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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Huntingtower + +Author: John Buchan + +Release Date: December 6, 2011 [EBook #3782] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUNTINGTOWER *** + + + + +Produced by Edward A. White, Robert F. Jaffe, Kirsten +Tozer, Charlene Taylor, Cathy Maxam and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<div class="notes"> +<p>TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:</p> + +<p> In footnote number <a href="#FNanchor_1_1">1</a> (page 72) the author refers to +a sketch on the frontisepiece of the book. At the time of posting this +book to Project Gutenberg, it was verified by the content provider that +there is no frontispiece in this particular edition of Huntingtower.</p> + +<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without comment. One +example of an obvious typographical error is on page 237 where the word +"shamefaceedly" was changed to "shamefacedly". Other than obvious +typographical errors, the author's original spelling has been left intact. +This includes the use of unconventional spelling and dialect.</p> + +<p>Inconsistencies in the author's use of hyphens and accent marks have been +left unchanged, as in the original text.</p> + +<p>The following four changes were made to punctuation and spelling:</p> + +<blockquote><p>1. Page 96: An apostrophe was removed from the word "an'" in the phrase +"I've found a ladder, an auld yin" (an old one).</p> + +<p>2. Page 100: A question mark was changed to a period in the phrase "... he +realised that he was in the presence of something the like of which he had +never met in his life before."</p> + + +<p>4. Page 187: An apostrophe was removed from the word "wing's" in the +phrase "... take the wings off a seagull."</p></blockquote> +</div> + + + + +<h1> +<span class="bb bt">HUNTINGTOWER</span></h1> + +<p class="center bigger">JOHN BUCHAN +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center"><span class="small"><i>By</i></span> <span class="big">JOHN BUCHAN</span></p> + +<div class="figborder"> +<p class="bind small"> +HUNTINGTOWER<br /> +THE PATH OF THE KING<br /> +MR. STANDFAST<br /> +GREENMANTLE<br /> +THE WATCHERS BY THE THRESHOLD<br /> +SALUTE TO ADVENTURES<br /> +PRESTER JOHN<br /> +THE POWER HOUSE<br /> +THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS<br /> +THE BATTLE OF THE SOMME<br /> +</p> +</div> + + +<p class="center bspace">NEW YORK: GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY</p> + + + + +<h2> +HUNTINGTOWER</h2> + +<p class="center small">BY</p> +<p class="center bspace"><span class="big">JOHN BUCHAN</span></p> + + +<div class="center"> +<table summary="logo"> + +<tr> +<td class="tdt">NEW </td> + +<td> +<div class="figcenter"><a id="i003" name="i003"></a> +<img src="images/i003.jpg" alt="logo" /> +</div> +</td> + +<td class="tdt">YORK</td> +</tr> +</table> +</div> + + +<p class="center bspace">GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY +</p> + + + + +<p class="center small bspace"> +COPYRIGHT, 1922,<br /> +BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><a id="i004" name="i004"></a> +<img src="images/i004.jpg" alt="logo2" /> +</div> + +<p class="center small">HUNTINGTOWER. II<br /> + +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center"><span class="small">TO</span><br /> + +<span class="big">W. P. KER</span></p> + + +<p><i>If the Professor of Poetry in the University of +Oxford has not forgotten the rock whence he was +hewn, this simple story may give him an hour of +entertainment. I offer it to you because I think you +have met my friend Dickson McCunn, and I dare +to hope that you may even in your many sojournings +in the Westlands have encountered one or other of +the Gorbals Die-Hards. If you share my kindly +feeling for Dickson, you will be interested in some +facts which I have lately ascertained about his ancestry. +In his veins there flows a portion of the +redoubtable blood of the Nicol Jarvies. When the +Bailie, you remember, returned from his journey to +Rob Roy beyond the Highland Line, he espoused +his housekeeper Mattie, "an honest man's daughter +and a near cousin o' the Laird o' Limmerfield." +The union was blessed with a son, who succeeded to +the Bailie's business and in due course begat daughters, +one of whom married a certain Ebenezer +McCunn, of whom there is record in the archives of +the Hammermen of Glasgow. Ebenezer's grandson, +Peter by name, was Provost of Kirkintilloch, +and his second son was the father of my hero by his +marriage with Robina Dickson, eldest daughter of +one Robert Dickson, a tenant-farmer in the Lennox. +So there are coloured threads in Mr. McCunn's +pedigree, and, like the Bailie, he can count kin, +should he wish, with Rob Roy himself through "the +auld wife ayont the fire at Stuckavrallachan."</i></p> + +<p><i>Such as it is, I dedicate to you the story, and ask +for no better verdict on it than that of that profound +critic of life and literature, Mr. Huckleberry +Finn, who observed of the</i> Pilgrim's Progress, <i>that +he "considered the statements interesting, but +steep."</i></p> + +<p class="big right"> +J. B. +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<div class="center t2"> +<table + summary="contents"> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdr"><span class="small">PAGE</span></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr"></td> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#PROLOGUE">PROLOGUE</a></td> +<td class="tdr">11</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdc"><span class="small">CHAPTER</span></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">I</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">HOW A RETIRED PROVISION MERCHANT FELT THE IMPULSE OF SPRING</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">17</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">II</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE AND THE DIFFERENCE IN POINTS OF VIEW</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">28</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">III</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">HOW CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER CAME TO THE DARK TOWER</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">46</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">IV</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">DOUGAL</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">70</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">V</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">85</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">VI</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">HOW MR. M<sup>c</sup>CUNN DEPARTED WITH RELIEF AND RETURNED WITH RESOLUTION</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">114</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">VII</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">135</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">VIII</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">HOW A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER ACCEPTED A CHALLENGE</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">154</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">IX</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">171</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">X</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND A JOURNEY</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">189</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">XI</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">GRAVITY OUT OF BED</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">209</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">XII</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">HOW MR. M<sup>c</sup>CUNN COMMITTED AN ASSAULT UPON AN ALLY</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">225</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">XIII</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">THE COMING OF THE DANISH BRIG</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">244</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">XIV</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">257</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">XV</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">THE GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">286</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdrp">XVI</td> +<td class="tdl"><p class="hang1 ptab"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">IN WHICH A PRINCESS LEAVES A DARK TOWER AND A PROVISION MERCHANT RETURNS TO HIS FAMILY</a></p></td> +<td class="tdr">306</td> +</tr> + +</table></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="HUNTINGTOWER" id="HUNTINGTOWER"></a>HUNTINGTOWER</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PROLOGUE" id="PROLOGUE"></a>PROLOGUE</h2> + + +<p>The girl came into the room with a darting +movement like a swallow, looked round her +with the same birdlike quickness, and then ran +across the polished floor to where a young man sat +on a sofa with one leg laid along it.</p> + +<p>"I have saved you this dance, Quentin," she said, +pronouncing the name with a pretty staccato. "You +must be so lonely not dancing, so I will sit with you. +What shall we talk about?"</p> + +<p>The young man did not answer at once, for his +gaze was held by her face. He had never dreamed +that the gawky and rather plain little girl whom he +had romped with long ago in Paris would grow into +such a being. The clean delicate lines of her figure, +the exquisite pure colouring of hair and skin, the +charming young arrogance of the eyes—this was +beauty, he reflected, a miracle, a revelation. Her +virginal fineness and her dress, which was the tint +of pale fire, gave her the air of a creature of ice +and flame.</p> + +<p>"About yourself, please, Saskia," he said. "Are +you happy now that you are a grown-up lady?"</p> + +<p>"Happy!" Her voice had a thrill in it like music,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +frosty music. "The days are far too short. I +grudge the hours when I must sleep. They say it +is sad for me to make my début in a time of war. +But the world is very kind to me, and after all it is +a victorious war for our Russia. And listen to this, +Quentin. To-morrow I am to be allowed to begin +nursing at the Alexander Hospital. What do you +think of that?"</p> + +<p>The time was January, 1916, and the place a +room in the great Nirski Palace. No hint of war, +no breath from the snowy streets, entered that +curious chamber where Prince Peter Nirski kept +some of the chief of his famous treasures. It was +notable for its lack of drapery and upholstering—only +a sofa or two and a few fine rugs on the cedar +floor. The walls were of a green marble veined +like malachite, the ceiling was of darker marble +inlaid with white intaglios. Scattered everywhere +were tables and cabinets laden with celadon china, +and carved jade, and ivories, and shimmering Persian +and Rhodian vessels. In all the room there +was scarcely anything of metal and no touch of +gilding or bright colour. The light came from +green alabaster censers, and the place swam in a +cold green radiance like some cavern below the sea. +The air was warm and scented, and though it was +very quiet there, a hum of voices and the strains +of dance music drifted to it from the pillared corridor +in which could be seen the glare of lights from +the great ballroom beyond.</p> + +<p>The young man had a thin face with lines of suffering +round the mouth and eyes. The warm room<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +had given him a high colour, which increased his +air of fragility. He felt a little choked by the +place, which seemed to him for both body and mind +a hot-house, though he knew very well that the +Nirski Palace on this gala evening was in no way +typical of the land or its masters. Only a week ago +he had been eating black bread with its owner in +a hut on the Volhynian front.</p> + +<p>"You have become amazing, Saskia," he said. +"I won't pay my old playfellow compliments; besides, +you must be tired of them. I wish you happiness +all the day long like a fairy-tale Princess. +But a crock like me can't do much to help you to it. +The service seems to be the wrong way round, for +here you are wasting your time talking to me."</p> + +<p>She put her hand on his. "Poor Quentin! Is +the leg very bad?"</p> + +<p>He laughed. "Oh, no. It's mending famously. +I'll be able to get about without a stick in another +month, and then you've got to teach me all the new +dances."</p> + +<p>The jigging music of a two-step floated down the +corridor. It made the young man's brow contract, +for it brought to him a vision of dead faces in the +gloom of a November dusk. He had once had a +friend who used to whistle that air, and he had seen +him die in the Hollebeke mud. There was something +<i>macabre</i> in the tune.... He was surely +morbid this evening, for there seemed something +<i>macabre</i> about the house, the room, the dancing, all +Russia.... These last days he had suffered from +a sense of calamity impending, of a dark curtain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +drawing down upon a splendid world. They didn't +agree with him at the Embassy, but he could not get +rid of the notion.</p> + +<p>The girl saw his sudden abstraction.</p> + +<p>"What are you thinking about?" she asked. It +had been her favourite question as a child.</p> + +<p>"I was thinking that I rather wished you were +still in Paris."</p> + +<p>"But why?"</p> + +<p>"Because I think you would be safer."</p> + +<p>"Oh, what nonsense, Quentin dear! Where +should I be safe if not in my own Russia, where I +have friends—oh, so many, and tribes and tribes +of relations? It is France and England that are +unsafe with the German guns grumbling at their +doors.... My complaint is that my life is too +cosseted and padded. I am too secure, and I do +not want to be secure."</p> + +<p>The young man lifted a heavy casket from a table +at his elbow. It was of dark green imperial jade, +with a wonderfully carved lid. He took off the lid +and picked up three small oddments of ivory—a +priest with a beard, a tiny soldier and a draught-ox. +Putting the three in a triangle, he balanced the jade +box on them.</p> + +<p>"Look, Saskia! If you were living inside that +box you would think it very secure. You would +note the thickness of the walls and the hardness of +the stone, and you would dream away in a peaceful +green dusk. But all the time it would be held up +by trifles—brittle trifles."</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "You do not understand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +You cannot understand. We are a very old and +strong people with roots deep, deep in the earth."</p> + +<p>"Please God you are right," he said. "But, +Saskia, you know that if I can ever serve you, you +have only to command me. Now I can do no more +for you than the mouse for the lion—at the beginning +of the story. But the story had an end, you +remember, and some day it may be in my power to +help you. Promise to send for me."</p> + +<p>The girl laughed merrily. "The King of Spain's +daughter," she quoted,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4q">"Came to visit me,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And all for the love<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of my little nut-tree."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The other laughed also, as a young man in the +uniform of the Preobrajenski Guard approached to +claim the girl. "Even a nut-tree may be a shelter +in a storm," he said.</p> + +<p>"Of course I promise, Quentin," she said. "<i>Au +revoir.</i> Soon I will come and take you to supper, +and we will talk of nothing but nut-trees."</p> + +<p>He watched the two leave the room, her gown +glowing like a tongue of fire in the shadowy archway. +Then he slowly rose to his feet, for he +thought that for a little he would watch the dancing. +Something moved beside him, and he turned +in time to prevent the jade casket from crashing to +the floor. Two of the supports had slipped.</p> + +<p>He replaced the thing on its proper table and +stood silent for a moment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The priest and the soldier gone, and only the +beast of burden left.... If I were inclined to be +superstitious, I should call that a dashed bad omen."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<p class="center">HOW A RETIRED PROVISION MERCHANT FELT THE +IMPULSE OF SPRING</p> + + +<p>Mr. Dickson McCunn completed the polishing +of his smooth cheeks with the towel, +glanced appreciatively at their reflection in the +looking-glass, and then permitted his eyes to stray +out of the window. In the little garden lilacs were +budding, and there was a gold line of daffodils beside +the tiny greenhouse. Beyond the sooty wall a +birch flaunted its new tassels, and the jackdaws were +circling about the steeple of the Guthrie Memorial +Kirk. A blackbird whistled from a thorn-bush, and +Mr. McCunn was inspired to follow its example. +He began a tolerable version of "Roy's Wife of +Aldivalloch."</p> + +<p>He felt singularly light-hearted, and the immediate +cause was his safety razor. A week ago he had +bought the thing in a sudden fit of enterprise, and +now he shaved in five minutes, where before he had +taken twenty, and no longer confronted his fellows, +at least one day in three, with a countenance ludicrously +mottled by sticking-plaster. Calculation revealed +to him the fact that in his fifty-five years, +having begun to shave at eighteen, he had wasted +three thousand three hundred and seventy hours—or +one hundred and forty days—or between four<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +and five months—by his neglect of this admirable +invention. Now he felt that he had stolen a march +on Time. He had fallen heir, thus late, to a fortune +in unpurchasable leisure.</p> + +<p>He began to dress himself in the sombre clothes +in which he had been accustomed for thirty-five +years and more to go down to the shop in Mearns +Street. And then a thought came to him which +made him discard the grey-striped trousers, sit down +on the edge of his bed, and muse.</p> + +<p>Since Saturday the shop was a thing of the past. +On Saturday at half-past eleven, to the accompaniment +of a glass of dubious sherry, he had completed +the arrangements by which the provision shop in +Mearns Street, which had borne so long the legend +of D. McCunn, together with the branches in +Crossmyloof and the Shaws, became the property +of a company, yclept the United Supply Stores, +Limited. He had received in payment cash, debentures +and preference shares, and his lawyers and +his own acumen had acclaimed the bargain. But +all the week-end he had been a little sad. It was +the end of so old a song, and he knew no other tune +to sing. He was comfortably off, healthy, free from +any particular cares in life, but free too from any +particular duties. "Will I be going to turn into a +useless old man?" he asked himself.</p> + +<p>But he had woke up this Monday to the sound +of the blackbird, and the world, which had seemed +rather empty twelve hours before, was now brisk +and alluring. His prowess in quick shaving assured +him of his youth. "I'm no' that dead old," he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +observed, as he sat on the edge of the bed, to his +reflection in the big looking-glass.</p> + +<p>It was not an old face. The sandy hair was a +little thin on the top and a little grey at the temples, +the figure was perhaps a little too full for youthful +elegance, and an athlete would have censured the +neck as too fleshy for perfect health. But the cheeks +were rosy, the skin clear, and the pale eyes singularly +childlike. They were a little weak, those eyes, +and had some difficulty in looking for long at the +same object, so that Mr. McCunn did not stare +people in the face, and had, in consequence, at one +time in his career acquired a perfectly undeserved +reputation for cunning. He shaved clean, and +looked uncommonly like a wise, plump schoolboy. +As he gazed at his simulacrum he stopped whistling +"Roy's Wife" and let his countenance harden into +a noble sternness. Then he laughed, and observed +in the language of his youth that "There was life +in the auld dowg yet." In that moment the soul +of Mr. McCunn conceived the Great Plan.