Old Mortality, Complete by Walter Scott (my reading book .txt) 📖

The Privy Council of Scotland, in whom the practice since the union of the crowns vested great judicial powers, as well as the general superintendence of the executive department, was met in the ancient dark Gothic room, adjoining to the House of Parliament in Edinburgh, when General Grahame entered and took his place amongst the members at the council table.

“You have brought us a leash of game to-day, General,” said a nobleman of high place amongst them. “Here is a craven to confess—a cock of the game to stand at bay—and what shall I call the third, General?”

“Without further metaphor, I will entreat your Grace to call him a person in whom I am specially interested,” replied Claverhouse.

“And a whig into the bargain?” said the nobleman, lolling out a tongue which was at all times too big for his mouth, and accommodating his coarse features to a sneer, to which they seemed to be familiar.

“Yes, please your Grace, a whig; as your Grace was in 1641,” replied Claverhouse, with his usual appearance of imperturbable civility.

“He has you there, I think, my Lord Duke,” said one of the Privy Councillors.

“Ay, ay,” returned the Duke, laughing, “there’s no speaking to him since Drumclog—but come, bring in the prisoners—and do you, Mr Clerk, read the record.”

The clerk read forth a bond, in which General Grahame of Claverhouse and Lord Evandale entered themselves securities, that Henry Morton, younger of Milnwood, should go abroad and remain in foreign parts, until his Majesty’s pleasure was further known, in respect of the said Henry Morton’s accession to the late rebellion, and that under penalty of life and limb to the said Henry Morton, and of ten thousand marks to each of his securities.

“Do you accept of the King’s mercy upon these terms, Mr Morton?” said the Duke of Lauderdale, who presided in the Council.

“I have no other choice, my lord,” replied Morton.

“Then subscribe your name in the record.”

Morton did so without reply, conscious that, in the circumstances of his case, it was impossible for him to have escaped more easily. Macbriar, who was at the same instant brought to the foot of the council-table, bound upon a chair, for his weakness prevented him from standing, beheld Morton in the act of what he accounted apostasy.

“He hath summed his defection by owning the carnal power of the tyrant!” he exclaimed, with a deep groan—“A fallen star!—a fallen star!”

“Hold your peace, sir,” said the Duke, “and keep your ain breath to cool your ain porridge—ye’ll find them scalding hot, I promise you.—Call in the other fellow, who has some common sense. One sheep will leap the ditch when another goes first.”

Cuddie was introduced unbound, but under the guard of two halberdiers, and placed beside Macbriar at the foot of the table. The poor fellow cast a piteous look around him, in which were mingled awe for the great men in whose presence he stood, and compassion for his fellow-sufferers, with no small fear of the personal consequences which impended over himself. He made his clownish obeisances with a double portion of reverence, and then awaited the opening of the awful scene.

“Were you at the battle of Bothwell Brigg?” was the first question which was thundered in his ears.

Cuddie meditated a denial, but had sense enough, upon reflection, to discover that the truth would be too strong for him; so he replied, with true Caledonian indirectness of response, “I’ll no say but it may be possible that I might hae been there.”

“Answer directly, you knave—yes, or no?—You know you were there.”

“It’s no for me to contradict your Lordship’s Grace’s honour,” said Cuddie.

“Once more, sir, were you there?—yes, or no?” said the Duke, impatiently.

“Dear stir,” again replied Cuddie, “how can ane mind preceesely where they hae been a’ the days o’ their life?”

“Speak out, you scoundrel,” said General Dalzell, “or I’ll dash your teeth out with my dudgeonhaft!—Do you think we can stand here all day to be turning and dodging with you, like greyhounds after a hare?” [Note: The General is said to have struck one of the captive whigs, when under examination, with the hilt of his sabre, so that the blood gushed out. The provocation for this unmanly violence was, that the prisoner had called the fierce veteran “a Muscovy beast, who used to roast men.” Dalzell had been long in the Russian service, which in those days was no school of humanity.]

“Aweel, then,” said Cuddie, “since naething else will please ye, write down that I cannot deny but I was there.”

“Well, sir,” said the Duke, “and do you think that the rising upon that occasion was rebellion or not?”

“I’m no just free to gie my opinion, stir,” said the cautious captive, “on what might cost my neck; but I doubt it will be very little better.”

“Better than what?”

“Just than rebellion, as your honour ca’s it,” replied Cuddie.

“Well, sir, that’s speaking to the purpose,” replied his Grace. “And are you content to accept of the King’s pardon for your guilt as a rebel, and to keep the church, and pray for the King?”

“Blithely, stir,” answered the unscrupulous Cuddie; “and drink his health into the bargain, when the ale’s gude.”

“Egad,” said the Duke, “this is a hearty cock.—What brought you into such a scrape, mine honest friend?”

“Just ill example, stir,” replied the prisoner, “and a daft auld jaud of a mither, wi’ reverence to your Grace’s honour.”

“Why, God-a-mercy, my friend,” replied the Duke, “take care of bad advice another