Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing TimesMacKenna, Robert William
History
Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times
MacKenna, Robert William
Adventure stories; Covenanters -- Scotland -- Fiction; Love stories; Scotland -- History -- 17th century -- Fiction
"Unhand me," I cried. "What right have you to interfere with a loyal
subject, engaged on his lawful occasions?"
"Hear tae him, Sandy," said my captor. "He talks like a mangy lawyer.
’Lawful occasions!’ We’ll see aboot that. What are ye daein’ here?"
Eager to satisfy the man, and in the hope that by doing so I should be
permitted to continue on my way, I answered:
"I am a traveller on my way to Dumfries--I have been caught in the
storm, and sought shelter and refreshment in this house"--and I tried to
wrench myself from his grasp.
"A gey thin tale. Whit think ye, Sandy? As like as no’ he’s a
Covenanter." And Sandy grunted "Umphm."
Again I tried to shake myself free--but the giant flung his arms about
me, and lifting me up, struggle how I might, as though I had been a
child he carried me back into the kitchen and thrust me roughly on a
chair.
The woman of the house looked on open-eyed.
"Whit ken ye o’ this man?" said the trooper, turning towards her, but
all the while keeping a firm hold of me.
"Naething mair than yersel," she answered. "He cam’ tae the door a
bittock syne, and asked for something tae eat--and he peyed his lawin’
like a gentleman."
"Umphm," growled my tormentor; and Sandy standing beside him answered
"Umphm."
"Bring us something tae drink, Mirren, Solway waters if ye hae them.
We’re fair drookit," said my captor. "As for you," he said, tightening
his grip on my arm, "we’ll ha’e to look into your case. Sandy--fetch a
tow."
Sandy followed the woman into another room, and in a moment returned
with a rope in his hand.
"What does this mean?" I shouted. "You have no right to interfere with
me--and when I reach Moffat I shall lodge a complaint with the Officer
Commanding."
"Shut yer jaw," bellowed the giant, and shook his fist at me.
I sprang up--my clenched left fist smashed into his face, and the blood
streamed from him--but still he held me.
Sandy sprang to his aid, and though I struggled like one possessed I was
quickly overpowered, flung roughly on the chair and bound there. The
rope that surrounded me, and held my arms close to my sides, was drawn
so tightly that I could hardly breathe. They ran it round the back of
the chair and under the legs shackling each ankle. I was helpless. As
he bound me the giant cursed me soundly, pausing only to spit blood from
his foul mouth.
"Ye blasted hound! Ye’re no’ what ye pretend. We’ll mak’ ye talk in a
wee. Eh, Sandy?" And Sandy, binding my ankles, answered "Umphm."
When I was tied securely they stood away from me and surveyed their
handiwork.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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