</p> + +<p>The first sign of it was that he swept all his business +garments unceremoniously on to the floor. The +next that he rootled at the bottom of a deep drawer +and extracted a most disreputable tweed suit. It +had once been what I believe is called a Lovat mixture, +but was now a nondescript sub-fusc, with +bright patches of colour like moss on whinstone. +He regarded it lovingly, for it had been for twenty +years his holiday wear, emerging annually for a +hallowed month to be stained with salt and bleached +with sun. He put it on, and stood shrouded in an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +odour of camphor. A pair of thick nailed boots +and a flannel shirt and collar completed the equipment +of the sportsman. He had another long look +at himself in the glass, and then descended whistling +to breakfast. This time the tune was "Macgregor's +Gathering," and the sound of it stirred the grimy +lips of a man outside who was delivering coals—himself +a Macgregor—to follow suit. Mr. McCunn +was a very fountain of music that morning.</p> + +<p>Tibby, the aged maid, had his newspaper and +letters waiting by his plate, and a dish of ham and +eggs frizzling near the fire. He fell to ravenously +but still musingly, and he had reached the stage of +scones and jam before he glanced at his correspondence. +There was a letter from his wife now +holidaying at the Neuk Hydropathic. She reported +that her health was improving, and that she had +met various people who had known somebody who +had known somebody else whom she had once +known herself. Mr. McCunn read the dutiful +pages and smiled. "Mamma's enjoying herself +fine," he observed to the teapot. He knew that for +his wife the earthly paradise was a hydropathic, +where she put on her afternoon dress and every +jewel she possessed when she rose in the morning, +ate large meals of which the novelty atoned for the +nastiness, and collected an immense casual acquaintance +with whom she discussed ailments, ministers, +sudden deaths, and the intricate genealogies of her +class. For his part he rancorously hated hydropathics, +having once spent a black week under the +roof of one in his wife's company. He detested the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +food, the Turkish baths (he had a passionate aversion +to baring his body before strangers), the inability +to find anything to do and the compulsion to +endless small talk. A thought flitted over his mind +which he was too loyal to formulate. Once he and +his wife had had similar likings, but they had taken +different roads since their child died. Janet! He +saw again—he was never quite free from the sight—the +solemn little white-frocked girl who had died +long ago in the spring.</p> + +<p>It may have been the thought of the Neuk Hydropathic, +or more likely the thin clean scent of the +daffodils with which Tibby had decked the table, +but long ere breakfast was finished the Great Plan +had ceased to be an airy vision and become a sober +well-masoned structure. Mr. McCunn—I may confess +it at the start—was an incurable romantic.</p> + +<p>He had had a humdrum life since the day when +he had first entered his uncle's shop with the hope +of some day succeeding that honest grocer; and his +feet had never strayed a yard from his sober rut. +But his mind, like the Dying Gladiator's, had been +far away. As a boy he had voyaged among books, +and they had given him a world where he could +shape his career according to his whimsical fancy. +Not that Mr. McCunn was what is known as a +great reader. He read slowly and fastidiously, and +sought in literature for one thing alone. Sir Walter +Scott had been his first guide, but he read the novels +not for their insight into human character or for +their historical pageantry, but because they gave +him material wherewith to construct fantastic jour<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>neys. +It was the same with Dickens. A lit tavern, +a stage-coach, post-horses, the clack of hoofs on a +frosty road, went to his head like wine. He was a +Jacobite not because he had any views on Divine +Right, but because he had always before his eyes +a picture of a knot of adventurers in cloaks, new +landed from France, among the western heather.</p> + +<p>On this select basis he had built up his small +library—Defoe, Hakluyt, Hazlitt and the essayists, +Boswell, some indifferent romances and a shelf of +spirited poetry. His tastes became known, and he +acquired a reputation for a scholarly habit. He was +president of the Literary Society of the Guthrie +Memorial Kirk, and read to its members a variety +of papers full of a gusto which rarely became +critical. He had been three times chairman at +Burns Anniversary dinners, and had delivered orations +in eulogy of the national Bard; not because he +greatly admired him—he thought him rather vulgar—but +because he took Burns as an emblem of the +un-Burns-like literature which he loved. Mr. McCunn +was no scholar and was sublimely unconscious +of background. He grew his flowers in his small +garden-plot oblivious of their origin so long as they +gave him the colour and scent he sought. Scent, I +say, for he appreciated more than the mere picturesque. +He had a passion for words and cadences, +and would be haunted for weeks by a cunning +phrase, savouring it as a connoisseur savours a vintage. +Wherefore long ago, when he could ill afford +it, he had purchased the Edinburgh <i>Stevenson</i>. +They were the only large books on his shelves, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +he had a liking for small volumes—things he could +stuff into his pocket in that sudden journey which +he loved to contemplate.</p> + +<p>Only he had never taken it. The shop had tied +him up for eleven months in the year, and the +twelfth had always found him settled decorously +with his wife in some seaside villa. He had not +fretted, for he was content with dreams. He was +always a little tired, too, when the holidays came, +and his wife told him he was growing old. He +consoled himself with tags from the more philosophic +of his authors, but he scarcely needed consolation. +For he had large stores of modest contentment.</p> + +<p>But now something had happened. A spring +morning and a safety razor had convinced him that +he was still young. Since yesterday he was a man +of a large leisure. Providence had done for him +what he would never have done for himself. The +rut in which he had travelled so long had given +place to open country. He repeated to himself one +of the quotations with which he had been wont to +stir the literary young men at the Guthrie Memorial +Kirk:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4q">"What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all;<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold:<br /></span> +<span class="i5">When we mind labour, then only, we're too old—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul?"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He would go journeying—who but he?—pleasantly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> + +<p>It sounds a trivial resolve, but it quickened Mr. +McCunn to the depths of his being. A holiday, and +alone! On foot, of course, for he must travel +light. He would buckle on a pack after the approved +fashion. He had the very thing in a drawer +upstairs, which he had bought some years ago at a +sale. That and a waterproof and a stick, and his +outfit was complete. A book, too, and, as he lit his +first pipe, he considered what it should be. Poetry, +clearly, for it was the Spring, and besides poetry +could be got in pleasantly small bulk. He stood +before his bookshelves trying to select a volume, +rejecting one after another as inapposite. Browning—Keats, +Shelley—they seemed more suited for +the hearth than for the roadside. He did not want +anything Scots, for he was of opinion that Spring +came more richly in England and that English people +had a better notion of it. He was tempted by +the Oxford Anthology, but was deterred by its +thickness, for he did not possess the thin-paper edition. +Finally he selected Izaak Walton. He had +never fished in his life, but <i>The Compleat Angler</i> +seemed to fit his mood. It was old and curious and +learned and fragrant with the youth of things. He +remembered its falling cadences, its country songs +and wise meditations. Decidedly it was the right +scrip for his pilgrimage.</p> + +<p>Characteristically he thought last of where he was +to go. Every bit of the world beyond his front door +had its charms to the seeing eye. There seemed +nothing common or unclean that fresh morning. +Even a walk among coal-pits had its attractions....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +But since he had the right to choose, he lingered +over it like an epicure. Not the Highlands, +for Spring came late among their sour mosses. +Some place where there were fields and woods and +inns, somewhere, too, within call of the sea. It +must not be too remote, for he had no time to waste +on train journeys; nor too near, for he wanted a +countryside untainted. Presently he thought of +Carrick. A good green land, as he remembered it, +with purposeful white roads and public-houses +sacred to the memory of Burns; near the hills but +yet lowland, and with a bright sea chafing on its +shores. He decided on Carrick, found a map and +planned his journey.</p> + +<p>Then he routed out his knapsack, packed it with +a modest change of raiment, and sent out Tibby to +buy chocolate and tobacco and to cash a cheque at +the Strathclyde Bank. Till Tibby returned he occupied +himself with delicious dreams.... He saw +himself daily growing browner and leaner, swinging +along broad highways or wandering in bypaths. +He pictured his seasons of ease, when he unslung +his pack and smoked in some clump of lilacs by a +burnside—he remembered a phrase of Stevenson's +somewhat like that. He would meet and talk with +all sorts of folk; an exhilarating prospect, for Mr. +McCunn loved his kind. There would be the evening +hour before he reached his inn, when, pleasantly +tired, he would top some ridge and see the +welcoming lights of a little town. There would be +the lamp-lit after-supper time when he would read +and reflect, and the start in the gay morning, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +tobacco tastes sweetest and even fifty-five seems +young. It would be holiday of the purest, for no +business now tugged at his coat-tails. He was beginning +a new life, he told himself, when he could +cultivate the seedling interests which had withered +beneath the far-reaching shade of the shop. Was +ever a man more fortunate or more free?</p> + +<p>Tibby was told that he was going off for a week +or two. No letters need be forwarded, for he +would be constantly moving, but Mrs. McCunn at +the Neuk Hydropathic would be kept informed of +his whereabouts. Presently he stood on his doorstep, +a stocky figure in ancient tweeds, with a bulging +pack slung on his arm, and a stout hazel stick +in his hand. A passer-by would have remarked an +elderly shopkeeper bent apparently on a day in the +country, a common little man on a prosaic errand. +But the passer-by would have been wrong, for he +could not see into the heart. The plump citizen +was the eternal pilgrim; he was Jason, Ulysses, +Eric the Red, Albuquerque, Cortez—starting out to +discover new worlds.</p> + +<p>Before he left Mr. McCunn had given Tibby a +letter to post. That morning he had received an +epistle from a benevolent acquaintance, one Mackintosh, +regarding a group of urchins who called +themselves the "Gorbals Die-Hards." Behind the +premises in Mearns Street lay a tract of slums, full +of mischievous boys with whom his staff waged +truceless war. But lately there had started among +them a kind of unauthorised and unofficial Boy +Scouts, who, without uniform or badge or any kind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +of paraphernalia, followed the banner of Sir Robert +Baden-Powell and subjected themselves to a +rude discipline. They were far too poor to join +an orthodox troop, but they faithfully copied what +they believed to be the practices of more fortunate +boys. Mr. McCunn had witnessed their pathetic +parades, and had even passed the time of day with +their leader, a red-haired savage called Dougal. +The philanthropic Mackintosh had taken an interest +in the gang and now desired subscriptions to send +them to camp in the country.</p> + +<p>Mr. McCunn, in his new exhilaration, felt that +he could not deny to others what he proposed for +himself. His last act before leaving was to send +Mackintosh ten pounds.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<p class="center">OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE AND THE DIFFERENCE IN +POINTS OF VIEW</p> + + +<p>Dickson McCunn was never to forget the +first stage in that pilgrimage. A little after +midday he descended from a grimy third-class carriage +at a little station whose name I have forgotten. +In the village near-by he purchased some +new-baked buns and ginger biscuits, to which he was +partial, and followed by the shouts of urchins, who +admired his pack—"Look at the auld man gaun to +the schule"—he emerged into open country. The +late April noon gleamed like a frosty morning, but +the air, though tonic, was kind. The road ran over +sweeps of moorland where curlews wailed, and into +lowland pastures dotted with very white, very vocal +lambs. The young grass had the warm fragrance +of new milk. As he went he munched his buns, for +he had resolved to have no plethoric midday meal, +and presently he found the burnside nook of his +fancy, and halted to smoke. On a patch of turf +close to a grey stone bridge he had out his Walton +and read the chapter on "The Chavender or Chub." +The collocation of words delighted him and inspired +him to verse. "Lavender or Lub"—"Pavender +or Pub"—"Gravender or Grub"—but the monosyllables +proved too vulgar for poetry. Regretfully +he desisted.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> + +<p>The rest of the road was as idyllic as the start. +He would tramp steadily for a mile or so and then +saunter, leaning over bridges to watch the trout in +the pools, admiring from a dry-stone dyke the unsteady +gambols of new-born lambs, kicking up dust +from strips of moor-burn on the heather. Once by +a fir-wood he was privileged to surprise three lunatic +hares waltzing. His cheeks glowed with the sun; +he moved in an atmosphere of pastoral, serene and +contented. When the shadows began to lengthen +he arrived at the village of Cloncae, where he proposed +to lie. The inn looked dirty, but he found +a decent widow, above whose door ran the legend +in home-made lettering, "Mrs. brockie tea and +Coffee," and who was willing to give him quarters. +There he supped handsomely off ham and eggs, and +dipped into a work called <i>Covenanting Worthies</i>, +which garnished a table decorated with sea-shells. +At half-past nine precisely he retired to bed and +unhesitating sleep.</p> + +<p>Next morning he awoke to a changed world. +The sky was grey and so low that his outlook was +bounded by a cabbage garden, while a surly wind +prophesied rain. It was chilly, too, and he had his +breakfast beside the kitchen fire. Mrs. Brockie +could not spare a capital letter for her surname on +the signboard, but she exalted it in her talk. He +heard of a multitude of Brockies, ascendant, descendant +and collateral, who seemed to be in a fair +way to inherit the earth. Dickson listened sympathetically, +and lingered by the fire. He felt stiff from +yesterday's exercise, and the edge was off his spirit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> + +<p>The start was not quite what he had pictured. +His pack seemed heavier, his boots tighter, and his +pipe drew badly. The first miles were all uphill, +with a wind tingling his ears, and no colours in the +landscape but brown and grey. Suddenly he awoke +to the fact that he was dismal, and thrust the notion +behind him. He expanded his chest and drew in +long draughts of air. He told himself that this +sharp weather was better than sunshine. He remembered +that all travellers in romances battled +with mist and rain. Presently his body recovered +comfort and vigour, and his mind worked itself +into cheerfulness.</p> + +<p>He overtook a party of tramps and fell into talk +with them. He had always had a fancy for the +class, though he had never known anything nearer it +than city beggars. He pictured them as philosophic +vagabonds, full of quaint turns of speech, unconscious +Borrovians. With these samples his disillusionment +was speedy. The party was made up +of a ferret-faced man with a red nose, a draggle-tailed +woman, and a child in a crazy perambulator. +Their conversation was one-sided, for it immediately +resolved itself into a whining chronicle of misfortunes +and petitions for relief. It cost him half +a crown to be rid of them.</p> + +<p>The road was alive with tramps that day. The +next one did the accosting. Hailing Mr. McCunn +as "Guv'nor," he asked to be told the way to Manchester. +The objective seemed so enterprising that +Dickson was impelled to ask questions, and heard, +in what appeared to be in the accents of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +Colonies, the tale of a career of unvarying calamity. +There was nothing merry or philosophic about this +adventurer. Nay, there was something menacing. +He eyed his companion's waterproof covetously, and +declared that he had had one like it which had been +stolen from him the day before. Had the place +been lonely he might have contemplated highway +robbery, but they were at the entrance to a village, +and the sight of a public-house awoke his thirst. +Dickson parted with him at the cost of sixpence for +a drink.</p> + +<p>He had no more company that morning except an +aged stone-breaker whom he convoyed for half a +mile. The stone-breaker also was soured with the +world. He walked with a limp, which, he said, was +due to an accident years before, when he had been +run into by "ane o' thae damned velocipeeds." The +word revived in Dickson memories of his youth, +and he was prepared to be friendly. But the ancient +would have none of it. He inquired morosely +what he was after, and, on being told, remarked +that he might have learned more sense. "It's a +daft-like thing for an auld man like you to be +traivellin' the roads. Ye maun be ill-off for a job." +Questioned as to himself he became, as the newspapers +say, "reticent," and having reached his bing +of stones, turned rudely to his duties. "Awa' hame +wi' ye," were his parting words. "It's idle +scoondrels like you that maks wark for honest +folk like me."</p> + +<p>The morning was not a success, but the strong +air had given Dickson such an appetite that he re<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>solved +to break his rule, and, on reaching the little +town of Kilchrist, he sought luncheon at the chief +hotel. There he found that which revived his +spirits. A solitary bagman shared the meal, who +revealed the fact that he was in the grocery line. +There followed a well-informed and most technical +conversation. He was drawn to speak of the +United Supply Stores, Limited, of their prospects +and of their predecessor, Mr. McCunn, whom he +knew well by repute but had never met. "Yon's +the clever one," he observed. "I've always said +there's no longer head in the city of Glasgow than +McCunn. An old-fashioned firm, but it has aye +managed to keep up with the times. He's just retired, +they tell me, and in my opinion it's a big +loss to the provision trade...." Dickson's heart +glowed within him. Here was Romance; to be +praised incognito; to enter a casual inn and find +that fame had preceded him. He warmed to the +bagman, insisted on giving him a liqueur and a +cigar, and finally revealed himself. "I'm Dickson +McCunn," he said, "taking a bit holiday. If there's +anything I can do for you when I get back, just let +me know." With mutual esteem they parted.