At this period there dwelt in Coldingham a widow, named Madge Gordon. She was a tall and powerful woman, and her years might be a little below fifty. Daily she indulged in invectives against the English, and spoke contemptuously of the spirit of her countrymen in submitting to the mandate of the governor of Fast Castle. She had two cows and more than a score of poultry; but she declared that she would spill the milk of the one upon the ground every day, and throw the eggs of the other over the cliffs, rather than that either the one or the other should be taken through the gates of the castle while an English garrison held it.
Often, therefore, as Madge beheld her neighbours carrying their baskets on their arms, their creels or sacks upon their backs, or driving their horses, laden with provisions, towards the castle, her wrath would rise against them, and she was wont to exclaim—
“O ye slaves!—ye base loun-hearted beasts o’ burden! hoo lang will ye boo before the hand that strikes ye, or kiss the foot that tramples on ye? Throw doun the provisions, and gang hame and bring what they better deserve; for, if ye will gie them bread, feed them on the point o’ yer faithers’ spears.”
Some laughed as Madge spoke; but her words sank deep into the hearts of others; and a few answered—
“Ye are as daft as ever, Madge; but a haveral woman’s tongue is nae scandal, and ye ken that the governor winna tak cognizance o’ ye.”
“Me ken or care for him, ye spiritless coofs, ye!” she replied; “gae tell him that Madge Gordon defies him and a’ his men, as she despises you, and wad shake the dirt frae her shoon at baith the ane and the other o’ ye. Shame fa’ ye, ye degenerate, mongrel race! for, if ye had ae drap o’ the bluid o’ the men in yer veins wha bled wi’ Wallace and wi’ Bruce, before the sun gaed doun, the flag o’ bonny Scotland wad wave frae the castle towers.”
“Mother! mother!” said an interesting-looking girl of nineteen, who had come to the door as the voice of Madge waxed louder and more bitter—“dinna talk foolishly—ye will bring us a’ into trouble.”
“Trouble! ye silly lassie, ye!” rejoined Madge; “these are times indeed to talk o’ the like o’ us being brought into trouble, when our puir bluiding country is groaning beneath the yoke o’ an enemy, and we see them harrying us not only oot o’ hoose and ha’, but even those that should be our protectors oot o’ their manhood! See,” added she, “do ye see wha yon is, skulking as far as he can get frae our door wi’ the weel-filled sack upon his shouthers? It is yer ain dearie, Florence Wilson! O the betrayer o’ his country!—He’s a coward, Janet, like the rest o’ them, and shall ne’er ca’ ye his wife while I live to ca’ ye daughter.”
“O mother!” added the maiden, in a low and agitated voice—“what could poor Florence do? It isna wi’ a man body as it is wi’ the like o’ us. If he didna do as the lave do, he wad be informed against, and he maun obey or die!”
“Let him die, then, as a man, as a Scotchman!” said the stern guidwife of Coldingham.