Gie ower your house, lady, he said —

Gie ower your house to me.

Edom of Gordon.

Morton had finished the revisal and the making out of a fair copy of the paper on which he and Poundtext had agreed to rest as a full statement of the grievances of their party, and the conditions on which the greater part of the insurgents would be contented to lay down their arms; and he was about to betake himself to repose, when there was a knocking at the door of his apartment.

“Enter,” said Morton; and the round bullethead of Cuddie Headrigg was thrust into the room. “Come in,” said Morton, “and tell me what you want. Is there any alarm?”

“Na, stir; but I hae brought ane to speak wi’ you.”

“Who is that, Cuddie?” enquired Morton.

“Ane o’ your auld acquaintance,” said Cuddie; and, opening the door more fully, he half led, half dragged in a woman, whose face was muffled in her plaid. —“Come, come, ye needna be sae bashfu’ before auld acquaintance, Jenny,” said Cuddie, pulling down the veil, and discovering to his master the well-remembered countenance of Jenny Dennison. “Tell his honour, now — there’s a braw lass — tell him what ye were wanting to say to Lord Evandale, mistress.”

“What was I wanting to say,” answered Jenny, “to his honour himsell the other morning, when I visited him in captivity, ye muckle hash? — D’ye think that folk dinna want to see their friends in adversity, ye dour crowdy-eater?”

This reply was made with Jenny’s usual volubility; but her voice quivered, her cheek was thin and pale, the tears stood in her eyes, her hand trembled, her manner was fluttered, and her whole presence bore marks of recent suffering and privation, as well as nervous and hysterical agitation.

“What is the matter, Jenny?” said Morton, kindly. “You know how much I owe you in many respects, and can hardly make a request that I will not grant, if in my power.”

“Many thanks, Milnwood,” said the weeping damsel; “but ye were aye a kind gentleman, though folk say ye hae become sair changed now.”

“What do they say of me?” answered Morton.

“A’ body says,” replied Jenny, “that you and the whigs hae made a vow to ding King Charles aff the throne, and that neither he, nor his posteriors from generation to generation, shall sit upon it ony mair; and John Gudyill threeps ye’re to gie a’ the church organs to the pipers, and burn the Book o’ Common-prayer by the hands of the common hangman, in revenge of the Covenant that was burnt when the king cam hame.”

“My friends at Tillietudlem judge too hastily and too ill of me,” answered Morton. “I wish to have free exercise of my own religion, without insulting any other; and as to your family, I only desire an opportunity to show them I have the same friendship and kindness as ever.”

“Bless your kind heart for saying sae,” said Jenny, bursting into a flood of tears; “and they never needed kindness or friendship mair, for they are famished for lack o’ food.”

“Good God!” replied Morton, “I have heard of scarcity, but not of famine! It is possible? — Have the ladies and the Major”—

“They hae suffered like the lave o’ us,” replied Jenny; “for they shared every bit and sup wi’ the whole folk in the Castle — I’m sure my poor een see fifty colours wi’ faintness, and my head’s sae dizzy wi’ the mirligoes that I canna stand my lane.”

The thinness of the poor girl’s cheek, and the sharpness of her features, bore witness to the truth of what she said. Morton was greatly shocked.

“Sit down,” he said, “for God’s sake!” forcing her into the only chair the apartment afforded, while he himself strode up and down the room in horror and impatience. “I knew not of this,” he exclaimed in broken ejaculations — “I could not know of it. — Cold-blooded, iron-hearted fanatic — deceitful villain! — Cuddie, fetch refreshments — food — wine, if possible — whatever you can find.”

“Whisky is gude eneugh for her,” muttered Cuddie; “ane wadna hae thought that gude meal was sae scant amang them, when the quean threw sae muckle gude kail-brose scalding het about my lugs.”

Faint and miserable as Jenny seemed to be, she could not hear the allusion to her exploit during the storm of the Castle, without bursting into a laugh which weakness soon converted into a hysterical giggle. Confounded at her state, and reflecting with horror on the distress which must have been in the Castle, Morton repeated his commands to Headrigg in a peremptory manner; and when he had departed, endeavoured to soothe his visitor.

“You come, I suppose, by the orders of your mistress, to visit Lord Evandale? — Tell me what she desires; her orders shall be my law.”

Jenny appeared to reflect a moment, and then said, “Your honour is sae auld a friend, I must needs trust to you, and tell the truth.”