</p> + +<p>He had need of all his good spirits, for he +emerged into an unrelenting drizzle. The environs +of Kilchrist are at the best unlovely, and in the wet +they were as melancholy as a graveyard. But the +encounter with the bagman had worked wonders +with Dickson, and he strode lustily into the weather, +his waterproof collar buttoned round his chin. The +road climbed to a bare moor, where lagoons had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> +formed in the ruts, and the mist showed on each +side only a yard or two of soaking heather. Soon +he was wet; presently every part of him, boots, +body and pack, was one vast sponge. The waterproof +was not water-proof, and the rain penetrated +to his most intimate garments. Little he cared. +He felt lighter, younger, than on the idyllic previous +day. He enjoyed the buffets of the storm, and one +wet mile succeeded another to the accompaniment of +Dickson's shouts and laughter. There was no one +abroad that afternoon, so he could talk aloud to +himself and repeat his favourite poems. About +five in the evening there presented himself at the +Black Bull Inn at Kirkmichael a soaked, disreputable, +but most cheerful traveller.</p> + +<p>Now the Black Bull at Kirkmichael is one of the +few very good inns left in the world. It is an old +place and an hospitable, for it has been for generations +a haunt of anglers, who above all other men +understand comfort. There are always bright fires +there, and hot water, and old soft leather armchairs, +and an aroma of good food and good +tobacco, and giant trout in glass cases, and pictures +of Captain Barclay of Urie walking to London, and +Mr. Ramsay of Barnton winning a horse-race, and +the three-volume edition of the Waverley Novels +with many volumes missing, and indeed all those +things which an inn should have. Also there used +to be—there may still be—sound vintage claret in +the cellars. The Black Bull expects its guests to +arrive in every stage of dishevelment, and Dickson +was received by a cordial landlord, who offered dry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +garments as a matter of course. The pack proved +to have resisted the elements, and a suit of clothes +and slippers were provided by the house. Dickson, +after a glass of toddy, wallowed in a hot bath, +which washed all the stiffness out of him. He had +a fire in his bedroom, beside which he wrote the +opening passages of that diary he had vowed to +keep, descanting lyrically upon the joys of ill +weather. At seven o'clock, warm and satisfied in +soul, and with his body clad in raiment several sizes +too large for it, he descended to dinner.</p> + +<p>At one end of the long table in the dining-room +sat a group of anglers. They looked jovial fellows, +and Dickson would fain have joined them; but, having +been fishing all day in the Loch o' the Threshes, +they were talking their own talk, and he feared that +his admiration for Izaak Walton did not qualify +him to butt into the erudite discussions of fishermen. +The landlord seemed to think likewise, for he drew +back a chair for him at the other end, where sat a +young man absorbed in a book. Dickson gave him +good evening and got an abstracted reply. The +young man supped the Black Bull's excellent broth +with one hand, and with the other turned the pages +of his volume. A glance convinced Dickson that +the work was French, a literature which did not +interest him. He knew little of the tongue and +suspected it of impropriety.</p> + +<p>Another guest entered and took the chair opposite +the bookish young man. He was also young—not +more than thirty-three—and to Dickson's eye, +was the kind of person he would have liked to re<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>semble. +He was tall and free from any superfluous +flesh; his face was lean, fine-drawn and deeply sunburnt +so that the hair above showed oddly pale; the +hands were brown and beautifully shaped, but the +forearm revealed by the loose cuffs of his shirt was +as brawny as a blacksmith's. He had rather pale +blue eyes, which seemed to have looked much at the +sun, and a small moustache the colour of ripe hay. +His voice was low and pleasant, and he pronounced +his words precisely, like a foreigner.</p> + +<p>He was very ready to talk, but in defiance of Dr. +Johnson's warning, his talk was all questions. He +wanted to know everything about the neighbourhood—who +lived in what houses, what were the distances +between the towns, what harbours would +admit what class of vessel. Smiling agreeably, he +put Dickson through a catechism to which he knew +none of the answers. The landlord was called in, +and proved more helpful. But on one matter he +was fairly at a loss. The catechist asked about a +house called Darkwater, and was met with a shake +of the head. "I know no sic-like name in this countryside, +sir," and the catechist looked disappointed.</p> + +<p>The literary young man said nothing, but ate +trout abstractedly, one eye on his book. The fish +had been caught by the anglers in the Loch o' the +Threshes, and phrases describing their capture +floated from the other end of the table. The young +man had a second helping, and then refused the +excellent hill mutton that followed, contenting himself +with cheese. Not so Dickson and the catechist. +They ate everything that was set before them, top<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>ping +up with a glass of port. Then the latter, who +had been talking illuminatingly about Spain, rose, +bowed and left the table, leaving Dickson, who liked +to linger over his meals, to the society of the +ichthyophagous student.</p> + +<p>He nodded towards the book. "Interesting?" +he asked.</p> + +<p>The young man shook his head and displayed the +name on the cover. "Anatole France. I used to +be crazy about him, but now he seems rather a back +number." Then he glanced towards the just-vacated +chair. "Australian," he said.</p> + +<p>"How d'you know?"</p> + +<p>"Can't mistake them. There's nothing else so +lean and fine produced on the globe to-day. I was +next door to them at Pozičres and saw them fight. +Lord! Such men! Now and then you had a freak, +but most looked like Phœbus Apollo."</p> + +<p>Dickson gazed with a new respect at his neighbour, +for he had not associated him with battle-fields. +During the war he had been a fervent +patriot, but, though he had never heard a shot himself, +so many of his friends' sons and nephews, not +to mention cousins of his own, had seen service, +that he had come to regard the experience as commonplace. +Lions in Africa and bandits in Mexico +seemed to him novel and romantic things, but not +trenches and airplanes which were the whole world's +property. But he could scarcely fit his neighbour +into even his haziest picture of war. The young +man was tall and a little round-shouldered; he had +short-sighted, rather prominent brown eyes, untidy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +black hair and dark eyebrows which came near to +meeting. He wore a knickerbocker suit of bluish-grey +tweed, a pale blue shirt, a pale blue collar and +a dark blue tie—a symphony of colour which seemed +too elaborately considered to be quite natural. +Dickson had set him down as an artist or a newspaper +correspondent, objects to him of lively interest. +But now the classification must be reconsidered.</p> + +<p>"So you were in the war," he said encouragingly.</p> + +<p>"Four blasted years," was the savage reply. +"And I never want to hear the name of the beastly +thing again."</p> + +<p>"You said he was an Australian," said Dickson, +casting back. "But I thought Australians had a +queer accent, like the English."</p> + +<p>"They've all kind of accents, but you can never +mistake their voice. It's got the sun in it. Canadians +have got grinding ice in theirs, and Virginians +have got butter. So have the Irish. In Britain +there are no voices, only speaking tubes. It isn't +safe to judge men by their accent only. You yourself +I take to be Scotch, but for all I know you may +be a senator from Chicago or a Boer General."</p> + +<p>"I'm from Glasgow. My name's Dickson McCunn." +He had a faint hope that the announcement +might affect the other as it had affected the bagman +at Kilchrist.</p> + +<p>"Golly, what a name!" exclaimed the young man +rudely.</p> + +<p>Dickson was nettled. "It's very old Highland," +he said. "It means the son of a dog."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Which—Christian name or surname?" Then +the young man appeared to think he had gone too +far, for he smiled pleasantly. "And a very good +name too. Mine is prosaic by comparison. They +call me John Heritage."</p> + +<p>"That," said Dickson, mollified, "is like a name +out of a book. With that name by rights you +should be a poet."</p> + +<p>Gloom settled on the young man's countenance. +"It's a dashed sight too poetic. It's like Edwin +Arnold and Alfred Austin and Dante Gabriel Rossetti. +Great poets have vulgar monosyllables for +names, like Keats. The new Shakespeare when he +comes along will probably be called Grubb or +Jubber, if he isn't Jones. With a name like +yours I might have a chance. <i>You</i> should be the +poet."</p> + +<p>"I'm very fond of reading," said Dickson modestly.</p> + +<p>A slow smile crumpled Mr. Heritage's face. +"There's a fire in the smoking-room," he observed +as he rose. "We'd better bag the armchairs before +these fishing louts take them." Dickson followed +obediently. This was the kind of chance acquaintance +for whom he had hoped, and he was prepared +to make the most of him.</p> + +<p>The fire burned bright in the little dusky smoking-room, +lighted by one oil-lamp. Mr. Heritage flung +himself into a chair, stretched his long legs and lit +a pipe.</p> + +<p>"You like reading?" he asked. "What sort? +Any use for poetry?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Plenty," said Dickson. "I've aye been fond of +learning it up and repeating it to myself when I had +nothing to do. In church and waiting on trains, +like. It used to be Tennyson, but now it's more +Browning. I can say a lot of Browning."</p> + +<p>The other screwed his face into an expression of +disgust. "I know the stuff. 'Damask cheeks and +dewy sister eyelids.' Or else the Ercles vein—'God's +in His Heaven, all's right with the world.' +No good, Mr. McCunn. All back numbers. +Poetry's not a thing of pretty round phrases or +noisy invocations. It's life itself, with the tang of +the raw world in it—not a sweetmeat for middle-class +women in parlours."</p> + +<p>"Are you a poet, Mr. Heritage?"</p> + +<p>"No, Dogson, I'm a paper-maker."</p> + +<p>This was a new view to Mr. McCunn. "I just +once knew a paper-maker," he observed reflectively. +"They called him Tosh. He drank a bit."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't drink," said the other. "I'm a +paper-maker, but that's for my bread and butter. +Some day for my own sake I may be a poet."</p> + +<p>"Have you published anything?"</p> + +<p>The eager admiration in Dickson's tone gratified +Mr. Heritage. He drew from his pocket a slim +book. "My firstfruits," he said, rather shyly.</p> + +<p>Dickson received it with reverence. It was a +small volume in grey paper boards with a white +label on the back, and it was lettered: "<i>Whorls—John +Heritage's Book</i>." He turned the pages and +read a little. "It's a nice wee book," he observed +at length.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Good God, if you call it nice, I must have failed +pretty badly," was the irritated answer.</p> + +<p>Dickson read more deeply and was puzzled. It +seemed worse than the worst of Browning to +understand. He found one poem about a garden +entitled "Revue." "Crimson and resonant clangs +the dawn," said the poet. Then he went on to +describe noonday:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0q">"Sunflowers, tall Grenadiers, ogle the roses' short-skirted ballet.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fumes of dark sweet wine hidden in frail petals<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Madden the drunkard bees."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This seemed to him an odd way to look at things, +and he boggled over a phrase about an "epicene +lily." Then came evening: "The painted gauze of +the stars flutters in a fold of twilight crape," sang +Mr. Heritage; and again, "The moon's pale leprosy +sloughs the fields."</p> + +<p>Dickson turned to other verses which apparently +enshrined the writer's memory of the trenches. +They were largely compounded of oaths, and rather +horrible, lingering lovingly over sights and smells +which every one is aware of, but most people contrive +to forget. He did not like them. Finally he +skimmed a poem about a lady who turned into a +bird. The evolution was described with intimate +anatomical details which scared the honest +reader.</p> + +<p>He kept his eyes on the book for he did not know +what to say. The trick seemed to be to describe<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +nature in metaphors mostly drawn from music-halls +and haberdashers' shops, and, when at a loss, +to fall to cursing. He thought it frankly very bad, +and he laboured to find words which would combine +politeness and honesty.</p> + +<p>"Well?" said the poet.</p> + +<p>"There's a lot of fine things here, but—but the +lines don't just seem to scan very well."</p> + +<p>Mr. Heritage laughed. "Now I can place you +exactly. You like the meek rhyme and the conventional +epithet. Well, I don't. The world has +passed beyond that prettiness. You want the moon +described as a Huntress or a gold disc or a flower—I +say it's oftener like a beer barrel or a cheese. +You want a wealth of jolly words and real things +ruled out as unfit for poetry. I say there's nothing +unfit for poetry. Nothing, Dogson! Poetry's +everywhere, and the real thing is commoner among +drabs and pot-houses and rubbish heaps than in your +Sunday parlours. The poet's business is to distil it +out of rottenness, and show that it is all one spirit, +the thing that keeps the stars in their place.... I +wanted to call my book '<i>Drains</i>,' for drains are +sheer poetry, carrying off the excess and discards +of human life to make the fields green and the corn +ripen. But the publishers kicked. So I called it +'<i>Whorls</i>,' to express my view of the exquisite involution +of all things. Poetry is the fourth dimension +of the soul.... Well, let's hear about your +taste in prose."</p> + +<p>Mr. McCunn was much bewildered, and a little +inclined to be cross. He disliked being called<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +Dogson, which seemed to him an abuse of his +etymological confidences. But his habit of politeness +held.</p> + +<p>He explained rather haltingly his preferences in +prose.</p> + +<p>Mr. Heritage listened with wrinkled brows.</p> + +<p>"You're even deeper in the mud than I thought," +he remarked. "You live in a world of painted laths +and shadows. All this passion for the picturesque! +Trash, my dear man, like a schoolgirl's novelette +heroes. You make up romances about gipsies and +sailors and the blackguards they call pioneers, but +you know nothing about them. If you did, you +would find they had none of the gilt and gloss you +imagine. But the great things they have got in +common with all humanity you ignore. It's like—it's +like sentimentalising about a pancake because it +looked like a buttercup, and all the while not knowing +that it was good to eat."</p> + +<p>At that moment the Australian entered the room +to get a light for his pipe. He wore a motor-cyclist's +overalls and appeared to be about to take +the road. He bade them good night and it seemed +to Dickson that his face, seen in the glow of the +fire, was drawn and anxious, unlike that of the +agreeable companion at dinner.</p> + +<p>"There," said Mr. Heritage, nodding after the +departing figure. "I dare say you have been telling +yourself stories about that chap—life in the bush, +stock-riding and the rest of it. But probably he's a +bank-clerk from Melbourne.... Your romanticism +is one vast self-delusion and it blinds your eye<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +to the real thing. We have got to clear it out and +with it all the damnable humbug of the Kelt."</p> + +<p>Mr. McCunn, who spelt the word with a soft +"C," was puzzled. "I thought a kelt was a kind +of a no-weel fish," he interposed.</p> + +<p>But the other, in the flood-tide of his argument, +ignored the interruption. "That's the value of the +war," he went on. "It has burst up all the old conventions, +and we've got to finish the destruction before +we can build. It is the same with literature +and religion and society and politics. At them with +the axe, say I. I have no use for priests and +pedants. I've no use for upper classes and middle +classes. There's only one class that matters, the +plain man, the workers, who live close to life."</p> + +<p>"The place for you," said Dickson dryly, "is in +Russia among the Bolsheviks."</p> + +<p>Mr. Heritage approved. "They are doing a +great work in their own fashion. We needn't imitate +all their methods—they're a trifle crude and +have too many Jews among them—but they've got +hold of the right end of the stick. They seek truth +and reality."</p> + +<p>Mr. McCunn was slowly being roused.</p> + +<p>"What brings you wandering hereaways?" he +asked.</p> + +<p>"Exercise," was the answer. "I've been kept +pretty closely tied up all winter. And I want leisure +and quiet to think over things."</p> + +<p>"Well, there's one subject you might turn your +attention to. You'll have been educated like a +gentleman?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Nine wasted years—five at Harrow, four at +Cambridge."</p> + +<p>"See here, then. You're daft about the working-class +and have no use for any other. But what in +the name of goodness do you know about working-men?... +I come out of them myself, and have +lived next door to them all my days. Take them +one way and another, they're a decent sort, good +and bad like the rest of us. But there's a wheen +daft folk that would set them up as models—close +to truth and reality, says you. It's sheer ignorance, +for you're about as well acquaint with the working-man +as with King Solomon. You say I make up +fine stories about tinklers and sailor-men because I +know nothing about them. That's maybe true. +But you're at the same job yourself. You ideelise +the working-man, you and your kind, because you're +ignorant. You say that he's seeking for truth, when +he's only looking for a drink and a rise in wages. +You tell me he's near reality, but I tell you that his +notion of reality is often just a short working day +and looking on at a footba'-match on Saturday.... +And when you run down what you call the +middle-classes that do three-quarters of the world's +work and keep the machine going and the working +man in a job, then I tell you you're talking havers. +Havers!"</p> + +<p>Mr. McCunn, having delivered his defence of the +bourgeoisie, rose abruptly and went to bed. He +felt jarred and irritated. His innocent little private +domain had been badly trampled by this stray bull +of a poet. But as he lay in bed, before blowing out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> +his candle, he had recourse to Walton, and found +a passage on which, as on a pillow, he went peacefully +to sleep:</p> + +<blockquote><p>"As I left this place, and entered into the next +field, a second pleasure entertained me; 'twas a +handsome milkmaid, that had not yet attained so +much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any +fears of many things that will never be, as too many +men too often do; but she cast away all care, and +sang like a nightingale; her voice was good, and the +ditty fitted for it; it was the smooth song that was +made by <i>Kit Marlow</i> now at least fifty years ago. +And the milkmaid's mother sung an answer to it, +which was made by <i>Sir Walter Raleigh</i> in his +younger days. They were old-fashioned poetry, but +choicely good; I think much better than the strong +lines that are now in fashion in this critical age."