That Loyalty of Friendship, a Flight of the Heron/Kidnapped crossover fanfic by regshoe

I. Old Beileag’s Physician

(1)

Ewen Cameron opened the window and, with one hand still gripping the handle of the casement, leaned out to take a deep breath of the morning air. It was deliciously cool, with the fresh scent of autumn in it, and Ewen stayed there, drinking in the air of September and gazing at the dear view of loch and encircling hills, for several minutes. This morning Loch na h-Iolaire was a sheet of calm, pale blueish-grey water beneath a clear sky into which the sun had not yet risen, and the rich colours of the blooming heather on the mountains were muted to a more subtle beauty in the dawn half-light. How lovely it looked still, on this and every morning, even though the life about it—the oppressed, half-shackled life into which Ardroy and all the Jacobite Highlands had been forced ever since the sad summer of 1746—was so changed and often so gloomy. Yes; despite the many griefs and indignities which Ewen, returning here, had been obliged to bear, he had some consolation in knowing that all this was his still.

And there was another happiness in his life also. Turning from the window back towards the great four-posted bed from which he had lately risen, Ewen remembered this; for in that bed, almost entirely concealed though he was by the blankets which Ewen had carefully arranged round him a few minutes ago, lay Keith Windham.

The fondness which had already been in Ewen’s eyes as he looked upon his loch took on a different and a softer tone at this sight. Treading softly, he went round the end of the bed and sat down on its far side, where he could see his sleeping lover’s face, and gazed at him with a smile now both affectionate and a little amused playing round his lips.

Keith had lived with him here at Ardroy for the last three and a half years. They had parted shortly before Ewen’s escape from Scotland in ’46, when Major Windham, as he had been then, was patrolling the coast in search of the Prince—and found Ewen instead. Their meeting, the last of the five of Old Angus’s prophecy, had been a strange adventure. But it had been a fortunate one for them both, for Ewen, knowing of his foster-brother’s terrible mistaken intention regarding Keith, had averted the disaster which might have been its fulfilment, and saved Keith’s life. And Keith had saved Ewen also, in choosing to let him go freely over the water instead of taking him captive. Though, as he had confided to Ewen, the intention had been forming for some time beforehand, it had perhaps been this choice which finally decided Keith on that step which he afterwards took, of resigning his commission and leaving the Army.

That meeting had seen also the mutual confession of those warmer feelings in which Ewen, here with Keith’s head lying upon his own pillow, was now so secure. It was a dear memory. But then Ewen had gone to France and to more than two years of exile; and in that time, France and Britain then still being at war, he had been unable even to exchange letters with his friend, or to hear anything of where he was or of how he was contriving to live without his old profession.

It was after Lochiel’s death, in the autumn of 1748, that Ewen had at last returned to Scotland. He wrote at once to Keith’s half-brother in London, whose address Keith had given him as the most reliable means of reaching him, and very soon found Keith himself—who had supplemented the meagre income obtained from the sale of his commission by taking a post as secretary to a commercial gentleman in London, and who was living, as Ewen soon judged, in endurable frugality but not very happily. So Ewen put into execution a scheme which he had formed some time before, in the long days of thought and anxiety in France, and invited Keith to come and live at Ardroy and help him in the management of his property, as a kind of factor; and Keith, although he accused Ewen of dishonesty in maintaining that he, Ewen, would receive a favour by it, had agreed, and come to him. It was an irregular arrangement, no doubt; but then so many things in the Highlands these days were irregular, and few enough brought so much happiness as this had brought to both Ewen and Keith.

Keith turned his head to one side upon the pillow, and Ewen’s smile widened. He reached over, placed his hand on Keith’s blanket-covered shoulder and shook it gently. ‘Keith, mo chridhe, it’s time to wake up.’

At this Keith stirred, made an adorable noise of discontentment and screwed up his eyes more tightly before opening them; but his face when he looked at Ewen was not discontented.

He sat up, pushing the tangle of blankets from him, and frowned towards the open window. ‘It looks like being a fine day,’ he said, in a voice still tinged with sleep, ‘which means, the Highland weather being what it is, that it will certainly not be so later on.’

‘Ah, you know the Highlands well these days, Keith!’ said Ewen happily. And Keith, perhaps in answer to this judgement, climbed fully out from under the blankets, moved closer to Ewen and kissed him.

An hour or so later they and Ewen’s aunt Margaret, who completed the household at Ardroy, sat down to breakfast and to discuss the day’s business. Ewen intended going over to supervise some work which was in progress on the track up from the southeastern corner of the loch, and he asked whether Keith would accompany him.

‘Yes, of course, if you think I can be of use,’ said Keith, pausing reflectively with a forkful of scrambled egg raised before him. He brought the egg to his mouth, chewed and swallowed. ‘Miss Cameron, your hens have excelled themselves to-day,’ he said.

‘I thought I might go and see old Beileag and Seonaid, while we’re over that way,’ continued Ewen. Beileag, a member of the MacMartin family who dwelt up near Slochd nan Eun to the northeast of the loch, was proud in her status as Ardroy’s oldest inhabitant; she had known Ewen all his life, and now that she was in what would probably be her last illness he was conscientious in visiting her and the young great-niece who looked after her, and in doing what he could to make her last days easy. Keith agreed that this was an excellent plan, and that he would stay and direct the work on the track while Ewen went over to Beileag’s cottage.

‘And I,’ said Margaret, ‘want to go over those accounts before Duncan and his party start out for Crieff. We must make our plans carefully.’

Keith had a better head for numbers than had Ewen, but Aunt Marget’s was without a doubt the best mathematical brain in the house, and so the account-keeping was largely her preserve, Keith and Ewen looking over the books when necessary to monitor the general state of their financial affairs—often, if not actually precarious, yet far from ideal, in these difficult times—and to inform their own decisions. So, all in agreement about the plans for the day, when breakfast was finished the three of them parted.

Ewen stopped in the porch to adjust the fastening of his cloak; while he was occupied with this, Keith reached for his shoulder and pulled him down into a brief kiss.

‘’Twill be a successful day, I am sure,’ said Keith in a low voice, looking at Ewen with his lovely lopsided smile. ‘Shall we go?’

And so they set out, into a day which, whatever the measure of its success, was to bring an entirely unexpected event to Ardroy.

The air was as fresh and almost as cool as it had been in the dawn as they walked round the shore of Loch na h-Iolaire, whose blue had deepened with the sky, and began to ascend the track that led up through the moor-grass and rushes towards the notch in the hills which formed the pass from Ardroy down to Loch Lochy side. This was not the usual way Ewen and Keith took to and from their home, there being a lower and easier route down towards Achnacarry from the southwestern corner of the loch nearer the house, but it was the shortest way into the Great Glen and to Inverness, and hence sometimes useful for visitors to Ardroy as well as for tenants going back and forth to market. Therefore Ewen wished to make improvements to the route, for the ground across much of the hillside was waterlogged and the track was crossed by the myriad tiny burns typical of such Highland slopes. It was his idea to build little stone runnels to contain these streams, that they might be easily stepped over instead of being left to flood the path.

The work had already begun by the time he and Keith arrived. Actually there was little to do in the way of direction or supervision, and so, having made sure that the men were all happy with their tasks, they threw down their cloaks upon a patch of the drier ground where the heather grew and went to help. It was a pleasure to be at work out here in the open air: Ewen felt the roughly-shaped stones and the cold water upon his hands and the kind air of September upon his face; he heard the quiet twittering of the pipits who were the constant companions of any journey or work up in these heights in summer and early autumn, and the cheerful voices of the men about him as they discussed their work, joked with each other and with him and whistled or sang snatches of song. An hour or two passed easily in this way; and pretty soon Ewen judged it time to leave Keith in charge of the work and set off for Beileag’s cottage, which lay in a little hollow round the side of the hill to the north.

He went slowly, for the walk, added to the morning’s hard work, was enough to bring a slight twinge to the old wound in his leg, that memento of Culloden Moor which still occasionally made itself felt nearly seven years afterwards. But there was sufficient reason for walking slowly in any case. He paused to reach down and run his fingers across the tiny purple cups of the heather and the smooth stems of the rushes, and to narrow his eyes against the wind that blew across the glen and gaze towards the rocky heights of the far side, and to search for the pipit whose calls seemed to be following him as he went, and laugh when he caught a glimpse of it flitting from heather-patch to boulder twenty yards above the path.

At last he came within sight of the cottage—like most of his tenants’ dwellings a low, rough structure of turf and heather, almost an outgrowth of the mountain ground on which it stood. By it, on the more sheltered side, was a little patch of garden, and here young Seonaid MacMartin—a lively, red-headed girl of fourteen or so—was working. When Ewen first saw her she was intent upon the task of pushing her spade into the earth of the potato-patch with her foot, but hearing the sound of his approach, she glanced quickly up, and somewhat to his surprise immediately abandoned the spade and came running to meet him.

‘Mac ’ic Ailein!’ she cried. ‘Good morning. How good of you to visit us—but is Mr Windham with you?’

She spoke in a low voice, glancing past Ewen with an expression almost conspiratorial; and this puzzled Ewen, for it was not Seonaid’s usual attitude towards Keith, nor that of most of her neighbours. Of course, Ewen had expected some trouble when he had brought an Englishman and a former redcoat—and, moreover, one who had actually been in the army which had fought against the Jacobites during the Rising—to serve as factor on his estate, and during the early days he had watched carefully for any signs of tension or discontent. But there had been less of such trouble than he had anticipated. For one thing, the people of Ardroy were devotedly loyal to their Mac ’ic Ailein, who had treated them wisely and kindly all his life; and if it was Ewen’s own judgement that Keith Windham was a suitable person to place in a position of power over themselves, most of them were willing, if not quite happy, to trust that he judged rightly. Also, a great deal rested on the relative stress placed on each of those two words, ‘former redcoat’. They knew indeed that Keith had once fought in the Elector’s army, but they knew also—though they were not privy to the finer details—that he had given up his position in that army partly because of its cruelties towards people such as themselves. Many of them had the judgement and the charity to respect him for that. And Keith himself had done much to soften what might have been a harshness to his new neighbours. His innate sense of fairness showed itself in all his conduct; he endeavoured always to treat Ewen’s people with justice and due kindness, and he had been industrious in learning the Gaelic that he might speak more easily with them. He was, as it were, a neutral party in the constant little warring of the Highlands in these days. Some of the officers now stationed at Fort William and Fort Augustus were old acquaintances of his, and knew that whatever eccentric decisions he had made regarding his own career he was no Jacobite; and Keith used what influence he had to keep the brunt of Government rule from falling too harshly upon the Camerons of Ardroy. A few particular instances of this, early in his tenure, had made their impression, and that had done a great deal for the general feeling towards Mac ’ic Ailein’s Mr Windham.

It was true that the MacMartins of Slochd nan Eun were not so happy as their neighbours with Keith’s presence, for Lachlan MacMartin—who, since the deaths of his brother Neil during the Rising and of their father Angus not long afterwards, was now effectively the head of the family—had never quite rid himself of the dislike he had taken to Keith when they had first met in ’45, nor of the lingering effect of those lies about Major Windham’s having betrayed Ewen to the redcoats which Lachlan had heard later while skulking round the camp of the far less honourable officer who had originated them. Poor Lachlan’s belief in those lies might have ended in terrible tragedy, had Ewen not managed to intervene in time. Lachlan had been penitent when Ewen explained his error, and had apologised to Keith afterwards, but he had never really come to trust him, and the rest of his family largely followed his lead. Young Seonaid, however, liked to form her own judgements of the people she met, and she did not share her uncle Lachlan’s suspicious jealousy or his propensity for forming and keeping grudges. She and Keith had always got along well; so, all things considered, this sudden suspicion was strange.

‘No, he’s not here,’ said Ewen, ‘but he sends his good wishes, as does Miss Cameron. How is your aunt?’

The troubled expression upon the girl’s face turned into a smile full at once of cunning and delight. ‘Oh, she’s very well,’ she said. She turned towards the cottage and beckoned for Ewen to follow her, saying, ‘You’d better come and see,’ over her shoulder. In the doorway she paused and faced him again, her eyes sparkling with the joy of a barely-suppressed secret. ‘She’s very well today,’ she repeated, ‘and I believe she’ll get better—for she has a doctor to attend her!’

‘A doctor? Why, has someone sent for Dr Kincaid?’ It was unlikely, thought Ewen, that anyone would have done so without his hearing of it. But Seonaid merely shook her head and ran on ahead of him into the cottage.

He stooped to pass through the low doorway. Inside it was dark, for there was but one small window, and the smoke of the peat fire stung Ewen’s eyes as he blinked them against the sudden gloom. The sound of voices came from the far side of the room, though he could not see who spoke. There was old Beileag’s voice, frail but cheerful; and then she was answered by another voice—a man’s voice, and surely a familiar one.

The man spoke again, and recognition came to Ewen in a flash—but it could not be....

‘You see?’ said Seonaid gleefully. ‘Oh, we were so pleased to see him—so it is a lucky chance that you should come to visit us to-day, Mac ’ic Ailein.’

And then a figure rose from the side of the bed in the corner and crossed the room towards him—and, in the dim light, Ewen saw.

‘Ewen! Is it you? My dear lad, ’tis good to see you again! Though I confess I did not mean to.’

Ewen, incredulous, reached out his hands to clasp the visitor’s, hardly aware that he did so. ‘Archie.... But how?’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?—I had no notion you were in Scotland again!’

‘Come and sit down, Ewen,’ said Dr Cameron, smiling, and waving Ewen towards one of a pair of rickety wooden chairs which stood beside the tiny window. ‘I will make my explanations—if my patient will allow me,’ he added, with another smile in Beileag’s direction. She was sitting up against her pillows, alert and clearly enjoying the excitement of events as much as her great-niece, who had perched herself on the end of the bed with her hands clasped together.

Dr Archibald Cameron, Ewen’s cousin and brother to the departed Chief whom Ewen had so adored, lived now in France, where he bore a commission in Lord Ogilvie’s regiment—for he had been exempted from the Act of Indemnity which had allowed Ewen to return to his country, and was still under an attainder. But he did, and Ewen knew that he did, make occasional journeys back to Scotland on Jacobite business—particularly to arrange the distribution of that shipment of French gold which, arriving too late to fulfil its intended purpose of providing funds for the Rising, had been buried by the shore of Loch Arkaig, whence it now went to the support of impoverished Jacobites in Scotland and abroad. He had been over in 1749, three years ago, when he and Ewen had last met; but Ewen had heard nothing at all of another intended visit now, and this sudden meeting came as a complete surprise to him.

‘Now, Ewen,’ said Dr Cameron, peering at him in the scanty daylight that came in through the window, ‘you are looking well! I trust you are in good health, and that all is well at Ardroy?’

‘Yes, all is well,’ said Ewen impatiently, ‘but what of you, Archie? I had no idea you were even coming to Scotland—and you are actually here!’

‘The Prince’s purposes require more secrecy than I might otherwise wish for, Eoghain mhóir,’ said Dr Cameron with a little smile. ‘But you know that. And in truth I had no intention of springing myself upon you so unexpectedly! I had some business in this part of the world, and I thought I might go up to Slochd nan Eun and send word to you from there. I was on my way there early this morning, when I stopped at Beileag’s cottage and found that she had need of a doctor’s services; and so you find me here.’

‘Oh, it is good of you to stop here, Doctor!’ broke in Seonaid at this. Ewen privately agreed with her. Archibald Cameron had, ever since the ’45, been a strange mixture of devoted Jacobite agent and conscientious physician; it was absolutely characteristic of him to delay himself on some business for the Prince (and what might that be?) to doctor a poor tenant of Ewen’s who certainly could give him no payment beyond a meal and the shelter of her roof for the day.

‘It is good of you to make me so welcome, Seonaid,’ said Dr Cameron solemnly. ‘Now, Beileag, you will remember my advice?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the old woman cheerfully, ‘it’s all clear. But I believe it’s seeing you again, Dr Archie, that has done more for me than all your medicines ever could.’

Archibald Cameron smiled. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘Well, then, Ewen and I have some business to discuss—we’ll go outside, Ewen... but I shall come back presently to bid you both farewell.’

Ewen, still scarcely able to believe that his cousin was really here, followed him outside. The mist was descending upon the hills; the top of the pass below which the men were at work upon the track had vanished into grey obscurity, and the smooth bark of the little rowan tree which grew in a cleft of the rocks not far from the cottage was already dark with moisture. For a moment Ewen recalled the morning, and smiled; yes, certainly his pessimistic Englishman had been right about the day’s weather.

‘I will not ask what your business, is, Archie, if you may not safely tell me...’ he began, as they came to a stop under the rowan.

‘I meant to tell you something, as I said, Ewen,’ said Dr Cameron, seating himself upon the rock. ‘I could hardly bring myself to travel but a few miles from Ardroy and not see you! Though, as it happens, I had not thought to be in your country so soon, for my companion and I made a change of plan—I was to go up to Knoidart, I cannot recall why, but at the last minute we exchanged places, and so it is that I am in Lochaber instead. So, you see, it is a lucky chance that we have met to-day.’

‘Your companion?’ said Ewen.

‘Yes,’ said Dr Cameron. ‘I am on... an errand for the Prince, as I believe I had the boldness to imply just a moment ago. He has charged me and Alan Breck Stewart with this commission.’

‘Alan Breck Stewart!’ exclaimed Ewen. ‘But he is still wanted for the murder of Colin Roy Campbell... now I think of it, I met him last year in Appin, when I was on a visit to my Stewart cousins there. It was the very day of the murder—it was from him that Ian and I had the news of it. So he’s here now, too?’

Dr Cameron nodded. ‘He has gone back and forth to Scotland occasionally for years, you know, despite the danger—collecting the rents for Ardshiel, and recruiting for our own French regiment.’ He spoke with the respect of one who had also hazarded much in the service of his clan and his Chief in the years since the Rising, and understood what a life it was to which his fellow Jacobite devoted himself. ‘And he is in Knoidart now, though I think he intended to make for Appin shortly.’

‘And you, Archie—are you to remain in Lochaber?’ enquired Ewen.

‘A little while,’ said Dr Cameron. ‘My plans are not fixed—they hardly can be, when the attention of the garrison at Fort William is so easily attracted.’

Ewen shook his head. ‘’Tis a dangerous thing,’ he said. ‘You must take care. Think of Jean and the children! But you are on the Prince’s business; and you know your ways up here in the heather well enough, I suppose.’ This was said with a rather sad little smile.

‘That I do,’ said his cousin, returning the smile without its sadness. ‘As for Jean, she is as loyal to her King and Prince as I am. What they bid me do, I must do.’

‘I would invite you to take shelter at Ardroy for a night or two—oh, I wish I could!—but I fear ’twould not be safe. I am in fairly good standing with the redcoats at present, but they might take notice if I had such a mysterious visitor as you must be.’

‘No, indeed!’ said Dr Cameron. ‘Do not think of it. Take no risks for my sake, Ewen. And it would be a risk to your aunt, also... how is my good cousin Margaret, by the way?’

‘She is well. I’ll tell her you are here,’ said Ewen. ‘And how are Jean and the children—are they still at Lille?’

They spoke for a while longer of Archie’s family over in France, of the journey he had made and the places in which he had been since landing in Scotland, and of Ewen’s life at Ardroy as it had gone on through the years since they had last met. Nothing more was said of Dr Cameron’s actual mission, and Ewen, though privately he was burning with curiosity, accepted that his cousin thought it wiser not to say too much of the matter just yet.

‘And what about your English friend—Mr Windham, isn’t it?—is he still here?’ asked Dr Cameron presently. He and Keith had only met once long before, when Keith, not at all what he was to Ewen now, had accompanied Ewen on a certain journey to Glenfinnan. But Archie had heard from Ewen, when he was over in France, all about the Englishman’s actions during the remainder of the Rising and the great debt which Ewen owed him, and had thought the story very curious. Archibald Cameron, who after the victory at Gladsmuir had treated the wounds of Jacobites and Hanoverians alike, was always ready to be generous to an enemy; and, though he had smiled at Ewen’s ardour in relating the tale of his meetings with Windham, he had not failed to appreciate what he himself owed the redcoat for having saved his cousin’s life.

‘Yes, he’s still here,’ said Ewen, ‘and a great help to me. I think the life in the Highlands suits him, though ’twas such a change; he’s quite well.’ It was more than he had meant to say; but, coming on top of his elation at seeing Dr Cameron again so unexpectedly, he was keenly and strangely grateful at his asking after Keith like a member of the family—as he himself, in fact, had asked after Jean. For a moment he wished he could tell Archie yet more.

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Dr Cameron. He glanced up at the dripping leaves and clusters of red berries above his head. ‘Ewen,’ he said gently, ‘you’d better be going on your way; ’twill be dark in a couple of hours, and you have a fair walk from here to your house. How is that leg of yours, by the way?’

Ewen wondered if the strain on his leg was bad enough to have been visible in the short walk from the cottage; but he said, ‘’Tis well enough for the walk back. But I suppose you are right.... Oh, Archie, will I see you again soon?’

‘I hope so,’ said Dr Cameron, pressing the hand which Ewen extended to him.

And so they took their farewells; and Ewen, after returning to the cottage to say farewell also to the two MacMartins, and to give Seonaid the pigeon-pie which he had brought for them and almost entirely forgotten in the excitement of his meeting with Dr Cameron, started on his way back along the hillside.

A small rain, the sequel of the mist, fell about him as he went, and the wet brown stems of the rushes and the moor-grass brushed against his legs so that his stockings were soaked in a few minutes’ walking, but these discomforts he scarcely noticed. His brain was on fire. His conversation with Dr Cameron, coming so suddenly into the placid rhythm of his life, had reawoken the ardent Jacobite whom Ewen had never quite buried in the peaceable farmer of these latter days, and he turned over and over in his mind the things Archie had told him of his recent adventures. A mission from the Prince—some new plan, certainly something of more interest, and perhaps more promise, than the distribution of funds from the Loch Arkaig gold among the clansmen—Alan Breck Stewart, whom Ewen had always regarded as an unpredictable and rather dangerous sort of person, mixed up in it too....

He was come to the turning in the path that led back to where he had left Keith and the men at work on the track. The other turning, to his right, led at an oblique angle down through the heather towards the loch—which now came into view beyond a shoulder of the hill, slate-grey and crossed as Ewen watched by shivering waves of falling rain.

He had told Keith, before they parted, that if his visit took a long time he might not go back that way, and that Keith should expect to meet him at home in the evening. And the visit had taken a long time, though for a reason Ewen had not anticipated... and he needed more time to think before he saw Keith again. So he took the right-hand path.

As he continued on his way, placing his feet with the instinct of a mountaineer down each step of the steep and sometimes rocky descent, Ewen thought also upon something he had told Archie: that he was ‘in good standing with the redcoats at present’.... It had really been a simple statement of quite natural caution; but now a bright flame of anger flared up within Ewen at the contemplation of its full meaning. On good terms with the redcoats—on good terms with the hated oppressor, those English and Lowland soldiers who swarmed over his country, who barred him and his people from the wearing of their native dress and from the possession of arms even to hunt the deer in their own hills, who had colluded with the Campbells to hang James Stewart of the Glens for a crime of which they knew him to be innocent.... Ewen had rehearsed the arguments in favour of his present position many times, and in his cooler moments he saw the wisdom of living quietly and keeping himself and his own people safe; but to-day was not a cool moment, and now he thought of Dr Cameron, and of Alan Breck Stewart, and of Cluny Macpherson, and of all the other Jacobites in the Highlands and over the water, risking their lives in schemes to further the Stuart cause—schemes of which Ewen, who sat at home and did nothing for that beloved Cause, did not even hear. And Archie had a wife and children over in France—encumbrances and obligations which Ewen, in taking risks for himself, need not consider....

He was within sight of the house now: there were its chimneys standing out among the pines of the avenue, and there was the low stone wall of the garden. Beside the path was an ancient pine-stump, and here Ewen stopped for a minute to rest. His walk had calmed him a little, after all; and the growing protests of his leg were also becoming harder entirely to ignore, and the consciousness of physical pain did something to pull his mind away from its whirling thoughts. And now he thought of what awaited him in that house. However he might despise the wisdom and prudence and peace of his present life, there was much to love in it also, and Keith—his dear Keith—was the brightest thing in it; and it was that very peacefulness which allowed him to live with Keith as he did. They had argued bitterly, once or twice—years ago—over the differences in their politics, but their love and the sense of honour which they shared were more than enough to overcome those differences. Yet any further developments in the Prince’s cause must come between them. What would he even tell Keith about to-day?...

Ewen got slowly to his feet and began upon the last few hundred yards of his journey, his mind still not at ease.

(2)

That evening Ewen and Keith sat up together in the long parlour after Aunt Margaret had gone to bed, as they often did. It was raining heavily now in the darkness outside, but the sound, muffled as it was by windows, walls and curtains, was comforting rather than dispiriting, and blended pleasantly with the crackling of the fire, the gentle thumps which the two dogs lying upon the hearthrug made from time to time with their tails, and the whisper of paper as Keith turned over a page of the Scots Magazine. Ewen leaned back in his armchair and watched Keith’s face, which wore its characteristic little frown of concentration as he read.

Presently Keith finished his article, laid down the magazine and, glancing up, met Ewen’s eyes.

‘You are tired, m’eudail,’ he said. ‘You’ve been hard at work to-day, and walking a long way.... How is old Beileag?—the visit went well, I suppose; you found nothing unexpected?’

‘No,’ said Ewen, startled by the question. ‘Nothing to tell of.’

He was not a good liar, at least not when he spoke to Keith, and perhaps Keith could tell—in the searching, gentle look with which he now regarded Ewen for several moments of silence—that he was keeping something back. But Keith, himself aware of the differences between them, never expected Ewen to tell him everything; he trusted that anything he needed to hear about, he would in good time, and for the rest he allowed Ewen the privacy of his own thoughts. Eventually he said, ‘Well, then, it’s been a good day. Shall we go to bed?’

And Ewen smiled, and agreed that they should. Then he rose from his chair, and put his arm about Keith as they went from the room together.

II. The Two Jacobites

(1)

The days grew shorter; the yellow birch leaves dropped and swirled upon the water of Loch na h-Iolaire; the swallows’ chatter was heard no more about the barns and crofts of Ardroy, and the wild geese could be seen flying southwards in straggling skeins against the pale autumn sky. The human life of Ardroy turned through its seasons along with that of the wild things. Duncan and his party returned from his annual expedition to the cattle fair at Crieff; ever since he had gone so loyally with his chieftain to France in ’46 Duncan had been one of Ewen’s most dependable men, and he had not failed him now, for his dealings at Crieff, together with the fruits of a good harvest, gave Ewen the prospect of a better winter than he had expected.

Yet his thoughts of the cattle, the meal stores and even the wild geese only ever occupied part of his mind. Another part was always taken up, whatever he was doing, with thoughts of his cousin, of whom he heard precious little news after their brief meeting at Beileag MacMartin’s cottage. There were rumours going about, for Dr Cameron’s presence in the Highlands was beginning to be more widely known amongst the Jacobite clans; Ewen, who did not usually pay much attention to rumour or gossip of any kind, managed to glean a little information from his Cameron neighbours and from his Stewart cousins in Appin, though much of it was nonsensical, and some contradictory. At one point Archie was supposed to be in Ardnamurchan, far to the west; at another he had certainly visited Cluny Macpherson in his hiding place on Ben Alder to the east; at yet another time Alan Breck Stewart was generally known to be in his home country of Appin, and Ewen’s cousin Ian actually reported having met and spoken with him, but Alan had said nothing of where his companion then was. To hear a little was almost worse than to hear nothing; Ewen had a continual sense of great events preparing and of schemes working towards their fulfilment, and he knew maddeningly little of any of them. To the absurd rumour that Dr Cameron was involved in some plot in London to kidnap the Elector he gave no credence, for Archie’s sense of honour, as keen as Ewen’s own, must have recoiled from such underhand dealings—but, with reports as reliable as that one going about, who could say what Dr Cameron was really doing?

So Ewen waited in safety, as Archie had advised him to do; yet his mind was unquiet.

Early in November Keith left Ardroy for a few days to pay a visit to an old army friend at Maryburgh by Fort William. Ewen’s mood was not improved by this; he missed Keith as he did whenever they were parted, and in his absence there was less to take Ewen’s mind off his own unhappy thoughts. So it was into a mind already stirred up to no little turmoil that Angus MacMartin, Ewen’s young piper, suddenly brought him the news that Dr Cameron was once more in Lochaber, and that he wished to see Ewen again.

An abandoned croft low in the northwestern slopes of Ardroy was appointed as their meeting place; and so Ewen set out to see his cousin, scarcely knowing what he expected to hear, and more impatient than ever to hear it.

It was a day of sharp, biting cold; the hoar frost had painted its jagged white rims about the clinging dead leaves and the hanging fronds of lichen upon the birches which grew beside the track, and it gave to the thatch of the cottage roof, seen from a distance, a curious pale appearance, as if it were seen through a thickness of mist. Ewen, slowing down as he ascended the path up to the croft, could see his breath in clouds in the air before him.

The door of the croft had broken or rotted away years before, but a ragged woollen plaid had been hung across the doorway in its place. Ewen paused for a moment with a sort of amazed anticipation; then he pushed aside the blanket and entered.

A peat fire had been made up in the long-cold hearth in the centre of the room. Against the far wall, on a pile of heather with a cloak thrown over it, two figures were sitting, one of them frowning in the dim, flickering gloom at the pages of a little book. Now this man looked up, lowered his book and, rising to his feet, said, ‘Ewen! My dear lad, you have come.’

‘Archie!’

Ewen examined Dr Cameron’s face carefully for any sign of strain or ill-health caused by the last weeks and months among the heather; but he was really looking well, and smiled at Ewen with his old brave smile when Ewen said so.

‘Come and sit down, ’ille,’ he said, gesturing to the piled heather with as comfortable and assured a manner as if he had been inviting Ewen to seat himself in an armchair before the grand stone fireplace at Achnacarry. ‘And I believe,’ he continued, ‘that there is no need to introduce my companion.’

And then Ewen looked over to Archie’s other side, and saw properly the other inhabitant of the croft. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands held out towards the fire, and his eyes glittered in its unsteady light.

‘No, indeed,’ said Ewen. ‘We last met in Appin, I believe, Alan.’

Before that brief meeting, Ewen had seen Alan Breck Stewart on various occasions in France, whither they had both gone into exile after Culloden. And they had known each other a little in the old days in Scotland: they were distant cousins on both sides, for Ewen’s mother had been an Appin Stewart and Alan’s a Cameron.

‘So did we,’ said Alan Breck Stewart, extending his hand to Ewen with a firelit smile. ‘I trust you had no further trouble on account of that day’s happenings.’

‘None but what we have all had, hearing of your kinsman’s fate,’ said Ewen.

‘Ay,’ said Alan, and the smile vanished. ‘We’ve a score to settle there, it’s true. That is all the more reason why I have returned to Scotland now.’

‘Alan and I find that our ways lie together for these few days,’ explained Dr Cameron, ‘and this place is a congenial enough shelter for us both.’

Ewen glanced round at the dark, damp walls and the low gloom of the ceiling; he could doubt that it was quite that. But, with no other comment than a shake of his head, he returned his attention to his companions, for the two Jacobite comrades made a strange contrast, sitting here by this poor Highland fireside together. Archibald Cameron was a gentle and kindly man, with the habits and education of a doctor in his manner, careful and considered in all his speech and actions; little liking the use of violence, and yet as ready to unsheathe his sword in the worthy cause of his King, and with as strong a devotion to that cause underlying his every action, as Prince Charles could have wished for from the most loyal of his supporters. From Ewen’s childhood he had been almost a brother to him; Ewen trusted him absolutely, and had no doubt that any scheme in which Dr Cameron engaged himself was a worthy and a wise one. Alan Breck Stewart was a man of action and bold ventures before he was anything else; as he sat quietly warming his hands before the fire there was yet a sense of suppressed energy about him, as of a coiled spring which might leap into violent life at an unexpected moment. In France Ewen had seen him bring his considerable skill with the sword to several petty disputes quite unworthy of it, and lose foolish amounts of money at the card table; yet his devotion to the Prince’s cause was absolutely sincere and capable of powerful concentration of purpose. He wore that sword now, while Dr Cameron—prudently remembering the Disarming Act, and not wishing to make himself an easier quarry for the redcoats than he was by virtue of an identity which might remain unknown to them—went unarmed. Perhaps, reflected Ewen, it was precisely because of this great contrast that the Prince had chosen these two men to carry out this commission for him. They complemented each other; and they were certainly on good terms with each other, for all their differences.

‘But tell me,’ said Ewen, when the greetings were over, ‘how goes your work? You must excuse my over-curiosity; I hear so little of what goes on, either in Scotland or over the water.’

‘It goes on well enough,’ said Dr Cameron. ‘I was at Crieff during the cattle fair; I saw my brother Fassefern there, and some other associates who brought useful and heartening news; and now that I am back in the Highlands.... As for what’s going on over the water, I fear we can tell you but little, for we do not hear so much news thence either. Since Alan and I saw the Prince at Menin in Flanders, where he gave us this commission, there’s been little——’

‘You have seen the Prince!’ cried Ewen, all eagerness. ‘Tell me of him—is he living at Menin, then?’

‘No—’twas only a meeting place,’ said Dr Cameron, ‘and I cannot tell you where he does live now, for I do not know.’ He might well say so; in fact Charles Edward, ever since his ignominious expulsion from France four years before under the terms of the treaty which had made France’s peace with Britain, had been living in a strange and mysterious hiding—like, as he himself put it, a bird without a nest, flitting from branch to branch. His whereabouts and his doings remained mysterious to ministers, diplomats and spies; the wisest and most far-seeing people in Europe were baffled by the question.

‘But was he looking well?’ pursued Ewen. ‘Was anyone else there with him?’

‘Tolerably well, I believe,’ said Dr Cameron. ‘It was a very quiet meeting, you understand—merely ourselves, a French attendant of the Prince and one or two associates. Alastair MacDonell of Glengarry was there, I recall, besides Alan and me.’

‘There were not many there,’ broke in Alan Breck, who had been watching them both carefully throughout this exchange, ‘though some would say it wasn’t few enough.’

Ewen could guess something of what he meant by this innuendo. Young Glengarry was a near neighbour of his own, the lands of Glengarry lying immediately to the northeast of Ardroy. Though they had not met for years—for the heir of Glengarry spent little time at his family’s poor makeshift dwelling beside the grim, half-ruined tower by the shore of Loch Oich which was their ancestral home, preferring to follow paths of his own devising on the continent and in London—Ewen knew enough about him to make him hesitate before he would call Alastair Ruadh MacDonell his friend or choose him as an ally.

‘We cannot always choose our companions in these matters, Alan,’ said Dr Cameron, ‘but we must trust the Prince to choose wisely. Remember that ’tis all for him in the end. But, Ewen,’ he went on, before his comrade could object again, ‘I invited you here because we have a favour to ask of you. You are willing, I trust, to help us in this work?’

‘Of course!’ said Ewen at once, his heart leaping at the prospect of some task, however small, which might put an end to his inactivity in the cause for which he cared so ardently. ‘Anything I can do, I’ll do gladly. What is this favour?’

It was Alan who answered. ‘I have a letter here,’ he said, ‘which is to go to a friend of mine in Appin‚ but it isn’t wise, nor easy, for me to go there myself just at present. You have kin in that country, and I suppose you can pay a visit there without rousing suspicion. Will you go there and deliver my message?’

‘Yes, certainly I will!’ said Ewen. ‘I can very easily go to see my cousins at Invernacree; is this friend of yours to be found near there?’

So Alan gave him the letter, which Ewen placed folded up in a pocket of his coat, and the name and direction of its recipient.

‘My grateful thanks,’ said Alan solemnly, when the business was arranged. ‘And now, Archie, I’m thinking we might tell Ewen a little more of our errand here, if he’s to help us?’

Dr Cameron looked from him to Ewen and smiled. ‘I think we might,’ he said. ‘Well, then, Ewen... our mission is to go amongst the clans and communicate with our friends in the Highlands—for there are many of those yet, and with the assurances which we can now give them, we hope, we might find many more.’

Ewen was too impatient to wait for him to continue. ‘What assurances?’ he asked, his heart beating.

‘The Prince,’ replied Dr Cameron, ‘has communicated with the King of Prussia, and with General Keith, who is at present in Sweden. He hopes to have the support of them both; at Menin the plan was mentioned of having an army sail from Gothenburg to the north of Scotland early next year.... Ewen, I must tell you that it gladdened my heart to hear the Prince making such plans. You know Donald always argued that any further rising for the Stuarts must begin in Scotland, and not by an invasion of England, as was once the Prince’s preferred strategy, and I believe our chances are far better this way. So my purpose and Alan’s now is to prepare Scotland to be ready to join our allies when they should arrive. At Crieff we spoke with many gentlemen on whose support I believe we might rely, and now we’re going about among the clans, trying how many others we can persuade.’

‘You shall find a loyal friend in me!’ said Ewen exultantly. The mention of Lochiel had increased his own hopes powerfully—for, in Ewen’s mind, plans proceeding along lines which Lochiel had approved must be good and wise. ‘And how have you been faring?—I’m sure that the Camerons will listen to you!’

‘So have many of them,’ said Alan Breck, ‘and the Stewarts too! Fassefern and Glenevis are helping us as they can, and my friends in Appin have surely not forgotten James of the Glens.’

‘But there are difficulties,’ said Dr Cameron, glancing from Alan’s face to the glowing fire before him with a sigh. ‘Of course men feel they must be cautious in these days; I cannot blame them so much for that....’

‘But you might blame them,’ interrupted Alan, apparently forgetting, in his indignation, their original purpose of simply explaining their plans to Ewen, ‘for slandering your name about the Loch Arkaig gold! It’s a disgrace that any Jacobite gentleman could repeat those stories, and that’s the truth.’

‘What stories?’ said Ewen, sitting up on the heather in alarm.

Alan opened his mouth to speak, but evidently thought better of it; he looked at Dr Cameron, who was still silently gazing into the fire. ‘It has been put about,’ said Dr Cameron at last, speaking slowly—‘by whom ’twas originated I do not know, though I have heard the story among the MacDonells—that I have been appropriating the money buried at Loch Arkaig for my own use.’

‘But that is monstrous!’ cried Ewen. ‘How could any gentleman worthy of the name—— Alan is quite right.’

Dr Cameron merely shook his head.

‘I suppose,’ went on Ewen hotly, ‘that this absurd plot to kidnap the Elector was started by the same people—or the rumour of it, for I scarcely believe it to be anything more. There’s no honour in it!’

‘So you have heard of that, have you?’ said Dr Cameron, sounding not at all pleased to learn that Ewen had. ‘No, I cannot approve of such schemes—and I regret to tell you that they’re not only rumour, though they will come to nothing, I am sure. And, as I meant to tell you before we wandered off down this uncongenial byway, though there are difficulties in our path, I do not believe them insurmountable. The more friends we gain for our own schemes, the more hope there is; and I do believe that before the new year is very old the sword may be raised in the Highlands for the Stuarts once again.’

(2)

It was some time later that Ewen walked back along the track that ran past his own garden, his feet crunching on the sparkling clods and ruts of frozen mud, and in his heart a strange blend of joy and trepidation. In 1745 the news of the Prince’s landing in Scotland had come unexpectedly, arriving as it were out of a clear blue summer sky, and he and his fellow Camerons had found themselves drawn into a rising unlooked-for almost before they had had time to comprehend what was happening. What a different thing it was to wait in hope and doubt for years, knowing what had once been and what might be again, never sure whether it could really be, and doubting more with every year that passed.... And now Archie and Alan Breck were engaged in these schemes; and if they succeeded, then all that had begun in ’45 might begin again, and with how much happier a conclusion!

Here in the shelter of the garden wall there grew a diminutive rose bush, and as Ewen passed the place he stopped for a moment, reached down and ran his hand carefully along the stems, where the melting frost, clear and cold, fell in droplets from the tapering thorns. Of course it was November, and the only flowers that grew there now were ghosts conjured up out of memory... but soon it would be spring again, and the roses whose lovely bloom and faint, bewitching scent were almost palpable to Ewen as he gazed upon the bare brown stems would grow strong and brave again, no mere shadows of imagination any longer.

Yet Ewen remembered only too well the events of the fatal year which had followed the Prince’s last appearance in Scotland. It would not be dew dripping from those delicate thorns, if their hopes should indeed come to blossom again... and in the meantime, his own position was very different from what it had been then.

Ewen Cameron, raised from birth to regard allegiance to the Stuarts as a natural duty, was as zealous a Jacobite as he had ever been; if the events of ’46 had taught him prudence, they had not taught him either disloyalty or cowardice. Dr Cameron’s news and the hope he had brought to-day were a real joy to Ewen, and in the brightness of that joy the other side of the matter had almost been dimmed for a while. Yet it was there all the same, and must be faced. What ought he to tell Keith—ought he to tell Keith—of the events that were in motion?

He leant on the wall, not seeing the rose bush or the damp earth beneath it, not feeling the half-frozen, half-sodden cushions of moss upon the stones beneath his arms, while arguments marshalled themselves in his brain upon one side and the other. Disregarding the finer details of his situation, it would be an enormity indeed to reveal to a Whig what plans the Jacobites were preparing—a flagrant betrayal of his duty to the Prince. And his duty to the Prince must come before any purely personal loyalties; had not Archie himself once told him that?... For a moment Ewen wished he could go back up the mountainside and speak to Dr Cameron again, to ask his advice on this question. Belatedly it occurred to him to wonder whether Archie had known that Keith was away from Ardroy when he sent for Ewen. Quite possibly he had, for though Dr Cameron lived out upon the heather he was surrounded by friends here in Lochaber and could hear all the news he wanted, and it would be like him to arrange his visit thus carefully and then refrain, with equal care and delicacy, from mentioning the fact to Ewen. But Dr Cameron did not and could not know the full extent of his loyalty to Keith—and, in any case, was it not the same as Archie’s own loyalty to his Jean, left in lonely poverty over the water because of her husband’s devotion to his cause? But no; it was not a question of choosing between Keith and the Prince; he had already chosen to follow the Prince, and Keith, who put such a high value on honour, would understand that he must do so. The question was that of how, having chosen the Prince, he should deal with the man who had a right to his own part of Ewen’s loyalty—and his own chamber of Ewen’s heart. Yet Keith might decide that, knowing what Ewen told him, he had a duty, as a loyal subject of his King, to inform the authorities of what he knew; and that would be a horrible position in which to place him.

The opposing arguments, perhaps more pragmatic, were not less strong. Having brought Keith to live in the Highlands, where the flame of Jacobitism had never been extinguished and where another rising had always been a real possibility—though Ewen, since his return to Scotland, had always regarded it as one for a far more distant future—he surely owed it to Keith to let him know something, if only so that he could act to protect himself. He would learn of it eventually, after all, and the outbreak of violence would be a horrible thing by which to be surprised. Moreover—while the Camerons of Ardroy, for all their personal liking for Keith, would die rather than let a Whig know anything of the hopes that were getting to be wider-spread amongst them every day—their knowledge would inevitably raise a barrier between themselves and their factor of which Keith could probably not remain ignorant for long. And Ewen must consider also his own ability to keep secrets. He thought uncomfortably of how often he shared a bed with Keith, and of his once so fatal habit of talking in his sleep about any subject on which his mind was not at rest....

And what if he did tell him—and what if the rising should really begin...? He could at least console himself with the thought that there would be no more prospect of having to face Keith in battle; but they would be enemies again, in practical reality and not merely in opinion, and at that thought the ice that hardened the ground and melted from the roses might have frozen again in Ewen’s heart.

He remained there, leaning over the wall, deep in thought and scarcely moving, until the pale golden winter sun disappeared behind the western hills and the light upon the garden began to dim.

(3)

Over the supper table that night, Ewen told his aunt about his meeting with Dr Cameron and Alan Breck Stewart.

‘Is it really so?’ she said, when Ewen had related to her what he had learnt from them. Her tone was difficult to read. Margaret Cameron had lived through three failed Jacobite attempts, taking each time the dutiful woman’s part of loyal sacrifice and steady domestic fortitude; and her reward had been the loss of a lover in the first and a brother in the wake of the second, as well as her share of the hardship which Ardroy along with all the Highlands had suffered in the third. Her devotion to the Stuarts was as undimmed as that of her nephew; but it was perhaps small wonder if she did not greet the prospect of another rising with unalloyed joy.

‘Archie believes it is,’ said Ewen, laying down the fork on which he had speared a piece of venison. ‘And I mean to do all I can to help him and Alan Breck. They’ve given me a letter to carry into Appin, and I’ll set off to-morrow, if you can manage here with my leaving so suddenly.’

At this the serious expression of Margaret’s blue eyes was replaced by a gleam of amusement. ‘I think I can do that, Ewen,’ she said, ‘as well as I have managed things without you many a time before. And of course you must go. You do not need me to tell you to take care, and see that the redcoats don’t find that letter on you!’

Ewen assured her that he would. ‘But—Aunt Marget, there is another thing,’ he said after a pause. ‘I am sorely troubled what to do about Windham.’

‘Mr Windham? Why, he’s a Whig! you cannot tell him anything about this, can you?’

Ewen sighed. ‘So I thought at first,’ he said, ‘but....’ And he recapitulated for her the arguments over which he had dwelt at such length earlier that day. ‘I think I must tell him something,’ he concluded. ‘I have a duty to him as well. He’s only here because of me, and his safety is my responsibility. He’ll want to leave us, of course, if war becomes likely, and I can hardly send him away without telling him the cause.’

Margaret nodded slowly while he spoke. ‘I see,’ she said, when he had finished. ‘Yes, you have made a pretty difficulty for yourself here, Ewen!’

‘I never foresaw——’

‘Of course you did not,’ she said, still in a mild tone.

Margaret’s opinions of Keith Windham had undergone several changes since her first troubled uncertainty about the ‘guest’ whom Ewen had brought to his house in the early days of the ’45. She had been grateful, of course, for what he had done for Ewen during the year that followed that first meeting. When Ewen told her of his plan to bring Keith to live with them, however, she had seriously doubted its wisdom. An Englishman, a Whig and a former soldier, so little used either to the country or to the work, to live at Ardroy and to encroach upon the territory which had been hers for so many years—it had seemed downright foolish, and she had expended not a little effort in fruitless attempts to persuade Ewen out of the scheme. But that had not damaged her personal opinion of Windham; and when he did arrive at Ardroy, his shrewdness and steady application to his new duties, as well as his respect for her abilities, had in time won him her respect too.

Ewen had never made an outright confession to his aunt of the real nature of his relationship with Keith, nor discussed it with her at any length. But he had given her to understand it tacitly; and she—who had seen much of the world, in Scotland as well as during the years she had spent in France before Ewen’s birth, and who prided herself on her general shrewdness of perception as well as on her knowledge of Ewen—had been ready enough to understand, if not exactly to welcome, it. Perhaps, however, she would not understand Ewen’s conviction that, Keith being something very much like a spouse to him, he therefore had something of the duty of a spouse towards him, and that he must now take that duty seriously.

‘Well, I’ll tell you what I think,’ she began again at last. She laid her knife and fork neatly on her plate and drew her chair closer to the table. ‘Mr Windham is a man of honour, as you say, although he belongs to the other party. I believe he will know how to treat a confidence. But I think it would be very unwise to test that honour too far—or to force him to choose between you and the Elector.’

‘I know,’ said Ewen—in a muffled voice, for he had buried his head in his hands.

‘But you are right that it is your responsibility!... Well, I’ll not tell you what to do. If it were up to me, I might advise Mr Windham to go away, and trust him to understand why, without a knowledge which might confer an unwelcome obligation.’

Ewen looked up and nodded. ‘Perhaps something like that,’ he said. The idea of telling Keith to go away was hateful to him, not only for his own sake—for what would Keith, who loved him so loyally and depended so much upon his love in return, make of it?... but perhaps it was the best thing he could do.

‘Perhaps something like that,’ agreed his aunt, with a smile. For a moment it was as though she regarded this difficulty into which Ewen had, as she said, got himself—and the entire situation of his having chosen an Englishman of the other party for his partner in life—as nothing more than the sort of foolish boyish escapade upon which she had been used to look with like smiling indulgence, years ago. But they both knew how much more serious this really was; and the security of her own position, as well as his, lay in the balance of his choice.

The smile faded as they looked at each other across the table. ‘I do not think you’re wrong to trust Mr Windham as you do, Ewen,’ she said at last, ‘but don’t trust him too far.’

Shortly afterwards Eilidh—who had succeeded her grandmother Marsali as maidservant at Ardroy when, five years ago, the old woman had retired from her duties, and who had supported her for the remaining three years of her life—came in to clear the supper dishes away, and then Ewen and Margaret rose from the table. But before Margaret passed out of the room she cast a long look at the engraving of King James the Eighth and Third which hung above the mantelshelf; and, looking away from it at last, she met Ewen’s eyes. Her thoughts were no longer of Keith Windham or the difficulties surrounding him. Ewen understood.

‘May we see him in Scotland yet!’ he said softly.

‘Ay,’ said Margaret. ‘I hope we may.’

III. Friendship and Honour

(1)

A little gust of wind blew suddenly along the narrow glen, shivering through the low grasses that grew by the track and raising momentary disturbances upon the water of Abhainn Cia-aig as it went on its hurrying way towards Loch Arkaig. Keith’s horse twitched her ears at it before continuing to plod steadily forward beside the burn, between the folding hills to either side. It was strange, Keith mused as he rode along, how those hills had changed over the years from something strange and hideous to something familiar. The bare, green, rocky heights were still not exactly lovely to his eyes, but he knew that they were beautiful to Ewen’s, and he could see them with something of his friend’s gaze in his own, and love them for his sake. And for three and a half years now these particular hills, guarding the route that led up from Achnacarry to Ardroy, had been to Keith the way home—back to his own familiar hearth, and back to Ewen. That, perhaps, did something to make them less unlovely.

And so he looked up at them with a little smile upon his face; and then he returned his eyes to the road ahead, where the pine trees that sheltered the house of Ardroy would soon come into view.

Margaret Cameron was in the garden when he arrived, performing some intricate operation upon the espaliered pear tree which grew against the south wall of the house—one of Ewen’s more successful horticultural experiments. Keith called out a greeting to her.

‘Mr Windham!’ she cried, turning round. ‘You must have made good time. I hope your journey has been easy?’

‘Very easy, thank you, Miss Cameron,’ said Keith, bringing the horse to a stop beside the garden wall. ‘’Tis fortunate that this fine weather has held—for my journey and for your gardening!’

‘I should say this little tree’s doing well‚’ agreed Margaret.

‘Is Ewen in the house?’ said Keith. At this time of day Ewen might well be out somewhere among the fields or the crofts, not to return for hours yet, but Keith hoped that he was not.

The easy smile faded from Margaret’s face. ‘He is not here at all,’ she said. ‘He’s gone to Invernacree—some urgent business called him there. He left two days ago.’

‘Urgent business?’ said Keith with a frown. ‘I hope his uncle is not unwell.’

Margaret shook her head. ‘I believe it’s nothing very serious‚’ she said. ‘We’ll hope to see him back soon.’

Keith continued on his way to the stables. This news had unsettled him, and not simply because it meant not seeing Ewen again for a longer time than he had hoped. Ewen, who always had some project or other in hand at Ardroy, generally planned the few trips he made away from home carefully in advance; this sudden departure was not like him, and suggested some serious matter. Probably it was something to do with Stewart of Invernacree, Ewen’s uncle, and Keith hoped the old man was not in any difficulty with either his health or his affairs, for he had liked him well the few times they had met.

About noon the next day Ewen returned. He assured Keith, in response to his anxious enquiries, that Alexander Stewart and his children, Ewen’s cousins, were all quite well, and that they sent Keith and Margaret their kind compliments. But that something was indeed wrong was obvious from Ewen’s furrowed brow and distracted manner as he spoke, and Keith, as soon as they were alone together, said so.

‘Oh, Keith, you’re right,’ said Ewen at once, and then he leaned forward upon the mantelpiece and covered his face with his hands. Keith gripped his shoulder; the muscles were tense beneath his fingers, and he began carefully to move his hand back and forth in a motion that always soothed Ewen whenever he was troubled or unhappy about anything.

After a while Ewen lowered his hands and turned round to face Keith, with something like a smile upon his face.

‘You are quite right,’ he repeated. ‘Something is... not wrong exactly, but.... I’ll speak to you about it this evening, Keith, if you can bear not hearing anything until then.’

‘Of course,’ said Keith. ‘I only hope that there is something I can do to ease your burden, whatever it is.’ He felt a little curiosity, and more foreboding, as to what this trouble might be, but he was content to wait for Ewen to discover it; and predominating over every other feeling was the terrible soreness of his heart at seeing Ewen so distressed.

Ewen smiled, sadly and a little unsteadily. ‘I fear that is impossible, mo chridhe,’ he said; and yet as Keith stepped forward to embrace him he lowered his head readily to Keith’s shoulder, and his arms went round Keith’s waist and held him tightly. Keith tucked his face against Ewen’s neck and closed his eyes, and the familiar feeling of Ewen’s body in his arms, and the familiar smell of him as Keith took a long breath in, steadied him also. Neither of them moved for some time.

(2)

A glad little fire burned in the hearth of Keith’s bedchamber, brightening the narrow bounds of that room against the black night outside. Keith sat in an armchair at one side of the fire, and Ewen at the other. The door had just closed behind Eilidh, who had brought them both cups of chocolate; for a few moments her steady footsteps could be heard receding down the passage, and then there was only the sound of the gently crackling flames.

Keith took a sip of his chocolate and watched Ewen’s face. Ewen was frowning at the fire, obviously working out to himself how to begin on this so important subject.

At last he spoke—slowly, and choosing his words with care, but putting no introductory evasions or circumlocutions before the point.

‘Keith,’ he said, ‘I have recently been speaking to certain persons who are now in the Highlands... In short, I have reason to believe that there may be another rising for the Stuarts next year.’ As he spoke he raised his eyes from the fire to Keith’s face.

So this was the mysterious trouble. Keith opened his mouth, but no words emerged; in fact the full significance—it might be said, the enormity—of Ewen’s announcement was taking time to impress itself upon him. At last he said, ‘I see.’

Keith had known when he came to the Highlands that the cause of the Jacobites had not died upon the field of Culloden Moor, and that they had still some hope, however faint, and however absurd Keith himself thought the notion, that the Pretender’s son might return to Britain and the clans rally again for another rising. He had known also how ardently Ewen wished for it. But he had not thought it remotely likely that such a scheme would reach the point of definite plans being made... as, in fact, he had once thought it not remotely likely that the ’45 would ever come to anything.

Remembering the position in which he had once been before, a thought struck him. Keith Windham, for all that his opinions and his loyalties had undergone many changes in the last seven years, did still consider himself a Whig and a loyal subject of King George; and it occurred to him now that a loyal subject of King George, no matter how he might have come by the information that the Jacobites were making definite plans for another rising, had a duty to tell the Government what he knew.

But no; that he could not do! Ewen had trusted him with this information; thus to reveal information told to him in confidence would be a terrible betrayal, and an act far more abhorrent to his sense of honour than the concealment of his knowledge. He could not, and would not, do it.

All this had passed through Keith’s mind, showing he knew not what signs in his face and bearing, before Ewen spoke again.

‘If you wish to resign your post here,’ he said, ‘and return into England immediately, I would entirely approve the step. I understand how you must regard this matter. I shouldn’t blame you in the slightest for leaving me——’

‘No,’ said Keith. His voice was less steady than he had intended; something of the great jar that had gone through him at Ewen’s words showed in it. He took another sip of his chocolate, changed his position in his chair, and said, ‘No, I will not leave you at once.... Forgive me, Ewen, I must think.’

‘Of course,’ said Ewen, and relapsed into silence.

The calmness of the evening—the crackling fire, the excellent chocolate, Ewen so kind and patient—might have had a correspondingly calming influence on Keith’s thoughts, and probably Ewen had intended it to be so; but as he sat there and considered the matter from all its aspects and at greater length, there rose up in Keith’s heart a sudden fierce anger. With an impulsive gesture he put down his cup, sprang up from his chair and took three rapid steps across the room, as if by movement he could calm the disarray of his thoughts and quiet the flame that heated his blood. It was a hot flame of frustration and impotence, fanned up by the thought of the Highlanders—the Camerons of Ardroy, his own neighbours, amongst whom he had lived these three and a half years, and whom he, however different his feelings had once been, had come to like and respect—going out once again to throw away their lives and their happiness in this hopeless cause. So sadly oppressed were they by the conquerers of the ’45 that they ought to understand how hopeless the attempt would be, but Keith by now knew them well enough to know that they would not understand, or would not regard it if they did.

‘Keith?’ said Ewen quietly.

Keith turned from where his pacing had brought him to stand before the curtained window. Ewen was watching him. ‘I——’ he said, then shook his head. He could say nothing to Ewen just now, for he would not speak in anger. Instead he recrossed the room and sat down again in his chair, touching Ewen’s hand briefly.

And what of Ewen himself?—was he again to risk the life which he had so nearly lost seven years ago, and his house and lands, and what precarious prosperity he had so carefully built up for his people since the ruin of ’46? Keith had a sudden horrible vision of Ewen lying alone on some bloody battlefield, mortally wounded, and himself far away and quite unable to help him.... Must these things be?

Then another thought occurred to him—springing suddenly into his mind as such thoughts sometimes will in the midst of mental turmoil. And this time he spoke at once, for it seemed more horrible to conceal this thought than to reveal it to Ewen.

‘Ewen,’ he said, ‘you know my opinions... and you have trusted me with a great deal in telling me this. Some men in my position, learning of a Jacobite plot, would consider themselves obliged to endeavour to find out more, and to inform Government of what they knew.’

Ewen stiffened visibly in his chair. ‘Some men would,’ he said quietly.

To see him thus doubting stabbed Keith to the heart. And yet Ewen had revealed this secret to him anyway!... ‘I would not do so,’ went on Keith, ‘were duty the only motive for it. You have told me this in confidence, as a matter of trust. No man of real honour could betray that. But think what you have given me, Ewen! If... such a person... were to tell the Government what he knew, his information might foil the plot. There might never be a rising.’ He looked up and met Ewen’s eyes. ‘You would have no chance to take a risk which I can only regard as entirely useless, and which would be very likely to deprive me of——’ And he broke off, so full of mingled revulsion and grief at what he was saying that he could, for a moment, say no more. If this planned rising went ahead, and if Ewen lost what he risked in it, it would deprive Keith of all that he had gained in the years he had known Ewen, and all that he had so sorely lacked for all his life before.

‘Keith!’ said Ewen, in a sort of amazement. ‘I.... You know I respect your loyalties, as you do mine. I anticipated that you might think it a duty to your King to tell what you knew. But I confess it never occurred to me to see the thing that way.’

He was shaking his head in indecision, caught between anger, pity and terrible sadness. But Keith had recovered something of his composure, and interrupted before Ewen could continue. ‘When you and I met in the hills to the south of Morar Bay,’ he said, ‘it was my duty, as an officer of His Majesty’s Army, to capture you and prevent your escape. My honour bade me take the opposite course—you know why.... I told you at the time, and have told you again since then, how awful a choice it was to make—I sometimes think that night tore me to pieces and remade me a different man... but yet my heart was on the side of my honour, and when I chose to let you go I was doing what I knew to be the best. Now you present me with another choice, and this time my honour and my heart are not united. Of course it would be a monstrously dishonourable thing so to use the information you give me; but I’d do almost anything if I thought ’twould save you.

‘I did not betray you that night,’ he continued, ‘and I’ll not do it now, no matter how much grief it might avert. But, Ewen, it is a hard thing you do to me.’ And he covered his face with his hand.

Ewen was silent for a time. At last he said, ‘I really had no notion it would strike you that way.... Keith, I am sorry. Thank you for keeping what I’ve told you in confidence. And I might say,’ he added after a moment, leaning forward in his chair, ‘that if I do fight in this rising, it’s that we may win it! Yes, I know what I risk; but I do it with hope, and I don’t intend to deprive you of anything, save the privilege of belonging to the favoured party... for nothing would please me better than to live by your side in a country ruled by King James.’

At this somewhat doubtful compliment Keith uncovered his face and looked up; he could almost have laughed, though it would not have been laughter of mirth alone. He reached over and took Ewen’s hand. In the relief, bitter relief though it was, of having absolutely made the decision to keep Ewen’s secret, he was beginning to see the practical facts in a clearer light, and to recognise that he did not really have the horrible power he had at first imagined. He could never have brought Ewen’s name into any information he gave, of course, and as he knew no other names of men involved in the plot, or any details of their movements or plans, it was very unlikely that he could have given Government enough intelligence with which to undo it. Even then, there would certainly be a risk to Ewen were the plot discovered, albeit a lesser risk than he would take if it went ahead. And, after all, Ewen was surely not certain yet. Perhaps this scheme, whatever it was, would come to nothing after all.

(In fact, though neither Keith himself nor Ewen knew it, certain men in Government had already heard as much as he would have been able to tell them, and rather more—from another source.)

They sat for a little while longer in silence, while the flames danced over the peats in the hearth. Ewen was frowning at them, his colour heightened, and Keith, who knew him very well, could imagine what was in his mind. Probably, although he had anticipated the conflict this matter would cause, he was a little angered that Keith so readily thought of betrayal and enmity, however clearly and quickly Keith had rejected the thought. But he would not vent his anger on Keith.

Ewen composed himself and carefully drank up the last of his now cooling chocolate. ‘You say you’ll stay in the Highlands for now?’ he said. ‘I do not ask you for definite plans at once,’ he added hastily, ‘but—if I may understand your intentions——’

‘Yes,’ said Keith, speaking slowly, but with decision. ‘I do not mean to abandon you. Should your plans actually come to fruition—and I trust you’ll forgive me, Ewen, for saying that I heartily hope they do not—then I will resign my post here and go away into England. Until then, however, I’ll stay as long as I can.’

This course, he saw, would be unavoidable if this rising did really happen. The already decidedly irregular position which he currently occupied—an Englishman amongst Highlanders; a Whig, yet happy to live in concord and friendship with Jacobites, and perhaps not entirely so much King George’s man as he had once been; altogether oddly betwixt-and-between—would become perilous if he kept it while his friends and neighbours rose again for the Stuarts. There were Whig gentlemen in the Highlands who remained on good terms with their Jacobite neighbours without compromising themselves; but his position as Ewen’s factor was not theirs, and in the midst of an actual war everyone would be at risk of suspicion and violence. Yet it would be cowardly to run away at the first sign of danger, besides its being dishonourable to desert Ewen; and he had a duty also to the people of Ardroy, which he would carry out while he might, and abandon only once no other course was possible.

‘Thank you, Keith,’ said Ewen in a low voice, and pressed Keith’s hand. ‘Ah, this is a sorely painful thing for us both... and I am sorry. But you see I must do it.’

‘Yes, of course I do,’ said Keith, almost brusquely. ‘You are loyal to your King; your honour demands it.... As for my position, I placed myself in it—I knew what I did in coming here, and I know what I do in staying. I hope—I hope that we can continue to help and respect each other as far as possible, if any of this ever comes to anything—which you must allow me still to doubt!’

His anger at Ewen—senseless enough, for it was all on Ewen’s own behalf—was beginning to show itself in his tone, alongside the confusion of his thoughts, which only seemed to grow the longer he spent in thinking them. But Ewen ignored the tone and his last statement, and said only, ‘Oh, Keith, always.... And we’ve always understood that we each have our own loyalties. Though that understanding has never before been put to so hard a test.’ And he gripped Keith’s hand again, and Keith returned the pressure; and the confusion of his thoughts was calmed for a while.

After a time Keith put his empty chocolate-cup down upon the floor, settled back in his chair, and said, ‘There is, as you say, still time to change my plans later on. Perhaps I will, when I’ve thought about it at more length.... This is a great deal to think about.’

‘That it is,’ said Ewen with a little, sad smile.

‘I think,’ said Keith now, ‘we have discussed this enough for the present.... ’Tis late, and past time we were in bed. There will be much to do to-morrow.’

Ewen nodded, stood up from his chair and, as Keith stood up too, took Keith’s hands in both his own. ‘My loyalty to my King,’ he said firmly, ‘will never part my heart from yours, Keith... no matter what happens in the spring.’

And Keith, suppressing with an effort the conflicting feelings, doubts and fears in his heart, freed one of his hands to pull Ewen’s head gently down to his own level, and kissed him.

And they spoke no more of the hopes of the Jacobites—that night.

(3)

Time passed; the year descended towards the darkness of midwinter, and then began the long slow climb on the far side. Affairs at Ardroy went on much as usual. The harsh weather and the resulting poor state of the mountain roads kept Ewen at home most of the time, and he was sunk once again into an agonising state of hearing very little news—all the more agonising now because he knew that Keith, too, was waiting anxiously for that further news which Ewen had promised to give him, should the hopes of the Jacobites look likely at any point imminently to come to real action. But no Swedish landing was made in the north of Scotland, and there was no summons to arms from the Prince. And so, for now, Keith’s place in Ewen’s life remained what it had been for the last three and a half years, and Ewen, even while he wished so fervently for news of Jacobite plans, clung to it as something precious which he might soon lose. He kissed Keith with more warmth than ever, and held him close in the long winter nights they spent together.

Ewen met Dr Cameron once or twice more, when he happened to be passing near Ardroy, and heard from him in other places occasionally. Though Archie answered Ewen’s anxious inquiries as to how he was faring in the winter weather with reassurances that he was quite well, he said little of his work or his plans. Towards the end of February, after a silence of some weeks, he sent word to Ewen that he was again in Lochaber, Alan Breck having left him for a while to pay a visit somewhere in the Lowlands; but even this little note, so eagerly awaited, contained nothing at all concerning the prospects of the Stuart cause.