“Be assured, Jenny,” said Morton, observing that she hesitated, “that you will best serve your mistress by dealing sincerely with me.”

“Weel, then, ye maun ken we’re starving, as I said before, and have been mair days than ane; and the Major has sworn that he expects relief daily, and that he will not gie ower the house to the enemy till we have eaten up his auld boots — and they are unco thick in the soles, as ye may weel mind, forby being teugh in the upper-leather. The dragoons, again, they think they will be forced to gie up at last, and they canna bide hunger weel, after the life they led at free quarters for this while bypast; and since Lord Evandale’s taen, there’s nae guiding them; and Inglis says he’ll gie up the garrison to the whigs, and the Major and the leddies into the bargain, if they will but let the troopers gang free themsells.”

“Scoundrels!” said Morton; “why do they not make terms for all in the Castle?”

“They are fear’d for denial o’ quarter to themsells, having dune sae muckle mischief through the country; and Burley has hanged ane or twa o’ them already — sae they want to draw their ain necks out o’ the collar at hazard o’ honest folk’s.”

“And you were sent,” continued Morton, “to carry to Lord Evandale the unpleasant news of the men’s mutiny?”

“Just e’en sae,” said Jenny; “Tam Halliday took the rue, and tauld me a’ about it, and gat me out o’ the Castle to tell Lord Evandale, if possibly I could win at him.”

“But how can he help you?” said Morton; “he is a prisoner.”

“Well-a-day, ay,” answered the afflicted damsel; “but maybe he could mak fair terms for us — or, maybe, he could gie us some good advice — or, maybe, he might send his orders to the dragoons to be civil — or”—

“Or, maybe,” said Morton, “you were to try if it were possible to set him at liberty?”

“If it were sae,” answered Jenny with spirit, “it wadna be the first time I hae done my best to serve a friend in captivity.”

“True, Jenny,” replied Morton, “I were most ungrateful to forget it. But here comes Cuddie with refreshments — I will go and do your errand to Lord Evandale, while you take some food and wine.”

“It willna be amiss ye should ken,” said Cuddie to his master, “that this Jenny — this Mrs Dennison, was trying to cuittle favour wi’ Tam Rand, the miller’s man, to win into Lord Evandale’s room without ony body kennin’. She wasna thinking, the gipsy, that I was at her elbow.”

“And an unco fright ye gae me when ye cam ahint and took a grip o’ me,” said Jenny, giving him a sly twitch with her finger and her thumb —“if ye hadna been an auld acquaintance, ye daft gomeril”—

Cuddie, somewhat relenting, grinned a smile on his artful mistress, while Morton wrapped himself up in his cloak, took his sword under his arm, and went straight to the place of the young nobleman’s confinement. He asked the sentinels if any thing extraordinary had occurred.

“Nothing worth notice,” they said, “excepting the lass that Cuddie took up, and two couriers that Captain Balfour had dispatched, one to the Reverend Ephraim Macbriar, another to Kettledrummle,” both of whom were beating the drum ecclesiastic in different towns between the position of Burley and the head-quarters of the main army near Hamilton.

“The purpose, I presume,” said Morton, with an affectation of indifference, “was to call them hither.”

“So I understand,” answered the sentinel, who had spoke with the messengers.

He is summoning a triumphant majority of the council, thought Morton to himself, for the purpose of sanctioning whatever action of atrocity he may determine upon, and thwarting opposition by authority. I must be speedy, or I shall lose my opportunity.

When he entered the place of Lord Evandale’s confinement, he found him ironed, and reclining on a flock bed in the wretched garret of a miserable cottage. He was either in a slumber, or in deep meditation, when Morton entered, and turned on him, when aroused, a countenance so much reduced by loss of blood, want of sleep, and scarcity of food, that no one could have recognised in it the gallant soldier who had behaved with so much spirit at the skirmish of Loudon-hill. He displayed some surprise at the sudden entrance of Morton.

“I am sorry to see you thus, my lord,” said that youthful leader.

“I have heard you are an admirer of poetry,” answered the prisoner; “in that case, Mr Morton, you may remember these lines —

‘Stone walls do not a prison make,

Or iron bars a cage;

A free and quiet mind can take

These for a hermitage.’

But, were my imprisonment less endurable, I am given to expect tomorrow a total enfranchisement.”

“By death?” said Mort............