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p> + +</blockquote> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<p class="center">HOW CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER CAME TO THE +DARK TOWER</p> + + +<p>Dickson woke with a vague sense of irritation. +As his recollections took form they produced +a very unpleasant picture of Mr. John Heritage. +The poet had loosened all his placid idols, so that +they shook and rattled in the niches where they had +been erstwhile so secure. Mr. McCunn had a mind +of a singular candour, and was prepared most honestly +at all times to revise his views. But by this +iconoclast he had been only irritated and in no way +convinced. "<i>Sich</i> poetry!" he muttered to himself +as he shivered in his bath (a daily cold tub instead +of his customary hot one on Saturday night being +part of the discipline of his holiday). "And yon +blethers about the working-man!" he ingeminated +as he shaved. He breakfasted alone, having outstripped +even the fishermen, and as he ate he arrived +at conclusions. He had a great respect for youth, +but a line must be drawn somewhere. "The man's +a child," he decided, "and not like to grow up. The +way he's besotted on everything daftlike, if it's only +<i>new</i>. And he's no rightly young either—speaks +like an auld dominie, whiles. And he's rather impident," +he concluded, with memories of "Dogson."... +He was very clear that he never wanted to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +him again; that was the reason of his early breakfast. +Having clarified his mind by definitions, Dickson +felt comforted. He paid his bill, took an affectionate +farewell of the landlord, and at 7.30 precisely +stepped out into the gleaming morning.</p> + +<p>It was such a day as only a Scots April can show. +The cobbled streets of Kirkmichael still shone with +the night's rain, but the storm clouds had fled before +a mild south wind, and the whole circumference of +the sky was a delicate translucent blue. Homely +breakfast smells came from the houses and delighted +Mr. McCunn's nostrils; a squalling child +was a pleasant reminder of an awakening world, +the urban counterpart to the morning song of birds; +even the sanitary cart seemed a picturesque vehicle. +He bought his ration of buns and ginger biscuits +at a baker's shop whence various ragamuffin boys +were preparing to distribute the householders' +bread, and took his way up the Gallows Hill to the +Burgh Muir almost with regret at leaving so pleasant +a habitation.</p> + +<p>A chronicle of ripe vintages must pass lightly +over small beer. I will not dwell on his leisurely +progress in the bright weather, or on his luncheon +in a coppice of young firs, or on his thoughts which +had returned to the idyllic. I take up the narrative +at about three o'clock in the afternoon, when he is +revealed seated on a milestone examining his map. +For he had come, all unwitting, to a turning of the +ways, and his choice is the cause of this veracious +history.</p> + +<p>The place was high up on a bare moor, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +showed a white lodge among pines, a white cottage +in a green nook by a burnside, and no other marks +of human dwelling. To his left, which was the +east, the heather rose to a low ridge of hill, much +scarred with peat-bogs, behind which appeared the +blue shoulder of a considerable mountain. Before +him the road was lost momentarily in the woods +of a shooting-box, but reappeared at a great distance +climbing a swell of upland which seemed to +be the glacis of a jumble of bold summits. There +was a pass there, the map told him, which led into +Galloway. It was the road he had meant to follow, +but as he sat on the milestone his purpose wavered. +For there seemed greater attractions in the country +which lay to the westward. Mr. McCunn, be it +remembered, was not in search of brown heath and +shaggy wood; he wanted greenery and the Spring.</p> + +<p>Westward there ran out a peninsula in the shape +of an isosceles triangle, of which his present highroad +was the base. At a distance of a mile or so +a railway ran parallel to the road, and he could see +the smoke of a goods train waiting at a tiny station +islanded in acres of bog. Thence the moor swept +down to meadows and scattered copses, above +which hung a thin haze of smoke which betokened +a village. Beyond it were further woodlands, not +firs but old shady trees, and as they narrowed to a +point the gleam of two tiny estuaries appeared on +either side. He could not see the final cape, but he +saw the sea beyond it, flawed with catspaws, gold +in the afternoon sun, and on it a small herring +smack flapping listless sails.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> + +<p>Something in the view caught and held his fancy. +He conned his map, and made out the names. The +peninsula was called the Cruives—an old name apparently, +for it was in antique lettering. He +vaguely remembered that "cruives" had something +to do with fishing, doubtless in the two streams +which flanked it. One he had already crossed, the +Laver, a clear tumbling water springing from green +hills; the other, the Garple, descended from the +rougher mountains to the south. The hidden village +bore the name of Dalquharter, and the uncouth +syllables awoke some vague recollection in his mind. +The great house in the trees beyond—it must be a +great house, for the map showed large policies—was +Huntingtower.</p> + +<p>The last name fascinated and almost decided him. +He pictured an ancient keep by the sea, defended +by converging rivers, which some old Comyn lord +of Galloway had built to command the shore road +and from which he had sallied to hunt in his wild +hills.... He liked the way the moor dropped +down to green meadows, and the mystery of the +dark woods beyond. He wanted to explore the twin +waters, and see how they entered that strange +shimmering sea. The odd names, the odd cul-de-sac +of a peninsula, powerfully attracted him. Why +should he not spend a night there, for the map +showed clearly that Dalquharter had an inn? He +must decide promptly, for before him a side-road +left the highway, and the signpost bore the legend, +"Dalquharter and Huntingtower."</p> + +<p>Mr. McCunn, being a cautious and pious man,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +took the omens. He tossed a penny—heads go on, +tails turn aside. It fell tails.</p> + +<p>He knew as soon as he had taken three steps +down the side-road that he was doing something +momentous, and the exhilaration of enterprise +stole into his soul. It occurred to him that this +was the kind of landscape that he had always especially +hankered after, and had made pictures of +when he had a longing for the country on him—a +wooded cape between streams, with meadows inland +and then a long lift of heather. He had the +same feeling of expectancy, of something most interesting +and curious on the eve of happening, that +he had had long ago when he waited on the curtain +rising at his first play. His spirits soared like the +lark, and he took to singing. If only the inn at +Dalquharter were snug and empty, this was going +to be a day in ten thousand. Thus mirthfully he +swung down the rough grass-grown road, past the +railway, till he came to a point where heath began +to merge in pasture, and dry-stone walls split the +moor into fields. Suddenly his pace slackened and +song died on his lips. For, approaching from the +right by a tributary path, was the Poet.</p> + +<p>Mr. Heritage saw him afar off and waved a +friendly hand. In spite of his chagrin Dickson +could not but confess that he had misjudged his +critic. Striding with long steps over the heather, +his jacket open to the wind, his face a-glow and his +capless head like a whin-bush for disorder, he cut +a more wholesome and picturesque figure than in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> +the smoking-room the night before. He seemed +to be in a companionable mood, for he brandished +his stick and shouted greetings.</p> + +<p>"Well met!" he cried; "I was hoping to fall in +with you again. You must have thought me a +pretty fair cub last night."</p> + +<p>"I did that," was the dry answer.</p> + +<p>"Well, I want to apologise. God knows what +made me treat you to a university-extension lecture. +I may not agree with you, but every man's entitled +to his own views, and it was dashed poor form +for me to start jawing you."</p> + +<p>Mr. McCunn had no gift of nursing anger, and +was very susceptible to apologies.</p> + +<p>"That's all right," he murmured. "Don't mention +it. I'm wondering what brought you down +here, for it's off the road."</p> + +<p>"Caprice. Pure caprice. I liked the look of this +butt-end of nowhere."</p> + +<p>"Same here. I've aye thought there was something +terrible nice about a wee cape with a village +at the neck of it and a burn each side."</p> + +<p>"Now that's interesting," said Mr. Heritage. +"You're obsessed by a particular type of landscape. +Ever read Freud?"</p> + +<p>Dickson shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Well, you've got an odd complex somewhere. +I wonder where the key lies. Cape—woods—two +rivers—moor behind. Ever been in love, Dogson?"</p> + +<p>Mr. McCunn was startled. "Love" was a word<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +rarely mentioned in his circle except on death-beds. +"I've been a married man for thirty years," he said +hurriedly.</p> + +<p>"That won't do. It should have been a hopeless +affair—the last sight of the lady on a spur of coast +with water on three sides—that kind of thing, you +know. Or it might have happened to an ancestor.... +But you don't look the kind of breed for +hopeless attachments. More likely some scoundrelly +old Dogson long ago found sanctuary in this +sort of place. Do you dream about it?"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly."</p> + +<p>"Well, I do. The queer thing is that I've got +the same prepossession as you. As soon as I +spotted this Cruives place on the map this morning, +I saw it was what I was after. When I came +in sight of it I almost shouted. I don't very often +dream, but when I do that's the place I frequent. +Odd, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>Mr. McCunn was deeply interested at this unexpected +revelation of romance. "Maybe it's being +in love," he daringly observed.</p> + +<p>The Poet demurred. "No. I'm not a connoisseur +of obvious sentiment. That explanation might +fit your case, but not mine. I'm pretty certain +there's something hideous at the back of <i>my</i> complex—some +grim old business tucked away back in +the ages. For though I'm attracted by the place, +I'm frightened too!"</p> + +<p>There seemed no room for fear in the delicate +landscape now opening before them. In front in +groves of birch and rowans smoked the first houses<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +of a tiny village. The road had become a green +"loaning" on the ample margin of which cattle +grazed. The moorland still showed itself in spits +of heather, and some distance off, where a rivulet +ran in a hollow, there were signs of a fire and figures +near it. These last Mr. Heritage regarded with +disapproval.</p> + +<p>"Some infernal trippers!" he murmured. "Or +Boy Scouts. They desecrate everything. Why +can't the <i>tunicatus popellus</i> keep away from a +paradise like this!" Dickson, a democrat who felt +nothing incongruous in the presence of other +holiday-makers, was meditating a sharp rejoinder, +when Mr. Heritage's tone changed.</p> + +<p>"Ye gods! What a village!" he cried, as they +turned a corner. There were not more than a +dozen whitewashed houses, all set in little gardens +of wallflower and daffodil and early fruit blossom. +A triangle of green filled the intervening space, and +in it stood an ancient wooden pump. There was +no schoolhouse or kirk; not even a post-office—only +a red box in a cottage side. Beyond rose the +high wall and the dark trees of the demesne, and +to the right up a by-road which clung to the park +edge stood a two-storeyed building which bore the +legend "The Cruives Inn."</p> + +<p>The Poet became lyrical. "At last!" he cried. +"The village of my dreams! Not a sign of commerce! +No church or school or beastly recreation +hall! Nothing but these divine little cottages and +an ancient pub! Dogson, I warn you, I'm going to +have the devil of a tea." And he declaimed:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">"Thou shalt hear a song<br /></span> +<span class="i2">After a while which Gods may listen to;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But place the flask upon the board and wait<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Until the stranger hath allayed his thirst,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For poets, grasshoppers and nightingales<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sing cheerily but when the throat is moist."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Dickson, too, longed with sensual gusto for tea. +But, as they drew nearer, the inn lost its hospitable +look. The cobbles of the yard were weedy, as if +rarely visited by traffic, a pane in a window was +broken, and the blinds hung tattered. The garden +was a wilderness, and the doorstep had not been +scoured for weeks. But the place had a landlord, +for he had seen them approach and was waiting at +the door to meet them.</p> + +<p>He was a big man in his shirt sleeves, wearing +old riding breeches unbuttoned at the knees, and +thick ploughman's boots. He had no leggings, and +his fleshy calves were imperfectly covered with +woollen socks. His face was large and pale, his +neck bulged, and he had a gross unshaven jowl. +He was a type familiar to students of society; not +the innkeeper, which is a thing consistent with good +breeding and all the refinements; a type not unknown +in the House of Lords, especially among +recent creations, common enough in the House of +Commons and the City of London, and by no means +infrequent in the governing circles of Labour; the +type known to the discerning as the Licensed +Victualler.</p> + +<p>His face was wrinkled in official smiles, and he +gave the travellers a hearty good afternoon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Can we stop here for the night?" Dickson +asked.</p> + +<p>The landlord looked sharply at him, and then +replied to Mr. Heritage. His expression passed +from official bonhomie to official contrition.</p> + +<p>"Impossible, gentlemen. Quite impossible.... +Ye couldn't have come at a worse time. I've only +been here a fortnight myself, and we haven't got +right shaken down yet. Even then I might have +made shift to do with ye, but the fact is we've +illness in the house, and I'm fair at my wits' end. +It breaks my heart to turn gentlemen away and me +that keen to get the business started. But there it +is!" He spat vigorously as if to emphasise the +desperation of his quandary.</p> + +<p>The man was clearly Scots, but his native speech +was overlaid with something alien, something which +might have been acquired in America or in going +down to the sea in ships. He hitched his breeches, +too, with a nautical air.</p> + +<p>"Is there nowhere else we can put up?" Dickson +asked.</p> + +<p>"Not in this one-horse place. Just a wheen auld +wives that packed thegether they haven't room for +an extra hen. But it's grand weather, and it's not +above seven miles to Auchenlochan. Say the word +and I'll yoke the horse and drive ye there."</p> + +<p>"Thank you. We prefer to walk," said Mr. +Heritage. Dickson would have tarried to inquire +after the illness in the house, but his companion +hurried him off. Once he looked back, and saw the +landlord still on the doorstep gazing after them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That fellow's a swine," said Mr. Heritage +sourly. "I wouldn't trust my neck in his pothouse. +Now, Dogson, I'm hanged if I'm going to leave this +place. We'll find a corner in the village somehow. +Besides, I'm determined on tea."</p> + +<p>The little street slept in the clear pure light of an +early April evening. Blue shadows lay on the white +road, and a delicate aroma of cooking tantalised +hungry nostrils. The near meadows shone like pale +gold against the dark lift of the moor. A light +wind had begun to blow from the west and carried +the faintest tang of salt. The village at that hour +was pure Paradise, and Dickson was of the Poet's +opinion. At all costs they must spend the night +there.</p> + +<p>They selected a cottage whiter and neater than +the others, which stood at a corner, where a narrow +lane turned southward. Its thatched roof had +been lately repaired, and starched curtains of a +dazzling whiteness decorated the small, closely-shut +windows. Likewise it had a green door and a polished +brass knocker.</p> + +<p>Tacitly the duty of envoy was entrusted to Mr. +McCunn. Leaving the other at the gate, he advanced +up the little path lined with quartz stones, +and politely but firmly dropped the brass knocker. +He must have been observed, for ere the noise had +ceased the door opened, and an elderly woman +stood before him. She had a sharply-cut face, the +rudiments of a beard, big spectacles on her nose, +and an old-fashioned lace cap on her smooth white +hair. A little grim she looked at first sight, be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>cause +of her thin lips and Roman nose, but her +mild curious eyes corrected the impression and +gave the envoy confidence.</p> + +<p>"Good afternoon, mistress," he said, broadening +his voice to something more rustical than his normal +Glasgow speech. "Me and my friend are paying +our first visit here, and we're terrible taken up with +the place. We would like to bide the night, but the +inn is no' taking folk. Is there any chance, think +you, of a bed here?"</p> + +<p>"I'll no tell ye a lee," said the woman. "There's +twae guid beds in the loft. But I dinna tak' lodgers +and I dinna want to be bothered wi' ye. I'm an +auld wumman and no' as stoot as I was. Ye'd +better try doun the street. Eppie Home micht +tak' ye."</p> + +<p>Dickson wore his most ingratiating smile. "But, +mistress, Eppie Home's house is no' yours. We've +taken a tremendous fancy to this bit. Can you no' +manage to put with us for the one night? We're +quiet auld-fashioned folk and we'll no' trouble you +much. Just our tea and maybe an egg to it, and +a bowl of porridge in the morning."</p> + +<p>The woman seemed to relent. "Whaur's your +freend?" she asked, peering over her spectacles +towards the garden gate. The waiting Mr. Heritage, +seeing her eyes moving in his direction, took +off his cap with a brave gesture and advanced. +"Glorious weather, Madam," he declared.</p> + +<p>"English," whispered Dickson to the woman, in +explanation.</p> + +<p>She examined the Poet's neat clothes and Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +McCunn's homely garments, and apparently found +them reassuring. "Come in," she said shortly. +"I see ye're wilfu' folk and I'll hae to dae my best +for ye."</p> + +<p>A quarter of an hour later the two travellers, +having been introduced to two spotless beds in the +loft, and having washed luxuriously at the pump in +the back yard, were seated in Mrs. Morran's +kitchen before a meal which fulfilled their wildest +dreams. She had been baking that morning, so +there were white scones and barley scones, and +oaten farles, and russet pancakes. There were +three boiled eggs for each of them; there was a +segment of an immense currant cake ("a present +from my guid brither last Hogmanay"); there was +skim-milk cheese; there were several kinds of jam, +and there was a pot of dark-gold heather honey. +"Try hinny and aitcake," said their hostess. "My +man used to say he never fund onything as guid in +a' his days."