“It may be so,” returned Jean sadly. “The Lord knows what is best; but He can make the wrath of man to praise Him. Perhaps,” she added, looking up with a solemn expression on her sweet face, “perhaps, like Quentin Dick an’ Margaret Wilson, you an’ I may never wed.”
They had reached the east end of the Grassmarket as she spoke, and had turned into it before she observed that they were going wrong, but Wallace explained that he had been directed by Black to call on Ramblin’ Peter, who lived there, and procure from him some turning-tools. On the way they were so engrossed with each other that they did not at first observe the people hurrying towards the lower end of the market. Then they became aware that an execution was about to take place.
“The old story,” muttered Wallace, while an almost savage scowl settled on his face.
“Let us hurry by,” said Jean in a low tone. At the moment the unhappy man who was about to be executed raised his voice to speak, as was the custom in those times.
Jean started, paused, and turned deadly pale.
“I ken the voice,” she exclaimed.
As the tones rose in strength she turned towards the gallows and almost dragged her companion after her in her eagerness to get near.
“It’s Mr Renwick,” she said, “the dear servant o’ the Lord!”
Wallace, on seeing her anxiety, elbowed his way through the crowd somewhat forcibly, and thus made way for Jean till they stood close under the gallows. It was a woeful sight in one sense, for it was the murder of a fair and goodly as well as godly man in the prime of life; yet it was a grand sight, inasmuch as it was a noble witnessing unto death for God and truth and justice in the face of prejudice, passion, and high-handed tyranny.
The martyr had been trying to address the crowd for some time, but had been barbarously interrupted by the beating of drums. Just then a curate approached him and said, “Mr Renwick, own our King, and we will pray for you.”