Claverhouse led the van, his naked sword deeply dyed with blood, as were his face and clothes.

His horse was all covered with gore, and now reeled with weakness.

Lord Evandale, in not much better plight, brought up the rear, still exhorting the soldiers to keep together and fear nothing.

Several of the men were wounded, and one or two dropped from their horses as they surmounted the hill.
Mause's zeal broke forth once more at this spectacle, while she stood on the heath with her head uncovered, and her grey hairs streaming in the wind, no bad representation of a superannuated bacchante, or Thessalian witch in the agonies of incantation.

She soon discovered Claverhouse at the head of the fugitive party, and exclaimed with bitter irony, "Tarry, tarry, ye wha were aye sae blithe to be at the meetings of the saints, and wad ride every muir in Scotland to find a conventicle! Wilt thou not tarry, now thou hast found ane?
Wilt thou not stay for one word mair?
Wilt thou na bide the afternoon preaching ?--Wae betide ye!" she said, suddenly changing her tone, "and cut the houghs of the creature whase fleetness ye trust in!--Sheugh--sheugh!--awa wi'ye, that hae spilled sae muckle blude, and now wad save your ain--awa wi'ye for a railing Rabshakeh, a cursing Shimei, a bloodthirsty Doeg!--The swords drawn now that winna be lang o' o'ertaking ye, ride as fast as ye will." Claverhouse, it may be easily supposed, was too busy to attend to her reproaches, but hastened over the hill, anxious to get the remnant of his men out of gun-shot, in hopes of again collecting the fugitives round his standard.