</p> + +<p>Presently they heard her story. Her name was +Morran, and she had been a widow these ten years. +Of her family her son was in South Africa, one +daughter a lady's maid in London, and the other +married to a schoolmaster in Kyle. The son had +been in France fighting, and had come safely +through. He had spent a month or two with her +before his return, and, she feared, had found it dull. +"There's no' a man body in the place. Naething +but auld wives."</p> + +<p>That was what the innkeeper had told them. +Mr. McCunn inquired concerning the inn.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There's new folk just come. What's this they +ca' them?—Robson—Dobson—aye, Dobson. What +for wad they no' tak' ye in? Does the man think +he's a laird to refuse folk that gait?"</p> + +<p>"He said he had illness in the house."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran meditated. "Whae in the world +can be lyin' there? The man bides his lane. He +got a lassie frae Auchenlochan to cook, but she and +her box gaed off in the post-cairt yestreen. I doot +he tell't ye a lee, though it's no for me to juidge +him. I've never spoken a word to ane o' thae new +folk."</p> + +<p>Dickson inquired about the "new folk."</p> + +<p>"They're a' new come in the last three weeks, +and there's no' a man o' the auld stock left. John +Blackstocks at the Wast Lodge dee'd o' pneumony +last back-end, and auld Simon Tappie at the Gairdens +flitted to Maybole a year come Mairtinmas. +There's naebody at the Gairdens noo, but there's +a man come to the Wast Lodge, a blackavised body +wi' a face like bend-leather. Tam Robison used to +bide at the South Lodge, but Tam got killed about +Mesopotamy, and his wife took the bairns to her +guidsire up at the Garpleheid. I seen the man +that's in the South Lodge gaun up the street when +I was finishin' my denner—a shilpit body and a +lameter, but he hirples as fast as ither folk run. +He's no' bonny to look at. I canna think what the +factor's ettlin' at to let sic' ill-faured chiels come +about the toun."</p> + +<p>Their hostess was rapidly rising in Dickson's +esteem. She sat very straight in her chair, eating<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> +with the careful gentility of a bird, and primming +her thin lips after every mouthful of tea.</p> + +<p>"Who bides in the Big House?" he asked. +"Huntingtower is the name, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"When I was a lassie they ca'ed it Dalquharter +Hoose, and Huntingtower was the auld rickle o' +stanes at the sea-end. But naething wad serve the +last laird's faither but he maun change the name, +for he was clean daft about what they ca' antickities. +Ye speir whae bides in the Hoose? Naebody, +since the young laird dee'd. It's standin' cauld and +lanely and steikit, and it aince the cheeriest dwallin' +in a' Carrick."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran's tone grew tragic. "It's a queer +warld wi'out the auld gentry. My faither and my +guidsire and his faither afore him served the Kennedys, +and my man Dauvit Morran was gemkeeper +to them, and afore I mairried I was ane o' the table-maids. +They were kind folk, the Kennedys, and, +like a' the rale gentry, maist mindfu' o' them that +served them. Sic' merry nichts I've seen in the auld +Hoose, at Hallowe'en and Hogmanay, and at the +servants' balls and the waddin's o' the young +leddies! But the laird bode to waste his siller in +stane and lime, and hadna that much to leave to his +bairns. And now they've a' scattered or deid."</p> + +<p>Her grave face wore the tenderness which comes +from affectionate reminiscence.</p> + +<p>"There was never sic a laddie as young Maister +Quentin. No' a week gaed by but he was in here, +cryin', 'Phemie Morran, I've come till my tea!' +Fine he likit my treacle scones, puir man. There<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> +wasna ane in the countryside sae bauld a rider at +the hunt, or sic a skeely fisher. And he was clever +at his books tae, a graund scholar, they said, and +ettlin' at bein' what they ca' a dipplemat. But +that's a' bye wi'."</p> + +<p>"Quentin Kennedy—the fellow in the Tins?" +Heritage asked. "I saw him in Rome when he was +with the Mission."</p> + +<p>"I dinna ken. He was a brave sodger, but he +wasna long fechtin' in France till he got a bullet in +his breist. Syne we heard tell o' him in far awa' +bits like Russia; and syne cam' the end o' the war +and we lookit to see him back, fishin' the waters +and ridin' like Jehu as in the auld days. But wae's +me! It wasna permitted. The next news we got, +the puir laddie was deid o' influenzy and buried +somewhere about France. The wanchancy bullet +maun have weakened his chest, nae doot. So +that's the end o' the guid stock o' Kennedy o' +Huntingtower, whae hae been great folk sin' the +time o' Robert Bruce. And noo the Hoose is shut +up till the lawyers can get somebody sae far left +to himsel' as to tak' it on lease, and in thae dear +days it's no' just onybody that wants a muckle +castle."</p> + +<p>"Who are the lawyers?" Dickson asked.</p> + +<p>"Glendonan and Speirs in Embro. But they +never look near the place, and Maister Loudoun +in Auchenlochan does the factorin'. He's let the +public an' filled the twae lodges, and he'll be thinkin' +nae doot that he's done eneuch."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran had poured some hot water into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +the big slop-bowl, and had begun the operation +known as "synding out" the cups. It was a hint +that the meal was over and Dickson and Heritage +rose from the table. Followed by an injunction to +be back for supper "on the chap o' nine," they +strolled out into the evening. Two hours of some +sort of daylight remained, and the travellers had +that impulse to activity which comes to all men who, +after a day of exercise and emptiness, are stayed +with a satisfying tea.</p> + +<p>"You should be happy, Dogson," said the Poet. +"Here we have all the materials for your blessed +romance—old mansion, extinct family, village deserted +of men and an innkeeper whom I suspect of +being a villain. I feel almost a convert to your +nonsense myself. We'll have a look at the House."</p> + +<p>They turned down the road which ran north by +the park wall, past the inn which looked more abandoned +than ever, till they came to an entrance which +was clearly the West Lodge. It had once been a +pretty, modish cottage, with a thatched roof and +dormer windows, but now it was badly in need of +repair. A window-pane was broken and stuffed with +a sack, the posts of the porch were giving inwards, +and the thatch was crumbling under the attentions +of a colony of starlings. The great iron gates were +rusty, and on the coat of arms above them the gilding +was patchy and tarnished.</p> + +<p>Apparently the gates were locked, and even the +side wicket failed to open to Heritage's vigorous +shaking. Inside a weedy drive disappeared among +ragged rhododendrons.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> + +<p>The noise brought a man to the lodge door. He +was a sturdy fellow in a suit of black clothes which +had not been made for him. He might have been a +butler <i>en deshabille</i>, but for the presence of a pair +of field boots into which he had tucked the ends of +his trousers. The curious thing about him was his +face, which was decorated with features so tiny as +to give the impression of a monstrous child. Each +in itself was well enough formed, but eyes, nose, +mouth, chin were of a smallness curiously out of +proportion to the head and body. Such an anomaly +might have been redeemed by the expression; good-humour +would have invested it with an air of agreeable +farce. But there was no friendliness in the +man's face. It was set like a judge's in a stony +impassiveness.</p> + +<p>"May we walk up to the House?" Heritage +asked. "We are here for a night and should like +to have a look at it."</p> + +<p>The man advanced a step. He had either a bad +cold, or a voice comparable in size to his features.</p> + +<p>"There's no entrance here," he said huskily. "I +have strict orders."</p> + +<p>"Oh, come now," said Heritage. "It can do +nobody any harm if you let us in for half an hour."</p> + +<p>The man advanced another step.</p> + +<p>"You shall not come in. Go away from here. +Go away, I tell you. It is private." The words +spoken by the small mouth in the small voice had +a kind of childish ferocity.</p> + +<p>The travellers turned their back on him and continued +their way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Sich a curmudgeon!" Dickson commented. His +face had flushed, for he was susceptible to rudeness. +"Did you notice? That man's a foreigner."</p> + +<p>"He's a brute," said Heritage. "But I'm not +going to be done in by that class of lad. There can +be no gates on the sea side, so we'll work round +that way, for I won't sleep till I've seen the place."</p> + +<p>Presently the trees grew thinner, and the road +plunged through thickets of hazel till it came to a +sudden stop in a field. There the cover ceased +wholly, and below them lay the glen of the Laver. +Steep green banks descended to a stream which +swept in coils of gold into the eye of the sunset. A +little further down the channel broadened, the slopes +fell back a little, and a tongue of glittering sea ran +up to meet the hill waters. The Laver is a gentle +stream after it leaves its cradle heights, a stream +of clear pools and long bright shallows, winding by +moorland steadings and upland meadows; but in its +last half-mile it goes mad, and imitates its childhood +when it tumbled over granite shelves. Down +in that green place the crystal water gushed and +frolicked as if determined on one hour of rapturous +life before joining the sedater sea.</p> + +<p>Heritage flung himself on the turf.</p> + +<p>"This is a good place! Ye gods, what a good +place! Dogson, aren't you glad you came? I think +everything's bewitched to-night. That village is +bewitched, and that old woman's tea. Good white +magic! And that foul innkeeper and that brigand +at the gate. Black magic! And now here is the +home of all enchantment—'island valley of Avilion'<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>—'waters +that listen for lovers'—all the rest of it!"</p> + +<p>Dickson observed and marvelled.</p> + +<p>"I can't make you out, Mr. Heritage. You were +saying last night you were a great democrat, and +yet you were objecting to yon laddies camping on +the moor. And you very near bit the neb off me +when I said I liked Tennyson. And now...." +Mr. McCunn's command of language was inadequate +to describe the transformation.</p> + +<p>"You're a precise, pragmatical Scot," was the +answer. "Hang it, man, don't remind me that I'm +inconsistent. I've a poet's licence to play the fool, +and if you don't understand me, I don't in the least +understand myself. All I know is that I'm feeling +young and jolly and that it's the Spring."</p> + +<p>Mr. Heritage was assuredly in a strange mood. +He began to whistle with a far-away look in his eye.</p> + +<p>"Do you know what that is?" he asked suddenly.</p> + +<p>Dickson, who could not detect any tune, said No.</p> + +<p>"It's an <i>aria</i> from a Russian opera that came out +just before the war. I've forgotten the name of +the fellow who wrote it. Jolly thing, isn't it? I +always remind myself of it when I'm in this mood, +for it is linked with the greatest experience of my +life. You said, I think, that you had never been +in love?"</p> + +<p>Dickson replied in the native fashion. "Have +you?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"I have, and I am—been for two years. I was +down with my battalion on the Italian front early +in 1918, and because I could speak the language +they hoicked me out and sent me to Rome on a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> +liaison job. It was Easter time and fine weather +and, being glad to get out of the trenches, I was +pretty well pleased with myself and enjoying life.... +In the place where I stayed there was a girl. +She was a Russian, a princess of a great family, but +a refugee and of course as poor as sin.... I remember +how badly dressed she was among all the +well-to-do Romans. But, my God, what a beauty! +There was never anything in the world like her.... +She was little more than a child, and she used +to sing that air in the morning as she went down the +stairs.... They sent me back to the front before +I had a chance of getting to know her, but she used +to give me little timid good mornings, and her voice +and eyes were like an angel's.... I'm over my +head in love, but it's hopeless, quite hopeless. I +shall never see her again."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I'm honoured by your confidence," said +Dickson reverently.</p> + +<p>The Poet, who seemed to draw exhilaration from +the memory of his sorrows, arose and fetched him +a clout on the back. "Don't talk of confidence as +if you were a reporter," he said. "What about +that House? If we're to see it before the dark +comes we'd better hustle."</p> + +<p>The green slopes on their left, as they ran seaward, +were clothed towards their summit with a +tangle of broom and light scrub. The two forced +their way through this, and found to their surprise +that on this side there were no defences of the +Huntingtower demesne. Along the crest ran a path +which had once been gravelled and trimmed. Be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>yond +through a thicket of laurels and rhododendrons +they came on a long unkempt aisle of grass, +which seemed to be one of those side avenues often +found in connection with old Scots dwellings. Keeping +along this they reached a grove of beech and +holly through which showed a dim shape of masonry. +By a common impulse they moved stealthily, +crouching in cover, till at the far side of the +wood they found a sunk fence and looked over an +acre or two of what had once been lawn and flower-beds +to the front of the mansion.</p> + +<p>The outline of the building was clearly silhouetted +against the glowing west, but since they were looking +at the east face the detail was all in shadow. +But, dim as it was, the sight was enough to give +Dickson the surprise of his life. He had expected +something old and baronial. But this was new, +raw and new, not twenty years built. Some madness +had prompted its creator to set up a replica of +a Tudor house in a countryside where the thing +was unheard of. All the tricks were there—oriel +windows, lozenged panes, high twisted chimney +stacks; the very stone was red, as if to imitate the +mellow brick of some ancient Kentish manor. It +was new, but it was also decaying. The creepers +had fallen from the walls, the pilasters on the terrace +were tumbling down, lichen and moss were on +the doorsteps. Shuttered, silent, abandoned, it +stood like a harsh <i>memento mori</i> of human hopes.</p> + +<p>Dickson had never before been affected by an +inanimate thing with so strong a sense of disquiet. +He had pictured an old stone tower on a bright<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +headland; he found instead this raw thing among +trees. The decadence of the brand-new repels as +something against nature, and this new thing was +decadent. But there was a mysterious life in it, for +though not a chimney smoked, it seemed to enshrine +a personality and to wear a sinister <i>aura</i>. He felt +a lively distaste, which was almost fear. He +wanted to get far away from it as fast as possible. +The sun, now sinking very low, sent up rays which +kindled the crests of a group of firs to the left of +the front door. He had the absurd fancy that they +were torches flaming before a bier.</p> + +<p>It was well that the two had moved quietly and +kept in shadow. Footsteps fell on their ears, on +the path which threaded the lawn just beyond the +sunk-fence. It was the keeper of the West Lodge +and he carried something on his back, but both that +and his face were indistinct in the half-light.</p> + +<p>Other footsteps were heard, coming from the +other side of the lawn. A man's shod feet rang on +the stone of a flagged path, and from their irregular +fall it was plain that he was lame. The two men +met near the door, and spoke together. Then they +separated, and moved one down each side of the +house. To the two watchers they had the air of a +patrol, or of warders pacing the corridors of a +prison.</p> + +<p>"Let's get out of this," said Dickson, and turned +to go.</p> + +<p>The air had the curious stillness which precedes +the moment of sunset, when the birds of day have +stopped their noises and the sounds of night have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +not begun. But suddenly in the silence fell notes of +music. They seemed to come from the house, a +voice singing softly but with great beauty and +clearness.</p> + +<p>Dickson halted in his steps. The tune, whatever +it was, was like a fresh wind to blow aside his depression. +The house no longer looked sepulchral. +He saw that the two men had hurried back from +their patrol, had met and exchanged some message, +and made off again as if alarmed by the music. +Then he noticed his companion....</p> + +<p>Heritage was on one knee with his face rapt and +listening. He got to his feet and appeared to be +about to make for the House. Dickson caught him +by the arm and dragged him into the bushes, and +he followed unresistingly, like a man in a dream. +They ploughed through the thicket, recrossed the +grass avenue, and scrambled down the hillside to +the banks of the stream.</p> + +<p>Then for the first time Dickson observed that his +companion's face was very white, and that sweat +stood on his temples. Heritage lay down and +lapped up water like a dog. Then he turned a wild +eye on the other.</p> + +<p>"I am going back," he said. "That is the voice +of the girl I saw in Rome, and it is singing her +song!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<p class="center">DOUGAL</p> + + +<p>"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Dickson. +"You're coming home to your supper. It +was to be on the chap of nine."</p> + +<p>"I'm going back to that place."</p> + +<p>The man was clearly demented and must be humoured. +"Well, you must wait till the morn's +morning. It's very near dark now, and those are +two ugly customers wandering about yonder. You'd +better sleep the night on it."</p> + +<p>Mr. Heritage seemed to be persuaded. He suffered +himself to be led up the now dusky slopes to +the gate where the road from the village ended. +He walked listlessly like a man engaged in painful +reflection. Once only he broke the silence.</p> + +<p>"You heard the singing?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Dickson was a very poor hand at a lie. "I heard +something," he admitted.</p> + +<p>"You heard a girl's voice singing?"</p> + +<p>"It sounded like that," was the admission. "But +I'm thinking it might have been a seagull."</p> + +<p>"You're a fool," said the Poet rudely.</p> + +<p>The return was a melancholy business, compared +to the bright speed of the outward journey. Dickson's +mind was a chaos of feelings, all of them +unpleasant. He had run up against something<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +which he violently, blindly detested, and the trouble +was that he could not tell why. It was all perfectly +absurd, for why on earth should an ugly house, +some overgrown trees and a couple of ill-favoured +servants so malignly affect him? Yet this was the +fact; he had strayed out of Arcady into a sphere +that filled him with revolt and a nameless fear. +Never in his experience had he felt like this, this +foolish childish panic which took all the colour and +zest out of life. He tried to laugh at himself but +failed. Heritage, stumbling alone by his side, effectually +crushed his effort to discover humour in +the situation. Some exhalation from that infernal +place had driven the Poet mad. And then that +voice singing! A seagull, he had said. More like +a nightingale, he reflected—a bird which in the +flesh he had never met.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran had the lamp lit and a fire burning +in her cheerful kitchen. The sight of it somewhat +restored Dickson's equanimity, and to his surprise +he found that he had an appetite for supper. There +was new milk, thick with cream, and most of the +dainties which had appeared at tea, supplemented +by a noble dish of shimmering "potted-head." The +hostess did not share their meal, being engaged in +some duties in the little cubby-hole known as the +back kitchen.