de a great noise in that lonely place. At the sound of the
muskets some of the bairns fell forward on their faces as if they had
been really shot. Some leapt in the air, but the most part knelt quietly
and composedly.

The little boy Alec, whose sister had his hand clasped in hers, made as
if he would rise.

"Bide ye doon, Alec," she said, very quietly, "it's no oor turn yet!"

At this the heart within me gave way, and I roared out in my helpless
pain a perfect "gowl" of anger and grief.

"Bonny Whigs ye are," cried Westerha', "to dee withoot even a prayer.
Put up a prayer this minute, for ye shall all dee, every one of you."

And the boy James Johnstone made answer to him:

"Sir, we cannot pray, for we be too young to pray."

"You are not too young to rebel, nor yet to die for it!" was the
brute-beast's answer.

Then with that the little girl held up a hand as if she were answering a
dominie in a class.

"An it please ye, sir," she said, "me an' Alec canna pray, but we can
sing 'The Lord's my Shepherd,' gin that wull do! My mither learned it us
afore she gaed awa'."

And before any one could stop her, she stood up like one that leads the
singing in a kirk. "Stan' up, Alec, my wee mannie," she said.

Then all the bairns stood up. I declare it minded me of Bethlehem and
the night when Herod's troopers rode down to look for Mary's bonny
Bairn.

Then from the lips of the babes and sucklings arose the quavering
strains:

"The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want.
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green; He leadeth me
The quiet waters by."

As they sang I gripped out my pistols and began to sort and prime them,
hardly knowing what I did. For I was resolved to make a break for it,
and, at the least, to blow a hole in James Johnstone of Westerha' that
would mar him for life before I suffered any more of it.

But as they sang I saw trooper after trooper turn away his head, for,
being Scots bairns, they had all learned that psalm. The ranks shook.
Man after man fell out, and I saw the tears happing down their cheeks.
But it was Douglas of Morton, that stark persecutor, who first broke
down.

"Curse it, Westerha'," he cried, "I canna thole this langer. I'll war
nae mair wi' bairns for a' the earldom i' the North."

And at last even Westerha' turned his bridle rein, and rode away from
off the bonny holms of Shieldhill, for the victory was to the bairns. I
wonder what his thoughts were, fo