probably there stands still, a little public-house at the bridge, and about half a mile from the manse of Castleton. Into this public-house the party betook themselves to refresh, whilst the curate of Castleton was sent for, to have an interview with Johnstone, to whom he was intimately known, and to whom he had often given private information respecting the poor HIDING people, who fled to the mountain and glen, and the moss and the cave, for life and for conscience-sake. This curate of Castleton was a somewhat singular personage in appearance. He gave one a pretty correct idea of Æsop. He was a little bandy-legged body, with a large aquiline nose, a hunched back, and a most sinister squint. His church, indeed, was deserted, unless by the family in the small change-house, and one or two farmers, who, for fear of suspicion and consequent spoliation, were in the habit of occasionally attending. He, like his neighbours of the curacy, had been imported, _ready made_, from Aberdeen, with all its strange dialect, and all its stranger leanings to oppression and Episcopacy. Just at the moment when Johnstone's messenger arrived at the manse, then situated high up the hill, upon the brink of a precipice, the curate was in private converse with a person who was giving him the important information, that a conventicle was this very evening to be held at the Dead-Water--a large mountain-moss, situated on the Borders, and giving rise to the river Tyne on the one side, and the Liddel on the other. This information having been obtained, the curate, commonly designated Clatterwallet, hastened away, in company with Johnstone's messenger, for the Brig change-house. An interview with Johnstone was immediately obtained; and, in a few minutes, orders were given to his men to hold themselves in readiness to march. Meanwhile, the prisoner, Watson, was put under the guardianship of a dragoon, and lodged in a small byre attached to the gavel of the dwelling-house. Several attempts were made by _seeming_ travellers, to get the soldier withdrawn from his station, but they proved ineffectual. Meantime, the night began to darken in, with a soft-falling snow shower, which rendered the ground all white around. Poor Gilbert Watson had said his prayers, sung the 121st Psalm, and was preparing to rest himself, with a cow and her calf for his companions, when he thought he heard a voice whispering to him from the roof of the thatched byre. It was indeed a voice, and a friendly one; for it said, "_Here! Here!_" A staff was thrust through a small aperture in the thatch. Gilbert moved towards the place, and heard, in whispers exceedingly low, that an opening in the roof was about to be made for his escape. Meanwhile, Gilbert kept constantly moving about, so that the watch at the door might be assured that he was still in his keeping. All at once, when a hole large enough had been made, Gilbert was pulled up by the arms and shoulders, and