</p> + +<p>Heritage drank a glass of milk but would not +touch food.</p> + +<p>"I called this place Paradise four hours ago," he +said. "So it is, but I fancy it is next door to Hell. +There is something devilish going on inside that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +park wall and I mean to get to the bottom of it."</p> + +<p>"Hoots! Nonsense!" Dickson replied with affected +cheerfulness. "To-morrow you and me will +take the road for Auchenlochan. We needn't trouble +ourselves about an ugly old house and a wheen +impident lodge-keepers."</p> + +<p>"To-morrow I'm going to get inside the place. +Don't come unless you like, but it's no use arguing +with me. My mind is made up."</p> + +<p>Heritage cleared a space on the table and spread +out a section of a large-scale Ordnance map.</p> + +<p>"I must clear my head about the topography, the +same as if this were a battle-ground. Look here, +Dogson.... The road past the inn that we went +by to-night runs north and south." He tore a page +from a note-book and proceeded to make a rough +sketch.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>... "One end we know abuts on the +Laver glen, and the other stops at the South Lodge. +Inside the wall which follows the road is a long belt +of plantation—mostly beeches and ash—then to the +west a kind of park, and beyond that the lawns of +the house. Strips of plantation with avenues between +follow the north and south sides of the park. +On the sea side of the House are the stables and +what looks like a walled garden, and beyond them +what seems to be open ground with an old dovecot +marked and the ruins of Huntingtower keep. Beyond +that there is more open ground, till you come +to the cliffs of the cape. Have you got that?... +It looks possible from the contouring to get on to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +the sea cliffs by following the Laver, for all that +side is broken up into ravines.... But look at the +other side—the Garple glen. It's evidently a deep-cut +gully, and at the bottom it opens out into a little +harbour. There's deep water there, you observe. +Now the House on the south side—the Garple side—is +built fairly close to the edge of the cliffs. Is +that all clear in your head? We can't reconnoitre +unless we've got a working notion of the lie of the +land."</p> + +<p>Dickson was about to protest that he had no intention +of reconnoitring, when a hubbub arose in +the back kitchen. Mrs. Morran's voice was heard +in shrill protest.</p> + +<p>"Ye ill laddie! Eh—ye—ill—laddie! [<i>crescendo</i>] +Makin' a hash o' my back door wi' your dirty feet! +What are ye slinkin' roond here for, when I tell't +ye this mornin' that I wad sell ye nae mair scones +till ye paid for the last lot? Ye're a wheen thievin' +hungry callants, and if there were a polisman in the +place I'd gie ye in chairge.... What's that ye +say? Ye're no' wantin' meat? Ye want to speak +to the gentlemen that's bidin' here? Ye ken the +auld ane, says you? I believe it's a muckle lee, but +there's the gentlemen to answer ye theirsels."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran, brandishing a dishclout dramatically, +flung open the door, and with a vigorous +push propelled into the kitchen a singular figure.</p> + +<p>It was a stunted boy, who from his face might +have been fifteen years old, but had the stature of +a child of twelve. He had a thatch of fiery red +hair above a pale freckled countenance. His nose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> +was snub, his eyes a sulky grey-green, and his wide +mouth disclosed large and damaged teeth. But remarkable +as was his visage, his clothing was still +stranger. On his head was the regulation Boy +Scout hat, but it was several sizes too big, and was +squashed down upon his immense red ears. He +wore a very ancient khaki shirt, which had once belonged +to a full-grown soldier, and the spacious +sleeves were rolled up at the shoulders and tied +with string, revealing a pair of skinny arms. Round +his middle hung what was meant to be a kilt—a +kilt of home manufacture, which may once have been +a tablecloth, for its bold pattern suggested no +known clan tartan. He had a massive belt, in +which was stuck a broken gully-knife, and round +his neck was knotted the remnant of what had once +been a silk bandana. His legs and feet were bare, +blue, scratched, and very dirty, and his toes had the +prehensile look common to monkeys and small boys +who summer and winter go bootless. In his hand +was a long ash-pole, new cut from some coppice.</p> + +<p>The apparition stood glum and lowering on the +kitchen floor. As Dickson stared at it he recalled +Mearns Street and the band of irregular Boy +Scouts who paraded to the roll of tin cans. Before +him stood Dougal, Chieftain of the Gorbals Die-Hards. +Suddenly he remembered the philanthropic +Mackintosh, and his own subscription of ten pounds +to the camp fund. It pleased him to find the rascals +here, for in the unpleasant affairs on the verge of +which he felt himself they were a comforting reminder +of the peace of home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'm glad to see you, Dougal," he said pleasantly. +"How are you all getting on?" And then, with a +vague reminiscence of the Scouts' code—"Have +you been minding to perform a good deed every +day?"</p> + +<p>The Chieftain's brow darkened.</p> + +<p>"'<i>Good deeds!</i>'" he repeated bitterly. "I tell +ye I'm fair wore out wi' good deeds. Yon man +Mackintosh tell't me this was going to be a grand +holiday. Holiday! Govey Dick! It's been like +a Setterday night in Main Street—a' fechtin', +fechtin'."</p> + +<p>No collocation of letters could reproduce Dougal's +accent, and I will not attempt it. There was a +touch of Irish in it, a spice of music-hall patter, as +well as the odd lilt of the Glasgow vernacular. He +was strong in vowels, but the consonants, especially +the letter "t," were only aspirations.</p> + +<p>"Sit down and let's hear about things," said +Dickson.</p> + +<p>The boy turned his head to the still open back +door, where Mrs. Morran could be heard at her +labours. He stepped across and shut it. "I'm no' +wantin' that auld wife to hear," he said. Then he +squatted down on the patchwork rug by the hearth, +and warmed his blue-black shins. Looking into the +glow of the fire, he observed, "I seen you two up by +the Big Hoose the night."</p> + +<p>"The devil you did," said Heritage, roused to a +sudden attention. "And where were you?"</p> + +<p>"Seven feet from your head, up a tree. It's my +chief hidy-hole, and Gosh! I need one, for Lean's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +after me wi' a gun. He got a shot at me two days +syne."</p> + +<p>Dickson exclaimed, and Dougal with morose pride +showed a rent in his kilt. "If I had had on breeks, +he'd ha' got me."</p> + +<p>"Who's Lean?" Heritage asked.</p> + +<p>"The man wi' the black coat. The other—the +lame one—they ca' Spittal."</p> + +<p>"How d'you know?"</p> + +<p>"I've listened to them crackin' thegither."</p> + +<p>"But what for did the man want to shoot at +you?" asked the scandalised Dickson.</p> + +<p>"What for? Because they're frightened to death +o' onybody going near their auld Hoose. They're +a pair of deevils, worse nor any Red Indian, but +for a' that they're sweatin' wi' fright. What for? +says you. Because they're hidin' a Secret. I knew +it as soon as I seen the man Lean's face. I once +seen the same kind o' scoondrel at the Picters. +When he opened his mouth to swear, I kenned he +was a foreigner, like the lads down at the +Broomielaw. That looked black, but I hadn't got +at the worst of it. Then he loosed off at me wi' +his gun."</p> + +<p>"Were you not feared?" said Dickson.</p> + +<p>"Ay, I was feared. But ye'll no' choke off the +Gorbals Die-Hards wi' a gun. We held a meetin' +round the camp fire, and we resolved to get to the +bottom o' the business. Me bein' their Chief, it +was my duty to make what they ca' a reckonissince, +for that was the dangerous job. So a' this day I've<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +been going on my belly about thae policies. I've +found out some queer things."</p> + +<p>Heritage had risen and was staring down at the +small squatting figure.</p> + +<p>"What have you found out? Quick. Tell me +at once." His voice was sharp and excited.</p> + +<p>"Bide a wee," said the unwinking Dougal. "I'm +no' going to let ye into this business till I ken that +ye'll help. It's a far bigger job than I thought. +There's more in it than Lean and Spittal. There's +the big man that keeps the public—Dobson, they +ca' him. He's a Namerican, which looks bad. And +there's two-three tinklers campin' down in the +Garple Dean. They're in it, for Dobson was colloguin' +wi' them a' mornin'. When I seen ye, I +thought ye were more o' the gang, till I mindit that +one o' ye was auld McCunn that has the shop in +Mearns Street. I seen that ye didn't like the look +o' Lean, and I followed ye here, for I was thinkin' +I needit help."</p> + +<p>Heritage plucked Dougal by the shoulder and +lifted him to his feet.</p> + +<p>"For God's sake, boy," he cried, "tell us what +you know!"</p> + +<p>"Will ye help?"</p> + +<p>"Of course, you little fool."</p> + +<p>"Then swear," said the ritualist. From a grimy +wallet he extracted a limp little volume which +proved to be a damaged copy of a work entitled +<i>Sacred Songs and Solos</i>. "Here! Take that in +your right hand and put your left hand on my pole,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +and say after me, 'I swear no' to blab what is telled +me in secret and to be swift and sure in obeyin' +orders, s'help me God!' Syne kiss the bookie."</p> + +<p>Dickson at first refused, declaring it was all +havers, but Heritage's docility persuaded him to +follow suit. The two were sworn.</p> + +<p>"Now," said Heritage.</p> + +<p>Dougal squatted again on the hearth-rug, and +gathered the eyes of his audience. He was enjoying +himself.</p> + +<p>"This day," he said slowly, "I got inside the +Hoose."</p> + +<p>"Stout fellow," said Heritage; "and what did you +find there?"</p> + +<p>"I got inside that Hoose, but it wasn't once or +twice I tried. I found a corner where I was out o' +sight o' anybody unless they had come there seekin' +me, and I sklimmed up a rone pipe, but a' the +windies were lockit and I verra near broke my neck. +Syne I tried the roof, and a sore sklim I had, but +when I got there there were no skylights. At the +end I got in by the coal-hole. That's why ye're +maybe thinkin' I'm no' very clean."</p> + +<p>Heritage's patience was nearly exhausted.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to hear how you got in. What +did you find, you little devil?"</p> + +<p>"Inside the Hoose," said Dougal slowly (and +there was a melancholy sense of anti-climax in his +voice, as of one who had hoped to speak of gold +and jewels and armed men)—"inside that Hoose +there's nothing but two women."</p> + +<p>Heritage sat down before him with a stern face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Describe them," he commanded.</p> + +<p>"One o' them is dead auld, as auld as the wife +here. She didn't look to me very right in the head."</p> + +<p>"And the other?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, just a lassie."</p> + +<p>"What was she like?"</p> + +<p>Dougal seemed to be searching for adequate +words. "She is ..." he began. Then a popular +song gave him inspiration. "She's pure as the lully +in the dell!"</p> + +<p>In no way discomposed by Heritage's fierce interrogatory +air, he continued: "She's either foreign +or English, for she couldn't understand what I said, +and I could make nothing o' her clippit tongue. But +I could see she had been greetin'. She looked +feared, yet kind o' determined. I speired if I could +do anything for her, and when she got my meaning +she was terrible anxious to ken if I had seen a man—a +big man, she said, wi' a yellow beard. She +didn't seem to ken his name, or else she wouldn't +tell me. The auld wife was mortal feared, and was +aye speakin' in a foreign langwidge. I seen at once +that what frightened them was Lean and his +friends, and I was just starting to speir about them +when there came a sound like a man walkin' along +the passage. She was for hidin' me in behind a +sofy, but I wasn't going to be trapped like that, so +I got out by the other door and down the kitchen +stairs and into the coal-hole. Gosh, it was a near +thing!"</p> + +<p>The boy was on his feet. "I must be off to the +camp to give out the orders for the morn. I'm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +going back to that Hoose, for it's a fight atween +the Gorbals Die-Hards and the scoundrels that are +frightenin' thae women. The question is, Are ye +comin' with me? Mind, ye've sworn. But if ye're +no', I'm going mysel', though I'll no' deny I'd be +glad o' company. <i>You</i> anyway——" he added, +nodding at Heritage. "Maybe auld McCunn +wouldn't get through the coal-hole."</p> + +<p>"You're an impident laddie," said the outraged +Dickson. "It's no' likely we're coming with you. +Breaking into other folks' houses! It's a job for +the police!"</p> + +<p>"Please yersel'," said the Chieftain and looked +at Heritage.</p> + +<p>"I'm on," said that gentleman.</p> + +<p>"Well, just you set out the morn as if ye were +for a walk up the Garple glen. I'll be on the road +and I'll have orders for ye."</p> + +<p>Without more ado Dougal left by way of the +back kitchen. There was a brief denunciation from +Mrs. Morran, then the outer door banged and he +was gone.</p> + +<p>The Poet sat still with his head in his hands, +while Dickson, acutely uneasy, prowled about the +floor. He had forgotten even to light his pipe.</p> + +<p>"You'll not be thinking of heeding that ragamuffin +boy," he ventured.</p> + +<p>"I'm certainly going to get into the House to-morrow," +Heritage answered, "and if he can show +me a way so much the better. He's a spirited +youth. Do you breed many like him in Glasgow?"</p> + +<p>"Plenty," said Dickson sourly. "See here, Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> +Heritage. You can't expect me to be going about +burgling houses on the word of a blagyird laddie. +I'm a respectable man—aye been. Besides, I'm +here for a holiday, and I've no call to be mixing +myself up in strangers' affairs."</p> + +<p>"You haven't. Only, you see, I think there's a +friend of mine in that place, and anyhow there are +women in trouble. If you like, we'll say good-bye +after breakfast, and you can continue as if you had +never turned aside to this damned peninsula. But +I've got to stay."</p> + +<p>Dickson groaned. What had become of his +dream of idylls, his gentle bookish romance? Vanished +before a reality which smacked horribly of +crude melodrama and possibly of sordid crime. +His gorge rose at the picture, but a thought troubled +him. Perhaps all romance in its hour of happening +was rough and ugly like this, and only shone +rosy in the retrospect. Was he being false to his +deepest faith?</p> + +<p>"Let's have Mrs. Morran in," he ventured. +"She's a wise old body and I'd like to hear her +opinion of this business. We'll get common sense +from her."</p> + +<p>"I don't object," said Heritage. "But no amount +of common sense will change my mind."</p> + +<p>Their hostess forestalled them by returning at +that moment to the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"We want your advice, mistress," Dickson told +her, and accordingly, like a barrister with a client, +she seated herself carefully in the big easy chair, +found and adjusted her spectacles, and waited with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> +hands folded on her lap to hear the business. +Dickson narrated their pre-supper doings, and gave +a sketch of Dougal's evidence. His exposition was +cautious and colourless, and without conviction. He +seemed to expect a robust incredulity in his hearer.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran listened with the gravity of one in +church. When Dickson finished she seemed to +meditate.</p> + +<p>"There's no blagyird trick that would surprise me +in thae new folk. What's that ye ca' them—Lean +and Spittal? Eppie Home threepit to me they +were furriners and these are no furrin names."</p> + +<p>"What I want to hear from you, Mrs. Morran," +said Dickson impressively, "is whether you think +there's anything in that boy's story?"</p> + +<p>"I think it's maist likely true. He's a terrible +impident callant, but he's no' a leear."</p> + +<p>"Then you think that a gang of ruffians have got +two lone women shut up in that House for their +own purposes?"</p> + +<p>"I wadna wonder."</p> + +<p>"But it's ridiculous! This is a Christian and +law-abiding country. What would the police say?"</p> + +<p>"They never troubled Dalquharter muckle. +There's no' a polisman nearer than Knockraw—yin +Johnnie Trummle, and he's as useless as a frostit +tattie."</p> + +<p>"The wiselike thing, as I think," said Dickson, +"would be to turn the Procurator-Fiscal on to the +job. It's his business, no' ours."</p> + +<p>"Weel, I wadna say but ye're richt," said the +lady.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What would you do if you were us?" Dickson's +tone was subtly confidential. "My friend here +wants to get into the House the morn with that +red-haired laddie to satisfy himself about the facts. +I say no. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say, and if you +think the beasts are mad report to the authorities. +What would you do yourself?"</p> + +<p>"If I were you," came the emphatic reply, "I +would tak' the first train hame the morn, and when +I got hame I wad bide there. Ye're a dacent body, +but ye're no' the kind to be traivellin' the roads."</p> + +<p>"And if you were me?" Heritage asked with his +queer crooked smile.</p> + +<p>"If I was a young and yauld like you I wad gang +into the Hoose, and I wadna rest till I had riddled +oot the truith and jyled every scoondrel about the +place. If ye dinna gang, 'faith I'll kilt my coats +and gang mysel'. I havena served the Kennedys +for forty year no' to hae the honour o' the Hoose +at my hert.... Ye speired my advice, sirs, and +ye've gotten it. Now I maun clear awa' your +supper."</p> + +<p>Dickson asked for a candle, and, as on the previous +night, went abruptly to bed. The oracle of +prudence to which he had appealed had betrayed +him and counselled folly. But was it folly? For +him, assuredly, for Dickson McCunn, late of +Mearns Street, Glasgow, wholesale and retail provision +merchant, elder in the Guthrie Memorial +Kirk, and fifty-five years of age. Ay, that was the +rub. He was getting old. The woman had seen +it and had advised him to go home. Yet the plea<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +was curiously irksome, though it gave him the excuse +he needed. If you played at being young, you +had to take up the obligations of youth, and he +thought derisively of his boyish exhilaration of the +past days. Derisively, but also sadly. What had +become of that innocent joviality he had dreamed +of, that happy morning pilgrimage of Spring enlivened +by tags from the poets? His goddess had +played him false. Romance had put upon him too +hard a trial.</p> + +<p>He lay long awake, torn between common sense +and a desire to be loyal to some vague whimsical +standard. Heritage a yard distant appeared also +to be sleepless, for the bed creaked with his turning. +Dickson found himself envying one whose +troubles, whatever they might be, were not those +of a divided mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<p class="center">OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER</p> + + +<p>Very early next morning, while Mrs. Morran +was still cooking breakfast, Dickson and +Heritage might have been observed taking the air +in the village street. It was the Poet who had insisted +upon this walk, and he had his own purpose. +They looked at the spires of smoke piercing the +windless air, and studied the daffodils in the cottage +gardens. Dickson was glum, but Heritage seemed +in high spirits. He varied his garrulity with spells +of cheerful whistling.