IV. The High Road

(1)

From somewhere beyond the high, arched window of the dressing-room a mistle thrush sent the gently melancholy phrases of its song out into the mild March air, ornamenting the prospect of bare trees, dark holly bushes and rugged green grass which, not quite yet a garden, surrounded the house, and the outline of the low hills in the farther distance. It reached the ears of David Balfour as he crossed and recrossed the room, trying as he walked to tie his cravat to his satisfaction.

David had enjoyed the possession of the house and lands of Shaws for somewhat more than a year, since the not much regretted death of his uncle Ebenezer. He found that his new position kept his time fully occupied. On the one hand there was the happy, if demanding, task of managing the house and estate and going about setting them to rights after their previous owner’s sad neglect of them, in which work David was assisted by the able hand of Mr Rankeillor, who had been pleased to add him to the number of local lairds for whom he acted as factor and man of business as well as legal advisor. And on the other hand there was the business (as pleasant as the first in its own way, but no simpler) of establishing himself in the position of a fortunate and respectable gentleman of property, which in this country neighbourhood so near Edinburgh presented a pleasing variety of social opportunity. To-day was an example of his progress; for he had been invited by General Churchill, the Commander of the Army in Scotland, to dine in his quarters at Holyrood House, and it was for this important engagement that he was now making his preparations. The domestic establishment at Shaws was still somewhat limited, and David’s sole manservant, John, was at this moment outside seeing to the preparation of the carriage hired to convey him to Edinburgh; thus John’s young master was left to dress himself for the present.

But even as he made another attempt at the cravat, David’s thoughts were elsewhere—or, rather, they were half elsewhere, torn between two widely divergent objects. Suddenly abandoning his pacing of the room, he flung himself into a chair by the fireside and sat for some moments frowning gloomily, first at the low fire which burned in the grate, then at the other chair which stood empty on its far side. Anticipations of the dinner, the General, the famous splendour of Holyrood House, the interesting people he would meet there, the carriage in which he was to travel, all pressed themselves upon his mind as a suitable sequel to this quiet, preparatory domestic solitude; and yet as he looked he saw the hearthside, not as it was now, but as it had been three weeks ago, when the second chair had not been empty, and when this little room had been enlivened by the presence of a person not at all in harmony with that happy image of Edinburgh Whig society.

How that firelight—now casting a cheerful glow into the dim afternoon—had flickered upon Alan’s face in the evening, adding its own expression to the animation of his pockmarked features as he told David some tale of his adventures in France or in the Highlands, or sang for him a Gaelic song, or teased him for having become such a respectable proprietor since they had last met.... The visit had been entirely unexpected and unwarned-for. David had had no idea that Alan was in Scotland again at all, and he had at first greeted his friend’s sudden arrival at Shaws with dismay and alarm at the danger into which he was throwing himself. Not quite satisfied by Alan’s protesting that he had returned to the country upon business of his own in any case—‘...and I can’t well be hazarding anything more by coming to the Lowlands for a visit, while the redcoats are all hunting for me in the Highlands, David!’—once the first shock had cooled David had nevertheless been heartily glad to see his friend again. It was the first time he had seen Alan since their parting after David’s first and so memorable return to Shaws, when Alan had gone back over the sea to France. The few days of his visit were happy ones indeed.

But Alan had left—he had slipped away in the night as mysteriously as he had arrived, and thus avoided the good-bye which ever since Corstorphine Hill had been such a hard thing with both of them—and now he was gone back to the Highlands, collecting the rents for his Chief, or raising recruits for his French regiment. Even now he might be bounding nimbly along over some heather-clad hillside, or crouching in the darkness of a high mountain cave to evade the peril of pursuing soldiers... and David, who had once shared with him the heather and the mountains and the peril alike, sat here in his grand house by the shore of the Firth of Forth and dressed for a dinner party. Certainly it was a strange world.

With a sigh David rose to his feet. He re-tied his cravat once more, adjusted the ribbon which secured his hair at the back of his neck, dusted off the hair-powder which this operation transferred to his hands in perplexing quantities, and, finally satisfied that his toilet was quite complete, opened the door and set off down the stairs.

(2)

Twenty minutes later the carriage, with David inside and with John—an experienced and widely capable servant—in the character of coachman, was bowling along the driveway. As they drew to a stop before the gates David thought to himself with some satisfaction that there was perhaps no more pleasing instance than this scene of the great difference between what Shaws was now and what it had been when he first saw it. Where the uprights of the entrance had once stood starkly alone, there was now a low, regular and unostentatious stone wall enclosing the park to either side of them; where a pair of hurdles had served as a makeshift gate there was a real set of wrought iron gates; and where the lodge had once been roofless and desolate, it now had a roof of thatch, a handsome new wooden door, vegetables planted in neat beds in its garden and smoke curling from its little chimney—in short, it was converted into a pleasant and comfortable habitation. And now the inhabitant of this charming dwelling issued from the front door to open the gates: it was Maggie Lamb, John’s widowed mother, a grey-haired woman with a look about her of cheerfulness underlain by shrewd good sense. David, leaning out of the carriage window, bid her good afternoon.

‘And the same to you, Mr Balfour!’ she said. ‘I don’t doubt ’twill be a fine time up in Edinburgh. Now, John, you see that those horses behave themselves on the road!’—this last addressed to her son.

And the hired horses must have paid attention to this advice, for the rest of the five-mile journey passed smoothly and without incident. They entered the city through the West Port, with the great Castle glowering above it, and shortly afterwards John stopped the carriage and David descended into the confusion of the street outside the General’s lodgings—whence, after a few moments of bewilderment amongst the flurry of movement and noise which is the usual state of every busy street in a fashionable city, he managed to gain the entrance.

A short time after that he was ushered by the General’s servant into a spacious, high-ceilinged chamber, filled with smart furniture and with candles whose glitter and sparkle banished any thought of the gloomy afternoon outside. In this room were a number of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, talking and laughing together in groups. David had just managed to pick out the faces of some people he knew when General Churchill himself—a tall, affable-looking man of about sixty, brilliant amongst the candles in his military scarlet and gold—appeared from out of the crowd and came towards him.

‘Ah, Mr Balfour!’ he said in his hearty English voice, extending his hand to David. ‘Marvellous to see you here... and how are things at Shaws, hmm?’

‘Very well, thank you, sir,’ said David, returning his host’s genial smile.

They exchanged a few more such commonplace remarks, after which the General left to greet another new arrival and David made his way over to his friends. These were a group of young men, students at the University or sons of country gentlemen who preferred a town life, who had absorbed him into their set during previous meetings at parties, and who now drew him cheerfully into their miscellaneous social chatter and kept him there for the next twenty minutes or so.

Presently dinner was announced. The gathered company proceeded to the dining-room, a chamber even more brilliantly-lit than the room from which they had come.

David found himself seated at the table next to Miss Georgina Churchill, the daughter of his host. For a few moments he felt acutely the disadvantages of having been raised far away from fashionable society, for he was sure he had no notion of how to talk to a general’s daughter, but Miss Churchill proved a more fluent conversationalist than he, and ready to make his task easy.

‘I don’t believe we have had the pleasure of your company here very often, Mr Balfour,’ she said, carefully scooping oyster sauce onto a forkful of fish with her knife. ‘Do you live in Edinburgh?’

‘No—my house is in Cramond parish, a few miles away,’ explained David.

‘Ah, I see. You have the best of both—a charming rural situation, and yet at a convenient distance for visiting the city whenever you like. Very wise! You must know Edinburgh pretty well?’

‘I can’t say that I do,’ said David, ‘for I have only lived at Shaws a year or so. I inherited the house from my uncle, you see. I was brought up at Essendean—a little country place, two days’ journey from here.’

‘Really?’ said Georgina, her face brightening. ‘Then you and I are alike newcomers; for it was about a year ago that we arrived here, when Papa got his appointment. We lived in England before that.’

‘I suppose we are,’ agreed David.

‘We must compare our impressions of the place,’ she said, lowering her tone to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Do you not think, for instance, that the houses here are built quite fearsomely high? I declare I should die of fright if I had to live at the top of one.’

David concurred in this judgement, for the many-storeyed and sometimes precarious buildings of Edinburgh had indeed struck him as distinctly unnerving when he had first seen them. ‘But, fortunately for us all, Miss Churchill,’ he said, ‘you have not to live at the top of one, when you have these very pleasant rooms to inhabit instead.’

Georgina laughed. ‘Quite right,’ she said, ‘and I am glad you think the rooms pleasant, Mr Balfour.’

Their conversation continued through the arrival and consumption of a fairly bewildering selection of dishes. David sampled the roast wild duck, a plum pudding, a dish of hashed beef and a small piece of apple tart, pronouncing them all excellent (‘we are fortunate in our cook,’ agreed Georgina; ‘she’s a terribly clever woman.’) Georgina Churchill was one of those happy people who, intimidated not at all by the daunting mires of social intricacies, can strike up friendships in this easy way. At any time she could keep a conversation going with a relative stranger, without apparent effort, and with real enjoyment; and to-night she was in a particularly cheerful mood, and threw herself with all her heart into the social tasks of the party, smiling at David’s speeches and readily bestowing friendly remarks upon her other neighbours in the intervals of their conversation. Perhaps she was buoyed up by the efforts of the clever cook; or perhaps she had some special private reason to be happy just now.

At length the last dishes were cleared away, and the ladies withdrew—Georgina doing so with a hope that she would see Mr Balfour again in the drawing-room later. David soon afterwards found himself accosted by the group of young gentlemen with whom he had been talking earlier, and who now possessed themselves of the vacated chairs about him.

‘This is splendid, isn’t it?’ said James Carmichael, a student of the law, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. ‘The General’s hospitality is admirable—for an Englishman‚’ he added generously.

David agreed that it was.

‘But, Shaws’—and the young lawyer’s genial smile turned sly—‘you have been very friendly with Miss Georgina to-day! How do you find her? Might we suspect you of a little flirtation?’

‘I—— Miss Churchill is a very charming young lady,’ said David, ‘but I am afraid you would suspect wrongly.’ He was taken aback by Carmichael’s interpretation of his conduct, for nothing of the sort had crossed his mind during his conversation with Georgina. She was charming, to be sure. Her light brown hair, pink and white cheeks and plump rounded arms were of a type generally reckoned beautiful, and no doubt her gown of pale blue silk became her handsomely, and David had liked her very well—but his pleasure in her society had been simply that of a congenial new friendship, and he was sure he had not seen her, and could never see her, in any other light.

‘Ah, well, we know what that means!’ cried Carmichael, his smile breaking into a knowing laugh. ‘’Tis past time you showed some appreciation for the ladies, Shaws, for I’ve thought you uncommon cold in that way—but you were merely particular, I see! I must say I admire your taste.’

David, in some confusion, tried to protest against this accusation, but the cheerful Carmichael—apparently viewing his reasoning upon the point as he might one of his legal arguments, as something to be maintained with perfect certainty and superiority against any challenge—would have none of it. But he was interrupted by the man on David’s other side, whose name was Erquistoune, and who said, ‘Well, Shaws, I hope you have really not lost your heart to the lady, for I hear she has accepted the suit of an English lord who was staying here a week or so ago. We Scots gentlemen were not sufficient for her discerning taste, I fear.’ And he shook his head in mock dolefulness.

This piece of gossip did something to dampen Carmichael, who seemed disappointed by David’s failure to receive it with heartbroken dismay, and the conversation soon passed to other subjects. David, losing the thread of an argument which sprang up between Carmichael and Erquistoune about whether Mr Hume and his writings were or were not patently ridiculous and whether this was or was not a good thing, returned to his reminiscences of earlier in the day, and fell to wondering what Alan Breck would make of this company, and what he would say if he could see David now. Probably nothing very complimentary; but David felt that he would have liked to hear his teasings, and was absurdly sorry for a moment that Alan was not here to see him.

In the middle of these reflections David happened to glance towards the head of the table, where General Churchill was speaking to a couple of other gentlemen, apparently about his military duties.

‘Yes, there are so many sad disturbances to be seen to,’ he was saying. ‘If it isn’t the nest of Jacobite plotters here in Edinburgh, ’twill be somewhere else—well, up in the Highlands, of course—— Yes, Mr Balfour, do come and join us! As I was saying, Warner, only last night I had word from the Lord Justice-Clerk concerning the whereabouts of two notorious Jacobites who have come over from France, and whom Government have been pursuing for some time. I sent a warrant to Inversnaid for their arrest, and the detachment ought to be on their way by now.’

David, who had risen from his chair and walked a little way round the table the better to hear this interesting speech, moved closer; while the gentleman addressed as Warner enquired who were these much-wanted Jacobites, and where had they been hunted down?

‘One was Dr Archibald Cameron,’ said the General—pronouncing the name in a low tone, but slowly, as one who relishes in the recital of his own successes even while keeping them prudently quiet—‘who has been a thorn in our side for many years; and the other was Alan Breck Stewart, who is wanted for the murder of a Government factor in the Highlands the year before last. They are supposed to be at the house of Duncan Stewart of Glenbuckie, in Balquhidder—so the Lord Justice-Clerk is reliably informed. Well, suffice it to say that, if all goes well, we shall shortly be celebrating a very great triumph in the capture of these two plotters.’

‘Dr Cameron!’ said Warner, and, ‘That will be a great success, by Gad!’ said his companion. The General looked pleased.

But David heard none of this praise. To the first name spoken by General Churchill he had listened with some distant interest; at the sound of the second the blood had frozen in his veins. He could not look at the General. He could not speak to anyone. He stood clutching the table, his brain a whirl of dismay. Alan hunted down in the Highlands—Alan informed upon, his hiding place known, and his capture imminent!

‘My dear Shaws, are you unwell?’

Carmichael, having tired of philosophical debate, had followed David towards the head of the table, and now came up behind him and placed a kindly hand upon his shoulder. David, turning, managed a few confused sentences to the effect that he was not feeling at all well, and that he thought he ought to leave the gathering and go home.

‘Dear me, if you’re not well then we cannot send you out on a ten-mile carriage journey, or however far it is to Shaws! General Churchill will find you somewhere to lie down and rest—— No? Very well, then, if that’s what you think best.... I will make your excuses to the General, then, Shaws, don’t worry about it.’

Guided by Carmichael’s steadying arm, David stumbled from the room. Carmichael, behind his retreating back, raised his eyebrows at his friend Erquistoune with a mixture of ironic eloquence and real concern; truly, he had not thought poor Shaws would take the news about Miss Churchill’s English lord so hard as that...!

The carriage sped on its way out of the city. The rattling of the cobblestones and the lights of the houses gave way to the jolting of the country lane and the view of the dusky sky broken up by dark tree-branches and tall tangled hedgerows, and David’s mind began to clear. The cool air and the silence calmed him. He remembered how craftily Alan had evaded the redcoats in the wood of Lettermore on the day of Colin Campbell’s murder, when they had been almost upon him; he remembered with what skill Alan had fought and defeated the murderous sailors in the round-house upon the brig. Surely General Churchill had underestimated his quarry. Alan could look after himself; he would escape from the pursuit, or if it came to a fight he would be the victor. He was undoubtedly in peril because of the things David had heard this afternoon, but the life he led in the Highlands was one of constant peril, and there was no need to suppose that his capture was certain.

And yet.... The General had said that his informer had given the name of the house—that of Stewart of Glenbuckie, whoever he might be—where Alan was hiding. Alan would surely think his hiding-place safe, and would not be expecting any pursuit to reach him there; and no doubt a large party of redcoats would be sent out from Inversnaid, and if they found Alan and his companion and came upon them unawares, what could the most brilliant skill avail to save them? David pictured his friend, the sword glinting in his hand, standing at bay in the hall of a house, as he had stood in the round-house on the brig, making swift slashes and cuts at the enemies who swarmed round him, and felling one after another of them; but those enemies were stronger and more determined than Captain Hoseason’s sailors had been, and they were so many—in the end they would be too strong for him....

It was no good. David leaned his forehead against the carriage window and looked dully out at the view of fields and hedgerows growing indistinct in the gloom. He wished he had never gone to General Churchill’s dinner. What misery it was to know of the danger in which Alan was—the hoped-for success of which the General had boasted so proudly—and to be unable to do anything to save his friend!

And then a new thought came to him. He remembered clearly the name of the place where Alan and his fellow Jacobite were supposed to be: Duncan Stewart of Glenbuckie’s house—in Balquhidder. Balquhidder! The very place where he and Alan had been, less than two years ago; the scene of events that he never could forget... and the way to Balquhidder was simply the reverse of the journey they had then made back towards Queensferry—surely he could remember it. He could—he would go there now and warn Alan that the soldiers were on their way. The General’s warrant would have a head start on him, of course, but there was a chance that he might manage to reach Stewart of Glenbuckie’s house in time. And if he could save Alan....

The carriage drew to a stop, and David emerged from his feverish plan-making to see, with some surprise, that he had arrived back at the lodge, and that old Maggie Lamb was once more opening the gate for him to pass through.

‘Oh, what a pity!’ she exclaimed, in answer to John’s explanation of why he and his master were returned so early. ‘And you were so keen to go to the party, Mr David. Ah well, there’ll be other parties—’tis a fine, lively place, Edinburgh....’

In another minute the carriage had drawn up before the house. David opened the door and leapt to the ground—to the slight astonishment of John, who was making his way carefully round to help his indisposed master down.

‘John, I have received a message,’ said David, ‘from—from my friends at Essendean. Urgent business calls me there at once—I must start to-night. Have my horse made ready.’ He hated to tell a lie, but it could not be helped, for he must make some plausible excuse for his sudden departure.

‘Of course, sir,’ said John, adding anxiously, ‘I hope ’tis no very bad news.’ For he liked his young master, who was always kind to him and who had been so generous in fitting out the lodge as a home for his old mother—quite unlike the previous Mr Balfour, whom John had served for ten years before David’s arrival and who had, through the force of contrast, given him a keen appreciation for the value of kindness and liberality in a gentleman.

‘No, no,’ said David distractedly, ‘but I must go at once....’ And without further ceremony he ran into the house and upstairs, leaving his faithful and puzzled servant to make arrangements about the horses.

Once inside his dressing-room, David hastily set about removing his fine clothes, which would never do for a long journey into the Highlands. Wondering what would do, he remembered that he still had the clothes in which he had travelled across the Highlands before—those which that kind Cameron cousin of Alan’s had given him, when they met upon the road in Appin. Since his return to Shaws they had found a useful purpose as work clothes for when he went on his excursions about the estate, supervising repairs, speaking to his tenants in their fields or helping with the work himself in the busy harvest time. Surely those would be the best thing: they were plain, sturdy enough for travelling, and—importantly—having originally belonged to a Highlander, they would surely not stand out as unusual in the Highlands.

So he went over to the oaken chest in which the clothes were stored, retrieved them and put them on, adding to them the plaid which would be useful for any journey in the wild. All the while he was sketching out in his mind the route he was to take. There need be no secrecy about crossing the Forth this time, at least; he could ride up to Stirling and go over the bridge, and then up along Allan Water and so into the Highlands. Yes, he remembered the way.... The greatest difficulty would be to find Stewart of Glenbuckie’s house once he had reached Balquhidder, for he had never heard the name before and had no idea in what part of that country it lay—but it must be a well-known place, and a few enquiries would point him towards it.

Half an hour later he was standing in the stable-yard with a little bag containing food, some money for the journey and a pair of pistols—it was only wise to be prepared for trouble. In front of him was his horse, saddled and bridled; above him the moon was just rising into a darkened sky from which the clouds were clearing away, and its light gleamed upon the smooth cobblestones of the yard where they were not cast into black shadow by the buildings. It would be an easy night for travelling....

‘I shall be back in a week or so, I expect,’ he said to John, who had followed him from the house. This, he calculated, was about the time it would take him to reach Balquhidder, find Alan and warn him—for that was all he must do—and then return the same way. ‘You must tell Mr Rankeillor.... There’s no very urgent business at the moment. I suppose he’ll be able to see to whatever wants doing while I am gone.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said John; and then burst out with, ‘Are you quite sure you don’t want me to come with you, Mr Balfour? I could easily go—I wouldn’t mind it——’

‘Quite sure, John,’ said David. ‘Thank you. But this is important business, on which I must go alone.’

John, still far from happy at the thought of young Mr Balfour going suddenly haring off into the night like this, nodded. ‘Be careful on the road, then, sir,’ he said.

David assured him that he would be; and then he mounted upon his horse and said a last farewell. Out of the stable-yard and down the long driveway he rode, and out by the gate between the stone pillars with their coats of arms—pausing here to repeat his story about a summons from Essendean to an astonished Maggie—and then he was out upon the high road.

With a word of encouragement to the horse—who would need it, for they must travel as fast as they might when a few hours more or less could mean everything for Alan—David turned to the west, and set his face towards Stirling Brig.

V. The Low Road

(1)

‘Keith—there you are!’

With these words the young man sprang nimbly down from the handsome bay mare on which he had ridden up to the house of Ardroy, and came forward to embrace his half-brother.

‘You are looking very well,’ said Francis Delahaye, Lord Aveling, drawing back with his hands on Keith’s shoulders and critically regarding his face, ‘although you appear in such unaccustomed surroundings! I declare these Highland hills are the most splendidly imposing sight I have seen in Scotland yet—better than anything in Edinburgh.’

Keith laughed. ‘You like them better than I did when I first saw them,’ he said. ‘Come inside, now. I hope your journey has been uneventful; travelling amongst these splendid hills can be decidedly awkward.’

Having seen the bay mare safely into the care of the groom, the two brothers went arm in arm towards the house. They were entirely unalike to look at: where Keith was dark in colouring, with features which might have been severe had they not just now been animated by a smile of pleasure, Francis had a smooth, easy beauty of face, and both the hair which was currently concealed beneath wig and hat and the eyebrows which he raised in surprised laughter at a remark of Keith’s were fair. But their family resemblance appeared far more clearly in the voices in which they talked together of Francis’s ride along the Great Glen, the sights and amenities of Inverness (‘I actually found a letter already waiting there for me when I arrived! These northern wilds are not half so primitive as I feared,’) the friends with whom Francis had been staying in Edinburgh before extending his trip northwards, and many other things. They had not met for nearly two years, since Keith had last travelled into England, and Francis had never been at Ardroy before to-day, or in Scotland at all until a few weeks ago.

Ewen and Miss Cameron met them in the hall. Francis and Ewen greeted each other warmly—for they had first met in London four years ago, when Ewen had gone there to find Keith and persuade him to come back to Ardroy with him—and Ewen introduced his aunt and Lord Aveling to each other. These pleasant ceremonies over, Keith accompanied Francis upstairs to the guest bedchamber which had been prepared for him.

‘This is very comfortable,’ said Francis, looking round the room from the deep armchair into which he had flung himself. He leaned his head contently against the back of the chair and continued, ‘I like your new home very well already, Keith. I can’t say I ever envisaged you farming in the Highlands, but the life seems to suit you admirably!’

Keith smiled and took the chair opposite Francis’s. ‘I believe it does,’ he said.

The last few months had been quiet ones at Ardroy. The previous year’s winter had seen the sham trial and disgraceful execution of James Stewart of the Glens as an accessory to the Appin murder of the summer before, as well as the murky affair in which Alexander Cameron of Glenevis and John Cameron of Fassefern, both distant cousins of Ewen’s, had been imprisoned at Fort William, questioned by Colonel Crauford, the Governor of the fort, and their houses and papers searched, all on a matter connected with some money sent from abroad in aid of the Pretender’s son and hidden in the Highlands; and so the relative peacefulness of this winter had been something of a relief. Seven years ago Keith had resigned his commission in the Army because he had felt himself no longer able, as an honourable man, to take part in the Government’s treatment of the defeated Highlands, and since returning to this part of the world he had continued to regard the policies employed by the commanders of the Great Glen forts with no very favourable judgement—and that for more than one reason. Keith Windham brought to his position as factor at Ardroy the same sense of duty which he had once employed in very different work. It seemed clear to him that to work towards the betterment of the Highlanders’ lives, to relieve their poverty, to provide them with useful and fruitful work, to treat them fairly and to offer them better prospects in return for their good faith and industry—that all these things, besides being good in themselves, were the surest way to lessen the people’s appetite for unrest and violent rebellion. A Government which dealt with uprisings through harsh and arbitrary oppression in matters as petty as the clothing a man wore—which put to death an innocent man upon absurd charges for little other reason than to show its own power—which must constantly interfere with the lives and livelihoods even of gentlemen—was simply inviting further rebellion, and would bring upon itself more violence, bloodshed and grief for both sides. It was enraging. And therefore it had been a relief for more than purely personal reasons, not only that this winter had been so quiet, but that Keith had heard nothing more from Ewen of any Jacobite plotting towards another rising. Doubtless it had all come to nothing, as he had hoped it would; and the schemes for reform and improvement in which Ewen was as deeply interested as he was himself, if not quite for the same reasons, might go on in peace.

So mused Keith to himself, in the pauses between listening to and answering Francis’s questions about his life and work in the Highlands, and about what sort of a man Ewen Cameron of Ardroy really was, after all—for Francis and Ewen had liked each other very much when they had met in London, but had had little chance at that time to get to know one another well. At length Keith said, ‘But you have plenty of news for me too, Francis, I’m sure! What have you been doing in England these two years?’

And so Francis told him of his own doings, both at his father’s country seat at Stowe in Buckinghamshire, and in London, where Francis lived for most of the year. At last he came round to the subject of his present journey to Scotland—for his visit to Ardroy was not the only reason he had come to that country.

‘I told you I was visiting General Churchill, didn’t I?... He and Father are old friends, and I first met him and his family a couple of years ago, before he got his present appointment at Edinburgh.’

Keith nodded. ‘I hope they’re all well?’ he said.

Francis assured him that they were, but he spoke with the vague manner of one thinking of something else. He was leaning forward in his chair, his eyes bright; and Keith, who had not failed to mark some significant lines in Francis’s recent letters about a Miss Churchill, conceived a surmise which turned out to be perfectly correct.

‘I told you about Georgina Churchill, Keith, did I not?’

‘You did,’ said Keith, one corner of his mouth rising slightly.

‘She—well, that is to say, I have——’ He broke off, and began again, ‘While I was in Edinburgh, Georgina and I... came to an understanding. I hardly know how, but—she has accepted me! Oh, Keith, I am the very happiest of men.’

It was a hackneyed phrase, and one which Keith had, whenever he heard it before, thought more than a little absurd. But he could believe it of Francis. He placed a hand on his brother’s arm. ‘You have my most sincere congratulations,’ he said, really smiling now. Then in a less serious tone he added, ‘I look forward to meeting the lady—if I know nothing else about her, I know that she has excellent taste.’

Francis laughed aloud—a natural bubbling-over of spirits already sparkling with lively joy. ‘Thank you, Keith. Oh, I'm sure you will like her! She really is the most splendid girl in the world—sensible, charming, good-natured and intelligent....’

And for a little while longer Keith indulged his young brother in the enumeration of his fair lady’s virtues—thinking, as he listened, with a peculiar wistfulness that was half glad and half pensive of the things which Francis’s present mood had in common, and the things it had not, with the sentiments of his own heart for Ewen.

Presently Keith, in a pause of Francis’s recital, glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and remarked that the usual dinner hour at Ardroy was approaching, and that, if Francis felt himself sufficiently recovered from the fatigue of his journey, they should go downstairs and seek Ewen’s and Miss Cameron’s company. Francis—though he did not look exactly rested—agreed that this was an excellent plan, and having changed his travelling-coat for a cleaner and more elegant garment and adjusted his wig, he followed Keith down to the parlour.

‘I confess I am very curious to know your Mr Cameron better, Keith,’ said Francis as they descended the stairs. ‘You’ve told me so much about him, I know, and yet I feel I know so little....’ Here they reached the foot of the stairs; and Keith, walking ahead of Francis, crossed the hall and opened the door into the parlour.

Ewen was standing in the attitude in which Keith was most accustomed to finding him in this, or any other, room of his house—gazing out of the window—but he turned at the sound of the door, and came forward to welcome them with a warm smile.

‘Lord Aveling—I hope you have found your room comfortable? Yes, I think dinner is almost here; will you come and sit down?’

Dinner proceeded cheerfully. Much to Keith’s gratification, Francis and Ewen proved equally eager to renew their acquaintance. They compared their experiences of Edinburgh, where Ewen went occasionally to visit friends or to consult his lawyer; Francis described his first impressions of the Highlands and the various interesting sights he had remarked on the journey from Inverness, and both Miss Cameron and Keith joined Ewen in telling him more about the things he had seen; Ewen answered Francis’s questions—asked with real interest as well as politeness—about his estate and how his farming and gardening went on; and by the end of the meal they were all four excellent friends.

When Eilidh came in to clear away the plates, Ewen was deep in a description of some new vegetables which he and his gardener intended to try growing this year; and, the day being fine and mild for the middle of March, he now suggested that he might take Francis out for a tour of the gardens, a proposal to which Francis very readily assented.

‘Will you come with us, Keith?—No? Very well, then, we’ll see you later,’ said Ewen; and he and Lord Aveling set out together.

They were gone for an hour or so; and, from the occasional glimpses Keith had of them through the parlour window beside which he sat with a book in his hand, they seemed to be getting along together with as much mutual enjoyment as ever. Presently Keith let the book fall in his lap and his thoughts stray to musing upon this happy new friendship. There had not been much to regret in the life in England which he had left behind four years ago; but his brother’s company he did miss, for he and Francis had always been friends, and Francis, though scarcely more than a boy at the time, had been wonderfully kind and understanding about (what must have appeared to him a singularly strange step) Keith’s resignation of his commission and the various hardships which had followed upon it. Indeed, his decision to remove suddenly to the remote depths of the Highlands probably seemed scarcely less singular, and Francis had been just as understanding about that, even though it had parted them.

Ewen and Francis returned to the house by the side door, and thence came into the parlour where Keith sat. Francis flung himself down beside his brother on the window seat, but Ewen remained standing, and said, ‘Excuse me if I leave you now, Lord Aveling. I have some matters to attend to—and I’m sure you and Keith have plenty to talk of together without my intruding!’

Francis thanked him for a highly interesting tour, adding his opinion that Ewen would not be intruding in the slightest if he did stay with them; but Ewen, after returning his own thanks, left the parlour, and a few moments later Keith heard his footsteps on the stairs. He wondered, for a moment, what matters Ewen could have to attend to upstairs at this time of day, for all his business was usually conducted in the study on the ground floor. No doubt he had left some important papers in his bedroom, or some such thing.

He might, perhaps, have done well to wonder a little longer.

‘I’m glad to see you such good friends,’ said Keith now, turning back to Francis.

‘Mr Cameron talks very engagingly about his gardening, ’tis true,’ said Francis with a smile, ‘though’—here the smile turned a little wry—‘I fear I committed a blunder just now.’

‘A blunder?’ said Keith.

‘Yes—of a political nature. I happened to mention some news I had from Georgina—I told you about her letter, didn’t I, which was waiting for me at Inverness?’ As he spoke he raised his hand and moved it slowly under the breast of his coat and towards his waistcoat pocket; it was an unconscious gesture, and Keith guessed that the precious letter was this moment stowed safely within that very pocket. ‘Well,’ continued Francis, ‘it seems her father, the General, received word from the Lord Justice-Clerk a few days ago of the whereabouts of Dr Cameron—you have heard of him, I suppose?—and another Jacobite agent, and that he has sent out a warrant for their arrest. I was reminded of it now by Mr Cameron’s having the same name, of course. I suppose they belong to the same clan. I gather that Mr Cameron doesn’t know him well, though he said they had met, but even so he seemed agitated by the news, and I see now that I was a fool to mention Dr Cameron or to bring up the Jacobite question at all. I understand that some political skill is required to keep the peace between the two parties in Scotland, and’—his mouth twisted in a regretful grimace—‘that was not a skilful choice of topic.’

Keith nodded slowly. No, he could not but think that Francis had been a little foolish to mention that piece of news; for Francis knew that Ewen had been ‘out’ in ’45, though he did not know so well as Keith how loyally Ewen had kept his political sentiments thereafter. ‘No.... I would advise you,’ he said—‘and I ought to have done before; I'm sorry I did not mention it—not to raise questions of politics. You are right that the situation is a little awkward. But I am sure one careless remark has done no great harm!’

This last he said to reassure Francis, and because he was certain that Ewen—who was as good-natured and charitable as Francis himself, even, as Keith knew well enough, to his enemies—would not hold the blunder against him. But privately he was a little troubled—particularly by Ewen’s apparently having let Francis believe that he did not know Dr Archibald Cameron well. For the truth, Keith knew, was quite otherwise.

At the supper-table Ewen was once more cheerful and talkative; but Keith, who knew him well and watched him carefully, could detect something of unusual effort behind that apparently easy manner. Well, no doubt he was upset by the news that his cousin had been captured, or was about to be, but certainly he did not seem to think it worth starting a quarrel with Francis over it.

And, when they all went up to bed, Keith slipped into Ewen’s room for a moment to apologise for his brother’s faux pas; ‘and I am truly sorry to hear about Dr Cameron,’ he added, ‘for I know what he is to you.’

Ewen, who had been frowning faintly in an abstracted sort of way, softened at once. ‘Oh, Keith, thank you,’ he said, taking Keith’s hands. ‘It is a grief to me.... I may say now that I knew he was in Scotland, and I’d feared something like this, but—— Well, be that as it may, I do not blame Lord Aveling in the slightest! I really do like him very well, Keith. I’m glad he has come to visit us here—he whom I regard as a sort of brother-in-law.’

These last words were spoken very softly, and Keith kissed him for them.

They exchanged a few more words of good-night, and then Keith retired to his own room. But Ewen, as he watched the door close behind him, was frowning again; and while Keith, a few minutes later, lay down on his bed and closed his eyes, Ewen was still wide awake, pacing feverishly back and forth across the floor of his room like a man haunted by some dreadful pursuing ghost.

(2)

Keith woke, some time later, to total darkness and the sound of raised voices from somewhere outside his room. He sprang from his bed, at once fully alert—for his former life had given him plenty of experience of these sudden awakenings—and, pulling a blanket about his shoulders, sought for the door. Perhaps the house was on fire, or was threatened by some other calamity; swift and calm action would be called for.

Once out on the landing, he perceived that the voices were Ewen’s and Francis’s. The door of Francis’s bedchamber—whence both voices issued—was standing ajar, and a dim glow of light, as of a solitary candle, was visible through the crack. Slightly perplexed, for this did not look very much like the disaster he had anticipated, Keith approached closer, and heard clearly what the voices were saying.

‘I demand that you give me back the letter at once, you cursed thief!’ That was Francis, his voice raised to a pitch of outrage.

‘No—no, Lord Aveling—I promise that you shall have it back, in only a moment——’ And that, speaking more levelly but little less passionately, was Ewen—who was immediately interrupted by further angry demands from Francis.

At this point a step sounded on the other side of the landing, and Keith turned to see Miss Cameron standing with a voluminous woollen shawl round her shoulders, a candle in her hand and an expression upon her face of as much bewilderment as Keith felt.

‘What is this—?’ she said.

‘I have no idea,’ said Keith in a low voice. ‘I think we’d better go and see.’

She nodded; Keith strode forward and pushed the door fully open, and he and Margaret entered the room together.

Their appearance interrupted the battle which had been going on within, and so Keith saw, in the small wavering light of the candle upon a side table, the two combatants as if frozen in the midst of their quarrel. Both were staring at the new arrivals, Francis in a mixture of confusion and rage, Ewen with a look of indescribable dismay. Ewen held Francis in a firm grip of one arm round the neck, from which Francis appeared to have been exerting all his strength to free himself; in Ewen’s other hand was a little piece of paper. Ewen was fully dressed; Francis was in his night-shirt.

‘Ewen, will you explain what on earth you are doing?’ demanded Margaret.

Ewen said nothing, and, as he hesitated, Francis’s gaze moved from Keith’s face, first to Ewen’s, and then to the object he held in his hand. Then, recovering from his shock more rapidly than his captor, he suddenly wrenched Ewen’s arm away from him, ducked from his grip and staggered free.

‘I can only suppose,’ he said, addressing Keith, ‘that you have been very basely deceived by this—this Highland thief—this cateran who thinks nothing of stealing the private possessions of a guest sleeping under his own roof! I must think so, for I am sure that if you knew his true character you would never have called him your friend.’

These words were gasped out between ragged breaths; Francis’s fair face was bright scarlet and his handsome features distorted with rage. Keith knew well that his brother, though so easy-going and good-natured most of the time, had a temper very ready to flare up at any insult; but what on earth had Ewen done to provoke it? He gripped Francis by the arms.

‘I have no notion what you mean,’ he said steadily, ‘and I’m certain that, if you think Ardroy has offended you, ’tis the result of some misunderstanding——’

‘Misunderstanding!’ Aveling had still not quite enough control over his lungs to achieve a scoff, and the word was flung out as a sort of half-shouted laugh. ‘I am very sorry, Keith, but I hardly think I can misunderstand a man who steals my private letters and reads them. But you may ask him! He cannot deny it—unless he is so dishonourable as to think as little of lying as he does of theft.’ With these last words he turned upon Ewen—who had been whispering some words to his aunt while Keith addressed Francis, and who now looked round, his face white in the dim candlelight.

‘Ewen, what does this mean?’ said Keith. He barely took in the sense of Francis’s words, it was so utterly unbelievable. The whole scene, with the dim light of the candles and the bizarre stage tableau of Ewen’s and Francis’s fight, had still a sort of unreality in his yet half-awake mind.

Ewen shook his head. ‘I am afraid Lord Aveling is quite right,’ he said, ‘except in supposing that I would lie about what I have done.’ His voice was soft, almost like his usual gentle way of speaking, but its very steadiness betrayed the effort of control which kept it so. ‘I have stolen a letter from him and read it—that is, one part of it. But he may have it back now. I never intended to deprive him of his property for a moment longer than... my purpose required.’ And so saying, he came over to where Francis stood and held out to him the letter—at which Francis first stared in revulsion, as though it was polluted by the touch of him who proffered it, and which he then snatched from Ewen’s hand with a wordless glare.

Having done this, Ewen returned to the side table on which stood the candle, carefully took up and lit from it another, and, carrying this candle with him, made for the door. Without thinking about it Keith foresaw and restrained the movement which Francis made towards him as he passed; but he himself did not intend to let Ewen leave without some explanation of this extraordinary conduct, and he turned and placed himself in the doorway before Ewen reached it.

‘What does this mean, Ewen?’ he repeated. Ewen’s frank admission of guilt was beginning to turn his incredulity to a sort of bewildered anger; but that Ewen was not a thief or a cateran he was morally certain, and he could not believe but that there was some explanation to be made which might illuminate, if it did not excuse, this supposed theft.

Ewen turned his head to glance at Francis, who was watching him with lowering brows and still-rapid breath. Then he said to Keith, ‘Come with me—I will explain it.’

At this Francis broke in indignantly, ‘Keith, you can’t mean to—— No, I don’t care what excuses he has to make; I tell you, he is a thief!’

‘Very well,’ said Ewen. He still spoke calmly, with an effort which was increasingly obvious. ‘I’ll stay here and let you hear the explanation, Lord Aveling—and you will hear the rest of it too, Aunt Marget,’ he added. ‘Earlier to-day, while we were in the garden, Lord Aveling happened to let fall a remark about a letter he had received from Edinburgh, which, he said, contained the news that Dr Cameron’s whereabouts were known to Government and that he would shortly be arrested.’ At this Miss Cameron gave a gasp; Ewen glanced at her, but continued steadily. ‘I supposed that this letter was from General Churchill, whom Lord Aveling had been visiting. I asked him if he knew the name of the place where Dr Cameron was, but he could not remember it.’ Here he paused and took a long breath.

And Keith began to see clearly what the real explanation of this bizarre scene was. His heart sank within him; for it all made a terrible, terrible sense. Ewen, who had known that Dr Cameron was in Scotland—who had probably been anxious about him ever since the autumn, when whatever plans Dr Cameron had been engaged upon had first been set in motion—had gained, in Francis’s careless remark about his letter, at once the knowledge of his cousin’s deadly peril and the means of helping him evade it....

But Francis had worked out the rest of the story for himself too, and now he interrupted Ewen before he could continue. ‘And so,’ he said, addressing Keith, ‘he took it into his head to steal my letter—which was not from General Churchill, but from his daughter—my most private letter——’ Here he appeared in danger of working himself into an absolutely incoherent rage, but he mastered himself sufficiently to go on, ‘And he proposes to use the information which he has discovered in such a vile, base manner to assist an enemy of the Government—an attainted rebel! Mr Cameron, I intend to leave your house this very night. I will ride to Fort William; I will report you to the authorities——’

‘You will do no such thing!’ said Keith sharply. The enormity of what Ewen had done was impressing itself upon him now. It was a horrible betrayal of honour; in circumstances of any less gravity it would have been unthinkable to Ewen’s own honourable mind. A feeling as of physical sickness rose up in Keith.

‘You may report me if you wish,’ said Ewen, taking up his candle again. ‘I intend to be away before any detachment from Fort William can reach me; and I care not if they take me, so long as I can warn Dr Cameron first!’

‘Ewen——’ began Margaret; but her nephew ignored her, and having said all that he had to say, flew from the room. She followed him.

Francis’s rage had not cooled in the slightest. ‘Surely you will not let him go, Keith!’ he said even as the door swung to behind Ewen. ‘I cannot believe—it is rank treason——’

But Keith shook his head. Ewen’s action appalled him; he felt as though some delicate little thread, which he had spent the last four years carefully tending and guarding while he hung his heart and his life upon it, had been suddenly and violently snapped. And yet he would not stop Ewen from going to warn Dr Cameron.

He looked at Francis for a few moments, feeling more helpless than ever, and then said, ‘I shall go and speak to him.’

Outside Ewen’s room he found Miss Cameron.

‘He is determined to go,’ she said. ‘Forgive me—had you not better stay with Lord Aveling, Mr Windham?’ She looked as agitated as Keith had ever seen her; he could imagine the conflict going on in her heart at this moment, though it was not quite the same as that raging in his own.

‘I’ll go back to him in a moment,’ he said, ‘but I must speak to Ewen first.’

And she nodded, and let him pass.

He found Ewen putting on his travelling cloak and gathering together his things as though for a long journey. On Keith’s appearance he looked up from his preparations, flung down the shirt he had been packing into a bag and came forward.

‘I can’t ask you to understand,’ he said, ‘and I certainly cannot ask your forgiveness. I do not deserve it; I know. Please believe, Keith, that I did not do it without a very great struggle.’ His manner was forthright and sincere, and though he spoke hurriedly, his voice was steady.

Keith gazed at him in scarcely less bewilderment than he had been in when he was suddenly awakened not half an hour ago, though it was bewilderment of a different kind. And yet he had had time enough by now to comprehend what Ewen had done, and his anger had grown with his understanding. ‘I believe that,’ he said, in no very gentle tone. ‘But Lord Aveling is a guest under your own roof—it was his private letter—and he is my brother! What of your Highland hospitality? What can you have been—— No, ’tis worse than that. The breach of that code only makes a despicable act the worse; this was not the behaviour of a gentleman at all.’

Under this onslaught Ewen stood with head bowed; but when he spoke, his voice had again something of the harshness which had been in it when he had made his explanation to Aveling. ‘Everything you say to me, I have already said to myself—oh, about a hundred times, in this room a couple of hours ago! But you can’t understand what it meant——’

‘I know very well what such an insult to my brother, when I invite him to stay under your roof, must mean!’ retorted Keith.

Ewen took no notice of this and continued, ‘—what it meant for Archie—for Dr Cameron. You know what he is to me. It was to save his life.... Keith, if you wish to leave my house to-night with your brother, I will not blame you.’

Keith’s anger, which had flared up as it generally did in immediate response to any wrong, cooled all in an instant at these words. All the confusion of his thoughts and emotions disappeared—or it receded out of view, like the sound of a waterfall heard a great distance off, when a few minutes before he might have been in a boat plunging over the fall—and his view narrowed to this one fact. Yes, Ewen knew what he had done, despite his own honour; and he also knew exactly what it meant, despite his love for Keith. For a moment he actually considered leaving Ardroy as Ewen suggested. The Keith Windham of eight years earlier, convinced that personal attachment was as infirm a foundation as that of the house built on sand, and seeing in this a proof of his belief as definite as that which he had received years before on a night of driving rain in London... he would have gone.

‘Keith?’

Ewen’s face had changed; his blue eyes looking at Keith were dark with concern.

‘Here, come and sit down... oh, Keith, I am sorry. I hope you won’t leave. I meant—if your own honour—if you can bear not to leave a man who has done what I have just done....’

And Ewen’s eyes, and Ewen’s gentle voice, and Ewen’s arms about him guiding him not very steadily towards the chair, brought back to Keith everything in the last eight years which had proved that past Keith Windham’s belief wrong. Ewen did not mean to abandon him. If it were possible, somehow, for Ewen’s action not to separate them, Ewen wished for it as whole-heartedly as Keith did himself.

He took a breath.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, Ewen, I will not leave your house to-night.’

And yet the question of simple honour still raised itself. Keith thought once more over the events of the last few minutes; Ewen’s words repeated themselves in his memory, and he heard them as he had not done at first. Of course Ewen, who had always valued his honour so highly, knew the enormity of what he had done; of course he had not done it without a great struggle, or without understanding what a grievous breach of his own principles it was. And yet he had done it all the same. Yes; to save the life of his dear, rebel kinsman.... And in that moment Keith wondered whether he had not, after all, done wrong in tying his own life so closely to that of an unrepentant Jacobite.

But even then there sprang into his mind a memory—of the water of the Tarff splashing beneath his horse’s hoofs, and the sick repugnance he felt at the words he had just spoken: ‘he might perhaps drop... inadvertently drop... some hint or other....’ The comparison shocked him for a moment, yet he must admit its force: one might do much injury to one’s own honour to save a beloved life... and he had not even been able to own to Ewen afterwards what he had done, while Ewen stood here and calmly took full responsibility for his act!

‘I must go,’ said Ewen, rising to his feet and cutting abruptly into this whirl of thought and memory. ‘Archie is at Duncan Stewart of Glenbuckie’s house in Balquhidder; ’tis perhaps a hundred miles from here, and not an easy road; if I am to reach him in time——’ But here he broke off, apparently remembering how little Keith was likely to appreciate these details. Keith had stood up from his chair; now Ewen came over to where he stood and made a little movement as though to take his hand once more—but then drew his arm back again. ‘Keith,’ he said, ‘please convey my sincere apologies to Lord Aveling—though I know I cannot expect him to accept them... and nor can I expect the same of you. But I am sorry, mo chridhe.’

And Keith, meeting those deep blue eyes, knew that Ewen spoke as sincerely as ever he had done. With repugnance, anger, understanding and love all at war in his breast, he said again, ‘I will not leave Ardroy to-night, Ewen—though I think Francis will. And I will convey to him your apology.’ More than that he could not say, for he did not know what he was to do.

Ewen nodded, looked at Keith for a moment with an expression indefinable in its exact admixture of sentiments and yet so powerful that Keith could hardly bear to meet it—but he did meet it—and then, taking up his cloak and bag, left the room.

(3)

Lord Aveling left Ardroy the next day. Keith had managed, first of all, to persuade him that it was reckless folly to ride out alone into the Highland night (privately, he was not quite easy about Ewen’s having done just that; but there would have been no use in saying so, and Ewen after all knew his way) and that he should at least go back to bed until the morning; and, in a somewhat calmer conversation held over a breakfast eaten tête-à-tête in Francis’s bedchamber, he tried to make his brother see the strength of the motives behind Ewen’s actions—not to excuse them, but so that Francis might see them in their proper light, as the desperate resort of a man who valued his honour almost above his life, rather than as the typical behaviour of a remorseless villain.

Francis, his mouth set in a grim line, looked away from him, towards the window and the diffuse grey light of the cloudy morning. ‘But he means to use this information to help an attainted rebel,’ he said stubbornly. ‘I do not know how you can——’

‘He means to use it to save his cousin from capture—a capture which might well mean the scaffold,’ said Keith slowly, speaking in the silence left by Francis’s abruptly breaking off. For all that he had stressed to Francis the importance of sleeping on his anger and being well-rested for the morning’s journey, Keith himself had got very little sleep after the night’s disturbance. He had lain beneath his blankets turning the thing over and over in his head, making and rejecting arguments, acknowledging and disclaiming comparisons, until finally he had reached something almost like a settled feeling about it. Now, the necessity of explaining, if not of defending, Ewen’s conduct to Francis carried on the work of the night and increased Keith’s sympathy for Ewen further, almost despite himself. ‘Francis,’ he said, ‘since I have been in the Highlands... since I was here in ’45, in fact, though more recently also... I have often been impressed by how personal loyalty and the obligations of friendship can overrule what might seem to be our duty.’

He was thinking again of Morar.

Francis shook his head. ‘Georgina’s letter...’ he said.

‘He did not know it was Miss Churchill’s letter,’ said Keith—wondering as he spoke whether, had Ewen known it, it would have made any difference.

At last Francis gave up his intention of reporting Ewen to the Governor of Fort William. He left the house later in the morning, saying to Keith before he went, ‘Well, I hardly think Mr Cameron and I will ever be great friends after this; and I will not disguise my opinion that you ought not to stay in the house of a man who can—— But that is beside the point; I can’t quarrel with you, Keith, and I hope we shall meet more happily the next time you come into England.’

‘I look forward to it,’ said Keith. ‘As for the rest, of course I understand; you cannot forget this.’ It occurred to him that, had they been in London, Lord Aveling would probably have avenged the insult of his stolen letter by calling Ewen out; but he could hardly do that in the Highlands, with a man who was barred by law from keeping or using any weapons. He sighed, and hoped inwardly that there might some day be a happier solution to the quarrel—for Francis, but also for himself...

And so he wished his brother a safe journey, returned his embrace and watched him ride away down the avenue, whence only the day before he had so gladly seen him arrive. Then he went back into the house.

In the hall he met Miss Cameron, who had not been much in evidence so far this morning.

‘Good morning, Mr Windham,’ she said, in answer to his civil greeting; and then she said, ‘I feel I must ask you whether you wish to remain in this house.’

She stood tall and steady in the middle of the room; her manner was as polite as it was chilly. But Keith, who had liked Ewen’s aunt in a careful, considering sort of way ever since he had first met her, knew her well enough by now to see that there was no hostility in her coldness. Uncertainty in Margaret Cameron manifested itself, not in the hesitation or the visible confusion of a less self-assured woman, but as cold reserve, and it was quite natural that she should be uncertain how to proceed now.

And so Keith assured her that he had no intention of departing, but meant to stay and carry on with his usual duties. ‘I suppose Ewen will return in a week or so,’ he said, ‘and until then I hope I can be of some help to you—his departure being so sudden must cause some disruption.’ He did not add that, when Ewen did return, he would have a very difficult conversation to have with him; that, he supposed, was obvious, but he wished to let Miss Cameron understand that he meant neither to leave the house in a rage this very morning nor to report Ewen at Fort William. They had never openly spoken of what Ewen had told Keith four months ago, or what Keith had said in response, but she must know of it, and must have been wondering about his thoughts and intentions at some length in the intervening time. Well, he would be clear now.

Miss Cameron nodded slowly, as if in acknowledgement of these unspoken facts. ‘Well,’ she said at last, and in a voice more like her usual one, ‘there is plenty to do to-day, ’tis true. I shall have to make some arrangement about Morning Prayer, with Ewen not here... then I meant to pay a visit to young Seonaid MacMartin—she’s been very much cast down since her aunt Beileag died, poor lassie. But we had better say a little our plans for the week now, I think....’ And leading Keith from the hall into Ewen’s study, in which the books and other records were kept, she went briefly over what work there was to be done in the week ahead. Whatever crisis or disaster of personal or political affairs should burst over their heads, this tenant still must be interviewed about his rent arrears, these figures from the last market-day be added to the account book, and so on. Keith and Margaret had worked together for four years, and after the first few months of adjustment they had always got on well together; now this shared purpose and the fine practical good sense with which Miss Cameron, even in the wake of such a disturbance, approached her tasks gradually effaced the awkwardness of their situation, and by the time she left Keith to go and pay her visit to Seonaid MacMartin he could almost imagine that it was a normal Sunday morning at Ardroy.

Yet he felt that some further acknowledgement was called for; and so, as Margaret was turning to go from the study, he said, ‘As for last night, Miss Cameron... I suppose there is no need to explain to you my opinion of Ewen’s conduct. He has insulted my brother grievously. But I do not intend to break with him over it. When he returns from Balquhidder....’

She drew her mouth into a little grimace. ‘It was certainly not the show of hospitality I should have wished him to make,’ she said, and then paused—long enough for Keith to start wondering what else she felt about it. Surely she was as glad as Ewen himself at the prospect of saving Dr Cameron from capture.... But, ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I had wondered... but no. May I thank you for your understanding, Mr Windham?’

‘You certainly may,’ said Keith, ‘and, political difficulties or no, my duty lies here—as I believe I once told you, earlier in our acquaintance. So I’ll stay for the present.’

At that she smiled—her own shrewd, appraising smile, that made plain the diminishing of her earlier uncertainty. ‘Thank you, Mr Windham,’ she said.

The door closed behind her. Keith sat down at the desk and drew the great account book towards him; but before he bent his head over its pages he spent some minutes looking out of the window beyond it, to where the grey waters of Loch na h-Iolaire were stirred up by the March breeze into little restless wavelets, and wondering how all this was to end.

VI. Meeting of Old Acquaintances

(1)

The clouds hurried on their way across the sky from northeast to southwest, finally disappearing from sight behind a high, dark mountain peak whose name Ewen did not know; the wind blew also in the lower levels of the atmosphere, shivering through the bare twigs of the oaks and ashes and stirring the dark pines into uncanny movement; lower still the little burn, visible in glimpses between the tree trunks, rushed on its way northwards to Loch Voil. In their unquietness clouds, trees and burn alike might have been images of the restless, unhappy anxiety in Ewen’s heart, but he watched them only for a few moments before hurrying onwards.

He had been three days and three nights on his way from Ardroy: changing horses at what posting-inns he could find, snatching brief intervals of sleep when he could go no farther without it, and for the final few miles, after the last inn had had no suitable horse available to hire, going on foot—and by now he was almost certain that he must be too late. The warrant for Dr Cameron’s arrest had been sent to Inversnaid on the fifteenth of March, and it was now the twenty-first; the soldiers must be remarkably tardy if they had not found him by now. Ewen’s heart had sunk lower and lower as he made progress—in absolute terms impressively rapid progress, but agonisingly slow now—across the Highlands, at the thought that his cousin was probably already a prisoner, beyond all help that he could give.... And weighing him down further was the knowledge that he had committed a despicable breach of honour and of hospitality, offended Keith’s brother past all hope of reconciliation and in doing so hurt Keith himself so grievously as to risk destroying everything they had so carefully built between them these eight years, for nothing. The prospect of Dr Cameron’s capture was not more of a grief to him than that of losing Keith’s love for ever.

Yet he kept going. As long as there was any chance, be it ever so slim, he must try.

Now, at last, he was half a mile south of Balquhidder, going as fast as his leg would let him along the track which, so a woman in the village had informed him, led up Glenbuckie and towards Duncan Stewart’s house. Well, he would soon find out whether he was too late or no....

There was a sound, as of twigs cracking underfoot, somewhere in the wood. Ewen slowed his pace and peered between the trees, into a woodland understorey green with a rich growth of winter mosses. Yes, there was movement there: a man—not a soldier, for he wore no red—was coming towards him along a side track that led down towards the burn. Ewen’s heart sped up. Could it be—?

No, it was not; this man was taller than Archie, and younger—a youth of eighteen or nineteen. He was dressed in plain and travel-stained clothes, and now that he had emerged onto the track about twenty paces in front of Ewen, stood looking about him as though uncertain which way to turn.

He soon saw Ewen. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said.

Ewen, certain now that this traveller was neither his cousin nor any immediate threat, would rather have passed him by without speaking; but he returned the greeting civilly.

‘Do you know the way to Mr Stewart of Glenbuckie’s house?’ said the young man. No, he was certainly not a native of these parts; his voice had the accent of the Lowlands. And Ewen was considering how he ought to reply to this surprising request from a stranger, whose purposes might or might not be friendly, when the stranger, who had been looking closely at Ewen as he approached, suddenly added, ‘But surely I know you?—You are’—he hesitated, and then evidently found what he was seeking in his memory—‘Mr Cameron of Ardroy, are you not?’

‘I am,’ said Ewen, startled.

‘We met on the road in Appin, the summer before last.’

The memory returned to Ewen in a moment, for it had been a memorable day. ‘Yes—Mr Balfour, isn’t it? Of course I remember you!’ he said, relieved and puzzled in equal measure. For this was the young man to whom he had given his clothes as a disguise, when the redcoats were combing the countryside for the murderer of Colin Roy Campbell. In fact, the clothes Mr Balfour was wearing now appeared to be those very same garments.

And as the initial flash of recognition gathered up about it further details of the memory, he formed a guess as to what Mr Balfour was doing here to-day.

‘Might I suppose,’ he said, ‘that you are here in search of your friend, Alan Breck Stewart?’

‘Yes, I am!’ said Mr Balfour eagerly. ‘I know there is a warrant out for his arrest, and I’ve come here to warn him. But how do you know that?’

‘I know it,’ said Ewen, ‘because I have had just the same news about my cousin, Dr Archibald Cameron—and I heard that Alan Breck was with him.’

‘Of course—that was the other name,’ said Mr Balfour. ‘So you and I are on the same errand... how fortunate that we should meet here!’

Ewen agreed with this; hopeless as his errand might by now be, it was cheering to find this unlooked-for ally, and an irrational feeling rose up in his heart that the thing was perhaps not so hopeless as it had looked, if Archie and his companion had another friend besides only himself. ‘As for your first question,’ he said, ‘I need not hesitate to answer it now! Stewart of Glenbuckie’s house is farther up the glen, along this track—I’m going there now. Will you accompany me?’

Mr Balfour said that he would do so gladly; and so they set off again under the bare trees that shivered and swayed in the wind.

As they walked along Mr Balfour, in answer to Ewen’s questions, began upon a hurried and somewhat jumbled explanation of who he was, what he had been doing with Alan Breck Stewart in Appin two years ago and how he had come here to-day. In speaking to him and in puzzling through the details of his story Ewen found occupation for his mind and a relief from his anxieties about Archie; without being conscious of this lifting of his burden, he felt that his heart was lighter.

‘Cramond parish, near Edinburgh—yes, I believe I know the place,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I have some friends in Edinburgh, but I don’t get the chance to visit very often. I take it you know about the plans which Dr Cameron and Mr Stewart have been engaged upon since they’ve been in Scotland? We hear so little news in such a remote place as Ardroy... is there much hope of their efforts coming to anything, do you think?’

Mr Balfour had spent the latter half of this speech frowning towards the path ahead of them; now he stopped abruptly and turned to face Ewen. ‘I believe you mistake me, sir,’ he said, drawing himself up with an air of cold dignity. ‘I am no Jacobite. On the contrary, I am the most loyal friend King George has in all Scotland! But,’ he went on, with a manner a little less chilly, ‘I am a friend of Alan Breck Stewart’s. It is purely on his account that I am here, and I know nothing of what he or any of his fellows may have been doing in the Highlands until now.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Ewen, considerably taken aback by this patriotic outburst. ‘Naturally I assumed... but I see I was mistaken.’ He did not add that Mr Balfour’s present errand was a very singular one on which to find engaged the most loyal friend King George had in all Scotland, but resumed walking along the track.

As they continued on their way in silence, Ewen’s shock and confusion over his mistake, and his self-recriminations for having made an assumption which, natural as it had seemed at the time, might have been dangerous, gave way to a greater consideration of the second part of Mr Balfour’s speech. What an admirable thing it was for a well-to-do Edinburgh Whig to come all this way and risk such danger, from no political motive but simply for the sake of the loyalty of personal friendship! An admirable thing, and a very curious one. It reminded him of—one of the dearest of his own memories....

With this thought in his mind, he ventured to resume his friendly questions; and Mr Balfour answered them, with a little more reserve than before, but readily enough. And so it seemed that their brief quarrel was mended.

But they did not long enjoy this re-established amity in peace. A few minutes later Ewen happened to turn from his companion for a moment to glance along the track as it rounded a bend—and saw two figures up ahead. They were two men, one rather tall and one small, standing still with their heads bent towards each other, apparently deep in consultation upon some important question. Ewen, his heart beating, squinted at the taller man, trying to make out—— But Mr Balfour, quicker in recognition, gave a cry of joy and ran forward.

The other man turned at his approach. ‘David! What are you doing here? How—?’

Mr Balfour ignored this question, seized both his friend’s hands and said, ‘Oh, thank God you are safe! I am in time—that is, we are in time,’ he corrected himself, with a smile to Ewen as he joined the group.

Ewen himself was met by a similarly incredulous query from Dr Cameron.

‘I have come to warn you,’ said Ewen, ‘and Mr Balfour is here on the same errand. Archie, Alan, your hiding place is discovered—there are soldiers coming from Inversnaid with a warrant to arrest you both. You must not return to Glenbuckie’s house.’

Dr Cameron and his comrade exchanged glances. Alan Breck, carefully disengaging his hands from David’s, spoke first. ‘We’ve not heard a word of this. How—— Some traitor has informed on us!’

‘Surely not,’ murmured Dr Cameron.

But Mr Balfour nodded. ‘Someone sent word to the Lord Justice-Clerk in Edinburgh,’ he said. ‘That was how I heard of it.’

Alan met this confirmation of the mysterious treachery with a stormy look. Before he could say anything, Dr Cameron spoke, addressing his cousin. ‘But, my dear Ewen, how on earth did you come to hear of this? You have been at Ardroy all the winter, have you not?’

‘Yes,’ said Ewen, who had been growing more impatient throughout the previous minute or two, ‘but——’

‘And you have come all this way to warn us?’ interrupted Dr Cameron. ‘Ewen, it’s a great service you have done us, and the Prince, to-day! But how——’

‘My warning, and Mr Balfour’s too, will be for nothing if we are found now, in plain view on this open path!’ burst out Ewen. ‘Come, we must at least conceal ourselves for a moment.’

The others accepted the wisdom of this; and Ewen led the way downhill towards the burn, just far enough for the sparse brown underwood of hazel and hawthorn, the great tree trunks and the rising of the ground to hide them from view of the track.

‘Now,’ said Ewen in a whisper, taking charge, ‘as I say, you must not on any account return to Duncan Stewart’s house, for the soldiers have word that you are there—they may be there already, for all I know. ’Twould be better if you were to leave the neighbourhood altogether—but I do not know these parts well. Is there anywhere else you might go?’

Dr Cameron considered the question. ‘We might head north, and skulk about the Braes of Balquhidder,’ he said. ‘Though, if these soldiers are coming from Inversnaid, perhaps we had better go east instead.’ And he looked back towards the path and the slope that rose above it, up and on up to the peak of Beinn an t-Sithein.

‘I’ve done a deal of skulking about the Braes of Balquhidder, once before—you mind that, David?’ said Alan Breck, with a smiling glance at Mr Balfour. ‘It is a fine, solitary place—and what people there are living there are friends. We’ll be safe there, Archie, no doubt of it.’

‘Well, Alan, if you think it wise,’ said Dr Cameron, ‘then I defer to your judgement. We shall go north.’

Ewen, thinking already of how they were to get back to Balquhidder without running into whatever soldiers might be near—for, with all the time they had had since the warrant was sent, they must be very close by now—looked about him, first down towards the burn and then up in the direction of the track. He opened his mouth to speak—and saw a red-coated figure moving along the path above them.

It was too late.

‘Quiet!’ said Ewen in an urgent whisper, simultaneously pulling Dr Cameron farther out of sight behind the broad trunk of an oak tree. The others soon saw what was the matter—happily, the soldier in his scarlet coat was far more conspicuous than they were—and all four of them remained in a motionless, tense silence while the redcoat ran at a slow and steady trot along the path. He took an agonisingly long time to move past them, but at last he did, and without seeing them.

‘A scout,’ remarked Alan when the soldier had finally disappeared from sight. ‘Searching for us; I’m thinking his friends won’t be far behind.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Dr Cameron. ‘Well, the question now is, whether we should try to stay hidden here in the wood and hope their search misses us, or attempt to slip through their net and get up to Balquhidder without their seeing us.’

‘’Tis not a promising place to hide,’ said Ewen, glancing at their surroundings and shaking his head. He turned over the possibilities in his mind, aware that Dr Cameron was probably thinking along very much the same lines as him. ‘I propose,’ he said at last, ‘that you, Archie, and Alan stay here—I doubt we’ll find a better hiding place anywhere nearby—and I and Mr Balfour will go and try to find out whether the way to Balquhidder is clear. I hope it may be; if the soldiers still think you are at Glenbuckie’s house, they may concentrate their attention to the south, and we may evade them.’

‘Besides,’ added David, ‘we met none of them on our way here—and you had come from Balquhidder, Mr Cameron, hadn’t you? It is a good plan. I’ll go with you.’

And so Ewen and David set off with cautious steps back up to the path.

It was unsettlingly quiet in the wood now. The wind still murmured in the branches above their heads; a robin, hopeful for the spring, sang its rippling song from the top of a tall holly bush; but of human presence there was no sign. And, despite Ewen’s inclination to be suspicious of the silence, a survey of the track to the north discovered no more sign of any soldiers, either there or farther down towards the burn. Hope sprang up in Ewen’s heart. Perhaps they would evade their pursuers after all; perhaps all that he had done to come to Archie here would not be in vain....

