Morton, overwhelmed with a complication of feelings, was totally indifferent to the various arrangements made for his secure custody, and even to the relief afforded him by his release from the fetters. He experienced that blank and waste of the heart which follows the hurricane of passion, and, no longer supported by the pride and conscious rectitude which dictated his answers to Claverhouse, he surveyed with deep dejection the glades through which he travelled, each turning of which had something to remind him of past happiness and disappointed love. The eminence which they now ascended was that from which he used first and last to behold the ancient tower when approaching or retiring from it; and, it is needless to add, that there he was wont to pause, and gaze with a lover’s delight on the battlements, which, rising at a distance out of the lofty wood, indicated the dwelling of her, whom he either hoped soon to meet or had recently parted from. Instinctively he turned his head back to take a last look of a scene formerly so dear to him, and no less instinctively he heaved a deep sigh. It was echoed by a loud groan from his companion in misfortune, whose eyes, moved, perchance, by similar reflections, had taken the same direction. This indication of sympathy, on the part of the captive, was uttered in a tone more coarse than sentimental; it was, however, the expression of a grieved spirit, and so far corresponded with the sigh of Morton. In turning their heads their eyes met, and Morton recognised the stolid countenance of Cuddie Headrigg, bearing a rueful expression, in which sorrow for his own lot was mixed with sympathy for the situation of his companion. “Hegh, sirs!” was the expression of the ci-devant ploughman of the mains of Tillietudlem; “it’s an unco thing that decent folk should be harled through the country this gate, as if they were a warld’s wonder.” “I am sorry to see you here, Cuddie,” said Morton, who, even in his own distress, did not lose feeling for that of others. “And sae am I, Mr Henry,” answered Cuddie, “baith for mysell and you; but neither of our sorrows will do muckle gude that I can see. To be sure, for me,” continued the captive agriculturist, relieving his heart by talking, though he well knew it was to little purpose,--“to be sure, for my part, I hae nae right to be here ava’, for I never did nor said a word against either king or curate; but my mither, puir body, couldna haud the auld tongue o’ her, and we maun baith pay for’t, it’s like.” “Your mother is their prisoner likewise?” said Morton, hardly knowing what he said.