</p> + +<p>They strode along the road by the park wall till +they reached the inn. There Heritage's music +waxed peculiarly loud. Presently from the yard, +unshaven and looking as if he had slept in his +clothes, came Dobson the innkeeper.</p> + +<p>"Good morning," said the Poet. "I hope the +sickness in your house is on the mend?"</p> + +<p>"Thank ye, it's no worse," was the reply, but in +the man's heavy face there was little civility. His +small grey eyes searched their faces.</p> + +<p>"We're just waiting on breakfast to get on the +road again. I'm jolly glad we spent the night here. +We found quarters after all, you know."</p> + +<p>"So I see. Whereabouts, may I ask?"</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Morran's. We could always have got in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +there, but we didn't want to fuss an old lady, so +we thought we'd try the inn first. She's my friend's +aunt."</p> + +<p>At this amazing falsehood Dickson started, and +the man observed his surprise. The eyes were +turned on him like a searchlight. They roused +antagonism in his peaceful soul, and with that antagonism +came an impulse to back up the Poet. +"Ay," he said, "she's my Auntie Phemie, my +mother's half-sister."</p> + +<p>The man turned on Heritage.</p> + +<p>"Where are ye for the day?"</p> + +<p>"Auchenlochan," said Dickson hastily. He was +still determined to shake the dust of Dalquharter +from his feet.</p> + +<p>The innkeeper sensibly brightened. "Well, ye'll +have a fine walk. I must go in and see about my +own breakfast. Good day to ye, gentlemen."</p> + +<p>"That," said Heritage as they entered the village +street again, "is the first step in camouflage, to +put the enemy off his guard."</p> + +<p>"It was an abominable lie," said Dickson crossly.</p> + +<p>"Not at all. It was a necessary and proper <i>ruse +de guerre</i>. It explained why we spent the night +here, and now Dobson and his friends can get about +their day's work with an easy mind. Their suspicions +are temporarily allayed, and that will make +our job easier."</p> + +<p>"I'm not coming with you."</p> + +<p>"I never said you were. By 'we' I refer to myself +and the red-headed boy."</p> + +<p>"Mistress, you're my auntie," Dickson informed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> +Mrs. Morran as she set the porridge on the table. +"This gentleman has just been telling the man at +the inn that you're my Auntie Phemie."</p> + +<p>For a second their hostess looked bewildered. +Then the corners of her prim mouth moved upwards +in a slow smile.</p> + +<p>"I see," she said. "Weel, maybe it was weel +done. But if ye're my nevoy ye'll hae to keep up +my credit, for we're a bauld and siccar lot."</p> + +<p>Half an hour later there was a furious dissension +when Dickson attempted to pay for the night's +entertainment. Mrs. Morran would have none of +it. "Ye're no' awa' yet," she said tartly, and the +matter was complicated by Heritage's refusal to +take part in the debate. He stood aside and +grinned, till Dickson in despair returned his note-case +to his pocket, murmuring darkly that "he +would send it from Glasgow."</p> + +<p>The road to Auchenlochan left the main village +street at right angles by the side of Mrs. Morran's +cottage. It was a better road than that which they +had come yesterday, for by it twice daily the post-cart +travelled to the post-town. It ran on the edge +of the moor and on the lip of the Garple glen, till +it crossed that stream and, keeping near the coast, +emerged after five miles into the cultivated flats of +the Lochan valley. The morning was fine, the keen +air invited to high spirits, plovers piped entrancingly +over the bent and linnets sang in the whins, +there was a solid breakfast behind him, and the +promise of a cheerful road till luncheon. The stage +was set for good humour, but Dickson's heart, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +should have been ascending with the larks, stuck +leadenly in his boots. He was not even relieved at +putting Dalquharter behind him. The atmosphere +of that unhallowed place lay still on his soul. He +hated it, but he hated himself more. Here was one, +who had hugged himself all his days as an adventurer +waiting his chance, running away at the first +challenge of adventure; a lover of Romance who +fled from the earliest overture of his goddess. He +was ashamed and angry, but what else was there to +do? Burglary in the company of a queer poet and +a queerer urchin? It was unthinkable.</p> + +<p>Presently as they tramped silently on they came +to the bridge beneath which the peaty waters of the +Garple ran in porter-coloured pools and tawny +cascades. From a clump of elders on the other side +Dougal emerged. A barefoot boy, dressed in much +the same parody of a Boy Scout's uniform, but with +corduroy shorts instead of a kilt, stood before him +at rigid attention. Some command was issued, the +child saluted, and trotted back past the travellers +with never a look at them. Discipline was strong +among the Gorbals Die-Hards; no Chief of Staff +ever conversed with his General under a stricter +etiquette.</p> + +<p>Dougal received the travellers with the condescension +of a regular towards civilians.</p> + +<p>"They're off their gawrd," he announced. +"Thomas Yownie has been shadowin' them since +skreigh o' day, and he reports that Dobson and +Lean followed ye till ye were out o' sight o' the +houses, and syne Lean got a spy-glass and watched<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +ye till the road turned in among the trees. That +satisfied them, and they're both away back to their +jobs. Thomas Yownie's the fell yin. Ye'll no fickle +Thomas Yownie."</p> + +<p>Dougal extricated from his pouch the fag of a +cigarette, lit it and puffed meditatively. "I did a +reckonissince mysel' this morning. I was up at the +Hoose afore it was light, and tried the door o' the +coal-hole. I doot they've gotten on our tracks, for +it was lockit—ay, and wedged from the inside."</p> + +<p>Dickson brightened. Was the insane venture off?</p> + +<p>"For a wee bit I was fair beat. But I mindit +that the lassie was allowed to walk in a kind o' a +glass hoose on the side farthest away from the +Garple. That was where she was singin' yest'reen. +So I reckonissinced in that direction, and I fund a +queer place." <i>Sacred Songs and Solos</i> was requisitioned, +and on a page of it Dougal proceeded to +make marks with the stump of a carpenter's pencil. +"See here," he commanded. "There's the glass +place wi' a door into the Hoose. That door must +be open or the lassie must have the key, for she +comes there whenever she likes. Now, at each end +o' the place the doors are lockit, but the front that +looks on the garden is open, wi' muckle posts and +flower-pots. The trouble is that that side there's +maybe twenty feet o' a wall between the pawrapet +and the ground. It's an auld wall wi' cracks and +holes in it, and it wouldn't be ill to sklim. That's +why they let her gang there when she wants, for a +lassie couldn't get away without breakin' her neck."</p> + +<p>"Could we climb it?" Heritage asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p> + +<p>The boy wrinkled his brows. "I could manage +it mysel'—I think—and maybe you. I doubt if auld +McCunn could get up. Ye'd have to be mighty +carefu' that nobody saw ye, for your hinder end, +as ye were sklimmin', wad be a grand mark for a +gun."</p> + +<p>"Lead on," said Heritage. "We'll try the +verandah."</p> + +<p>They both looked at Dickson, and Dickson, +scarlet in the face, looked back at them. He had +suddenly found the thought of a solitary march to +Auchenlochan intolerable. Once again he was at +the parting of the ways, and once more caprice determined +his decision. That the coal-hole was out +of the question had worked a change in his views. +Somehow it seemed to him less burglarious to enter +by a verandah. He felt very frightened but—for +the moment—quite resolute.</p> + +<p>"I'm coming with you," he said.</p> + +<p>"Sportsman," said Heritage and held out his +hand. "Well done, the auld yin," said the Chieftain +of the Gorbals Die-Hards. Dickson's quaking +heart experienced a momentary bound as he followed +Heritage down the track into the Garple +Dean.</p> + +<p>The track wound through a thick covert of +hazels, now close to the rushing water, now high +upon the bank so that clear sky showed through the +fringes of the wood. When they had gone a little +way Dougal halted them.</p> + +<p>"It's a ticklish job," he whispered. "There's the +tinklers, mind, that's campin' in the Dean. If<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +they're still in their camp we can get by easy enough, +but they're maybe wanderin' about the wud after +rabbits.... Then we must ford the water, for +ye'll no' cross it lower down where it's deep.... +Our road is on the Hoose side o' the Dean and it's +awfu' public if there's onybody on the other side, +though it's hid well enough from folk up in the +policies.... Ye must do exactly what I tell ye. +When we get near danger I'll scout on ahead, and +I daur ye to move a hair o' your head till I give +the word."</p> + +<p>Presently, when they were at the edge of the +water, Dougal announced his intention of crossing. +Three boulders in the stream made a bridge for an +active man and Heritage hopped lightly over. Not +so Dickson, who stuck fast on the second stone, and +would certainly have fallen in had not Dougal +plunged into the current and steadied him with a +grimy hand. The leap was at last successfully +taken, and the three scrambled up a rough scaur, +all reddened with iron springs, till they struck a +slender track running down the Dean on its northern +side. Here the undergrowth was very thick, and +they had gone the better part of half a mile before +the covert thinned sufficiently to show them the +stream beneath. Then Dougal halted them with a +finger on his lips, and crept forward alone.</p> + +<p>He returned in three minutes. "Coast's clear," +he whispered. "The tinklers are eatin' their breakfast. +They're late at their meat though they're up +early seekin' it."</p> + +<p>Progress was now very slow and secret and mainly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +on all fours. At one point Dougal nodded downward, +and the other two saw on a patch of turf, +where the Garple began to widen into its estuary, +a group of figures round a small fire. There were +four of them, all men, and Dickson thought he had +never seen such ruffianly-looking customers. After +that they moved high up the slope, in a shallow +glade of a tributary burn, till they came out of the +trees and found themselves looking seaward.</p> + +<p>On one side was the House, a hundred yards or +so back from the edge, the roof showing above the +precipitous scarp. Half-way down the slope became +easier, a jumble of boulders and boiler-plates, till +it reached the waters of the small haven, which +lay calm as a mill-pond in the windless forenoon. +The haven broadened out at its foot and revealed +a segment of blue sea. The opposite shore was +flatter and showed what looked like an old wharf +and the ruins of buildings, behind which rose a bank +clad with scrub and surmounted by some gnarled +and wind-crooked firs.</p> + +<p>"There's dashed little cover here," said Heritage.</p> + +<p>"There's no muckle," Dougal assented. "But +they canna see us from the policies, and it's no' like +there's anybody watchin' from the Hoose. The +danger is somebody on the other side, but we'll +have to risk it. Once among thae big stones we're +safe. Are ye ready?"</p> + +<p>Five minutes later Dickson found himself gasping +in the lee of a boulder, while Dougal was +making a cast forward. The scout returned with +a hopeful report. "I think we're safe, till we get<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +into the policies. There's a road that the auld folk +made when ships used to come here. Down there +it's deeper than Clyde at the Broomilaw. Has the +auld yin got his wind yet? There's no time to +waste."</p> + +<p>Up that broken hillside they crawled, well in the +cover of the tumbled stones, till they reached a low +wall which was the boundary of the garden. The +House was now behind them on their right rear, +and as they topped the crest they had a glimpse of +an ancient dovecot and the ruins of the old Huntingtower +on the short thymy turf which ran seaward +to the cliffs. Dougal led them along a sunk fence +which divided the downs from the lawns behind the +house, and, avoiding the stables, brought them by +devious ways to a thicket of rhododendrons and +broom. On all fours they travelled the length of +the place, and came to the edge where some forgotten +gardeners had once tended a herbaceous +border. The border was now rank and wild, and, +lying flat under the shade of an azalea, and peering +through the young spears of iris, Dickson and Heritage +regarded the north-western façade of the house.</p> + +<p>The ground before them had been a sunken +garden, from which a steep wall, once covered with +creepers and rock plants, rose to a long verandah, +which was pillared and open on that side; but at +each end built up half-way and glazed for the rest. +There was a glass roof, and inside untended shrubs +sprawled in broken plaster vases.</p> + +<p>"Ye must bide here," said Dougal, "and no cheep +above your breath. Afore we dare to try that wall,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +I must ken where Lean and Spittal and Dobson are. +I'm off to spy the policies." He glided out of sight +behind a clump of pampas grass.</p> + +<p>For hours, so it seemed, Dickson was left to his +own unpleasant reflections. His body, prone on the +moist earth, was fairly comfortable, but his mind +was ill at ease. The scramble up the hillside had +convinced him that he was growing old, and there +was no rebound in his soul to counter the conviction. +He felt listless, spiritless—an apathy with +fright trembling somewhere at the back of it. He +regarded the verandah wall with foreboding. How +on earth could he climb that? And if he did there +would be his exposed hinder-parts inviting a shot +from some malevolent gentleman among the trees. +He reflected that he would give a large sum of +money to be out of this preposterous adventure.</p> + +<p>Heritage's hand was stretched towards him, containing +two of Mrs. Morran's jellied scones, of +which the Poet had been wise enough to bring a +supply in his pocket. The food cheered him, for +he was growing very hungry, and he began to take +an interest in the scene before him instead of his +own thoughts. He observed every detail of the +verandah. There was a door at one end, he noted, +giving on a path which wound down to the sunk +garden. As he looked he heard a sound of steps +and saw a man ascending this path.</p> + +<p>It was the lame man whom Dougal had called +Spittal, the dweller in the South Lodge. Seen at +closer quarters he was an odd-looking being, lean +as a heron, wry-necked, but amazingly quick on his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +feet. Had not Mrs. Morran said that he hobbled +as fast as other folk ran? He kept his eyes on the +ground and seemed to be talking to himself as he +went, but he was alert enough, for the dropping +of a twig from a dying magnolia transferred him +in an instant into a figure of active vigilance. No +risks could be run with that watcher. He took a +key from his pocket, opened the garden door and +entered the verandah. For a moment his shuffle +sounded on its tiled floor, and then he entered the +door admitting from the verandah to the House. It +was clearly unlocked for there came no sound of +a turning key.</p> + +<p>Dickson had finished the last crumbs of his +scones before the man emerged again. He seemed +to be in a greater hurry than ever, as he locked the +garden door behind him and hobbled along the west +front of the House till he was lost to sight. After +that the time passed slowly. A pair of yellow wagtails +arrived and played at hide-and-seek among the +stuccoed pillars. The little dry scratch of their +claws was heard clearly in the still air. Dickson +had almost fallen asleep when a smothered exclamation +from Heritage woke him to attention. A girl +had appeared in the verandah.</p> + +<p>Above the parapet he saw only her body from +the waist up. She seemed to be clad in bright +colours, for something red was round her shoulders +and her hair was bound with an orange scarf. She +was tall—that he could tell, tall and slim and very +young. Her face was turned seaward, and she +stood for a little scanning the broad channel, shad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>ing +her eyes as if to search for something on the +extreme horizon. The air was very quiet and he +thought that he could hear her sigh. Then she +turned and re-entered the House, while Heritage by +his side began to curse under his breath with a +shocking fervour.</p> + +<p>One of Dickson's troubles had been that he did +not really believe Dougal's story, and the sight of +the girl removed one doubt. That bright exotic +thing did not belong to the Cruives or to Scotland +at all, and that she should be in the House removed +the place from the conventional dwelling to which +the laws against burglary applied.</p> + +<p>There was a rustle among the rhododendrons and +the fiery face of Dougal appeared. He lay between +the other two, his chin on his hands, and grunted +out his report.</p> + +<p>"After they had their dinner Dobson and Lean +yokit a horse and went off to Auchenlochan. I seen +them pass the Garple brig, so that's two accounted +for. Has Spittal been round here?"</p> + +<p>"Half an hour ago," said Heritage, consulting a +wrist watch.</p> + +<p>"It was him that keepit me waitin' so long. But +he's safe enough now, for five minutes syne he was +splittin' firewood at the back door o' his hoose.... +I've found a ladder, an auld yin in ahint yon +lot o' bushes. It'll help wi' the wall. There! I've +gotten my breath again and we can start."</p> + +<p>The ladder was fetched by Heritage and proved +to be ancient and wanting many rungs, but sufficient +in length. The three stood silent for a moment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +listening like stags, and then ran across the intervening +lawn to the foot of the verandah wall. +Dougal went up first, then Heritage, and lastly +Dickson, stiff and giddy from his long lie under the +bushes. Below the parapet the verandah floor was +heaped with old garden litter, rotten matting, dead +or derelict bulbs, fibre, withies and strawberry nets. +It was Dougal's intention to pull up the ladder and +hide it among the rubbish against the hour of departure. +But Dickson had barely put his foot on +the parapet when there was a sound of steps within +the House approaching the verandah door.</p> + +<p>The ladder was left alone. Dougal's hand +brought Dickson summarily to the floor, where he +was fairly well concealed by a mess of matting. +Unfortunately his head was in the vicinity of some +upturned pot-plants, so that a cactus ticked his brow +and a spike of aloe supported painfully the back of +his neck. Heritage was prone behind two old water-butts, +and Dougal was in a hamper which had once +contained seed potatoes. The house door had +panels of opaque glass, so the new-comer could not +see the doings of the three till it was opened, and +by that time all were in cover.</p> + +<p>The man—it was Spittal—walked rapidly along +the verandah and out of the garden door. He was +talking to himself again, and Dickson, who had a +glimpse of his face, thought he looked both evil and +furious. Then came some anxious moments, for +had the man glanced back when he was once outside, +he must have seen the tell-tale ladder. But he +seemed immersed in his own reflections, for he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> +hobbled steadily along the house front till he was +lost to sight.