“Now,” said Claverhouse, “take farewell of your wife and children.”
After the poor man had kissed them, Claverhouse ordered six of his men to fire; but they hesitated and finally refused. Enraged at this their commander drew a pistol, and with his own hand blew out John Brown’s brains.
“What thinkest thou of thy husband now, woman?” he said, turning to the widow.
“I ever thought much good of him,” she answered, “and as much now as ever.”
“It were but justice to lay thee beside him,” exclaimed the murderer.
“If you were permitted,” she replied, “I doubt not but your cruelty would go that length.”
Thus far the excitement of the dreadful scene enabled the poor creature to reply, but nature soon asserted her sway. Sinking on her knees by the side of the mangled corpse, the widow, neither observing nor caring for the departure of the dragoons, proceeded to bind up her husband’s shattered skull with a kerchief, while the pent-up tears burst forth.
The house stood in a retired, solitary spot, and for some time the bereaved woman was left alone with God and her children; but before darkness closed in a human comforter was sent to her in the person of Quentin Dick.
On his arrival in Wigtown, Quentin, finding that his friends the Wilson girls had been imprisoned with an old covenanter named Mrs McLachlan, and that he could not obtain permission to see them, resolved to pay a visit to John Brown, the carrier, who was an old friend, and who might perhaps afford him counsel regarding the Wilsons. Leaving Ramblin’ Peter behind to watch every event and fetch him word if anything important should transpire, he set out and reached the desolated cottage in the evening of the day on which his friend was shot.
Quentin was naturally a reserved man, and had never been able to take a prominent part with his covenanting friends in conversation or in public prayer, but the sight of his old friend’s widow in her agony, and her terrified little ones, broke down the barrier of reserve completely. Although a stern and a strong man, not prone to give way to feeling, he learned that night the full meaning of what it is to “weep with those that weep.” Moreover, his tongue was unloosed, and he poured forth his soul in prayer, and quoted God’s Word in a way that cheered, in no small degree, his stricken friend. During several days he remained at Priesthill, doing all in his power to assist the family, and receiving some degree of comfort in return; for strong sympathy and fellowship in sorrow had induced him to reveal the fact that he loved Margaret Wilson, who at that time lay in prison with her young sister Agnes, awaiting their trial in Wigtown.