They returned to their companions, whom they found where they had left them, Alan sitting on a fallen log and Dr Cameron examining with some interest the mosses which grew in a thick shaggy mat over the bark of the oak behind which he had been hiding. The one rose, and the other turned, at Ewen’s and David’s reappearance.

‘Well, that is good news!’ said Dr Cameron, in reply to Ewen’s report of their reconnaissance. ‘We’ve heard no further sign here, either.’

‘Which means the soldiers are behind us,’ said Alan grimly, ‘and they’ll have found out that we’re not at Duncan Stewart’s house by now, if they did not know it before.’

Ewen nodded. ‘We must be moving,’ he said, and began once more to lead the way.

‘If it comes to a fight,’ said Alan as they went along, ‘what weapons have we?’

‘I have none,’ said Ewen, thinking privately that he could only hope it did not come to a fight.

Neither had Dr Cameron any weapon; though Alan still wore that hazardous sword which he had carried when Ewen had met him in the abandoned croft at Ardroy. And David Balfour, having come from the Lowlands, did not labour under the same disadvantage as they. He too had his sword, as well as the pistols which he had brought from Shaws in his coat pockets. ‘Since you have none, Mr Cameron,’ he added, ‘may I offer you my sword, should we need it? I suspect you may be able to make better use of it than I.’

Ewen saw the wisdom in this remarkably generous offer—it required no egregious vanity to suppose that a young Lowland laird who could never have seen anything of battle was not so capable a swordsman as himself—and accepted it; and Dr Cameron took one of the pistols. Thus they were all armed in some way; but still Ewen did not greatly like their chances should they be forced to stand and fight.

For the next several minutes they walked along, Ewen setting a swift pace, none of them speaking. The little sounds of the wood and its life went on about them. A pair of long-tailed tits swung and bounced on their tiny wings between the bare branches, calling to each other in their rapid churring voices, perhaps seeking out the lichens with which they would decorate and thus conceal their perfect little globe of a nest; the robin broke out again into song; the Calair burn rippled and burbled on its steady way. But, just as the wild things of Glenbuckie were oblivious to the conflicts and perils of human life, so the calm and peacefulness of these things made scarcely any impression upon the four men who walked amongst them; all their nerves were strained for a hint of another sound...

...and at last, just as a glimpse of the open ground beyond the wood began to show through the trees up ahead, that sound came.

‘There—who are those? Hi, you there—halt!’

The voice was English. The first words were spoken quietly, evidently to a companion; the latter were shouted towards the retreating group.

Ewen exchanged glances with Dr Cameron. Could they run?... No; they would never get away. So with one accord they stopped and turned, and faced the party of redcoats—five of them—coming along the track towards them at a run.

‘Stop!’ cried the foremost soldier, though they had already done so. He was a sergeant; there was no officer among the group. He soon reached them.

‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that you are Archibald Cameron and Alan Breck Stewart—and if that be so, I must ask you to surrender yourselves to the law.’

Dr Cameron said nothing. Alan raised his head with a proud air, and said, ‘It is a king’s name; I am not ashamed to bear it.’

Probably there would have been little use in trying to conceal their identities; the sergeant had, at least, heard a good enough description of the two Jacobite agents to address them correctly while giving them their names, and they could hardly hope to pass themselves off as innocent Balquhidder villagers, armed as they were. The rest of the soldiers were eyeing them warily, reluctant to resort to force. Evidently they had not been expecting to find four opponents instead of two, and they now only barely had the advantage of numbers.

‘Will you surrender yourselves?’ asked the sergeant again.

‘Not while I breathe!’ cried Alan, and with one graceful, fluid motion flung his heavy great-coat to the ground and drew his sword. Ewen likewise drew his weapon, aware that behind him Dr Cameron and David Balfour were making their own preparations; and so the battle closed.

The redcoats’ hesitation had been justified. Ewen found himself facing an opponent who must have been a very raw recruit to fight as poorly as he did, even allowing for the disadvantages in close combat of the bayonet which was his only weapon. He soon felled the soldier with a cut to the leg. Alan had taken on the sergeant and appeared to be holding his own very neatly. Another of the soldiers, attempting a rush on the two behind, fell to a pistol shot from one of them.

But just as Ewen was gaining the upper hand over his second redcoat, there came sounds from farther back in the wood—sounds of shouts and running feet. As he had suspected from the absence of an officer, these five were not all the soldiers who had been sent to search the wood; they must have split up, and now the noise of battle had attracted the rest. At the head of this new party was a captain, his sword in his hand, and as they came level with their stricken comrades he rushed into the fray, shouting an order to the others to follow him.

The captain had courage—and had need of it. It was Alan Breck, his bloody sword raised high and a terrible light in his smiling eyes, who met him as he advanced. After long months of skulking amongst the mountains, speaking to and attempting to persuade clansmen not all very ready to listen, waiting for news from over the water that never came as soon as it was wished for, it is possible that Alan relished this new work.

Ewen saw little of how the next few minutes went with either Alan or Dr Cameron, for he spent the time in battle against those of the soldiers who tried to go to the assistance of their captain. Others of them still hung back; one stood with his musket at an uncertain half-level, obviously afraid to fire when, in the confusion, he could not be sure of hitting an enemy rather than a friend.

Dodging a blow from one more courageous assailant, Ewen was hit suddenly and violently by an unexpected buffet from behind. He fought a moment to regain his balance—knocked the first redcoat’s weapon from his hand—swung round, to see David Balfour determinedly grappling with a second soldier, who must have tried to leap on Ewen. He went at once to assist his saviour.

And then, turning from their success and pushing a stray strand of hair impatiently out of his eyes, Ewen saw the captain fall down with a cry. Alan had gained his victory.

This, apparently, was too much for the remaining soldiers. Beginning with a first few faltering movements and then gaining in certainty as more of them joined in, they turned and fled in a body. Such was the courage of the British Army! Ewen thought for a brief moment of a certain day, long ago, at High Bridge....

Alan was laughing aloud in pure delight. ‘And that’s how they think to take us! They have reckoned without Alan Breck, ay, that’s for sure,’ he said... and collapsed to the ground.

(2)

Ardroy and Dr Cameron were talking in low voices which despite the urgency of their tone sounded to David’s ears oddly muffled, as though they came from a long way away. There was a sort of dull buzzing which filled his head and blocked them out.

‘Yes, I saw,’ Dr Cameron was saying. ‘This fellow’—he nodded towards the fallen redcoat captain—‘managed to strike before—though I did not think.... Here, laddie, let me see.’ And kneeling upon the ground beside David, he nudged him aside, not ungently, to make a closer examination. David never moved his gaze. Alan lay there, but it was Alan in an attitude which he had never seen before. Part of him was still wondering numbly that Alan did not get up, as bright and brave as ever, and go on boasting about his victory—perhaps make a song about it....

The wound was in Alan’s breast, rather below the collar-bone. Beneath it a dark stain was spreading down the front of his waistcoat. Dr Cameron, peering carefully, let out a sigh. ‘No, thank God,’ he said, and there was a smile in his voice as he turned to David, ‘it is not so bad as it might be. He shall live, if I can help him.’

David nodded. He was still not looking at the doctor, but by now he had recovered enough power of thought to appreciate what an immense piece of good fortune it was that he was there.

‘Can we move him?’ said Ardroy, who was standing above them and looking anxiously down the track whence the fleeing redcoats had vanished. ‘I suppose they’ll come back soon—and as long as they know we are here....’

Dr Cameron shook his head, slowly and grimly. In fact he was weighing in the balance the danger of trying to move his patient any distance before giving proper attention to a wound which still threatened a serious loss of blood, against the danger of staying within knowledge of their enemies. It was not an easy question.

While he was thus deliberating Alan made a little movement of his head to one side and then opened his eyes, as one who stirs reluctantly out of a deep and grateful sleep. David gripped his hand more tightly.

‘Archie,’ said Alan, smiling fuzzily at the doctor, ‘was that not a fine piece of fighting?’

‘As fine as it was reckless, my friend,’ agreed Dr Cameron. ‘Hold still a moment, now, while I do something about this cut you’ve got. Ewen, have you a spare shirt?’

Ardroy produced this article, while with a small knife Dr Cameron set about cutting away the intervening folds of Alan’s coat, waistcoat and shirt. David helped him rip Ardroy’s shirt up into a makeshift bandage, obeying his murmured directions with mechanical unawareness and thinking vaguely all the while of how dismayed Alan would be to see his fine French coat all bloody and cut to pieces. Alan himself seemed unaware of it now, though he was still awake, and directing occasional grimaces and unappreciative comments towards the doctor as he worked; the rest of the time he regarded David in silence, his eyes clouded with pain but yet alight with a strange brightness. David, marshalling his mental resources, tried to convey comfort and hope in his own looks.

In a short time Dr Cameron had finished his work. ‘There,’ he said, ‘that will serve for a while. Ewen, you are right; we’d better be moving. Alan, my friend, do you think you can stand?’

‘I should hope I can!’ said Alan. His voice was stronger than it had been, but after all he found the task of getting to his feet harder than he seemed to expect. He gripped David’s arm, leaning heavily upon him.

‘Can you support him?’ murmured Dr Cameron to David, who nodded. ‘You go on towards Balquhidder, then. I mean to stay here and see if I can do anything for our wounded foes.’ He glanced round at the scattered scarlet heaps that were the fallen soldiers. ‘We mustn’t forget them. I’ll catch you up.’

Ardroy, on being told of this plan, looked from Dr Cameron to David in dismay, evidently uncertain which of them needed his help more.

But, ‘You stay and make sure Dr Cameron is safe,’ said David to him. They were the first clear words he had spoken since Alan had fallen, and took a little effort to get out of his mouth. ‘Alan and I will manage—but we’ll need him later.’

Ardroy looked relieved, and turned back to Dr Cameron.

And so David and Alan went alone, slowly and somewhat haphazardly, away from the little battlefield. David forced his thoughts into some kind of order: they must keep on along this track, until they reached the end of the wood, which was not far....

‘Davie?’

Instantly David looked back down at his friend. ‘Yes—what is it?’ he said.

There was laughter as well as pain in Alan’s eyes. ‘D’you mind when... when we were last in Balquhidder?’ he said, speaking with obvious difficulty. ‘Things are turned... the other way about now, are they not?’

And David saw what he meant, and could almost have laughed too. ‘’Tis easier this way,’ he said, ‘I being twelve inches taller.’

‘Ay,’ said Alan. He was still smiling, but the effort of further words was too much for him; he might have pressed David’s arm, or perhaps he was obliged to lean more heavily upon him for support.

In the end it was only a few minutes before Dr Cameron and Ardroy rejoined them. Dr Cameron, taking Alan’s arm on the other side from David, explained that none of their enemies had needed his help, for the few soldiers left on the battlefield had all been dead—those who were only wounded must, he said, have run or crawled away while he was attending to Alan, and joined their comrades.

And thus the four of them moved on together towards Balquhidder. As they went the robin struck up its song, powerfully lovely, once more from high in the branches above them, regardless as ever of the troubles and strifes of the world below its own.

VII. Alan Has Much to Bear

(1)

Their progress northwards was horribly slow. Dr Cameron and David walked on steadily, supporting Alan between them; Ardroy, bearing in his arms Dr Cameron’s bag and Alan’s great-coat and on his face an expression of anxious unease, led the way. From time to time Alan addressed disjointed fragments, apparently about the success of the fight and the laughable folly and weakness of the redcoats, to David; he made no more complaints, but nevertheless it was clear that the effort of movement increased with every step, and David struggled onwards full of cold fear that they would never make it as far as Balquhidder.

But they did. They passed the shore of Loch Voil, its water lying grey beneath the clouds, and the bridge over the River Balvaig; and at last the little cluster of cottages came into view. The appearance of the little party soon attracted the attention of the inhabitants; and as people began to come forward—with curiosity, dismay or offers of help, according to their various characters—Ardroy went to meet them, addressing some words to a tall woman who carried a great wicker basket on one arm.

‘They’ve had no visit from the soldiers since I was here this morning,’ he reported to David and Dr Cameron, as they set Alan carefully down upon a bench outside one of the cottages. ‘I only hope it stays that way.... What is it, Mr Balfour?’

For David, who had sat down on the bench close beside Alan, now sprang once more to his feet. The woman with whom Ardroy had been talking a moment ago had followed him, anxious to offer her assistance, but now it was David at whom she was looking, and the dull pain which filled David’s heart was suddenly jolted by a shock of astonished recognition.

‘Why, Mrs Maclaren!’ he said.

(2)

And so David, coming for this second time to the Braes of Balquhidder, met again the old friend who had so generously sheltered him when, ill of a fever and pursued by the redcoats, he had arrived there once before. Mrs Maclaren had been spending the day in Balquhidder village to visit her sister and to obtain a few necessaries for the farm; she was amazed to see her old friends again, and she was all eager readiness to provide help even before the situation was fully explained to her. It was in this sister’s cottage that Dr Cameron made a more thorough treatment of Alan’s wound, washing it, sewing it closed and applying a fresh and more sturdy bandage, while Mrs Maclaren and her sister and brother-in-law pressed food upon David and Ewen and advised them as to where they might hide themselves. Mrs Maclaren at first offered a bed in her own house to Alan (‘the very same one you yourself once had, Mr Balfour!’) but it was at last decided that this was too risky, when any house in the neighbourhood was liable to be searched by soldiers who, unlike the last time, would know exactly for whom they were searching. No; they must take to the heather, be the discomforts and perils what they might. Then Mrs Maclaren’s sister suggested a possible hiding place in a tiny uninhabited glen not very far above the village, but well-hidden from any obvious approaches, and with a steep rocky wall partway up its northern side, so sloping and so overhung with vegetation that it was practically a cave. ‘’Tis just the sort of place the red soldiers hate to go,’ she said, ‘and even if they went there, they could walk right past and never see it!’

This, Dr Cameron said, would do very well, if they could only get there. How to do this was a difficult problem; but, rested and fortified by the food they had got in the village, they at last managed the journey, with Alan rolled up in David’s plaid and carried by David and Ewen between them, while Dr Cameron kept a close eye on the effects of this journey on his patient’s condition and Mrs Maclaren, that generous soul, guided them to the hiding place.

She had left them in the late afternoon, with promises to return the next day with provisions and—if she had any—news of the soldiers’ movements. Now, a little while after sunset, Alan was lying upon a heap of hastily gathered heather in the cave, which was indeed perfectly hidden from outside view; Dr Cameron and Ardroy were with him, and from time to time the quiet murmur of their voices reached David where he sat keeping watch outside.

The last of the faint blueish light was fading from the little ragged gaps between the clouds over the western sky; elsewhere their gloomy grey was turned to definite and impenetrable black, for the moon was not yet risen, and the clouds were thick and densely massed enough to cover almost all the stars. Below, therefore, the far side of the little glen was all but invisible, while closer by the tall heather and the bare birch twigs made their presence known largely by their whispering in the wind which, calmer than it had been during the day, had not yet quite died down. David stared out into the darkness. It was already much colder than it had been in the day, and the keen night air upon his face went some way in helping him keep alert to any possible hint of light or sound which might mean danger.

It was Ardroy who had suggested, a little while ago, that David take this first watch; but if he had meant thus to distract him from his grief and anxiety, the kindly effort had not succeeded. All his heart was back there in the cave with Alan... while his mind seemed to float somewhere out in the unknown darkness, travelling strange paths of thought and feeling which he could not see.

Dr Cameron was too wise a physician to have attempted concealment of how serious Alan’s injury really was. If David had succeeded in saving his friend from capture in Glenbuckie, only to watch him die——

He had bowed his head on his arms, but now he raised it again to the sky. The moon was rising at last between the enfolding hills; it was just past the full, and rose into a patch of sky where the clouds were thinner and more ragged than elsewhere, so that its white light was visible but diffused into a sort of halo illuminating the fine contours of the clouds. It seemed a strange and uncertain lamp to light the way to Heaven; and yet David now fixed his eyes upon it and clasped his hands in a desperate prayer. The God whose celestial house was yet almost visible, though so hid, would not fail to heed a prayer said for one who made of His commandments such a strange morality as Alan did. It was Christian mercy, after all, to save even a Jacobite from an unjust and cruel capture; might he ask divine mercy to spare him from death?...

It was a little while later that the quiet voices from the cave ceased, and there was a sound of movement behind David. He turned to see Ardroy coming towards him in the dim moonlight.

‘How is he?’ were David’s first words, as Ardroy sat down in a patch of heather beside him.

Ewen gave a little grimace before replying, ‘Not well, I’m afraid. Dr Cameron thinks the walk up here was bad for him, and he’s getting feverish... but his chances are still good,’ he added rather hurriedly.

David, not looking at him, nodded in silence.

‘Dr Cameron was saying to me just now,’ continued Ardroy after a moment, ‘that he thinks you and I ought to leave in the morning. We have given our warning, he said, and we are only putting ourselves in danger by staying.’

At this David looked round sharply. Leave Alan now?—no, it was unthinkable! ‘I shan’t go anywhere until Alan is well,’ he said, in what he hoped was a tone of decisive finality.

‘I thought you would say so,’ said Ewen with a little smile, ‘and I confess I am inclined to say the same myself. Archie says he can manage to look after Mr Stewart on his own, and as far as his skill as a physician goes I believe him—but I’m sure they will both be safer for having someone else here to help them.’

‘Of course they will,’ said David. ‘Why, we can watch for danger—go back and forth to Mrs Maclaren’s house, or Stewart of Glenbuckie’s—fetch supplies—hear news of when the soldiers are near, and when they are gone——’

‘Exactly,’ said Ewen. ‘Well, I am glad you think so too. Our combined arguments will defeat Dr Cameron’s, I’m sure.... But, Mr Balfour—forgive my asking, but I must think of such things—there is no pressing reason why you ought to go back home soon, is there? You will not be... missed?’

‘No; I said at home that I was going on a visit, and my visit might as well take two weeks as one. I can stay here as long as I like.’

‘Well, then,’ said Ewen, smiling again, ‘we are decided.’

‘We are.’

Perfect co-conspirators, they shook hands. Then Ardroy said, ‘Now, you have been out here long enough; you should go and get some sleep. I’ll stay here for a while; though I suppose’—he squinted out into the hazy moonlight—‘the danger is probably past for to-night.’

David agreed to do so; and so he left Ewen with his tall figure outlined in a pensive attitude against the illumined clouds. Too late, it came into his mind to wonder whether Ardroy himself—who, if he was not a fugitive as Alan and Dr Cameron were, was certainly a Jacobite—had any reason why he ought to go home soon and not stay out here in the wilds leaving his whereabouts unknown, and whether he was perhaps thinking about that reason now... but probably there would be little point in saying so, for Ardroy was clearly determined to stay and help his cousins.

Their shelter was hidden by a mass of pendulous birch branches which perfectly screened it from view; it occurred to David as he brushed them aside that, had one wished, then with a little attention and a suitable supply of stakes and wattles one might have made another Cluny’s Cage out of the place. On the far side of the birches he found Dr Cameron preparing for bed, and exchanged a good-night with him in the dim yellow light of a lantern which stood upon a ledge of the rock behind him. Then he advanced towards the far side of the shelter...

Alan lay upon his bed of heather, wrapped in the blanket in which he had been carried up here and with his own great-coat for an outer covering. He was wearing a clean shirt, the open neck of which showed a glimpse of the bandage that swathed his breast; the ruined coat and waistcoat had been taken away. His head was turned to one side and his eyes were closed, but he had not the look of a deep or peaceful sleeper, and when David extended a cautious hand to feel his forehead—which was burning hot—he muttered something indistinguishable, moved his head and tried to adjust his covers, frowning all the time. He looked, thought David, very small lying there alone beneath the coat.

Then suddenly he opened his eyes, which glittered brilliantly grey in the lantern-light, and fastened them upon David. He stared at him for several moments in silence.

‘Davie,’ he said at last, in an astonished whisper; and then, ‘Na, na, it cannot be, for I left him... at the house of Shaws, years ago....’ And he turned his head away again, looking unspeakably forlorn.

‘No,’ whispered David urgently, ‘no, Alan, ’tis no dream! I am here.’ He took hold of Alan’s right hand.

This got Alan’s attention, and he turned back towards David and lay gazing at him with a look of intense mental effort, as though working out the solution of a puzzle to himself, thinking with difficulty amidst the clinging fog of pain and fever. Then all at once the frown cleared, as if a beam of sunlight were shining bright through those clouds. Alan smiled with the satisfaction of having solved his puzzle, squeezed David’s hand and said, weakly but quite distinctly, ‘Ah, I see how it is. You’re wanting to share my coat again, as you did once before.... Well, you’re welcome to.’

And he shuffled about beneath the coat, taking a fold of it in his hand as if to lift it up and make room for David in that spot which had been his on those nights amongst the heather two years ago. In the weakness and confusion of his fever he did not manage this very successfully; but David, after hesitating only for a moment, took the fold of cloth from Alan’s hand and lay down beside him. He arranged the great-coat and plaid about himself, while Alan settled back upon the heather.

‘Ay, there you are,’ said Alan happily. ‘Ach, if only there was not this pain at my heart—and burning so... I’ve had a dirk in my chest, I believe... but it was a fine fight....’ His voice was getting weaker, and after a few more broken fragments about the half-remembered origin of the wound which so pained him he trailed off into incomprehensible mutterings, and then into silence, and he closed his eyes again. But there was a little smile upon his face which had not been there before.

David lay and watched him for a few moments, a peculiar feeling of anxious tenderness spreading through him; and then he did something which he had not done in the old days when they had shared the great-coat at Corrynakiegh and out upon the moors. Slowly and very carefully, he extended his arm and placed it round Alan, encircling his waist and holding him close to himself. Dimly through the exhaustion which, having been put aside and ignored for the last several hours, was making itself more and more apparent every moment now, he felt that he could by so doing shield Alan from danger, as though injury and fever and loss of blood were an enemy which might swoop in on great wings out of the night and try to take his friend from him. No guard that he could make against it would be wanting.

Alan made a small, indistinct noise and turned his head towards David, so that a few strands of fair hair which had come loose from his queue brushed against David’s chin.

And a very short time after that the exhaustion of the day overtook David entirely, and he slipped into a deep yet uneasy sleep.

(3)

All through the next day Alan lay in a fever, tossing and turning on the heather, drifting from restless and unhappy sleep to half-waking delirium and then drifting back again. David stayed by his side all the time. He tucked Alan’s covers back round him when he disarranged them in his movements, and added an extra blanket brought by Mrs Maclaren in the morning; he contrived to arrange the birch branches so as to keep off the small rain which fell all day and blew into the cave in a most discouraging manner; he tried his best to make Alan drink some water and take a little food when he was able; he helped to change Alan’s bandages and dressings; he was, in short, as obliging and industrious a nurse as Dr Cameron could wish to have as his assistant, and Dr Cameron told him so. David accepted the compliment with an unhappy smile; he only wished that all his efforts might not be in vain. There was no more talk of his leaving, and Ardroy, staying on guard outside the hiding place while David and Dr Cameron did their work, seemed as permanent a fixture.

Alongside the blanket, Mrs Maclaren brought them good news. The soldiers had come to the village that morning, and Mrs Maclaren’s ingenious sister and brother-in-law had told them that they had seen the fugitives going west along the loch—sending them off on a false trail which, said Mrs Maclaren happily, ought to keep the scoundrels occupied and safely away from them for a little while.

And the next morning brought David his wish. He woke to find Alan sleeping once more, but the heat and restlessness of fever were entirely gone, replaced by that quiet, true sleep which brings peace and healing to the exhausted sufferer. Alan’s face, though drawn and tired, had its own expression again, and he was no longer unnaturally hot to the touch, but warm with real vitality. For some time David lay beside him in the grey early light and watched his steady breathing with a joyful relief so profound that he could almost have laughed aloud. Then, rising, he reached over and brushed a lock of hair out of Alan’s face; and then he went and woke Dr Cameron, who after a brief examination pronounced his patient out of danger.

‘But it will not be a quick recovery,’ he added—with a meaning look at Ardroy, who had joined him and David in the corner by Alan’s bed. ‘We must hope our hiding place serves us for a few days more.’

Perhaps Dr Cameron anticipated that Alan might not very readily agree with him in this.

Later that morning Ewen and David found themselves together by the side of the burn that ran along below their hiding place. Ewen had gone thither to fetch water, and David, having retrieved Alan’s blue French coat from Mrs Maclaren, who had done her best at washing the blood-stains out of it, was continuing this effort to the best of his own abilities. The weather had cleared up overnight, and a fitful sun now shone occasionally through gaps in the pale clouds, brightening the world for an unexpected moment before it dimmed again; a flock of siskins were flittering amongst the alders that grew beside the burn, hanging nimbly upside down from the little twigs and spindly cones, the sudden sun catching the flashes of yellow in their spread wings. It was a glad scene into which to emerge after the anxiety of the last two days, and David stood beside the water, looking up at the little birds and breathing the fresh, damp air of the morning. Then he looked down to where Ewen’s tall figure bent towards the bright reflection of his own auburn hair in the water. Despite himself, David was curious about this cousin of Dr Cameron’s and of Alan’s. He was well inclined to like him, despite that he was a Jacobite—and even though he seemed to be a very different sort of Jacobite from Alan.

‘Tell me about Ardroy,’ he said, when Ewen had got all the water they needed. ‘It’s in Lochaber, I think you said?’

‘Yes—above Loch Lochy, inland from Fort William,’ said Ewen. ‘It is a lovely place... rather like this little glen in shape, only larger, and with a fine loch in the middle of it, and with more level ground, where my tenants’ fields and cottages are.’ He was smiling off into the distance as he spoke, and his affection for his home was obvious; he gave the impression that he could have said much more than he did but was holding back, perhaps from a sense that the words were too dear to be wasted.

‘Have you always lived there?’ asked David.

‘All my life—save for the times I spent in France, once when I was studying at the Sorbonne... and again more recently.’

David could guess the reason for that sojourn across the water, and, not eager to embarrass Ewen by lingering upon the subject, sought quickly for another question. ‘What crops do your tenants grow? I confess I know little of agriculture in the Highlands.’

Fortunately it was a good choice of topic; Ewen answered very readily, ‘Oh, the usual oats and barley, for the most part. But I’ve been making a few experiments lately—I think potatoes and turnips might do a great deal for our food supply, though the people want encouragement to take to them. I suppose they’re familiar in your parts?’

‘Fairly,’ said David, not wishing to appear too much the superior Lowlander, ‘though the old people remember when they were new. But I have plans to start trying new crops, too—I have not achieved very much yet, for I have only been at Shaws a year. But there’s a little plot near the house which I think might make a fine fruit garden.’

‘Really? I have been making experiments in growing fruit these last few years....’

From here followed a technical discussion of apple varieties, espaliered pear trees, drills for planting turnips, the enclosure and improvement of waste ground and other such interesting questions; and these two keen young lairds, despite that they came from such different parts of the country and had such different views in politics, found that they had a great deal in common after all.

‘’Tis much easier, of course,’ said Ewen presently, ‘with help. For I have my aunt Margaret to help me—she brought me up, and has lived with me ever since. And my factor, Mr Windham.’

‘Mr Windham—is he an Englishman?’ asked David. For it was an English name, and he had heard of some such Englishmen bringing southern innovations to the Scottish estates on which they were employed as factors, stewards or gardeners.

‘Yes,’ said Ewen. ‘Yes; he... came down from London a few years ago at my request. He is very good at his work, and he is a great friend of mine.’ His manner was no longer what it had been while they discussed turnip drills; it had again something of the tender wistfulness with which he had spoken of the glen of Ardroy and its fine loch.

‘Indeed? He must be a lot of help to you. I suppose he’s looking after the estate now, while you are away?’

‘So he is,’ said Ewen, rather abruptly. The strange brightness all at once was gone from his voice and manner. He rose from the boulder on which he had seated himself while they talked. ‘We’ve been dawdling here too long, I’m afraid,’ he said with a brief smile. ‘Let’s go back up now.’

And so they returned to the birch wood and to the hiding place concealed behind it. Dr Cameron, seeing them, came forward to take the water from Ewen; but before he could say anything, a voice from further back in the cave—a terribly weak voice, still changed from its usual tones, but yet a familiar one—said, ‘David! You are here after all.’

David, who had stopped to hang the blue coat on a birch branch to dry, rushed to his friend’s bedside. Alan was fully awake now, and looking more like himself than ever. He tried to raise himself on his elbows as David approached.

‘Oh, but I’m right glad to see you awake!’ said David, taking Alan’s hand as he lay back down on the heather. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Far better than I was yesterday, so far as I recall,’ said Alan cheerfully. ‘Is Mr Cameron there bringing us some water? I’ll have a drop, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course,’ said David, and fetched him a cup of water. This Alan would try to take and raise to his own lips; but he could neither sit up far enough nor steady himself enough to drink, and it was a pitiful sight to see him try, wincing with pain as he did whenever he attempted a greater movement than he was really capable of. David, muttering vague words of encouragement, took the cup back from him before too much water could be spilt, then with one hand under Alan’s head raised it carefully and guided the cup to his lips with the other hand.

‘Thank you, David,’ said Alan when he had drunk; but he sounded terribly disheartened.

(4)

It was the afternoon of the next day, and Ewen sat on watch outside the hiding place, feeling rather like the eagle which he sometimes saw at home, perched at the top of the creag ruadh surveying its namesake the loch. He kept his attention on the distant view of the low pass between two rocky slopes which was the easiest approach to this little glen, and which was therefore the most likely route the soldiers would take if they came here. Seeing not a hint of a red coat there, he studied the outlines of the rocks and the patchwork where dark heather gave way to rough green-brown grass or rushes, fixing his attention upon every detail in turn; but none of this really occupied his mind—or his heart. For, his immediate anxiety about Dr Cameron being over for the moment, he was taking every opportunity this mental freedom gave to return to his anguished thoughts of Keith.

What was he to say to Keith when they met again? What could he say—when he could not even now really regret his theft of Lord Aveling’s letter, because it meant that Archie was yet free? But it might be too late even for that. Keith had said he did not intend to quit Ardroy immediately; but, given time to think upon the wrong Ewen had done him, might he not decide that there was nothing more to be said or done between them, and leave after all? Ewen saw himself in imagination returning along the pine avenue at Ardroy towards the dear old house, and arriving there to find his aunt alone, and a letter for him, perhaps....

Ever since the precious day at Fort Augustus when he had learnt that Keith had not betrayed him as he had believed, he had thought of Keith always first as a friend—and then as something else also... and he had given too little thought to their opposite allegiances. He had been so happy living peacefully with Keith at Ardroy the last four years. But the old division had come between them again... and Ewen, in his simplicity, had thought that the plans for a new Rising would be the source of the trouble. He had not foreseen this!

There was a step from behind, and a moment later Dr Cameron sat down beside him. ‘Is all well, Ewen?’ he said, squinting towards the distant pass.

‘Oh—yes, all is well,’ said Ewen, attempting to pull together the scattered threads of his thoughts. And, because Dr Cameron’s words had raised other questions in his mind, he added, ‘How long do you think we must stay here?’

‘A week,’ replied Dr Cameron, ‘perhaps more, perhaps less. Alan is making a good recovery, but any kind of long journey will be beyond him for a little while. I’m not troubled about it; I think our fastness here is as secure as we might hope it to be,’ he added, with a smile.

Ewen nodded slowly. ‘Archie,’ he then said, ‘you told me last autumn that there were plans in motion for early in the new year... it is almost April now. What more have you heard? Where are General Keith and his fleet?’

It was a long moment before Dr Cameron spoke. ‘We have heard nothing more of them these last few months,’ he said at last. ‘I believe the attempt is still meant to happen, but it has been put off... and put off again. There are political complications on the Continent, and I do not very well know how things are going with the Prince—and in truth, Eoghain, I do not know what our plans will come to. There are some in Scotland still ready to listen to us—Cluny is still determined, and he’s been gathering arms for us—but others less ready, and the longer we have nothing new and hopeful to tell them....’ And he shook his head.

This disheartening news Ewen greeted in silence. He had been dimly suspecting something like it for a while, with no word of new plans or movements reaching him all winter; and at that moment it seemed only of a piece with the calamities of Archie’s danger, Alan’s being wounded and his own break with Keith that even the Cause itself should falter.

‘We must decide what to do, and where to go, when Alan is stronger,’ went on Dr Cameron now. ‘I almost think we ought to return to the Continent and confer again with the Prince and our other friends there, before making any further efforts here, as it were in the dark... though I’m afraid Alan will not agree. But, Eoghain,’ he said suddenly in a different voice, ‘something else is troubling you, is it not?’

Startled, Ewen looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

Dr Cameron, forgetting his political cares for a moment, smiled his own old knowing smile. ‘I mean, ’ille, that you have been looking uncommonly gloomy sometimes of late, and I think ’tis about something else besides Alan’s condition or the success of our plans. Is there some trouble at home, Ewen? Your aunt is well? Or—do not tell me you’ve found some lady to lose your heart over, at last?’

‘There is no lady, Archie,’ said Ewen, meeting his cousin’s mood of raillery—though he knew that Archie did not really believe these flippant guesses.

But Dr Cameron’s smile turned to a deeper and a more solemn expression. ‘Your friend, Mr Windham... he is not of our party, is he, Ewen?... How did you get to know about the warrant from Inversnaid, and that Alan and I were here? You never have told me.’

There was a long silence. Dr Cameron had got perilously near the truth, and in Ewen’s heart there sprang up a sudden wild impulse to tell him everything; he had been such a wise confidant in years before... and then, rising up to meet this impulse, there was the terrible shame of what he had done. If Archie knew the price Ewen had paid to save him....

Shaking his head in sore perplexity, Ewen looked back towards the far side of the glen, as though the mountains could answer his question.

But there was a movement there. Ewen leaned forward, at once alert—— But no; this was a solitary figure, wearing not a red coat but a plain dark gown, and carrying a basket on one arm. It was Mrs Maclaren, on her way to them with fresh supplies of food. He pointed her out to Dr Cameron.

‘Yes,’ said Archie. ‘We are fortunate indeed here.’ And the subject they had been discussing before Mrs Maclaren’s appearance was forgotten.

(5)

Mrs Maclaren reached the cave with her basket of food, and as she, Dr Cameron and Ardroy passed the curtain of birches together and came towards where David sat beside Alan on the bed of heather, she added to it another gift equally welcome: more good news about the soldiers from Inversnaid. ‘More of them have come up from the barracks,’ she said, ‘but they’re still searching off to the west, all in the wrong direction!’

Then Alan suggested that she stay with them for a meal; and the five of them made a merry little gathering together, albeit that the food was all cold, for they could not risk showing smoke from a fire. Alan, who could now sit half-propped up against the wall of rock behind his bed, ate a prodigious quantity, talking and joking all the while.

‘Ah, this well puts me in mind of the old days—or the old nights—when we were all together at your house,’ he said to Mrs Maclaren, nudging David’s arm as he spoke.

‘Oh, does it just!’ she said happily. ‘’Tis only a shame we cannot have Duncan’s pipes up here.’

‘I would give you a song,’ returned Alan, ‘but I fear my lungs aren’t so strong as they have been just now.... How is Duncan, by the by?’

Her husband, said Mrs Maclaren, was very well; and there followed a discussion of how the fortunes of the Maclarens and their little farm had gone since Alan and David had last seen them. At last Mrs Maclaren said that she must be going, for that the hens would be wanting their own dinner and wondering where she had got to; and, with friendly good wishes and thanks on all sides, she left the little party whom she was so loyally helping, and at not a little risk to herself.

‘Now, my friend,’ said Dr Cameron to Alan when she had gone, ‘you had better try to get some more sleep. Rest is the best possible thing for you.’

‘Na, not just yet,’ said Alan, raising himself further up on the heather.

‘No?’ enquired Dr Cameron mildly.

‘You and I,’ said Alan, ‘must talk more of our plans first; for though we’ve done very well here for these... how long has it been?’

‘Three days,’ supplied David, who was watching them carefully.

‘—These three days,’ went on Alan, ‘we have been long enough in Balquhidder, I believe. Those redcoats will be coming back this way soon enough. We should be thinking of moving on as soon as may be.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Dr Cameron, coming over to kneel down by Alan’s side. ‘As soon as may be; which is not now nor very soon, for you are not at all fit to travel yet. You risk making that wound much worse if you try to move any distance.’

‘Making it worse!’ said Alan. ‘Perhaps so, but what’s that against the risk of biding here? Archie, you well know I can bear such a small discomfort, or you’ve not known Alan Breck these many years!’

‘I fear,’ said Dr Cameron, in the same calm and level voice, ‘that the discomfort would not be small—nor would it be only discomfort. But——’

‘Do you mean to say you won’t let us go?’ demanded Alan. He was glaring with all the life in his strengthening eyes at the doctor.

‘As your physician,’ said Dr Cameron, not without a certain twinkle in his own eyes, ‘that is what I do say, yes.’

‘That is more than I will stand!’ exclaimed Alan, and he pushed the plaid away from his knees and struggled, unsteadily but determinedly, to his feet. ‘We’re only waiting for the redcoats to find us if we bide here.’

‘I would rather take that risk,’ said Dr Cameron, ‘than the risk that there will be no Alan Breck left for the redcoats to find, here or anywhere on earth, if you don’t give that wound time to heal rightly. Come now, Alan, sit back down——’

But Alan would have none of this. ‘And I,’ he declared, ‘would sooner bleed to death out among the heather, where I know myself free, than be taken to swing on the gibbet at Ballachulish, or to languish in a dungeon at Edinburgh Castle, and I’ll take no orders from any’—and he called Dr Cameron by an epithet which that good physician certainly did not deserve—‘otherwise. Why, I can go——’

So saying, he pulled himself away from Dr Cameron’s supporting arm and staggered out to the front of the cave. He made it almost as far as the fringing birches before his legs gave beneath him; but David, who had listened to the altercation between doctor and patient with alarm increasing in proportion to its warmth, now rushed forward to intervene, and was in time to catch his friend in his arms as he collapsed.

‘Oh, Alan, man,’ he said in an undertone, as he half-carried Alan past a dismayed Ewen and back to the bed of heather, ‘we must stay here yet awhile... and we are safe here, do believe it.’ Alan, weak and reluctant, was very heavy in his arms. ‘There’s me and Ardroy to guard us, as well as Dr Cameron, and Mrs Maclaren to warn us if the soldiers are near. We’re quite safe.’

Alan glared in turn at Ewen and David, as if he had serious doubts regarding their abilities as guards. But, tacitly admitting his own complete unfitness for the movement he proposed, he allowed David to lead him back to the bed and settle him there; whereupon he fell into a silent sulk, and eventually passed from thence into a doze.

Dr Cameron, seeing his patient’s closed eyes and sleeping frown, shook his head at David with a wry smile. ‘I cannot complain‚’ he said. ‘He is certainly getting stronger, in any case. It’ll not be many days before we really can leave, I think—so long as he doesn’t keep making himself worse with these foolish attempts!’

VIII. The Plover’s Stratagem

(1)

A few days in March can work a great change upon the face of a hedgerow, or a wood, or a garden flowerbed—especially if they are a few of those playful, capricious early spring days of constant alternation between fine sunshine and cold rain, as they had been ever since the gloomy rain of that first day in Balquhidder. Now, as David made his cautious way back through the wood of Glenbuckie on the morning of the day after Alan’s argument with his physician, all the world seemed to be welcoming the coming spring in gladness. Though the oaks and ashes were still bare, and the pines still dark, the scattered hawthorns of the understorey were unfolding their new green, and the hazels were hung densely with yellow catkins, and beneath them the woodland floor was bright with the white wood anemones and the tiny, almost luminous green trefoils of the wood sorrel. The song of the robin still floated joyfully out overhead, and that bold singer was now joined by others—the practised chinks and trills of the chaffinch; the plaintive back-and-forth creaking of the great tit; the thin but emphatic piping of the goldcrest, at so high a pitch as to be almost out of hearing. Walking along amongst these happy things, David too was gladdened, so that his heart felt as light and buoyant as the birdsong.

And Alan was better yet to-day. David had spent the early morning beside him, and the assurance that he was really quite out of danger, and getting his strength back steadily, added not a little to David’s lightness of heart.

Now he was making, at last, for the goal that he had never reached when first he came here: the house of Duncan Stewart of Glenbuckie, where Alan and Dr Cameron had left a few of their things and had not, after the warning brought by David and Ewen, had any chance to go back for them. It would be convenient for them to get these things now, and better for Duncan Stewart and his family not to be encumbered with them; and so David, armed with better directions to the house than he had got on his first arrival, had set out to fetch them.

He passed the memorable scenes of that first eventful day, and carried on along the track until, a little way after it left the wood, he found the turning which Ardroy had described to him. And this brought him in a very short time within sight of the house—where he stood for a few moments in some little annoyance that he had managed somehow to miss it before. No matter, however; he had a mission to carry out, and he continued up to the door of the house and knocked upon it.

It was opened, after a not inconsiderable time, by a servant who regarded the visitor with a look of decisive suspicion.

‘Is Mr Stewart at home?’ said David, in reply to her curt enquiry as to what he wanted. ‘I have come to see him. I am a friend of Mr Chalmers and Mr Thomson,’ he added.

The first question brought the storm clouds yet more strongly into the woman’s face; but at the sound of Dr Cameron’s and Alan’s aliases they cleared away at once, and she opened the door wider. ‘Come in, sir, come in,’ she said. ‘Mr Stewart is not at home—oh, he is not!... But the ladies are both here—the laird’s mother and sister—and they’ll see you.’

David followed the servant through the hall and into a large, neat kitchen full of daylight, where a tall, fair-haired woman, about fifty years old, was making pastry. She looked up as they entered.

‘Mrs Stewart,’ said the servant, ‘here is a friend of Mr Chalmers and Mr Thomson come to see us.’

Mrs Stewart gave a little exclamation; then, collecting herself, she dusted her hands on her apron and came forward. ‘I am glad to hear it, sir,’ she said. ‘We have heard that the soldiers found our friends, and that there was a fight in the woods, but afterwards.... Did they get safely away?’

‘They did, madam!’ said David. ‘They have been hiding these four days in... a place where the redcoats will not find them, and I and another friend with them. We are quite safe.’

‘Thank God for that,’ said Mrs Stewart, smiling at both her visitor and her serving-woman. ‘But you have some errand here? Thank you, Janet, you may go; oh, will you find Kirsteen and send her to me?.... If you wanted to see my son, sir, he is not here. He was in Perth on business when the soldiers from Inversnaid arrived. They arrested him on his way back.’

David said he was very sorry; and indeed it was disheartening news—both in the evident fact that the redcoats had been competent enough at least to find and arrest one party in this affair, and because Dr Cameron had spoken of wanting to speak with Duncan Stewart to discuss their next movements. But no doubt his mother would be able to help them too. As David began upon his explanations the door opened and Miss Stewart—an earnest-looking young lady of twenty-five or so, very like her mother—arrived.

‘Here, Kirsteen,’ said Mrs Stewart, ‘our visitor has news of Duncan’s friends! Please go on, Mr Balfour.’

Kirsteen clasped her hands together and joined them, and David resumed explaining the main part of his errand to-day. Having heard everything, both ladies expressed their willingness to assist.

‘Yes, everything is just as they left it,’ said Mrs Stewart as they led David upstairs to the guest chamber which had been occupied by ‘Mr Chalmers’. ‘We’ll be happy to return these few things to their owners—otherwise I suppose we would have been obliged to get rid of them, though there is nothing very incriminating.’

There was a bag, a few clothes, two or three books belonging to Dr Cameron and a little clasp-knife of Alan’s, among a few other things. David packed everything into the bag and took it up.

Mrs Stewart invited him to take a cup of tea and a scone before he returned to Balquhidder. Sitting at the table in that bright kitchen, the appealing smell of the pie which Mrs Stewart had been making wafting towards them, David was glad to have some rest and refreshment before he began his return journey—less because it was a particularly long or arduous journey, for it was not, than because it was so pleasant, after the last few days of hiding up among the hills in all weathers without even a fire at which to warm himself, to sit quiet and safe in a house and drink hot tea. At first their conversation avoided political topics; instead Mrs Stewart made a few polite enquiries about David’s home and family, and Kirsteen showed them both some pencil sketches she had been making of the early wild flowers in the wood, for she was evidently a devoted student of botany.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Stewart at last, ‘it is good indeed to know that our friends are safe. I must thank you for bringing us news of them, Mr Balfour.’

‘I hope Mr Stewart is soon returned to you to hear the news too,’ said David.

She smiled—it was not the controlled, polite smile which she had worn until now—and looked down into her cup of tea. Kirsteen, at once descending from her own attitude of scientific keenness, reached over and patted her arm. ‘I hope so too,’ said Mrs Stewart. She shook her head; she was no longer smiling. ‘We do pay dearly for our faithfulness to the White Rose....’

‘But our friends are still free,’ said Kirsteen stoutly, ‘and if they remain free to carry on their work, I hope we may one day see a happier state of things.’

David sat up in his chair, alarmed. That plural pronoun had clearly been intended to include him, and he must put right the error.

‘I hope all my friends will remain free and happy,’ he said, ‘but you mistake me if you suppose that I bear any allegiance to the White Rose. I am a loyal friend of King George—— No, no’—for Mrs Stewart had half-risen with an exclamation, and Kirsteen looked astonished—‘I am just what I said I was, a friend of Mr Chalmers and Mr Thomson. I will not carry anything you have said anywhere other than back to them. But I am their friend—not an ally in their politics. That is all.’

‘I see. Well, then, sir, you have my apologies for mistaking you.’ Mrs Stewart, as she resumed her seat, looked at him with a mixed expression of puzzlement, reserve and offended pride. David felt at once that he had gone wrong, and hastened to finish his tea and be on his way.

‘Thank you for these,’ he said, indicating the bag he carried, as he stood in the hall preparing to depart. ‘And I’ll bring your good wishes to my friends. You may see me again, or Mr Cameron may come here.’

Mrs Stewart nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Balfour.’

‘We wish you all may keep safe,’ added Kirsteen. David had evidently not succeeded in repairing the effects of his announcement of loyalty to King George, for the elder lady spoke shortly, and the younger made an effort at chilly dignity which, she not being very much used to this attitude, ended up more in the region of an oddly bright severity. But in neither of them was there any real unkindness of manner, and they parted from David, if not friends, at least not enemies.

On the way back through the wood David mused on politics and the sadly divided state of the nation; it was the second time in a few days that he had offended a Jacobite by a clumsy correction of their assumption that he was one of them, and something else which Miss Stewart had said was still troubling him vaguely. But he was soon drawn out of these not very happy thoughts by the loveliness of the day, which had warmed and brightened further since his outward journey. The sun shone upon him with that effect of quiet, simple joy whose absence we do not notice until the contrast of its appearance makes us feel the real strength of light and warmth; and he was glad.

The closer he came to the hiding place, the more care he must take not to be seen; and therefore he made a detour round the village of Balquhidder, heading a short way up the River Balvaig before striking off into the hills. It was here, nestled in a tiny hollow between rocks upon the hillside up which he was scrambling, that he found an orchid—a small neat spike of richly purple flowers on a stalk emerging from a whorl of narrow, blotched leaves. He knelt down to examine it, thinking that it was surely an unusual thing to see so early in the year, and that perhaps it was a rare species and that Dr Cameron, who, like Kirsteen Stewart, took an interest in the botanical science, might like to hear about it. Pick it to bring to the doctor he could not—not when it was growing there so lonely and so brave.

And, absorbed in this task, he did not see the redcoats until, rising at last to continue on his way, he turned and walked almost straight into them.

It was already too late to think of hiding. They had seen him; the officer who led the party was raising a hand to hail him. A sharp English voice cried, ‘You there!’

Trying not to show a reluctance which would surely look suspicious, trying to imagine and assume the appearance of the innocent local lad he must claim to be (alas, he did not know enough Gaelic to pretend to have no English), David went forward. He scanned the faces of the soldiers—eight of them—hoping desperately that none of them had been present at the fight in the woods. He did not recognise any of them, but that was no certainty....

The officer—he was certainly a new man, at least—regarded him. ‘Now, young man, what are you doing out here this morning, hmm?’ he said. He spoke with a crisp arrogance which inspired in David instant dislike; but dislike would not help him invent answers any more readily, and he thought furiously.

‘Bringing food to my grandmother, who lives alone farther up the glen,’ he said. It was the first lie that occurred to him, and he had no time to think of a wiser or more plausible one.

‘I see. Do you live in the village?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The officer frowned; he had dark, sharply-pointed eyebrows which made for a splendidly emphatic frown. Before he could speak further, one of the soldiers came forward hesitatingly and whispered something to him—and David’s heart sank, for the longer he looked at this second man’s face the more certain he became that he had been one of the party in the wood. If he had, he must recognise David now.... David considered his chances if he turned and ran, and decided at once that they were so slim as to be unworthy of consideration. He wondered glumly what Alan would have done in this predicament—but Alan, of course, would have kept his wits about him and avoided meeting the soldiers in the first place; that could not help David now.

The officer replied, briefly and also in a whisper, to the soldier who had interrupted him, and turned back to David. ‘We are seeking a party of rebel agents known to be hiding somewhere hereabouts. I do not suppose you have seen any strangers about the glen, or near your home?’

‘No, sir. I have seen nothing.’

The eloquent eyebrows rearranged themselves, turning the well-composed frown into an equally well-composed look of businesslike satisfaction. ‘Very well. That is all I wanted to know. Good morning.’

At first these words hardly impressed their sense upon David’s brain. He stood there in what must have made a reasonably good show of rural slow-wittedness. At last, at a quirk of the officer’s eyebrows which perhaps betrayed a little amusement at this, he understood that he was actually being allowed to go free, without even any further awkward questions, and with a hasty good-morning, he turned and availed himself of this freedom. Had he looked more closely at the soldiers as he left them, he might have seen that one or two of them—and particularly the man who had whispered to the officer—were looking as puzzled as he felt; but in his astonishment he did not notice them.

He went up the glen, on the route that would take him round by the low rocky pass towards the hiding place; and he had not gone very far before his relieved exultation at escaping the redcoats’ clutches so easily was cast into shadow by the thought that they—snooping about the Braes of Balquhidder, closer than the watchful Maclarens had known the soldiers to come so far—might soon find that hiding place. He stopped for a moment and turned back to see where they were going. No; the scarlet group, bright in the sunlight, were heading west towards Loch Voil, in the direction of Inversnaid whence they had come. David looked more closely at them for a moment, narrowing his eyes.

...There were only six soldiers in the party going westwards. They had been eight before. Where were the others?

And then David brought his gaze back closer in towards him, and saw a little movement—nothing more—just glimpsed round the edge of a rise in the ground.

His heart beat quickly. Hastily he turned and continued along the rough deer track which he was following. His brain, clear now of the shock of his first meeting with the soldiers, was working rapidly, and he understood the situation at once. That man, the one who had whispered to the officer, had recognised him; and the beautifully-frowning, quick-thinking officer, seeing a better chance of finding his real prey than might have been achieved by taking David prisoner at once, had let him go—that he, free to continue on any Jacobitical business he had in hand, might show the redcoats the way to the hiding place.

David smiled as he picked his way among the wiry brown stems of the heather, for with this understanding came a certainty of his next action. He knew now what Alan would do, for he had seen him do it in the wood of Lettermore two years ago—and now he would do the same. First of all he must not let the soldiers know that he knew they were following him; so he kept on his way as naturally as he could, walking at an easy pace along the track, glancing up now and then to the hills which reared their heads above him. Presently the track branched in two; he allowed himself a moment’s natural hesitation, and then took—not the way leading up towards the little hidden glen with its birch-shrouded cave, but the other way, which led farther eastward along the brae. Oh, yes, he would show the redcoats their way. A merry dance he would lead them!

He kept to this new path for ten minutes or so. The hillside here was steep enough, and the track rude enough, that his right foot in descending to the ground had appreciably farther to go than his left, and the resulting odd jolting kept him to a slow pace. All the better; they would find it easier to keep up, and he was in no danger from them yet. Only once did he risk a glance behind him; a smudge of scarlet, incautiously standing up straight on the path a little way back, ducked hastily out of sight.

As he continued on his way David thought of the plover, a curious habit of whose he had once heard of from Mr Campbell—he had never got close enough to their nests to see it for himself, though he had sometimes tried. The female plover, when she sees a fox creeping through the scrub or a crow descending on ragged wings towards her nest, will sometimes go forward to catch the attention of the hunter herself, shamming a broken wing or some such disabling injury; and thus appearing a more enticing quarry, she leads the fox or the crow away from the nest, so that it never thinks of going back in that direction. When she judges that a safe distance has been reached—and when the hunter is thinking that surely now it will have an easy chance at this weak, injured prey—she drops the sham and takes sudden flight, having preserved both herself and her eggs in perfect safety. It was, thought David, an apt analogy. He almost laughed aloud as he went at the absurd thought of himself as a mother plover, deceiving the pursuing redcoats away from Alan.

The problem, of course, would be the taking flight. How was he to give the redcoats the slip—and how long had he before they suspected that he was not leading them where they wished to go, and perhaps looked to another tactic than simply trailing him?

Following the hillside round, he was walking now above and parallel to a deep green groove down which ran a tree-shaded burn. As is the way with such mountain streams, the path was criss-crossed by little tributaries running down towards it; and up ahead one of these, bigger than the rest, ran in its own miniature fissure, fringed by birches and alders and with large rocks scattered here and there along its banks. Here was a chance. He descended towards the tributary, and reaching it found that the path was now quite out of sight; having made such a noise of splashing about as he hoped would give the impression that he had forded it, he instead ducked to the side, ran a little way downstream and concealed himself behind a boulder.

It was not very long after that the soldiers appeared. Peering out at them, David recognised one of them as the man who had whispered to the officer. He drew back farther behind the boulder. The redcoats, without hesitation, forded the burn and scrambled up the farther side of the fissure, and then disappeared over its rim.

David stayed where he was, wondering how long he ought to wait here before it would be safe to move, wishing the rushing of the burn were not so loud, that he might hear what the soldiers were doing. It was a good thing that he did stay. In a few minutes the redcoats reappeared.

‘It must have been there,’ said one of them. David risked peering over the top of the boulder, and saw the two redcoats standing on the far bank and looking about them. ‘He was out of sight long enough,’ continued the first soldier.

‘Maybe,’ said the other, ‘this is the very place! If he went along here——’ He peered up and down the course of the burn, and David cowered as far out of sight as he could.

It was a few moments before the first man spoke again; perhaps he was considering this hypothesis. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘’Tis a good track, and perhaps a cave behind those boulders.... Well, no use imagining it. Come, let’s search up here.’

There came sounds of splashing and of careful footsteps over rocks, growing more distant. Cautiously David emerged from behind his boulder. The redcoats were still in sight, but a long way off now—they were searching along the burn, going upstream! What luck that they had not decided to turn the other way... but they would probably try it when the first way failed, and so David must move quickly.

He waited till the redcoats had vanished round a bend, then turned and began to pick his way downstream, dividing his attention between keeping his footing upon the wet rocks and glancing every few steps back over his shoulder. But the soldiers never reappeared; he had pulled off a trick more hazardous than the plover’s, and lost them.

At last he reached the larger burn and went a little way upstream along it. Here he was content that pursuit was ended for the present, for he could make his way under cover of the birches which grew taller and thicker here than beside the little mountain tributary. Then he would have to go round the head of the glen and double back to where his friends were; he hoped he knew the way, for it would be a great shame to cap such a victory with the ignominy of getting lost.

He sat down for a moment upon a fallen log and breathed a long sigh of delighted relief. Then he bent with cupped hands to the burn and drank a draught from it. He had scarcely known how thirsty he was until thus refreshed, and resting there beneath the trees, he felt the full weight of how tired he was after the long detour which his trickery had made over the hills. But there was no help for it; he was only temporarily safe here, and he must start on his way back.

Sighing, he rose to his feet.

(2)

The clouds were piled into strange and various shapes, huge in the endless landscape of the sky and making a weird, outlandish contrast to the Highland hills below them. Their colours ranged from pure white just above to a grim blue-grey on the far eastern horizon, which threatened more rain should the wind blow them closer; they surrounded a clear blue patch in the centre of the sky as the hills of some Highland glens do a loch, and from here the rays of the sun came through and multiplied the variety of their shades yet further.

It was a lovely and a picturesque prospect, especially when set off by the drooping branches and swelling buds of the birches which hid almost everything but the sky from farther view. But it did not seem very peaceful or calming to Alan to-day. His heart burnt within him to be out beneath that sky in truth, and the two pieces of news which David had brought them the day before had only heightened this desire—for out upon the mountains, beneath the clouds, they would be finally away from the redcoats who were swarming round these glens getting ever closer to them, and who had succeeding in arresting Duncan Stewart. It was maddening to be capable of nothing more than the short, careful walk which Alan had taken along the side of the glen this morning to exercise his legs—and which he still must follow with this rest.

No; the view of the clouds was too tiresome to be borne. But his gaze did not long remain there: it kept drifting back towards David, who, sitting beside Alan on the piled heather, was visible in shadow, so that the lines of his profile stood out clear against that bright cloudy sky. He was watching the view—sitting up, he could see more of the ground than Alan could, and perhaps saw the two Camerons where they were walking together below the birch wood, talking quietly—and his features were drawn into a frown. He was wearing no neckcloth, and the outline of his throat was as clear as that of his face. He had one knee drawn up before him and his arms settled round it. Over the other leg was draped Alan’s blue French coat, which David had been trying to repair where Dr Cameron had cut it; he had laid the attempt aside a little while ago, apparently not meeting with much success. Neither of them had spoken for some time; it was very quiet, with only the whisper of the small wind through the birches and the indistinct murmur of Dr Cameron’s and Ardroy’s voices to disturb the stillness.

‘David?’ said Alan presently.

David looked round, the frown smoothing itself away. ‘Hmm?’

‘Where was it you ended up after you gave those redcoats the slip yesterday?’

‘I don’t know the name of the place,’ said David. ‘It was round to the east, where there is a burn, and from there I could... but, Alan, you have already had the story; I shan’t tell it over again!’

‘You did well to find another way back here,’ said Alan. ‘Had I known of it, I should have been sure you’d get lost among the mountains, and then where would we be?’

David was smiling. He was proud of his feat—and he deserved to be so. It was troubling to know that the soldiers were so near; and yet they had probably been thrown far enough off the real track to give their quarry safety for another day or two. Perhaps there was something in that, at least....

Alan shook his head. ‘You’re a strange body, David,’ he went on. ‘Running all the way up from your great house to come out here and warn us about that warrant, and now tricking the soldiers so prettily as if you weren’t such a true Whig at home... but it was a courageous thing to do, ay, and a clever one. It’s for such things that I love you best.’

And that was true; though perhaps there were other things which Alan loved almost as well. David had turned away again halfway through this last speech, but the smile was still on his face.

A few minutes passed in further silence. Then David said, ‘Alan... what were you and Dr Cameron doing before we met in Glenbuckie?’

Alan looked at him for a moment, and then said, ‘I’m not likely to tell you that, David. Not when you must be a true Whig at home... as I said.’

‘You told me about your French recruiting, and Ardshiel’s second rent, when we first met on the brig,’ objected David.

‘Ay, so did I. You were not Mr Balfour of Shaws then.’

At this David turned round and faced him. ‘Do you really think I cannot be trusted, just because of the—the change in my situation since we first met?’ In his voice was reproach, raised with difficulty above a less mild emotion.

Alan raised his head from the fold of David’s plaid out of which he had improvised a pillow. ‘No,’ he said, speaking calmly and with patience, for despite all his frustrations he had no wish to start a quarrel on this subject just now. ‘I think that Mr Balfour of Shaws might be placed in a very awkward position if he knew all that I have been doing in the Highlands these last months. That was why I didn’t speak of it when I came to visit you.’

‘And because,’ said David slowly, ‘there is something more in motion than only collecting money for Jacobites abroad, and that kind of thing.... It was something Miss Stewart said yesterday that made me think of it,’ he added, in response to Alan’s raised eyebrow. ‘She and her mother took me for one of your party at first.’

‘You soon disabused them of that notion, I suppose,’ remarked Alan. ‘Well, in that case, there is something more in motion, as you put it. Archie and I have been engaged on... these plans since the autumn, and we were in the midst of it when these redcoats of Inversnaid got word of us, and you arrived so timely.’

David nodded, turning back towards the bright sky. He said nothing for some time; and then began, quietly, ‘Well, whatever you were doing’—and, thought Alan, he probably had some pretty shrewd idea of it by now, for David had not the quickest brain in Scotland but he was not a fool—‘whatever those plans were, I’ve no regret at all that I came here when I heard about the warrant. You know that.’

‘Ay,’ said Alan. And a short while after he added, ‘You should leave us soon, David. It’s a hazardous life, and not one for such as you to lead any longer than you must.’

David unclasped his arms from about his knee and turned fully round to where Alan lay beside him. He did not reply directly to Alan’s last speech, but the thought it had inspired was evident in his next action, which was to scrutinise Alan’s face carefully and then say, ‘Alan, are you quite comfortable there?—is there still much pain?’

‘Not more than I can bear,’ said Alan firmly. ‘Well, as I say, it’s aye been a hazardous life... you needn’t make such a fuss, David.’

But he allowed David to lean over and rearrange his pillow and coverings, and settled back again really more comfortable for it. Having done this to his satisfaction, David sat down a little closer to Alan and took his hand into both his own, as he did sometimes when they were thus sitting together. They remained so, in silence, until Dr Cameron appeared beneath the birch trees to join them; and all the time David’s face and figure were still outlined there against the illumined clouds.

IX. In Which Divers Journeys Are Planned

(1)

‘Thank you very much, Eilidh,’ said Margaret Cameron.

Eilidh bobbed a smiling curtsey to her mistress and left the room, closing the door behind her, and Margaret addressed herself to her bowl of porridge.

Across the table from her Keith Windham sipped recklessly at a cup of coffee from which the steam was rising in a dense shifting column up into the shaft of sunlight which shone through the parlour window. This morning there was sunlight in plenty; for the spring, having struggled out in uncertain hints through the early days of March amidst wind, rain and occasional snow, was asserting itself more strongly at last, though the snow lingered yet on the high tops above the glen. In the garden and down by the loch all the early green of growing things was cheerful and bright. It was just the sort of morning Ewen loved; for a moment Margaret could almost imagine that he was out there this morning, probably going for a bracing swim in the loch, and that this was the reason why he was not at the breakfast table with her and Windham now....

Margaret was not much given to anxious fretting—or, rather, she had early trained her mind away from the tendency—and she was not as yet very anxious about Ewen. Yet he had been gone for eight days now: more than enough time for him to reach Glenbuckie and come back, if all his work there had been to warn Dr Cameron about the warrant for his arrest and then return, as he had said he meant to do. And there had been no word or news of any kind.

Keith’s coffee spoon clinked against the side of his cup, and the sound pulled Margaret’s mind back to the present time and place. She looked away from the window. Despite the thankfully easy understanding of that first morning, she was still uncertain in her mind about Windham too. For the last eight days he had kept to his work, managing everything with his usual businesslike competence and showing no actual want of amiability towards her; but his manner had not been its usual one, and what thoughts were working themselves out in his brain she did not know. He had always been something of a mystery in that way. Ewen, she thought, would have understood it.

And just as this occurred to her, Keith raised his eyes from his coffee cup, looked at her for a moment, and then said without preamble, ‘Miss Cameron, I mean to go to Glenbuckie and look for Ewen there. He ought to have returned by now. Something is wrong.’

Margaret put down her spoon. ‘Go to Glenbuckie!’ she said, really astonished. ‘Forgive me, Mr Windham, but is that quite wise?’

For amongst the happier possibilities in her mind was that of Ewen’s having decided to stay with his cousin in Balquhidder, or go with him somewhere else, on some errand connected with Dr Cameron’s work. Ewen had been so eager to do more for the Cause after their meetings in the autumn; he might well have found an opportunity to translate his eagerness into action now.

Keith stirred his coffee again. ‘Perhaps it would be wiser,’ he said slowly, ‘to remain here and await his return. But he ought to have returned already—he spoke of wishing to come back as soon as possible... and he has not. And I might be able to help him, if anything has gone wrong—if he is detained by some... practical difficulty, say.’

Margaret nodded slowly. He was speaking in fragments, constructing his sentences with obvious effort; and yet his very inarticulacy began to shed some light on what had so puzzled her, and to tell her rather more than he said. She knew Keith Windham well enough to know that to wait patiently in inaction and ignorance did not come easily to his character; and neither did speaking of what he must feel about Ewen, knowing that he had gone into danger, and knowing nothing of how he was faring amidst that danger save that he did not return... and knowing also how they had parted before he left.

Yes, Ewen would understand him. The rift that parted them now had been of Ewen’s making, but that had not changed what was between them. Margaret had her own views on their relationship, as she understood it, but these views were by no means all on one side, and whatever she thought of the wisdom of it as a domestic arrangement she must and did acknowledge that it was a true partnership. No one who saw them together out walking by the loch, or sitting by the fireside of a winter’s evening, could doubt that. Of course he wanted to be by Ewen’s side again; it was all he did want.

And—to return to what Keith had said—she could guess what sort of ‘practical difficulty’ he had in mind. Not all the possible reasons for Ewen’s delay were innocuous. And, after all, Windham had certainly done a great deal to help Ewen in such situations before...

