Carlisle was then, and for long after, girt by walls and towers as a defence against the Scots, whom the English could scarcely view yet as fellow-subjects.
Without any occurrence he travelled about forty-five miles, and on the evening of the second day found himself entering Moffatdale, a deep and pastoral valley, which is overshadowed by mountains of great height, at the foot of which the Evan and the Annan unite their waters in one. The sunlight had faded from the green summits of the Moffat Alps—of Hartfell and Queensberry, and the deep shady valleys were growing dark. The night-hawk was winging its way towards the lonely banks of Loch Skene; the shrill whistle of the curlew as he rose from among the green waving fern or purple heather bells, and the coo of the sweet cushat dove in the birchen thicket, were alone breaking the silence, when Rob Roy drew his bridle near the village of Moffat to consider where he should quarter himself for the night.
He was in a strange place, and had about him more money than he cared to lose. There were several ruins of old peel-houses, towers, and cattle-sheilings on the hills, and in one of these a hardy Highlander could sleep comfortably enough when rolled in his plaid; but there was no necessity for faring so roughly.
A meteor which shot across the darkening sky, near the spire of a distant village church, made Rob thoughtful; for it is an old Celtic superstition, that when a falling star is seen by any one near a burying-ground, it portends that death is near. At the moment he paused a cry of distress pierced the air. He listened intently and instinctively, and drawing forth a pistol, glanced at the flint and priming, to be prepared for any emergency. Again the cry reached him, and it seemed to be uttered by a female in distress. Urging his strong and active Highland garron in the direction from whence the cries came, he entered a deep and savage dell named Gartpool Linn, where he beheld a very startling sight.
A large and gnarled tree spread its broad branches like a leafy arch above this dell, and beneath them the last red gleam of the western sky shone full into the hollow. There an officer and a party of soldiers were deliberately preparing to hang four peasants on the lower limb of the old chestnut. At the foot of the latter, on her knees, with hair dishevelled and disordered dress, there knelt a young girl, who was alternately bewailing the fate of the four victims, and imploring mercy for them; and, from what she said, they proved to be her father and three brothers.
In the oldest peasant MacGregor almost immediately recognized Andrew Gemmil, the gipsy wanderer who had acted as his guide when he followed Duncan nan Creagh to the Braes of Rannoch. Being single-handed, ignorant of the crime of which the prisoners were accused, and finding himself before eighteen soldiers and an officer, who were all fully armed, and who by their jack-boots, buff breeches, and blue coats, evidently belonged to a Border militia regiment, Rob Roy stood by for some time in bewilderment, and soon saw the four unfortunates flung in succession off a ladder, and all swinging and writhing in the agonies of death between him and the ruddy western sky.
The officer now commanded his men to seize the girl, who had cast herself with her face on the grass, that she might shut out the dreadful scene; he added they were to bind her hands and feet together, and then throw her head foremost into the stream, which then swept in full flood through this savage ravine, and was all the more fierce and deep that heavy rains had fallen of late. Rob's blood began to boil. He thought, perhaps, upon the words of Ossian:—"Within this bosom is a voice—it comes not to other ears—that bids Ossian succour the helpless in their hour of need."
Four soldiers tied her hands and feet, and were about to obey the order of the officer, when Rob, exasperated by such unmanly cruelty, commanded them in a loud voice to pause, and then he demanded sternly, "Why do you treat a helpless female in a manner so barbarous?"
Perceiving that he was plainly attired in a rough coat of Galloway frieze, with a tartan plaid thrown over his left shoulder, and a broad blue bonnet drawn down close to his eyes, and perhaps unaware that he had a good sword by his side and pistols at his girdle, the officer replied haughtily,—
"Sir, you had better begone about your own business, whatever it may be, less we add you to the goodly company who await the crows on that branch, if you dare to interrupt those who act in the Queen's name and under her authority."