nt of the day on the last evening of his
life. When first he looked the green plain was flooded with gentle
light which turned into gold the brown, shaggy Highland cattle
scattered among the grass, and made the river as it flashed out and
in among the trees a chain of silver, and took the hardness from the
jagged rocks that emerged from the sides of the hills. As the sun
entered in between high banks of cloud, the light began to fade from
the plain, and it touched the river no more; but above the clouds were
glowing and reddening like a celestial army clad in scarlet and
escorting home to his palace a victorious general. In a few
minutes the sun has disappeared, and the red changes into violet
and delicate, indescribable shades of green and blue, like the
color of Nile water. Then there is a faint flicker, sudden and
transient, from the city into which the sun has gone, and the day is
over. As the monarch of the day withdraws, the queen of the night
takes possession, and Claverhouse, leaning his chin upon his hand
and gazing from the sadness of his eyes across the valley, saw the
silver light, clear, beautiful, awful, flood the mountains and the
level ground below, till the outstanding hills above, and the
cattle which had lain down to rest in the meadow, were thrown out as
in an etching, with exact and distinct outlines. The day, with
its morning promise, with its noontide heat, with its evening glory,
was closed, completed and irrevocable. The night, in which no man can
work, had come, and in the cold and merciless light thereof every
man's work was revealed and judged. The weird influence of the
hour was upon the imagination of an impressionable man, and before
him he saw the history of his life. It seemed only a year or so
since he was a gay-hearted lad upon the Sidlaw hills, and yesterday
since he made his first adventure in arms, with the army of France.
Again he is sitting by the camp-fire in the Low Country, and crossing
swords for the first time with Hugh MacKay, with whom he is to
settle his warfare to-morrow. He is again pledging his loyalty to
King James at Whitehall, whom he has done his best to serve, and who
has been but a sorry master to him. His thoughts turn once more to the
pleasaunce of Paisley Castle, he hears again the jingling of the
horses' bits as he pledges his troth to his bride. Across the
moss-hags, where the horses plunge in the ooze and the mist encircles
the troopers, he is hunting his Co