“Man, Peter,” gasped the farmer, “yours is the sweetest voice I’ve heard for mony a day. I verily thocht I was doomed—but come awa’, lad. Thank ’ee kindly, auld wife, for the temporary accommodation.”
The intruders left as abruptly as they had entered. That night the whole party was reassembled in Mrs Black’s residence in Candlemaker Row, where, over a supper “o’ parritch an’ soor mulk,” Andrew Black heard from Jock Bruce all about the Declaration of Rutherglen, and the defeat of Claverhouse by the Covenanters at Drumclog.
“The thundercloods are gatherin’,” said Black with a grave shake of the head, as the party broke up and were about to separate for the night. “Tak’ my word for ’t, we’ll hear mair o’ this afore lang.”
We need scarcely add that on this occasion Andrew was a true prophet.
Chapter Eight.
Bothwell Bridge.
Matters had now come to such a pass that it was no longer possible to defer the evil day of civil war.
Persecuted inhumanly and beyond endurance, with every natural avenue of redress closed, and flushed with recent victory, the Covenanters resolved not only to hold together for defensive purposes, but to take the initiative, push their advantage, and fight for civil and religious liberty. It was the old, old fight, which has convulsed the world probably since the days of Eden—the uprising of the persecuted many against the tyrannical few. In the confusions of a sin-stricken world, the conditions have been occasionally and partially reversed; but, for the most part, history’s record tells of the abuse of power on the part of the few who possess it, and the resulting consequence that:—