We had much to do; there was harness to polish, bridles and bits to clean, and weapons to see to--for Sir Robert was a man vigilant, who took a pride in the smartness of his troop.
"It’s a bonnie mornin’ for an ugly ploy," said Trooper Agnew, as I sat down on a bench beside him with my saddle on my knees. From his tone I could tell that his heart was as little in the day’s work as mine.
"Ay, it’s a bonnie morning," I replied, "too bonnie for the work we have to do. I had fain the day was over, and the work were done, if done it must be."
"Weel, ye never can tell: it may be that the women will be reprieved. I’ve heard tell that Gilbert Wilson has muckle siller, and is ready to pay ransom for his dochter: an’ siller speaks when arguments are waste o’ wind." He spat on a polishing rag, and rubbed his saddle vigorously. "They tell me he’s bocht Aggie off: and if he can he’ll buy off Marget tae. But there’s the auld woman Lauchlison: she has neither siller nor frien’s wi’ siller, and I’m fearin’ that unless the Royal Clemency comes into play she’ll ha’e tae droon."
"But why should they drown?" said I, voicing half unconsciously the question that had so often perplexed me.
"Weel, that’s a hard question," replied Agnew, as he burnished his bit, "and a question that’s no for the like o’ you and me to settle. A’ we ha’e to dae is to carry oot the orders of our superior officers. We maunna think ower muckle for oorsel’s."
I was already well acquainted with this plausible argument, and indeed I had heard Lag himself justify some of his acts by an appeal to such dogma; but I was not satisfied, and ventured to remonstrate:
"Must we," I asked, "do things against which our conscience rebels, simply because we are commanded to do so?"
Agnew hesitated for a moment before replying, passing the end of his bridle very deliberately through a buckle, and fastening it with care.
"Conscience!" he said, and laughed. "What richt has a trooper to sic’ a thing? I’ve nane noo." He lowered his voice--and spoke quickly. "Conscience, my lad! Ye’d better no’ let the sergeant hear ye speak that word, or he’ll be reporting ye tae Sir Robert for a Covenanter, and ye’ll get gey short shrift, I’m thinkin’. Tak’ the advice o’ ane that means ye nae ill, and drap yer conscience in the water o’ Blednoch, and say farewell tae it forever. If ye keep it, ye’ll get mair blame than praise frae it--and I’m thinkin’ ye’ll no’ get ony promotion till ye’re weel rid o’t."