a reasonable freedom of conscience under the indulged clergymen, and I must necessarily be guided by his sentiments respecting the choice of a place of worship for his family.”
“Your uncle,” said the horseman, “is one of those to whom the least lamb in his own folds at Milnwood is dearer than the whole Christian flock. He is one that could willingly bend down to the golden-calf of Bethel, and would have fished for the dust thereof when it was ground to powder and cast upon the waters. Thy father was a man of another stamp.”
“My father,” replied Morton, “was indeed a brave and gallant man. And you may have heard, sir, that he fought for that royal family in whose name I was this day carrying arms.”
“Ay; and had he lived to see these days, he would have cursed the hour he ever drew sword in their cause. But more of this hereafter — I promise thee full surely that thy hour will come, and then the words thou hast now heard will stick in thy bosom like barbed arrows. My road lies there.”
He pointed towards a pass leading up into a wild extent of dreary and desolate hills; but as he was about to turn his horse’s head into the rugged path, which led from the high-road in that direction, an old woman wrapped in a red cloak, who was sitting by the cross-way, arose, and approaching him, said, in a mysterious tone of voice, “If ye be of our ain folk, gangna up the pass the night for your lives. There is a lion in the path, that is there. The curate of Brotherstane and ten soldiers hae beset the pass, to hae the lives of ony of our puir wanderers that venture that gate to join wi’ Hamilton and Dingwall.”
“Have the persecuted folk drawn to any head among themselves?” demanded the stranger.
“About sixty or seventy horse and foot,” said the old dame; “but, ewhow! they are puirly armed, and warse fended wi’ victual.”
“God will help his own,” said the horseman. “Which way shall I take to join them?”
“It’s a mere impossibility this night,” said the woman, “the troopers keep sae strict a guard; and they say there’s strange news come frae the east, that makes them rage in their cruelty mair fierce than ever — Ye maun take shelter somegate for the night before ye get to the muirs, and keep yoursell in hiding till the grey o’ the morning, and then you may find your way through the Drake Moss. When I heard the awfu’ threatenings o’ the oppressors, I e’en took my cloak about me, and sate down by the wayside, to warn ony of our puir scattered remnant that chanced to come this gate, before they fell into the nets of the spoilers.”
“Have you a house near this?” said the stranger; “and can you give me hiding there?”
“I have,” said the old woman, “a hut by the way-side, it may be a mile from hence; but four men of Belial, called dragoons, are lodged therein, to spoil my household goods at their pleasure, because I will not wait upon the thowless, thriftless, fissenless ministry of that carnal man, John Halftext, the curate.”
“Good night, good woman, and thanks for thy counsel,” said the stranger, as he rode away.
“The blessings of the promise upon you,” returned the old dame; “may He keep you that can keep you.”
“Amen!” said the traveller; “for where to hide my head this night, mortal skill cannot direct me.”
“I am very sorry for your distress,” said Morton; “and had I a house or place of shelter that could be called my own, I almost think I would risk the utmost rigour of the law rather than leave you in such a strait. But my uncle is so alarmed at the pains and penalties denounced by the laws against such as comfort, receive, or consort with intercommuned persons, that he has strictly forbidden all of us to hold any intercourse with them.”
“It is no less than I expected,” said the stranger; “nevertheless, I might be received without his knowledge;— a barn, a hay-loft, a cart-shed,— any place where I could stretch me down, would be to my habits like a tabernacle of silver set about with planks of cedar.”
“I assure you,” said Morton, much embarrassed, “that I have not the means of receiving you at Milnwood without my uncle’s consent and knowledge; nor, if I could do so, would I think myself justifiable in engaging him unconsciously in danger, which, most of all others, he fears and deprecates.”
“Well,” said the traveller, “I have but one word to say. Did you ever hear your father mention John Balfour of Burley?”
“His ancient friend and comrade, who saved his life, with almost the loss of his own, in the battle of Longmarston-Moor?— Often, very often.”
“I am that Balfour,” said his companion. “Yonder stands thy uncle’s house; I see the light among the trees. The avenger of blood is behind me, and my death certain unless I have refuge there. Now, make thy choice, young man; to shrink from the side of thy father’s friend, like a thief in the night, and to leave him exposed to the bloody death from which he rescued thy father, or to expose thine uncle’s wordly goods to such peril, as, in this perverse generation, attends those who give a morsel of bread or a draught of cold water to a Christian man, when perishing for lack of refreshment!”
A thousand recollections thronged on the mind of Morton at once. His father, whose memory he idolized, had often enlarged upon his obligations to this man, and regretted, that, after having been long comrades, they had parted in some unkindness at the time when the kingdom of Scotland was divided into Resolutioners and Protesters; the former of whom adhered to Charles II. after his father’s death upon the scaffold, while the Protesters inclined rather to a union with the triumphant republicans. The stern fanaticism of Burley had attached him to this latter party, and the comrades had parted in displeasure, never, as it happened, to meet again. These circumstances the deceased Colonel Morton had often mentioned to his son, and always with an expression of deep regret, that he had never, in any manner, been enabled to repay the assistance, which, on more than one occasion, he had received from Burley.
To hasten Morton’s decision, the night-wind, as it swept along, brought from a distance the sullen sound of a kettle-drum, which, seeming to approach nearer, intimated that a body of horse were upon their march towards them.
“It must be Claverhouse, with the rest of his regiment. What can have occasioned this night-march? If you go on, you fall into their hands — if you turn back towards the borough-town, you are in no less danger from Cornet Grahame’s party.— The path to the hill is beset. I must shelter you at Milnwood, or expose you to instant death;— but the punishment of the law shall fall upon myself, as in justice it should, not upon my uncle.— Follow me.”
Burley, who had awaited his resolution with great composure, now followed him in silence.
The house of Milnwood, built by the father of the present proprietor, was a decent mansion, suitable to the size of the estate, but, since the accession of this owner, it had been suffered to go considerably into disrepair. At some little distance from the house stood the court of offices. Here Morton paused.
“I
