In the meantime, Mr. George Balfour, younger of Gilston, escaped from his durance, and, without saying to any one in what direction he meant to retreat, escaped by Kenley Glen, from the old barn of Kinaldy. That he went on board a ship at Elie, and immediately got off to the Continent, was afterwards fully ascertained.
In the meantime, the poor family of Andrew Watson suffered most severely. They were dragged up to the Sheriff-court at Cupar, and, being examined on oath, were compelled to admit the concealment of Mr. George Balfour; they pled, as was true, their ignorance of the precise crime of which he had been guilty; for, although they might suspect the nature of the crime from what the girl had witnessed, and Mr. George himself had expressed, yet, no name had been mentioned by either party, and the accused was entitled to plead the benefit of ignorance on the main point. No matter; their goods were distrained by orders of the infamous Carmichael, and they themselves turned adrift as outlaws, to seek for shelter with the beasts of the field. Such doings in those days were not uncommon, and scarcely dared any one to express disapprobation, for fear of involving themselves in the same fate.
Houseless and homeless did Andrew Watson, his wife, and six children—of whom Peggy, already mentioned, was the eldest—take their way on the 15th day of May (old style), across the moors of Fife, towards Auchtermuchty, where an uncle of Andrew’s kept a small public house, and dealt a little in horse flesh. This uncle was a great favourite of Carmichael’s, and one of the most active informers against the non-conformists, and, in particular, against the murderers of the Archbishop. All this was known to Andrew; but what was to be done; he did not know where to turn himself; and, in the extremity of his condition, was, in a manner, compelled to seek for refuge where he had never hitherto placed any confidence. Wearied and worn out, the whole family arrived at Norman Watson’s about sunset, and found his wife at home, but not himself. Their piteous tale was told, and temporary sustenance rather grudgingly afforded, when Norman arrived himself—his face dreadfully flushed with drink and rage, and in words and with acts anything but friendly—he insisted upon their immediately leaving his threshold. His wife, though somewhat inclined to mercy and hospitality, was manifestly the slave of her husband’s temper, and she offered no resistance.
“O man!” exclaimed Andrew Watson, whilst he gathered up his weary limbs, and beckoned to his wife to nurse her child ere they departed—“O Norman, but ye are a hard-hearted man, and totally destitute of natural feelings! But the Lord will provide, in his own good way, for me and mine; whilst you, wha persecuted his chosen flock, shall be reduced, ay, to want and beggary.” This last expression touched old Norman even to frenzy; and he even lifted up the handle of a horse whip, which he had in his hand, to strike down his nephew with.
“Come on, man!—come on!” said Andrew. “Strike down and murder your brothers bairn, and send her there husbandless and them there fatherless, into the woods of Falkland; but ye canna strike down the uplifted arm of Him who now sees you, and who one day will reward the sinner according to his deeds. But shall e’en mak ye free of us.” And thus saying, he left the house, followed by a sobbing wife, and five weeping and screaming children. They wandered forth, in the dusk of a beautiful evening, into the woods of Falkland, and, sitting down under the shelter of a large oak tree, Andrew Watson proceeded to give out from memory, the 121st Psalm, which was sung by the whole family, with the exception of the child at the breast. It is impossible to conceive a more appropriate exercise in such a locality than this. The twin Lomonts rose to a considerable height above them. The moon had just taken possession of the southern sky, and looked mildly and benevolently down upon their sylvan resting-place. The sun had set in glory, and his beams yet lingered on the nor’-western sky. The air was warm, and the grass was dry, soft, and matted—the “tenaci gramine” of Horace. Before proceeding to conclude with prayer, and in consideration that they would not see to read a chapter from the small pocket Bible which had been spared to them, Andrew gave the following commentary on the psalm which had just been sung:—
‘I to the hills will lift mine eyes,’
Yes, there they lift their heads before us, the beautiful work of God—the twin Lomonts of His own creation!
‘From whence doth come mine aid.’
“O Lord of Hosts! do thou descend here as thou didst on Sinai and Horeb, and aid thy poor, wandering, houseless servants; for the aid and protection of man I have not; and unless thou leavest thy heavens and comest down, I and the wife of my bosom, and my poor little ones, must perish.”