horseback and bound
together.

"Fire the place," he added. "If there are people in it anywhere, that
will bring them out."

"Oh dear!" gasped Peter, "the hidy--"

"Wheesht, bairn," said Black in a low voice. "They're safe enough. The
fire'll no' touch them, an' besides, they're in the Lord's hands."

A few minutes more and the whole farm-steading was in flames. The
dragoons watched the work of destruction until the roof of the cottage
fell in; then, mounting their horses, they descended to the road with
the two prisoners and turned their faces in the direction of Edinburgh.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

MORE THAN ONE NARROW ESCAPE.

One day, about a week after the burning of Black's farm, a select
dinner-party of red-hot rebels--as Government would have styled them;
persecuted people as they called themselves--assembled in Mrs. Black's
little room in Candlemaker Row. Their looks showed that their meeting
was not for the purpose of enjoyment. The party consisted of Mrs.
Black, Mrs. Wallace, who had reached Edinburgh in company with her
brother David Spence, Jean Black, Will Wallace, Quentin Dick, and Jock
Bruce the blacksmith.

"But I canna understand, lassie," said Mrs. Black to Jean, "hoo ye
werena a' roasted alive i' the hidy-hole, or suffocated at the best; an'
hoo did ye ever get oot wi' the ruckle o' burning rafters abune ye?"

"It was easy enough," answered the girl, "for Uncle Andry made the roof
o' the place uncommon thick, an' there's a short tunnel leadin' to some
bushes by the burn that let us oot at a place that canna be seen frae
the hoose. But oh, granny, dinna ask me to speak aboot thae things, for
they may be torturin' Uncle Andry at this vera moment. Are you sure it
was him ye saw?" she added, turning to Bruce.

"Quite sure," replied the smith. "I chanced to be passing the Tolbooth
at the moment the door opened. A party of the City Guard suddenly came
out with Black in the midst, and led him up the High Street."

"I'm _sure_ they'll torture him," said the poor girl, while the tears
began to flow at the dreadful thought. "They stick at naethin' now."

"I think," said Will Wallace, in a tone that was meant to be comforting,
"that your uncle may escape the torture, for the Archbishop does not
preside at the Council to-day. I hear that he has gone off suddenly to
Saint Andrews."

"That won't serve your uncle much," remarked Bruce sternly, "for some of
the other bishops are nigh as bad as Sha