‘I see,’ she said at last. ‘Well, it is possible. You are right that he’s been away longer than I expected, though I hope ’tis only the condition of the roads, or some such thing... but you might do something.’ She took another mouthful of porridge, and having swallowed it continued, in a steadier voice, ‘I suspect, Mr Windham, that I would not be able to persuade you out of it even if I disagreed. But—no. You might help him, as you say.’

There was some small glimmer of a smile visible in his eyes as he bowed his head in acknowledgement.

There followed, after a short silence, a practical discussion of how the estate was to be managed in the temporary absence of both its laird and his factor. Margaret felt herself quite equal to the task of keeping things in order on her own, and not a little thankful that she would have so much to occupy her while they were away.

At last Keith rose from the table. He was reaching for the door handle when Margaret said, ‘Mr Windham!’

He turned.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘God grant that you find him safe... and bring him back here soon.’

Keith looked away from her, his features working in some agitation—a greater sign of emotion than he had yet betrayed this morning. But at last he said, ‘Yes, indeed. I hope I may.’

(2)

‘Well, then, I shall thank you for your excellent tea, General Churchill, and bid you both a very good afternoon.’

Lord Aveling in theory addressed General Churchill, but in fact he was looking at Georgina as he spoke. She returned his warm smile with a hint of laughter—laughter purely of affection—and he took her extended hand and kissed it before he left the room.

That answering smile was still in Georgina’s eyes as the door closed behind her lover, and she turned her face down towards the cushion-cover she was embroidering in order to hide the blush upon her cheeks. It was strange how Francis had returned to them so soon, when she had understood that he intended to pay a long visit to his brother in the Highlands; but Georgina Churchill, though in many ways a model young lady, was not so modest as to be incapable of thinking that perhaps it was not very strange after all that he should want so much to be here... and in any case, the happiness of his presence cast all doubt and puzzlement quite from her mind. Of course, he must eventually return to London and speak to his parents of their engagement, and she had heard enough from him not quite to welcome that prospect; but she would not think of it yet.

Georgina and her father sat for a few minutes in silence, while she calmed her mind and picked up once again the steady rhythm of her needle. The pattern showed a flock of birds adorning a spreading tree; the plumage of the latest bird, richly blue, grew stitch by stitch beneath her fingers, while General Churchill looked across the room and out of the window.

‘Georgina,’ he said at last, turning back towards his daughter, ‘I am troubled about this Balquhidder business.’

She looked up. ‘Why, what about it?’

Sitting forward in his chair, he unclasped and reclasped his hands before speaking—always with him a sign of some care or indecision. ‘The latest despatch tells me that there is still no sign of Dr Cameron or Alan Breck Stewart—not directly, that is—but that Captain Fawcett thinks they are still hiding somewhere in the neighbourhood. He has spoken to someone whom he believes to be in league with them.’

‘Spoken to someone?’ said Georgina. ‘This person was not arrested, then?’

‘No,’ said General Churchill slowly. ‘No, but Captain Fawcett has sent me a description of him... because, he says, he thinks I may be able to make more use of it than he can. By his speech, he says, this man was no local accomplice, but a gentleman and a Lowlander.’

General Churchill often talked over his work with his daughter in this way, when they sat together at tea or in the evenings; he was not a believer in keeping all military business quite away from the ears of one’s womenfolk, and she had, he said, a perspicacity and wise judgement infinitely valuable in such matters. For her part Georgina enjoyed having such interesting and occasionally difficult problems on which to exercise her brain, and now, with her experience of her father’s manner and expressions, she could guess where this problem was leading. ‘And have you,’ she said, ‘some idea who he is?’

‘I think,’ he said, still speaking slowly, ‘that the description I was given is a perfect portrait of Mr Balfour of Shaws. You remember him, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ said Georgina, frowning. ‘He was at the dinner... which you held on the day you sent the warrant for Dr Cameron and Mr Stewart’s arrests. Of course. You said something about it to the guests, I suppose.’

‘I did. And Mr Balfour left the dinner in a great hurry—he was not well, he said, which I believed at the time—and now I hear that he left his own house later that evening, and has been absent ever since. I have made discreet enquiries.... He said, it appears, that he was called away to his old home, at a place called Essendean in the Forest of Ettrick, on family business, but I begin to suspect that story.’

Georgina nodded. ‘You think Mr Balfour is a Jacobite, then—and in league with Dr Cameron and Alan Breck Stewart, and that he is in Balquhidder now?’ It was rather thrilling to think that she had been conversing so amicably with a secret Jacobite agent all the time at that dinner. Edinburgh was certainly no dull place to live.

‘I think,’ said the General, ‘that his absence certainly gives us grounds for suspicion, at least.’ And he fell silent, and stared out of the window once more.

‘Well,’ said Georgina, looking down at a particularly intricate piece of stitching which formed part of the blue bird’s wing, ‘if you are not sure, why don’t you send someone to that place—Essendean, was it?—where Mr Balfour said he was going, to make enquiries and find out whether or not he is there? ’Tis not very far, is it? Then, if he is not there....’

General Churchill nodded slowly. ‘I believe I shall do exactly that,’ he said; and then, having made this much progress in clearing up the difficult question, he suddenly smiled. ‘Dear me, Georgina, this Scotland is a troublesome country, isn’t it? He seemed such an amiable young man... but I suppose so many of these Jacobites are quite amiable fellows, and if they only remained quietly amiable at home and did not allow their politics to break out into disturbances of the peace and schemes of intrigue....’ He sighed. ‘You always have such good ideas, Georgina, dear. What am I to do when I lose you?’

Georgina laughed. ‘I’m sure I do not know,’ she said, ‘but you know you will have to do without me in a little while... dear papa, Francis and I will visit you very often.’

Yet, she thought, it might be a long little while, if Francis’s visit to London were not successful. But there were more cheerful things to think of than this; and the absorbing subject of Lord Aveling continued to occupy her mind for the rest of that afternoon, so that Mr Balfour and his Jacobite intrigues were quite forgotten.

But, three days later, the young officer whom General Churchill had sent on a discreet visit to the Forest of Ettrick returned. He had, he informed his superior, spoken to the minister of Essendean, a Mr Campbell, who was a great friend of young Mr Balfour; but Mr Campbell had been surprised and discomposed by his questions, for Mr Balfour was not at Essendean, nor had he been there at all recently.

(3)

It was the morning of their eighth day in the Braes of Balquhidder, and a morning of chilly mist. The sun was visible as a vague whitish glow behind the layers of blanketing cloud; later, perhaps, it would burn off the mist and they would have a glorious bright afternoon, but as yet little of its warmth reached as far as the ground. Alan was improving rapidly now. This morning he had risen from his bed, put on his great-coat and gone for a walk all the way along the side of the glen before breakfast, declaring that on the one hand he must have some exercise to warm himself up, and on the other that the mist would hide him effectually from any redcoats who might be prowling about. Now he had returned, and was sitting on a fallen log outside the cave, between Ewen and Dr Cameron. David had gone to the Maclarens’ house for fresh supplies of food and news.

‘I quite agree,’ Dr Cameron was saying. ‘In another day, I think, you’ll be fit enough to travel. I would not say so if I were seeing you at home, mind, and you were contemplating a journey for pleasure, but the present state of things will not allow for quite so much caution.’

‘Then I’m glad I am not at home,’ returned Alan stoutly, but without any real sarcasm; his mood had improved with his physical condition, and he and Dr Cameron were on their usual friendly terms once more.

‘And that,’ continued Dr Cameron, with a glance at Ewen, ‘raises the question of where we are to go.’

‘Why, Angus, of course,’ said Alan, ‘where we meant to go next. Our friends there wouldn’t regard a little delay on our parts, I hope.’

Dr Cameron shook his head slowly; and Ewen remembered their last conversation on this subject... and Archie’s prediction that Alan would not agree with his opinions of what they ought to do next. ‘They may not,’ he said at last, ‘but I fear they will regard our failing to bring any news of the Prince’s plans, or assurances of the aid we hoped for last autumn. I think, in fact, that as things stand at the moment we can do little good by going anywhere else in Scotland. We have done the most part of what we came for, after all; we have Cluny’s promises, and all that is left to do is to ascertain that the Prince and his allies are ready to meet the Highlands on the other side.’

‘You think we should give up our plans and go back?’ said Alan. He spoke simply and bluntly, but without any show of indignation or much of real surprise; he seemed to have expected this.

‘I think,’ said Dr Cameron slowly, ‘that we will find it increasingly hard to convince our friends, in Angus or elsewhere, that they should prepare for an invasion which has been put off already.... It will come, I do believe it, but you know what these political negotiations are. We ought to be on the spot to understand them; Cluny would say so. And,’ he added, ‘there is another consideration. Scotland is getting to be a rather dangerous place for us.’

But at this Alan scoffed. ‘It has been that these eight years, and it hasn’t kept either you or me away yet!’

‘’Tis a riskier game we are playing now,’ said Dr Cameron, still solemn. ‘Think of it, Alan. Someone betrayed us to our enemies when we were at Duncan Stewart’s house. If there is a spy, or several spies—people whom we trust, and whom we do not suspect—informing Government of our movements, and we go on with our plans just as we meant to, what else might be betrayed? ’Tis not my own safety I think of.’ The expression of his voice, holding in it all his simple and fervent faith in the Jacobite cause, made this plain enough. ‘If we were to be captured, think what a blow it would be for the Prince and his prospects.... And so I think we ought to leave Scotland for the present.’

‘And come back when we’ve found something better to tell them,’ said Alan. ‘And shaken these spies off our backs, too! Ay, I see it.’

And yet, thought Ewen, it would be giving up in a sense—and that when Dr Cameron and Alan had done so much work these last months, and achieved so much, and risked so many hazards.... Bitter frustration and disappointment rose up in him at the thought of this postponement, if it were not abandonment, of an effort which had seemed to open prospects brighter than any the Cause had known for years; but they were only the more bitter for that he saw the sense in Dr Cameron’s words. It surely would be wiser for the two Jacobite agents to leave now: to confer with their friends in France and Holland and other places, to speak once more with the Prince, and to return—for they must return!—in a year or two, perhaps, stronger and more hopeful yet, to bring new strength and hope to Scotland....

Alan’s thoughts appeared to have progressed along similar lines; possibly Dr Cameron had helped his own case by not mentioning that leaving Scotland and this wild, hard life now would give Alan time to rest and heal from his wound properly.

‘Well, Archie,’ he said now, ‘I wish you were not right, but I believe you are. We’ll go—and come back.’

And so their agreement was reached, far more easily than it might have been. Yet this was the other side of Alan Breck’s character: for all the bravado and sometimes foolish flamboyance which he showed in his own concerns, he was yet a wise and a shrewd Jacobite, and loyal with that loyalty which placed the real good of the Cause above any merely personal, or at least egotistical, feelings.

After the decision was taken they were all silent for a short time, while the vaguely-shaped coils and clouds of the mist moved slowly along the glen below them, and the sun shone a little stronger through the higher clouds—each of these three devoted Jacobites thinking, in his own way, of what to-day’s decision might mean for the Cause whose future was becoming more uncertain with each passing year.... Then Alan sighed, shook his head and turned to practicalities.

‘Well, then, where are we to go?’ he asked, addressing Dr Cameron. ‘We might keep to our old route, and go through Angus to Montrose to find a ship to take us away.’

‘We might,’ said Dr Cameron thoughtfully.

‘But there is one great reason against that,’ continued Alan, ‘and you have already explained it. Whoever it was who told the redcoats that we were in Glenbuckie might also know where we intended to go next. And if he does, then I’ll lay the redcoats will not be very far behind us when we go.’

Dr Cameron agreed with the sense of this. ‘We must take some other route, then,’ he said. ‘Have you any ideas?’

And Ewen, who had by now had time to think over this question, and particularly the related question of what he himself might do to help his friends in their next effort, said, ‘I think you—I think we—should go south, to Edinburgh.’

‘Edinburgh!’ exclaimed Dr Cameron. ‘Well, we might... but the warrant for our arrest came from the Commander at Edinburgh. Would it not be running straight into the lions’ den?’

‘Which is precisely what the Commander will not expect us to do,’ said Ewen, leaning forward and clasping his hands together eagerly as he unfolded his scheme. ‘Let this informer betray your plans—let the redcoats look for you in Angus, and all the while slip away out of their notice in the opposite direction! It will buy you time to find a ship to take you from Leith to the Continent. And we have plenty of friends in Edinburgh—there’s my cousin Allan Cameron, and Mr Forbes who lives at Leith, and others. They’ll help you. And I can move about the town freely without any suspicion; I go to Edinburgh from time to time on legal business, and might easily be doing so now.’

‘As can David,’ said Alan thoughtfully, ‘who will be returning that way in any case, I suppose. Ay, we might hide out for a while nearby the house of Shaws, if he’ll let us.’

Ewen nodded. ‘Mr Balfour and I can go to Mr Forbes and our other Jacobite friends—or perhaps I had better do that alone,’ he added, thinking of the story, ruefully related to him two afternoons ago, of David’s visit to Mrs Stewart—‘and we can make enquiries about ships, all while you lie low in safety. Surely this is the best plan—don’t you agree, Archie?’ For Dr Cameron—as Ewen, emerging from the absorbing mental occupation of forming the details of the plan, now noticed for the first time—was looking troubled.

Before Dr Cameron could reply, however, Alan rose from his seat, peering down into the glen, where the mist was at last dissolving sufficiently for a wider stretch of ground to be visible. ‘There’s David now, coming back,’ he said, and immediately started off to meet his friend and apprise him of their plans.

Dr Cameron watched Alan’s retreating figure fade into the still half-indistinct clouds as he went. Then, placing his hand on Ewen’s shoulder as if to calm him, he began, ‘My dear Ewen, ’tis a fine scheme—but you need not come with us. You have exposed yourself to enough danger for our sakes already... and you have your own duty to think of. Will you not be missed at Ardroy, if you stay away much longer?’

‘But that’s as I said!’ exclaimed Ewen. ‘If I go to Edinburgh I have a perfectly legitimate reason to be away from Ardroy—seeing my lawyer—and I shall write to my aunt and Windham and tell them I’m going there, and it will be the safest thing in the world. And what would you do without me there, Archie?—you cannot go about in the open as I can; you would run greater risks in going to seek out our friends, and in finding a ship. No, I insist on accompanying you.’

This last sentence was spoken in the familiar, almost joking way in which the two cousins had often conversed upon far lighter matters, long ago in happier years; but there was a deeper something behind it. Ewen really did not intend to be kept back now by Dr Cameron’s scruples about safety. In fact various motives compelled him to insist thus adamantly, besides the practical arguments which he actually advanced. It was as though, having once learnt of Dr Cameron’s danger in Glenbuckie, and having so violently wrenched himself out of the hateful inactivity of the last months to go and warn him, he was now so closely concerned in Dr Cameron’s business—as he had not been before, but as he had fervently wished to be—and also in his safety, that he must accompany him wherever he went next and see that no harm befell him, whether through the warrant from Inversnaid or from any other source. And there were other reasons yet. The thought of that return up the avenue at Ardroy, to a house which was perhaps already emptied of the dearest thing in it, oppressed him very much. If it need not be so soon....

Archibald Cameron—who knew Ewen very well, and who had had ample opportunity to compare him as he was now with the Ewen of the chance encounter in old Beileag’s cottage six months ago—was watching him quietly, not at once replying to his speech. He regarded Ewen with a peculiar expression in which there was something of concern and something of exasperation, but more of fondness.

‘Eoghain, ’tis as if you do not want to go home,’ he said quietly. Then, more resolutely, and squinting down into the mist to where their two companions were returning to them, Alan leaning upon David’s arm, he added, ‘Very well, you stubborn young man, you have persuaded me. You may come with us; but you are to run no unnecessary risks! And should you hear of anything amiss at Ardroy, you must return home at once.’

To which Ewen agreed.

(4)

In a small room at the top of a house in London a young man sat at a table, writing. He was in his shirtsleeves, with a woollen blanket arranged round his shoulders and over his knees. The window before him was slightly open, and through it drifted the sounds of the street below; from time to time the young man would pause in his writing and glance out of the window, apparently intent for a few moments upon the sight of a drayman whose cart had become stuck at the corner of the narrow alleyway opposite, or a group of small children running pell-mell along the street in some game, or whatever other sight should happen to present itself to his view. Then he returned once more to his letter. It was a curious piece of writing.

London: March 25th, 1753.

Dear Sir—I write to you my great Friend with my Regret that my late grievous Illness has prevented me from obtaining that News which would be sow agreeable to you and to Grand Papa. My Recovery allows me to resume our Correspondence, particularly as it was begun last Autumn....

Here he broke off and sat chewing the end of his pen. It was a cloudy day; but as the writer thus considered how to frame his next sentence a sudden ray of sunlight beamed in through the window, illuminating both his paper and the bright red hair of the head bent over it, and apparently illuminating likewise how he should continue, for he lowered the pen once more to the paper and resumed:

Yet it vexes me greatly that in London, which is no Centre of Affairs in these Matters, I cannot get to hear what would be most congenial. I might return over the Watter, and speak once more with 80, and perhaps it is best that I dow, but I believe I can most usefully at this time travel north to Edinburgh, where there are many People concerned in these Affairs and there is always much Talk of them and where, placed as I am in the highest of these Circles and intirely Trusted by them, I could hear much to interest you....

There was a disturbance outside in the street: some fight had broken out, perhaps, or a pickpocket had failed to conceal his crime for long enough to escape detection and denouncement by his victim. With an exclamation of annoyance the young man flung down his pen, rose and closed the window, before returning to his seat with a swirl of the blanket round his shoulders. The composition of this most important letter was a task which would admit of no interruption.

...but I must have Mony, which I dow not demand from any selfish Interest or Greed but only from its absolute Necessity if I am to take this Jant, as I have yet received no Payment for my Services of last Autumn, and my Illness has occasioned many necessary Expenses as has my Journey to London. If this be agreeable to you then I beg you may send me the Funds as soon as may be, upon which I will undertake the Journey immediately....

For a few lines more he developed this theme of the inestimable value which a journey to Scotland would apparently bring to himself and his friends. Then he signed the letter,

...your most obedient and humble Servant,
Alexr. Jeanson.

He read over the letter while the ink dried, and, satisfied, folded and addressed it. Then he rose from his chair once more, crossed the room to the door in a few long strides and called for his servant—and though he had been writing his letter in that English which, not excluding its peculiar spelling, is the usual language of letters written in London, he spoke to this man in the Gaelic of the Highlands.

The servant appeared. It may be mentioned that the name by which he addressed his master was not ‘Mr Jeanson’. The letter was placed into his hands, and he vanished once more.

His work done, the red-haired young man seated himself in an easy-chair and took up a book—it was one of the novels of Mr Smollett—and soon was pleasantly absorbed in this agreeable occupation.

Thus was the fate of Dr Cameron, Alan Breck Stewart and their companions sealed.

X. A Reunion

(1)

David, once told of his companions’ plan (or at least those parts of it which did not relate to Jacobite political ambitions), was as vehement in his determination to accompany the party as Ewen had been—making, as Alan had anticipated, the additional arguments that the route was already his own way home and that the house and lands of Shaws, five miles or so from Edinburgh, might provide a suitably secret shelter for Alan and Dr Cameron while Ewen was making arrangements in the city.

That afternoon they held a final conference with Mrs Maclaren, who informed them that the redcoats were now concentrating their strength on the glens to the north, ‘so if you only go south, you’ll can slip past them as safe as anything!’

They said their farewells to their loyal friend, and received her good wishes and those, relayed by her, of Duncan Dhu for their safe travel; and then they started upon their journey.

The mist, defeated by the warmth of the sun during the afternoon, had begun to descend again as soon as its bright enemy was safely behind the hills. This, said Dr Cameron, was an excellent thing; for despite that the redcoats were thought to be safely far away, the road down through Glenbuckie, across ground they had already trodden and where they had met the enemy once before, must be the most dangerous part of the journey, and now the gloom of the mist would join with that of the evening to conceal them from notice and pursuit. Thus it was in an eerie, silent twilight that they walked down past Balquhidder—taking David’s detour round the village itself—and beneath the trees of the wood where the four of them had first met, where the Calair Burn was become a whispering ghost away beyond the mist-curled tree trunks. In a hollow of the hills to the south of Duncan Stewart’s house, when it was finally too dark to move any farther, they made their camp for the night.

‘Are you cold, Davie?’ said Alan, as David lay down once more close beside him. It was a chill night, and the icy droplets of the mist, clinging to hair and clothes and casting a constant dampness over any exposed skin, had wrapped the chill closer and more insistently about them as they walked.

‘No,’ said David, and flung his arm round Alan. He advanced no further argument. He would not suggest to Alan’s pride that he might be cold, or might suffer more from the cold because of his injury; nor would he betray the motive, irrational as it was, of his feeling that by holding physically to Alan in this way he could assure himself of Alan’s continued safety from capture by the redcoats and from any fresh trouble of his wound. And if there were other reasons, which David had not yet succeeded in forming into definite thoughts even to himself... then that was sufficient excuse for saying nothing of them.

But Alan seemed not to require any such argument. He rearranged his great-coat more comfortably over them both, placed his own arm round David and closed his eyes, and was asleep a few minutes later.

(2)

Ewen woke very early the next morning, which was as cold and misty as the night had been. Indeed, it was practically night still, for only the faintest hint of blue showed above the eastern horizon; but the argument of the darkness held no weight with Ewen, and he found he could not sleep any longer. His mind was not quiet.

Sitting up and pulling the folds of his cloak closer round him, he looked about in the gloom. Alan and David were both still asleep, curled up together beneath Alan’s great-coat as was their constant and rather touching habit, but Dr Cameron was awake, sitting straight-backed against the deep blue sky, keeping watch.

He looked round as Ewen came to sit down beside him. ‘Good morning, Ewen,’ he said in a quiet but cheerful voice.

‘Good morning,’ said Ewen, and then peering out into the mist, he continued, ‘How shall we go to-day, do you think? Would it be wisest to wait here until dusk, and make the next day’s travel at night again?’

They debated the point—rapidity of movement, set against safety of travel—and agreed at last that it would be best to wait; for their makeshift camp was in a hollow densely overgrown with birches, willows and other such scrubby trees, well away from the road, and likely to provide a good refuge for a little while. This being so, Ewen suggested that he should go later this morning to Duncan Stewart’s house, to inform Mrs Stewart—and Duncan if he were there, though this seemed sadly unlikely—of their plans, to thank her and Miss Stewart for all their help, and also to ask what they knew about the movements of any soldiers who might still be in the neighbourhood.

This settled, the two Camerons fell into a comfortable mutual silence, while the chilly night about them slowly lightened.

Then, ‘Archie,’ said Ewen abruptly, ‘you asked me, the other day, how I came to know about the warrant for your arrest, and that you were in Glenbuckie. I will tell you. I don’t like to keep it from you.’

Dr Cameron turned to face him. ‘Of course, Eoghain,’ he said, so gently that it was as if he already knew what anguish there was to be in the answer which he had not yet heard—and perhaps, between his own speculations of a few days ago and the tones of Ewen’s voice now, he did guess. ‘How was it?’

And, in simple words but without sparing any detail, Ewen told him.

The rude choirs of the wild places do not, at the end of March, wait till full daylight to begin their herald song. Somewhere out in the blue mysterious darkness the bold repeated phrases of a song thrush began to sound, coming clear and piercing through the mist—rather like a beacon shining steadily amid the gloomy night.

‘Oh, Ewen,’ said Dr Cameron at last, ‘it was very wrong.’

 Ewen nodded miserably.

‘You know,’ continued his cousin, ‘how I hold that personal ties and duties must not come between us and our Cause... but this was a breach of honour and of trust. A guest in your own house, Ewen!’

And the repentant criminal bowed his head, and said, ‘I know. And Keith’s own brother!’

Dr Cameron looked at him. ‘Yes, you do know,’ he said with a sigh, and with something not entirely unlike the old gleaming hint of a smile in his eye. ‘Of course you know. I think you don’t need me to lecture you any more upon it. And besides, ’tis done—and I am the better off because it is.’ He sighed again. ‘As for Mr Windham....’ And here he hesitated. Something more than repugnance at his own breach of honour and hospitality had come into Ewen’s voice when he had mentioned Keith; nor had he ever before used Mr Windham’s Christian name when speaking of him to Archie. Perhaps Dr Cameron knew that they were approaching ground more subtle and more delicate than the question of honour of which he had at first spoken... and even that of simple friendship.

‘He is my dearest friend in the world,’ said Ewen. ‘It would break my heart if this were to part us... and yet I had to save you!’

‘Well, it is done,’ repeated Dr Cameron quietly. ‘But I am sorry, Ewen. I hope you will not break your heart.... And you are quite determined to accompany Alan and me to Edinburgh?’

‘Yes,’ said Ewen. ‘I think I cannot go home again till you are quite safe.’ But he did not say more than this.

‘Write to him, Ewen,’ said Dr Cameron, with more decision than had been in his voice hitherto. ‘You must write something to Ardroy in any case, of course, to let your aunt know that you are safe; and I’m sure Mrs Stewart will be able to find some trustworthy person to bear a message. Tell Mr Windham what you have told me. If everything I’ve heard about him is true, he is a man who understands loyalty—and how bitter it can be when our loyalties are at war. And... you are his dearest friend in the world, or so it seems to me.’

By now the misty air was more blue than black, and the thrush had been joined by other early singers—there were the bold, rich notes of the blackbird and the lighter voice of the robin. Their invisible chorus, eerie and yet beautiful, ethereal and yet an anchor to the solid earth, poured over Ewen’s head as he raised it from his knees.

‘I will,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Archie... you always have known how to talk sense to me.’

‘I should hope so!’ said Dr Cameron, and the gleam of his smile began to brighten further, like the dawn. ‘Now, you impetuous young man, go and get some more sleep—if you can, with these birds making such a din. There’ll be time for the day later.’

But Ewen, settling down again beneath his cloak, found that the birds, though more numerous and louder than ever in the growing dawn, rather lulled than disturbed him; and, far sooner than he had thought possible, he did sleep.

(3)

Later that morning Ewen set out for Stewart of Glenbuckie’s house. He was accompanied on his walk by the thrush, which—both eager and assiduous in asserting the spring, as song thrushes always are—continued to sing from somewhere up in the trees that bordered the track away to the west. For a moment Ewen paused to smile in its direction; thus in the Highlands, he thought, there was always something to lighten the heart, no matter what perils and cares might be weighing it down.

In the pocket of his waistcoat were two letters. One was his note to Aunt Margaret, informing her that he had been suddenly called to Edinburgh upon legal business and that he would remain away from home for some weeks; the other was the letter he had written that morning to Keith. He must, of course, be mindful of the risk that the letters might be intercepted, and so he could neither tell his aunt the real purpose of his journey (though he was comfortably certain that she knew enough to guess it) nor speak to Keith in more than vague and general terms of what he wished to tell him. No lengthy apologies were possible. But writing the letter had completed that lifting of the dull cloud upon his heart which his talk with Archie had begun; he found that he was able to address Keith in the old, fond terms they always did use when writing to each other, and to express plainly and clearly both his regret and his enduring love, though he must do both in veiled terms. Perhaps the longer apology would have to wait until he could communicate with Lord Aveling; he had expressed a wish to Keith that he might do so, at some uncertain future period. And he found that, as he wrote the letter, he was more and more certain that Keith would, after all, still be at Ardroy to receive it. So, as the thrush up in the trees began on its repetition of a particularly elaborate phrase, Ewen’s heart was glad.

But that glad heart sank within him when, having reached the house, he was ushered into the presence of Mrs and Miss Stewart and saw the expressions upon their faces.

‘What is it?’ he asked at once. ‘Are the soldiers very near?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Stewart, ‘—come and sit down, Mr Cameron. No, we have seen nothing of them for days now, thank God. I believe they think you have left the neighbourhood.’

‘That’s good news indeed,’ said Ewen, seating himself upon one of the wooden chairs; and he explained rapidly the current situation and the plans of himself and his friends. ‘Our journey will be easier if we can know that the neigbourhood is safe... But, forgive me, Mrs Stewart, you do not look as though you think it safe! What is the matter—is there bad news about your son?’ On this subject, after the urgency of his first question, he constrained himself to speak gently.

‘Oh—no‚’ said Mrs Stewart, ‘though I thank you for asking after him; we do hope for his safe return soon.... But, Mr Cameron, there is another danger here. ’Twas not a redcoat, nor any military person, so we think’—here she glanced towards Miss Stewart, who shook her head as though in confirmation—‘but there has been a stranger—an Englishman—coming here and asking after you, by name! Most unfortunately he called while I was out, and Kirsteen saw him. But who is it that knows you are here? He must be a spy; I am sure of it.’

Ewen’s heart sped up—but not at the thought that Miss Stewart’s visitor might be a spy. ‘What did he look like?’ he said.

Kirsteen, leaning forward with her arms upon the table, at once launched into a description of her mysterious visitor; and at this description—‘he was about the middle height, with darkish looks; spoke like a gentleman, and certainly English; wore a wig and an old green coat; she would have said he carried himself like a soldier, save that he was not in uniform, and surely this was the more reason to think him a Government spy!’—the suspicion which had sprung into Ewen’s mind at her first mention of this man became a certainty.

‘There’s nothing to fear, Miss Stewart,’ he said, while a wild joy bubbled up in his heart which he tried to keep from too alarmingly fierce expression in his voice. ‘I know the man; he’s no spy, nor any enemy; he is my friend—come to look for me, because I have disappeared.... But when was this visit? where did he go?’

‘Oh, that is a weight off our minds, Mr Cameron!’ said Mrs Stewart; and for a moment the three of them simply beamed at each other in their mutual, though not quite identical, happiness.

Then Kirsteen composed herself to recall the details Ewen asked. ‘It was late yesterday afternoon,’ she said, ‘and he said he had come from Balquhidder, but he meant to search for you farther up the glen, if he did not find you here. I don’t know where he may be by now.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ewen, rising from his chair. ‘I must go now and try to catch up with him....’ Recalling himself, he turned back to Mrs Stewart as he was about to leave the room, and pulled the letters from his pocket. ‘Madam, will you do me a great favour,’ he said, ‘and send these to Ardroy—no, only this one... if you can find a trustworthy person to carry it?’

‘Of course,’ she said, taking his letter to Aunt Margaret.

‘Thank you for all you have done for us, Mrs Stewart—Miss Stewart,’ said Ewen then, taking each of them by the hand in farewell. ‘’Tis to you that Dr Cameron and Alan Breck Stewart owe their freedom to-day. I can only wish that Duncan may soon enjoy a like freedom... you must write and tell me when he comes home. Send any word you have to me at Mr Forbes’s house at Leith—you know him?’

‘Yes—of course I will, Mr Cameron,’ said Mrs Stewart. ‘And a safe journey to you!’

And so with hasty farewells they parted; and Ewen set out at a run along the track past the house, with only one thought in his mind: that Keith was here, and that he must find him.

(4)

This confounded Highland mist, thought Keith, always chose the worst possible moment to come rolling in, insinuating itself between the trees and concealing all distant prospects utterly from view. He had often remarked it on his journeys through the country round Ardroy and up and down the Great Glen, and it was a far greater peril in this country, which he did not know at all. Yet he was not lost. He was in the right place, for it was Stewart of Glenbuckie’s house to which he had found his way yesterday. Soon after leaving that house, not liking to go too far from it lest he really did lose his way, he had settled down for an uncomfortably damp night in a hollow of the wood—cursing himself all the time for not handling the visit with more tact.

Increasingly he was beginning to feel that he had made a mistake in running off so rashly to Glenbuckie at all. The days of inaction at Ardroy had not been good for him: he had gone about his work mechanically, while the sense of disturbance left with him by Ewen’s going scratched at the sore places in his mind, at first so softly that he was hardly aware of it, and at last so relentlessly that it nearly sent him mad. It was, he thought, a feeling of disgust at himself for so quietly doing nothing—neither going after Ewen to confront him, nor leaving him to lie in the bed he had made, as his behaviour to Francis had certainly deserved, but as Keith could not do—and, increasingly as the days went by and he heard nothing from Ewen, it was also a terrible anxiety for him, felt in spite of his anger. In the end he had ridden off southwards without clearly reasoning why he did it. He only knew that he must.

But he really knew nothing at all of what had happened to Ewen in Glenbuckie. True, he had heard no news of Dr Cameron’s arrest, which news would probably reach Fort William and Fort Augustus quickly enough were the arrest effected; but that did not mean that a companion of Dr Cameron’s, a less notable prey, might not have been taken captive while Dr Cameron himself went free... but then perhaps Ewen had simply been delayed by the difficult country and the state of the roads, which had been indifferent enough when Keith travelled along them. Or perhaps both he and Dr Cameron had successfully evaded arrest, and Ewen had gone with him, God knew where, in some fresh Jacobite scheme. Just then it seemed quite likely to Keith that Ewen might do such a thing and send no word to him.

Keith pulled his hat farther down on his forehead to keep the fine droplets of the mist from drizzling into his eyes. His first foolish plan having failed, then, he had very little idea of what he should do next. Yet Ewen was, or at least had been, in Glenbuckie—poor Miss Stewart’s very evident alarm at seeing Keith had made that clear, at least. Perhaps if he went up and down the wooded glen for a little while longer—but in this infuriating mist——

There was a sound of footsteps—rapid, heavy footsteps: someone was coming along the track behind him at a run. Perhaps this would be another chance to enquire, and in more carefully chosen terms, about where Ewen might be.

Keith turned round, pulling his hat back up the better to see the dim, mist-shrouded figure, which was that of a tall man running towards him from the direction of Stewart’s house... and at the same moment a voice cried out, ‘Keith!’

XI. ‘Love, I maun gang to Edinburgh...’

(1)

Keith’s heart beat. He knew that voice; he could not fail to know it; and now, as the thickness of mist between him and the man rapidly diminished, he recognised also the stride—long and powerful, but slightly uneven—and the auburn hair beneath his mist-drenched bonnet, and his tall, strong frame. Hardly knowing what he did, Keith took a half-stumbling step forward.

They met. Ewen took both Keith’s hands in his own, his blue eyes fixed on Keith’s face, holding an expression at once searching, yearning and incredibly glad. Keith opened his mouth, thinking to say something but without any notion of what it might be, then closed it again. At last Ewen loosed his hands, leaned down and pulled Keith into an embrace.

‘Keith... how is it that you are here? I cannot—— Have you come to find me?’

‘I thought—— I hardly knew what I thought,’ said Keith, speaking no more coherently than Ewen had done. ‘That you had been arrested, perhaps, or.... But you are safe.’

‘I am quite safe,’ murmured Ewen against Keith’s wig, which in the fervour of his embrace he had knocked slightly askew; removing one arm from about Keith’s waist for a moment, he reached up and adjusted it. ‘Only very glad to see you again. You came all this way——’ And he broke off, shaking his head—Keith felt the movement rather than seeing it—and returned his arm to its former position.

It was incredible how much difference the mere fact of Ewen’s presence made—or it would have been, had Keith thought about it at all beyond his simple consciousness of relief and rightness and love. Ever since the moment—that ‘lightning bolt’ in the cell at Fort Augustus—when he had first seen and accepted the fact that love as Ewen carried it out was a good and worthy thing, and that he had been wrong in trying to banish it from his own life, it had gone on surprising him by the real extent of its power. He had chosen to give up his old cynicism, but its ghost lingered, and, as is often the way with such renunciations, the powers ranged against it must follow their great victory with an endless series of smaller ones. The ghost was not laid easily. There had been, for instance, the day four years ago when Ewen arrived at his lodgings in London, and invited—nay, implored—him to give up his joyless life there and come to Ardroy; he had been fairly astonished then.... But it was just the same thing now. Here was no false lover, ready to abandon him or to betray him for the sake of a greater devotion to his political cause; this was his own dear Ewen, who held him as tightly and as warmly as ever, and who smelt of wet earth and heather, and whose joy at seeing him was palpable in every movement and expression.

All these things passed across Keith’s soul without his mind being fully aware of them; but he felt their effect though it was but half-understood, and he knew that of course going after Ewen had been the right thing to do.

After a little while Keith gathered his scattered mind and loosened his hold upon Ewen just far enough to look at him. ‘Come aside,’ he said, drawing Ewen away from the path. He did not quite manage to keep his voice as steady as he meant to. ‘I’ve no wish to be seen like this, despite that it’s very misty....’

They sat down together on a fallen log, and Keith took immediate advantage of this greater privacy to place his hand at the back of Ewen’s neck, twist his fingers into the hair that was damp from the mist, and draw him towards himself and kiss him.

‘What has happened to you, then,’ said Keith, ‘if no harm has come to you? Where is Dr Cameron?’

Ewen took Keith’s hand again in his, paused to collect his thoughts, and then explained as briefly as he could the adventures of the last week, and why he had not returned to Ardroy. ‘I’ve had no chance to get a letter to you,’ he said. ‘I was just about to make another attempt—I meant to ask Mrs Stewart’s help—when she told me you were here. But, Keith, I have been thinking of you all the time....’ He hesitated, apparently not liking to make a direct reference to the circumstances of their parting, and then continued, ‘You must have had a hard time, coming all the way here.’

‘Why do you say, “must”?’ enquired Keith, the corner of his mouth curving upwards without deliberate effort. ‘Do you not think me capable of travelling for three days across the Highlands?... Well, perhaps it was not the easiest thing; especially my conference with your friend Miss Stewart, who I believe thought me a Government spy. But I do not regret the hardship—now that I know you’re safe.’ The jesting tone of his first question had disappeared by now.

Ewen made a sound that was something between a laugh and a sob. ‘Keith, I have treated you abominably—and you repay me by riding for three days across the Highlands to come here and make sure that I am safe! What you would have done if I hadn’t been.... Ah, how can I make amends?’

At this Keith said nothing, but squeezed Ewen’s hand between his own once more. In one way, and that the most important to a part of Keith even more essential than his honour, the amends were already made, through Ewen’s relieved and welcome acceptance of him here; but on its upper surface the question was far more difficult. He shook his head. ‘I want no amends from you, Ewen,’ he said, ‘but ’twas not me alone whom you injured. I do not know what you can do towards Aveling yet... but from what you say, there are far more urgent things to think of now. What are you and Dr Cameron going to do next?’

Ewen looked at him for a long moment; his blue eyes were dark and, Keith thought, still unhappy. But at last he said, ‘We’re going to Edinburgh—or rather to Leith, to seek a safe passage over the sea for Dr Cameron and Mr Stewart. After what happened here, they’ve decided to abandon their present business. ’Tis too dangerous.’

These words came to Keith as an immense relief. So the plotters had come to see how hopeless their cause was, and they were giving up! There would be no further Jacobite intrigues for Ewen, nor did he intend to throw himself into some new danger in the Highlands. Yet it was not all Keith could have wished for.

‘I can only agree,’ he said, choosing his words with care, ‘that getting them both out of the country as soon as possible is the wisest course. But must you go with them?’

‘I am afraid I must,’ said Ewen. ‘I can be of great use to Dr Cameron and Mr Stewart. They must hide and skulk wherever they go; I can move about in the open. And we have friends there—you remember Mr Forbes, don’t you?—who will be able to help us, if I go and speak to them.’

Keith frowned. ‘This friend of Mr Stewart’s who is here with you—Mr Balfour—wouldn’t his assistance serve in those ways?’ he said. ‘Forgive me, Ewen, but I must think it best to put as few more people as possible in the way of the hazards Dr Cameron and Mr Stewart must encounter.’

In these arguments Keith felt that great nightmare break, so lately healed and still tender, beginning to open up again beneath him. He would not let it. He held tightly to Ewen’s hand; and Ewen, rather than expressing the offence which he might have taken at Keith’s trying to persuade him to abandon his cousin, returned his grip in wordless understanding of a distress which was clear to him. But when he spoke, it was to say, ‘I... cannot think Mr Balfour would be very well suited to the task. The fact is, Keith, he’s not a Jacobite at all, but rather an ardent Whig—my friends in Edinburgh are not his—and he’s not always very tactful about the fact. He is a very young man,’ he added, by way of explanation or excuse for this.

There was a thrush singing somewhere in the distance—Keith had remarked it earlier that morning. He was still holding Ewen’s hand; and the feeling of Ewen’s firm grip, and his fingers curled round Keith’s own, and his thumb making slow stroking movements across the back of Keith’s hand towards his wrist—all these things steadied his mind. Ewen was not, it seemed, actually caught up in whatever Jacobite schemes had brought Dr Cameron to Scotland; his only purpose now was to send Dr Cameron and his friend Mr Stewart safely out of the country. And this was a goal which Keith could entirely approve, for the sooner they were gone the sooner Ewen would be safe. It need not part them—even if it separated them for a while....

‘Oh, Keith,’ said Ewen, as though reading his thoughts, ‘I would be peacefully at home again with you, if I could. I will be soon.... But,’ he went on before Keith could reply to this, ‘you can’t have got any good breakfast, running about up and down the glen! Come back to our camp and have some food—then we can talk some more, if you wish.’

Keith was obliged to admit the truth and wisdom of this. He nodded and pressed Ewen’s hand again. ‘Very well,’ he said, and got to his feet with a sigh. ‘Lead the way.’

(2)

‘Here we are,’ said Ewen, stopping abruptly ahead of Keith. ‘Be careful here—there’s a steep drop down between these rocks.... There; ’tis just up ahead.’

Keith followed him, bracing his hands against rocks that were wet and slippery with the mist and with the moss that grew thickly all over them in various shades of sodden green, red and black. Ahead was a stretch of level ground covered with low trees, on the far side of which the land rose with the sudden and alarming steepness of some Highland hillsides. It was a well-chosen place; had Keith been a captain leading his company on a search through Glenbuckie he would not have had an easy task to find an enemy hidden away here.

But someone had come to meet them.

‘Good morning, Shaws!’ said Ewen, going up to this person. ‘I have found a friend, as you see. This is Mr Windham, whom I’ve told you about—Mr David Balfour of Shaws.’

As they exchanged polite words Keith regarded with interest this loyal Whig helper of Ewen’s friends. He was a tall young man—though not so tall as Ewen—who wore his own brown hair tied in a ribbon and spoke with an engaging manner and the accent of a Lowland gentleman; and, if his political allegiances were really so opposite to those of his companions, he probably saw their current plans and his own place in these in pretty well the same light as Keith himself did. Certainly he was looking at Keith with the appearance of as much curiosity as Keith felt about him.

But by now these companions had come to join them. Dr Cameron Keith knew already, for they had been introduced during those days, very long ago, when Keith had accompanied Ewen and Dr Cameron on a certain journey; he had never seen him since, and it seemed to him now that this was an older and a somewhat grimmer man, and yet the very same friendly Dr Archibald of the march from Glenfinnan. Alan Breck Stewart he had known nothing about; he was taken aback by the man’s appearance, in his fine blue French coat with its slightly ragged silver braid and an odd, clumsily stitched-up tear across the breast, and his ornately feathered hat, but in the gaze of the wary grey eyes fixed upon Keith he saw at once that there was nothing of absurdity. Looking between the two, Keith thought them a strange pair, and he wondered privately how these four companions were all getting along together. He was uncertain what sort of reception he could expect from them, and therefore kept himself to a reserved politeness towards them both, until Ewen, producing a loaf and some cheese from a bag, broke through the slight awkwardness by inviting Keith to take some breakfast with them.

‘I cannot say, Mr Windham,’ said Dr Cameron, when they had all sat down, ‘that the circumstances of our meeting are quite what I might have wished; but I am happy to see you again. Ewen has told me much about you.’

Keith inclined his head. ‘I have heard a great deal about you too,’ he said, ‘and entirely return the sentiment.’

He had heard a great deal about Archibald Cameron since their first brief meeting, much but not all of it from Ewen, and most of what he had heard was really admirable; and Keith was therefore inclined to like the man despite all the trouble he had caused and was causing for Ewen. Dr Cameron himself, in a few minutes’ conversation, only strengthened this impression: he hoped Keith’s journey from Ardroy had been easy, enquired about how things were going on there, and related some anecdotes of his own life in Lochaber years ago, concerning people and places Keith knew. Keith, looking down at the tough barley-bread and dry cheese in his hands, experienced what was not so much a change in his feelings as a particularly sharp and vivid instance of feelings not always obvious to view. Here was this kind, quietly well-mannered gentleman, Ewen’s beloved cousin, who had spent most of his life devoting himself to bettering the lot of his fellow men in Lochaber—turned plotter, traitor and fugitive for the sake of the doomed Stuarts, cast out from his old home these eight years, and now forced to flee his native country altogether, probably never to return.

Once more Keith felt strongly what a shame and a waste were rebellion and strife... and he understood also, perhaps, something of why Ewen was acting as he was.

(3)

Earlier that morning Ewen had been impatient for the night to come, for they must take advantage of the redcoats’ having been led so far off the right track, and get out of Glenbuckie and out of danger as soon as they could. His feelings now were rather different. He wished he need not go; for here was Keith actually come back to him, and he was aching for a chance to demonstrate that loyalty of love which burned in his heart, and the thought of abandoning Keith once more was hateful to him. But the thought of deserting Archie was equally hateful; honour as well as love and loyalty demanded that he stick to his task. He was in a sad conundrum.

Unless—— But no; he could not ask such a thing of Keith.

So, as though to make up for the coming parting, he kept close beside Keith as the day went on and talked to him. Sometimes they spoke of perfectly commonplace things, falling into their old patterns of everyday harmony with an ease which both warmed and thrilled Ewen’s guilty heart; sometimes they were silent with an equally easy silence; and for a little while they both talked to the others. David was obviously curious about Keith—as well he might be, being such a strangely situated Whig himself—and spent plenty of time in asking them both questions about Ardroy and their life there and listening with interest to their answers; Alan, whose curiosity took a more wary form, said a few words to Keith too, and seemed to recognise in him a fellow solder; and Dr Cameron, thought Ewen, also seemed to want to know more about this dear friend of Ewen’s of whom he had heard so much.

The sun, having cleared away the mist, made its progress across the blue sky above the hollow. The travellers rested. Dr Cameron insisted on examining Alan’s wound once more, to see that he was in no danger of making it worse by the exertions of the journey; this caused Alan (whose idea it now was that he was entirely recovered and might skip and run over the heather just as he liked, as nimbly as he was used to do) some displeasure, but he was pleased by the doctor’s judgement that he was fit enough for the planned travelling. And at last it drew on towards evening, and the inevitable could not be avoided any longer.

Ewen took Keith aside and sat down with him on a mossy bank below a little alder tree. Keith looked at him quizzically; Ewen, unsure how to begin, wordlessly put his hand on Keith’s knee, and Keith smiled and covered Ewen’s hand with his own.

Now Ewen must speak, though he did so reluctantly. ‘We’ll be starting on our journey when it begins to grow dark,’ he said quietly. ‘We must be gone as soon as possible.’

Keith nodded; he had expected as much. ‘And you are quite determined to accompany Dr Cameron and Mr Stewart to Edinburgh?’ he said.

‘I am,’ said Ewen.

Keith looked away, his mouth set in a thin line. It was a look he often had when making a decision—perhaps not a decision the making of which he welcomed, but one upon which he was nonetheless determined. ‘Then,’ he said, turning back to meet Ewen’s eyes, ‘I shall go with you.’

‘Go with us!’ exclaimed Ewen. ‘Keith, you cannot——’

‘Why not?’ said Keith. He was not quite smiling, but there was a little glinting light in his hazel eyes as they met Ewen’s. ‘We’re not at odds any more, Ewen. You want to get Dr Cameron out of the country, and so do I—for once he is away, you will be all the safer.’

Given more time to think it over, Ewen might have been offended by the implications contained within this reasoning, but he was in no mood to take offence just now. And had he not been thinking of the idea himself?—although he had decided that it was impossible! ‘Well, if you think so...’ he said, hesitating.

‘And,’ continued Keith, ‘though I must condemn his purposes, Dr Cameron is a good man. I own I’ve no wish to see him taken captive, for your sake and his own.’ And before Ewen could reply to this, he went on, ‘Besides, I do not know what hazards you might throw yourself into in trying to help him and Mr Stewart, Ewen, and I have even less wish to see you in any more danger. I want to keep you out of danger, as far as I can; and I might be able to help you—if anything went wrong.’

Ewen glanced up to where the sunlight—low afternoon sunlight, yet still with that keen, sharp brightness that belongs to the early spring, quite different from the lazy, mellow light of an evening in July—shone upon the tiny, half-unfurled new leaves of the trees before them. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I wanted to ask you to come with me... but I felt I could not.’

Keith shook his head very slightly—as if to say it was a good thing he had had the sense to think of it, then. And then he pulled Ewen close to him and kissed him.

Ewen tightened his arm round Keith, and with the other hand caressed his cheek, and he returned Keith’s kiss with all the glad relief that was in his heart.

And yet all was not quite well with them. For Keith’s reasons for wanting to see Dr Cameron safely out of Scotland were not just the same as Ewen’s, and his feelings about the ultimate goal of their journeyings must be very different; and despite to-day’s reconciliation, Ewen’s theft of Lord Aveling’s letter was not wiped out, and must still stand between them.

(4)

They travelled south out of Glenbuckie. The first night’s walking brought them alongside the dark water of Loch Lubnaig and down towards the town of Callander, just above which they halted. Here they must decide whether to go east along the River Teith and thence down the Forth to Stirling, as Alan and David had done on their former journey from Balquhidder to Shaws and Edinburgh, or whether to go first southwards and cross the Forth farther upstream where it could still be forded.

‘And this time,’ explained Alan to David, ‘the redcoats are not likely to be watching the fords about Gargunnock way, as I guessed they were then, for they’ve no reason to suppose we’re heading for Edinburgh at all. But Stirling Brig will still be guarded, I make no doubt.’

And so it was decided: they would go south.

‘Alan,’ said David on the second afternoon, as they rested in the shade of some trees beside the little burn that flowed out of Loch Lubnaig and into the Teith at Callander, ‘what do you think about Mr Windham joining us?’ He spoke quietly, and Ardroy and Windham were a little way away, lying rolled up in their cloaks and evidently asleep, so that there was no risk of being overheard.

Alan looked up. In fact he had already formed one pretty shrewd idea about Mr Windham, from watching him and Ardroy together—and Ewen so very eager to have his Whiggish friend come with them!—but that did not signify now, and in any case he did not intend to say so to David. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘it’ll be all the better for us to have another friend in Edinburgh, who can go about and speak to people and ask about ships. As for his politics, it’s his own look-out if he wants to help us, although he is a Whig.’—This last with a significant look at David.

‘That’s true,’ said David vaguely, apparently not having noticed the significant look. ‘I like him, in any case. He and Ardroy have been telling me a great deal about farming.’

‘Ah, so you can be the better a landed gentleman at the Shaws?’ said Alan.

‘Yes,’ replied David, and smiling broadly, continued, ‘I can see we have a lot to learn from the Highlanders in those matters.’

It was fine weather for the time of year; the mist of the last few days had lifted for good, and the air, quite comfortable at night when one kept the chill off by brisk walking, was pleasantly warm now. Alan had taken off his great-coat and carried it over his arm as he walked, perfectly warm enough in the blue coat, which David had, before they left Balquhidder, presented to him in a slightly haphazard and yet serviceable state of repair. Yet, despite the pleasant weather, the end of March is not the easiest time at which to ford rivers, and it was not only at the Forth itself that this task must be attempted: for immediately on the far side of Callander they must cross the Eas Gobhain, a second tributary stream of the Teith, before they could get any farther southwards.

They started early that afternoon, so as to make the crossing in daylight. The Eas Gobhain and its northerly sister burn combine to form the Teith at Callander; here to the west of the town the two tributaries were yet a few hundred yards apart, separated by a piece of level ground on which some cows were placidly grazing. They crossed this open space carefully, keeping in the shadows of trees where they could, for it was wise to take every caution possible—though they had seen no signs of pursuit so far, and there was little danger to be anticipated in this neighbourhood.

Soon they reached the Eas Gobhain: not a broad or a very deep river, but a merry burn which rushed and burbled over its rocky bed with the strength and liveliness of early spring.

‘Ah, it’s not enough to daunt any Highlander,’ said Alan, seeing the doubtful look with which David regarded the water up ahead of him. ‘Follow after me, and there’ll be no danger at all.’

Dr Cameron and Ardroy insisted upon going first to make certain that the crossing was feasible. Mr Windham went with them—all three walking with linked arms, Highland fashion, and Ardroy placing himself on the right to shield the others from the current—and Alan watched carefully how they went, so as to see which parts of the stream were the most tricky. There was a deep patch about a third of the way across, where Mr Windham stumbled for a moment, and had to be pulled upright by Ardroy; that would be a fine challenge. But the trio reached the farther bank in safety, and Dr Cameron called across for the others to follow them; and so it was Alan and David’s turn.

‘Ah, ’tis cold!’ muttered David as, like the girl in the ballad, he ‘wadit to the knee’ within a couple of steps of the bank. ‘I mislike your Highland ways of crossing rivers, Alan.’

Presently they reached that deep part of the stream, where the water came above Alan’s waist. Already the cold was taking the sensation from his feet and legs; he stared down into the clear water that he might see his way forward instead of feeling it. Twenty paces upstream a dipper bobbed up and down on a rock, the white feathers of its front as brilliant and as ceaselessly moving as the sunlight that fell in shifting patches on the water.

Alan took a step, and lurched suddenly forward: where he had expected the riverbed to continue at the same level at which it had supported his last step there was only empty water beneath his foot, and a drop of several inches, and all the deepening water swirling powerfully along all the time. Cursing, he pulled himself upright on David’s arm. The dipper, startled by the commotion, took flight and disappeared up the river, giving a series of piercing calls which receded into the distance with its rapid flight.

‘Be careful,’ commanded Alan. ‘The current is awfully strong here.’

And so it was. The next step brought both feet into that deeper water which had taken him unawares the first time; he was not in quite such a plight as the lassie who ‘wadit to the chin’ in the Clyde, but the cold and the current were now rushing against that place which was still a little sore from his wound. Alan steadied himself for the next step——

He never knew just how it happened. One moment he was standing, firmly enough despite the rushing of the current, in the water; the next there was a sharp pain in his breast and the world turned over about him. Sky, sun, trees, rocks, David at his side, Dr Cameron and the others on the farther bank—all disappeared, and in their place was only an endless roaring darkness. There was no up nor down, no riverbed on which his feet could gain purchase—and he could not breathe, for his mouth was full of water....

Then something—someone—caught Alan’s arm and tugged at him. He thought he moved through the rushing water. There was another sharp pull at his arm, and then something under his legs, and he was pulled—definitely upwards now.

The sunlight returned, and with it the air. He took a great gasp of it into his lungs. For a moment he could think of nothing else; then, slowly and uncertainly as if they had been frightened off like the dipper, his senses began to come back to him. He was out of the water now; his head was resting against David’s shoulder, and David had one arm about his shoulders and the other beneath his knees, so that his feet dangled in the river with the current pulling gently at them. Cold water streamed from every part of his body; and David was staring at him with an expression of unutterable anguish.

‘Oh, Alan, man,’ he said urgently, ‘say you are not drowned!’

David’s hair was wet and clinging to his neck. Alan took another deep breath, enough for speech, and said, ‘I’m not drowned, Davie. Put me down.’

David did not at once do so. ‘Can you stand?’ he said. ‘Hadn’t I better carry you back to the bank——’

‘No,’ said Alan firmly; ‘it was a slip, that’s all. I can stand fine.’

David nodded, and—slowly, and as it might be reluctantly—lowered Alan back into the water. He kept a firm grip on Alan’s arm. Alan’s feet found a steady hold on the riverbed; David must have carried him a little way, after all, for it was shallower here than it had been in the spot where he fell in.

—He had actually fallen in. In this paltry little stream!—which he ought to have been able to get across without any trouble at all, as he had forded burns just as wide and deep too many times to count in his years of journeying across the Highlands, and as Dr Cameron and Ardroy, and even Windham, had done just now. The shame of it burned within him, with all the furious indignation of unwonted weakness.

‘You’re quite all right now, Alan?’ asked David quietly.

Alan would have liked to return a very impolite reply to this, and almost did; but he looked at David’s face, which was a picture of guileless anxiety, and bit back the sharp words before they reached his lips. It was almost unbearable to be thus reliant on anyone, and yet somehow he felt that if he must be saved so ignominiously from drowning, and borne up by anyone’s arms in the midst of the stream which he could not manage alone, it was well that those arms should be David’s.

‘Yes, David, I am,’ he said. ‘Of course, you have an easier time of it in these deep parts,’ he added, ‘being so tall as you are.’

Dr Cameron was waving at them from the far bank. ‘Stay there, Alan!’ he cried. ‘Ewen and I will come back and help you the rest of the way—ah, I should never have left you at all.... Here, Ewen, this way——’

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ returned Alan, finding to his satisfaction that his voice was strong enough to reach across to where Dr Cameron stood. ‘We are fine to go the rest of the way, are we not, David?’

He strode forward, determined to prove the truth of his words, and David went with him.

They walked on steadily side by side, and for a while they did as well as Alan had predicted; by now they were through the deepest part of the stream, and the worst peril was behind them, and they made rapid progress. But David, worn out by the exertion of a challenge to which he was not used and by the additional effort of pulling Alan out of the water, was tiring. Once or twice as they were getting near the bank he stumbled. Dr Cameron had, after all, waded a little way back to meet them; and it was when they were almost within reach of his outstretched hand that David took a step and pitched violently forward, tumbling headlong towards the water with a cry.

It happened more bewilderingly fast than Alan’s own downfall had done, and he acted without thinking. One of his arms was still linked within David’s, and he pulled hard at him, at the same time flinging out the other arm to arrest his fall. For a moment they wobbled perilously together; but Alan was sure enough of his footing now, and he kept himself upright. Looking down into the water, he saw what had caused the mischief: there was a patch of dark, slippery water-weed overgrowing the rocks onto which David had stepped.

David, who had turned as pale as the white rushing water, lifted a hand to Alan’s shoulder to steady himself. Then, gathering his strength, he pulled himself fully back into a standing position, assisted by Alan.

‘You must avoid those dark weedy patches, David,’ said Alan, pointing into the water. ‘They are treacherous.’ His breath was coming a little shortly, for the movement he made to catch David had wrenched painfully at the sore place in his chest.

David nodded. ‘Yes—I didn’t know,’ he said vaguely.

‘Come here—the footing’s easier just down here,’ said Alan, keeping a tight hold of David’s arm. ‘Watch where I place my feet.’

David, apparently still too shaken for further speech, did so. In a few moments more they had met Dr Cameron, who placed himself between them and took a firm grip of both their arms; and then Ardroy’s and Windham’s hands reached down from the bank to pull them all up to safety.

‘I think that was a fine piece of work, Alan,’ said David a few minutes later. He was still pale, and had begun to shiver in his wet clothes, but with his feet firmly back on dry land he was regaining his composure, and he looked at Alan now with his own smile. ‘I saved you where the water was so deep—and you saved me when I didn’t know how to keep my footing. We make a good team, you and I.’

This characterisation appealed to Alan; it made a far more attractive picture of the crossing and its incidents than that which had previously been in his own mind. ‘Ay,’ he said, ‘that we do. I’ll give you my hand on it, Davie.’

The smile broadened; and David clasped both Alan’s hands in a still-damp grip.

But a short while later—as the party made their way up through the little wood on the south side of the river, the exertion of the climb and the slanting evening sunlight keeping them warm while their clothes dried—it seemed to Alan that neither the fording of the burn, nor, perhaps, many other things that had happened during these last weeks, could be understood and put away so neatly. He remembered, as though the memory were itself a physical sensation, David’s arms about him, lifting him out of the water; and he remembered the urgency with which David had implored him not to be drowned, and that smile when they were safely on the shore... and he could no longer keep from confronting the plain fact that he loved David, not just, as he had once told him, like a brother, but with a feeling warmer and less easy of such casual expression.

Alan Breck Stewart was not, in general, much given to timorousness in affairs of the heart. In those various romantic intrigues with gallant ladies and dashing gentlemen with which he had sometimes amused himself in France he had never acted with any more caution than prudence, especially in the latter case, demanded, and his boldness had usually served him as well as it did in battle. But this was quite a different thing. David was his best friend; and he had done more than enough in the past to imperil a friendship which, even in the midst of the absurd insults and provocations which he had flung at his friend, it had been the last thing he desired in all the world really to lose. The recent days in Balquhidder had inevitably sent his thoughts back to his and David’s first visit there.... Well, Alan had learnt caution now; he would not—could not—risk David’s friendship so foolishly again. It was a strange and precious thing, and far too dear to hazard. And besides, David had such scrupulous ideas of morality, and was so sincere and so nice in his religion; he might tolerate what he regarded as Alan’s un-Christian Highland notions up to a point, but Alan could hardly expect him to carry tolerance so far.

No—he could say nothing of it. And yet these last days and weeks spent in David’s constant society—when David had so startlingly rushed all the way from Shaws to warn him about the warrant, and had cared for him so tenderly when he was at his weakest, and slept beside him beneath his great-coat every night—had, each moment building upon the last, made it more and more difficult to put those feelings aside or to pretend to himself that he did not know them for what they were.

It was a hard predicament that he was in. And he could see no solution of it but to endure this constant heartache until he and Archie got their ship, and the fortune and necessity of their opposite allegiances should twine him from David once more.

XII. Some Results of Inadvertent Eavesdropping

(1)

They spent the early part of that night in crossing the low hills to the south of Callander, and made their camp about midnight just above where the final slope of those hills descends into the valley of the Forth. From now on there would be less need to travel under cover of darkness, for there were no redcoat parties out searching for them in the Lowlands, and they might therefore walk by day and by doing so pass for innocent travellers—though it would still be wise to avoid getting too much into society and the company of people who might, after all, recall the published description of a wanted Jacobite or two.

And so they rose early the next morning and started, following one of the narrow tracks that cross the marshy levels of the Forth. The weather was close and cloudy. Behind them the heights of the Trossachs rose up dark and looming, the great snow-streaked cone of Ben Lomond raising itself above them all until its peak vanished into the clouds; before them lay the valley of the Forth and the way to Stirling and Edinburgh; and all about them the moss was dark and damp, and the green-brown stalks of rushes and cotton-grass shivered in a restless wind which was warm without being cheering. From time to time skeins of geese appeared overhead, flying northward in straggly V shapes, their calls sounding distant and oddly hollow heard from the ground. It was altogether an unsettled, unquiet day—the sort of day on which ghosts might walk. And the place surely had its ghosts; for this way, seven and a half years ago, had marched the Jacobite Army, going bravely and boldly into the Lowlands and towards the victory of Gladsmuir. Ewen remembered it, and he knew that Dr Cameron must remember it too. They had been almost side by side in their places in Lochiel’s regiment.

On the bank above the easternmost of the two Fords of Frew they prepared to cross. Dr Cameron would allow no risk of repeating the near-disaster of the Eas Gobhain, and so this time they all walked together with arms linked, bearing each other up in the young stream that ran over its gravelly bed as swiftly and purposefully as if it knew where it was going and already had pride in the mighty place which it was to take in the world.

And it was in the middle of the river, with the water swirling about his legs cold enough to turn them to senseless blocks of ice, and Keith at his side walking steadily and determinedly with brow furrowed and lips pressed together, that there came to Ewen a sudden uncanny sense of being outside himself—in fact, of seeing himself and his companions as the wild geese, free and unimpeded by the river as they sorry dwellers on earth were not, might see them. There were the five little figures in the midst of the water, struggling along against its fresh spring current; but they were not alone. They were surrounded as they went by a crowd of ghostly forms. There were countless Highlanders in their bonnets and belted plaids, with their broadswords at their sides and their targes slung over their shoulders. There was a Chief at the head of his clan, but transformed now into a Colonel leading his regiment; his face was lined with the weight of care and yet bright with the hope which he had come to believe in. At his side was his brother, lieutenant-colonel and surgeon to the regiment; and not far behind them a tall, auburn-headed figure who led his own little party of men with ardent and courageous energy. And there was a young man at the very front of the crowd, who was the first to step into the water, his naked sword in his hand. He cried to them, ‘My good men, follow me!’ and his voice was clearer by far than the rushing of the river about the lonely travellers who walked in it now.

‘Ewen?’

Ewen shook his head, blinking. He saw through his own eyes once more, and the ghostly figures had vanished—though he still heard the echo of that voice... but now here was Keith, looking up at him, his eyes dark with concern, and tugging gently at his arm.

‘Are you well?’ he said.

The echo died away into the running water, and Ewen became aware that he had stopped walking. ‘Yes,’ he said, giving what he hoped was a reassuring nudge to Keith’s arm where it was linked with his own. ‘I... stumbled for a moment. I’m all right now.’

And they went forward once more, and a short while later they were scrambling up the grass-grown bank on the far side. Ewen gazed about him, still feeling a little bewildered. The low grey clouds were just what they had been all morning, and the quiet sound of the river continued behind him, and far overhead the geese were disappearing into the distance over the hills. David was trying to wring the water from his clothes, an expression of distaste upon his face, and Dr Cameron and Alan were helping each other up a steep part of the bank; Keith was still at Ewen’s side.

Then Dr Cameron, reaching the top of the bank, glanced up and met Ewen’s eyes with his careful, measured look, and Ewen wondered if he had seen them too.

(2)

‘I’m glad, at least,’ said Keith, huddling closer into his cloak, ‘that we did not repeat yesterday the drama of our first attempt at fording a river.’

