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I remembered Ringan's tale of the Scots redemptioner that had escaped from Norfolk county, and the various strange writings which had descended from the hills. Was it not the queerest fate that one whom I had met in my boyish scrapes should return after six years and many thousand miles to play once more a major part in my life!
Ringan served as their guide up the long hills, through the woods, up steep slippery slopes, where it became expedient to leave behind the big heavy war-horses under a guard, while the rest pushed forward, the Master of Angus's long legs nearly touching the ground, as, not to waste his strength, he was mounted on Ringan's sure-footed pony, which seemed at home among mountains.
Ringan's reputation for gigantic strength and utter fearlessness still survived, and no one dared even attempt to apprehend the old man. In such circumstances the sheriff pressed into his service the Marquess and his men, and this party set off for Smailcleuchfoot. Friends warned Ringan of their coming and counselled him to fly.
The train was now laid, and the men were ready, and a word from Lawrence would line the West with muskets. But I had none of the satisfaction of a completed work. It was borne in upon me that our task was scarcely begun, and that the peril that threatened us was far darker than we had dreamed. Ringan's tale of a white leader among the tribes was always in my head.
Then I took my bearings as well as I could, re-loaded my pistols, and marched into the woods, keeping to the course of the little river. As I went I remember that always a little ahead I seemed to hear the merry lilt of Ringan's whistling. As I stumbled through the moonlit forest I heard Ringan's tunes ever crooning among the trees.
My bones were molten with fright, and I had not one ounce of bravery in me. Something not myself took hold on me, and spoke for me. Ringan's tunes, a brisk one this time, lilted in my ear. I could not believe my own voice. But I rejoice to say that my reply was to consign every Indian in America to the devil. I shook with fear when I had spoken.
But I should like to know why old Lady Saint Ringan's, and all that set, go about wasting their decayed lungs in puffing this foreign fellow." "Ay you had best set him down a Jesuit, as Scrub says." On these terms they parted.
On his return the Minister paused by the kirk yett, and thus soliloquised: 'I never cared muckle for that camsterie goat o' Ringan's, but he wis gey useful the nicht there's no denyin', whilst as for auld cuddy, dod! but he was in fell voice, an' cam in punctual as the precentor. The Reverend Alexander Macgregor thrust out an arm on high, turned about on heel and toe, as though to secret piping.
For some years after this we have no record of Ringan's doings; possibly part of the time he spent on his farm at Smailcleuchfoot. In 1689, however, he was with General Mackay at Killiecrankie. And again, as at Bothwell Bridge, sorely against his inclination he experienced the horrors of headlong flight in company of a broken rabble.
Then with Ringan's sword behind them, the three marched out of doors. There we found their companions stripped and sullen, with Faulkner and the men to guard them. We made up neat parcels of their clothes, and I extorted their names, all except one who was too far gone in drink.
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