"My father," replied Morton, "was indeed a brave and gallant man. And you
may have heard, sir, that he fought for that royal family in whose name I
was this day carrying arms."

"Ay; and had he lived to see these days, he would have cursed the hour he
ever drew sword in their cause. But more of this hereafter--I promise
thee full surely that thy hour will come, and then the words thou hast
now heard will stick in thy bosom like barbed arrows. My road lies
there."

He pointed towards a pass leading up into a wild extent of dreary and
desolate hills; but as he was about to turn his horse's head into the
rugged path, which led from the high-road in that direction, an old woman
wrapped in a red cloak, who was sitting by the cross-way, arose, and
approaching him, said, in a mysterious tone of voice, "If ye be of our
ain folk, gangna up the pass the night for your lives. There is a lion in
the path, that is there. The curate of Brotherstane and ten soldiers hae
beset the pass, to hae the lives of ony of our puir wanderers that
venture that gate to join wi' Hamilton and Dingwall."

"Have the persecuted folk drawn to any head among themselves?" demanded
the stranger.

"About sixty or seventy horse and foot," said the old dame; "but, ewhow!
they are puirly armed, and warse fended wi' victual."

"God will help his own," said the horseman. "Which way shall I take to
join them?"

"It's a mere impossibility this night," said the woman, "the troopers
keep sae strict a guard; and they say there's strange news come frae the
east, that makes them rage in their cruelty mair fierce than ever--Ye
maun take shelter somegate for the night before ye get to the muirs, and
keep yoursell in hiding till the grey o' the morning, and then you may
find your way through the Drake Moss. When I heard the awfu' threatenings
o' the oppressors, I e'en took my cloak about me, and sate down by the
wayside, to warn ony of our puir scattered remnant that chanced to come
this gate, before they fell into the nets of the spoilers."

"Have you a house near this?" said the stranger; "and can you give me
hiding there?"

"I have," said the old woman, "a hut by the way-side, it may be a mile
from hence; but four men of Belial, called dragoons, are lodged therein,
to spoil my household goods at their pleasure, because I will not wait
upon the thowless, thriftless, fissenless ministry of that carnal man,
John Halftext, the curate."

"Good night, good woma