Shortly after midnight upon the Monday following that sad Sabbath day, Watty McBean rose up out of his bed, so quietly as not to disturb Betty asleep in the ben-end, and, hastily putting on his clothes, stole out of doors. The harvest moon was at its full, and a light almost as clear as day lay upon the silent earth. The moonlight was very favourable for Watty’s purpose, and his face wore a well-pleased expression as he entered the stable where his faithful nag was peacefully asleep. She looked round whinnying at her master’s step, but he paid no heed to her. Striking a light, he took from an empty stall which he used as a tool-house a pick and shovel. These he hoisted on his shoulder, and, leaving the stable, stole swiftly up the village street. As he passed Mistress Lyall’s he shook his doubled fist at the darkened windows, for in that house several of the dragoons were stationed, under command not to leave the place until they had captured the notorious rebels, who were known to be in hiding in the neighbourhood; also certain words fell from his lips which were scarcely in keeping with his profession as a Christian, or with his old occupation of bell-ringer and minister’s man in the parish. Once clear of the village, Watty somewhat slackened his pace, and leisurely ascended the manse brae to the churchyard. On this gentle eminence the air was scarcely so still, for a light breeze stirred the yellow leaves on the birks of Inverburn, and sighed with a mournful cadence through the long grasses waving above the last resting-place of the dead. Passing the manse gate Watty again shook his fist and applied a very expressive epithet to its unconscious inmate, which would have roused the ire of the Reverend Duncan McLean had he heard it. But he was enjoying his well-earned repose, for he had been very zealous for several days in assisting to ferret out rebellious insurgents. Watty entered the churchyard and stepped lightly over the turf to the green enclosure where slept so many of those who had first seen the light in the manse of Inverburn. Laying down his implements, Watty paused a moment by the double head-stone and wiped his eyes, as he read the name of Gray, so oft repeated--husband and wife, parent and child, one after the other--until certain newly-chiselled words recorded that here also slept-- "AGNES GUTHRIE GRAY, THE DEAR WIFE OF ADAM HEPBURN, OF ROWALLAN, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE UNTIMEOUSLY, IN THE FLOWER OF HER AGE, BEING SHOT BY DRAGOONS AT HER OWN DOOR, ON THE NINTH DAY OF MARCH, SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE, LEAVING HER SORROWING HUSBAND DESOLATE UPON THE FACE OF THE EARTH."