He ceased, and a silence fell upon us, so heavy that our hearts were crushed and not one of us dared speak. At last I rose, and crept out of the cave. I stood on the ledge above the frozen pool and felt the ice gather about my heart. Was Mary dead or not? This awful uncertainty was harder to bear than the knowledge I had believed was mine. I slipped my hand into the pocket over my heart and drew from it the fragment of her ring. It lay glistening faintly in the light in my open hand, and then I could not see it for my tears. Mary was dead! I sat down and buried my face in my hands. My soul was in the depths.
CHAPTER XL
I SEEK A FLOWER
Many a time in the weeks that followed I pondered over Hector's story. Andrew--dour, stout-hearted, and faithful--and Jean--shrewd, loving, and whimsical--had borne themselves valiantly in the hour of doom, and the darkness of the tragedy was illumined by the thought of their high heroism. My sorrow was flushed with pride, though the pride was akin to tears; but ever in my mind there was a torturing doubt. Reason urged me to believe that Mary was dead. But love, and desire which is the child of love, bade me hope on.
More than once I laid bare my heart to the minister, and from his wise words I gained much solace; but, though he would not say so, I knew that in his heart he believed that Mary had fallen into the hands of the troopers and been done to death like her father and mother.
A day came when I could bear the suspense no longer. Inaction served only to increase my torture of mind. I must seek Mary myself.
I told my companions what I purposed. With one voice they tried to dissuade me. They pointed out that such an enterprise was beset with hazard and might lead to death. Little did they know that death had no terrors for such a love as mine, and that I would have counted it a pleasant thing when weighed against the unquenchable torment that burned in my breast. So I beat down all their objections until, convinced that I was set in my purpose, they ceased to oppose me and planned means whereby I might the better carry out my quest. It was from Hector that the most useful suggestion came.
"Ye micht," he said, "gang through the country as a packman, but frae what I mind o' your puir success at New Abbey, you wouldna fill the pairt." His eyes twinkled. "Besides," he continued, "I feel that I ha'e a proprietary richt to ony customers there are to be had in Galloway, and you micht be interferin' wi' my business--an affront I couldna weel thole. Better pose as a puir gangrel body, wounded, if ye like, in the wars. Yer game leg is evidence eneuch o' that, and when ye come to a toon or a wee bit clachan, ye can aye turn an honest penny by singin' a sang. I mind ye tellin' me Mary was a bonnie singer. Belike ye min' some o' the songs she sang--dootless weel-kent auld Scots sangs. If she were to hear ye singin' ane or ither o' them, mair than likely, oot o' curiosity, she would come oot to see wha it was that was singin' ane o' her ain sangs. If ye keep yer e'en open as weel as yer ears, wha kens but what ye may find her. Besides, the disguise o' a puir gangrel body is hardly likely to be seen through by ony dragoons ye may come across, for ye can aye, if ye like, if ye imagine there are troopers aboot, sing a King's song, sic as 'Awa, Whigs, awa!' and they'll never suspect ye o' bein' a Covenanter. And dinna forget this; if ye ever want word o' Hector the packman, ask at Phemie McBride's. She'll no hae forgotten ye, and she'll aye be able to tell ye where ye'll find me. If ye will gang, gang ye must; but ae last word o' advice I would gi'e ye--dinna be runnin' yersel' into needless danger and aye remember that a guid ash stick laid on tae the heid o' a trooper will mony a time thwart an evil deed devised in his black he'rt. There's nae ither man I would dae it for, but I'm makin' ye a present o' 'Trusty,'" and he pressed his own stick into my hand.
So, just as the darkness had closed in, one January night I set out. Hector and the minister accompanied me to the edge of the wood and, with many good wishes and the blessing of the saintly man still ringing in my ears, I took the road. Before morning broke I was close to Lincluden Abbey, and, under the shelter of its hoary walls, I lay down and rested for a while. I slept till the late afternoon and, having refreshed myself with food, which I procured from a cottage near, I took the road again in the twilight and, avoiding the town of Dumfries that lay on the other side of the river, I made for the heart of Galloway.
Day after day I wandered--hither and thither--not blindly, but of set purpose. Sometimes I travelled upon the high road, and at other times I would leave it and take to the less frequented by-paths in order that no little sequestered cottage might escape me. Here, there and everywhere I sought--one day close down by the sea, the next far back in the solitary places of the hills, questing--questing--questing--but ever without avail. Sometimes, when in a village street I would essay to sing one of the sweet old songs which I had heard so often fall golden from the lips of her I loved, memories of happier days would surge over me, and for very pain my voice would falter and I would cease to sing.