Tales of the Covenanters

by Ellen Emma Guthrie

Re-echoing this heartfelt prayer, we pursued our way along the giddy ledge of the precipice which stretched beneath. The farther we advanced, the more wild and gloomy the scenery became, until at length we paused, mutually overcome with the stern sublimity of the, formerly believed to be, haunted linn. By means of fissures in the rocks, worn away in some places so as to resemble huge skeletons, we beheld winding passages and numberless cascades—the noise of whose falling waters alone broke upon the stillness of the scene; while in the abyss beneath, gigantic masses of hyperstein-looking rock, jutting boldly out from each bank, seemed to form, what well might have been, the entrance to some subterranean palace of the Genii. So perfect was the resemblance, that, as we gazed affrighted on the towering portals and listened to the murmurs of the water gurgling along its pebbled bed, we almost feared to see some of its terrible inhabitants issue forth, and with denouncing gestures, compel us to enter their unblest abode. After pointing out for our observation the numerous caves which formerly sheltered the adherents of the Covenant, our guide attracted our attention to a seat, in the form of a chair, hollowed out in the solid rock, remarking, as he did so, "You told me you thought from my appearance that I would have been a Covenanter had I lived in their time, and well might you say so, for my forefathers were staunch in the rightful cause; and for many a long hour did my great-grandfather sit in that seat, when Claverhouse and his dragoons were guarding the entrance to the linn. He was a shoemaker in this parish, and from that circumstance alone it is still known as the 'Sutor's Seat.'"

"Is there any tradition handed down in connection with your great-grandfather?" I inquired.

"Yes, ma'm, there is; and if you would care to hear it, you are welcome to all that I can remember." So saying, the old man seated himself on a neighbouring stone and related the story which, clothed in my own language, is now presented to the reader under the name of the

SUTOR'S SEAT.

It was late on the evening of the first of June, sixteen hundred and seventy-nine, and the wife and family of Abel Armstrong, who resided in the parish of Closeburn, were engaged in offering up fervent supplications at the throne of mercy in behalf of all those who had gone forth to fight the battles of the Lord; but the face of the mother waxed pale, and her lips trembled with emotion as she prayed, more especially for the safety of her husband and her son, who had also enrolled themselves beneath the banners of the Covenant. While thus engaged, a low knocking at the outer door caused them to start hastily to their feet, and they stood gazing on each other with looks of eager alarm, at a loss to comprehend the meaning of this unwelcome summons. Again it was repeated; but this time a feeble voice was heard entreating for admission in the name of God. Unable to withstand this earnest appeal, Mrs. Armstrong ran to the door and undid the bar; it flew open, and an officer of dragoons staggered into the cottage. At the sight of the armed intruder, Mrs. Armstrong and her daughters uttered wild screams of alarm; while the sole male inmate of the kitchen, a youth of not more than fifteen years of age, darted to the farthest, corner where stood a loaded gun, and grasping it in his hand, gazed on the soldier with scowling brows, irresolute how to act.

"Fear nought from me," faintly exclaimed the dragoon, observing the hostile attitude assumed by the boy; "I mean you no harm, nor have I the power to inflict an injury, even had I the inclination."

As he spoke, a stream of blood, welling from a deep wound in his side, dyed the cottage floor with a crimson stain.

"Water! water!" he murmured, and sank fainting into the nearest chair.

With all their womanly sympathies aroused within them at the sight of the helpless condition of the stranger who had thus thrown himself upon their hospitality, Mrs. Armstrong and her eldest daughter, Lucy, ran to his assistance; the one to bathe his forehead with vinegar, and the other to fetch bandages to bind up anew his bleeding wound.

"O but he has a bonnie sweet face o' his ain!" said Mrs. Armstrong in pitying accents, as she undid his helmet and stroked down his long fair hair, which, in obedience to the prevailing custom of the Cavaliers, descended in ringlets to his shoulders, "and so young too! My poor lad, what could have tempted you to leave your home to engage in such unprofitable warfare?"