“Yes, please your Grace, a whig; as your Grace was in 1641,” replied Claverhouse, with his usual appearance of imperturbable civility.
“He has you there, I think, my Lord Duke,” said one of the Privy Councillors.
“Ay, ay,” returned the Duke, laughing, “there’s no speaking to him since Drumclog—but come, bring in the prisoners—and do you, Mr Clerk, read the record.”
The clerk read forth a bond, in which General Grahame of Claverhouse and Lord Evandale entered themselves securities, that Henry Morton, younger of Milnwood, should go abroad and remain in foreign parts, until his Majesty’s pleasure was further known, in respect of the said Henry Morton’s accession to the late rebellion, and that under penalty of life and limb to the said Henry Morton, and of ten thousand marks to each of his securities.
“Do you accept of the King’s mercy upon these terms, Mr Morton?” said the Duke of Lauderdale, who presided in the Council.
“I have no other choice, my lord,” replied Morton.
“Then subscribe your name in the record.”
Morton did so without reply, conscious that, in the circumstances of his case, it was impossible for him to have escaped more easily. Macbriar, who was at the same instant brought to the foot of the council-table, bound upon a chair, for his weakness prevented him from standing, beheld Morton in the act of what he accounted apostasy.
“He hath summed his defection by owning the carnal power of the tyrant!” he exclaimed, with a deep groan—“A fallen star!—a fallen star!”
“Hold your peace, sir,” said the Duke, “and keep your ain breath to cool your ain porridge—ye’ll find them scalding hot, I promise you.—Call in the other fellow, who has some common sense. One sheep will leap the ditch when another goes first.”