It was the evening of the next day, and as far as Keith could see their journey was going smoothly. Their last two days’ walking had brought them without any great incident past Stirling and its castle, which glowered over the level ground all unaware of the fugitives who walked beneath its very gaze, and Bannockburn, and now they had made their camp among the fields to the west of Falkirk. On the far side of the town the Forth made the first bold loops and broadenings that would transform it from the little river they had crossed yesterday into the great Firth, and it was definitely a Lowland landscape that lay about them now. The ground sloped gently from field to field, now up, now down, with no great heights or precipitous mountain-sides; and the clumped bushes of broom and whin, dark in the daytime, were turning further into shadows beneath the dusk.

‘No,’ said Ewen thoughtfully. ‘We’ve been more fortunate. I shouldn’t think the rest of the journey will be hard.’ And he turned his head to smile at Keith.

Ewen had been in an odd, silent mood ever since the previous day. Keith had some suspicion of why, for of course it was not the first time that Ewen had travelled towards Edinburgh this way, and it must make a great contrast to his last journey.... Keith could not talk to him directly about that, but he did what he could to cheer and encourage Ewen, and it warmed his heart to see him in better spirits this evening. He smiled. ‘Not at all like travelling in the Highlands,’ he said, and leaned his head against Ewen’s shoulder with a fond nudging pressure.

They were sitting together at the edge of a little copse of birches, out of sight and hearing of where the other three were gathered round the fire which, being so far out of danger, they might now risk making. Apart from their brief and eventful first meeting in Glenbuckie it was the first time Keith and Ewen had been alone together since they parted at Ardroy two weeks ago, and despite that the surrounding landscape was so strange and their situation so precarious, Keith felt—in the cool air; in the late sunlight that fell through a gap in the clouds upon the white ridges of the birch bark, the reddish twigs and the swelling buds; and in Ewen’s steady warmth at his side—something of the peace of their old evenings together at home.

But Ewen was thinking of something less soothing. ‘Keith,’ he began after a short silence, ‘when we last spoke together alone I hadn’t enough chance to say some things which I ought to have said. I think we might speak of it now. I should not have taken your brother’s letter.’

Keith raised his head from Ewen’s shoulder to meet his eyes. This bald statement surprised him; for, as he now understood, Ewen could hardly have repented going to help his cousin and probably saving his life.

But Ewen went on, ‘It was a foolish piece of rashness, Keith—the act of the thief and cateran whom Lord Aveling charged me with being, and not of a gentleman. I might have stopped and thought; I might have taken you into my confidence, and tried to find some other way to learn what he knew about Dr Cameron’s whereabouts. I’m sure I could have done it somehow without so insulting him or—betraying you.... Keith, ’twas a terrible choice to make. You know that... but I believe I made more of a dilemma of it than it really was.’

‘You were too much alarmed by hearing of Dr Cameron’s danger to think it over as you should have done?’ said Keith. It was only as he spoke that the full significance of Ewen’s words impressed itself upon him. In this speech, and in really regretting and apologising for his actions, Ewen made in Keith’s rational mind what his reception of Keith in Glenbuckie had made in his heart; and his real forgiveness of Ewen’s theft of the letter was complete.

‘Yes; exactly,’ said Ewen, with a wry smile.

Keith took a deep breath. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I told you that no amends are necessary for myself. It was a wrong thing you did, and I was angry enough at the time; but....’ He trailed off and then said simply, ‘I forgive you, Ewen.’

And he offered Ewen his hand, and Ewen clasped it in acknowledgement, and from that moment the question of the letter did not stand between them any more.

‘But,’ went on Keith after a short while, ‘I also told you ’tis not only to me that you must make amends, and perhaps we ought to say something more about that. I will speak to Lord Aveling. A letter from him arrived for me at Ardroy about a week ago. He’s gone back to his friends at Edinburgh for a time, and as far as I know he is still there, so perhaps I’ll be able to see him when we arrive there. And I believe that in time... if I can make him understand how hateful it was to you, and if you tell him what you have just told me... he may be willing to forgive you too. He’s a hot-tempered young man—ready to flare up at an insult, but not much given to holding long grudges.’

He felt an odd sort of satisfaction in thus thinking through what to do about Francis. Partly this was simply a response to the prospect of achieving a reconciliation between the two people whom he loved best; but more significant than that was that, while the reconciliation was not achieved yet, and its difficulties were yet a trial to be faced, it was a trial that Ewen and he would face together. They were no longer parted by it, but stood once more side by side, sharing their troubles and their burdens as they had done these last four years. He smiled up at Ewen, and perhaps Ewen felt the same thing, for he tightened his arm about Keith and kissed his forehead.

‘I’ll see Lord Aveling in Edinburgh, if he is there,’ he said. ‘And—in the Lowlands I am not forbidden to bear a sword, of course... I shall give him satisfaction, if he wishes it.’

‘I sincerely hope it does not come to that!’ said Keith. He shook his head; for he, as honourable a gentleman as Ewen, had as much respect as Ewen had for duelling, undertaken not over-rashly, as a means of settling serious quarrels, and thus he could not argue against the idea in its essential aspect. But he said, ‘You mustn’t risk your own health while you have still to help Dr Cameron. And in any case, you are a far better swordsman than Francis is; ’twould give him little satisfaction to be roundly beaten by you.’

Ewen evidently admitted the wisdom of these arguments. He said, ‘Well, then, I shall speak to him, and ask his forgiveness in a more peaceable way.... Thank you, Keith. I’m very glad you’re here.’

And Keith smiled. ‘I’m glad of it too, mo chridhe,’ he said. He raised the hand that had lately clasped Ewen’s and brushed it across Ewen’s hair, pushing a stray lock that had come loose from his plait back behind his ear.

‘Whatever happens next,’ said Ewen, leaning into the touch as he spoke, ‘I have my husband back. That’s a happiness indeed.’

They were very close to each other now, and it was an easy thing for Keith to lean in a little farther and meet Ewen’s lips with his own. Ewen responded warmly, bringing his arm round Keith; Keith twisted his fingers into the hair at the back of Ewen’s neck, above his plait, and brought his other hand to rest on Ewen’s waist. And for a little space the troubles that surrounded them were quite forgotten by them both... but whatever further trials they were to face on this journey, whether from the difficulty and danger of getting Dr Cameron and Alan out of the country or from the problem of Ewen’s reconciliation with Francis, they would meet them together.

(3)

Between the dark, densely-tangled twigs of the broom and the thorny masses of the whin—which were richly decorated with golden flowers despite the early season, for gorse is proverbially never without its blooms—a little group of spiders had made their webs, intricate constructions of fine whitish threads spun into neat funnels to trap the unwary fly. As David walked past them a wren burst from a bush in front of him with a loud ticking call, its tiny wings whirring to propel it along its arrow-straight path, and alighted in another bush—perhaps in search of the spiders for its supper.

Behind him Alan and Dr Cameron were talking quietly together; ahead there was a gleam of sunlight between the birch trees, let through by a low, narrow gap in the clouds that covered the rest of the sky. Beyond the thicket could be seen the yellow glow that it cast upon the otherwise uniformly grey clouds at their edges. According to Alan this restless weather could not last, and there would be storms and rain before long. Well, David could only hope they would all be safely under cover before there were; for two or three days’ walking still separated them from their goal.

Then another voice sounded up ahead, from beneath the trees. David had a moment’s anxiety—had some curious resident of Falkirk or one of the nearby villages seen them and come to enquire what they were doing here?—before he recognised the voice: of course it was Mr Windham, who, he now remembered, had wandered away in this direction with Ardroy some little while ago. Perhaps, thought David, he should go and talk to them. He liked Windham despite his reserved and sometimes rather scowling demeanour, and he liked also to hear him and Ardroy talk about their Highland estate and the life they led there. David was not entirely unaware of the reasons for the instinctive sense of affinity he felt in their company, for it seemed a good and altogether a desirable life to lead: tending and improving one’s property in a rational, careful and benevolent way, with one’s dearest friend always by one’s side—despite that that friend was of the other party.... But alas, he could not really imagine Alan having or wanting such a position as Windham’s, even were it possible to ask it of him.

He sighed, and stood a moment to watch the wren, which had appeared again on a low branch of the whin, apparently sheltering beneath a particularly dense tangle of thorns. He could see Ardroy and Windham now, sitting close together on a fallen tree with their backs to him; and perhaps it was this sight, or perhaps it was the tone of Windham’s voice, now reaching him more clearly—it was not a tone he ever used when speaking to David—which decided him all at once to abandon his plan. They had probably come here to talk privately together, and did not want interruptions. He would leave them to themselves.

But David had made up his mind too late.

He was still within earshot of the pair under the birches; and he heard the next thing Ardroy said, and saw—with that involuntary perversity which will sometimes keep our attention fixed for a few unlucky moments on just the thing which we know we ought not to regard—what happened after. The next moment he had turned smartly round and was walking rapidly (but quietly) away, certain that he had been right in guessing that here was something he was not meant to hear or to see.

He dropped to the ground in the shadow of a whin-bush, his cheeks burning. At first he was aware of nothing but simple embarrassment: fool that he was, to go wandering so blithely into other people’s private conversations!... and for a few moments this managed to eclipse any thought of the actual fact of what he had seen and heard.

But as the first shock cooled, word and gesture both would return to him, and their significance was not weakened by the passing time or the cool of the evening. More and more his thoughts would dwell upon it. He sat up, settled his arms round his knees and wondered glumly if he would be able to forget about it and return to the others before it was quite dark.

There could be no misinterpreting what Ardroy had said. He had called Windham husband, and had kissed him—not only as a friend, but as a lover would. It was shocking enough in itself, but David’s feeling as he thought upon it was not one of revulsion; the thing rather drew his thoughts with a strange but irresistible attraction, and he continued to think upon it, sitting there with the last rays of the sunlight brightening the green grass and playing upon the yellow flowers of the gorse above him.

It had been a quiet and sheltered life which David had led at Essendean for the first seventeen years of his existence. All that he had known of that which had just now presented itself so unarguably to his view was what he had learnt from Mr Campbell; and if Mr Campbell’s pupil had once or twice been a little over-ardent in his admiration of some village lad who was friendly to him, then he had owed not a little peace of mind to the fact that it never occurred to him to make any association between these vague adolescent stirrings and the sins of the Cities of the Plain. He had heard other things, less censoriously moralistic but not much more charitable, in the two years which he had spent in the more worldly society of Edinburgh. Not being naturally inclined either to cruel mockery or to self-satisfied pretensions of worldliness, he had come to regard it in more or less the same light as other pieces of vice and folly into which young men left to their own devices in the great world might fall lightly and carelessly—much like similarly thoughtless and heartless dallying with women, or perhaps like gambling at cards or failing to attend the kirk on the Sabbath. Now it presented itself to him in a totally different light. Here were these two courageous and honourable gentlemen, kind and thoughtful people, who lived steady lives, who had formed and maintained a friendship which seemed to do them both great credit across the difference between their origins and the divide of their allegiances, who seemed in every way a noble example. There could be nothing in them of vice or of folly.

Could there? Did this undo all he knew of Ardroy, and was David to doubt him who had been such a good friend to him? If he did not, then he must doubt Mr Campbell. And yet it was not the first time he had thought that the view of the world instilled in him by Mr Campbell—good and worthy man, and true friend, that he was—was in some respects a little narrow, and that a true and generous Christianity might, without compromising its moral integrity, allow sometimes for a broader prospect upon life.

Ardroy and Windham spoke of—that was to say, they must think of—their relationship as a marriage: a characterisation which, if it was not the dreadful mockery which it could not be with them, must be in their eyes a simple acknowledgement of a moral truth which the world did not acknowledge. And David could see the reason of it, even now. Had he not thought, but a few minutes ago, how pleasant it would be to live thus in partnership with one’s dearest friend—true and loving confidants and helpmeets, as spouses should be?

Totally unaware of passing time, David sat turning these things over and over in his mind, until the last lingering shock was gone and the shape of his thoughts was become something almost reassuringly familiar. He could, he found, accustom himself to thinking along such lines.

By now the last of the sunlight had gone, and the birches and the whin were turned indistinct and shadowy in the gloaming. And in the growing darkness it was, perhaps, easier at last to leave the circular mental track he was wearing and to face the obvious and inevitable end to which these thoughts must bring him. For the contemplation of his new knowledge of Ardroy and Windham discovered to him his own heart.

What those two were to each other, he wished to be to Alan—and wished it still, now that he knew the truth.

(4)

‘How are you finding all this walking, Alan?’ Thus Dr Cameron to his patient, on the following morning.

‘Fine,’ said Alan stoutly. ‘Nay, better! It does me good to be out walking under the sky again, instead of cowering away in bed.’

Dr Cameron looked at him consideringly, not to say sceptically. He had been sorely troubled by the misadventure of their first river crossing, Alan knew, and had been keeping a close eye on him ever since—which was hardly something Alan could blame him for, resent it as he might. But at last he said, ‘Alan, I believe you are right. You have been looking well lately. I declare you thrive on danger and adventure that would daunt other men.’

And Alan returned his smile with a lift of the head that was not entirely without an answering gleam. Archie was a good friend to him, after all.

But within a few minutes he had fallen back into the gloomy mood in which he had spent most of this morning. He was horribly inconsistent. Two days ago he had looked forward to the coming parting from David as his only prospect of relief from the torment of hopeless longing; and now, as that parting drew inexorably nearer with every step, he only dreaded it, and wished it would never come.

And that was not his only care, and here he was inconsistent once again, for David himself had been acting unaccountably strangely since yesterday evening, and it troubled him. When David returned to their camp to go to bed he had spoken very briefly to Alan, as though his thoughts were elsewhere, and he had declined to share the shelter of his great-coat as he usually did. Perhaps, thought Alan, he had offended David’s nice Lowland sensibilities in some obscure way, which he could not understand and which David would not condescend to explain to him.

So, in the face of this bewildering admixture of sentiments—dread at the coming parting; grief at David’s sudden coldness; and fear (not acknowledged to himself, and yet felt in some secret corner of his mind) that this coldness was due to his somehow having allowed too much of his own heart to show itself—Alan responded as he usually did to such difficulties, and fell into a sulk. The morning’s weather seemed to suit itself to his mood. The clouds that had been merely glumly grey were now dark and lowering; their gloom overshadowed the pale primroses and the bright celandines that grew on the banks of the track, and the new leaves of the hawthorns in the hedgerows, and all the other bright things of the spring, and a few fitful drops of rain fell from time to time without ever breaking out into a real downpour. Dr Cameron’s cheerfulness seemed to change, as he thought upon it, from a heartening influence to an irritating one, and even Ardroy and Windham—who, walking ahead of Alan, was giving David an account of the city of London as he had known it when he lived there—were turned from the pleasant companions they usually were to an annoyance. Alan felt an urge growing within him like a sort of mental itch to do something to break all this oppressive irritation. He wished they might come upon a party of redcoats, so that he could have a fight. But alas, no such obliging redcoats appeared; they had met no one all morning save an occasional labourer going out to work in the fields.

‘We are making a good pace to-day,’ remarked Ewen suddenly, after a short silence had fallen. ‘I suppose we’ll reach Cramond by to-morrow evening, if nothing slows us down. Hadn’t we better make some more definite plan for what to do once we get there? Windham and I will go into Edinburgh to start our enquiries, of course—and I suppose you want to go back home, Shaws?’

David nodded. ‘And Dr Cameron and Alan’—he turned on Alan a sudden frank smile, the first he had given him that day—‘can come and stay with me there, and lie low till you find a ship for them.’

‘Is your house quite safe as a hiding place, Mr Balfour?’ asked Dr Cameron. ‘The servants are all trustworthy—it’s not likely to get out into neighbourhood gossip that you have some strange visitors staying with you?’

‘I have only two servants,’ said David, ‘and they’re both entirely trustworthy. They know Alan already—as my friend Mr Thomson, of course—well, I suppose they’ll be surprised to see him again so soon, but they’ll say nothing about him, or you. ’Tis as safe a hiding place as you could desire.’

Dr Cameron nodded in approval. ‘Well, then; it seems we are decided,’ he said. ‘Do you agree, Alan?’

Alan looked up from his contemplation of the ground which passed, step by step, beneath his feet as he walked. ‘Ay,’ he said, ‘’tis a good plan.’ And he glanced at David, who was walking ahead of him and had turned away from him again.

But, be it as good a plan as it might, it was never to be carried out.

XIII. David’s Fortunes Take a Good Turn and an Ill

(1)

The next afternoon they reached their journey’s end.

Beyond Queensferry lie three low hills which form a little promontory jutting out into the Firth of Forth, and in a wood to the east of these hills, between them and the broad stretch of sand about the mouth of the River Almond, the travellers halted. Here, they agreed, they could rest for a few hours before attempting the last few miles to Cramond and the house of Shaws under cover of the dusk. Dr Cameron, philosophically gathering his resources for this last stage of the journey, spread a handkerchief over a mossy tree-root, pillowed his head upon it and went to sleep; Windham took out his pocket-book, in which he was keeping a journal of their travels, and began writing his account of this last day and its sights; and Ewen sat down near him and turned his face up to the sunlight that came now and then through gaps in the clouds, apparently absorbed in contemplation.

After a while David rose from his seat on another tree-root, and walked back and forth a few times past this peaceful little group, as though making up his mind to something; then he left off his pacing, came over to Alan and said, ‘Alan, will you walk with me a little way onwards? I want to see where we’re to go later.’ And when Alan did not at once reply to this, he continued in a lower voice, ‘I’m afraid I’ve not been fair to you these past two days. The truth is I’m not easy in my mind.... Alan, this evening we’ll be at the house of Shaws, and maybe a day or two after that, if Ardroy and Windham find a ship so soon, you’ll be on the sea. I want to talk to you before we part. Will you come with me?’

And all at once Alan saw how foolish he had been to doubt David’s friendship. Of course he was as unhappy about their parting as Alan had been himself; that, and nothing else, was at the root of his coldness. They might be as good friends as ever for the little time they had left together, and it were a greater folly yet to waste it. He agreed to go.

They made their way down through the trees—hazels whose buds were points of bright green where the leaves were not yet unfurled, and oaks still grey in their winter bareness. David’s first words had clearly been an excuse: their route later to-day would be inland to Cramond Brig, where they would cross the River Almond and come into Cramond parish, but he was now leading Alan rather towards the shore, which was visible in glimpses between the trees. The tide was out; on their left stretched the wide brown sand, gleaming in patches here and there where the water lay on it in pools, and beyond that was the Forth, now sparkling blue and now dully grey as the sun appeared and disappeared beyond the moving clouds. From time to time the cries of gulls, circling high up, sounded overhead; a small flock of oystercatchers, flying off to their feeding grounds out on the sand, added their own loud piping whistles. The woodland floor was bright with the long, green leaves of wild garlic, and here and there a bluebell sent up its stalk of flower-buds, green just tinged with blue.

Suddenly—not at a place where there was any particular landmark—David stopped and stood quite still.

‘Alan,’ he said, before Alan had any time to wonder what he was about, ‘my heart is sore at the thought of parting from you. Please tell me... just tell me you’ll not leave my house the way you left it last time.’

A little breeze was blowing in off the firth. The air it brought was fresh and chill; the calls of the oystercatchers, now a long way out over the sand, floated in upon it, their harshness softened by the distance.

Alan stood and faced his friend. The memory of his last leave-taking of the house of Shaws, after the visit he had made there in February before going to join Dr Cameron in Balquhidder, came back to him: how he had risen from his bed in the dead of night and stolen secretly out of the house, because he could not bear to face the parting from David. It had been a poor trick to play on him, and a poor return for his hospitality. But the parting had always been such a sore thing with them—ay, ever since their first good-bye upon Corstorphine Hill, two years ago—and he had thought that perhaps by avoiding the good-bye he could escape the pain of it. But it had not been so....

Now David stepped forward and took Alan’s hands in his own. There was great emotion in his eyes. ‘Say good-bye to me,’ he said, ‘if we must say good-bye. Alan, man, I wouldn’t part from you if I could stay near you.’

Alan looked down at their joined hands. Already he had repented his sulkiness of the last few days; now his remorse reached a yet higher pitch, and he shook his head in sorrow. ‘Davie, I’ve not been fair to you at all!’ he cried, and then went on more quietly, ‘But I’ll do that much, this time. Don’t doubt it.’

David smiled; Alan, who was still not looking at his face, heard the little shaky breath—the ghost of a laugh—that went with the smile rather than seeing it. ‘You are my dearest friend,’ said David, ‘and I’m glad, only glad, that I have had these last weeks beside you, out in the heather again. Even Mr Balfour of Shaws can still love that.’

‘I’m glad of it too,’ said Alan firmly. ‘It was a hard time I had up in Balquhidder after that fight—but I believe I like you better than ever for what you did there!’ And he looked up and met David’s eyes.

But David had more to say. ‘Alan, you’re my dearest friend,’ he repeated, ‘and I wish——’ Here he stopped, and his fingers shifted their grip upon Alan’s. ‘I wish you could—oh, that I could——’

‘Could what, Davie?’ said Alan. A sudden suspicion had come to him; he kept his gaze fixed on David’s, who did not look away.

A moment passed. David freed one hand from Alan’s and placed it on his shoulder; the grip of the other hand steadied itself. Then he said, ‘That this could be something more than a good-bye,’ and bent down to Alan and kissed him.

It was but a brief thing—a swift pressure of his lips against one side of Alan’s mouth. It might almost have been simply the farewell kiss of a friend. But it was not. Looking into David’s eyes as he drew back from him—hesitantly, but only a little way—Alan knew it. Remorse and repentance left him, for they were done with, and all the various and contradictory emotions of the last few days converged into one feeling and one action. Without speaking a word more he loosed his hands from David’s, placed—or rather, flung—his arms round David’s neck and pulled him back down for another kiss.

David responded at once and with an eagerness that could leave no doubt of his meaning. So keen were both his movements and Alan’s—and so great the difference in their heights—that he stumbled against Alan and almost overbalanced them both, and they were obliged to break the kiss for a moment to regain their footing on the ground. They were both laughing, as much in sheer joy as at the absurdity of it.

A great warmth of fond affection welled up in Alan’s heart. He said, ‘Here,’ settled his arms more securely about David’s neck and shoulders, pulled him closer and kissed him again. David’s arms were about his waist now, holding him steadily, and his lips were still smiling as they parted against Alan’s.

It was, Alan decided, a far better thing even than fighting redcoats.

A short while later Alan said, not very decisively, ‘We haven’t long here... and the others will be ready to leave soon. We should go back to them, or they’ll be wondering what kept us.’

David laughed softly and kissed the top of Alan’s head. He was holding Alan close in his arms now, and seemed not at all inclined to give up this position. Alan could only agree with his judgement, and immediately ignored his own advice in favour of loosening David’s neckcloth and pressing several kisses to the side of his neck. David sighed and turned his head down to rest his cheek against Alan’s hair.

‘Oh, Alan,’ he said, ‘I wish we did not have to part so soon at all. I wish you could stay with me—somehow.’

And for that Alan kissed him again—once more. But neither of them knew how soon, nor in what manner, Fate was to grant David’s wish.

(2)

Two hours later the travellers were in the lane that led along past the low park wall of Shaws. Without mishap they had rejoined the main road, crossed the Almond by the bridge, and finally walked up through the familiar scenes of Cramond parish.

Now David ran his hand for a few moments along the clean, smooth new stone of the wall. The dusk was growing, in that indefinite way in which darkness comes to an overcast day, for the sky had clouded over again; and yet enough light remained to show the things of his surroundings all as he had left them two and a half weeks ago, save that spring was a little farther advanced. The blackthorn that crowded in masses along the other side of the lane was in blossom, all frothy white; the birds were singing their mellow evening songs (there were the soft notes of a mistle thrush, somewhere in the middle distance, and David wondered if it was the same bird he had heard on the afternoon before he left)—and up ahead there was the smoke rising cheerfully from the chimney of the lodge.... And here was Alan walking by his side, whistling his favourite Highland air quietly to himself and looking like a man who had never a care in the world, and knew it.

The familiar sights and sounds of Shaws steadied a mind that had not been very steady these last few hours, nor for some time before that. David had spent the last two days, ever since the revelation brought to him by his inadvertent sight of Ewen and Keith, thinking seriously to himself about what he should do with this new knowledge; he had turned over the moral question in his mind until he knew it all as thoroughly as though he had understood his own heart for years, and—he had feared—had hurt Alan by shunning an intimacy which his scruples suggested might be wrong, now that he knew what it meant. And all the time they were drawing nearer to Shaws, and to the moment when he and Alan must part. But David had made up his mind in the end; and he had devised a way of opening his heart to Alan which would allow him to accept or reject it, and so he had gone courageously and resolutely into the thing as he generally did when he had made up his mind about something. Now he returned in memory for a few moments to that afternoon in the wood by the shore, and how gladly Alan had accepted what he offered.... He meant to talk it all over with Alan properly whenever they should get a chance. For now, though, he was simply glad to be beside Alan, and to be back at Shaws; and it seemed to him that the sight of his home spoke to his heart and welcomed it in its gladness, as though affirming to him that he had done the right thing. He could bring Alan here; he liked to see Alan here again.

Then all at once Alan broke off his whistling and said, ‘Well, we’re here.’

For they had reached the park gates.

Leaving Alan with Ewen, Keith and Dr Cameron, David walked out within view of the windows of the lodge and called for Maggie to come and open the gates for them. She appeared at once—and at once it was plain that something was wrong.

‘Mr David, you’re back!’ she said, but it was not in a tone of happy welcome. She unfastened the gates with alarming rapidity, glancing between the faces of David’s companions, and then she grabbed David by the arms and, diminutive and elderly as she was, practically pulled him bodily through the open door of the lodge.

‘You must not show your face at Shaws, Mr Balfour!’ she said in a horrified whisper, when the door was safely closed behind them all—for Alan, Dr Cameron, Ewen and Keith had all followed them into the lodge, looking variously mystified. ‘Oh, tell me no one saw you arrive!’

‘We’ve met no one,’ said David, utterly bewildered. ‘Maggie, what’s wrong? What has happened?’

‘What’s wrong?’ said Maggie. ‘You’ve heard nothing, then... but of course you have not, or you wouldn’t have come back here. Sit down, sir—and you too, Mr Thomson, and’—she hesitated, looking at Ewen, Keith and Dr Cameron—‘I suppose these are your friends... from Essendean, is it, Mr David?’

‘Oh—yes, of course,’ said David, and performed hasty introductions, luckily remembering to call Dr Cameron as well as Alan by the correct alias. ‘We have just come from Essendean; Mr Cameron and Mr Windham are going on to Edinburgh, and Mr Thomson and Mr Chalmers are to stay with me for a few days.’

‘Is that so?’ said Maggie quietly; and then in a firmer tone, ‘Well, you’re safe enough in here for the moment. Sit down, and I’ll tell you what has happened.’

‘I’m sure it’s nothing so very bad, Maggie,’ said David as he sat down, for the old woman was looking terribly solemn. ‘And now that I am back, perhaps I can help you?’

She shook her head. ‘Well,’ she began, ‘after you left, things were quiet here at first. But then we had a visit from some soldiers from Edinburgh—sent by the Commander, General Churchill, himself, they said. They asked me and John all sorts of questions about where you’d gone and when you would be back. Well, we were frightened enough at that! So John asked the officer some questions too, and he told us the Commander had heard about some Jacobites who’d been seen somewhere in the Highlands. He’d sent soldiers up there to arrest them. And he said the Commander thought you’d gone to the Highlands to help them, Mr Balfour—and he’s got all ready here to arrest you too, just as soon as you come home. So you must not show your face at Shaws, sir, for if anyone besides John and me knows you are here, the Commander will find out and he’ll throw you into gaol!’

David stared at her. Enough of the sense of her words—which were spoken with a suitably impressive manner—had penetrated his brain to produce a blank horror; more than that he could not for the moment take in.

It was Alan who spoke, a few moments later. ‘You said the soldiers had been here, Mrs Lamb. Are they still here now?’

Maggie shook her head. ‘No, there’s no one here now. To tell the truth, Mr Thomson, the officer who came here made me and John promise to send word if Mr Balfour came home. I suppose the Commander means to keep things quiet and not scare him away by making such a fuss that he might hear of it farther off.’ And there was a gleam in her eye as she added, ‘But the Commander has been too clever for his own good, for neither John nor I will do any such thing!’

David was still staring at her. This consequence of his journey into the Highlands was one he had never foreseen; as he listened to Maggie’s speech, there emerged alongside his shock a sort of horrified incredulity as to how on earth General Churchill had found out his real destination.... But this so generous protestation of loyalty recalled him to himself. It was a real risk which Maggie proposed taking for his sake, breaking a promise made to no less a person than the Commander of the Army in Scotland to protect an accused traitor; could he let her? What was he to do? For a moment he looked helplessly at Alan, who was staring in glowering thought at the well-scrubbed wooden surface of the table at which they sat, and at Ewen, who was looking with dismay at Windham. Then he set himself determinedly to think out the question.

A few moments later his thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. Alan raised his head sharply; but of course it was only John, who was as trustworthy as his good mother.

‘Mr Balfour!’ he exclaimed.

‘Ay, Johnnie,’ said Maggie, ‘he’s back, and had heard nothing of it till I told him just now. But we’ll keep the secret, won’t we?’ This with a proud lift of her chin.

‘Of course,’ said John stoutly.

‘You will do no such thing,’ announced David, who had made up his mind to a plan. ‘I will go to Edinburgh, and speak to General Churchill and explain myself. I am no Jacobite—he will understand——’

‘David, are you daft?’ cried Alan. He rose from his chair and gripped David’s arm, as though he expected him to go haring off to Holyrood House that very moment and must restrain him from it. His face was a picture of horror. ‘That’s just what you must not do!’

‘You think he would not believe me?’ said David. ‘But he knows I’m no Jacobite; why, I told you he’s treated me quite as a friend....’

Dr Cameron opened his mouth to speak; but before he could say anything Alan, ignoring him, said to David, ‘Come here,’ and tugged at his arm. David got to his feet and followed his friend to the far side of the room. Maggie and John exchanged troubled glances behind them.

‘Do you think,’ said Alan in a low and urgent voice, ‘that that will count for anything with the Elector and his men? You’re no Jacobite; very well! My kinsman James of the Glens had no part in the death of Colin Campbell, and what did that avail him? Are you to throw yourself upon the mercy of James’s murderers? Besides, David’—he lowered his voice still further—‘whatever your opinions, what General Churchill accuses you of is true. How do you mean to keep that from him, when he knows so much already? He wouldn’t greatly like the truth, be you as good a Whig as ever you will.’

David stared at him in dismay, for he saw the force of these arguments. Yet he remembered the General as he had been at that dinner: such a kind host, so affable and friendly. He had spent an hour in ordinary, amiable conversation with the General’s daughter! He could not imagine the man suddenly transformed into a deadly enemy.

‘You would be throwing your life away,’ said Alan, shaking his head. ‘And—I can’t let you do that, Davie. Now less than ever....’

David brought his hand up to cover Alan’s. A horrible deadly coldness was spreading through him as the full significance of what had happened impressed itself upon his mind, and the wisdom of Alan’s arguments became clearer and clearer. Yet where Alan’s hand touched his he was still warm. ‘What am I to do, then?’ he whispered.

Alan looked at him meaningly for a moment; then he dropped David’s arm and went back over to the table. ‘You’re a generous body, Mrs Lamb,’ he said, ‘and I fear Mr Balfour will want your help. We’ll go from here as soon as it’s safe to go, and hide out in yonder wood overnight.’

‘A good plan, sir‚’ said Maggie, who seemed quite decided in her own ideas. ‘And I daresay ’twill be as safe to leave as it was to come here, for there’s none to keep watch but us, as I said. But’—and she looked at her son—‘you’ll take some supper with us before you go, Mr Balfour, you and your friends?’

Once more her generosity pulled David out of the confusion of his mind. He recovered voice enough to say, ‘Ay, of course we will. Thank you, Maggie.’

And so they all sat down together again round the little table. Maggie was a good cook, and her ‘little dish of collops’, though humble enough, was a better meal than David had tasted for some time; and yet it was wasted upon him, for his mind was so anxious that he could not bring himself to eat more than a few morsels. Alan—who had probably not eaten such good food for considerably longer—ate prodigiously enough for them both, and praised Maggie extravagantly, which pleased her, for she liked this strange friend of Mr Balfour’s. The other three said little, though they were all as perfectly polite as usual; the shock of this new calamity had affected them all, and though some significant looks passed between Ewen and Dr Cameron, there was no more talk of what they were to do next or how their plans could be altered.

After the meal they made ready to go, for John and Maggie were certain that no soldiers had been posted in the immediate neighbourhood of the house, and that as long as they two said nothing the Commander would not know of David’s return. Between the park of Shaws and Cramond village lay a little wood of ash trees, and here they were all to go and hide out for the night.

‘I’ll come and see you there to-morrow, Mr Balfour,’ said John, as he accompanied David and the others from the lodge. ‘If you want anything from up at the house—your money, or such things—you have only to tell me, and I’ll bring them to you. And—have courage, sir,’ he added, with the awkward manner of a servant who feared to overstep the bounds of his position in thus addressing words of reassurance to his master, and who yet could not bring himself to do otherwise than be as reassuring as he could. ‘We’ll find a way to clear things up with the Commander, if any way there is.’

‘Ay, if any way there is,’ said Alan. He was looking appraisingly at John.

‘Come on now, Thomson,’ said Dr Cameron in a warning tone, taking Alan’s arm, before John could make any reply.

Whatever implications there were in this exchange passed entirely over David’s still anxious and distracted head. ‘Thank you truly, John,’ was all he said, ‘and my thanks to your mother, too.’

John bowed his head; and, repeating his promise to visit David’s hiding place on the morrow, returned into the lodge.

‘It’s two loyal servants you have there, David,’ remarked Alan a few minutes later, as they emerged from the blackthorn bushes and into the field beyond—their shortest way to the wood and one better hidden from view than the lane, despite the perils of the dense thorny growth through which they must navigate.

‘So they are,’ agreed David, abandoning the inspection of a ragged scratch in his coat-sleeve; and indeed he had got a fine lesson in the value of kindness to one’s dependants and social inferiors, for all his generous treatment of John and Maggie was amply repaid in this show of loyalty. But he sighed. ‘And I have need of such friends now.... What am I to do?’

He might well ask. The situation seemed to be building perplexity on perplexity, and now that the first great shock was over, more of its implications were working themselves out in his mind. He saw for the first time the real contradiction in all the indignant, and completely sincere, protests he had made during the last weeks that he was no Jacobite; for he had all along been acting very much like one, and now that fact asserted itself with the uncompromising clarity which General Churchill’s view of the matter would bring to it. He remembered the days after he had first met Alan, when they had fled across the Highlands together. He had thought, sometimes, of parting from Alan because of the lesser risk he himself would run once out of the company of the suspected murderer whom the redcoats were hunting; he had thought for a moment of leaving Alan because he suspected him of really being the murderer, before Alan had shown him the foolishness of jumping to such conclusions; but never had he thought that going with Alan or helping him was wrong simply because Alan was a Jacobite and had been engaged on Jacobite business when they met. Even Mr Rankeillor had been ready to meet ‘Mr Thomson’ and shake his hand—so happily forgetting his glasses when he did so!—and to work alongside him in the scheme to regain David’s inheritance. But (thought David glumly to himself) he had not Mr Rankeillor’s subtlety or his discretion, and he was paying for it now.

But he would not change his mind. He was still a Whig; he would gladly have welcomed an end of all Jacobite plots in the country, that King George’s peace might go on undisturbed for the good of all; and yet he had not done wrong in going to warn Alan, when Alan was in the midst of a new Jacobite plot and was in danger of arrest by those who sought to preserve King George’s peace.

It was a sad contradiction, but so it was. Alan was his friend, and he loved him. Save that he had evidently given General Churchill a chance of hearing what he was about, there was nothing whatever in his actions to regret. And now he had only to decide how to reckon with the consequences.

(3)

Night had fallen, and darkly, for it was the night of the new moon. The trees of the wood were outlined in vague, dark, ghostly shapes against the stars that twinkled here and there between the clouds, which had broken up into patches again. Once they were well into the wood Dr Cameron placed his lantern beneath a large fallen tree to keep it from being visible farther off, and in the weird, flickering yellow light which it cast upwards into their faces they arranged their belongings and sat down. Ewen, spreading the folds of his cloak over the fallen tree, glanced at Keith, who seemed to be bearing the prospect of another night in the wild philosophically. But he looked a little troubled; certainly this was more danger than he must have anticipated when he offered to go with Ewen to Edinburgh.

‘Alan,’ said David, on the far side of the lantern, ‘do you really think I’ll be thrown into gaol if I go and try to explain myself to General Churchill?’

Alan looked at him. ‘The devil knows what they’ll do to you,’ he said darkly, ‘but you’ll be an enemy to him and his men. That’s enough. You know’—and he glanced at Dr Cameron, and then at Ewen—‘how Government deals with Jacobites.’

David shook his head. ‘I want to go and argue my case with him. I’m sure Mr Rankeillor would help me—Mr Rankeillor is my lawyer and factor, a very clever man,’ he added in explanation to Dr Cameron, who was following his words carefully. ‘And I am no Jacobite, whatever General Churchill thinks me. But... it is true what he thinks I have done. If I’ll only be locked up in the Castle for it... then I must not go.’

‘It shows admirable courage that you want to stay and fight, Mr Balfour,’ said Dr Cameron. ‘And, Alan, I think you overstate things a little; he wouldn’t be sent to the scaffold for one instance of having helped a party of Jacobites. But’—he turned back to David—‘certainly the Commander, and the rest of the Whigs in Government, will not look kindly on one who has acted as you have acted, and I think it would not help your case to go and argue with them now.’

Perhaps David had already worked out for himself the conclusion of this reasoning; but it was Alan who stated it. ‘There’s only one thing to be done,’ he said, rather brusquely, ‘if you want to keep your life and your freedom. You must go over the water with Archie and me.’

David did not look surprised, exactly, but but it was a face of dismay that he turned towards Alan. He said nothing.

‘I think it would be best,’ said Dr Cameron, though he did not look happy at the prospect either. ‘You might go and hide out in the Highlands, as Cluny does. But that’s a life full of hazards—you and I know it, Alan—and if you want to come back here in time, you shall have to seek your pardon from the Elector, and that will be easier to do while living openly abroad than as a fugitive here.’

Dr Cameron spoke kindly; but this merciless reasoning, added to the simple fact, was all at once too much for David. He buried his head in his hands, looking a very picture of misery. Ewen felt a sudden surge of sympathetic feeling for this young laird, who was so much like himself despite the difference in their allegiances, and who found himself and his affairs now thrown so suddenly into outlawry and confusion by his loyalty—merely that of friendship—to a Jacobite friend. Still looking at David, he nudged Dr Cameron’s shoulder and said quietly, ‘Let me go and talk to him.’

Dr Cameron nodded, got to his feet and moved quietly to the far side of the lantern-light, and Ewen sat down beside David and put a hand on his shoulder. David raised his head from his hands.

‘Shaws,’ said Ewen, ‘I’ve told you, have I not, that I once had to go across the sea—for political reasons? It was in ’46. I was in France for more than two years.’

‘You have,’ said David. His brow was furrowed warily, and Ewen knew that he must proceed with care, for the comparison was a delicate one to make to a Whig—even a Whig who had done what David had done.

‘I do not say our situations are very much alike,’ he went on, ‘for of course they are not. But—well, what I mean is that I too had to leave my home that I loved, and my property where there was much that I wanted to do, and go into exile. I did not know how long I might have to stay away. It almost broke my heart, the going.’

David nodded slowly. He did not say anything, but in the soft, brief glance of his brown eyes in the lantern-light there was an acceptance of the sympathy thus offered.

‘It’s a small thing, really, as far as the Commander is concerned,’ said Ewen, ‘and it’ll be a smaller thing still once Dr Cameron and Alan are safely away, and Government no longer has any hope of capturing them, or thinks it such an urgent necessity. You’ll be able to get your pardon from the Elector and come back home. I daresay it will not be long, even. But just now ’tis not a small thing, while Dr Cameron and Alan are still at large.’

‘And so I must go,’ said David. ‘I see it.’

A gust of wind blew in the darkness through the branches above their heads; but in the blowing about of the twigs of the canopy the strength of the wind was absorbed, and it was only a breath of air that stirred about them where they sat. Considering what to say next, Ewen decided to turn to practical questions. ‘You said you have a factor at Shaws—this Mr Rankeillor, the lawyer?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said David. ‘He’s a very wise and prudent man... and he’ll be able to take care of things while I am away. But I do not know what he’ll make of all this! I ought to go and see him to-morrow. He lives at Queensferry.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Ewen, ‘but—would not going to see him put him in rather an awkward position, if you tell him that you are wanted by Government?’

‘That’s true,’ said David. He smiled suddenly, as though at some memory. ‘Ay, that’s true.... Well, I will write to him, then, and explain as much as I can. I think I ought to tell him everything—or as much as is wise to tell, as you say. He’ll understand.’

‘Leave a message with your servant when he comes here to-morrow,’ advised Ewen, thinking privately that poor Shaws was not so fortunate as he had been, with good Aunt Marget to manage everything in his absence.

David nodded. ‘John offered to bring my money from the house,’ he said, ‘and I suppose I can go to the bank in Edinburgh, if they have not been warned against me too—so I will not starve in France.’

For the next few minutes they discussed these and other practical matters. Ewen found that his own experience, besides being a point of sympathy with Shaws, could furnish many useful particulars the knowledge of which would make his leaving easier; and David, cast down by his misfortunes, seemed to rally under the necessity of thinking about such concrete things as agricultural and financial plans.

But at length they fell into a silence... which, after a while, David broke by bursting out with, ‘But you were fighting for your Cause—and I think it was noble of you, though I think your cause a wrong one—and you knew what might be the cost! We’re in a sad calamity now, that a man can be driven to exile only for helping his friend.’

The first part of this speech stung Ewen; for he had not known the cost, not really, until he had to pay it. But he could forgive Shaws a thoughtless remark or two at a time like this, and the rest of what he said was sound enough. ‘You are quite right,’ said Ewen.

And then another analogy occurred to him.

‘Shaws, you know that Windham used to be a soldier?’

‘Yes,’ said David, surprised—as well he might be, for this piece of Keith’s history had come up once or twice in some of their conversations, but he evidently did not see why it might be to the purpose now. And so Ewen told him why Keith Windham was no longer a soldier.

‘He let me go,’ he concluded, having explained the simple facts of the history, ‘that night at Morar, though it went against his duty as a soldier of the Elector’s army—because I was his friend.’ He lowered his voice, and went on, ‘It wasn’t the first time he had helped me against his superiors’ wishes. When I was wounded after the battle at Culloden, and lying helpless and alone, he turned aside from carrying a despatch to come to me and care for me. And again, later, when I was in prison, he risked his superior officers’ anger to visit me.... It was the finest thing a man ever did. I thought so then, and I loved him for it; and I think so still.’ Here Ewen took a steadying breath and looked up at Keith, who was talking to Dr Cameron on the far side of the lantern-light; he was out of hearing of Ewen’s quiet words, but perhaps he felt Ewen’s gaze upon him, for he looked up and met his eyes. Ewen smiled, and saw an answering look in Keith’s eyes; then he turned back to David. ‘And after that meeting at Morar, he told me, he could not stay where he was bound by a duty he could not keep, because it was at odds with honour and love... so he is still a Whig, but no more a soldier. Shaws, what you did reminded me of him. I thought so the first day I met you in Balquhidder!’

‘That was the reason?’ said David softly. ‘Well, I agree; it was a fine thing to do, very fine indeed.’ He was gazing at Ewen, his own sorrows forgotten for the moment. ‘I—— I’m honoured that you think my action worthy of comparison to Mr Windham’s.’ He paused and bit his lower lip, as though considering whether to say more; but in the end he only shook his head.

‘’Tis deserved, I think,’ said Ewen, with a smile. ‘But what I mean, Shaws,’ he continued, feeling far more a wise adviser than he had any right to be, ‘is that love isn’t easy in these days of strife. Helping one’s friend, when that friend is of the other party, can have a great cost, and you’re not the first man to find it so. But I believe that love and honour are the most important things in life—and that we can keep our honour true and stainless, and be loyal to those we love, whatever the world demands. You have done the right thing.’

‘I know it!’ returned David, with a courageous light in his eyes and spirit in his voice. But then he said in a softer tone, ‘Thank you, Ardroy—thank you for everything you have told me. I think you are quite right....’

He had turned half away from Ewen, and was looking across the lantern-light towards Alan, much as Ewen had looked at Keith.

Then, abruptly, he turned back to Ewen and smiled broadly. ‘I feel much better about it all now,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Ardroy. You’re a true friend.’

Ewen returned the smile and said, ‘I hope I can be.’ Then he rose and said, loud enough to be heard by the others, ‘But ’tis late! We’d better go to bed; we have much to do in the morning.’

‘What will we do in the morning?’ said Keith, getting to his feet likewise. ‘Press onwards, I suppose?’

Ewen nodded. ‘I think you and I should go to see Mr Forbes at Leith to-morrow—you remember Mr Forbes and his collection, don’t you?’ he added. ‘If anyone knows a good place for you to lie hid, Archie, he will. You can stay here until then—you are as safe here as anywhere. And Mr Forbes knows all the people at Leith; I expect he’ll be able to tell us something about where we might find a likely ship to take you off, too.’

The others agreed with the wisdom of this plan; and this settled, they made their beds for one more night in the wild, amongst the soft moss and leaf litter of the wood’s floor.

‘What were you telling Mr Balfour just now?’ Keith asked in a murmur as he lay down by Ewen’s side, pulling his cloak up to his chin.

‘Some things that I thought it might help him to hear, from the history of my own life—and of yours,’ said Ewen. ‘We have a lot in common.’

Keith nodded thoughtfully. ‘So we have,’ he said.

‘I think it helped. He’s a noble young man, Keith.’

‘He is,’ said Keith with a sigh. ‘Well, I can’t say I like this new trouble—we’re all in more danger with the soldiers on the hunt for him as well as for Dr Cameron and Mr Stewart. But you are right. It was a good thing he did—and I of all people ought to say so.’

This last was said with a wry little twist of the mouth. Ewen slipped his hand out from under his cloak to grip Keith’s hand for a moment. ‘I’m glad you do,’ he said. ‘Good-night, Keith.’

(4)

‘Davie,’ said Alan as he lifted up the side of his great-coat for David to get underneath, ‘you’ve nothing to fear from going over the sea, you know that. Not while I am there.’ He propped his head up on one arm, looked at David with an expression of more earnest seriousness than David had ever seen from him and continued, ‘You have done much to help me—warning me about the warrant, and then looking after me when I was hurt. Well, I’ll help you now.’ And then he added, more quietly, ‘I love you well, Davie, and I’ll not leave you alone in this misfortune.’

David felt rather that the day had contained several dozen times its fair allotment of events, and that he would need a night correspondingly long to get enough rest from it; but it was a welcome rest indeed to lie down beside Alan again now. ‘Thank you, Alan,’ he said, and squeezed his hand, hoping that this simple gesture would convey all that he felt at Alan’s words. And then he added, ‘I love you too.’

It was warm beneath the great-coat amidst the still cold April night, and David curled himself closer against Alan, who settled his arms about him. There was a new significance to this, he thought, and that not only in the comfort of knowing himself not alone in the new calamity he faced... or perhaps that meaning had been in it all along, felt though not understood. He smiled to himself and tucked his head against Alan’s shoulder.

And a very little time later David was sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion, to rest as much as he might for the trials and perplexities of the morrow.

XIV. The Lyon in Mourning

(1)

In a little chamber in a house at Queensferry, lined with books and overlooking, through one small window, a view of a green little garden which looked persistently cheerful under threatening grey clouds, a man sat writing at a desk. He was middle-aged, and wore a powdered wig upon his head, and he frowned at the half-written letter before him through small round spectacles. If a brief perusal of the books and papers that surrounded him had not been enough to make plain his profession, perhaps an observation of his personal appearance would have given the clue, for his features, dress and bearing had alike that blend of neatness, importance, canny judgement and real kindliness which characterises the best type of country lawyer.

Presently he finished writing. He looked the letter over, blotted it, folded and sealed it, placed it atop a stack of similar papers to one side of his desk, and was just about to turn to some other business when a knock sounded at the chamber door.

‘Yes; come in,’ said the lawyer.

The door opened to admit a small maidservant. ‘Mr Lamb from the Shaws is here, sir,’ she said. ‘He’s brought a letter for you—he says ’tis most urgent.’

‘Ah... something about that odd business of Mr Balfour’s,’ said Mr Rankeillor (for it was he) and shook his head. ‘Well, give the letter here, Betty, and give Mr Lamb some refreshment in the kitchen; he’ll have had a long walk. Is he to wait for a reply?’

Betty said that he was, handed over the letter, and departed.

When she had disappeared, Mr Rankeillor sat with the letter in his hands for a few moments, frowning at it, and then he adjusted his spectacles and began to read. Certainly it was a rather ragged-looking letter, written in pencil on an odd scrap of paper, and unsealed. As the lawyer ran his eyes over its lines, his frown deepened. When he had finished reading he placed the letter down once more on the desk, sat back in his chair and gave a long, low whistle.

It appeared, thought Mr Rankeillor, that the business upon which David Balfour had been engaged for the last few weeks (about which he had got a confused account from John Lamb when David first set out from home) was more odd than he had known.

David did not explain in his letter (prudently enough, thought its recipient) exactly how General Churchill had reached such a surprising conclusion about him; but Mr Rankeillor had heard the recent news, as by now most people in the neighbourhood had done, of the General’s attempt three weeks ago to run to earth two notorious Jacobites in the Highlands; and, despite the protestation the lawyer had once made to Mr Balfour about the imperfection of his own hearing, one of those names had been quite familiar to him. It was not difficult for one of his perspicacity to put the remaining pieces together. He had suspected, when he first met David and was introduced by him to ‘Mr Thomson’, that the heir of Shaws was a little more attached to the Highland friend he had picked up in his wanderings than he ought to be... certainly, at least, more than it was wise to be regarding anyone so notorious to Government. This, he supposed, was some confirmation of that fact.

Yes, Mr Balfour would have to go to France; with things as they stood, it was his only sure way out of trouble for the present; and Mr Rankeillor could only hope that at some future date King George would decide to be gracious and grant him a pardon. For now, the legal and logistical aspects of this precipitous departure would present some difficulties and complications for Mr Rankeillor himself, and if this was to be his only opportunity to write to Mr Balfour before he left Scotland, he must begin to tackle those difficulties quickly.

With a sigh the lawyer sat upright in his chair and pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards him. It would be a troublesome business—very troublesome for him, who had already so much involved and sometimes delicate work to do in his various business affairs, and sadly regrettable for David, who had had such keen and enterprising plans for his newly acquired property—and Mr Rankeillor might well wonder at himself, that he meant to expend as much effort in smoothing over the difficulties of the situation and managing the affairs of Shaws as he in fact meant to do. And yet, as temerarious as this evident action had been, he was fond of the lad, and could fault his principles no more than he had done two years ago. It was a truly admirable thing that he had done... (if he had in fact done it, as Mr Rankeillor’s cautious and politically prudent side reminded him to think). Such wholehearted loyalty was heroic in its way. And so Mr Rankeillor was a long way from simply regretting that David’s rashness had brought so much trouble upon both himself and his long-suffering lawyer.

Shaking his head over his own folly, he began to write the letter.

(2)

John—who appeared in the ash-wood, faithful to his word, early in the morning—had departed, leaving behind a generous quantity of bread and cheese and taking with him David’s letter to Mr Rankeillor; Keith and Ewen had set off together for Leith, promising to return or send word by the evening. And so the three remaining—the two Jacobites, and the one so unfortunately supposed to be a Jacobite—were left to occupy themselves under the shelter of the wood. David passed his time variously. For a while he sat quietly and read one of Dr Cameron’s books, which the good doctor had given him out of a suspicion that he might want something with which to divert his mind to-day; but this generous effort was sadly unsuccessful, for he laid the book down at last with very little notion of what its contents might be. For a while he walked up and down and brooded upon the difficulties of his situation, which, though Ardroy’s advice of the previous evening had eased his mind greatly, and Alan’s reassurance had perhaps done more, still presented much matter for long and weary thought.

Eventually Alan, who had been watching this pacing in silence, sprang to his feet and suggested that David should practise his sword-fighting; ‘for we may meet with more foes yet,’ he said, ‘and you’ll do better to use that weapon on your own account this time.’

For David now had his own sword back again, Ewen having returned it to him after the affair in Balquhidder. On Dr Cameron’s advice, however, he and Alan laid aside their weapons and instead fought with improvised singlesticks taken from the wood’s floor—for this place, not very far from the road where people might be passing, was not such a fastness as the Heugh of Corrynakiegh, and the clash of metal would make too much noise for safety.

‘If anyone hears this, they will think ’tis simply some foolish boys at play,’ observed Dr Cameron, in a tone which perhaps carried a hint of a suggestion that he thought Alan and David little more than this. He was watching them carefully to see that Alan did not over-exert himself and thus imperil the excellent progress of his recovery, but he seemed to regard the exercise rather with amused indulgence than with real censure.

So for a little while they sparred. Such simple exercise, requiring exertion of the body and clear concentration of the mind and leaving little room for sentiment or cogitation, gave David a welcome distraction from the restlessness of his thoughts; and, though Alan was certainly an estimable opponent, he found also that it was no longer so bewilderingly difficult to hold his own as in his first efforts at using the sword at Corrynakiegh. He actually won the third bout, and, feeling generous in his victory, was magnanimous enough to attempt to attribute it to Alan’s not being at his full strength.

But, ‘Na, na,’ said Alan, with a peculiar mixture of frustration and satisfied pride upon his face which warmed David’s heart towards him yet again; ‘you deserve the credit of it. You’re improving finely, Davie.’

And at last, some time after this occupation was laid aside, John returned with a heavy bag over his shoulder.

‘I have given your letter to Mr Rankeillor, Mr Balfour,’ he said.

‘Did you see how he took it? Was there any answer?’ asked David before John could say any more.

‘Yes, sir, there was an answer,’ said John, and produced it. David tore open the note and ran his eyes over the lines.

Queensferry, 4th April 1753

Dear Mr Balfour,

It is a very irregular Affair of which you wrote to me this Morning, and I was dismay’d to hear of the sad Misfortune of the Commander’s Mistake. I concur in your Judgement that you would do best to go abroad for a Time. I may say that, after all that you have already achiev’d at Shaws, and the further Plans which I know you had in View for the Future, I am heartily sorry that you should be thus oblig’d to leave it.

Nevertheless, I am quite willing to carry on the Management in which I have assisted you this last Year. I will do what I can for you and for Shaws. There is much more that I wish to say to you, and I think we must correspond further when you are safely establish’d in France; I beg you will write to me and give me your Address there.

Praying we may meet again before a very great Time has pass’d, I am, sir, your obedient Servant, and I hope I may say also your Friend,

Lewis Rankeillor.

P.S. I think it would be prudent to destroy this Letter, as I have already done yours of this Morning.

David lowered the letter and looked up. ‘He agrees that I should go to France, but he means to do what he can for me.... That is wonderful news. Oh, thank you, John,’ he said, feeling inclined to play the reverse of the proverbial king who shot the bearer of bad news, and give credit to his own messenger for these good tidings.

‘Now, sir,’ continued John, ‘I have the money and the things you asked for, here.’

He placed his bag on the ground and unloaded its contents: all the money which David had had stored at the house, various clothes, and a small wooden box containing some possessions of David’s which, while they would not be essential to his life in France, he valued above money and could not have left behind in Scotland. These were an unostentatious but delicately-made gold ring, which had been his mother’s wedding ring; the Bible and the receipt for lily of the valley water which Mr Campbell had given him on the day he left Essendean; and a silver button which, had he brought it out now, would have been familiar to one other person present. Wrapping the box carefully in a spare shirt, David stowed these things in his own bag—save for two pieces out of the money-bag, which he returned to John, saying, ‘There—one is for your mother.’

‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ said John solemnly.

‘But ’tis poor thanks for all you and she have done for me!’ exclaimed David as he handed over the coins. ‘Oh, God only grant you have no more trouble from those soldiers.’

‘I shouldn’t think we will, sir,’ said John, his servant’s impassiveness broken for a moment by the gleam of a smile. ‘We’re good, law-abiding people, and who’s to say that you did not somehow get word of the General’s search and keep away from Cramond all the while?’

Then an idea occurred to David. ‘Wait a moment, John,’ he said. ‘I’ll write you a letter, dated from somewhere far off, saying that—oh, that unexpected business has called me away, and I don’t expect to return for a long time. Then if there is any more trouble, you can show it to the General and it will make your story more believable.’

In the middle of the hasty composition of this letter another inspiration struck David, and having finished the letter he began a second one to Mr Rankeillor, informing the lawyer that he meant to go abroad for a while but saying nothing of his reasons or of the trouble with the General—that Rankeillor too might have something plausible to show any agent of authority who thought to enquire into his part in or knowledge of David’s flight. He was just adding the signature to this second letter when Alan, who had been looking on at the proceedings in silence, said, addressing John, ‘They are very troublesome people, redcoats. I’m thinking it’s an awful fuss this General has made by his mistake—don’t you agree?’

There was a slight but definite emphasis on the word ‘mistake’. David glanced up to see Alan and John regarding each other, the one with eyebrows raised in enquiry and eyes holding a careful appraising look, the other with a slight frown which might have been one of guarded wariness.

Not being so distracted as he had been the previous afternoon, and having had so much time to think over his trouble in all its divers aspects, David now saw Alan’s meaning plainly. Yesterday, and throughout this morning’s visits, neither John nor Maggie had asked any question as to what David had really been doing on his mysterious journey—although it seemed, from what Maggie had told them, that General Churchill had proved he had not been at Essendean. Nor had they enquired about why Mr Thomson had so unexpectedly reappeared alongside David on his return, or who his other friends were. Of course it was not their place to ask questions; but in combination with their ready help, this lack of curiosity began to look a trifle strange, and naturally Alan must wonder about it.

‘No doubt it is, sir,’ said John, speaking with care, ‘and I could wish he had not... been mistaken. But it makes no difference if he was, if you see my meaning.’ And he glanced at David, who understood his meaning at once, and whose heart leapt with relief. He had been thinking yesterday of Mr Rankeillor’s political subtlety—well, here was another instance of the very same thing.

‘That I think I do,’ said Alan. ‘Well, Mr Lamb, you’re a true, loyal person, and so is your mother, and I hope you and she have no more trouble at all about this.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said John—this time with another hint of a smile.

Then he took David’s letters; and after a few more farewells, and promises on either side to send word whenever they could, he departed.

Alan, when John had vanished out of sight, looked significantly at Dr Cameron and then at David, and then said, ‘Well, I believe that’s one thing less for you to fret about, in any case.’

‘I think it is,’ said David.

(3)

It was about midday when Ewen and Keith, after a walk of some six miles along the road that runs towards Leith from Queensferry, stopped outside a tall, narrow house, its slate roof bristling with sharply angled gables, which stood in one of the principal streets of Leith, and knocked upon the door.

It was opened by a maidservant, who told them that her master was at home and would see them, and ushered them into a small but neatly-arranged drawing room. Ewen stood looking around him at the dark, old-fashioned oak furniture, the neat row of books and the ornate clock which stood in its shining brass case upon the mantelpiece, the window that looked out upon the street and did its best on this gloomy day to brighten the room. All these things were familiar to him, and the memories which they recalled to him were not unwelcome.

But he did not have long in which to muse upon the past; for he and Keith had been in this room scarcely a minute when the door opened and admitted two persons.

The first of these was a man of about five-and-forty, a little below the middle height, who wore a brown tie-wig, spectacles and the plain black clothes of a clergyman. ‘Cameron of Ardroy!’ he said, coming towards Ewen with outstretched hand. ‘What a pleasure to see you again.’ He did not raise his voice in exclamation while pronouncing this welcome; his manner was quiet and precise, but the real warmth behind the words was none the less evident.

Ewen shook his hand heartily, and agreed that it was a pleasure; and he introduced Keith to his friend.

‘Mr Windham, of course—I am delighted to make your acquaintance, for you know I have heard much about you from Mr Cameron. Now, I have an introduction to make too, for you’ll not have met my wife’—and he introduced the woman who had accompanied him into the room, who was small, dark and neatly dressed, and whose manner made a curious combination of liveliness and steadiness, as Mrs Forbes.

The introductions all completed, Mr Forbes invited Ewen and Keith to sit down, and asked to what he and his wife owed the pleasure of this visit.

‘I fear,’ said Ewen, ‘that it’s no very pleasant matter; in fact, sir, we have come to ask your help in rather a delicate business.’ And he explained, in as few words as possible, the business which had brought him and Keith here. ‘Our friends are hiding in a wood nearby the house of Shaws now,’ he finished, ‘and we think it wisest not to bring them right into Edinburgh. But they must get away by some ship, and we thought—that is, we hoped that perhaps you might know of one suitable.’

His two listeners, who had followed his explanation with furrowed brows and serious eyes, now exchanged glances; and then they considered the matter for a few moments in silence.

The Reverend Robert Forbes, whose help Ewen had thought to ask in their extremity, was one of the more curious figures whose deeds ornament the pages of Jacobite history—in fact, he was the author of many of those pages. He had been prevented from joining the Prince in 1745 through being arrested and imprisoned, along with some of his fellow non-juring clergymen, early in the proceedings; but no sooner did he regain his freedom, a year or so after it was over, than he began to gather accounts, letters, descriptions, memoirs and other such documents from all those more fortunate Jacobites, who had seen the events of the Prince’s year in Britain at first hand, who came in his way. By this year of 1753 he had built up an extensive and thorough historical collection which now numbered eight manuscript volumes, and to which he gave the aptly sorrowful title ‘The Lyon in Mourning’. He was always seeking new material, whether to throw light upon hitherto obscure parts of the Rising or to corroborate those accounts which he already had (for he was a conscientious historian, careful of agreements and contradictions between his sources), and it was this which had brought him and Ewen together shortly after Ewen’s return from France. Ewen had given Mr Forbes an account of his experiences during the Rising, particularly where they concerned the doings of Lochiel, and also of his meetings with Keith and all that Keith had done for him. Mr Forbes was scrupulously fair to his enemies, taking as much care to record instances of charity and honourable behaviour by Hanoverian officers as he took with the sadly numerous accounts of cruelty and dishonour. He had been greatly touched by the story of Major Windham.

Now he said, quietly as though speaking more to himself than to Ewen, ‘That is a curious story indeed. What courageous men Dr Cameron and Mr Stewart are, and how unfortunate they have been! I met Dr Cameron’s lady a few years ago, and she told me much about him. And this Mr Balfour sounds rather singular.... Rachie, my dear,’ he added, turning to his wife with a serious manner, ‘do you think we could manage to find room here for a few poor travellers, at such short notice?’

‘I think we just might, Robbie,’ she said, with a solemn look beneath which the smile was not very thoroughly suppressed; and then, addressing Ewen with more real gravity, ‘Bring your friends here, Mr Cameron. Anything Robert and I can do to help friends of the Prince, we’ll do, and be happy—for it’s an honour.’

Ewen had not expected this difficulty to be solved so easily, and he thanked both Mr and Mrs Forbes profusely.

‘Oh, not at all, Ardroy. Rachel is quite right—we’re proud to do anything to help the Prince,’ said Mr Forbes. ‘And as for this matter of finding a ship to take them off to France, we—and the Prince—have some friends amongst the shipowners here; I’ll see what I can do. Now’—he rubbed his thin hands together, evidently enjoying this opportunity for making a scheme—‘we must think how to get your friends here. They are near Cramond now, you said?’

‘Yes,’ said Ewen. ‘I think we’d better wait till dark before we risk bringing them here. A commotion outside your house in daylight would be more danger than we can afford.’

Mr Forbes nodded. ‘To-night, then?’ he said.

And to this Ewen agreed. ‘Mr Windham and I will go into Edinburgh, to the place where we usually lodge when we stay there—for we think ’tis wisest to go about openly, as if we were on one of our usual visits—but I can come back here to-night to show them the way to this house.’

‘Excellent!’ said Mr Forbes, beaming. ‘Well, if you describe to my servant the place where they are hiding, I shall send him there with a message. He’s perfectly trustworthy, and you must not have any more walking than you’re already doing, I think.’ So saying, he rang the bell. ‘In the meantime, Ardroy, Mr Windham, you must stay and take some dinner with us before you go into Edinburgh.’

Ewen looked at Keith, wondering for a moment how he was taking all this Jacobitical planning; but he did not look averse to the idea of staying for dinner, at least. ‘We’d be very happy to, sir,’ he said.

At this point the servant appeared—a tall man, who wore a coat of a neat cut and a peculiar pale green colour—and being greeted by his master with, ‘Ah, James, we have an errand of great import for you!’, he listened to Ewen’s directions to the ash-wood near Cramond, and departed with his hastily-written note explaining the plan to Dr Cameron.

‘You must tell us all the news you have of the Prince,’ said Mrs Forbes, when James had gone, ‘for we hear so little of him. Of course we’ll have plenty of questions to ask Dr Cameron and Mr Stewart when they arrive! And you will be pleased to meet our other guest, will they not, Robert?’

‘Ah, of course,’ said her husband, with the air of suddenly remembering something. ‘We have another guest coming to dine with us to-day—a Highland friend, who has agreed to contribute a few things to my collection... some recollections of ’45, and some curious papers which he tells me he has. But perhaps you know him?—’tis Alastair MacDonell, Young Glengarry.’

