No sooner said than done, was the order of these dreadful times. Catherine Chalmers was placed in one of her father’s carts; and, notwithstanding every remonstrance, and an assurance that poor Catherine was now a widow, she was placed betwixt two soldiers, who rode alongside the cart on horseback, and conveyed her to Dumfries, there to stand her trial before the Sheriff, Clavers, and the inhuman Laird of Lag. When arrived at her destination, she was put under lock and key, but allowed more personal liberty than many others who were accused of crimes more heinous in the eyes of the persecutors, than those of which she was merely suspected to be guilty. It so happened, that the quarterly meeting of the court was held in a few days, and the chief witness produced against Catherine Wilson, was a servant maid of her father, who was compelled, very much against her will, to bear evidence to her having seen Sergeant Wilson and her mistress, (for Catherine kept her father’s house,) several times together in the old tower, as well as under a particular tree at the end of the old avenue, and that her mistress had told her that Sergeant Wilson was heartily tired of the service in which he was engaged. Her own father, too, was compelled to confess, that he had had an interview with the sergeant, in the tower, who had confessed to him the marriage, had asked and with difficulty obtained his forgiveness, and that he meditated a departure along with his wife, to some distant place, beyond the reach of his enemies. There was no direct evidence, however, that Catherine had persuaded him to desert, or to vilify the service which he had left; and the court were about to dismiss her simpliciter from the bar, when, to the amazement of all, Catherine rose in her place, and addressed the court to the following purpose:—"And now ye have done your utmost, and I am innocent, in as far as your evidence has gone; but I am NOT INNOCENT—I am deeply guilty, if guilty ye deem it, in this matter. ‘Twas I that first awakened poor William’s conscience to a sense of his danger, in serving an emissary of Satan; ‘twas I that spoke to him of the blood that cries day and night under the altar; ‘twas I that made him tremble—ay, as an aspen leaf, and as some here will yet shake before the Judge of all—when I brought to his recollection the brutal scenes which he had witnessed, and in which he had taken a part; ‘twas I that agreed to marry him privately, without my dear father’s consent, (whose pardon I have sought on my knees, and whose blessing I have already obtained,) father nodded assent, provided he would desert, and retire with me, at least for a time, beyond the reach of ye all—ye messengers of evil, sent to scourge a guilty and backsliding race; ‘twas I that visited him night after night in that old tower, which you inhumanly set on fire, and in which—O my God!"—Hereupon she laid hold of the desk before her and would have dropped to the earth, had not an officer in attendance supported her, and borne her, under the authority of the court, into the open air. She was now, notwithstanding her self-accusation, declared to be at liberty; and immediately, so soon as strength was given her, retired into the house of an acquaintance and relative, where suitable restoratives and refreshments were administered. The house where her friend lived was close upon what is called the Sands of Dumfries, adjoining to the river, which up to this point is navigable, and where boats are generally to be seen. During the night she disappeared, and, though all search was made at home and everywhere else, she was not heard of. Her father at first took her disappearance sadly to heart; but time seemed to have a remedial effect upon his spirits, and he at length rallied, even into cheerfulness. Things went on for years and years, very much in the old way at Barjarg. The old man’s hairs gradually whitened, and became more scanty, whilst this loss was made up for by an increase of wrinkles. The only change in his habits were not unfrequent visits which he payed to an old friend, he said, in Whitehaven, and from which he always returned in high spirits. It might have been stated formerly that, when the ashes of the old tower were searched, after they had cooled, for the body of poor Wilson, no such body was found—but the inference was made by the neighbours, that the remains had been early removed by his wife’s orders, who would naturally wish to possess herself of so valued a deposit. In fact, the whole transaction melted away in the stream of time, like the snow-flake on the surface of the water; and things went on very much as usual. Six long years revolved, and still no word of Catherine Wilson. Many conjectured that she had missed her foot in the dark, and fallen into the river, and been carried out to sea by the reflux of the tide. Others again hinted at suicide, from extreme grief; and some very charitable females nodded and winked something meant to be significant, about some people’s not being easily known—and that some people, provided that they got a grip of a man, would not be very nice about the object or the manner!

Oh, what a blessed thing it was when King William cam’ in!—and with him cam’ amnesty, and peace, and restoration! It was upon a fine summer evening, in the year 1689, just six years after the mysterious disappearance of Catherine Wilson, that the old guidman of Barjarg was sitting enjoying the setting sun at his own door, on the root of an old tree, which had been converted into a dais, or out-of-doors seat. It was about the latter end of July, that most exuberantly lovely of all months, when Adam Chalmers, with Rutherford’s Letters on his knee, sat gazing upon one of the most beautiful landscapes which our own romantic country can boast of. Before him flowed the Nith, over its blue pebbles, and through a thousand windings; beyond it were the woods and hills of Closeburn, all blooming and blushing in the setting beams of the sun, and rising up, tier above tier, till they terminated in the blue sky of the east. To the left were the Louther Hills, with their smooth-green magnificence, bearing away into the distance, and placed, as it were, to shelter this happy valley from the stormy north and its wintry blasts. At present, however, all idea of storm and blast was incongruous, for they seemed to sleep in the sun’s effulgence, as if cradled into repose by the hand of God. To the south, and hard at hand, were the woods and the fields of Collestown, with the echoing Linn, and the rush of many waters. O land of our nativity!—how deeply art thou impressed upon this poor brain!—go where we will—see what we may—thou art still unique to us—thou art still superior to all other lands.

It was eight o’clock of the evening above referred to, when a chaise entered the old avenue, passed the ruins of the Tower and the old mansion-house, and drew up immediately opposite old Adam Chalmers. The steps were immediately let down, and out sprung, with a bound, the long lost child, the blooming and matronly looking Mrs Wilson. Behind her followed one whom the reader, I trust, has long ago considered as dead, and perhaps buried, her manly and rejoicing husband William Wilson, handing out a fine girl of five years of age, a boy about three, and an infant still at the breast! It was indeed a joyous meeting; and the old man bustled about, embracing and pressing his child, and then surveying, with silent and intense interest his grandchildren; taking the oldest on his knee, and permitting him all manner of intercourse with his wrinkles and his gray hairs.