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[Illustration: Lady Dundee lifted up the child for him to kiss.
Pages 261-2.]

Graham of Claverhouse



Author of

_"Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush,"_
_"Kate Carnegie," "Young Barbarians,"_
_"A Doctor of the Old School,"_
_Etc., Etc._

Illustrated in Water-Colors by FRANK T. MERRILL

Copyright, 1907, by John Watson

The Sale of this book in New York and Philadelphia
is confined to the stores of



_Entered at Stationers' Hall._
_All rights reserved._

Composition and Electrotyping by
J. J. Little & Co.
Printing and binding by
The Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass., U. S. A.


I.--By the Camp Fire 11
II.--The Battle of Sineffe 31
III.--A Decisive Blow 53
IV.--A Change of Masters 72


I.--A Covenanting House 93
II.--The Coming of the Amalekite 114
III.--Between Mother and Lover 133
IV.--Thy People Shall Be My People, Thy God My God 155


I.--One Fearless Man 175
II.--The Crisis 194
III.--The Last Blow 216
IV.--Thou Also False 237


I.--Treason in the Camp 263
II.--Visions of the Night 284
III.--Faithful Unto Death 303






That afternoon a strange thing had happened to the camp of the Prince
of Orange, which was pitched near Nivelle in Brabant, for the Prince
was then challenging Condé, who stuck behind his trenches at Charleroi
and would not come out to fight. A dusty-colored cloud came racing
along the sky so swiftly--yet there was no wind to be felt--that it
was above the camp almost as soon as it was seen. When the fringes of
the cloud encompassed the place, there burst forth as from its belly a
whirlwind and wrought sudden devastation in a fashion none had ever
seen before or could afterwards forget. With one long and fierce gust
it tore up trees by the roots, unroofed the barns where the Prince's
headquarters were, sucked up tents into the air, and carried soldiers'
caps in flocks, as if they were flocks of rooks. This commotion went
on for half an hour, then ceased as instantly as it began; there was
calm again and the evening ended in peace, while the cloud of fury
went on its way into the west, and afterwards we heard that a very
grand and strong church at Utrecht had suffered greatly. As the camp
was in vast disorder, both officers and men bivouacked in the open
that night, and as it was inclined to chill in those autumn evenings,
fires had been lit not only for the cooking of food, but for the
comfort of their heat. Round one fire a group of English gentlemen had
gathered, who had joined the Prince's forces, partly because, like
other men of their breed, they had an insatiable love of fighting, and
partly to push their fortunes, for Englishmen in those days, and still
more Scotsmen were willing to serve on any side where the pay and the
risks together were certain, and under any commander who was a man of
his head and hands. Europe swarmed with soldiers of fortune from Great
Britain, hard bitten and fearless men, some of whom fell far from
home, and were buried in unknown graves, others of whom returned to
take their share in any fighting that turned up in their own country.
So it came to pass that many of our Islanders had fought impartially
with equal courage and interest for the French and against them, like
those two Scots who met for the first time at the camp-fire that
night, and whose fortunes were to the end of the chapter to be so
curiously intertwined. There was Collier, who afterwards became My
Lord Patmore; Rooke, who rose to be a major-general in the English
army; Hales, for many years Governor of Chelsea Hospital; Venner, the
son of one of Cromwell's soldiers, who had strange notions about a
fifth monarchy which was to be held by our Lord himself, but who was a
good fighting man; and some others who came to nothing and left no
mark. Two young Scots gentlemen were among the Englishmen, who were to
have a share in making history in their own country, and both to die
as generals upon the battle-field, the death they chiefly loved. Both
men were to suffer more than falls to the ordinary lot, and the life
of one, some part of whose story is here to be told, was nothing else
but tragedy. For the gods had bestowed upon him quick gifts of mind
and matchless beauty of face, and yet he was to be hated by his
nation, till his name has become a byword, and to be betrayed by his
own friends who were cowards or self-seekers, and to find even love,
like a sword, pierce his heart.

