“Silence!” exclaimed Claverhouse. “Away with them!” he added, waving his hand to his troopers—“shoot them before sunrise!”
Shortly after the prisoners had been conveyed from the presence of Claverhouse, Lieutenant Mowbray withdrew; and having sent for the soldier who had interfered on behalf of Mary—“Macdonald,” he began, “you were present yesterday when the prisoners, who are to die to-morrow, were taken. Where did you find them?”
“In the old man’s house,” replied the soldier; and he related all that he had seen, and how he had interfered to save the daughter. The heart of the officer was touched, and he walked across his room, as one whose spirit was troubled. “You did well, Macdonald!” said he, at length—“you did well!” He was again silent, and again he added—“And you found the preacher in the old man’s house—you found him there!” There was an anxious wildness in the tone of the lieutenant.
“We found him there,” replied the soldier.
The officer was again silent—again he thoughtfully paced across the floor of his apartment. At length, turning to the soldier, he added—“I can trust you, Macdonald. When night has set in, take your horse and ride to the house of the elder prisoner, and tell his daughter—the maiden whom you saved—to have horses in readiness for her father, her brother, and—and her—her husband!” said the lieutenant, faltering as he spoke; and when he had pronounced the word husband, he again paused, as though his heart were full. The soldier was retiring—“Stay,” added the officer, “tell her, her father, her brother, and—the preacher, shall not die; before daybreak she shall see them again; and give her this ring as a token that ye speak truly.”
He took a ring from his finger, and gave it into the hands of the soldier.
It was drawing towards midnight. The troops of Claverhouse were quartered around the country, and his three prisoners, still bound to each other, were confined in a small farm-house, from which the inhabitants had been expelled. They could hear the heavy and measured tread of the sentinel pacing backward and forward in front of the house; the sound of his footsteps seemed to measure out the moments between them and eternity. After they had sung a psalm and prayed together—“I am auld,” said John Brydone, “and I fear not to die, but rather glory to lay down my life for the great cause; but, oh, Daniel! my heart yearns that yer bluid also should be shed—had they only spared ye, to hae been a protector to our puir Mary!—or had I no driven Philip frae the house”——
“Mention not the name of the cast-away,” said the minister.
“Dinna mourn, faither,” answered Daniel, “an arm mair powerful than that of man will be her supporter and protector.”
“Amen!” responded Mr. Duncan. “She has aye been cauld to me, and has turned the ear o’ the deaf adder to the voice o’ my affection; but even noo, when my thochts should be elsewhere, the thocht o’ her burns in my heart like a coal.”