XV. A Haven—for a While

(1)

About an hour later five people sat down to table in the compact but airy dining-room of Mr Forbes’s house. The room was on the first floor at the back of the house; its two high windows looked over a foreground of densely clustered smaller buildings and narrow yards, and out towards the harbour and the tall masts and white sails gathered there, now clustering in thick groups towards the shore, now moving one by one sedately off down the Firth and out to sea. Even at this distance the wind that rippled and swelled across the canvas of the sails was palpable; it had been getting steadily higher all morning, and Mr Forbes, after he had said grace, looked up and remarked that they would surely be having a storm before long.

Keith was seated by Ewen on the side of the room nearest to the windows; Rachel Forbes was on his other side at the foot of the table, opposite her husband, and across from him sat Alastair MacDonell. He was a tall young man with hair of a much lighter shade of red than Ewen’s, and a face in which a natural high colour was just reestablishing itself against the wan pallor of recent illness; his manners, as he chatted to Mrs Forbes, praised the dinner and questioned Ewen and Keith as to where they were to stay at Edinburgh and how their inn compared to his own lodging—he named the house, which was near the West Port—were pleasant enough, if a little over-haughty. Keith was aware that Ewen disliked him, and in the course of his work at Ardroy had heard stories of his behaviour towards the Glengarry tenants which hardly inclined him in the young heir’s favour, though the further reasons for Ewen’s low opinion of his honour and integrity were bound up in clan and Jacobite politics of which Keith’s understanding was very imperfect. He trusted that Ewen’s forbearance would bring them safely through this dinner—which was not a little trying to himself also, though for other reasons. But both Mr and Mrs Forbes were polite and attentive towards him, and both took care to steer the conversation towards topics of political neutrality and equal interest to them all: Mr Forbes asked him about Ardroy, and how he thought the Highland country compared to his experience of England, while Mrs Forbes pointed out, through the windows, a particular ship she recognised, telling him what was its name, where it was going and what cargo it was carrying.

Eventually, however, Mrs Forbes must bring up a subject of more pressing interest.

‘Now, Mr Cameron, and Mr MacDonell,’ she said, laying her knife and fork down on her plate and clasping her hands together below her chin, ‘you must tell us all you’ve heard lately about the Prince. The last news we had was in January, when one of the shipmasters here brought us some letters about him from Dunkirk. They said he had become a Protestant, and was married to the Princess Royal of Prussia! We hardly knew whether to believe such wild reports—indeed, many people here only laughed at them. Well, Mr MacDonell, you have been in France and seen the Prince, and so has Dr Cameron, so you surely know more than we. Is it true?’

Glengarry shook his head. ‘I have not seen the Prince since the autumn, madam,’ he said. ‘My illness kept me very much shut up in my lodgings at Paris, you know. I’m afraid I have no more recent news.’

But Ewen was leaning forward impatiently; evidently he had news to impart. ‘I have heard nothing of his marriage,’ he said, ‘though perhaps something has happened since Dr Cameron left France. But the report of his Protestantism is perfectly true, for Dr Cameron assures me that he is now a member of the Church of England.’

Mr Forbes was a minister of the Scottish Episcopal Church, to which Ewen also belonged—it being the curious state of religious affairs in Britain at this time that the established Church of England was allied in doctrine and governance to a Scottish church which, being almost universally Jacobite, was therefore proscribed, while the Scottish Kirk professed beliefs which in England were persecuted as Dissent. Therefore the news of Charles Edward’s conversion was as welcome to the Forbeses as it had been to Ewen. They beamed at each other across the table.

‘Well, Mr Cameron,’ said Mr Forbes, ‘we are indebted to you for bringing this news.’

‘You have already more than paid that debt, sir,’ said Ewen.

‘Oh, but that reminds me,’ said Mrs Forbes suddenly, ‘about Captain Brodie—he’s a friend of ours who is a shipmaster, Mr Cameron, and ’twas he who brought us those tidings of the Prince in January. He was to sail again for Gravelines in a week or so’s time—did he not say so last week, Robert? And he’s still here as yet. Perhaps he might be able to help your friends.’

‘Of course!’ said Mr Forbes. ‘Ardroy, I will go and speak to Captain Brodie to-morrow. If he cannot bring Dr Cameron and the others safely out of Scotland, he’ll know someone who can.’

For a few minutes more Ewen and Mr and Mrs Forbes discussed the details of their plans. Ewen had directed Dr Cameron, Alan and David to be at the far end of the road to Queensferry, just outside the town of Leith, at twelve o’clock that night; here he would meet them and bring them to Mr Forbes’s house.

‘We may hope no one will see you arrive at that time of night, if we’re quiet,’ said Mr Forbes, ‘and if anyone does, you are simply unfortunate friends benighted upon the road of your travels, and all the more in need of such shelter as I can give you. We’ll put some such story about.’

Keith had remained silent throughout this discussion. Indeed, his thoughts were in something of a contradictory state. He and Ewen had already agreed that he would not accompany Ewen back to Leith that night, as there was no need for them both to be there, and their story of staying in Edinburgh upon legal business would be the more plausible if one of them really remained in the city. And there was some relief in this decision; for the terrible ingenuous earnestness of Mr and Mrs Forbes in all their Jacobite talk irritated him, and surrounded by it as he had been for these last hours he was beginning to feel something of a conspirator himself. Yet he did not like leaving Ewen to fend for himself where there might be danger—although it was not likely that there would be any great trouble to-night.

He glanced across the table at Alastair MacDonell, who was listening with his head propped sideways on one hand, evidently interested by the discussion, though he likewise had nothing to contribute to it. Well, he was a Jacobite, and from what Keith had heard, had been involved in the early stages of forming the plans which Dr Cameron and Mr Stewart had been interrupted in carrying out; it was no surprise that he was interested, and Keith rather wondered that he did not offer to help.

‘Well,’ said Mr Forbes at last, looking happily round at the remains of the dinner, ‘it seems all our plans are made. I shall look forward to seeing you and your friends to-night, Ardroy. Now, out of respect for the company present’—he bowed his head towards Keith, and took up his glass—‘I will not propose a toast to the King to-day. Shall we say instead—to friendship?’

And so they all drank. In truth, Keith would not much have minded quietly declining to participate in a toast to King James the Eighth—it would not have been the first time—and he was a little embarrassed at the special attention, but still he was not unaffected by Mr Forbes’s so careful politeness. Ewen, repeating the unconventional toast, smiled at him. No, perhaps it was not such a trouble....

After dinner Mr and Mrs Forbes said farewell to Ewen and Keith, and then they parted: the former couple for Mr Forbes’s study, where Alastair MacDonell was to oblige them with his promised recollections and papers, and the latter for their lodgings in Edinburgh. The two and a half miles along Leith Walk were a less congenial journey than their earlier walk from Cramond; for the slate-grey of the sky above Leith turned as they went to an alarming greenish-yellow colour, and before they had got half a mile along the road the rain was fairly pelting down.

‘We’re lucky not to have had this weather two days ago,’ said Ewen, tugging his dripping bonnet down over his brow, as they made their way into the city. A gust of wind blew into the street, funnelled between the high walls of the buildings, and flung the rain energetically sideways; at the edges of the street it was already forming spreading puddles, across which the wind blew the newly-falling drops in tiny shifting waves as though reenacting in miniature the movement of the wind and rain across a Highland loch. Keith firmly steadied his own hat upon his head and moved closer to Ewen as they walked. Between the old days in the Army and a present life which required him to spend so much time out of doors in the Highlands, Keith had seen his fair share of rough weather; but one does not necessarily like a thing just because one is inured to it.

By the time they arrived at the Kestrel inn—a familiar place to them both, for Ewen always stayed here whenever he had any legal business in Edinburgh, and Keith had accompanied him on one or two such trips before—they were more or less soaked to the skin.

‘Nasty weather to be out in, isn’t it, Mr Cameron, sir?’ said Miss McArthur, the co-proprietor of the inn, with a cheerful exaggerated shiver.

‘Excellent weather in which to be safely under your roof, Miss McArthur,’ returned Ewen, taking off his bonnet—by now made more of water than of wool—and inspecting it ruefully. ‘Is our usual room free?’

‘Certainly it is, sirs. Will you be wanting your dinner?’

‘Thank you, no—we’ve dined already. But I think we could both do with a hot bath, if you can provide one.’

Miss McArthur laughed, and agreed that this could be supplied. And after a few more minutes spent chatting to her and to Miss Murdoch, her partner in the business, while the maidservant made their room ready and fetched hot water, Keith and Ewen went upstairs. It was with some relief that Keith finally closed the door behind them.

The room was on the second floor (the building having the usual Edinburgh overabundance of storeys, and the first three of these being occupied by the Kestrel) and looked out onto the street, though this view was now almost entirely obscured by the vast quantities of rain being hurled every moment against the window-panes. The window admitted a very little greyish light, for the dark clouds of the storm had brought an early dusk; and the room was illuminated more warmly by a bright fire, before which the bath stood and steamed invitingly. Ewen drew the window-curtains firmly across, shutting out the dismal gloom more thoroughly, and indicated to Keith that he should take the first turn at the bath.

Keith had no little experience of existing, sometimes for many days, without the comforts of civilisation, and this experience had given him a thorough appreciation for the value of returning to them. The first touch of the warm water on his bare skin, and the sensation, gradually establishing itself as he performed his ablutions, of being really and thoroughly clean, were every bit as welcome as they had been in the days of the army camp. He let out a satisfied sigh. At this there was a little noise of amusement from Ewen, and Keith turned to see him standing over the settle which stood against the far wall, rummaging in the pack which he had placed down on it and glancing up at Keith with affectionate, half-laughing blue eyes.

‘Glad our travels in the wild are over, m’eudail?’ he said.

‘Decidedly,’ said Keith.

His bath finished, Keith dressed himself in a clean nightshirt—it was not yet six o’clock, but he had no intention of venturing out again this evening—and lay down on the bed, while Ewen stripped off his own soaked clothes, hung them up to dry before the fire and took possession of the bath. Keith lay back against the pillow and closed his eyes, thinking of how pleasant it was to have a soft pillow beneath one’s head again; and then he turned his head and opened his eyes, and with a like lazy contentment watched for a moment Ewen’s naked back, glistening with warm water, and the hair that lay in dark wet strands over his neck and shoulders. Then he nestled deeper against the pillow and closed his eyes again.

‘Oh, Keith, were you asleep? I am sorry!’

‘Hmm?’ Keith was unaware of time having passed, but here was Ewen, wrapped haphazardly in a towel and with his hair dried almost to its usual auburn colour, sitting on the bed next to him. ‘I was dozing, I believe.... You look better for your bath.’

Ewen laughed. ‘I hope so. I confess I’m not looking forward to going out into that again later to-night.’ He glanced at the curtained window, where the steady sound of the rain had not ceased nor lessened.

‘Well, you needn’t go for a little while.’

‘That’s true,’ said Ewen, smiling. ‘I might not come back to-night, if it’s still anything like this later; I’m sure Mr and Mrs Forbes will take pity on me if it is.’

Keith nodded. ‘I’ll wait here for you in the morning, then, shall I?—and then, if all has gone well, I suppose we ought to have some pretext on which to visit Mr Gilchrist.’ This was the lawyer whose services Ewen employed.

‘Oh, we need no pretext—there really are some questions I wanted to consult him about,’ began Ewen, and there followed a brief discussion of a few minor legal matters relating to the estate of Ardroy. Eventually a silence fell.

‘Well, then, everything is decided,’ said Keith at last. He sat up and glanced at the watch which he had placed, freshly wound up, on the bedside table. Ewen had lit a lamp; now its gentle yellow light touched his loose hair on one side with red gold, while on the other side it was illuminated more softly by the stronger but distant light of the fire across the room. Far as they were above the public rooms of the inn below, it was quiet, save for the muffled beating of the rain upon the window. And, as far as their plans went, everything was decided—despite the calamitous loss of their first and safest choice of refuge, and despite that the fate of Dr Cameron, Alan and David was still so far from certain. The night would see them one step nearer to real safety; and for now, there was this interval of quiet and warmth and light in which to rest.

Surfacing from these thoughts, Keith looked at Ewen, who was smiling a soft smile in the lamplight. Perhaps he was thinking the same things. Keith laid his hand over Ewen’s where, emerging from the folds of his towel, it rested upon the blankets.

A moment passed. Then Keith said, ‘Oh, Ewen, come here,’ and pulled him into a kiss.

A sense of familiarity so keen it was almost painful filled Keith’s heart as Ewen kissed him. Not since before their quarrel at Ardroy had they been so entirely alone together, indoors and shut securely away from the world, and able to act towards each other without any restraint. Ewen broke off the kiss for a moment to shift himself into a more comfortable position on the bed, and then he brought his arms round Keith more firmly, and his lips sought Keith’s again with eager intent.

The towel in which Ewen had wrapped himself had been loosened and shifted by his movements; as their kisses grew deeper it was an easy thing for Keith to push its intervening folds aside and reach for bare skin, warm and soft from the bath. Ewen made a little noise of approval and moved closer yet. Keith moved his hand, seeking for more... and then he drew back for a moment.

‘I might say,’ he murmured with a smile, ‘that you ought to get some sleep before your outing later to-night.’

A look of mock forlornness appeared upon Ewen’s face. ‘Oh, I ought,’ he agreed. ‘But’—the fingers of his left hand, which was resting on Keith’s hip, tightened and moved in a gentle stroking motion over Keith’s skin through the cloth of his nightshirt, and the forlorn expression was replaced by a mischievous smile—‘I always do sleep better afterwards, you know. And we’ve plenty of time yet.’

And at that Keith laughed, and agreed, and tugged Ewen closer to him again.

Afterwards Ewen did sleep, soundly and peacefully with a little smile upon his face; and Keith lay curled in his arms, sometimes watching him and sometimes dozing, while the rain poured ceaselessly outside the window. It was a little, precarious space, surrounded on either side by danger and uncertainty; but for that little while they were both perfectly happy.

(2)

Georgina Churchill sat upon a chair in her bedchamber, drawing the brush through her hair slowly—without conscious awareness, but with the thoroughness of familiar habit—and listening to the rain beating against the window. It was too tiresome, this Scottish weather; just when the cautious advance of the spring had progressed sufficiently far for one to feel the warmth of the morning sunlight upon one’s skin, and when the trees and flowers were all putting forth their delicate glory in the strengthening light, the sky would fill with dark clouds and send down this torrential rain for hours together. And she had been going to go for a drive with Francis to-morrow morning!... That would certainly have to be put off if this rain did not stop soon.

She sighed, put down the hairbrush upon her dressing-table and began to plait her hair into the loose braid which was her usual night-time arrangement. Turning her head, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. A little smile turned up one corner of her mouth, as though she were sharing a private joke with her reflection; then she smiled more widely, and then broke out into a laugh of quiet, sparkling mirth. Impatient young person that she was, to be so put out over a little rain! It was quite ridiculous. Very probably it would have stopped by morning, in any case.

Thus easily could Georgina catch the absurd out of downheartedness—with her cheerful disposition and in these happy days.

She rose from the chair and went over to her bed, carrying her candle with her. The rain was still making an inordinate noise upon the window; it would keep her awake... but that sound was not the rain! There was someone walking with rapid steps along the passage outside her room. She thought she recognised the step of Oliver, her father’s manservant; and sure enough, the steps stopped outside her father’s bedroom door, at the far end of the passage, and there was the sound of a knock. Oliver was an expressive and emphatic man, and could communicate much by his manner of knocking on a door; to judge by the volume and length of this knock, it was an urgent matter indeed upon which he sought the General to-night.

Georgina, sitting up in bed, shook her head sadly as she heard the door open and an exchange of low, hurried words begin between the manservant and her father. It was probably a message from one of the officers on duty at the Castle; some urgent military matter required the General’s attention. He was kept very hard at work, these days. Well, doubtless she would hear about it in the morning, whatever it was.

She leaned over and blew out the candle.

XVI. In the Dark

(1)

Walking in this pouring rain, David decided, was at least preferable to waiting about in it in the ash-wood nearby Cramond. There, it was true, they had had the shelter of the trees, whereas now they must walk in the open; but ashes being still entirely bare of their leaves in April, the trees had not provided any very thorough shelter, and it had not taken much time after the rain began in earnest for the cold water to soak through David’s coat and send its chill seeping, it seemed, into his very bones. Alan had sat next to him on as dry a patch of ground as they could find and hung his great-coat over them both like a sort of tent (‘Ah, it’s not nearly so good a shelter as a Highland fèileadh-mòr would make,’ Alan had said, shaking his head sadly); he had been warmer then.... But nevertheless it had been a welcome thing when, some time after sunset, they left the wood and set out walking at a brisk pace along the road in the growing darkness. Motion brought warmth to the blood and kept the awful, permeating chill somewhat at bay; now David’s teeth had practically ceased chattering, and though the water still dripped discouragingly down his neck, there was action and a purpose to keep his mind off thinking of it.

The time passed. Beneath the blanketing clouds the gloom about them was almost complete, and so David had no idea what landmarks they might be passing to either side, and very little notion of how far they had travelled towards their goal. Presently, however, he heard the sound of flowing water, and of the rain falling into it, somewhere off to the right; and a moment later Dr Cameron stopped, took out his watch and examined it—making a careful but unsuccessful attempt to hold the watch, shield it from the rain and position his lantern so as to illuminate its face all at the same time, until Alan obligingly took the lantern and held it for him.

‘Twenty minutes to twelve,’ said Dr Cameron, thus enabled to read the watch more clearly. ‘And Ewen promised to meet us at the end of the road from Queensferry at twelve o’clock. We have timed our walk well.’

David peered to either side of the road in the feeble lantern-light, trying to make out some feature of their surroundings. On their right was a stretch of open ground upon which rows of upright stones stood as though sprouting out of the gloom; a kirkyard, he supposed, although the building itself was not to be seen. To the left the ground rose away from the road, and there was a suggestion of large buildings looming up above, for what purpose David did not know. In fact these were the remains of the fort built, hastily and at considerable expense, on the orders of General Monck a hundred years earlier when Leith, together with all the rest of the country, was ruled by Cromwell’s Commonwealth; sent swiftly into obsolescence and semi-demolition by the restoration of the Stuart monarchy, Leith Citadel had since been used for such diverse purposes as the manufacture of wine bottles and the printing of the Mercurius Caledonius newspaper. The original military purpose of the fort was firmly forgotten by now; there was no great danger for David and his companions in standing here under its crumbling walls.

But Dr Cameron indicated that they should press forward.

‘We’ll be well out of this rain soon, Shaws,’ he added, turning to David with a smile. The lamp illuminated the raindrops falling past his face, each for its little moment before it fell farther down and returned into the darkness. It was a sight that David would remember later.

Soon more buildings began to close in to either side of the road. There were no lights visible in their windows, and no sign that anyone apart from themselves was stirring abroad; Leith had evidently taken the collective decision—very rational on this night—to shut itself up and stay quietly in bed. Well, that was all the better for them. And then David reached up with a sudden gesture to pull his hat down, that he might see ahead of him without the constant impediment of the rain forcing him to keep his eyes screwed almost shut—for there was something other than dark stone walls and black side alleys to be seen ahead of him now. It looked oddly like a distant star, twinkling steadily as the rain fell in front of it; but it had the yellow colour of a small flame, not the white of a star, and it was at ground level—or rather at the height which a lantern, held up to show the way by a tall person, might thus reach. These details revealed themselves to David as he went forward; and then the light began to move rapidly towards them, and out of the gloom there emerged the figure of a man.

‘Ewen!’ said Dr Cameron, holding out his hand.

Ardroy, his head covered by the hood of his cloak, came forward and clasped his cousin’s hand. ‘Oh, you can’t have had a pleasant walk,’ he said, with a rueful smile towards David. ‘I certainly have not. But we’ll not waste time talking! Mr Forbes’s house is on the other side of the river—this way.’

And he led them away at a hurried pace down one of the little streets to the right, towards the Water of Leith, into which river David had heard the rain falling a few minutes ago. He was aware of the Water itself largely as a sudden sense of open space to either side as they emerged from between the houses and the buildings of the dock; and the light glinted off the wet stone parapet of a bridge as Alan, beside him, raised his lantern to light their way.

Ewen’s tall figure ahead of them had now reached the far end of the bridge—but before they could follow him any farther, he came to a sudden stop.

‘Wait!’ he said, holding up his hand. His voice was sharp with alarm.

But it was already too late.

There was a shout from somewhere up ahead, and then movement—heard, at first, adding itself in confusing medley to the constant sound of the rain, rather than seen. Figures loomed briefly out of the darkness—how many, David could not count. Then the light of Ewen’s lantern flashed upon the metal of a blade... and revealed the colour, startling in its vividness amidst the night, of his attacker’s coat.

David drew his sword.

‘Get away from the bridge,’ said Alan’s voice beside him, low and urgent. He had already drawn his own weapon. ‘They mean to hem us in here. Are there more of them behind us?’

There were not; but David was too long in peering, to ascertain this, towards the end of the bridge whence they had come. He felt Alan grab his arm roughly, and turned back to find the redcoats upon them.

It was a chaotic and desperate fight, on the narrow bridge in the dark and the driving rain. Alan half-flung his lantern away onto the parapet, the better to hold his sword, and it was only by a narrow chance that it remained upright and alight and threw some little illumination onto the scene. David was sure every moment that he would lose his footing on the wet stones, or make a false move in the darkness and give his almost invisible opponent that chance which he must not give him. But he strove to remember the things Alan had been telling him (was it only this morning?) during their singlestick practice in the wood, and kept his mind upon those precepts as firmly and determinedly as he kept the sword in his hand, though he must now adapt them to fighting enemies armed with soldiers’ bayonets rather than gentlemen’s swords. He parried the strokes of his opponent’s weapon—now up, now down—and, somehow, held his ground. Perhaps also he was helped by the fact that the darkness and the rain, and the narrow width of the bridge, if they hampered his own sight and movements, did as much also for the redcoats. He had occasional glimpses, beyond his immediate opponent, of other soldiers struggling to join in, but either there was not room or they could not see well enough to make any effective move.

Somewhere beyond these determined thoughts David was aware of a small, sharp feeling in his heart of anxiety for Alan—who, he feared, was really not so well able to fight as he usually was, despite his protestations of this morning. This thought, and the vague hope that his own success might grant support and safety to Alan at his side, lent him greater strength, and he was relieved to hear the vigorous clash of metal upon metal which told him that Alan was as yet holding his own. But of what was happening to Ewen and Dr Cameron he had no idea.

The air was full of sound, all grim in its low constancy: the clashes and grunts and muffled shouts of the fight, the thud of feet moving rapidly and uncertainly back and forth upon the bridge, the rain still falling steadily into the water. Then, in a moment, all these were pierced through by another sound, sharp and violently loud. It was the sound of a musket shot, somewhere up ahead.

David, startled, faltered for a moment... and gave the enemy that opening. The blade of a bayonet rushed in towards him. He had scarcely seen it—had certainly not had time to think of moving, or of meeting it with his own sword—before another blade met it and drove it back.... A moment later David had regained enough of his senses to attempt another blow into the space left by Alan’s repulsion of the redcoat’s weapon. The blade met—something, and there was a cry. Then Alan grabbed David’s arm and said, ‘Run!’

And so they ran. David would have turned, back into the safety of the darkness behind them, but Alan led him forwards through the gap that had opened up between the confused redcoats, into the shadows on the far side of the bridge.

At once a shout went up from the soldiers. Footsteps sounded in pursuit, loud upon the wet stone and with an urgent, rapid pace. David tried to glance over his shoulder, upon which Alan hissed, ‘No! Don’t slow down—here, this way.’

And Alan plunged into a side street that opened off to the left in front of them. David followed. They had left the lantern-light now and were in almost total darkness; David thought vaguely that Alan must have the eyes of a cat to navigate the series of sharp turns and side-passages that he now took, and barely managed to keep up with him.

At last they stopped. The pursuing footsteps had faded. Alan still had hold of David’s arm, and now—as David half-leaned, half-sank against the wall of the alleyway in which they now were, gasping with the exertion of the fight and the run—his grip tightened, and he said in an urgent whisper, ‘You’re not hurt, Davie?’

‘No,’ said David; ‘no, I’m not hurt... I think that was thanks to you.... And you—?’

‘There’s nothing the matter with me,’ said Alan.

David took a long breath, not very steadily, and then said, ‘What about the others?’

‘We can’t help them,’ said Alan grimly. ‘Not against so many.’

He let go of David’s arm and moved cautiously towards the far end of the alleyway—which they must have come round in a circle to reach, for it appeared to open once more onto the main street which they had left—and peered out of it; David joined him, and shielding his eyes from the rain with one hand he looked back towards the bridge. The movement of figures—yes, many figures... could be seen, and the sounds of the fight were still going on. The sleeping residents had evidently been disturbed in their slumbers by the commotion, for lights had appeared in upper storeys and a few windows were actually open, with vague figures standing at them watching the battle. Yet, despite all this activity, he and Alan seemed to have thrown off those soldiers who had attempted to pursue them.

No, they had not, after all—here was a figure, broken off from the struggle on the bridge, running towards them, and two or three others following....

And then two things happened at almost the same time. A largeish object hurtled from one of the open windows and smashed to pieces on the cobblestones among the small group approaching them; there was a shout of triumph from the window in question, and cries of dismay from the discomposed redcoats (David could not see whether any of them had actually been hit by the projectile—which was a chamber-pot or some such thing, he supposed, the sacrifice of some keen and unruly citizen’s sudden desire to make their own contribution to the fight). And the foremost figure, with a brief backward glance at this scene of confusion, went on running towards where he and Alan were hiding—and Alan cried out, ‘Archie!’

David’s heart leapt with relief. This was not a pursuing soldier; it was Dr Cameron. In a moment David could see that for himself; but Dr Cameron seemed badly out of breath with his run. He nodded briefly to Alan and then sank down to the ground.

‘Archie, what’s wrong?’

There was a horrible note of warning in Alan’s voice. He knelt down beside his friend, and David, beginning to discern that something was very much wrong, knelt upon the ground at Dr Cameron’s other side. The pools of cold water between the cobblestones could hardly soak the knees of his breeches more than they—and indeed every other part of his clothing—were soaked already.

‘They took... Ewen,’ whispered Dr Cameron. ‘He had no weapon... could not fight... he is a prisoner. And I....’ He grimaced, made a movement as if trying to get up, thought better of it and slumped back against the wall.

‘You’re hurt,’ said Alan. ‘Where is it? What happened?’

Dr Cameron shook his head. He was clutching his hand to his side, still grimacing. And David remembered the sound of that shot...

The rain was easing off a little at last; but they had no lantern now, and the darkness was almost complete. It was impossible even to examine Dr Cameron’s wound, much less to do anything about it.

The noise of fighting from the bridge had ceased; now there came sounds of shouted orders, and then many footsteps in a shuffling march. Alan, from shaking his head in dismayed perplexity at Dr Cameron, suddenly rose and pulled David farther back into the alleyway; a moment later David knew why, for the soldiers went right past its entrance, marching in files and carrying lanterns enough both to light their own way forward and to make them clearly visible to any onlooker. Amongst them was a tall figure, his hands bound behind him and the hood of his cloak thrown back to reveal a draggled head of auburn hair.

The redcoats were returning to Edinburgh... and taking their prisoner with them.

‘That can’t be all of them,’ said Alan in a whisper, when the last of the party had vanished out of sight. ‘They know we got away; they know we’re still hiding here somewhere; there’ll be someone searching for us, that’s for sure. God only grant they think we went the other way off the bridge, back towards the Queensferry road... but, Archie, man, what can we do?’ And he fell to his knees once more beside Dr Cameron, who was breathing in shallow gasps, and who did not reply. ‘Oh, would that I or David were the doctor, and not you! Here, take this, at least.’ Alan took off his great-coat and laid it over his friend; Dr Cameron murmured an indistinct thanks.

But while Alan and David thus despaired of what they could do, they were not unobserved. Those wise sleepers who, wakened by the noise of the fight, had risen and gone to their windows to see what was going on were there still; more had joined them to watch the soldiers march away. And one of them, sharper-eyed perhaps than the rest, had already observed the three figures hiding in the darkness of the alleyway across the street from his own house.

And so it was that a voice came suddenly out of the darkness to David’s ears, saying, ‘You there! You’ll be trying to get away from those soldiers, will you?’

He looked up, startled, and after searching bewilderedly for a few moments saw the lighted window on the far side of the street, and the nightcap-clad head leaning out of it. He looked back at Alan, who had seen it too.

‘Yes,’ said David, trying to modulate his voice so as to evade the ears of any listening redcoats and yet to carry up to the window.

‘The rest of them went over the bridge,’ said the figure at the window. ‘I’m thinking they’re on the wrong track to find you!’ It was a man’s voice and spoke in broad Scots, but beyond that David could not, at this distance and with the faintness of the light behind it, make out very much about its owner. Its tone, as far as he could judge, was one of self-satisfied amusement; evidently this inquisitive nocturnal spectator had some reason to mislike the redcoats of Edinburgh, and to enjoy the contemplation of their failure. Perhaps, thought David, it had been this man who had thrown that chamber-pot; or perhaps he was not alone in his dislike for the soldiers.

David glanced at Alan, who was looking suspiciously towards this somewhat ambivalent source of help; but he turned back to meet David’s eyes, and nodded briefly. Yes, they would have to try. With Ewen gone there was no other sure way of reaching their goal. And the other windows along the street were all closed and darkened now; and it occurred to David that there was a blessing in this, for there could be no more patriotic eavesdropper to give their destination away to any soldiers who might still be prowling about in search of them.

‘Do you know the way to the house of Mr Forbes, the Episcopalian minister?’ called David to the person at the window.

‘Ay, that I do,’ was the reply, and with something else in its tone now—something which might, had David had any room in his mind for speculation as to the thoughts and motives of this stranger, have pointed to some relationship between David’s mention of Mr Forbes, whose Jacobite sympathies and doings were well known to his neighbours, and the enmity which the stranger bore the redcoats. ‘That I do, and I cannot see why I shouldn’t tell you,’ he said, and briefly gave them directions to Mr Forbes’s house. To David’s considerable relief the route indicated was neither lengthy nor very involved.

‘Thank you, sir!’ he said. And then, thinking that this assistance perhaps held some promise of more, he hazarded a further venture: ‘Our friend is hurt—will you come down and help us carry him there?’

But this, evidently, was going too far; and indeed David was not the first to find that those who showed sympathy for a Jacobitical venture and satisfaction at the frustration of the cause’s enemies were not necessarily willing to take practical action in the moment of need.

‘Ach, no,’ said the stranger’s voice, suddenly full of doubt. ‘’Tis not wise. Perhaps you are friends of Mr Forbes, in which case I wish you luck in getting there; but then perhaps you mean no good, and you’ll go and stab me in the dark. I wouldn’t venture out on such a risk. How should I know?’ He sounded irritated now—in fact, he sounded as though he wanted to come down and help David and Alan, but was genuinely if belatedly afraid of what kinds of people might be on the run from redcoats in the streets of Leith in the middle of the night, and rather blamed them for appearing in such equivocal circumstances and thus placing him in this difficult position. ‘Good-night to you!’ he concluded, and pulled shut his window.

David and Alan looked at each other.

‘Well,’ said Alan, ‘we know where to go, at least.’ He glanced down at Dr Cameron, who was lying against the wall, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths and his eyes closed. Alan took a decision. ‘We’d do best to go now,’ he said firmly, ‘before those redcoats find out we’re not on the other side of the bridge after all.’

‘Ay,’ agreed David, and got to his feet.

‘Archie’—Alan shook Dr Cameron’s shoulder gently, and his eyes opened and focussed with difficulty on Alan’s face—‘can you walk?’

‘Perhaps... a little,’ murmured Dr Cameron.

‘No, you cannot,’ said Alan, soon giving up the attempt to help Dr Cameron to his feet. ‘Here, Davie—get my coat under him—like so.’

And so they placed Dr Cameron upon Alan’s great-coat and, not without some difficulty, lifted him up between them. At the first movement he gave a muffled cry of pain.

‘Oh, Archie, man, we’ll hurt you as little as we can,’ promised Alan, anguish written in his own features. ‘We’re going to find shelter and friends... you’ll be right soon. Ready, Davie? This way, then....’

The rain had almost stopped now, and the clouds were thinning and parting here and there; though the moon was yet only a narrow crescent, still it and the stars gave just enough light between them for David and Alan to see their way along the street and navigate according to the directions which the stranger at the window had given them. But the next few minutes were not easy. Walking in the dark with his hands gripping the edge of Alan’s coat, his fingers clenched tightly to keep a hold on the wet cloth, his arms weighed down by the burden and his feet, made clumsy by the weight and the encumbrance, stepping haphazardly over the cobblestones and through the puddles, his ears continually alert for any sign of the redcoat search party returning over the bridge, David wondered vaguely if he had fallen asleep drowsing in the wood that afternoon, and were now in a nightmare. He hoped so. For Dr Cameron’s injury seemed too awful a thing to believe in; and Ardroy taken as a prisoner to Edinburgh Castle!... Numbly, feeling more and more that he was not really in the waking world, he murmured directions to Alan—who was walking backwards, carrying the end of the coat that supported Dr Cameron’s head, and could only with difficulty see where they were going—and kept walking, step by heavy step.

After a little eternity that lasted, in reality, probably not much more than five minutes, they reached the street which their guide had indicated as that where Mr Forbes dwelt.

David craned his neck to look farther along the street. ‘It must be that house,’ he said, nodding towards it. ‘There’s a light in the lower window. They’re expecting us.’

Alan looked round, saw the house in question and agreed that it was surely their destination. ‘We’ll be safe soon, Archie,’ he said—uselessly, for Dr Cameron had fallen unconscious.

At last they reached the door of the house. Carefully, with Alan counting to coordinate their movements, they made ready to lay Dr Cameron upon the ground so as to free Alan’s hands to knock upon it. But the inhabitants of the house, who had indeed been expecting them and who had spent the last half-hour in increasingly anxious speculation about where their guests could be, forestalled them; before they could lower the coat, the door opened.

A gentleman, fully dressed and holding a candle, stood within. Close behind him was a lady, whose eyes widened at the sight before them.

‘Mr Forbes?’ said David.

‘What——’ began Mr Forbes, and then, rapidly deciding that it was not the time for questions, handed the candle to his wife and stepped over the threshold. ‘Here, I will help you.’

He took hold of one side of the great-coat. David, feeling his burden thus partially lightened, was conscious at once of how thoroughly his arms were aching. Between them Alan, David and the minister carried Dr Cameron through the door, Mrs Forbes holding the candle to light their way into the house.

(2)

Keith sat at a table in the large downstairs room of the Kestrel, a steaming bowl of porridge before him. Beyond the window, slightly distorted by the flawed glass, was a world of wet stone which gleamed in the weak sunlight and puddles which reflected odd patches of pale sky and edges of distant roofs in a disconcertingly unexpected way.

The rain had stopped overnight, clearly; but Keith had gone to sleep, some little time after Ewen had left him, with the sound of it still drumming upon the window of the bedchamber. Certainly it might have been enough, by the time Ewen’s errand was done, for him not to want to brave the walk back into Edinburgh. And he would be back soon, now.

And yet Keith, already somewhat discontented at having taken no active part in this most hazardous piece of their enterprise, was not quite reassured that it was so. He would not really be happy until he saw Ewen and ascertained for himself that all had gone well.

It was these troubled thoughts that Miss MacArthur, coming over to Keith’s table, interrupted with the announcement that there was a man asking to see him, ‘not anyone I know, Mr Windham, but he says he has an urgent message for you.’

Misgiving struck at Keith’s heart. ‘I’ll come and see him,’ he said, and rose to his feet.

The man was waiting at the front of the inn. At first Keith did not recognise him either; then the sight of his neat, light green coat woke something in his memory, and he knew: it was James, Robert Forbes’s manservant.

‘Mr Windham, sir,’ he said in response to Keith’s greeting—the manner of which was already made brusque by growing alarm. ‘Mr Forbes sent me into town with a message for you.’

‘What was the message?’ said Keith.

‘It’s here...’ said James, fumbling with maddening slowness in the pockets of his green coat. ‘There it is, sir.’

Keith took the proffered paper, unfolded it—it was a brief, pencilled note—and read it. A moment passed. Then he folded it up again and stowed it in his own coat pocket.

‘Thank you, James,’ he said, forcing his voice into the emotionless steadiness of old habit. ‘I will accompany you back to your master’s house, if you have no other business here.’

And so together they left the inn and turned upon their way towards Leith.

XVII. ‘Down and Full of Tears’

(1)

David sat by the window of Robert Forbes’s back sitting-room (he had been advised not to show his face at the front windows), his elbow resting on the sill and his chin upon his hand, and regarded glumly the prospect of pointed roofs, rain-washed paving-stones and a distant glimpse of blue sea over which the window looked. There was, it seemed, no cheer in them on this sorrowful morning.

Upon their arrival at Mr Forbes’s house the previous night, Dr Cameron had been conveyed with some difficulty to a bedchamber on the first floor and a doctor summoned to look at him. This doctor was a member of Mr Forbes’s congregation, and a discreet and prudent man; he had borne being sent for in the middle of the night to treat a stranger for a bullet wound with remarkable equanimity, and asked no awkward questions. David had stayed only to hear the results of his preliminary examination—that Dr Cameron was in a very serious condition, and that he could not yet say whether he would live or not—before retiring to bed in the small room on the next floor to which Mrs Forbes showed him, thoroughly exhausted, shivering violently despite the dry nightshirt which was left out for him and the warming-pan placed thoughtfully in the bed, and absurdly regretting the plentiful supply of guest bedchambers in the Forbeses’ house which parted him from Alan.

In the morning Dr Cameron was still alive, but did no better. Mr Forbes sent an urgent message to Mr Windham at Edinburgh to inform him of the night’s twin calamities, and at the breakfast table tried to encourage them all with the hope that Windham would be able to do something towards getting Ewen out of his predicament.

‘Ardroy has told me, in the very valuable account which he contributed to my collection,’ said Mr Forbes, ‘of the part Mr Windham played in his experiences in ’45. And everything he told me then convinces me that Mr Windham will exert all his abilities to help Ardroy now. Let me once speak to him, and I’ll know that there is hope for us.’

And after what he had heard of Windham, David was inclined to agree.

Now, at about nine o’clock, Alan was once more in Dr Cameron’s sick-room, and so was Mrs Forbes, who had thrown herself into the duties of a nurse with thorough zeal. David had gone with them at first; but the awful, solemn sight of Dr Cameron lying pale and still practically unconscious in the bed worked upon his nerves as it did not on those of the industrious Mrs Forbes—and Alan, who sat still and silent in a chair by his friend’s bedside, seemed to have withdrawn himself from all other things as though his grief were a wall shutting him off from the whole world. David’s attempts at comforting him were met, not with rejection, but with a blank unacceptance which was yet harder to bear. It wrung David’s heart; he felt his love for Alan, which seemed to wax stronger and surer than ever at seeing him in this pitiful case, baffled in its strength by a distance which it could not cross. Yet there seemed nothing he could do. Eventually deciding that it were better not to intrude any more, he had left and taken himself off to this room, to wait.

Thinking of Alan now, he dropped his head upon his arms on the window-sill; and he had been in this attitude for a couple of minutes when a knock sounded at the door. David raised his head and turned round in time to see Mr Forbes enter, pushing the door to after him with his usual quiet precision.

‘Ah, Mr Balfour,’ he said. ‘If you have a moment, may I show you something?’

‘Of course, sir,’ said David, getting to his feet.

‘This way, then—’tis up the back stairs.... Now, I do not like to alarm you, Mr Balfour, but the fact is that my history and allegiances are rather well-known, and if there are soldiers out looking for Jacobite fugitives in Leith it is not unlikely that we shall have a visit from them sooner or later. Should that happen, of course ’twould be best for you and Mr Stewart not to see them, and my attic fortunately has the contrivance we want. Here....’

They were at the top of the attic staircase. On one side a door led to the servants’ quarters; on the other was a piece of white-painted panelling which might once have been a doorway but which afforded no handle or other visible means of opening now. Mr Forbes reached forward and pressed the side of this panel in a certain way, upon which it swung inwards on hidden hinges and revealed a tiny, plainly-furnished, windowless room.

‘This is where I keep my old papers,’ explained Mr Forbes. ‘Soldiers are no respecters of valuable documents, I fear, and I think it best to keep these ones safe away from any visits we might get. It is a very useful device.’

‘’Tis most ingenious,’ said David, examining the mechanism of the door.

‘Oh, yes—I’ll show you how to work the door,’ said Mr Forbes; and he demonstrated the opening and closing of the hidden door on both sides.

‘I fear,’ said Mr Forbes as they returned downstairs, ‘that Dr Cameron will not be able to take advantage of that refuge. If the worst comes to the worst, he must be a cousin of Rachel’s, staying here to be nursed by her in his sad illness... and I only pray that he will soon be well enough again that no such story will be needful,’ he finished with a sigh.

‘Oh, I hope so too, sir,’ said David fervently. ‘He is a noble man. He’s been very kind to me.’

‘Indeed, indeed. May it please God to spare him....’ And the minister pressed his lips together and patted David’s shoulder, with sincere feeling in his quiet manner.

Before David could reply there came a commotion of doors opening and closing somewhere in the lower part of the house. Descending hurriedly to the front hallway, Mr Forbes and David were in time to meet Mr Windham coming the other way, in an even greater hurry.

‘Mr Windham!’ said Mr Forbes, arresting his progress at the foot of the stairs.

‘Your servant let me in,’ explained Keith. ‘I came here as soon as I got your note. What has happened? What more is there to tell?’

‘Come into the sitting-room,’ said Mr Forbes, ushering both Windham and David back up the stairs. Keith evinced not a little impatience at his host’s polite formality, and he half-ran into the sitting-room, flung himself onto a chair and dismissed with a wave of his hand the minister’s enquiry whether he would not take some refreshment.

Once established in the sitting-room, however, Mr Forbes and David between them gave him a more detailed account of the fight and the events that had followed it. In the middle of their retelling arrived Alan and Mrs Forbes, drawn by the commotion; and Alan added his own information to theirs, though all the while looking haggard and summoning the energy for speech with obvious effort. David drew his chair closer to Alan’s and reached out to place a hand on his arm.

‘Dr Cameron lives yet,’ concluded Mr Forbes, ‘but... it is uncertain how much longer he will.’

The expression of Windham’s countenance as he listened to this was one which might have appeared harsh, even pitiless, in the face of what he was hearing; but the darkness of his eyes was not the darkness of unconcern, and the looks that seemed almost fierce were really an attempt to hide some almost overwhelming emotion. ‘And Ardroy?’ he said now. ‘Can you tell me anything more about how—or where—he was taken? Was he hurt?’

‘Neither of us saw anything of it,’ said David, glancing at Alan, who shook his head, ‘until he was being led away by the soldiers. I don’t think he can have been hurt, or not badly at least—he was walking when I saw him.’

‘We can only suppose,’ said Mr Forbes, ‘that his captors brought him to Edinburgh Castle, where I suspect they were bound in any case. We hoped,’ he added tentatively, ‘that you, Mr Windham, might be able to do something to help him.’

Windham nodded slowly. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I mean to try. I’ll go back into the city and find out where he is first, and then... I will let you know whatever I can compass.’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Forbes. ‘May I say that we are fortunate indeed to have you as an ally, Mr Windham? And you are sure you’ll not stay here and take some refreshment before you return to Edinburgh?’

Keith thanked him, with more civility of manner than he had managed in the first urgency of his arrival, but refused; he wished to set his plans in motion as soon as possible, ‘for with Dr Cameron in his present state, the sooner Ardroy can come back here and see him—I’m sure you appreciate that every moment is vital.’

And so, with further thanks to David, Alan and Mr and Mrs Forbes for their help, he left the house once more. Mr Forbes followed him out soon afterwards, to go and speak to his friend Captain Brodie; and the rest were left with the grief and anxiety of the morning only a little lightened.

(2)

The guard who had conducted Keith through the Castle, a neat and correct little man of sixty or so, paused with the key poised in his hand to explain that he would wait in this passage, and that Mr Windham was to knock upon the inside of the door to summon him when his visit was at an end. Keith nodded briefly, and the guard opened the door. But after this Keith hardly noticed the sound of the door closing again behind him, or the precise retreating step in the passage.

Ewen was standing at one of the two narrow windows, his figure dark against the feeble brightness of the cloudy sky, his hands resting on the sill. At the sound of Keith’s entry he turned round; a moment later they met in the middle of the room.

‘You see they have not thrown me into a dungeon, at least,’ said Ewen with a little smile, once speech was possible. ‘I’ve known much worse.’

Keith drew back from Ewen’s arms and examined his surroundings properly for the first time. No, it could be said for the place that it was not a dungeon. It was a small room, furnished sparely but not uncomfortably, and was somewhere in the upper levels of the Castle, to judge by the number of staircases Keith and his guide had ascended on the way here; its windows looked north towards the Firth, which lay restless and grey beneath the drizzling rain that had fallen miserably on Keith all through his walk into the city.

‘Come, sit down,’ said Ewen, and he led Keith over to a couple of hard chairs that stood beneath the farther window. ‘Did you have much trouble in getting in to see me?’

‘No, ’twas not difficult, once I made sure of where you were. I found some officers who knew me from old days, and spoke to them.’

‘It must be strange for you to see the inside of Edinburgh Castle again,’ said Ewen.

‘It is rather—after so long,’ said Keith with a rueful smile, for the strangeness of it had occurred to him more than once on the way up here. But it did not occupy his thoughts for long now; he was thinking, not of his own trials, but of the news he had to give Ewen, and Ewen at least made this easier to begin by enquiring about it next.

‘But you must tell me what happened last night,’ he said. ‘Did the others get away? Are they safe?’ Keith hesitated; and so well did Ewen know him that such a slight hesitation was all it took to tell him that all was not well. ‘What happened?’ he repeated, more urgently.

‘They did get away,’ said Keith slowly, ‘and they are all at Mr Forbes’s house now. Mr Stewart and Mr Balfour are as safe as they can be. But Dr Cameron....’ And he told, in a few words, what had befallen Dr Cameron, and in what danger he now was.

Ewen dropped his head upon his hands and said nothing.

‘I am sorry,’ said Keith. He reached over and placed his hand on Ewen’s shoulder; and then, at once feeling this inadequate, he rose from his seat, went to Ewen and put his arms about him, cradling Ewen’s head against him and stroking his hair. Ewen leaned on him, his eyes closed.

In fact Keith was, or part of him at least was, grievously sorry that he had not gone to Leith to help the others yesterday night; perhaps by doing so he might have prevented Ewen’s capture and even Dr Cameron’s injury. So do we place impossible demands upon the power of things we might have done, when the tragedy has happened and cannot be prevented any longer. But considering things dispassionately, with his rational soldier’s mind, Keith must recognise that one more hand in a fight so outnumbered would not have made a great difference, and all he might have achieved was to have been captured alongside Ewen and to be therefore unable to do anything to help him now.

At last Ewen, gathering his resources, raised his head and swallowed hard. ‘And I am held here, and cannot see him!’ he murmured.

Keith stroked his hand down Ewen’s shoulder, encouraging this rallying of strength. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is what I must speak to you about. I mean to secure your release from this place as soon as may possibly be; and if ’tis in time.... Whatever I can do, that is, that may let you see Dr Cameron as soon as possible, I will do it.’

Ewen looked up at him. ‘Do you think you can?’ he said. There was some hope—the hope of trust, and that a well-founded trust—already alight in his blue eyes.

‘I have ideas,’ said Keith, energy and purpose returning to his voice. ‘I told you, did I not, that my brother Aveling is still in Edinburgh—visiting his fiancée, who is General Churchill’s daughter... and that I meant to speak to him about you?’

‘So you did... and you thought he might be brought to forgive me, I remember,’ said Ewen. He spoke slowly, understanding dawning in the words. ‘And... now you mean to ask for his help?’

‘That is what I do mean,’ said Keith.

‘But, Keith, there’s a great difference between simply forgiving me my treatment of him at Ardroy last month and going to speak to the General to plead for my release! I think I can hardly hope for that.’

Keith shook his head slowly. ‘Lord Aveling has no great reason to love you, ’tis true,’ he said, ‘and he will certainly not do anything that comes near resembling assistance in any Jacobite activities——’

‘Which he needn’t do now,’ said Ewen with a strange half-bitter ruefulness. ‘I have not the hopes I had a little while ago.... My sorrow, Keith; go on.’

‘I think I’ll tell him the truth about Dr Cameron—or as much of it as I can. If I represent to him that you were only trying to get Dr Cameron out of the country—and if I tell him what has happened now, and that you cannot see Dr Cameron unless you are released....’

‘I see,’ said Ewen. ‘You think he’ll take pity on me then.’

Keith pressed his lips together. The rehearsal of his plan before Ewen had brought back to his mind Francis’s manner, and his attitude towards Ewen, when last they had seen each other; and he knew that his hope was but a slim one. ‘I think he might,’ he said. ‘I must try; for if he will, ’tis our best hope. But I do not know....’

‘I see; you need not remind me why,’ said Ewen.

‘But that is not my only plan,’ resumed Keith. ‘If Aveling will not help us, I’ll go and consult Mr Gilchrist. The legal view of the situation is in our favour, I think, for the grounds for keeping you here at present cannot be very solid. The soldiers last night can’t have identified any of the others very certainly; they must have little idea what you were really doing there; you did not resist them, having no weapon.... Have you been questioned since you were brought here?’

Ewen nodded. ‘An officer came to question me this morning,’ he said. ‘He was very courteous. I told him nothing, save who I was; I was not bound to give reasons at his pleasure for anything I might choose to do on my own business, I said.’ As he spoke, he gave a faint but definite hint of that unconscious lift of the head which belonged to his pride, even when bowed down by misfortune as he was now; Keith could well imagine the manner with which he had addressed the courteous officer, and had the circumstances been less grave he would have smiled at the picture.

‘I hope, then,’ said Keith, nodding, ‘that General Churchill, if Aveling or I can speak to him—and I’ll certainly try, with Mr Gilchrist’s help, if Aveling will not—will be willing to listen to reason. As for Francis himself....’ He hesitated.

‘We planned that I should speak to Lord Aveling when we arrived in Edinburgh,’ said Ewen, taking up the dropped thread of Keith’s speech with resolve. ‘Now that I can’t do that, perhaps I could write him a letter—with all that I meant to say about my conduct to him at Ardroy—and you take it to him?’

‘Of course,’ said Keith. ‘Have you a pen and paper here?’ He looked about the room; no such writing materials were in evidence.

‘I’ve a pencil. They have not given me any paper, but perhaps if I asked....’

‘Use this,’ said Keith, taking out his pocket-book and tearing out a few blank leaves. ‘’Twill be quicker—and perhaps it will be better for the people here not to know that you are writing letters.’

‘Thank you; that’s true,’ said Ewen. And, taking the paper and producing a pencil from his coat pocket, he went over to the one bare table which the room contained, sat down and applied himself to the composition of his letter. This, with his mind still reeling from the shock of Keith’s news about Dr Cameron, could be no very easy task; and Keith returned to his chair by the window and turned away from Ewen, to give him some quiet and privacy in which to write.

At last Ewen returned from the writing-table and handed Keith the letter, carefully folded and directed to Viscount Aveling.

‘It is all I wanted to say,’ he said simply. ‘Thank you for taking it to him, Keith.’

Keith tucked the letter into his pocket, and then he looked once more at Ewen, and smiled. It was a cursed tangle that they were all in; he wished heartily that Dr Cameron and Alan Breck Stewart had both stayed safely in France and never heeded the Pretender’s orders or even thought of their hopeless scheme; and he thought more than ever of how the ‘grim earnest’ of a speech which he had once made to Ewen, many years ago, was not all played out even yet, and he regretted it more than ever. But he could not regret that, things being as they were, he had agreed to come with Ewen to Edinburgh and to help him and his friends. Ewen needed his help, and he would give it—just as he had done in ’46. Nor could he regret that Ewen was what he was; for he loved Ewen as a man, in the whole of his character—and always for that unfailing honour and perfect generosity which Keith had first admired in him, wherever they were placed or directed—and not only in those separate parts which his quite rational Whig’s mind might strictly approve. And so Keith smiled at Ewen now, and Ewen in the midst of all his griefs smiled back at him; and he held out both his hands to clasp Ewen’s.

‘I ought to leave you,’ said Keith. ‘The sooner this reaches Aveling, the better.’

‘Of course,’ said Ewen. ‘Before you go—how are the plans to find a ship going? There mustn’t be any delay made to them for my sake; the others might get over to France without my being released from here at all, only that——’ Only that, if Dr Cameron was never to make that journey, Ewen must see him, and soon.

‘Mr Forbes has it all in hand,’ said Keith. ‘I believe he was going to speak to a shipmaster friend of his this morning. There’s no delay.’

‘That’s good news,’ said Ewen, with a smile of real relief despite that the rest of the news was so far from being good. Then he added in a lower voice, ‘Keith, ’tis a great thing that you are doing for me. Thank you.’

Keith shook his head. ‘I only hope I succeed. And Dr Cameron.... If I cannot secure your release, I’ll bring you news of how he does as often as I can.’

Ewen bowed his head, and they were both silent for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Good-bye for a while, then, mo chridhe,’ and tightened the grip of his hands on Keith’s, and leaned down to kiss him.

A minute afterwards Keith was knocking upon the door to summon the guard; and a minute after that Ewen was once more left alone in the little room, standing at the window and looking out at the distant view of the grey and unquiet water away beyond Leith.

(3)

Soon after midday Mr Forbes returned from his errand, bearing news both heartening and ominous.

‘Captain Brodie plans to sail for Gravelines next week,’ he told David and Alan, having summoned them both into the drawing-room for a conference, ‘and he is willing to take you as passengers, if we make the arrangements for getting you on board discreetly. Of course, Dr Cameron....’

And he looked with troubled eyes at Alan. It was plain, thought David, that he did not want to say what followed: that, given Dr Cameron’s present condition, if Captain Brodie’s ship sailed next week then either Alan and David would have to leave him behind, to recover further before he would be able to follow them... or there would no longer be any need for him to make the voyage.

‘We shall see about Dr Cameron,’ said Alan, in a toneless voice. ‘Go on.’

‘The other part of my news,’ resumed Mr Forbes, rubbing his hands nervously together, ‘is that the soldiers have indeed returned to Leith. Captain Brodie tells me they’re searching the ships in the harbour. They have not yet reached his ship, but he supposes they will sooner or later—so you must certainly not go on board yet!’

‘They must have come to the wrong conclusion when we gave them the slip last night,’ said David. ‘They think we were making straight for a ship, and that we got there.’

‘Exactly,’ said Mr Forbes, adding firmly, ‘and we must hope they go on thinking so, for you will be all the safer here while they do.’

Beyond the window a changeable, stirring wind was blowing in gusts between the houses, raising little waves on the surfaces of the puddles in the street. A small flock of starlings flew suddenly up from a bush which grew determinedly in a tiny patch of earth outside one of the houses, their short triangular wings cutting through the wind as they steered together onto the roof of the house opposite; they chattered away to each other as they landed, in the way of starlings, and the sound came in with the cold draught through the gaps of the window-frame.

‘What I would like to know,’ said Alan, speaking slowly and as if from the midst of a reverie, ‘is how the redcoats knew we’d be on our way into Leith just at that time, to meet us there.’

‘It might have been a chance meeting,’ said Mr Forbes, stroking his chin doubtfully. ‘We do see these patrols occasionally, passing through.’

Alan shook his head. ‘It was no chance, at that time of night,’ he said. ‘But they didn’t know we were coming here, it seems....’

But no answer could be found to this question; and Alan relapsed into silence, looking as wan and tired as he had done that morning, and so the conversation ended without its being resolved. Alan returned to Dr Cameron’s bedside, and David followed him—for seeing Alan again had changed his restless mind once more, and he could not bear to leave his friend alone looking so miserable.

‘Archie!’ cried Alan as they entered the room—for Dr Cameron was more awake now than he had been earlier in the day, and he raised his head to look at his visitors. ‘There you are.... How are things with you, Archie?’

Dr Cameron looked steadily at Alan, and then glanced at Mrs Forbes, who was sitting in a chair at the side of the room. ‘I think,’ he said at last, scarcely louder than a whisper, ‘I had better not try to conceal from you, Alan, that I have been much better.’ And, as if the effort of even this short speech had taken too much of his strength, he lay back upon the pillow and closed his eyes.

‘Ay,’ muttered Alan, as if Dr Cameron’s honesty shamed him for his own behaviour in a not dissimilar situation a few weeks ago, ‘that you wouldn’t.’ And he took up his station in another chair, which he drew towards the bed.

About ten minutes later Mrs Forbes began preparations to change her patient’s bandages, as Dr Hamilton had instructed should be done.

‘Mr Stewart, would you bring me that water?’ she said, indicating a jug which stood on the top of a low chest of drawers on Alan’s side of the room. Alan went to do so; and as he lifted the jug down from its height he winced, and a little spasm of pain crossed his face. It was only a slight movement, and after taking a moment to steady his burden in his hands Alan carried it the rest of the way down and across the room to Mrs Forbes without apparent difficulty; but the incident was at once enough to bring to David’s mind all the greater signs of pain which Alan had shown in the early stages of his recovery; and he recalled also the fight on the bridge yesterday night, and the toil of carrying Dr Cameron through the streets of Leith on the improvised stretcher, and he knew at once what was the real source—or at least part of the real source—of Alan’s grim silence and exhausted looks to-day, and cursed himself inwardly for not seeing it before. He had been so absorbed in all their other cares—Dr Cameron, and Ardroy’s arrest, and the news from Captain Brodie, and the secret chamber—that it had never occurred to him to think of something that now seemed incredibly obvious.

After Mrs Forbes, her task completed, had left the room, and Dr Cameron was settled once more into sleep, he confronted Alan with it.

‘You’re hurt, Alan,’ he said, taking gentle hold of Alan’s arm. ‘You’ve been making it worse—oh, I don’t know... you should be resting, not sitting up and trying to do so many things here.’

Alan pulled his arm away with a sullen look. ‘It’s not so bad,’ he said—forgetting Dr Cameron’s lesson of a little while ago; but even he did not deny that there was an ‘it’ the severity of which he could deny.

‘I think,’ said David, ‘I will ask Dr Hamilton to look at you as well, when he calls again later.’ And then, almost losing patience at the deepened scowl with which this was met, ‘Oh, Alan, go away and rest! Mrs Forbes or I will call if there’s any reason’—he glanced at Dr Cameron’s sleeping form—‘but you really needn’t stay here all the time.’

‘There’s no need not to,’ said Alan. ‘I can rest here just as well as in my bed.’

‘But you’re not!’ persisted David. Then he thought of an argument which might prove more effective—cruel, perhaps, as it was to use it. ‘Would Dr Cameron,’ he said in a lower voice, ‘want you to sit up here making yourself worse trying to help him? Is that what he’d say, Alan?’

For some moments Alan looked at him, his eyes dark with an expression in which were mingled defiance, sulkiness and an almost beseeching reproach. Then he shook his head. ‘Ah, Davie, but you’re right,’ he said. ‘I can’t contradict you, at all! Na, na....’

And he turned away, a look of such sore perplexity upon his face and in his movements that David forgot in a moment all his frustration and impatience—which, indeed, were at least half at himself for having taken so long to remark Alan’s sufferings and challenge him about them—and, murmuring Alan’s name, stepped closer to him and folded him in his arms. He tucked Alan’s head down against his breast and stroked his hand over his hair; and Alan after a moment returned the embrace. David kissed his temple, very gently... and whatever distance or barrier there had been between them that morning, made by grief or pain or trouble, was there no more.

Dr Hamilton did examine Alan during his next visit, after having the pertinent history explained to him (‘It is many a trouble you and your friends have been getting yourselves into, I see,’ he remarked to David, shaking his neat bewigged head). There was no great cause for concern, he said, though Mr Stewart certainly had been straining the partly-healed wound; and David was right: he must rest, and not try to exert himself in looking after Dr Cameron.

And so the day went on; and all the inhabitants of the house at Leith, in among their other griefs, waited anxiously for whatever news Mr Windham might send them.

(4)

The house in which Lord Aveling lodged stood on a close leading off the High Street on its south side. The ground fell sharply away from the level of the street, and a few paces along the length of the close the attempt to sustain this gradient on a single level was given up, and the cobbled floor gave way to a narrow, steep staircase—which Keith descended with rueful memories of an earlier time spent navigating the winding and precipitous ways of Edinburgh. But that had been at night, and at the head of a company of men; this had not those disadvantages, at least.

He knocked at the street door—was told that Lord Aveling was in, and would see him—and ascended a staircase yet straiter and steeper, besides being darker, than that of the close outside, to reach a door on the second storey.

Francis was indeed in, but evidently had not been so for very long, for he was in the act of removing his hat and gloves when he turned round to see his brother.

‘Keith!’ he said, casting his gloves hastily down upon the seat of an easy-chair and coming forward with outstretched hands. ‘This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you to Edinburgh?’ And he returned to the easy-chair, removed his gloves with a baffled look suggesting that he could not imagine what in the world they were doing there, and invited Keith to sit down.

‘’Tis certainly a pleasure to see you,’ said Keith, seating himself. ‘You’re looking well; and Miss Churchill...?’

Francis beamed. ‘Miss Churchill is very well,’ he said, ‘and I am as happy as ever. Why, only the other day....’ And there followed an account of an expedition which he, Georgina and the General had taken together to view the antiquarian remains upon the hill of Arthur’s Seat. ‘But I am forgetting you, Keith!’ he finished. ‘What is it brings you here?’

Keith took a breath, preparing himself to begin. ‘Less pleasant a matter than we’ve been speaking of, I fear‚’ he said. ‘I suppose you haven’t yet heard the name of a certain person who was brought as a prisoner to the Castle yesterday night... for you would have recognised it if you had done.’

‘No,’ said Aveling, leaning forward on his chair with his features creased in puzzlement. Then his eyebrows rose, and understanding flashed into his face. ‘You cannot mean....’

‘I’m afraid I do,’ said Keith. ‘It is Ardroy.’

Francis sat back. ‘Well!’ he said. ‘He’s been found out, then, in whatever he was doing when he—when we met in the Highlands. That is....’ He shook his head, apparently at a loss to decide quite what it was, or at least what he could with reasonable diplomacy state it to be before Keith. But then he sat up again with a new thought, and said, ‘But what are you doing here, then? If Ardroy has come to Edinburgh to do... whatever he was doing that justified his being arrested, surely you cannot have come with him? Are you——’

A moment passed before Keith replied. Francis opened his mouth as if to speak again, then thought better of it. From its cheerful beginning their conversation had plunged very quickly into channels which were neither pleasant sailing for either of them nor easy to navigate with discretion, and the whole thing must still appear highly mysterious to Aveling—who certainly would not credit Keith with actually trying to assist in a Jacobite plot, but who had already been obliged to confront the fact that Keith’s loyalty to his Jacobite friend went farther than he, Francis, might have liked it to go. At last Keith said, ‘I will tell you just what Ardroy was doing—for it was nothing so dreadful as you think, improbable as I know that must sound... and why I am here with him.

‘You know that when he took your letter’—he stated the plain fact, as Francis had not done, without flinching—‘it was to get information about Dr Archibald Cameron, his cousin, who was in danger of capture. Well, what Dr Cameron was doing in Scotland I do not know, but I know that he’s doing it no longer; whatever plots may have been in motion last year are abandoned, and Ardroy is now only trying to get Dr Cameron and his associates out of the country as soon as may be. That is why I’ve come with him to Edinburgh—yes, helping him,’ he added, holding up a hand, as Francis made as if to interrupt. ‘There is no treasonable business going on any more; is it likely that I would be here, if there was?’ And before his brother could answer this question Keith went on, ‘’Tis my view that the sooner these Jacobites are safely back over the water, the better. Then there will be an end to all this mischief.’

At this Francis did interrupt. ‘Get them out of the country!’ he said. ‘But, Keith, isn’t that just as much treason as whatever they were doing in Scotland in the first place? These Jacobites always do go back to France, or Holland, or wherever it is—they’ll only go straight to the Pretender and then come here again in a year or two to cause more trouble. You can’t help them in that!’ He looked really shocked; he had not expected this of Keith. To be sure, it was far enough from what Keith would once have expected of himself. ‘These are attainted men. They ought to stay here and be tried, and justly transported or imprisoned!’

‘No, it is not!’ said Keith. ‘I tell you the plot—whatever plot there was—was given up. And as for coming back to cause more mischief, after what has happened to them on this mission, I think that highly unlikely... especially in the case of Dr Cameron.’

Here he paused for a moment. Aveling was by now looking less indignant. Prejudiced as he was, and that not without reason, he could hardly fail to respect his brother’s judgement, thus restated, that he was not involved in any treason. ‘Why not?’ he said now.

‘It was in Leith that Ardroy was captured yesterday night,’ said Keith. ‘I was not there. He and his companions—I will not tell you exactly what they were doing there—ran into a party of soldiers from the Castle; and in the same fight, Dr Cameron was hurt. I have been to see them this morning... and, to put it plainly, ’tis very likely that he will not live to escape from Scotland at all.’

Aveling raised his head. ‘That must be a sore grief to Ardroy,’ he said.

‘It is. And ’tis all the more so because Ardroy, being held captive, cannot go to see him.’

There were a few moments’ silence. ‘And,’ said Francis in a careful tone, ‘you are telling me all this because....’

Keith took a deep breath. ‘Because I mean to get Ardroy released from the Castle—that he may see his cousin before he dies, if he does die, and to put an end to all this Jacobite business. I’ll speak to General Churchill myself if need be, but——’

‘But General Churchill is more likely to heed an appeal from his own future son-in-law,’ finished Francis. ‘Is that it?’

