Tales of the Covenanters

by Ellen Emma Guthrie

"Oh send for her!" cried the distracted mother; "lose not one instant in bringing her hither;" and the messenger, having received the necessary directions, galloped furiously away.

It was a solemn scene that chamber of death; and beautiful to witness was the dying youth's resignation to the decree of God, while he strove with all his accustomed gentleness to soothe his mother's sorrow.

"Oh do not weep thus," he said; "our parting will not be for long. Consider, dear mother, the shortness of time and the duration of eternity. It is, indeed, a solemn thing," he continued, "to be standing thus at the portals of an unknown world, and yet not unknown; God having in his goodness revealed to us hidden glimpses of that lovely shore——"

At this instant the chamber door flew open, and to the consternation of all present a young man, in the garb of an officer, rushed into the room.

With a scream of terror Mrs. Ayton started to her feet. "Intrude not your presence in the chamber of death," she said, addressing the dragoon; "what more would you have? you have killed his body, would you also destroy his soul?"

Heeding her not, the stranger stood for one moment gazing on the sufferer, with horror depicted on his countenance; then dashing his helmet on the ground, he threw himself on his knees by the side of the bed, exclaiming in a voice broken with sobs, "Andrew, Andrew, can you forgive me? can you forgive your guilty cousin? mine was the hand that did the deed."

The voice was that of William Auchmutie. Inchdarnie was silent. His thoughts were far away. The venerable city of St. Andrews rose up before him. He marked its glittering spires—the waves which dashed on the rocky shore, and the stately vessels gliding to and fro. Again he is standing there with his thoughtless young cousin, he who is now kneeling as a suppliant by his bed-side. Again the words ring in his ears, "I will kill thee, just for thy having espoused so rascally a cause;" and he remembers the strange unaccountable feeling which then passed through his heart as the words were uttered; and now all was fulfilled. Little more than twelve short months had rolled over their heads since that sad night; he was lying on a bed of death, and the hand that had inflicted the fatal wound was that of his cousin.

"Then you won't forgive me?" groaned forth William Auchmutie, fearing from his cousin's silence that he could not extend pardon to the man who had inflicted a mortal injury; but he knew not the gentle, loving nature he had to deal with.

"Forgive thee, William!" said Andrew Ayton, recalled by the question to what was passing around him; "yes, from the bottom of my soul, and may He above blot it out of the book of his remembrance, and lay it not to thy account. But O, William!" he continued, "withdraw thyself, while there is yet time, from the bloody course thou art pursuing; let this thou hast done serve as a warning to thee. It may be that the Almighty has permitted it that the arrow of conviction might pierce thy heart."

Here the dying man paused for a moment, apparently overcome with emotion, and then continued, grasping his cousin's hand while he spoke, "My dear cousin, thou art very young, and this scene may soon cease to be remembered by thee; but when old age comes upon thee, when thy strength fails thee, and thou art no longer able to pursue thy accustomed employment, then in the solitude of thy chamber will the evil deeds of thy youth rise up in judgment against thee, and remorse, like an avenging angel, sit scowling on thee from amongst the ruins thou hast made of the talents God committed to thy care."