Great Britain -- History -- 17th century -- Fiction; Historical fiction
My first thought was to turn back and give up the project. My second,
to go forward and find a way to cross the valley. Happily the foliage
was still there, the heath was still long, the grass was dense: a man
might succeed in crossing under cover.
With a beating heart I crawled through the heather to the rushes beside
a little stream. This I followed, slowly, painfully, down to the
valley, looking sharply at every bare spot, and running for dear life
when under cover of bank or brae. By and by I struck the road, and
raised myself for a look. All was quiet. There was no sign of any man
about, nothing but the beating of the rain and the ceaseless wind. It
was possible that they had gone down the vale, and were by this time out
of sight. Or maybe they had gone up the water on their way to the moors
of Clyde. Or still again they might have gone back to the house of
Quarter, which they doubtless loved better than the rainy out-of-doors.
In any case they were not there, and nothing hindered me from making a
bold sally across the open.
I rose and ran through the corn-field, cleaving my way amid the thick
stubble. The heavy moisture clung to my soaked clothes and the sweat
ran over my face and neck, but I held straight on till I gained the
drystone dyke at the other side and scrambled across it. Here I fell
into the stream and was soaked again, but the place was not deep and I
was soon through. Now I was direct beneath the house, but somewhat
under the cover of the trees; and still there was no sign of man and
beast. I began to think that after all my eyes had deceived me, and
taken nowt for dragoons. Such a trick was not impossible; I had found
it happen before at the winter’s shooting. With this pleasing hope I
straightened my back and ran more boldly up the planting’s side till I
gained the moorlands above. Here I paused for a second to enjoy my
success and look back upon the house.
Suddenly something cracked in the thicket, and a voice behind me cried,
"Stop. Gang another step and I fire." So the cup of safety was dashed
from my lips at the very moment of tasting it.
I did not obey, but dashed forward to the high moors with all my speed.
It was conceivable that the men were unmounted and their horses stabled,
in which case I might get something of a lead. If not, I should very
soon know by the clear convincing proof of a shot in my body.
My guess was right, and it was some little time ere I heard the cries of
pursuers behind me. I had made straight for the top of the ridge where
the ground was rough for horses, and I knew that they could not follow
me with any speed. I was aye a swift runner, having been made long and
thin in the shanks and somewhat deep-chested. I had often raced on the
lawn at Barns with my cousin for some trifling prize. Now I ran with him
again, but for the prize of my own life.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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