‘That is it,’ said Keith, speaking very low and solemnly. It was not, he must own, an attractive prospect which he presented to Francis; nor was it calculated much to improve Francis’s opinion of him after their last meeting. But Ewen was at the lowest ebb of his fortunes, ‘down and full of tears’ amid the triumph of his enemies—so much more complete than it needed to be, as Keith thought not for the first time about his own side’s victory—and, if Francis disliked him personally and abhorred the political aspect of his present situation, he might be persuaded to help Ewen purely out of charity and compassion for his misfortune.

‘That’s a great thing you ask, Keith,’ said Francis. He shook his head slowly; then he sprang to his feet and paced the room several times, still shaking his head back and forth like a man in a great perplexity. Certainly, Keith’s argument had at least not failed to affect him.

At last he sat down again.

‘It’s too much!’ he exclaimed. ‘A Jacobite, and a man who has grievously insulted me—— Oh, I know what you said about it at the time, Keith, but even you admitted that it was that. I cannot lay it all aside to help him now. I sincerely hope you’re right about the abandonment of his old plans, but that does not wipe out what he did in service of them before, and that I cannot forget.’

His manner until now had been that of a man who neither wants nor expects any interruption to his thoughts, and so Keith had not interrupted him; but now he said, ‘Francis, there’s one more thing.’

Francis looked up at him.

‘Ardroy bitterly regrets the injury he did you. He has said so to me more than once, before this happened... and so he understands what a great thing it is that he and I ask of you now. Will you read this, before you say absolutely that you won’t help him?’ And he produced Ewen’s letter and held it out.

For several moments Francis simply looked at the letter in Keith’s hand, various emotions at strife in his face. Then he took it.

‘I will read it,’ he said. ‘Give me to-day to think about it.... I’ll send you a note later, or come to see you.’

This was, Keith supposed, the best that could have been expected from this interview. Francis, who was hot-tempered and guarded his honour fiercely but who was none the less capable of thoughtful fairness, would be better inclined towards Ewen after having had time to read and think over his letter than in the first reaction against an idea which, when new, could not have failed to be bitterly repugnant to him. And Keith would, he reminded himself, go and speak to the General himself if Francis did not choose to help. There was yet hope.

As Keith rose to take his leave, Francis—feeling too much the constraints of the last half-hour, that he must not say anything really to offend Keith or to upset the delicate balance which had subsisted between them since their last meeting—suddenly exclaimed, ‘How I wish none of this had ever happened!’

Keith paused in reaching for his hat and looked back at his brother; a little, bitter smile was on his face. ‘I wish it too,’ he said frankly. ‘But... if you will allow me... I do believe that seeing this business through to an end is the best way to put it all from us—not as if it had never been, but to leave it in the past. And, at least as regards what you and I have been discussing, I believe Ardroy thinks so too. Well, good-bye, Francis. My good wishes to Miss Churchill.’

‘Good-bye. I’ll see you later, as I said, or send a note.’

And so the brothers parted.

XVIII. Two Escapes

(1)

‘Francis!’ Georgina Churchill rose from her seat, a smile overspreading her face. ‘What brings you here?’

For it was a surprise to her to see her lover again so soon; only that morning they had taken a stroll together in the Palace gardens (a substitute, in the still doubtful weather, for the postponed carriage-drive). But it could hardly be an unpleasant one.

When he did not immediately answer she continued, ‘I’m afraid my father won’t be able to see you; he is terribly busy with military matters to-day. But come, sit down. I’ll ring for tea.’

Lord Aveling took the offered seat on the other side of the small tea-table, and then sat passing his gloves from one hand to the other without speaking. At length he said, ‘’Tis no trouble if the General is busy.... In fact, Georgina, I particularly wanted to speak to you.’

This was not said with the tone which Miss Churchill might have expected to accompany such words. She looked at Francis, who had taken a small scrap of paper from his waistcoat pocket and, substituting it for his gloves, began now to twist it back and forth in his hands.

‘A very difficult matter has arisen,’ he said, looking at the piece of paper—a folded note, as Georgina now saw. One idea about its import had already come into her mind; could it be a letter from his father in London?... But evidently Francis saw this, for he said hastily, ‘Oh, ’tis nothing to vex you—and no bad news for us. But it is something about which I want to ask your advice.’ He took a breath. ‘I saw my brother Windham to-day.’

‘Oh!’ said Georgina. ‘Is Mr Windham visiting Edinburgh?’

She did not know very much about Keith Windham personally, though she understood that Francis and his brother had always been good friends. But Francis had, since his return to Edinburgh, given her a vague outline of the reason why that return had been so abrupt, and she imagined that matters between the brothers must be somewhat precarious after Mr Windham’s friend had—so she gathered—somehow insulted Francis.

‘Yes, he is,’ said Francis. ‘...I think I had better tell you more. I very much want your advice, Georgina, dear.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Tell me anything you like.’ And she reached across the table to take his hand in her own; for it was plain that whatever had happened between him and his half-brother had greatly agitated him.

At this moment there was a clatter at the door, which opened to reveal the maidservant with the tea things. Georgina at once pulled her hands back, blushing, and with a muttered, ‘Oh—thank you, Annie,’ endeavoured to hide her confusion by rising to her feet and going to help with the tray. But Francis endured calmly the ensuing few minutes of putting everything in order, dismissing Annie and pouring out the tea, and perhaps this sequence of commonplace business helped to steady his mind; for when he began again it was calmly and with purpose. He told her about Ewen Cameron and his so greatly regrettable Jacobitism—where Ewen was now and why—and on what errand Keith had approached him that day. On one point only did he fail to expand.

‘I see,’ said Georgina when his explanation was done. ‘Yes, this is a tangle.... But I don’t quite understand—how did Mr Cameron insult you?’

‘I would prefer not to tell you that, Georgina,’ he said rather stiffly. ‘’Tis an unpleasant matter—the details are immaterial.’

‘Are they?’ asked Georgina. ‘’Twas something to do with his being a Jacobite, you say, and that’s where all the trouble has come from.—Did he mock you for being a Whig? Surely not, when Mr Windham is as much a Whig as you, and his greatest friend! Francis,’ she added, when he continued in looking obstinate, ‘I’m not so delicate as that. You needn’t repeat every word he said, if they were really not fit for a lady’s hearing. But if I am to advise you, I must understand what happened, and what reason he has given you not to help him now.’

Francis gazed into his teacup for a while, and then said, very low, ‘I do not want to tell you because—because the insult was not only to me, but to you.’

‘To me!’ exclaimed Georgina.

‘Yes.... Do you still want to know it?’

‘Certainly I do.’ For to her earnest wish for a fuller understanding of Francis’s dilemma there was now added a considerable curiosity as to why and how this man—who, Jacobite or no, could not be a very bad man if he was such a friend of Francis’s dear brother—had insulted her, whom he had never even met.

And so Francis told her.

‘I see,’ she said again, quietly. ‘No, I understand why you didn’t want me to hear that... but thank you for telling me. I think ’tis better....’ She shook her head and sipped at her tea carefully. Francis’s dilemma appeared worse than ever now; for she was inclined to pity a man in such a desperate case as Ewen Cameron was, and yet it was really rather detestable to think of this stranger reading her own letter to Francis, however little he might have cared about any of its contents not pertaining to Dr Cameron. These Jacobites put their devotion to their cause above not only lawful obedience, it seemed, but common decency.

Francis’s voice broke in upon her thoughts. ‘He has written me a note of apology—Windham brought it to me to-day‚’ he said. ‘You may read it.’ He handed her the half-unfolded note; then he shook his head. ‘I do not know what I ought to do.’

Georgina took the note, but she did not at once open it; she must think for a few moments first.

It was a curious thing about this Scotland—so Georgina had thought more than once even in her short experience of the country—how two parties so bitterly opposed, who had fought a bloody war so lately as seven years ago, could yet exist on such friendly terms with one another in times and places of peace—sometimes. Ever since she had first heard of Francis’s brother and his odd Highland existence she had quietly admired him and his friend for the amity they had achieved in the face of their political division; and if that division, having risen up again so horribly as Francis described, could somehow be set aside once more, and put to rest as Windham said he hoped for, she hoped Francis too would be willing to help the effort. And yet there was still the matter of her letter, a serious thing indeed.... And something else had occurred to her too. Of course this affair of Dr Cameron and Alan Breck Stewart was the same one in which Mr Balfour of Shaws, that so unexpected Jacobite agent whom she had met at the dinner party, was supposed to be involved. Was he, too, a friend of Cameron of Ardroy?

Setting these speculations at last aside, she read through the letter. And in its phrases and admissions she found, perhaps, an answer to the doubts which Francis’s confession of the real nature of Ewen Cameron’s insult had raised. She sat still for a little while, sipping her tea and turning all that she had heard over in her mind.

‘It is a handsome apology, Francis,’ she said at last. ‘He seems to regret it all very sorely. I think... I think you ought to forgive him. I think I forgive him.’

‘It’s just like you to say so,’ said Francis impulsively. ‘You are so good! And I do not doubt his honesty—that is, I trust Keith to know that he is honest. And—I suppose I must be absolutely fair to him... even last month he treated me as honestly as he could. He confessed at once to what he had done. And I do feel for him now, when his cousin is dying, from the sound of it.... But he is a Jacobite—which is to say a traitor—and he took your letter because of his Jacobitism, and he’s in the Castle now because of his Jacobitism. Knowing that, I can’t help him, can I? Wouldn’t I be turning traitor, too?’

The note was still in Georgina’s hands, and now she looked at it again. ‘I do not know that I would say so,’ she said slowly. ‘Hear what Mr Cameron says: “Dr Cameron is my Cousin, and very dear to me.—He was like an Older Brother to me when I was a Child. I heard that he was in danger, and thought only of saving him any Way I might; I did not think whether ’twere wise, or reasonable, or unavoidable—or, most importantly of all, whether ’twere honourable or right. It was none of those Things....” That is why I forgive him, Francis. What you told me just now made me imagine, for a moment, some desperate villain of a rebel reading through my private letter for treacherous ends, and I hated him for that moment. But this’—she gestured with the letter—‘wasn’t a villainous plot. It was wrong to help an attainted rebel, but that rebel was his dear cousin, in grave danger, and it was the only way he saw to save him—he must have been desperate indeed, but not in the way I thought.... And it sounds as though he’s gone on helping Dr Cameron, at some risk to himself... and they are both punished for it now.’ She took a sip of her tea and went on, ‘But do you see what I mean? From what Mr Windham tells you, even all that is given up now. You wouldn’t be helping in any plot either.’ Her ideas were taking more definite shape, and her voice grew more animated with the strength of them. ‘You’d only be doing the better reverse of what Mr Cameron did—helping him, not because of politics, but out of charity. I think you should, Francis. Or, that is to say, I think we should. My father will listen to my advice; I’ll speak to him with you, if you like.’

Francis looked at her; then he got up from his chair and walked several turns about the room in silence, his hands thrust into his pockets. Georgina watched him, and the gloom which the present grave business had cast into her heart was illumined by a little shaft of fondness; for the difference between their two characters, thus illustrated, struck her as amusing. She, trying to make sense of Mr Cameron’s apology, gave her thoughts space to develop by sitting quietly and drinking tea; while Francis, thinking over her reply, did the same thing through pacing up and down the room, as though the movement of his limbs and the changing scene before his eyes spurred his brain to action.

At last he flung himself down upon the chair again.

‘Well, Georgina, dear,’ he said, ‘you think I should do it; Keith thinks I should do it, and for all I’ve been troubling myself about his judgement of late I do trust him, and I want to help him. And I cannot answer your arguments. I’ll do it, then.’

At this Georgina felt a sort of joyful pride which—over a business of which she had known nothing an hour earlier—almost surprised her. But it was quite natural. She was glad that Francis had come to her and listened to her advice in his difficulty; when they were married they would thus share all the burdens and troubles of life, and Georgina was beginning to understand both the solemnity and the richness of this promise, and it was a happy thing even to take up her share of Francis’s troubles now. And, because she loved him and wanted to believe the best of him, she was glad that he should choose what she thought the right course of action. She squeezed his hand.

‘Well,’ resumed Francis a few moments later, in a brisk voice, ‘we must see about the practical details. Shall I seek an interview with your father—but you said he was very busy—or shall I write to him?’

‘He is very busy,’ said Georgina doubtfully.

‘I own I have no great liking to be interviewed by him on this subject‚ either,’ said Francis. ‘I fear he may not like everything I could tell him about Mr Cameron; I certainly will not tell him everything I’ve told you.’

‘No, of course,’ said Georgina. ‘But I think it would do good to speak to him; he’ll want to hear what you have to say.... Shall I go and find out if he can see you?’

‘Very well, then. And I’ll write a note to Windham, to let him know what I have decided.’

And so Francis went to the writing-desk at the far side of the room, and Georgina turned towards the door; but she had not yet reached it when he called to her, ‘Georgina!’

She turned back. ‘Yes?’

‘Thank you for helping me,’ he said. ‘Oh, I wish you did not have to be mixed up in this business; but——’

‘I’m happy to be mixed up in this business!’ she interrupted. ‘I feel quite generous towards poor Mr Cameron now. Yes, I can call him that, though he’s wronged me; “forgive us our trespasses”, you know, Francis.’

‘Of course,’ he said, answering her smile. ‘And I know I can always depend on your help, you wise person. Well, I’ll say I hope for our success, then—and a swift end to the whole matter!’

(2)

‘Oh, it’s a bad business, all this, Georgina.’

General Churchill turned back to the papers on his desk and shook his head over them with an eloquent air of dissatisfaction.

‘This affair at Leith?’ enquired Georgina, sitting down in the chair he offered her.

‘The very same,’ he said. ‘I told you I had word last night that Dr Cameron and Alan Breck Stewart would be arriving in Leith about midnight, did I not? Seeking to make their escape on a ship, of course, and to get there under cover of darkness. But I have had a party out searching the ships in Leith harbour all day, and not a sign of them. Whether they have already sailed away, which is quite possible, or whether they’re hiding somewhere—and God knows where—I cannot tell. And the party I sent out last night had a fight with someone, but no one knows whether ’twas these Jacobites or not, for they were not identified, nor captured, only a Highland gentleman who will tell us nothing of what he was doing there—which looks suspicious enough, of course. And then there’s Balfour of Shaws, who was certainly involved, and who has vanished into thin air! Perhaps he is still with the rest of them; or perhaps he somehow got wind of the search after him and has fled away into the Highlands or abroad.’ He sighed, so expressively that it practically made part of his speech, and continued, ‘My next step, I suppose, ought to be to search the houses of known Jacobites at Leith, in case they are hiding somewhere—there are one or two people who might be involved—but I own I don’t like it.... But I see you have something to say, Georgina! Go on; I’ll stop hindering you.’

Georgina smiled. It was not, or would not have been, an easy subject upon which to begin; but the genial manner with which her father spoke these last words, the obvious relief he took in thus summarising the situation, and the knowledge that her opinion could help him as it so often did help him, all made it easier. So too did the thought of Francis. ‘As it happens,’ she said, ‘I’ve something to say about the Highland gentleman captured by the soldiers yesterday—or rather, Lord Aveling has. His name was Cameron of Ardroy, I think?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the General with a start. ‘How did you know that?’

‘You know that Francis has a brother, Mr Windham, who is factor on an estate in the Highlands?’

‘I remember Aveling saying something of the sort, yes.’

‘Well, the estate is Cameron of Ardroy’s.’

‘Indeed!’ said the General, raising his eyebrows.

‘And I am here,’ concluded Georgina, ‘because Francis has learnt of Mr Cameron’s being captured, and he wishes to speak to you about him. Will you see him?’

The General nodded thoughtfully to himself. Probably he already guessed the main substance of what Francis wished to say to him, and was turning the question over in his mind. Georgina waited, her hands folded in her lap.

‘Very well, I’ll see him,’ he said at length. ‘Is he here?’

‘Yes—I’ll go and fetch him,’ said Georgina, leaping to her feet.

In a few minutes she returned with Francis, having given him, while they walked along the passage together, a brief précis of what her father had told her.

‘Ah, Aveling!’ said the General, rising from his chair. ‘Here, sit down.... Georgina tells me you wish to speak to me?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Francis. ‘About Mr Cameron of Ardroy, who is currently a prisoner in the Castle.’

The General nodded. Georgina glanced between their two faces; Francis looked a trifle apprehensive, but her father’s expression was not discouraging. He nodded, indicating that Francis should continue, and Francis did.

‘You know, sir, that my brother Windham is factor on Mr Cameron’s estate in the Highlands,’ said Francis, ‘and a great friend of his. I—I must have some respect and regard for a man who is my brother’s friend, although his politics are not mine, and besides that, I have no wish to see a connection of mine held at the Castle. I understand why he was brought there; but Mr Windham has spoken to me about him, and he assures me that there is no danger of Jacobite activity to be feared from Mr Cameron now. Therefore, sir, I wish to ask you to release him.’

As he spoke the General turned back to his desk and folded his hands upon it, still nodding thoughtfully. ‘I see,’ he said at last. ‘Thank you, Aveling. I must say I don’t like it—a connection of yours, and therefore of mine, to be mixed up in a business like this. I suppose Mr Windham did not tell you anything about Dr Cameron and Alan Breck Stewart?’

‘Mr Cameron is a Jacobite,’ said Francis slowly, ‘or rather, he was certainly “out” in ’45. Naturally he knows more than I would wish to know about the people you mention... but I have Mr Windham’s word for it that there is no Jacobite plot going on now, and no danger to be feared from letting Mr Cameron go, and I trust him implicitly.’

‘’Tis what this country is,’ added Georgina, who had been watching her betrothed carefully throughout this speech. ‘Practically all loyal men in Scotland have friends who are, or were, Jacobites, and they’re bound to help them as friends are.’

‘I had hoped, Georgina,’ said General Churchill, leaning back in his chair, ‘that your engagement to an Englishman would avoid complications of that nature.... No, Aveling, ’tis handsome of you to intercede for this man, and very natural too. Of course if you tell me there is no danger in letting him go, then I will take that into account, though I cannot desist entirely from attempting to get to the bottom of this matter.’ He sighed. ‘Frankly I was inclining that way already; there’s little reason to keep him. All this was on the word of a spy, you know, Georgina—a man who claims to be a clan chieftain’s son high up in Jacobite circles, though I do not know who he really is—and I don’t like spying. It’s necessary, of course, to get information, but—well, ’tis not a gentleman’s game, that’s the long and the short of it.’

‘I see that,’ said Georgina, with a glance at Francis. ‘Do you think this spy’s information might not be trustworthy, then?’

The General sighed and clasped his hands about his raised knee. ‘A man who is willing to betray his friends,’ he said, ‘might well lie about them; and I am beginning to have a notion that this one did. You know what these Highlanders are; how am I to know but that “Pickle”—that’s what he calls himself, and expects me to take him seriously!—has some absurd clan feud with Mr Cameron, and tried to implicate him in this business because of that? In any case, Pickle says he hasn’t any more to tell me about where they were going or who was with them.’

‘Hmm,’ said Georgina. ‘Yes, I quite agree; it all sounds very distasteful.’ A short silence fell; Francis sat quiet and still in his chair, looking at the floor, and the General shuffled the papers about upon his desk with an almost contemplative motion. At last Georgina said, ‘Father, will you let Mr Cameron go?’

He sat up in his chair and stroked his chin. ‘I will,’ he said.

Francis looked up. ‘Thank you, sir, very much,’ he said earnestly.

‘Oh, thank you!’ exclaimed Georgina.

‘I will let him go,’ continued the General, ‘but I think I must send a party to search in Leith town first too. Now, I do not doubt your word, Aveling, or Mr Windham’s; but for the sake of doing the thing thoroughly, I must do all I can to find out whether Dr Cameron and Alan Breck Stewart—and perhaps Mr Balfour too—are still in Leith, and I think if they are it would not be excusable to let Mr Cameron go without some attempt to find out what he knows about them. But I will say,’ he finished, and with some significance in his tone, ‘that I sincerely hope they are not, and that there is no need for it. If I find nothing to-morrow, then I will conclude that they have made their escape, and that there is nothing more to be done in search of them; and then Mr Cameron will go free at once.’

(3)

It was about eight o’clock the next morning, and David had risen from his own bed to come and sit by Alan’s—partly, so Alan shrewdly suspected, to make sure that he was not once more trying to get up and overexert himself in efforts about Dr Cameron. But this he was not doing. Archie was rather worse than he had been yesterday—so Mr Forbes had candidly informed him—but Mrs Forbes and the servants were taking good care of him, and there was really nothing Alan himself could do now to make a difference. It was not an easy thing to acknowledge this, and the thought of Archie still ran as a little anxious stream at the back of his mind; but he was obliged to admit the truth of Mr Forbes’s judgement, and he had at last, with some effort, composed his mind to remaining where he was.

But it was pleasant to have Davie here to talk to—and David, whatever his other motives, seemed to agree. They were sitting side by side in the bed, Alan leaning comfortably against his friend, and talking quietly of the future prospects of Shaws under the management of Mr Rankeillor—about which Alan, who had respected the lawyer ever since that clever bit of business which they had achieved together two years ago, was inclined to be optimistic—when there was a knock at the door and Mrs Forbes’s voice sounded outside.

‘Mr Stewart, are you awake?’

Her tone was measured and not anxious, but it had a deliberateness which spoke a warning. Something was amiss.

‘Ay,’ said Alan, raising his head. ‘What is it that’s the matter?’

‘We have visitors,’ said Mrs Forbes, ‘—those whom we hoped would not call on us while you were here. Robert is speaking to them downstairs. You and Mr Balfour must get up to the attic room as soon as you can—I’ll go and fetch him now.’

‘I’m here,’ said David. ‘We’ll be up there in half a minute.’

He was already swinging his legs out of the bed as he spoke. Alan followed, pulled his blue French coat over his nightshirt and put his brogues on his bare feet, and gathered up as many of his belongings from the rest of the room as he could reach in such a short time as was wise—which, fortunately, was most of them, for he had not been very heavily encumbered with possessions when they arrived at Leith.

Mrs Forbes was still in the passage outside, with a white-faced maid standing behind her. Of course they were waiting to go into the room and do all they could, in a few minutes, to make it look as though the bed had not been slept in and the room was untenanted. Alan nodded his thanks to Mrs Forbes as he and David passed her on their way upstairs.

A few more moments brought them to the attic staircase. David reached the top landing and the false panel which concealed the entrance to the hidden chamber, and without hesitating he bent and unfastened the panel, pushed it open and ushered Alan inside. Once they were both safely through the door, he closed and locked it.

The chamber thus secured, they turned and looked at each other. It was nearly dark, for there were no windows—a few glimmers of light reaching through cracks around the door, and from a grating high up in one of the walls which served as a sort of miniature skylight, were all the room had to give it its dim illumination.

‘Well,’ said Alan in a low voice, ‘here we must bide.’ And he sat down on one of the low wooden chairs which stood on either side of a little table, and which along with that table took up much of the space in the small room. David took the other chair, and they settled down to wait.

The first few minutes were quiet. Mr Forbes, thought Alan to himself, must be doing well in keeping the redcoats downstairs long enough for the rest of the household to make preparations. Eventually a footstep sounded on the staircase—but there was no cause for alarm, for Alan at once recognised it. A moment later the door opened.

‘Here,’ whispered Mrs Forbes, placing a hastily-collected and miscellaneous assortment of things on the table. These included David’s bag of possessions from Shaws and his sword, as well as the books which Dr Cameron had brought with him. ‘Look after these! And these—the latest of Robert’s collection,’ she added, retrieving a bundle of papers from under her arm. ‘There, now—I think they’ll be on their way upstairs soon.’

‘Thank you, madam,’ said David; and then she left them, closing the door behind her, and it was quiet again.

And then, after a short time, it was not.

Sounds of movement ascended from the lower regions of the house—the footsteps of people who were taking no care to tread softly—and an unfamiliar voice was raised, giving orders to search this or that room. Doors opened and closed. More voices spoke, too distant for the words to be made out. Then came the voice of Mrs Forbes, raised high in anger and quite distinct, saying, ‘Oh, you “do not wish to disturb me more than is needful, madam”? That’s all very well! And what for are your men stamping in here and raising such a great fuss, then? My cousin is gravely ill, I tell you; you must take care....’

‘She’s doing all she can,’ remarked Alan in a whisper, and David smiled and nodded.

Alan’s anxiety about Dr Cameron had risen high again; for there he lay downstairs, without hiding-place or disguise, and Alan was powerless to save him from the peril of discovery. If Archie should be recognised... though just now he looked little enough like the Dr Cameron described in the Government bills, it was true.

The sounds of footsteps and opening doors were louder now; the redcoats had reached the storey below them. Alan glanced over at David to see how he did. He did not seem afraid; but he was looking intently at the floor, as if by some power of concentrated staring he might look through the solid boards and descry the soldiers at their work below. Then all at once, and with resolution in his face, he looked up and met Alan’s eyes in the half-darkness, and reached across the table to take Alan’s hand in his own.

‘If they should break down the door,’ he said, ‘I think I could spring up to meet them, and make a great noise about it, and then they might not notice anything behind me. That corner is very dark. If you stay there——’

‘And why should you do that, Davie?’ exclaimed Alan, almost forgetting to whisper.

‘Because,’ said David, ‘you’re still wanted for the murder of Glenure, and as a deserter besides, while I am only supposed to have assisted two Jacobites in evading capture. It’ll go harder with you than with me, if we’re both caught.’ And he squeezed Alan’s hand, which he still held, lying upon the table. The expression with which he was regarding Alan was one of such determined, almost fierce earnestness that Alan, meeting his gaze, must look away again.

Alan shook his head slowly. It was the sort of suggestion which might easily have offended him, implying as it did that he might be able to think of taking advantage of it; but made under these circumstances, and in such a spirit.... Below them a door slammed, and an English voice said in tones of exasperation that there was nothing to be found in this room, either. At length Alan said, speaking with difficulty, ‘It’ll never do, Davie. It’s a very pretty thing in you to say you’d try it; but it’ll never do.’

‘No?’ said David. There was a wealth of expression in the monosyllable; a stubborn clinging to his own suggestion was mixed with a reluctant acknowledgement of its practical impossibility, and also with a quiet despair that he could not, after all, thus save Alan from capture.

‘No,’ said Alan firmly. ‘The redcoats are not the canniest creatures upon God’s earth, Davie, as you and I both know, but they’re not so foolish as to miss searching in the corners of this little room. Besides, I would not do such a thing.’

‘No; that you wouldn’t,’ admitted David softly; and then he turned away, covering his eyes with his free hand, and said in eloquent tones of hopeless frustration, ‘Oh, is there nothing——?’

Alan opened his mouth to reply, though what he could say he had little notion. But at that moment the clamour of footsteps sounded upon the staircase immediately below them, and without the need for any signal or prompt they both sank at once into absolute silence.

‘Only the servants’ rooms to go,’ said a voice—immediately outside the hidden door, and sounding as clear as if the speaker had been in the room with them. ‘Shouldn’t take long.’

And thereupon the soldiers opened the opposite door, the one leading to the servants’ quarters, and passed in.

The next five minutes of waiting, while the search went on in the very next rooms to their hiding place, and at any moment the redcoats might come out upon the landing and think to investigate the blank panel that faced them there, were a little hell of tense anticipation. David had not let go of Alan’s hand, and he clasped it tightly now. They both kept their eyes on the door, alert for any sign of movement.

At last the door to the servants’ quarters opened and closed again, and once more the footsteps were outside the hidden chamber. Shadows passed across the cracks at the sides of the door.

And then there was a sound upon the door itself. One of the soldiers was pushing against it. Alan tensed, ready to spring up and seize his sword; beside him David was staring at the door with wide eyes.

But the sequel which they every moment expected—of a closer investigation of the panel, a breaking-in of the door, or even an accidental discovery of the mechanism—failed to follow. The pressure upon the door continued, as could be inferred from the sound of cloth moving roughly against the painted wood, but there was no further movement. And it was this that gave Alan the clue to what was really happening. The sound was of cloth—the cloth of a soldier’s red coat—sliding back and forth very slightly, not of hands exploring the panel. The redcoat was not deliberately investigating the door; he was simply leaning against it, resting, perhaps, while his comrade finished searching the rooms, and evidently he had failed so far to notice that the space behind it was hollow.

Alan held his breath. The moments passed, and still nothing followed. He wondered whether David had worked out what was happening, and then wondered whether it would make much difference—for either way there was only the chance of the merest accident now between them and discovery.

At last more footsteps sounded outside, and the soldier who had been leaning against the panel pushed away from it. That movement might give him the chance to feel its unexpected lack of solidity; had he noticed anything?...

He had not.

‘That’s all, then,’ he said to his companion, ‘if the others have finished up downstairs. Come on. I don’t want to stay here to be hectored by that woman any more.’

The other redcoat expressed his agreement as to the undesirability of further enjoyment of Mrs Forbes’s society, and they went down the stairs together.

David leaned his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes.

‘I think,’ said Alan quietly, giving his hand one last squeeze, ‘we have escaped them.’

After this more vague sounds of footsteps and conversation came up from the lower rooms, but there was no further movement up the stairs until a few minutes later, when Mrs Forbes’s step sounded again. But she did not open the panel; she knocked upon it, and said, ‘They’ve left the house, and found nothing! But you’d better stay there a little while yet.’

‘Very wise,’ said Alan, seeing the reason for this.

Mrs Forbes laughed. ‘I was speaking to the captain just now,’ she said, ‘and I wouldn’t guess him for the clever sort who’d wait for us to open up the hiding places and then come back. I’d say you’re safe. But—we must be sure.’

‘Ay. What about Archie—how is he?’

‘It was a shock for him, of course... but he’s borne it bravely. He’s resting now.’

Having given this reassurance, she departed.

For some time after that they said nothing. David sighed, and moved restlessly about in his chair, and looked at Alan and then looked away again; and, after a little while of this, rose to his feet and tried to walk back and forth across the floor, scarcely practicable as this was.

‘Ready to be out of this place, Davie?’ asked Alan.

David nodded; and Alan, looking up at the unhappy expression of his face, felt a return of those emotions which had filled him upon David’s first making that impossible suggestion a few minutes since.

Their eyes met, and David stopped his attempt at pacing; and then Alan too got up from his chair, went to David, took hold of his shoulders and pulled him down into a kiss.

‘That was,’ he said, when they broke apart, ‘a fine, courageous thing you offered to do just now, Davie—though I could not let you do it. Ay, I’m glad——’ And here he stopped, for expressing his feelings about David’s courage by kissing him was a far easier thing than talking to him about it; but he must make some effort. ‘I’m glad the redcoats never gave you the chance to try,’ he finished, in a subdued voice.

‘Ay,’ said David, making a little movement of the arms in which he had caught Alan. His eyes were shining in the dim light. ‘I am glad of it too.’ And he kissed Alan again.

At the sound of footsteps on the stairs again, some time after this, they moved hastily apart. Mrs Forbes had returned. She opened the door and stood clasping her hands in an excess of relief, pride and glee; behind her was her husband, walking with more measured tread up the stairs.

‘They’ve all left the house,’ said Mrs Forbes, ‘and found nothing! You are safe.’

‘We heard you trying to keep the redcoats away from Archie,’ said Alan.

‘They did not suspect anything,’ said Mrs Forbes. ‘Well, I hardly gave them the chance.... I said some things to suggest that my “cousin’s” fever was of a contagious nature, and after that they weren’t so keen to look too closely at him.’

‘Your ingenuity has brought us all safely through the danger, Rachie,’ said Mr Forbes, placing his arm about his wife’s shoulders.

‘Oh, I think you did at least as much as I,’ she said, giving a mock frown in response to his beaming smile.

‘Well,’ interrupted Alan, drawing the flaps of his coat together over his nightshirt, ‘we must thank you both, that’s for certain—and I had better be going and finishing my toilet. I have no desire to stay in this room any longer, though it’s done us such a good service.’

There was a general agreement with this, and Mrs Forbes added that she ought to go and see about the breakfast. So, after gathering up the things that had been placed in the secret chamber for safekeeping, they trooped back downstairs together. Mr and Mrs Forbes went in front, still cheerfully congratulating each other upon their respective contributions to the bafflement of the redcoats. Alan and David walked more slowly behind, and by the time they reached the door of Alan’s bedchamber they were more or less alone in the passage. David placed his hand on Alan’s arm, and Alan turned back towards him; and David leaned down and kissed him again briefly once more before they parted.

(4)

Ewen glanced round at the sound of approaching footsteps outside the room of his imprisonment, and gazed anxiously at the door until it opened and admitted the visitor. It was the officer of yesterday morning.

‘Have you more questions for me, sir?’ asked Ewen, in a voice like ice. ‘You will waste your time, if you have; I have no more answers to give you than I had yesterday.’

‘No—er, Mr Cameron, I have not,’ said the officer, and had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. ‘We’ve nothing more to ask you. I have come to inform you that the General has ordered your immediate release.’

And Ewen feared that in the face of this announcement he failed, for a moment, entirely to maintain the chilly composure which he was so determined should be his only manner towards his gaolers.

Thirty minutes later, a free man once more, Ewen was pushing open the door of the Kestrel.

‘Mr Cameron!’ exclaimed Miss McArthur, hurriedly placing down the glass she had been polishing and coming round the end of the bar to meet him. ‘You’re back—we were very anxious about you. Is everything well...?’

Ewen nodded. ‘They’ll not vex me any more at the Castle, at least,’ he said. ‘Is Mr Windham——’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘He’s in the parlour, I think—come on through, Mr Cameron.... Oh, I am glad you’re not hurt! And Jenny will be just as glad when I tell her.’

Despite all his cares, Ewen was really cheered for a moment by her honest relief at seeing him safe again. Miss McArthur had been many years an Edinburgh Jacobite, and the landlady of an inn which had sometimes acted as a meeting-place and refuge for those of that party in the city; he was far from the first friend of hers whom she had seen imprisoned in the Castle, and many of those cases had not ended so easily or painlessly as this.

‘Mr Windham, look who’s here!’ she cried as they entered the parlour; and Keith, who was sitting alone at a little table by the window, turned, and his eyes met Ewen’s.

‘I am going to Mr Forbes’s house,’ announced Ewen a few minutes later. Miss McArthur had left them, and they could hear her humming a song to herself in the other room. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘Of course,’ said Keith, ‘but—forgive me, Ewen—is it wise to go there at once?... We can’t be sure that General Churchill is entirely convinced of your innocence, just because he’s let you go. You are sure that you are not being followed?’

Ewen shook his head. ‘I saw nothing on the way here,’ he said. ‘We’ll keep watching as we go, and we can turn back if there seems to be any danger. But I must try. Archie——’

He was not quite succeeding in keeping his voice level. ‘I know,’ said Keith. ‘Very well; we will go.’

And so they went.

XIX. ‘Still Am I King of Those’

(1)

‘Ardroy! How very glad we are to see you free,’ said Mr Forbes, grasping Ewen’s hand between both his own and shaking it heartily. ‘I never doubted that Mr Windham would contrive something... but of course you want to see Dr Cameron. I’ll show you to his room—I think he’s awake. This way....’

Ewen followed Mr Forbes up the stairs. Keith walked behind him, and as they approached the door he murmured, ‘Shall I come in with you?’

‘I think,’ said Ewen, ‘that if I can talk to Archie, I’d like to do so alone for a while.... Thank you, Keith.’ And, squeezing Keith’s hand, he left him and opened the door which Mr Forbes indicated.

In the doorway he stopped. The room was light and airy, without that oppressive gloom of attempted safe-keeping which can add so much to the horror of a sick-room; a large window on the far side of the bed stood open, for the April day was warm and Dr Hamilton a believer in the healing power of fresh air, and within all was clean and orderly. And there lay Archibald Cameron—the stalwart servant of the Prince who had lived out in the heather all last autumn and winter—the dear cousin who had been to Ewen in the old days as an elder brother, sometimes indulgent, sometimes reproving, sometimes gently teasing, always wise and always kind—now reduced to this half-recognisable figure, pale and weak and still. Mrs Forbes was settling him back against the pillows as Ewen entered, evidently having just rearranged them for him, and he drew his hand out from under the covers and placed it on her arm, saying, ‘Thank you, Jean, my dear.... Ah, my sorrow, madam! I mistook you for someone else.’

‘I daresay there are things that matter more than just what my name is,’ said Rachel Forbes, smilingly unperturbed. ‘Now, will you take a little food? We’re to have our dinner soon, and there’s plenty for you if you feel up to it.’

Dr Cameron frowned, considering the question; and in doing so he looked over towards the door and saw his new visitor for the first time. ‘Ewen!’ he exclaimed, so far as his diminished voice was capable of exclamation. ‘I thought you were gone.... How came you here?’

Ewen went forward and, glancing at Mrs Forbes for permission so to intrude upon her patient, sat on the bed. ‘I am free,’ he said. ‘Windham helped me—but that’s all over now, and I’ll stay with you.’

‘Windham,’ said Dr Cameron, nodding. ‘You were right to trust him, I see.’

‘How are you feeling, Archie?’ said Ewen.

‘I am better than I was yesterday, I think,’ replied his cousin, speaking slowly and in something like his old philosophical tones, ‘but I do not feel strong. My colleague, Dr Hamilton, tells me that the wound is not healing well, and....’ There followed several sentences of dense medical explanation; evidently the vagueness of mind brought on by pain and fever had not caused Dr Cameron’s learning to desert him, but it had perhaps weakened his ability to appreciate how little Ewen would be able to make of such details. Ewen, sticking to what he could understand, reached out a cautious hand and felt his cousin’s forehead; it was hot, and Dr Cameron frowned as though the touch disturbed him.

‘Will you have some dinner?’ asked Ewen, for the sight of Mrs Forbes, still hovering at the other side of the bed, reminded him of her interrupted question of a moment ago.

‘I’ll try,’ said Dr Cameron, and Mrs Forbes smiled at Ewen.

‘Ewen,’ resumed Archie, when she had left the room, ‘if I should die here——’

‘Do not say such a thing!’ cried Ewen, rather wildly, for after everything he had heard from Keith and the others he could not, in his inmost mind, doubt that it was very possible. But all the scenes of the last six or seven months—his first unexpected meeting with Dr Cameron in Beileag MacMartin’s cottage; Archie and Alan Breck sitting in the smoky gloom of the ruined croft above Ardroy with the frost sharpening about them; his own arrival in Balquhidder all full of anxiety, and the fight in the wood; the view from the cave in the Braes of Balquhidder, where he and Archie had sat and talked of the Prince and General Keith and Cluny Macpherson... all these returned to him now, clearer in memory, it seemed, than they had been in life. And all the while Achnacarry, that had been a second home to Ewen in his childhood, was a poor broken ruin, and Lochiel lay in the cold earth of a foreign land, and Jean and her children dwelt in their brave, lonely poverty over the water. Archibald Cameron had given, and risked, and done, very many things for his Prince, this year and every year since ’45; and the hopes which his activity and his labours had kindled, and which had seemed last autumn to be rising up again out of the despair of seven years since, were now dying inexorably away once more. Ewen could not bear to think that, after giving the Jacobite cause all this, Archie must also give it his life.

But Archie himself smiled. ‘I will say it, Eoghain,’ he said. ‘I think perhaps I was a trifle technical just now... but Dr Hamilton has told me himself—he is a frank and honest man—that I may well die, and ’tis only our Christian duty to face it.’

Ewen bowed his head.

‘I think I almost envy those Jacobites who died upon the scaffold,’ said Dr Cameron reflectively. ‘What a noble opportunity had Balmerino for courage and steadfastness, and how nobly he took it! That would have been my fate, I suppose, had I been captured instead of you—save that I am not a peer, like Balmerino....’ He struggled to sit up a little more upon his pillows—Ewen leaned forward to help him—and then he went on, ‘But we have always run risks, haven’t we, Eoghain—do you remember the affair at Ruthven in August ’45?... and, if one takes enough risks like that, sooner or later....’

‘I remember,’ said Ewen softly.

The affair in question—it could hardly have been called a battle—had been the first real action Ewen had seen during the Rising. The Prince, journeying with his Highland Army towards the Corryarrick Pass, had sent a party of Camerons to raid the barracks at Ruthven—which proved to be better-defended than they had anticipated. One of Ewen’s company—a man Ewen had known all his life—had been slain by a musket-ball, along with about half a dozen others. It could easily have been Dr Cameron who had fallen instead, or Ewen himself; and it could have been either of them again on countless other occasions since, whether the chance were that of a musket-ball or that of capture and the death—more protracted in its arrival, but none the less sure—which would have followed. Now it was; that was all.

‘But you would be noble anywhere, Archie,’ he added. ‘You’ve much to bear... as much to suffer, I think, as you ever would have had at Tyburn or Tower Hill. And you are every bit as noble and as patient as you would have been there. I am sure of it.’ And, he thought, a man gives his life for his Cause as much through a small, pathetic half-accident like that in which Archie had received his wound as through a valiant end in battle, or a long, grand and deliberate affair of gaol and courtroom and scaffold. He shook his head as if to clear these thoughts away, and said simply, ‘You must be in pain now.’

Archie smiled, clearly about to make some acknowledging and yet courageous remark; but he was interrupted by the reappearance of Mrs Forbes with a dish of fried potatoes and a cup of beef tea. Ewen rose to meet her, and said that he would stay with Dr Cameron and help him eat, so that she could go and take her own dinner with the rest of the household.

‘Thank you, Mr Cameron... of course,’ she said, and departed.

‘I learnt to like potatoes when I was in France,’ remarked Dr Cameron over his food—which he picked at carefully, for he said his stomach felt a little unsettled, after all. ‘But you told me you grow them at Ardroy now, didn’t you?’

‘So I did,’ said Ewen, smiling despite himself.

‘It will be a grief to me if I should never see the Highlands again,’ said Archie quietly. ‘You must take good care of the place, Ewen... but I suppose Achnacarry is more beautiful in memory.’

After his dinner Dr Cameron went to sleep again. Ewen allowed himself to be persuaded to take a little food; and then began the long, weary afternoon of waiting and anxious dread. After a little eternity of pacing back and forth round the sitting-room Ewen was summoned downstairs, where he found Dr Hamilton speaking in a low, solemn voice to Mrs Forbes.

‘Mr Cameron,’ said the doctor. ‘I will be plain: I have no good news for you. I’ll return this evening to see if there is any change; but I think I can say now that there is very little hope left.’

‘How long has he?’ said Ewen after a moment.

‘Perhaps another day—perhaps only hours. I am very deeply sorry, Mr Cameron.’

To this Ewen nodded silently; but he summoned speech to thank the doctor.

After that he returned to the sick-room, feeling with a sort of vague conviction that he must spend whatever time he had left beside Archie, even if he never woke to speak to again. He found Alan, who evidently had also received Dr Hamilton’s news, there; David was with him, and they were talking together very quietly so as not to disturb the sleeper. After a while Mrs Forbes returned, bringing Keith. He went up to Ewen, and Ewen leaned upon him, scarcely knowing what he did.

But Dr Cameron did wake once more, early in the evening. He was weaker than he had been, and owned simply to being in much pain; but he was in his senses still, and he knew Ewen, and understood how short his own time was. He asked Ewen to write some letters for him, ‘as I was going to ask you earlier... for I fear I cannot hold a pen,’ and Ewen agreed at once.

The first letter was to Jean, and the second was to John, Archie and Jean’s eldest son. To his wife Dr Cameron sent his love, exhorted her to courage and cheerfulness and apologised that he had not the wealth to leave her in comfort and ease; to his son he gave in equal measure praise for the honourableness and good sense which John had already shown and encouragement to continue in this wise path when his father was no longer there to guide him upon it. He spoke in brief phrases, more or less connected, which Ewen formed into sentences upon the paper as best he could.

‘And...’ said Archie at last, when Ewen had written two pages of the letter to John, ‘and—— Alan, have you my shoes?’

Alan, who had spent the last few minutes staring at the floor, looked up. ‘Your shoes?’

‘Ay—the ones I wore... in the heather, before we came to this house.’

‘We took them off you when we brought you in here,’ said Alan, and rose from his chair and went over to the cupboard at the side of the room. ‘Here they are,’ he said, holding up the shoes—worn and dirty shoes, with plain buckles of steel. ‘But I fear you can’t put them on now, Archie!’

‘I do not want to put them on,’ said Dr Cameron. ‘I want that John—— You’re going back to France, Alan?’

‘Ay, so am I.’ Alan went to sit on the bed across from Ewen, still holding the shoes.

‘Take these to John for me,’ said Dr Cameron, and he reached out a hand and brushed the buckles of the shoes with his fingers. ‘They are my steel buckles. I want him to remember the lesson of them... you understand, Alan?’

Ewen could make nothing of this, save that Archie was making his son a present which had some significance beyond its material nature; but Alan evidently did understand, for he gazed at the shoes, and then at Dr Cameron, with the tears in his eyes. ‘Ay,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll see that he gets them, Archie.’

‘Though I fear,’ added Dr Cameron with a smile, ‘that you never quite took all that lesson... no, that is not just. For you had the strength, ay, and the constancy too.’

Alan only shook his head. ‘Na, na,’ he said. ‘—Oh, I wish it were I in your place!’ And for a moment Ewen could have said the same. Such a small, meaningless chance, just as it had been at Ruthven—it could have been him....

‘No,’ said Dr Cameron. ‘No, you mustn’t. It is but God’s will.... Ewen, are you there?’

‘I’m here,’ said Ewen, leaning forward.

‘You’ve written those letters?’

‘Yes; here they are. Alan and I will see that they are safely delivered.’

‘Good,’ said Dr Cameron, lying back upon the pillows and closing his eyes. ‘Thank you, Ewen. But it is a sore thing to part from you....’

They were the last clear words he spoke. Shortly afterwards Mr Forbes suggested that he read some prayers, which Dr Cameron accepted with a nod; and he murmured the responses—simple, familiar words which needed no consultation of a prayer-book nor very much deliberate effort thus to recite—without opening his eyes, while Ewen and the others joined in with their own subdued voices. Finally Mr Forbes, turning to a new page of his prayer book, read the commendatory prayer for a sick person very near death. And then Dr Cameron slept once more.

‘God is merciful,’ said Mr Forbes to Ewen. ‘He has no pain.’

The last few hours were strange and hazy to Ewen. He stayed with Archie all the time. Alan remained sitting across from him, in an attitude curiously reminiscent of Ewen’s first sight of him last year in the ruined croft—sitting quietly, apparently subdued, but with a common watchfulness and purpose in his quietness—but of who else was in the room and when, he was never very certain. Keith, Mr and Mrs Forbes, David, Dr Hamilton, all passed across his awareness like grey ghosts. It grew darker, and someone lit lamps; besides this he knew nothing of the passage of time. In his mind—it could not really be said that he was thinking—were images of long-gone years at Achnacarry and Ardroy, before either he or his cousin had had a thought of the Prince’s arrival. In memory he trailed his childish hand over the side of a boat in the water of Loch Arkaig, and then raised it, dripping water and wonderfully cool in the summer air, to wave to Archie, who was standing there between the drooping branches of an alder-tree on the shore and laughing....

(2)

Dr Cameron died at about nine o’clock that night. The next day Mr Forbes conducted his funeral, and he was buried—under the name of Mr Chalmers, for naturally it was not prudent yet to put about the real identity of the Forbeses’ guest—in the little burial-ground which belonged to the Episcopalian congregation of Leith. As the death of such a person always is, it was not one loss but many losses—to the Jacobite cause; to the nation of Scotland; to Jean and her children; to Ewen; to Alan; to the fellowship of good and honourable men upon this earth—and it would have been a difficult thing to say which of them was the most grievous.

(3)

It was two days after the funeral, and Ewen had returned once more to the house at Leith. Mrs Forbes, welcoming him in the hallway, had told him that she believed Alan was in the back sitting-room; and there Ewen found him, with David, who seemed to be sticking as closely and determinedly to him in these days as he had done in Balquhidder (as he was, and for the same reasons). They were sitting side by side upon a settle; the attitude of their two raised heads, turned to look at Ewen as he opened the door and entered the room, suggested that Alan had been leaning upon David’s shoulder.

‘Alan,’ said Ewen, when they had exchanged their good-mornings, and Ewen taken his seat in a chair by the window, ‘I came to see you because there is something I greatly wish to know—about Archie. May I ask you a question?—Oh, please stay, Shaws,’ he added.

David, who had been making as if to rise and leave them, resumed his place on the settle, and Alan, laying a hand apparently unconsciously on his arm, said, ‘Of course you may ask me. What is it?’

Ewen leaned upon the arm of his chair, frowned at the floor and then out of the window, and finally said, ‘What did Archie mean by giving you his shoe-buckles to take to his son? He said you would understand....’

‘So I did.’ Alan, too, looked for a moment at the floor; then he raised his eyes, and Ewen saw the smile gleaming in them. ‘They were his steel shoe-buckles—the ones he wore all last winter, when he and I were skulking in the Highlands. He used to tell me they made a fine moral lesson for us. Steel, he said, is hard and of little value, but it serves well to keep strong out among the heather; and so ’tis a better thing to wear than silver or gold, for it shows us the constancy and disinterestedness that must be ours, too, in the strength we give to the Cause and our duty. He wanted me to give his son a reminder of those things.’ He laughed softly, and then added, ‘Archie told me sometimes—only in jest, you understand—that I ought to heed that lesson more, for I believe I had more liking for fine things than he thought wise in the circumstances. Certainly my shoes were aye a finer sight than his! But he said—but you remember what he told me.’ He was still smiling, but with a different look in his eyes, as he concluded, ‘There was none better to give that lesson than he.’

Ewen took a long breath. Outside it was raining fitfully once more; now a gust of wind would scatter the drops against the glass of the window, now it would blow away again. High up a group of gulls flew towards the sea on long white wings, and their cries came faintly down through the window. At last Ewen said, ‘Thank you. It is—it is just like what I knew of him. Thank you for telling me about it.’

‘Ay,’ said Alan, with a nod that accepted Ewen’s words. Ewen felt keenly how inadequate those words were to express what the explanation of Dr Cameron’s gift meant to him, and how little his own grief for his cousin felt able to speak to Alan’s for his comrade; and yet it seemed that he had spoken aright, as far as he could.

A while later Ewen asked if there had been any more word from Captain Brodie about their plans for getting away.

‘There has,’ said Alan, ‘He means to sail on the thirteenth or thereabouts, if the wind is fair. So Davie and I must only wait here until then. And since the redcoats have already paid us a visit and concluded, so wise as they are, that we’re not here——’ He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that they could be sure of their safety here for the few days until the ship sailed.

But even in those few days, there was one more matter—and one of some importance to Ewen, Alan and Dr Cameron—that would intervene.

XX. ‘Secure in Valour’s Station...’

(1)

‘Ardroy,’ said Mr Forbes, two days later, ‘there is something I want to ask your opinion about—’tis a delicate matter.... Will you come with me for a moment?’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Ewen. He and Keith had come to dine with the Forbeses again; just now, while they all gathered in the dining-room, David had been telling them about the account of his and Alan’s adventures of two years ago, in connection with the affair of the Appin murder, which Mr Forbes had prevailed upon him to give him for his collection. Now Keith was chatting to Mrs Forbes, Alan and David upon one side of the room, and Mr Forbes had drawn Ewen over to its other side.

‘It concerns some papers in my study, if you’ll come on through....’ And Mr Forbes led the way from the drawing-room up to that small, neatly-arranged sanctuary where he accomplished his historical, as well as part of his religious, work. Indeed the usual contents of a clergyman’s study were not neglected, for opposite the desk stood a high bookcase filled with theological works; but the shelf above the desk was given over to a rather various-looking set of loose papers, carefully stacked and labelled, and these were the material of the current volume of Mr Forbes’s historical collection. The older, completed volumes, of course, were still in the secret chamber above.

Now Mr Forbes invited Ewen to sit down in one of the two chairs drawn up before the desk, sat himself down in the other and, moving aside a couple of sheets covered with David’s handwriting, opened a drawer of the desk to take out another sheaf of papers.

‘These,’ he said, ‘are the things which Mr MacDonell—Young Glengarry, that is, who was here when you first came to us the other day—promised to send me. They are certainly curious, and throw light on some matters about which I had desired to know more, but... some of the statements he makes are, I am afraid, very doubtful.’ He hesitated, shuffled the loose sheets one over another in his hands, and finally passed one of them across to Ewen. ‘Ardroy, I really shrink from showing you this, considering... what has just happened. I have no wish to cause you pain. But the truth is I am very much in doubt about its contents, and I believe you may be able to help me decide what to do with it.’

Ewen, mystified, but naturally desiring to know more after such an introduction as this, took the paper from him and read it through. It was an account of the dealings of Lochiel and Cluny Macpherson with the Prince before and after the Rising, and it began with general statements which were accurate enough as far as Ewen’s knowledge went. But about halfway down the page was a passage which took his breath away.

‘...Cluny Macpherson made the same Agreement with the Prince as Lochiel had done, viz., to have Security from the Prince for the full Value of his Estate lest the Expedition should prove unsuccessful; which the Prince accordingly consented tow... And I have it from Cluny’s own Mouth that this is the Reason why he would not part with the Mony from Loch Arkaig; as also why Dr Cameron took the 6000l. which he afterwards design’d to give into the hands of a Merchant in Dunkirk, and enter Partners with him; though the Prince never gave Leave for him sow to dow.’

Ewen laid the sheet down on the desk. He was stunned. There could be no misinterpreting Young Glengarry’s words: he was accusing both Cluny and Dr Cameron of embezzling the money buried at Loch Arkaig which the Prince had entrusted to their care. Ewen disliked the man, to be sure, and he had taken notice of Alan’s insinuations about him last autumn; but he had hardly gone so far as to think him capable of this.

‘It is not true,’ he said at last.

‘I am very glad to hear you say so,’ said Mr Forbes with energy. ‘I knew it could not be. I have always understood Cluny Macpherson to be an honourable man, though we never met, and of course Dr Cameron—— And yet I had this from Mr MacDonell’s own hand.’

‘Then he is a liar,’ said Ewen, his voice finding strength and with it savageness. His first bewildered shock was turning rapidly to rage, as the full import of what Alastair MacDonell had done impressed itself upon his brain: this was not only a disgraceful slur upon the characters of two of the truest and most honourable men who ever served the Jacobite cause, it was an incredible insult to the memory of a man not five days dead, who had given his life for that very cause.... ‘You could not have thought it true for a moment. It’s the most infamous lie——’

‘I assure you, I did not,’ said Mr Forbes earnestly. ‘Do not misunderstand me; I have not asked you here to confirm a falsehood which I doubted; rather, I wanted some independent confirmation that it is false. Then, with your leave, Ardroy, I will add a note to this paper stating that I have your word that the accusation is not true.’

‘You will not keep this paper at all!’ cried Ewen, snatching it up from the desk. ‘It shouldn’t soil your collection—it deserves to be nowhere but in the fire!’

And, glancing round and seeing that no fire was yet lit in the grate, Ewen took the paper in his hands and made as if to tear it to pieces there and then. But he glanced back for a moment at Mr Forbes, and the look on the clergyman’s face—not one of alarm or protest, but one of silent, mild and yet grave reproach—recalled him to himself.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said, casting the paper back onto the table. ‘Of course ’tis your property, and you must do as you think best with it. But I really think——’

‘I quite understand your feelings, Ardroy,’ said Mr Forbes. He took the paper and smoothed it carefully out. ‘’Tis a horrible accusation, and even more horrible coming to your knowledge just now. But we must—that is, I must, as a historian, consider the thing from all angles. It is possible that Mr MacDonell is merely mistaken; perhaps he had the story from some other person, with whom the malice originates, and he himself, not knowing Dr Cameron so well as you did, knew no better than to repeat it.’ (Ewen shook his head mutinously.) ‘And, whether that is so or not, I think ’twould be better to keep the paper, with your statement against it; for the lies men tell about each other, and the mistakes they make, form part of history also, and where we can show clearly what is false, I believe the record is worth preserving.’

Some small part of Ewen’s mind did acknowledge the wisdom of these words; but he was still too angry, and his outraged grief too raw, really to pay attention to such careful, judicious reasoning. He shook his head again, and only said, ‘Very well.’

‘I am sorry to have brought this to your knowledge, Ardroy,’ said Mr Forbes. ‘I know how painful a thing it is to you. You’ve been a great help to me; your statement that this is not true is very valuable.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ewen; and then, his mind having calmed by now just enough for new ideas to make themselves comprehensible, ‘You ought to tell Mr Stewart about this too, sir. He was with Archie these last five or six months; he may know what is the truth about these six thousand louis. I do not; I only know that Archie told me he never touched a penny of the money for himself! And Alan is a friend of Cluny Macpherson’s, too, so he may know something more about his side of the business.’

Mr Forbes nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, of course... I’ll speak to Mr Stewart later. Thank you very much, Ardroy, and I do apologise again for causing you this distress.’

‘’Tis nothing to apologise for,’ responded Ewen; ‘for, if—this person is saying such things, I think I would rather know about it... but thank you, sir.’

Mr Forbes looked at him carefully; his clear eyes, innocent and yet shrewd, seemed to penetrate into Ewen’s troubled mind and understand it, perhaps more clearly than Ewen himself did at this moment. Then he rose from his seat and, Ewen following suit, placed a hand upon his shoulder. ‘I know,’ he continued, ‘that Dr Cameron’s memory deserves only honour; and it is my solemn hope that my collection can give it. You know it already contains all you told me at our first meeting about his actions during the Rising—and I will not fail to record the doings of his last days, either.’

And Ewen acknowledged this with a bow of his head, suddenly finding that further words deserted him.

(2)

‘But I should like to know,’ said Alan, ‘just how it was that those redcoats knew we were on our way into Leith just when we were. For it wasn’t chance, our meeting them as we did.’

‘No, surely it wasn’t,’ said Ewen. Dinner was finished, and Alan raised this interesting subject as he and Ewen were sitting together at one end of the dining-table, Alan swirling a glass of port reflectively in his hand. And that it was an interesting subject seemed all at once very plain to Ewen now; for the last week he had had little space in his mind for tactical considerations, and had barely thought upon the question of how the encounter with the soldiers had come about. Probably Alan had felt the same way. It occurred to Ewen now that they had been very fortunate during that time in the redcoats having, apparently, had no further information as to their whereabouts—for they must have had information about their arrival at Leith. Alan was right: that patrol had surely not been where they had been, just at the right time, by chance. A sort of shiver of horror went through Ewen as he thought of it. First the soldiers in Glenbuckie, now this—they must, it seemed, have been dogged by traitors and informers wherever they went.

‘The Forbeses’ servants are all above suspicion‚’ continued Alan, ‘and if they were not, or ’twas some neighbour who knew where we were going, why have we not been molested any further? For that visit the other day wasn’t a special compliment to Mr and Mrs Forbes; other Jacobites’ houses were searched, so our hosts tell me. They did not know we were here.’

‘Perhaps someone overheard us on the road from Cramond, talking of our plans,’ suggested Ewen.

‘We were careful enough to stay out of hearing!’ said Alan.

‘Or someone at the inn in Edinburgh where Windham and I are staying?... No, we said nothing in public hearing that could have told a listener that much. And besides, anyone who did overhear our plans would surely hear where we were going, and tell the redcoats that, too! But no one else knew....’

And even as he spoke the words it came to Ewen that they were not true... and his late interview with Mr Forbes, which he had been trying with very indifferent success to forget all through dinner, returned to him again with new and dreadful significance.

He sat up in his chair and put a hand to his head; he felt dizzy.

‘I’m thinking you’ve a new notion, Ewen,’ observed Alan, placing his glass of port upon the table.

‘I have,’ said Ewen slowly. ‘Alan, someone else did know of our plans. Young Glengarry, who was at this house when Windham and I first came here to ask Mr Forbes’s help, knew of them. We talked it all over in his hearing; he knew quite enough to——’

‘And that,’ said Alan, speaking into the silence left by Ewen’s abrupt pause, ‘is a very weighty thing to suggest of a Highland gentleman, and one who has always been on the right side.’ Yet he sounded neither offended nor incredulous.

Ewen swallowed. Alan was quite right, of course; and Ewen had no proof to support his suspicion. But the more he thought upon it, the more it seemed the only possible solution to the puzzle. No one else but MacDonell had known of their plans; and MacDonell would have a reason not to direct the soldiers to Mr Forbes’s house, because it would make the connection to himself—lately a visitor at that very house—so much more obvious. And morally, of course.... ‘I think he is capable of it,’ said Ewen. ‘What I have just heard of him....’ And in a few words he told Alan about the paper Mr Forbes had shown him.

As he listened Alan’s face grew darker. ‘Ay, that’s not the first I’ve heard of that story,’ he said.

‘You’ve heard it before?’ cried Ewen. ‘Then he’s been putting this lie about—?’

‘’Tis just a dirty, baseless lie,’ continued Alan, ‘and he knows it, and goes about telling it to everyone he meets out of his old grudge against the Camerons. You and the Atholl men were on the right at Culloden, I suppose he’d say—as if you asked to take their privilege from them! And he repeats it now, does he? Ah, I’m thinking I could believe a man like that would stoop to spying.’

At actually hearing the word spy, some cup of rage and pain and indignation within Ewen brimmed over. He bent his head down to his crossed arms upon the table, closed his eyes and tried to force himself to think clearly. Could they be sure that it was MacDonell who had betrayed them? It seemed only more and more likely... and now another conclusion, grimmer yet, appeared before Ewen. If it had been MacDonell who betrayed them, then MacDonell—upon whose word the soldiers had been waiting to ambush them upon the bridge—was to blame for Archie’s death.

Ewen raised his head from his arms.

‘I’ll go to him,’ he said. ‘I’ll go to him and confront him with it, and get the truth out of him.’

‘And I’ll go with you!’ cried Alan.

‘No, no, you must not,’ said Ewen hastily, and to the look that greeted this he continued: ‘Your description is pasted up in bills from here to the Highlands; ’tis not safe for you to leave this house, even to go to MacDonell’s lodgings.’ And in a softer tone (but its softness was not gentle) he added, ‘I’ll see that there is a reckoning, Alan, for both of us—and for Archie.’

In attempting to soothe Alan’s feelings, Ewen had momentarily forgotten his own, and he found himself able to reason more clearly. He knew where to go, for MacDonell had mentioned the name of the place where he was lodging in Ewen’s hearing—God only grant that he was still in Edinburgh now!—and he knew what he meant to do... but for this there was one thing wanting.

‘No, Alan—you can help me,’ he said. ‘Lend me your sword. For I may want a weapon, if it comes to that... and I still have none of my own.’

Alan looked at him. The glowering frustration at not being able to go himself was vanished; his light grey eyes were gleaming with all the pride and anticipation which might have been in them had he and Ewen, a century or two earlier, been setting out together side by side to avenge themselves upon an ancient enemy of their two allied clans. ‘Ay, you shall have the sword of Alan Breck,’ he said. ‘I only pray you make good use of it!’

(3)

Ewen left the Forbeses’ house half an hour later with his mind absolutely set on his new intention. His grief was still keen within him, but it had lost its raging senselessness; it had ceased to make the cuts at his heart which had followed upon his discovery of what MacDonell had told Mr Forbes, and its sharpness was concentrated instead upon an active purpose. No longer was he to lie impotent under the implacable demands of fate; he would find out for certain whether this man was a spy and a traitor as well as a liar, and whether the blame for Archie’s death was to be laid at his door, and then... he would do whatever honour and loyalty to Archie seemed to require of him.

He did not stop to think of what Mr Forbes would have said to this intention. But there was one person whose opinion he must consider.

‘Ewen, I suppose there is some reason why Mr Stewart has given you his sword?’ enquired Keith, as they walked together between the high houses of Mr Forbes’s neighbours.

‘Yes—I mean to explain it to you,’ said Ewen; and his voice must have given away more than his words, for Keith gave him a penetrating look.

‘You have discovered something,’ he said.

‘So we have. Wait till we get away from the town, and I’ll tell you.’

And so, when they had left the houses of Leith behind them and the fields and hedgerows, tinged with green, stretched away on either side, and a lone gull or two flew on long wings beneath the patchy grey clouds above their heads, Ewen told Keith what he had found out, and what he meant to do.

‘I cannot argue with your intention,’ said Keith slowly, some time after Ewen had finished speaking. ‘If what you suspect is true, then....’ He shook his head. ‘I never greatly liked spying, even in war, though of course as an officer I was sometimes obliged to act on intelligence gained by spies. But at least in war it’s a thing understood by both sides, and has a clear end. This is a different kind of subterfuge; we are not at war, and he feigned friendship for Mr Forbes... and, of course, there is the question of what his information, if it was his, has led to.’

Ewen nodded eagerly. ‘Besides that of the infamous lies which he has certainly told!’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Keith. ‘So, though I am not a Jacobite and have nothing to do with pretended Jacobites who inform to Government, I understand your feeling. But, Ewen, is it wise to go and—I suppose you mean to call him out?’

‘I mean to make certain of what he has done,’ said Ewen. ‘Now I can only suspect. I must be sure.’

‘But consider: will you be able to?’ said Keith. ‘Surely if you challenge him with it, he’ll simply deny everything.’

Ewen set his lips. ‘I think he hardly can. He will not expect me to know it; when I surprise him by setting everything out before him at once... and besides, there are his lies, which he cannot deny now. He deserves to be called out for that alone!’

It was perhaps the tone more than the words of this speech which really convinced Keith of Ewen’s determination to carry out his intention. He continued to regard Ewen with a troubled expression; but his only comment was, ‘Well, I shall certainly come with you.’

