“It is still a mystery,” said the old man, yet pressing his hands before his eyes in agony; “but it is—it maun be him. It was Philip that saved us—that conducted us to the very spot where I found him! But, oh,” he added, “I wad rather I had died, than lived to ken that he has drawn his sword in the ranks o’ the oppressor, and to murder the followers after the truth.”
“Oh, dinna think that o’ him, father!” exclaimed Mary; “Philip wadna—he couldna draw his sword but to defend the helpless!”
Knowing that they had been pursued and sought after, they hastened their flight to England, to seek the refuge to which their deliverer had directed them. But as they drew near to the Borders, the Rev. Mr. Duncan suddenly exclaimed—“Now, here we must part—part for ever! It is not meet that I should follow ye farther. When the sheep are pursued by the wolves, the shepherd should not flee from them. Farewell, dear friends—and, oh! farewell to you, Mary! Had it been sinful to hae loved you, I would hae been a guilty man this day—for, oh! beyond a’ that is under the sun, ye hae been dear to my heart, and your remembrance has mingled wi’ my very devotions. But I maun root it up, though, in so doing, I tear my very heart-strings. Fareweel!—fareweel! Peace be wi’ you—and may ye be a’ happier than will ever be the earthly lot o’ Andrew Duncan!”
The tears fell upon Mary’s cheeks; for, though she could not love, she respected the preacher, and she esteemed him for his worth. Her father and brother entreated him to accompany them. “No! no!” he answered; “I see how this flight will end. Go—there is happiness in store for you; but my portion is with the dispersed and the persecuted.” And he turned and left them.
Lieutenant Mowbray was disgusted with the cold-blooded butchery of the service in which he was engaged; and, a few days after the escape of John Brydone and his son, he threw up his commission, and proceeded to Dumfriesshire. It was a Sabbath evening, and near nightfall; he had wandered into the fields alone, for his spirit was heavy. Sounds of rude laughter broke upon his ear; and, mingled with the sound of mirth, was a voice as if in earnest prayer. He hurried to a small wood from whence the sounds proceeded, and there he beheld four troopers, with their pistols in their hands, and before them was a man, who appeared to be a preacher, bound to a tree.
“Come, old Psalmody!” cried one of the troopers, raising his pistol, and addressing their intended victim, who was engaged in prayer; “make ready—we have other jobs on hand—and we gave you time to speak a prayer, but not to preach.”
Mowbray rushed forward. He sprang between the troopers and their victim. “Hold! ye murderers, hold!” he exclaimed. “Is it thus that ye disgrace the name of soldiers by washing your hands in the blood of the innocent?”
They knew Mowbray, and they muttered, “You are no officer of ours now; he is our prisoner, and our orders ere to shoot every conventicle knave who falls into our hands.”
“Shame on him who would give such orders!” said Mowbray; “and shame on those who would execute them! There,” added he, “there is money! I will ransom him.”
With an imprecation, they took the money that was offered them, and left their prisoner to Mowbray. He approached the tree where they had bound him—he started back—it was the Rev. Andrew Duncan!