r or place of publication.

The reader may perhaps receive some farther information on the
subject of Cornet Grahame's death and the flight of Claverhouse,
from the following Latin lines, a part of a poem entitled, Bellum
Bothuellianum, by Andrew Guild, which exists in manuscript in the
Advocates' Library.]

A few officers and soldiers followed him, but in a very irregular and
tumultuary manner. The flight of Claverhouse was the signal for all the
stragglers, who yet offered desultory resistance, to fly as fast as they
could, and yield up the field of battle to the victorious insurgents.

CHAPTER XVII.

But see! through the fast-flashing lightnings of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
Campbell.

During the severe skirmish of which we have given the details, Morton,
together with Cuddie and his mother, and the Reverend Gabriel
Kettledrummle, remained on the brow of the hill, near to the small cairn,
or barrow, beside which Claverhouse had held his preliminary council of
war, so that they had a commanding view of the action which took place in
the bottom. They were guarded by Corporal Inglis and four soldiers, who,
as may readily be supposed, were much more intent on watching the
fluctuating fortunes of the battle, than in attending to what passed
among their prisoners.

"If you lads stand to their tackle," said Cuddie, "we'll hae some chance
o' getting our necks out o' the brecham again; but I misdoubt them--they
hae little skeel o' arms."

"Much is not necessary, Cuddie," answered Morton; "they have a strong
position, and weapons in their hands, and are more than three times the
number of their assailants. If they cannot fight for their freedom now,
they and theirs deserve to lose it for ever."

"O, sirs," exclaimed Mause, "here's a goodly spectacle indeed! My spirit
is like that of the blessed Elihu, it burns within me--my bowels are as
wine which lacketh vent--they are ready to burst like new bottles. O,
that He may look after His ain people in this day of judgment and
deliverance!--And now, what ailest thou, precious Mr Gabriel
Kettledrummle? I say, what ailest thou, that wert a Nazarite purer than
snow, whiter than milk, more ruddy than sulphur," (meaning, perhaps,
sapphires,)--"I say, what ails thee now, that thou art blacker than a
coal, that thy beauty is departed, and thy loveliness