Ewen looked at him. That Keith was not quite happy with his plan, though he said he understood it, he could see; and whether Keith’s intention now were more to support him or to keep him from running too headlong into a danger the absolute necessity of which Keith, he suspected, might not fully appreciate, he did not know. But he was warmed by the thought that he would have a friend at his side during the time to follow.

They returned into Edinburgh, and when they reached the city bent their steps, not towards the Kestrel, but farther to the west, and soon came to the narrow square, surrounded on all sides by high cliff-like houses, which Young Glengarry had mentioned as his address. The door of the house in question was opened, perhaps a minute after Ewen’s knock, by a sour-faced woman who asked in no very patient tones what they wanted.

‘The Highland gentleman who was lodging here?’ she said, in response to Ewen’s enquiry for Mr MacDonell, and his heart sank at the past tense. ‘He’s gone.’

‘How long ago?’ said Ewen.

‘Oh, not long; just to-day; an hour or two, it might be,’ said the woman, drumming with her fingers upon the door-frame. ‘If you’re a friend of his, sir, I will say I hope you have come to pay the bill for him, for he said he would send the money back, but that I do not believe, after——’

Detecting the opening of an aggrieved monologue, Ewen hastily interrupted, ‘Where was he going?—which road did he take?’

‘Indeed, I don’t know,’ said the landlady. ‘Back home to the Highlands, I think he said. Here, why do you want to know?’

Ewen’s brain was already roiling with probabilities as to which road MacDonell might have taken, and so it was with a rather distracted manner that he gave the landlady, firstly some vague, non-committal answer to this question and secondly a coin from his pocket, in thanks for her help. This last at least seemed to mollify her, and she bade them good-bye with a hope that they would succeed in catching up with Mr MacDonell, ‘whatever your quarrel is with him, sir.’

If it was only an hour ago that MacDonell had quitted his lodgings, then, had he gone to Leith to take ship for Inverness, they had stood a good chance of passing him on their own road; and since they had not, reasoned Keith and Ewen between them, he had probably gone westwards, thence to cross the Forth either by the ferry at Queensferry or by the bridge at Stirling and proceed to the Highlands overland. So they hired horses (the circumstances of Ardroy being what they were in these days, and so much already having been spent on his recent travels, it was an expense which Ewen could ill afford; but if ever the needs of the situation justified such extravagance, they did to-day) and set out along the Queensferry road.

And it was on the Queensferry road—not very far, in fact, from Cramond and the house of Shaws—when, a short and anxious time later, they saw ahead of them a small carriage, moving at a pace rather cautious than leisurely over the rutted and uneven surface. Drawing level with it, Ewen glanced briefly at the driver—an ill-tempered-looking man, and apparently a Highlander—and then turned his attention to the carriage’s single occupant.

He had found what he sought.

Ewen moved closer to the carriage.

‘Sir, may I ask what you—why, ’tis Cameron of Ardroy!’

‘Mr MacDonell‚’ said Ewen calmly. Keith had ridden round to bar the way ahead, and the driver, with apprehensive and uncertain looks at him, had thus been obliged to stop the carriage, so that Ewen faced his enemy through the open window. ‘I must speak with you at once, about some very urgent matters. I’ll ask you to get down first.’

‘Stand and deliver, my money or my life?’ enquired Young Glengarry. ‘I did not know you were turned highway robber, Mr Cameron; I thought ’twas more in the line of cattle—however, I’ll oblige you, though it is a cruel request to make of a man still convalescent,’ he added with an air of being much put-upon. ‘Dugald, wait there.’ And, unwinding a dark woollen plaid from about his knees, he stood and climbed down from the carriage; Ewen likewise dismounted from his horse, handing the reins to Keith to hold along with those of his own mount.

‘And what have you to speak with me about that’s so urgent, Mr Cameron?’ said MacDonell, when he and Ewen stood together by the side of the road. ‘I must say this is very extraordinary conduct; I hope your errand is extraordinary enough to justify it.’ He was, Ewen noticed, wearing a sword, although he was going back to the Highlands. Ewen was glad to see it.

‘I think so—and I think you have guessed what it is,’ said Ewen quietly. ‘But I’ll explain it to you.’ And he repeated to its author the contents of the paper in Mr Forbes’s study. In doing so he reignited his own fury at it, and when his explanation was done at once continued: ‘It is an infamous lie——’ But MacDonell interrupted him before he could say any more.

‘Perhaps it is,’ he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of conciliating innocence. ‘A man may be mistaken, mayn’t he? Mr Forbes is the historian, not I; ’tis he must judge of the trustworthiness of my information. As for myself, I had the story from my cousin Lochgarry... although I do believe him to be reliable; and I have heard some other very doubtful reports of Dr Cameron, so you must not be surprised if——’

It was Ewen’s turn to break in. ‘You still dare insult Dr Cameron—now!’ he exclaimed. ‘No, you were not “mistaken”. You knew quite well what you said, and what you were about in spreading such stories. But I see you are even worse than I thought you. You speak to me to-day, and you dare to go on heaping lies and calumnies upon a good, noble man not a week in his grave!’

Hot tears were in his eyes as he spoke. So enraged was he at Glengarry’s amazing audacity in thus trying to continue his insults that it took a moment before he registered the shock with which his listener greeted this last word. ‘In his grave!’ said Glengarry, in quite a different tone from that which he had used hitherto. ‘Do I misunderstand you—Dr Cameron is dead?’

In all the revelations and outrages of the day, it had not occurred to Ewen that MacDonell might yet be ignorant of Dr Cameron’s fate. He was not, after all, quite so bad as Ewen had thought him. So they both stumbled, as it were, for a moment in surprise... and it was the unguardedness of surprise which proved MacDonell’s undoing.

‘I did not know.... Of course I will speak more respectfully, in that case,’ he said. ‘Gad, it must have been a real fight, then, though they got away!’

These last words were spoken in an undertone, and not meant for Ewen to hear, if they were meant at all; but he did hear them, and their sense impressed itself upon him with the quiet, implacable significance of a great stone falling heavy and relentless to the bottom of a loch. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘do you think Dr Cameron must have died after a fight? I did not say what killed him.’

And Glengarry hesitated for a moment before replying, ‘Why, of course I know that you met a redcoat patrol on your way into Leith; Mr Forbes told me about it.’ And here again he blundered.

‘And yet he did not tell you of Dr Cameron’s death, or even that he was injured!’ cried Ewen. ‘No, I do not believe you, Mr MacDonell. Mr Forbes and his wife have been absolutely faithful in keeping our doings secret, ever since we first spoke to them. He said nothing to you; you know about the fight in Leith for quite another reason—because ’twas you told the soldiers where to go!’

There was a chill wind blowing across the fields, shivering the bright, delicate new leaves of the hedgerow hazels and catching at the horses’ manes. One of the animals stamped its foot, in agitation or impatience, and Ewen was vaguely aware of Keith speaking a reassuring word to it. But he did not look away from MacDonell’s face, and neither did his enemy move his own gaze from Ewen.

Eventually MacDonell spoke.

‘I think it an extraordinary thing, Mr Cameron,’ he said, ‘to come chasing after me merely to rebuke me for making groundless (so you say) accusations about Dr Cameron, and then to make such an accusation as that about me! It is nonsense, of course.’

Ewen shook his head. ‘No, it is not nonsense,’ he said softly. ‘I was already almost certain of it—that is why I came after you to-day, Mr MacDonell... for it was not chance that we met the soldiers when we did: someone informed them that we would be making our way into Leith just then, and you were the only person besides the Forbes household and ourselves who could possibly have known what to tell them. And now I believe you have given me the proof.’

For another few moments of silence they faced each other. What was actually passing in Glengarry’s mind Ewen could only guess at; but he was now morally certain that the man before him was the spy who had informed on them. Then MacDonell said, ‘I think, Mr Cameron, you give me no alternative,’ and placed his right hand upon the hilt of his sword.

‘Very well,’ said Ewen. ‘I thought it might come to this. I am quite ready.’ And he drew Alan’s sword from the scabbard.

MacDonell glanced around at the bare fields, the gloomy sky and the deserted road. ‘’Tis a pity,’ he remarked, ‘for you have brought your friend along, all ready, to act as second should one be required, while I have no one but Dugald here.’ But despite this protest, he made no further mention of his supposedly being still convalescent, which might have made a better excuse had he wanted one. He was not a coward, then; or perhaps, knowing the truth of Ewen’s accusation, he was simply desperate. He had something of the look of a man cornered.

‘Oh, I think we may dispense with the formalities, Mr MacDonell,’ said Ewen. ‘Such things are proper to fights between gentlemen, you know.’

MacDonell answered this insult only by raising his head. Then he drew his own weapon—and the battle joined.

If Young Glengarry was no coward, neither was he incompetent or unwilling to use his utmost effort. He was a good opponent. Ewen felt a fierce joy at it as their swords clashed together: all the more opportunity to put forth his own skill to punish the traitor and to avenge Archie!

But if there was any real uncertainty as to who would be the victor, it did not last long. Ewen, seeing every detail of his opponent’s movements with the preternaturally sharp sight of concentrated rage, found an opening; a moment later he had knocked MacDonell’s sword from his hand. MacDonell glanced down at it, a sort of indignant surprise upon his face, but Ewen’s foot was already planted on the fallen weapon. And now Ewen stepped forward, his own sword level, until its point almost touched his enemy’s throat.

MacDonell leaned his head back a little, but made no move to step away. Neither did he speak.

From somewhere behind them came further sounds of distress from the horses, alarmed by the outbreak of violence. Ewen took no notice. He gripped his sword, almost wanting to delay the moment of vengeance, that he might better know its full significance. He met MacDonell’s eyes—no, the man was not laughing at him now—and he thought of all the base lies and insinuations he had spread about; of all the damage his spying had done to Jacobite plans; of that fatal piece of information that had sent the soldiers to Leith; of Archie, sent to his death though this man’s vile treachery....

...Archie, who had faced that death with such cheerful courage and resignation—who on his very deathbed had given such proofs of his loyalty to the Cause and of that true honour in which he had never failed—with whose failing voice Ewen himself had joined in the words, ‘as we forgive them that trespass against us’...

Ewen lowered his sword.

‘I will not do it,’ he said, speaking in a hoarse half-whisper. ‘How could your death ever avenge his? He was a thousand times a better man than you.’

He sheathed the sword and stepped back. MacDonell’s terror was turning to astonishment as he tried to comprehend what had happened; but Ewen could not bear to look at him any longer, and he turned back to where Keith stood with the horses.

‘We will go now,’ he said. The tears had sprung suddenly to his eyes, and he dashed them furiously away with one hand. Keith answered him with a look—he did not see, for at that moment he could not, how many varied emotions were in that look—and a nod.

And two minutes later they were gone; and between the hills of Queensferry ahead and that of Corstorphine behind, the flat ground to the southwest and the lowering grey clouds, there remained only the still-stationary carriage; Dugald the driver, who was perhaps inwardly cursing the folly that brought his master into such dangerous and inconvenient scrapes as these, or perhaps only marvelling at the inexplicable events which had passed before his eyes; and the loser of the fight—Young Glengarry, Pickle the spy, who had turned traitor to the Jacobite cause for the promise of English gold—who stood quite still for some time, as he had stood with the blade at his throat, looking after the vanished enemy who had reprieved him.

(4)

‘No,’ said Ewen, in a flat and lifeless voice, ‘I’ve not forgiven him. What he has done... no, I cannot speak of it.’

It was the evening, and he and Keith were sitting before the fire in their room at the Kestrel. Alan’s sword in its scabbard was propped against the window-seat behind them. Ewen held in his hands a cup of Miss McArthur’s famous hot toddy, prepared with no lesser skill for the haste and alarm of the maker—for Ewen’s state, on arrival back at the inn, had been such as to cause serious concern to both Keith and her. He had accepted the drink, and the blanket which Keith had placed over his shoulders, with quiet acquiescence, and for some time now he had sat silent, looking into the fire and occasionally taking sips from his cup. At last Keith, thinking that to speak of the afternoon’s events might be better for him than this disconcerting silence, had ventured to ask the question which elicited this answer.

‘I do not know if I ever will,’ continued Ewen now. ‘I... cannot imagine it. But what I saw this afternoon was that Archie would have forgiven him... for Archie was a better man than I. I could not fail him.’

‘You did not,’ said Keith, and slipped his arm about Ewen beneath the blanket. Ewen, to his relief, leaned against him, and it was a comfort to Keith too to feel it; for he had been not a little anxious to-day, on the one hand about the possibility of Ewen’s losing the fight and on the other about the consequences that might follow had he made his victory more complete. Keith Windham was a gentleman of the eighteenth century; he had fought a duel or two himself in his time, and he would not have held Ewen back when he had such good reason to issue a challenge; and yet he was relieved that this had been the ending of it, after all.

‘And he’ll not do us any more harm,’ said Ewen after a while. ‘Alan will tell the Prince everything when he gets to France, and that, I hope, will be the end of it all.’ He shook his head, and added quietly, ‘’Tis not enough... but nothing I could do to him would undo it.’

In fact discredit with the Jacobites—a severe enough fate for a Highland gentleman who valued at least the appearance of honour—was not the only punishment which was to be visited upon Alastair MacDonell; for the British Government, in their gratitude for his service, gave him scarcely any of the money the promise of which had led him to render it, and he died eight years later, an impoverished and embittered man, known largely for his cruelties and treacheries and not greatly regretted by any. And yet Ewen’s words were true.

There was another long pause, during which Ewen sipped at his drink and the fire flickered lower and more steady, before Keith spoke.

‘Ewen,’ he said, a little hesitantly, ‘you know my faith is not so deep as yours. But... whatever other life there may be after this, I think Dr Cameron was very near you to-day. I believe he always will be.’

Ewen nodded. The tears had come back into his eyes, but they were no longer the tears of bewilderment and rage that had been there this afternoon. It was a better thing for him; and he whispered, ‘I know it. Thank you, Keith,’ and then set his cup down on the floor and turned to allow Keith to take him fully into his arms. They stayed there in close embrace for a long time, while the fire burned lower and the grey spring evening outside deepened slowly towards night.

XXI. Farewell

(1)

Ewen had now done all that there was to be done for his friends; Captain Brodie’s ship, the Broomhill, was to sail in a few days more, and very soon there would be no more question of Jacobite schemes or of Ewen’s exposing himself to dangers. (And Keith privately hoped, though he did not say so to Ewen, that this would be for good.) But Ewen must make one more visit to the house at Leith—to return Alan’s sword to him and to explain why he had not used it. Keith went with him, partly because he felt that Ewen was still in need of moral support, and partly because this would be their last visit to Mr Forbes’s house, and, in spite of all the trouble their doings had caused him, he wished to say good-bye to Mr Stewart and Mr Balfour.

Ewen, understanding this first intention without Keith’s needing to explain it, thanked him; ‘but I must speak to Alan alone first, I think,’ he said. ‘He is a Highlander—and you know what that means!—and a very proud man... but he was Archie’s friend. I think he will understand. I hope so.’

And so—for Mr Forbes was out visiting a sick parishioner, and Mrs Forbes gone marketing—Keith was now waiting in the drawing-room, gazing absently out of the window and munching on one of the small plateful of biscuits which the servant had brought him. The sky was a pale morning blue, and gleams of sun threw odd, lively highlights upon patches of roof and paving-stones. Finishing the last mouthful of his biscuit, Keith turned his attention to the glass-fronted oak cabinet which stood against the wall by the window: this was evidently where the Forbeses kept those pieces of their glass- and tableware too precious for storage in the kitchen, and there were some really fine-looking pieces in there—for all that several of them had significant designs of thistles, oak-leaves and roses engraved upon them. As he looked closer, Keith’s attention was caught by a small silver bowl with some words on its base, and, succumbing to curiosity, he opened the cabinet and picked up the bowl in order to read them:

God bless the King!—God bless the Faith’s defender!
God bless—No harm in blessing—the Pretender.
Who that Pretender is, and who that King,—
God bless us all!—is quite another thing.

He was still in the midst of examining this specimen of Jacobitical wit when a step sounded behind him, and he turned to see David Balfour with his hand on the door.

‘Mr Windham,’ said David. ‘James, the servant, told me you were here, and I thought I’d come and keep you company.... Ah, you’ve found that, have you?’

‘’Tis an amusing piece of poetry, though I cannot commend its taste,’ commented Keith, placing the bowl back on its shelf and closing the glass door. In fact his sentiments concerning the bowl and the lines engraved thereon went rather further than amusement. The Keith Windham of eight years ago would have dismissed the whole thing as a piece of folly, as foolish as everything else about these Jacobites and their absurd romantical devotion to their cause. The Keith Windham of to-day knew a little better. There was something poignant in finding such a thing in this house at this moment. The real absurdity of the doggerel was quite in keeping with the innocent, earnest loyalty which the Forbeses, husband and wife, both had in their attitude towards their King in exile, and which it might have been easy to see as a light, childish, frivolous thing—and yet they had taken in these hunted fugitives and sheltered them at some cost and no little danger to themselves; had nursed Dr Cameron in the last days before he made the final sacrifice for the cause he shared with them; had expended such time and effort upon the great historical work, to record for all time that year which would always stand above all others in Jacobite memory. No, they were not absurd—no more than Ewen was.

‘There is much I do not understand about the Jacobites,’ said David, as though he had divined something of Keith’s thoughts, ‘but, wrong-headed as they are, I think there is a great deal of nobility in them.’

‘So there is,’ said Keith. ‘I have often thought so.’

‘You must have had much opportunity of observing it,’ said David, ‘since you’ve lived in the Highlands—quite among Jacobites. Pardon me for saying so, but it seems to me a strange life for one of our party.’

‘I have—and you need not ask pardon, Shaws, for that it is,’ said Keith frankly. ‘’Tis a very different existence from anything I ever envisaged for myself,’ he said, ‘and yet I find it suits me well.’

‘The Highlands are—or they once were—about as foreign to you as they were to me, I suppose,’ observed David, leaning upon the window-sill; then he paused, but he looked as though he wanted to say more, so Keith did not at once reply. And David after a moment went on, ‘Ardroy has told me about how you gave up your commission in ’46. Oh, forgive me if I speak of what is painful to you, Windham——’

‘Not at all; go on,’ murmured Keith.

‘—But I think it was a fine thing to do! I wanted to tell you so.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But you... did you not feel that you were abandoning your duty? A soldier has his duty, to follow his orders, and you turned aside to help a man who was your enemy. I don’t criticise it... I only mean—that can’t have been easy.’

Keith looked out of the window again. In fact it was painful for him to speak of these things, and not at all easy to do so with anyone other than Ewen; and yet he saw why Mr Balfour should want to talk to him about them, and he felt that he ought to give him the best answer he could. So, after a moment, he began, ‘Indeed; I did feel so. I think it was the hardest thing I ever did.... I had held King George’s commission since I was younger than you are now, Shaws. I was a prodigiously ambitious young man, if you can believe that: ’twas my highest aim in life—nay, my only aim—to advance in my career. But I kept the laws of honour, and I always believed that the Army held to them too: we did not make war upon women or children or unarmed men; we treated prisoners, lawfully taken in war, decently under the rules of war. That, I thought, was the ground and basis of my duty. And... what I saw, and did, in ’46 showed me that it was a mirage. My commanders were not honourable. My position in the world was not what I had thought it to be, and I saw that I must abandon some of what I had thought to be my duty, in order to remain true to my own honour.’ He paused, looked back at David—who was watching him closely—and went on, ‘But such things aren’t compassed in a day! It was exceedingly painful... and it was Ardroy who showed me the way I must go.’ And after a moment he added, ‘I think you’re discovering something of the same thing, are you not?’

David nodded slowly. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that my duty was to be a good laird at Shaws. I didn’t mean to reject that, or think it wrong—I hardly thought that anything like this might come of going to Balquhidder... but——’ He rested an elbow on top of the cabinet of Jacobite glassware, looked down at his joined hands, looked over at Keith again and went on, ‘I thought, once, that justice would be done to all in this country—as it was done to me when I had my estate restored to me!... and ’twas not done to James of the Glens, or to Alan, two years ago. And it wouldn’t have been now.... Oh, I’m no great philosopher—I went to warn Alan about the warrant because I could not bear to think of him being captured; I wasn’t thinking of justice and injustice....’

‘Neither was I much of a philosopher, when I went to help my enemy,’ remarked Keith. ‘That is where it comes from, I think—not from philosophising.’

David returned his smile. ‘Yes, I see. I am still a Whig—as you are—and a loyal subject of King George, though I must flee from his Government to escape punishment for something I really did, against his authority.’ This statement was accompanied by a gesture expressive of the strangeness of this situation and of David’s own inability entirely to explain it.

‘’Tis something of a contradiction,’ said Keith wryly.

‘Well, that loyalty isn’t everything, then. And perhaps I had to give up part of my duty too.’

Keith was finding that, after all, it was not so difficult as he had anticipated to contemplate and to frame in words these matters, which he had held close to himself during the last eight years, and only spoken of with Ewen. In fact it was something to speak of them to someone who—different as their characters and situations in life were—was a fellow Whig, and could understand him in a way Ewen could not. And perhaps it was because of this, and perhaps it was also because he had once or twice before now taken notice of a certain something in David’s manner when he spoke of Alan, or when they were together—a very subtle thing, probably only perceptible by one who had Keith’s particular reason to perceive it—that he now said, in a very low voice, ‘In the old days I spoke of, Shaws, I thought nothing at all of friendship, or love. I thought I’d had done with them, and that military ambition was all I needed or wanted. Needless to say, I was wrong.... Sometimes, I think, ’tis right to go against what the world asks of us, or calls our duty, for love. It can—show us the way to a better thing.’ And only when he was done speaking did he raise his eyes to meet David’s.

But it seemed that this advice was well-judged, for David said softly, ‘I see. Yes... I’m glad you have found it so too. Thank you, Windham.’

‘As for the Highlands,’ resumed Keith, a short while later, ‘I’ve certainly been very happy there... with Ewen. And I have learnt much about farming, which turns out to be a more interesting subject than I would once have thought.’

‘I knew nothing of managing an estate before I arrived at Shaws,’ said David. ‘I believe we’ve both had much to learn.’

Keith nodded. ‘Although,’ he added, ‘much as I do like the place, I confess I’ll never learn to love the sound of the bagpipes—which are often played at Ardroy. ’Tis an atrocious din—though I would ask you not to repeat that in Ewen’s hearing.’

‘Oh, now, I don’t agree with you there, Windham!’ exclaimed David, affecting shock. ‘I think pipe music very lovely. I first heard it when I was in the Highlands; we were staying at a house where the goodman had a set of pipes, and Alan played upon them—very beautifully. I wager you would change your mind if ever you heard his playing.’ And there it was again, that light that came into his face as he spoke of Alan, even thus in jest; no, thought Keith, his conjecture had not been groundless.... ‘But I see that we must make allowances for the sadly regrettable taste of an Englishman,’ concluded David.

‘I’m afraid we must,’ said Keith gravely; and, after regarding each other with steady solemnity for a few moments, the Scottish Whig and the English both burst into laughter.

(2)

Shortly after he had left Keith Windham, to enquire where the other inmates of the house had got to, David found Alan upon the stairs, an expression on his face of such grey sullenness as did not at all accord with his just having taken leave of his cousin and friend; and so David, naturally inferring that something had gone badly wrong in whatever he and Ardroy had been speaking of together, at once asked what was the matter.

Alan turned his stormy face on him. ‘Ardroy—— But no, you wouldn’t like to hear it, Davie.’

‘I would!’ protested David. ‘Alan, tell me what’s wrong.’

Another look long followed, in which some of the sullenness gave way to a more thoughtful expression. Then Alan began, slowly, ‘You’ll not have heard what Ardroy and I decided together yesterday. Well, we found out how it was that we met that party of redcoats on our way into Leith....’ And he proceeded to tell the story of what he and Ewen had planned, and how Ewen had turned aside from his mission at the last.

‘And that’s what he has just been telling you now,’ concluded David.

‘Ay. And given me my sword back—very handsomely.’ Alan touched his hand to the hilt of the weapon, which hung once more at his belt; the gesture, whether he meant it to or not, managed eloquently to express how much he would have liked to make that use of it which Ardroy had refused.

David walked a little way down the passage and then back up again. It was a great deal to hear of all at once; and the first response of his heart was one of horror and indignation against MacDonell of Glengarry, whom he himself had never met and scarcely heard of, but who had so shockingly betrayed them all, and whose action had led directly to the death of Dr Cameron. In this, at least, he saw Alan’s point at once. He returned to Alan’s side, and said so.

‘And you,’ he added, ‘would have had Ardroy... serve him as another friend of yours once served Campbell of Glenure?’

‘And give him what he deserved!’ cried Alan fiercely.

And yet, thought David, Ardroy had turned aside from his errand of revenge—not, perhaps, for just the same reason he himself would have refused such a commission, because he believed revenge to be un-Christian, but out of faith and loyalty to Dr Cameron, who would not have wanted to see a man murdered in his name. And Alan, Ardroy and Dr Cameron were all Highlanders....

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll not lecture you upon the morality of it, Alan. I think—I think Ardroy did rightly, and I’m glad that he has returned your sword to you unbloodied. But that you wanted him to do otherwise... when Dr Cameron—— Ay, that I understand.’

‘You’ve listened too much to that Campbell minister, Davie,’ muttered Alan; but even while so saying he allowed David to take him into his arms.

About a minute later there sounded footsteps from the end of the passageway, and Ewen appeared, with Keith walking a little behind him. Ewen went up to Alan, hesitantly returning to that task which had ended so badly in their first conversation.

‘I hope you can forgive me,’ he said. ‘I think I let you down; but I had to do it; it was all I could do.’

And, ‘Na, you were right,’ said Alan, shaking his head. ‘I wanted you to do otherwise—I still say the traitor has deserved it! Were it for myself, I would do a different thing. But—he would not have done it. And so I must say you were right.’

A look of relieved and glad understanding spread across Ewen’s face. ‘Yes; that was just how it was with me,’ he said simply.

Alan nodded in acknowledgement, watching him carefully out of his light eyes all the time; and so the two Highlanders, the feud in which they had been allies abandoned, yet clasped hands as friends.

(3)

This reconciliation was just completed when a bustle of activity in the hallway below announced the arrival of Mrs Forbes, who, having deposited her basket in the kitchen, proceeded upstairs with profuse apologies to her visitors for her poor timing and to offer them all some refreshment. This Keith accepted with his usual handsome grace, and Mrs Forbes led a general movement back towards the drawing-room; but Ewen contrived to hang back for a moment and say to David, ‘Shaws, I think we must say our farewells; for you’ll be gone in another day or two, if all goes well, and I suppose this will be our last visit.’

‘Indeed!’ said David; ‘but I hope I may say that I look forward to meeting you again in the future.’

‘I hope so too,’ said Ewen, with a smile which felt rather bittersweet upon his lips. The others had by now been ushered by their hostess into the drawing-room, and he and David were alone. Ewen, not quite yet in a state of mind to face the sort of loud and convivial gathering in which he would usually have been very happy, was glad thus to have a few moments to spend instead in exchanging a quiet good-bye with his new friend.

‘I’m glad to have met you, Ardroy,’ continued David, ‘...and Dr Cameron, too.’

Ewen sighed. ‘You are good to say so,’ he said. ‘These last months have not been my finest, I fear.’ He felt the truth of it as he spoke. Yesterday’s great outburst of grief once over, it had left in its wake a quiet, blank, steady sense of failure which seemed to cover everything about it, like the dull floodwaters which lie placid and gloomy in the fields and on the roads and among the woods when the storm has ceased its raging. Ewen was thinking now of the shameful business with Lord Aveling—of his own initial crime, and of Aveling’s having heaped coals of fire on his head by saving him from ignominious imprisonment—but he was thinking also of his failure to save Archie, and his failure to get revenge on Archie’s betrayer (for, with the not very brilliant logic common to such moods, he now reproached himself for a decision which he had himself accepted as the right, and only possible, one, and had just this moment been glad to see Alan accept too).

But, ‘I wouldn’t say so!’ said David. ‘You’ve done one very fine thing, at least,’ he added quietly, ‘and that’s to have saved Alan and me—after a very rash thing I did to get myself into such peril! We certainly would not be leaving Scotland safely now, if it hadn’t been for you.’

‘That’s good of you, Shaws,’ said Ewen—forced even in his gloominess of mind to admit the truth of this. ‘Thank you.’

At the end of the passageway was a small and irregularly-shaped window which looked out onto a narrow yard between the houses. There was a little rowan-tree growing in the yard, straggling up between the high shading walls, putting forth its neatly arranged pinnate leaves as if uncertain what they would find once out in the world. It put Ewen suddenly in mind of a certain sapling which grew by the shore of Loch na h-Iolaire, above a patch of cranberry-bushes and sheltered, or shaded, by a group of boulders. That tree, too, would be bright with new green growth just now. How he missed it!...

‘Ardroy?’

This was spoken in a different tone, and Ewen, his attention recalled to the present moment, found David regarding him with an odd look, at once careful and resolute. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘You have done something else too... for Alan and me. I will tell you.’ And, in a few words, he told Ewen of his inadvertent observation in among the broom and whin near Falkirk, and to what it had led. ‘Perhaps I should ask your pardon for so rudely eavesdropping,’ he added, ‘but I have to thank you for it, after all.’

And this did give Ewen something else to think of. Accustomed all his life to love in one form or another, given love in abundance, accepting it simply and naturally as his due and returning it easily and warmly, Ewen had never acquired that subtlety of perception in observing other people which is sometimes sharpened by a sense of personal want. Although he was himself, living with Keith as he did now, obliged to dissemble to the world as to his own private sentiments, it still rarely occurred to him to suppose that other people’s feelings might be anything other than what appeared plainly to view, or that there might exist in their own private worlds anything which he had not remarked. He thought for a moment of how puzzled he had been at first by Keith’s own behaviour towards him in ’46.... ‘No,’ he said eventually, ‘no, you needn’t ask my pardon, Shaws... I think I should rather thank you for confiding in me! I need hardly say that I understand what it means.... May I tell Keith about this?’

‘Yes, please do.’

Ewen looked again through the window at the waving leaves of the rowan. ‘Such things are not easy, Shaws,’ he said presently, ‘neither such love between men, nor any love between Whig and Jacobite... and I fear you’ll have a harder time of it than Keith and I did, if you ever get your pardon and come back to Scotland.’

‘I know,’ said David. ‘I see that... and I don’t know what we’ll do in the future. But for now——’

For a moment Ewen regarded his courageous young friend with gladness, warm fellow-feeling and sympathetic dread oddly mingled; then he said, clasping his hands together, ‘Well, I hope we may all meet again one day in Scotland—however that may be. We shall invite you and Alan to Ardroy, if ever we can.’

‘I won’t forget that promise,’ said David, smiling.

From the drawing-room came the sound of Mrs Forbes’s voice raised in the excitement of some humorous anecdote, and laughter from her listeners. ‘I think we’d better go and join the others,’ said Ewen, looking towards the door. ‘Farewell, Shaws. You were right... and I am glad to have met you. I hope you’ll write to me from France.’

And David clasped Ewen’s offered hand, and said, ‘Of course I will. Whatever else has happened these last weeks, I’ve gained two good friends in you and Windham. I share your hope....’

They went together into the drawing-room, where they found Mrs Forbes questioning Keith with interest about his and Ewen’s planned return to Ardroy, what route they would take and what were the features of the journey. Ewen watched with a little smile as David went over to where Alan sat, said something to him in an undertone and laid a hand on his arm.

A few minutes after this the door opened once again and Mr Forbes appeared.

‘Here you all are!’ he said, coming forward with outstretched hands. ‘I must apologise for my tardiness.... So we are to say good-bye, Ardroy, Mr Windham! Yes, ’tis all arranged—Captain Brodie’s ship sails to-morrow or the day after, if the wind is fair.’

Suddenly there seemed to be a great deal for them all to speak of. The gathering was happy, with that bittersweet happiness which belongs to friends who meet and know they are soon to part. Ewen, leaning back in his chair in a pause of his own part of the conversation, looked round at them: David showing Keith some pages of his contribution to Mr Forbes’s collection; Alan telling Mr and Mrs Forbes one of his involved stories about life among the Jacobites of France, and Mrs Forbes leaning forward, her chin upon her hand, to ask a question about the Prince. Her husband, seated beside her, happened for a moment to glance up from this exchange, and met Ewen’s eyes; and a peculiar expression, more solemn than a smile but holding in it a steady light that was not unhappy, came into Mr Forbes’s face.

(4)

It had rained through the night and for much of the morning: the drops of water, made more visible in the afternoon sun beneath which they would linger for a short but persistent while, clung amongst the short grass and to the tiny leaves of the box hedges, and the gravel of the path was dark and pitted here and there with small puddles. From the highest branch of a tall and vigorous lilac bush perhaps ten paces from the window a willow-wren was singing, and its voice, clear and liquid, seemed all of a piece with the at once watery and vernal surroundings.

‘I think the rain has stopped,’ said Georgina doubtfully, sticking her head out of the French window. ‘Yes, it has; so ’tis quite safe for you to leave us now, Mr Windham!’

Upon their return to the Kestrel the previous day Keith and Ewen had found two letters awaiting them. One, addressed to Ewen, was from Mrs Stewart of Glenbuckie and informed them that the authorities at Perth, finding themselves baffled in their attempts to connect Duncan with those other Jacobite outlaws who had never been arrested, had been obliged to let him go free, and that he was now safely back at home. The other note was for Keith; it was from Lord Aveling, inviting his brother to join him at the Abbey and meet Miss Churchill. Now Keith had spent a most agreeable morning on this errand. He liked Miss Churchill very much, he found; and certainly it did not take more than an hour or so in the shared company of Francis and Georgina to see that the couple suited each other perfectly.

‘I’ll walk you to the gate,’ said Francis now, ‘—if I may desert you for a moment, Georgina.’

‘Oh, I know that you will return to me!’ cried Georgina, with that mock sentiment in the enactment of which real, sincere sentiment can yet be displayed—a mode of expression in which she delighted. She returned briefly to seriousness. ‘Good-bye, Mr Windham. I hope this meeting will be the first of many.’

‘A hope in which I entirely concur, madam,’ said Keith, with a bow.

The brothers stepped into the garden together, and, Miss Churchill left behind them, strolled slowly along the gravel path for a while, not speaking. It was a good thing to know that such companionable silence was still possible between them.

‘Francis,’ said Keith at length, ‘I don’t think I could ask for a better sister. I hope—and trust—that you’ll be very happy together.’

Francis answered this with a blush and a smile, and they strolled onwards, the warbler still singing behind them with an industry curiously at variance with the gentle sound of its voice.

Eventually Francis spoke, in one of the pauses which the bird left between its phrases.

‘Before Ardroy was released from the Castle,’ he said, without preamble, ‘did you... was there any disturbance—to trouble Dr Cameron and the others, wherever they were?’

Keith was a trifle startled by this change of topic. ‘The house was searched that morning,’ he replied, ‘but I believe ’twas little trouble to its inhabitants. They have—ways of evading such things, you know. I was not there.’ And he paused for the space of another descending scale from the warbler before adding, ‘Why do you ask?’

‘When I spoke to him, General Churchill said he meant to have the houses of some known Jacobites at Leith searched before he could justify letting Ardroy go,’ said Francis. ‘I knew that one of those houses might be... well, the right one. I felt it would be going too far to tell you about it; but I was anxious that nothing should happen to trouble you—or Ardroy’s friends. Of course Ardroy was released, so I knew that they could not have been found after all—but I’m glad to hear from you that there was really no trouble.’

‘Thank you, Francis,’ said Keith, again surprised. Francis’s tone was careful; he was still not quite happy with his own choice—which meant, what was more a grief to his brother, that he was not quite happy with Keith’s chosen actions either—and yet he cared sufficiently about the fate of Keith’s Jacobite friends to ask after them now. And now the situation was less urgent than it had been at Keith’s last meeting with him, when he had asked that favour which Francis was evidently still so uneasy about having granted; and so he might say something more about his own reasoning, and perhaps offer Francis some further assurance. ‘When we last spoke,’ he began, ‘you made a point which I didn’t address. You thought that Ardroy and his companions should have been brought to justice....’

‘I believe I did say so,’ said Francis. ‘Of course, I quite understand that you wouldn’t——’

‘No,’ said Keith. ‘But I think I owe you more of an explanation of why that course was so impossible to me, even beyond the obvious reasons. Do you remember when I came to London in ’46?’

‘Yes,’ said Aveling, puzzlement in his tone.

Keith paused for a moment before continuing. They were still walking along the damp gravel, and the slow, steady movement composed his thoughts. He recalled to himself those days in London—miserable enough as they were in memory—and began to explain why he had taken the step that brought him there—to explain, in fact, very much the same things which he had the previous day explained to David Balfour. The irony of the resemblance struck him as he spoke. ‘I decided then,’ he concluded, ‘and I still believe, that ’tis no duty to bring even a real enemy to a justice which is no justice at all. True duty may lead us in the opposite direction.’

Aveling was frowning deeply—as much in taking care to follow the line of the argument as in anxiety at discussing again what was still so fraught a subject. ‘But is it the same now?’ he said. ‘Perhaps the Government couldn’t afford to show the clemency they ought, when they had just fought a war against a rebel army. And General Churchill is not an unjust man—he has shown that!’

‘He has,’ acknowledged Keith. And neither was he himself an unjust man, and yet at Inverness that summer, during his period of ‘prudence’.... But it occurred to him now, thinking of Shaws, that David’s own experience might furnish a further illustration, and so he said, ‘One of Ardroy’s companions now—I suppose I needn’t mention his name—was as good as found guilty two years ago, in his absence, of the murder of a Government factor in the Highlands. I know for a fact that he is innocent. But the jury—most of whose members were his hereditary enemies—reached their verdict, and he would be hanged, were he captured now. As for Dr Cameron, he was still under an attainder... and I do not know what his fate might have been.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose I acted a little desperately in ’46. But—I think there was reason for it, and I don’t regret it. And what I was trying to save Ardroy from then is the same thing he was trying so desperately to spare Dr Cameron now. You helped both of us; and we have much to thank you for, Francis.’ He was smiling as he spoke these last words, and Francis returned the smile.

They strolled on, rounding a corner which revealed, over the top of the box hedge, a last glimpse of the Churchills’ quarters. Francis looked back at the stone walls, darkened as the gravel was by the rain; then he turned to Keith and said, ‘Well, I am glad ’tis all over now—and, yes, that it has ended peacefully, rather than the other way. I see your point....’ Probably he did not see all of it, for such things cannot be understood all at once or very easily. But he had made the right choice—without quite knowing it at the time, and Keith was wise enough to be amused by the thought of how very much like himself this was—and was satisfied of this fact, at least. Presently Francis added, ‘I talked it all over with Georgina, you know—she helped me to decide what to do. She is a really remarkable girl, Keith.’ And then, after a moment: ‘How long do you and Ardroy mean to stay at Edinburgh?’

‘Oh, not much longer,’ said Keith. ‘We’ve a great deal to see to back at home. Another day or two, perhaps.’

‘You must come and see me once more before you go—both of you. I should like to see Ardroy again before you leave.’

They had reached the intricate wrought-iron garden gates, and, stopping, turned to face each other. Sounds from the city were beginning to impinge upon the verdant peace of the garden, and the willow-wren’s song was increasingly obscured by shouts, laughter, hurrying feet and the clop of horses’ hoofs. ‘Thank you,’ said Keith quietly. ‘I believe Ardroy would like that very much too—and I certainly would. We’ll come to your lodgings to-morrow, if we can.’

Francis expressed his approval of this plan; and then they said their farewells, and Keith passed out of the garden and thence into the Cowgate, reflecting as he went upon all that had happened between now and—could it be only a month ago that Francis had paid that disastrous visit to Ardroy? Well, it had been a very long month! But things were, at last, ending a great deal more satisfactorily than they might have done.

(5)

In the grey early dawn of the next morning David and Alan left the Forbeses’ house and went on board the Broomhill.

The air was cold; it was one of those spring mornings which remind the world that winter is not dying but only going to sleep, and that it is possible for it to stir in its early slumber. They were obliged to go carefully over the frosty cobblestones of the street, while overhead a few high clouds hurried on their way past the last stars standing out in the paling sky. But a wind from the north would mean good sailing on the voyage to France, and it was a relief to be out in the clear chill air again after nine days’ close confinement in the house. Stepping down towards the harbour, David at once pulled his cloak closer about his shoulders and raised his head into the sharp, sea-scented air with relish.

The Broomhill was docked at the quay. Mr and Mrs Forbes both accompanied Alan and David on the short walk—and there was indeed no danger, for they met no one on the way—and on the quay they said their farewells. David thanked his host and hostess for their so generous hospitality, Alan adding his own assertion that it was a debt they could never repay; but to this Mr Forbes returned solemnly that he and Rachel were both glad to have taken a part in the events of the last weeks, ‘for all your sakes. And I must thank you, also, for your contributions to my collection.’

While he spoke, Mrs Forbes was fumbling inside her cloak, and she now drew out a small, carefully-wrapped parcel. ‘I declare I almost forgot it!’ she said. ‘Mr Stewart, will you take this to the Prince, with my sincerest compliments? ’Tis a piece of my own seed-cake. Oh, it’s a small enough thing to do for him, I know, but——’

Alan accepted the cake with a gesture the quiet gravity of which lent solemnity to its expressiveness. ‘I will give it into his own hands, madam,’ he said.

Early as the hour was, the sailors were beginning to move about on board the ship, managing the thousand and one little tasks that must be seen to on board a vessel making ready to sail. As David watched, there appeared among them a stockily-built middle-aged man with a face of such grave concentration that it might have been a scholar’s, had not its weather-beaten appearance betrayed the old sailor. In his own bearing and in the attitudes of the crew towards him there was authority, and David guessed that this was Captain Brodie. Happening to glance down towards the quay, the captain waved to them. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘here are my passengers!’

At that all the party on the quay looked up at him, and then, ‘You’d better go on board, now,’ said Mrs Forbes. ‘Better not to risk any trouble!’

‘Of course,’ said Alan. He stowed Mrs Forbes’s gift to the Prince in a pocket of his great-coat. ‘Davie, we’ll be off. Good-bye, sir—madam.’

He offered David his arm to go down to the gangplank; and as David went to take his last step on Scottish ground he felt Alan’s hand upon his own.

Epilogue part I. Gravelines

(1)

In the ship’s wake the water, elsewhere a steady confusion of low choppy grey waves, was smoothed out for a space by the passage of the stern, like a sheet over which the iron has just moved, before, farther back, the wavelets and the wind reasserted themselves and it returned by degrees to the unrestful movement that filled the view from one side to the other. Leaning on the railing, David watched the flat water glide away behind, then moved his gaze back to the sea below the stern and began again to trace its passage away. It was a quietly absorbing, almost a hypnotising sight, and stilled the mind. Beside him Alan was whistling and singing softly to himself in fragments, in the way that meant he was making a song, and the sound seemed all of a piece with the moving water.

They had been four days at sea. Somewhere away to starboard, beyond the grey sea and the foggy clouds above it, the line of the Humber cut the east coast of England in two; in as many days again, all going well, they would be in France.

And in the meantime they lived in this little world, which in four days had not quite lost its unreality, closed in by sky and water and unsteady ground underfoot. To be sure, it was not a solitary world. The sailors were good fellows in their way, and would sometimes exchange with the ship’s two irregular passengers a joke or a story about similar voyages of the past, for they had a long experience of the passage between Scotland and the Continent which was also familiar to Alan. Captain Brodie himself, a taciturn man in general, had usually a friendly word for his passengers when he happened to pass by them. And, though they were seldom alone, they often talked together about the sights of the journey, or Alan would start some silly piece of talk in French by way of helping David to practise his skill in that language. All the same it was an unsettling place, and David, in the quieter moments of the days, would find himself unpleasantly reminded of the last time he had been on a ship at sea.

Yet the journey had not been without its enlivening incidents. The middle of April is an interesting time for voyages at sea, not only for sailors, and of this fact they had got an illustration that very morning when a whinchat—a very different bird from the native gulls and petrels which appeared from time to time winging their serene way over the waves—had fetched up suddenly on the bulkhead. The little bird perched there for about half an hour in apparent bewilderment, the breeze ruffling its delicately-marked brown and russet feathers, while the sailors gathered in a curious group to watch it and speculate about where it was going. Pitying it as a poor lost thing, they had tried to feed it some crumbled-up biscuit, while one of them—a smallish, dark man who answered to the slightly mysterious nickname of Two-Legged Barry—had the foresight to gather up the ship’s cat in his arms and carry it carefully out of the way of any mischief. Eventually, finding the surroundings not to its liking, the bird had flown away towards the north. Alan, smiling after it, had said that perhaps it was gone to join its fellows among the bracken of the Highlands.

Now David’s mind was recalled again to the present moment by Alan’s voice beside him. He understood nothing of the Gaelic words of Alan’s song, but the tune, now taking on a more definite form and growing in strength and certainty, was one of peculiar melancholy beauty. From time to time, finding a particular line in need of attention, Alan would sing it over a few times, trying little variations with each repetition, and it was in one of these repeated phrases that David discerned a word which sounded like ‘Archie’.

He turned his head from the moving water. ‘It is a lament for Dr Cameron,’ he said softly.

Alan nodded, and said nothing, but sang the line over again, more slowly; and after repeating the rest of the verse once more he fell silent.

David placed his hand over Alan’s where it lay upon the rail, and they went on watching the sea together. A fulmar appeared from out between clouds and water, and went gliding over the waves on its curiously stiff wings, as grey and as silent as the world in which it lived.

After a while David’s own thoughts, spun out like the water of the ship’s wake into waves ever moving but always forming the same shapes, reverted to what had been such a constant absorption for much of the time these days at sea: the things from which he was going. He thought of the house of Shaws, and all the empty rooms and dilapidated walls and draughty corners that still remained to be put to rights; he thought of John and Maggie Lamb at the lodge, and of Jennet Clouston, and all the other tenants whose welfare had been his charge this last year and more; he thought of Mr Rankeillor, and Mr and Mrs Forbes; and, encompassing also those who had been his enemies out of necessity rather than personal strife, he thought of General Churchill, who still appeared in his mind as the genial host of the dinner-party, and Miss Churchill who was betrothed to Keith Windham’s brother; he thought of Mr Campbell and the old house at Essendean... and altogether his mind was a sad confusion.

And yet he did not regret it. Keith had been right: love showed the way to go—even if things did end up something of a strange contradiction on the outside.

Behind them the sailors called to each other, giving instructions or warnings about some task they were engaged in with the rigging. It was another little while before Alan spoke again; and perhaps he had divined something of David’s thoughts, for his words were well-calculated to pull his mind away from its gloom.

‘David,’ he said, turning round and leaning against the railing so that they faced each other sidelong, ‘what do you mean to do when we reach France?’

David had spent some time considering this question, at Leith and since. It seemed to him that he might make something of the opportunity given him by a forced sojourn upon the Continent, this being after all an adventure which many young gentlemen undertook by choice. ‘I might travel about a bit,’ he said. ‘There are many interesting places where I could make a tour. I must see what I can afford, when it’s all arranged about getting my money to me.... Then you know last year I was thinking of going to study at a university, before my inheritance of the Shaws interrupted me. I might take that up again—though it can’t be at Edinburgh!’

He spun out a few more such vague ideas. There would be time in which to develop his plans more fully; for now they were not fixed, and when they arrived in France he meant for a while at least to stay with Alan, and have the sweetness of his exile along with the bitterness. He said so now.

‘Ah, well,’ said Alan, and there was a definite suggestion of pleased satisfaction about his expression, ‘I’ll be glad to have you near me, Davie, whatever.’

It was cold there out at sea, where the clouds and the breeze and the chill water between them kept away the warmth of the spring; but at these words and the pressure of the hand that accompanied them, there was a little warmth at David’s heart to lessen the surrounding chill, and, it seemed, a light to brighten the gloomy sea about him.

(2)

At about midday on the twenty-first the Broomhill arrived at Gravelines. It was a glaringly bright day, and the sun that sparkled upon the calm waters of the canal bearing the river Aa to the sea had the heat of the further-advanced southern spring in its rays; and yet this weather was as fickle and deceptive as it might have been in the Highlands, for only the previous night the ship had been tossed upon the waves under hurrying, weirdly moonlit clouds, as unsettled a night as any there had been since they passed the Berwick Law. Alan was watching David carefully as they walked up the quay and along the canal together, their baggage slung over their shoulders; between the weeks in the heather, the fighting, the great shock of finding himself suddenly hunted as a traitor by the Government and obliged to go into exile, and the voyage itself, he was not a little anxious about David’s health, and David had been in such a queer melancholy mood all the time they were on the sea. Certainly he looked tired. But he gazed about him now with a little curious smile; looking back towards the sailors at their work unloading the cargo, he waved a farewell to them; he watched the white gulls that wheeled in the air above the harbour, their sharp yellow eyes intent upon any suggestion of unguarded scraps of food, and looked with interest upon the bright pantiled roofs of the houses that stood to either side of the canal.

Nine years earlier, Charles Edward Stuart had stood here and watched in raging frustration as storms and false allies crushed his first scheme for a French invasion of England—and formed, perhaps, the resolution for a more desperate attempt. The town to-day, it seemed, did not remember it.

In his journeyings back and forth between Scotland and the Continent, often obliged to be rather opportunistic in his choice of ships and routes, Alan had developed a tolerably broad acquaintance with the port towns of northern France and Flanders, and he took them up into the wide, straight streets of the town to an inn which he had visited before. Indeed the landlord recognised Monsieur Stewart, and greeted him with pleasure to see that he was back again in France. ‘And you have brought a friend with you from Scotland?’

‘Ay, that I have,’ said Alan, and introduced David. The landlord was a voluble and a jocular man, and kept them there in conversation for some time, for he must take the opportunity to air a broad sweep of opinions upon the sea, Captain Brodie and his ship, Scotland and the Scottish regiments in the French Army, the Army in general and any other topic which occurred to him.

‘That was fine French you spoke to the man just now, Davie—if ’twas just a trifle over-Scotch for his understanding,’ remarked Alan, as they at last ascended the stairs to their room.

‘I could only understand about half of what he said,’ admitted David.

‘Ah, this place is as much a Flemish town as a French one,’ said Alan. ‘The folk are happier in Dutch, for the most part. You’ll pick up their dialect in a little while.—Here we are!’

They went into the room, and left their bags at the foot of its one broad four-posted bed. The room was on the upper floor of the house and looked, not out towards the sea, but inland to the town walls, and beyond them to the wide, flat fields and the first of the maze-like network of canals that radiate outwards from that curiously situated place.

‘Well, irregular as it is,’ said David, yawning, ‘I’m for my bed. I had no sleep in that gale last night. I hope this place is comfortable.’ He sat down on the end of the bed and began to remove his shoes with something of a distracted air; this task completed and the shoes placed neatly to one side, he looked up and added with only a slight hesitation, ‘Will you join me, Alan?’

Alan turned away from the window. ‘Ay,’ he said, ‘I could do with the sleep too.’

And that was true; but it was also an answer to the other thing behind the question. On board the Broomhill they had slept in the sort of narrow and uncomfortable cots to which Alan was used on such voyages (if there was anything better than a hammock), and between that and their separate rooms in the house at Leith, they had not lain down side by side together since their last night in the open under Alan’s great-coat. Altogether, Alan was fairly pining to have Davie in his arms again; and there was a sort of sharp yearning at his heart to think that David’s request meant that he felt so too.

They undressed and got into the great bed together. Alan pulled the curtains round them, and then crawled under the blankets which David was holding up for him.

After a little shuffling about they found their way back to that familiar and comfortable position which had become their habit in Balquhidder and afterwards. Alan settled down and closed his eyes, and felt David’s kiss upon his forehead.

But this was unlike those nights among the heather, after all. It was warm and quiet, and the bed was soft under them; they were out of reach of pursuing enemies; Alan’s wound was all but healed, and he had no pain, only the rather comfortable weariness of a long journey that has reached its end; and in their nightshirts it seemed that they were closer together now even than they had been at Balquhidder. Alan felt the warmth of David against him, and the present solidity of him where his hand rested a little below David’s shoulder, and in the silence there was nothing but the soft sound of his breathing and the tiny movements he made against the blankets. Alan moved his hand, stroking gently through the fine linen of David’s nightshirt, and the steady breathing was interrupted by a little sound expressive at once of fondness and perfect contentment.

So it was strange and comforting; familiar and unwonted; and, for all his longing, more welcome than Alan could well have known.

David was soon asleep, and Alan opened his own eyes again and watched him for a little while in the half-darkness which the heavy bed-curtains made of the afternoon’s sunshine. He had turned his face half into the pillow, as if merely to lie upon it were not a thorough rest enough, and there was a definite suggestion of hollow darkness about the delicate skin beneath his eyelashes. Yes, he had been really exhausted, and not only by the last night’s disturbance; the rest would do him good... and so thinking, Alan too drifted into slumber.

They woke in the early evening, when the sky outside the window, still absolutely clear, was paling towards the sunset, and bethought themselves of some supper. Alan dressed and went downstairs to order the meal; returning to the room, he found David, with his plaid wrapped about his shoulders over his nightshirt, sitting at the table and absorbed in contemplating the view of the town. Alan sat down opposite him.

‘What are our plans for the next few days, then?’ said David. ‘—Not that I expect you to tell me where your Prince is, of course! I know you must go and see him.’

‘If I wanted to tell you,’ said Alan, ‘I couldn’t, for he’s as hidden these days as a ptarmigan in the snow on the mountains. Na, I must write to my friends and find out where he is—and go to see Ardshiel, too.’ He placed his finger, now at one spot upon the surface of the table, now on another, indicative of his planned movements to different places. ‘Then I must write to Army headquarters and find out where my regiment are—it’s most likely they are still at Lille, where they were last year. And I must go there in any case,’ he added—for that town was where Jean Cameron and her children lived. ‘I’m thinking,’ he concluded a trifle dolefully, for it was not a task he relished, ‘that it’ll be a lot of letter-writing for me to-morrow.’

‘I’ve letters to write too,’ mused David. ‘I promised John and Maggie one as soon as I was safe, and Mr Rankeillor too; and I ought to send a line to Mr Campbell....’

And that was a name which it might not have pleased Alan to hear. Yet he found he did not greatly mind it; it was good of David, after all, to stick by an old friend who would certainly not be filled with joy by the news of his present situation.

They continued making their plans. David could go on to Lille, if the regiment were indeed there, while Alan attended to his various pieces of Jacobite business, and find a lodging, and Alan would join him. ‘It’s a bonny place,’ said Alan, ‘and a good many Scottish people living there besides the soldiers—and by no means all of them Jacobites, either.’ (For there were divers motives, even among political ones, prompting Scots to seek a home on the Continent in those days.) He hoped that David would be happy in its society.

‘But we must take you to see Paris, too, Davie!’ he added, gesturing with his fork, for by now their supper—a hearty fricassee of mutton—had arrived. ‘It’s a fine town, Paris, though of course it cannot compare to Edinburgh. It’s in my mind you’ll like it.’

‘I should like to see Paris,’ agreed David happily. ‘Ardroy was telling me some very curious things about his time there, you know...’

And so they went on talking, over supper and for some time afterwards. The quiet peace of the afternoon’s sleep was dispelled; but, fragile as it was, it was stronger than its lightness appeared, and it had left behind an impression which seemed to lie over everything and make of the easy, familiar talk and laughter something deeper. When they had finished eating David got up to light the lamp and then returned to his seat; he took Alan’s hand across the table, and sat there stroking his thumb slowly over Alan’s knuckles while they talked, and did not let go.

At last they came to the end of their talk and fell into silence. David went on stroking Alan’s fingers, looking down at their joined hands upon the table with a quiet little smile the sight of which made a strange movement in Alan’s heart. He looked out of the window, to where the deep blue of evening now lay over the town and the stars had begun to twinkle.

With an abrupt movement Alan extricated his hand from David’s, got up from the table and went to close the shutters. Behind him he heard David rise from his own chair, and then David’s voice, with a different tone from any that had been in it before, saying, ‘Alan——’

Alan spun round; and in a moment he had closed the few paces’ distance between them and taken hold of David’s shoulders, and they moved together into a kiss.

It was a little desperate at first. But as Alan leaned upwards to find a surer position, and David’s arms came round his waist and held him there, it came to him—or returned to him—that this was in its way as easy and as welcome as it was to talk to Davie about the sights of Paris or to tease him upon his French accent. He moved deeper into the kiss and held David close to him.

When they broke apart—which they did only when the need to take a longer breath would no longer admit of being ignored—David was smiling fit to break his heart. There was laughter in his rapid breaths, and his hands moved over the back of Alan’s coat. Alan, when he had got his own breath back, brought his hand up to David’s face and traced the line of his cheekbone with his thumb; David turned his head and kissed the palm of Alan’s hand.

At this Alan moved his hand to the back of David’s head, twined his fingers in his hair and kissed him again. It was a long, slow, deliberate kiss which had in it much of the steady comfort and sureness in love of the afternoon’s sleep—but something warmer and keener besides.

‘May I—?’ said David. His hands were at the buttons of Alan’s waistcoat.

‘Ay,’ breathed Alan, and David began to undo the buttons, while Alan reached up and pushed the plaid from off his shoulders. Having removed Alan’s coat and waistcoat, David turned aside from him for a moment to fold the clothes and place them neatly atop one of the chairs; and to see the care Davie took over his clothes——

He pulled David towards him again—and, ah, there was joy in the way David came back to him so readily—and kissed him again, kissed his mouth and his neck and along the line of his collarbone where it was exposed by the open neck of his nightshirt. One of David’s hands was in his hair, undoing the ribbon as carefully as he had undone the waistcoat, and yet with fingers just not quite steady, and the other arm was about Alan’s waist, pulling him closer again....

And later, when it was dark night outside and the room warm in the light of the lamp standing on the bedside table, they lay once again beneath the blankets together. David was stretched out to his full length—for the bed was large enough to admit of this—and lying secure in Alan’s arms. They had not spoken for some time; once more quiet breathing, returned by now to calm steadiness, was the only sound to be heard.

Then David turned his head and regarded Alan in the lamplight. Quiet joy and laughter were in his eyes. ‘I don’t mean to speak against the Highlands, Alan,’ he said, twisting a strand of Alan’s loose hair between his fingers, ‘but I like this much better than lying out among the heather.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Alan, ‘I could forgive you for that, Davie.’

‘No,’ decided David then, ‘I’d want to be with you, anywhere.’

And with this opinion Alan could only agree.

They kissed again, comfortable and happy; and then Alan reached over to the lamp and blew it out, and soon after that they were sleeping once more.

Epilogue part II. Ardroy

Summer comes, even after grief.

On a morning near Midsummer Ewen and Keith, having contrived for themselves a day’s freedom from their busy round of duties and cares, set out together to spend a day among the slopes to the southeast of Ardroy, round the lower heights of Sròn a’ Choire Ghairbh. It was a fine day: the white clouds rather ornamented than obscured the bright sky, and bore—for now, at least—no omen of gloomier weather, and a fresh breeze sent the clouds dancing on their way and kept the sun’s heat from being oppressive. It was, observed Ewen with a pleased smile at Keith, the Highland weather at its best; and Keith could agree with that easily enough.

When the first level half-mile round the end of the loch was behind them, and they had ascended just a little way up the slope, they halted and turned round. From here where they stood among the green bracken and the bright foxgloves the glen of Ardroy lay before them: the fields where the oats and bere were growing in strength; the scattered crofts with their reed-thatched roofs; the loch, with its surface stirred into glittering wavelets by the wind, and the islet where the herons had their nest. And then Ewen looked from this old beloved sight to Keith standing beside him, and his heart was glad.

‘Miss Cameron has seen us,’ observed Keith, pointing towards the house. Ewen looked: yes, there was Aunt Marget, engaged on some business in the garden and now, apparently, looking in their direction. He waved to her, and she raised her own hand in answer.

Round the loch, in the direction of the house, a tiny red-headed figure was moving: Ewen, looking closer, recognised young Seonaid MacMartin. She reached the garden, stopped to exchange a word with Margaret, then went on to the kitchen door—whence she emerged again a minute later arm-in-arm with Eilidh, whom Margaret, sensing perhaps a general holiday mood, had given the day off. After her aunt Beileag’s death in the winter Seonaid had grown rather lonely and melancholy, and Ewen, concerned for her, had been pleased to see the older girl take her under her wing and befriend her. Now the pair moved off along the loch, their heads close together in conversation, stopping now and then to point out a bird on the water or to wave to a friend at work in the fields.

Ewen met Keith’s gaze, and found there the answering smile that he knew so well.

They walked higher, until a shoulder of the hill hid the glen from view; and at length they stopped to rest, on the patch of level ground above the slope of a hollow. A burn, a mountain tributary of the Allt Buidhe, ran through this hollow, making a miniature waterfall where the rocks leaned out above it; a bright patch of golden saxifrage grew between the stones on the bank of the pool below. Ewen took the plaid which he had carried with him—it was an old blanket, dug out of the storage chests in the attics, and showing its tartan colours just a touch through the black dye of these latter days—laid it on the dry ground above the burn, opposite the waterfall, and they sat down upon it; Keith placed his own burden, a parcel of food, upon a convenient flat stone, and together they took out bannocks, cheese and some pieces of gingerbread, and started to eat.

Thoughts drifted easily and calmly through Ewen’s mind, like the breeze in the moor-grass. At length something occurred to him. ‘I had a letter from David Balfour this morning,’ he said. ‘I meant to show it to you, for he says you may read it—here you go,’ and, producing the letter from a pocket, he handed it to Keith.

Keith stretched his legs out before him, unfolded the letter and began to read, his mouth taking on the little amused twist which was so dear to Ewen as he did so. Ewen, watching, recalled the letter’s contents to himself. David wrote from Lille in French Flanders, where Alan’s regiment were quartered and where he had taken lodgings; he was evidently enjoying the varieties of Franco-Scottish society, and in the meantime continuing to manage the affairs of Shaws as best he could at a distance by means of correspondence with Mr Rankeillor. He had, it seemed, visited and befriended Jean Cameron, and took care to assure Ewen that she and the children were all in good health; then he told several stories of interesting incidents of his life in France; and he was full of plans for the future. He said frankly that he missed his home, but it was clear that his was not an exile of unalloyed sadness.

At last Keith returned the letter to Ewen. ‘He’s doing remarkably well,’ he said, smiling, ‘and I gather all is well too with him and Mr Stewart.’

Ewen had related to Keith, shortly after their return to Ardroy, what David had told him on the last day at Leith. Keith had been highly amused by the story of the accidental eavesdropping, and, while giving his opinion that Mr Stewart would not have been his own choice of an ideal partner in life (‘I should hope not,’ had been Ewen’s laughing judgement on this), owned that he thought he and David would suit each other admirably. As for the letter, David finished it with an account of a fishing trip which he and Alan had lately made together to a certain lake some way outside the town, before concluding with, ‘Alan says he is no great Writer of Letters, but sends his Compliments, and he trusts the Highlands are as bonny as he left them’. It had seemed to Ewen that, whether he wrote about Alan or of other things, David’s writing had the happiness of love all through it.

Keith took off his hat and lay back upon the ground. His head just overreached the edge of the plaid, so that his dark hair brushed against the tiny leaves and pale flowers of the lingonberry that grew abundantly in just that spot. Ewen, feeling very fortunate that Keith had chosen to forgo wearing a wig to-day, reached down and ran his fingers lightly over Keith’s hair.

Then Keith raised himself on his elbows again. ‘That reminds me—I had my own letter this morning,’ he said, ‘from my brother Aveling. He’s in London, and has arranged things with his parents at last. He and Miss Churchill are to be married in the autumn.’

‘Oh, that is good news!’ said Ewen with feeling; for he was anxious for the good of the erstwhile enemy who had saved him, and who, since their last meeting at Edinburgh, seemed well on the way to forgetting that there had ever been cause for enmity between them.

‘He asked to be remembered to you,’ continued Keith, ‘and whenever he and the future Lady Aveling should happen to visit Scotland again, they mean to come here, if ’tis agreeable to us.’ He was smiling. It was his own softly amused smile, but it held something greater than amusement: gladness at the reconciliation which had followed such a grievous strife, and perhaps relief also—and that at more things, Ewen suspected, than the reconciliation with Lord Aveling only.

Ewen’s hand was in Keith’s hair again, and at a little coaxing Keith laid his head back down upon the plaid. Ewen gazed at him for a few moments, his heart full. Then he raised his eyes once more. Distant over there to the west, but clear in the sunlight, were the hills that stood above Gleann Cia-aig and showed the way to Loch Arkaig and Achnacarry. On a day a very long time ago Ewen had taken that road to go to join his Chief on the way to Glenfinnan.... In his heart the loyalty which had sent him on that journey still lived, and would live for as long as he did, for there was no falsehood in Ewen; he was not among those who could ‘adore the rising sun’, and never would be. But neither would he live entirely in the night of his own cause. Archie—though he had exhorted Ewen to keep to his own old loyalty, and though Ewen considered that a sacred duty—would not have wanted him to.

Keith sat up again; he was watching Ewen carefully, and had perhaps divined something of what was in his mind. But Ewen’s eyes returned to him, and his wandering thoughts left him—not falling entirely away, for he would keep those things with him in some measure always, but receding into the background. He saw the beauty about him of the hills and the moor-grass and the lingonberry and the saxifrage, and heard the plashing of the burn and the call of a pipit ascending from the slope somewhere above them, and felt the breeze upon his face and Keith’s hand taking hold of his own, and he was glad—glad with that quiet, sure, wistful joy which is made perhaps the stronger by the lingering memory of sorrow.

THE END

Prologue: A Meeting on the Road