“Oh dear!” gasped Peter, “the hidy—”
“Wheesht, bairn,” said Black in a low voice. “They’re safe enough. The fire’ll no’ touch them, an’ besides, they’re in the Lord’s hands.”
A few minutes more and the whole farm-steading was in flames. The dragoons watched the work of destruction until the roof of the cottage fell in; then, mounting their horses, they descended to the road with the two prisoners and turned their faces in the direction of Edinburgh.
Chapter Seven.
More than one Narrow Escape.
One day, about a week after the burning of Black’s farm, a select dinner-party of red-hot rebels—as Government would have styled them; persecuted people as they called themselves—assembled in Mrs Black’s little room in Candlemaker Row. Their looks showed that their meeting was not for the purpose of enjoyment. The party consisted of Mrs Black, Mrs Wallace, who had reached Edinburgh in company with her brother David Spence, Jean Black, Will Wallace, Quentin Dick, and Jock Bruce the blacksmith.
“But I canna understand, lassie,” said Mrs Black to Jean, “hoo ye werena a’ roasted alive i’ the hidy-hole, or suffocated at the best; an’ hoo did ye ever get oot wi’ the ruckle o’ burning rafters abune ye?”
“It was easy enough,” answered the girl, “for Uncle Andry made the roof o’ the place uncommon thick, an’ there’s a short tunnel leadin’ to some bushes by the burn that let us oot at a place that canna be seen frae the hoose. But oh, granny, dinna ask me to speak aboot thae things, for they may be torturin’ Uncle Andry at this vera moment. Are you sure it was him ye saw?” she added, turning to Bruce.