Scotland contains within it two races, and partly because their blood
is different and partly because the one race has lived in the open and
fertile Lowlands, and the other in the wild and shadowy Highlands, the
Celt of the North and the Scot of the south are well-nigh as distant
from each other as the east from the west. But among the Celts there
were two kinds in that time, and even unto this day the distinction
can be found by those who look for it. There was the eager and fiery
Celt who was guided by his passions rather than by prudence, who
struck first and reasoned afterwards, who was the victim of varying
moods and the child of hopeless causes. He was usually a Catholic in
faith, so far as he had any religion, and devoted to the Stuart
dynasty, so far as he had any policy apart from his chief. There was
also another sort of Celt, who was quiet and self-contained,
determined and persevering. Men of this type were usually Protestant
in their faith, and when the day of choice came they threw in their
lot with Hanover against Stuart. Hugh MacKay was the younger son of an
ancient Highland house of large possessions and much influence in the
distant North of Scotland; his people were suspicious of the Stuarts
because the kings of that ill-fated line were intoxicated with the
idea of divine right, and were ever clutching at absolute power; nor
had the MacKays any overwhelming and reverential love for bishops,
because they considered them to be the instruments of royal tyranny
and the oppressors of the kirk. MacKay has found a place between
Collier and Venner, and as he sits leaning back against a saddle and
to all appearance half asleep, the firelight falls on his broad,
powerful, but rather awkward figure, and on a strong, determined face,
which in its severity is well set off by his close-cut sandy hair.
Although one would judge him to be dozing, or at least absorbed in his
own thoughts, if anything is said which arrests him, he will cast a
quick look on the speaker, and then one marks that his eyes are steely
gray, cold and penetrating, but also brave and honest. By and by he
rouses himself, and taking a book out of an inner pocket, and leaning
sideways towards the fire, he begins to read, and secludes himself
from the camp talk. Venner notices that it is a Bible, and opens his
mouth to ask him whether he can give him the latest news about the
fifth monarchy which made a windmill in his poor father's head, but,
catching sight of MacKay's grim profile, thinks better and only
shrugs his shoulders. For MacKay was not a man whose face or manner
invited jesting.

Upon the other side of the fire, so that the two men could only catch
occasional and uncertain glimpses of each other through the smoke, as
was to be their lot in after days, lay the other Scot in careless
grace, supporting his head upon his hand, quite at his ease and in
good fellowship with all his comrades. If MacKay marked a contrast to
the characteristic Celt of hot blood and wayward impulses, by his
reserve and self-control, John Graham was quite unlike the average
Lowlander by the spirit of feudal prejudice and romantic sentiment, of
uncalculating devotion and loyalty to dead ideals, which burned within
his heart, and were to drive him headlong on his troubled and
disastrous career. A kinsman of the great Montrose and born of a line
which traced its origin to Scottish kings, the child of a line of
fighting cavaliers, he loathed Presbyterians, their faith and their
habits together, counting them fanatics by inherent disposition and
traitors whenever opportunity offered. He was devoted to the Episcopal
Church of Scotland, and regarded a bishop with reverence for the sake
of his office, and he was ready to die, as the Marquis of Montrose had
done before him, for the Stuart line and their rightful place. One
can see as he stretches himself, raising his arms above his head with
a taking gesture, that he is not more than middle size and slightly
built, though lithe and sinewy as a young tiger, but what catches
one's eye is the face, which is lit up by a sudden flash of firelight.
It is that of a woman rather than a man, and a beautiful woman to
boot, and this girl face he was to keep through all the days of strife
and pain, and also fierce deeds, till they carried him dead from
Killiecrankie field. It was a full, rich face, with fine complexion
somewhat browned by campaign life, with large, expressive eyes of
hazel hue, whose expression could change with rapidity from love to
hate, which could be very gentle in a woman's wooing, or very hard
when dealing with a Covenanting rebel, but which in repose were apt to
be sad and hopeless.

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