it would come to this,” answered Burley, “when such as thou wert called into the council of the elders.”
“Such as I?” answered Poundtext,—“And who am I, that you should name me with such scorn?— Have I not kept the flock of this sheep-fold from the wolves for thirty years? Ay, even while thou, John Balfour, wert fighting in the ranks of uncircumcision, a Philistine of hardened brow and bloody hand — Who am I, say’st thou?”
“I will tell thee what thou art, since thou wouldst so fain know,” said Burley. “Thou art one of those, who would reap where thou hast not sowed, and divide the spoil while others fight the battle — thou art one of those that follow the gospel for the loaves and for the fishes — that love their own manse better than the Church of God, and that would rather draw their stipends under prelatists or heathens, than be a partaker with those noble spirits who have cast all behind them for the sake of the Covenant.”
“And I will tell thee, John Balfour,” returned Poundtext, deservedly incensed, “I will tell thee what thou art. Thou art one of those, for whose bloody and merciless disposition a reproach is flung upon the whole church of this suffering kingdom, and for whose violence and blood-guiltiness, it is to be feared, this fair attempt to recover our civil and religious rights will never be honoured by Providence with the desired success.”
“Gentlemen,” said Morton, “cease this irritating and unavailing recrimination; and do you, Mr Balfour, inform us, whether it is your purpose to oppose the liberation of Lord Evandale, which appears to us a profitable measure in the present position of our affairs?”
“You are here,” answered Burley, “as two voices against one; but you will not refuse to tarry until the united council shall decide upon this matter?”
“This,” said Morton, “we would not decline, if we could trust the hands in whom we are to leave the prisoner.— But you know well,” he added, looking sternly at Burley, “that you have already deceived me in this matter.”
“Go to,” said Burley, disdainfully,—“thou art an idle inconsiderate boy, who, for the black eyebrows of a silly girl, would barter thy own faith and honour, and the cause of God and of thy country.”
“Mr Balfour,” said Morton, laying his hand on his sword, “this language requires satisfaction.”
“And thou shalt have it, stripling, when and where thou darest,” said Burley; “I plight thee my good word on it.”
Poundtext, in his turn, interfered to remind them of the madness of quarrelling, and effected with difficulty a sort of sullen reconciliation.
“Concerning the prisoner,” said Burley, “deal with him as ye think fit. I wash my hands free from all consequences. He is my prisoner, made by my sword and spear, while you, Mr Morton, were playing the adjutant at drills and parades, and you, Mr Poundtext, were warping the Scriptures into Erastianism. Take him unto you, nevertheless, and dispose of him as ye think meet.— Dingwall,” he continued, calling a sort of aid-de-camp, who slept in the next apartment, “let the guard posted on the malignant Evandale give up their post to those whom Captain Morton shall appoint to relieve them.— The prisoner,” he said, again addressing Poundtext and Morton, “is now at your disposal, gentlemen. But remember, that for all these things there will one day come a term of heavy accounting.”
So saying, he turned abruptly into an inner apartment, without bidding them good evening. His two visitors, after a moment’s consideration, agreed it would be prudent to ensure the prisoner’s personal safety, by placing over him an additional guard, chosen from their own parishioners. A band of them happened to be stationed in the hamlet, having been attached, for the time, to Burley’s command, in order that the men might be gratified by remaining as long as possible near to their own homes. They were, in general, smart, active young fellows, and were usually called by their companions, the Marksmen of Milnwood. By Morton’s desire, four of these lads readily undertook the task of sentinels, and he left with them Headrigg, on whose fidelity he could depend, with instructions to call him, if any thing remarkable happened.
This arrangement being made, Morton and his colleague took possession, for the night, of such quarters as the over-crowded and miserable hamlet could afford them. They did not, however, separate for repose till they had drawn up a memorial of the grievances of the moderate presbyterians, which was summed up with a request of free toleration for their religion in future, and that they should be permitted to attend gospel ordinances as dispensed by their own clergymen, without oppression or molestation. Their petition proceeded to require that a free parliament should be called for settling the affairs of church and state, and for redressing the injuries sustained by the subject; and that all those who either now were, or had been, in arms, for obtaining these ends, should be indemnified. Morton could not but strongly hope that these terms, which comprehended all that was wanted, or wished for, by the moderate party among the insurgents, might, when thus cleared of the violence of fanaticism, find advocates even among the royalists, as claiming only the ordinary rights of Scottish freemen.
He had the more confidence of a favourable reception, that the Duke of Monmouth, to whom Charles had intrusted the charge of subduing this rebellion, was a man of gentle, moderate, and accessible disposition, well known to be favourable to the presbyterians, and invested by the king with full powers to take measures for quieting the disturbances in Scotland. It seemed to Morton, that all that was necessary for influencing him in their favour was to find a fit and sufficiently respectable channel of communication, and such seemed to be opened through the medium of Lord Evandale. He resolved, therefore, to visit the prisoner early in the morning, in order to sound his dispositions to undertake the task of mediator; but an accident happened which led him to anticipate his purpose.
26 The Cameronians had suffered persecution, but it was without learning mercy. We are informed by Captain Crichton, that they had set up in their camp a huge gibbet, or gallows, having many hooks upon it, with a coil of new ropes lying beside it, for the execution of such royalists as they might make prisoners. Guild, in his Bellum Bothuellianum, describes this machine particularly.
Chapter 28
Gie ower your house, lady, he said,—
Gie ower your house to me.
Edom of Gordon.
Morton had finished the revisal and the making out of a fair copy of the paper on which he and Poundtext had agreed to rest as a full statement of the grievances of their party, and the conditions on which the greater part of the insurgents would be contented to lay down their arms; and he was about to betake himself to repose, when there was a knocking at the door of his apartment.
“Enter,” said Morton; and the round bullethead of Cuddie Headrigg was thrust into the room. “Come in,” said Morton, “and tell me what you want. Is there any alarm?”
“Na, stir; but I hae brought ane to speak wi’ you.”
“Who is that, Cuddie?” enquired Morton.
“Ane o’ your auld acquaintance,” said Cuddie; and, opening the door more fully, he half led, half dragged in a woman, whose face was muffled in her plaid.—“Come, come, ye needna be sae bashfu’ before auld acquaintance, Jenny,” said Cuddie, pulling down the veil, and discovering to his master the well-remembered countenance of Jenny Dennison. “Tell his honour, now — there’s a braw lass — tell him
