effectually dispersed them, the Presbyterian peasantry of the east actually inflicting as much suffering upon their poor scattered brethren of the west, as did the cruel victorious army, during the early days of the flight.

But the failure of hope, and a day's defeat, were by no means the worst consequences of this forlorn expedition. "The result of the affair was to strengthen the hands of the Government . . . . . It had been peace, and was now war, which gave a large increase to the license of their conduct. They could plead that they were in an enemy's country, where the distinction between those in arms and those peaceably disposed was too nice to be drawn by a rough soldier."

And it was not only "rough soldiers" who claimed the awful license to act with extra and most barbarous cruelty, for Courts, where calmness and reason are supposed to reign supreme, made themselves infamous by the scenes enacted in them in those days; counsel and judges made their names synonymous with injustice instead of justice, by their perversion of truth, brow-beating of witnesses, and the frequent condemnation of them for their extorted testimony.

"The trials that followed the affair of Pentland Hills were the first to become infamous by the free use of torture. The question of torture had been. in use both in England and Scotland, but in both countries it was very odious. Two instruments were

chiefly in use in Scotland. One was the boot, an iron cylinder in which the leg was placed, the infliction.

being by the hammering in of wooden wedges to the required point of injury and suffering. The other instrument was the thumbkin, which held the thumb tight while thin screws were run into the joint; an ingenious device for producing the greatest amount of suffering with the smallest instrument and the least labour."

Besides what was done to the poor victims, if they were brought prisoners to the bar of the Court of Justiciary, the Scots Estates took to trying and convicting those who were not present to defend themselves; and then, when any of these condemned individuals were afterwards caught by any of their enemies, they were shot down, there and then, without mercy or deliberation.

Those who had compassionately harboured them or in any way ministered to their wants, were often treated in the same way, and if they were not actually killed, their homes and farms were pillaged to such a degree, by way of fine, that they were reduced to the verge of ruin. Frequently they were so utterly beggared that death from starvation ensued, if they were not able to meet with others who, in their turn, were willing to incur these tremendous risks for succouring them.

And so, having thus briefly made you acquainted with the state of affairs, as affecting the Covenanters in general, you will better understand the position when we now turn to see how they affected the characters of our tale in particular.

N

CHAPTER XXV.

MARY BLAIR LEAVES TOO SOON.

O, my dear lady, no.

no commands upon

I beseech you lay

me to remain. At

any hour he may return home, and cruelly hard it would seem to him if I were not there to comfort him."

It was Mary Blair who spoke. Not five minutes since she had presented herself at the McCalls' cottage with a worn face, and questioning eyes, which had well-nigh pierced every nook and corner of the place before she had time to enter it. The search was fruitless. Her knees failed her, and she almost fell against the door-post for support.

"Oh!

Mistress McCall hastened forward to her help, but the woman looked past her to her son. Maister Ivie, dear, have ye seen William? William ?"

My

The very heart of love was in that "My," as it came forth with a low, imploring wail from the trembling lips.

Two or three weeks had passed since that evening rout of Pentland Hills, and nothing had been heard of William Blair by his poor wife. She now learnt that the McCalls also were equally ignorant of his fate.

"Have none of the party who have escaped been merciful enough to bring you any news?" asked Kate McCall, half in wonder, half in indignation.

But the indignation was not merited. Several had been to visit the lonely wife, amongst others James MacMichael, with a double shadow of gloom upon his brow; and they had given her much information, only none about her husband.

"MacMichael says that he is sure he was na' o' the twenty or so 'at were hangit in Edinbro', and that is all 'at he can tell me. I thocht maybe when he did na' coom hame that he wad ha' sheltered here.

Mistress McCall shook her head sadly. "Nay, Mary, you know that William will not enter any more beneath my roof."

Mary Blair turned her face, gazing away over the winter-desolated moor. "A mon may do much 'at is na sin, when he is fleeing for 's life frae his enemies. But sin' he is na here, maybe he will be wending hame at last, and so I'll e'en say good-day, and gang my ain ways thither too."

The lady put up her gentle hand, drawing the woman's weary face round towards her again. "Puir thing!" she said tenderly. "Ye are e'en tired now, and there is a wild storm blowing up. It has

been threatening since yesterday. You must e'en let me put you into my bed for a long rest, and tomorrow you shall return, if the roads permit."

Then came the cry with which this chapter opens, and as though she really feared that such physical or moral force might actually be exerted as should prevent her escape, if she delayed her departure any longer, she had scarcely pronounced her pitiful words "if I were not there to comfort him," than she fled away back towards the distant Blair's Farm with a swiftness that might have almost defied even Ivie McCall's fleet-footedness to catch her.

An hour later both he and his mother heartily wished that he had made the attempt, and had successfully employed the powers of persuasion which the poor wife feared, for the brooding storm suddenly burst over the country with wind and snow, and a darkness that made such a walk as lay before her doubly dangerous.

"If only Mary had come back to us," murmured Mistress McCall, as she sat with hands forced to idleness by the early gloom.

Ivie stood with his face pressed against the thick, dull glass of the narrow casement, peering into the dense falling mass, so soft and fragile, and yet so resistless in its might. As his mother spoke he suddenly bent his head, with a more strained effort to pierce that moving veil. He stood thus, silent and motionless, for some moments, and then left the window to hasten to the door.