</p> + +<p>"That'll be the end o' them the night," said +Dougal, as he helped Heritage to pull up the ladder +and stow it away. "We've got the place to oursels, +now. Forward, men, forward." He tried the +handle of the house door and led the way in.</p> + +<p>A narrow paved passage took them into what had +once been the garden room, where the lady of the +house had arranged her flowers, and the tennis +racquets and croquet mallets had been kept. It was +very dusty and on the cobwebbed walls still hung a +few soiled garden overalls. A door beyond opened +into a huge murky hall, murky, for the windows +were shuttered, and the only light came through +things like port-holes far up in the wall. Dougal, +who seemed to know his way about, halted them. +"Stop here till I scout a bit. The women bide in a +wee room through that muckle door." Bare feet +stole across the oak flooring, there was the sound +of a door swinging on its hinges, and then silence +and darkness. Dickson put out a hand for companionship +and clutched Heritage's; to his surprise +it was cold and all a-tremble. They listened for +voices, and thought they could detect a far-away +sob.</p> + +<p>It was some minutes before Dougal returned. "A +bonny kettle o' fish," he whispered. "They're both +greetin'. We're just in time. Come on, the pair +o' ye."</p> + +<p>Through a green baize door they entered a passage +which led to the kitchen regions, and turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> +in at the first door on their right. From its situation +Dickson calculated that the room lay on the +seaward side of the House next to the verandah. +The light was bad, for the two windows were partially +shuttered, but it had plainly been a smoking-room, +for there were pipe-racks by the hearth, and +on the walls a number of old school and college +photographs, a couple of oars with emblazoned +names, and a variety of stags' and roebucks' heads. +There was no fire in the grate, but a small oil-stove +burned inside the fender. In a stiff-backed chair sat +an elderly woman, who seemed to feel the cold, for +she was muffled to the neck in a fur coat. Beside +her, so that the late afternoon light caught her face +and head, stood a girl.</p> + +<p>Dickson's first impression was of a tall child. +The pose, startled and wild and yet curiously stiff +and self-conscious, was that of a child striving to +remember a forgotten lesson. One hand clutched +a handkerchief, the other was closing and unclosing +on a knob of the chair back. She was staring at +Dougal, who stood like a gnome in the centre of the +floor. "Here's the gentlemen I was tellin' ye +about," was his introduction, but her eyes did not +move.</p> + +<p>Then Heritage stepped forward. "We have met +before, Mademoiselle," he said. "Do you remember +Easter in 1918—in the house in the Trinitá dei +Monte?"</p> + +<p>The girl looked at him.</p> + +<p>"I do not remember," she said slowly.</p> + +<p>"But I was the English officer who had the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> +apartments on the floor below you. I saw you +every morning. You spoke to me sometimes."</p> + +<p>"You are a soldier?" she asked, with a new note +in her voice.</p> + +<p>"I was then—till the war finished."</p> + +<p>"And now? Why have you come here?"</p> + +<p>"To offer you help if you need it. If not, to ask +your pardon and go away."</p> + +<p>The shrouded figure in the chair burst suddenly +into rapid hysterical talk in some foreign tongue +which Dickson suspected of being French. Heritage +replied in the same language, and the girl joined in +with sharp questions. Then the Poet turned to +Dickson.</p> + +<p>"This is my friend. If you will trust us we will +do our best to save you."</p> + +<p>The eyes rested on Dickson's face, and he realised +that he was in the presence of something the like +of which he had never met in his life before. It +was a loveliness greater than he had imagined was +permitted by the Almighty to His creatures. The +little face was more square than oval, with a low +broad brow and proud exquisite eyebrows. The +eyes were of a colour which he could never decide +on; afterwards he used to allege obscurely that they +were the colour of everything in Spring. There was +a delicate pallor in the cheeks, and the face bore +signs of suffering and care, possibly even of hunger; +but for all that there was youth there, eternal and +triumphant! Not youth such as he had known it, +but youth with all history behind it, youth with centuries +of command in its blood and the world's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> +treasures of beauty and pride in its ancestry. +Strange, he thought, that a thing so fine should be +so masterful. He felt abashed in every inch of him.</p> + +<p>As the eyes rested on him their sorrowfulness +seemed to be shot with humour. A ghost of a smile +lurked there, to which Dickson promptly responded. +He grinned and bowed.</p> + +<p>"Very pleased to meet you, Mem. I'm Mr. McCunn +from Glasgow."</p> + +<p>"You don't even know my name," she said.</p> + +<p>"We don't," said Heritage.</p> + +<p>"They call me Saskia. This," nodding to the +chair, "is my cousin Eugčnie.... We are in very +great trouble. But why should I tell you? I do +not know you. You cannot help me."</p> + +<p>"We can try," said Heritage. "Part of your +trouble we know already through that boy. You +are imprisoned in this place by scoundrels. We are +here to help you to get out. We want to ask no +questions—only to do what you bid us."</p> + +<p>"You are not strong enough," she said sadly. +"A young man—an old man—and a little boy. +There are many against us, and any moment there +may be more."</p> + +<p>It was Dougal's turn to break in. "There's +Lean and Spittal and Dobson and four tinklers in +the Dean—that's seven; but there's us three and +five more Gorbals Die-Hards—that's eight."</p> + +<p>There was something in the boy's truculent courage +that cheered her.</p> + +<p>"I wonder," she said, and her eyes fell on each +in turn.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p> + +<p>Dickson felt impelled to intervene.</p> + +<p>"I think this is a perfectly simple business. +Here's a lady shut up in this house against her will +by a wheen blagyirds. This is a free country and +the law doesn't permit that. My advice is for one +of us to inform the police at Auchenlochan and get +Dobson and his friends took up and the lady set +free to do what she likes. That is, if these folks +are really molesting her, which is not yet quite clear +to my mind."</p> + +<p>"Alas! It is not so simple as that," she said. +"I dare not invoke your English law, for perhaps +in the eyes of that law I am a thief."</p> + +<p>"Deary me, that's a bad business," said the +startled Dickson.</p> + +<p>The two women talked together in some strange +tongue, and the elder appeared to be pleading and +the younger objecting. Then Saskia seemed to +come to a decision.</p> + +<p>"I will tell you all," and she looked straight at +Heritage. "I do not think you would be cruel or +false, for you have honourable faces.... Listen, +then. I am a Russian and for two years have been +an exile. I will not speak of my house, for it is +no more, or how I escaped, for it is the common +tale of all of us. I have seen things more terrible +than any dream and yet lived, but I have paid a +price for such experience. First I went to Italy +where there were friends, and I wished only to have +peace among kindly people. About poverty I do +not care, for, to us, who have lost all the great +things, the want of bread is a little matter. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +peace was forbidden me, for I learned that we Russians +had to win back our fatherland again and that +the weakest must work in that cause. So I was set +my task and it was very hard.... There were +jewels which once belonged to my Emperor—they +had been stolen by the brigands and must be recovered. +There were others still hidden in Russia +which must be brought to a safe place. In that +work I was ordered to share."</p> + +<p>She spoke in almost perfect English, with a certain +foreign precision. Suddenly she changed to +French, and talked rapidly to Heritage.</p> + +<p>"She has told me about her family," he said, +turning to Dickson. "It is among the greatest in +Russia, the very greatest after the throne." Dickson +could only stare.</p> + +<p>"Our enemies soon discovered me," she went on. +"Oh, but they are very clever, these enemies, and +they have all the criminals of the world to aid them. +Here you do not understand what they are. You +good people in England think they are well-meaning +dreamers who are forced into violence by the persecution +of Western Europe. But you are wrong. +Some honest fools there are among them, but the +power—the true power—lies with madmen and degenerates, +and they have for allies the special devil +that dwells in each country. That is why they cast +their net as wide as mankind."</p> + +<p>She shivered, and for a second her face wore a +look which Dickson never forgot, the look of one +who has looked over the edge of life into the outer +dark.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There were certain jewels of great price which +were about to be turned into guns and armies for +our enemies. These our people recovered and the +charge of them was laid on me. Who would suspect, +they said, a foolish girl? But our enemies +were very clever, and soon the hunt was cried +against me. They tried to rob me of them, but they +failed, for I too had become clever. Then they +asked the help of the law—first in Italy and then +in France. Oh, it was subtly done. Respectable +bourgeois, who hated the Bolsheviki but had bought +long ago the bonds of my country, desired to be +repaid their debts out of the property of the Russian +Crown which might be found in the West. But behind +them were the Jews, and behind the Jews our +unsleeping enemies. Once I was enmeshed in the +law I would be safe for them, and presently they +would find the hiding-place of the treasure, and +while the bourgeois were clamouring in the courts, +it would be safe in their pockets. So I fled. For +months I have been fleeing and hiding. They have +tried to kidnap me many times, and once they have +tried to kill me, but I, too, have become very clever—oh, +very clever. And I have learned not to fear."</p> + +<p>This simple recital affected Dickson's honest soul +with the liveliest indignation. "Sich doings!" he +exclaimed, and he could not forbear from whispering +to Heritage an extract from that gentleman's +conversation the first night at Kirkmichael. "We +needn't imitate all their methods, but they've got +hold of the right end of the stick. They seek truth<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +and reality." The reply from the Poet was an +angry shrug.</p> + +<p>"Why and how did you come here?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"I always meant to come to England, for I +thought it the sanest place in a mad world. Also it +is a good country to hide in, for it is apart from +Europe, and your police, as I thought, do not permit +evil men to be their own law. But especially +I had a friend, a Scottish gentleman, whom I knew +in the days when we Russians were still a nation. +I saw him again in Italy, and since he was kind and +brave I told him some part of my troubles. He was +called Quentin Kennedy, and now he is dead. He +told me that in Scotland he had a lonely château +where I could hide secretly and safely, and against +the day when I might be hard-pressed he gave me +a letter to his steward, bidding him welcome me as +a guest when I made application. At that time I +did not think I would need such sanctuary, but a +month ago the need became urgent, for the hunt in +France was very close on me. So I sent a message +to the steward as Captain Kennedy told me."</p> + +<p>"What is his name?" Heritage asked.</p> + +<p>She spelt it, "Monsieur Loudon—L-O-U-D-O-N +in the town of Auchenlochan."</p> + +<p>"The factor," said Dickson. "And what then?"</p> + +<p>"Some spy must have found me out. I had a +letter from this Loudon bidding me come to Auchenlochan. +There I found no steward to receive me, +but another letter saying that that night a carriage +would be in waiting to bring me here. It was mid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>night +when we arrived, and we were brought in by +strange ways to this house, with no light but a single +candle. Here we were welcomed indeed, but by an +enemy."</p> + +<p>"Which?" asked Heritage. "Dobson or Lean +or Spittal?"</p> + +<p>"Dobson I do not know. Léon was there. He +is no Russian, but a Belgian who was a valet in my +father's service till he joined the Bolsheviki. Next +day the Lett Spidel came, and I knew that I was in +very truth entrapped. For of all our enemies he +is, save one, the most subtle and unwearied."</p> + +<p>Her voice had trailed off into flat weariness. +Again Dickson was reminded of a child, for her +arms hung limp by her side; and her slim figure in +its odd clothes was curiously like that of a boy in +a school blazer. Another resemblance perplexed +him. She had a hint of Janet—about the mouth—Janet, +that solemn little girl those twenty years in +her grave.</p> + +<p>Heritage was wrinkling his brows. "I don't +think I quite understand. The jewels? You have +them with you?"</p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>"These men wanted to rob you. Why didn't they +do it between here and Auchenlochan? You had no +chance to hide them on the journey. Why did they +let you come here where you were in a better position +to baffle them?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "I cannot explain—except +perhaps, that Spidel had not arrived that night, and +Léon may have been waiting instructions."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> + +<p>The other still looked dissatisfied. "They are +either clumsier villains than I take them to be, or +there is something deeper in the business than we +understand. These jewels—are they here?"</p> + +<p>His tone was so sharp that she looked startled—almost +suspicious. Then she saw that in his face +which reassured her. "I have them hidden here. +I have grown very skilful in hiding things."</p> + +<p>"Have they searched for them?"</p> + +<p>"The first day they demanded them of me. I +denied all knowledge. Then they ransacked this +house—I think they ransack it daily, but I am too +clever for them. I am not allowed to go beyond +the verandah, and when at first I disobeyed there +was always one of them in wait to force me back +with a pistol behind my head. Every morning Léon +brings us food for the day—good food, but not +enough, so that Cousin Eugčnie is always hungry, +and each day he and Spidel question and threaten +me. This afternoon Spidel has told me that their +patience is at an end. He has given me till to-morrow +at noon to produce the jewels. If not, he +says I will die."</p> + +<p>"Mercy on us!" Dickson exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"There will be no mercy for us," she said solemnly. +"He and his kind think as little of shedding +blood as of spilling water. But I do not think he +will kill me. I think I will kill him first, but after +that I shall surely die. As for Cousin Eugčnie, I +do not know."</p> + +<p>Her level matter-of-fact tone seemed to Dickson +most shocking, for he could not treat it as mere<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +melodrama. It carried a horrid conviction. "We +must get you out of this at once," he declared.</p> + +<p>"I cannot leave. I will tell you why. When I +came to this country I appointed one to meet me +here. He is a kinsman who knows England well, +for he fought in your army. With him by my side +I have no fear. It is altogether needful that I wait +for him."</p> + +<p>"Then there is something more which you haven't +told us?" Heritage asked.</p> + +<p>Was there the faintest shadow of a blush on her +cheek? "There is something more," she said.</p> + +<p>She spoke to Heritage in French and Dickson +caught the name "Alexis" and a word which sounded +like "prance." The Poet listened eagerly and nodded. +"I have heard of him," he said.</p> + +<p>"But have you not seen him? A tall man with +a yellow beard, who bears himself proudly. Being +of my mother's race he has eyes like mine."</p> + +<p>"That's the man she was askin' me about yesterday," +said Dougal, who had squatted on the floor.</p> + +<p>Heritage shook his head. "We only came here +last night. When did you expect Prince—your +friend?"</p> + +<p>"I hoped to find him here before me. Oh, it is +his not coming that terrifies me. I must wait and +hope. But if he does not come in time another may +come before him."</p> + +<p>"The ones already here are not all the enemies +that threaten you?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed, no. The worst has still to come, and +till I know he is here I do not greatly fear Spidel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +or Léon. They receive orders and do not give +them."</p> + +<p>Heritage ran a perplexed hand through his hair. +The sunset which had been flaming for some time in +the unshuttered panes was now passing into the +dark. The girl lit a lamp after first shuttering the +rest of the windows. As she turned it up the odd +dusty room and its strange company were revealed +more clearly and Dickson saw with a shock how +haggard was the beautiful face. A great pity seized +him and almost conquered his timidity.</p> + +<p>"It is very difficult to help you," Heritage was +saying. "You won't leave this place, and you won't +claim the protection of the law. You are very independent, +Mademoiselle, but it can't go on for +ever. The man you fear may arrive at any moment. +At any moment, too, your treasure may be discovered."</p> + +<p>"It is that that weighs on me," she cried. "The +jewels! They are my solemn trust, but they burden +me terribly. If I were only rid of them and knew +them to be safe I should face the rest with a braver +mind."</p> + +<p>"If you'll take my advice," said Dickson slowly, +"you'll get them deposited in a bank and take a +receipt for them. A Scotch bank is no' in a hurry +to surrender a deposit without it gets the proper +authority."</p> + +<p>Heritage brought his hands together with a +smack. "That's an idea. Will you trust us to take +these things and deposit them safely?"</p> + +<p>For a little she was silent and her eyes were fixed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +on each of the trio in turn. "I will trust you," she +said at last. "I think you will not betray me."</p> + +<p>"By God, we won't!" said the Poet fervently. +"Dogson, it's up to you. You march off to Glasgow +in double quick time and place the stuff in your own +name in your own bank. There's not a moment to +lose. D'you hear?"</p> + +<p>"I will that." To his own surprise Dickson +spoke without hesitation. Partly it was because of +his merchant's sense of property, which made him +hate the thought that miscreants should acquire that +to which they had no title; but mainly it was the +appeal in those haggard childish eyes. "But I'm +not going to be tramping the country in the night +carrying a fortune and seeking for trains that aren't +there. I'll go the first thing in the morning."</p> + +<p>"Where are they?" Heritage asked.</p> + +<p>"That I do not tell. But I will fetch them."</p> + +<p>She left the room and presently returned with +three odd little parcels wrapped in leather and tied +with thongs of raw hide. She gave them to Heritage, +who held them appraisingly in his hand and +then passed them to Dickson.</p> + +<p>"I do not ask about their contents. We take +them from you as they are, and, please God, when +the moment comes they will be returned to you as +you gave them. You trust us, Mademoiselle?"</p> + +<p>"I trust you, for you are a soldier. Oh, and I +thank you from my heart, my friends." She held +out a hand to each, which caused Heritage to grow +suddenly very red.</p> + +<p>"I will remain in the neighbourhood to await<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> +developments," he said. "We had better leave you +now. Dougal, lead on."</p> + +<p>Before going, he took the girl's hand again, and +with a sudden movement bent and kissed it. Dickson +shook it heartily. "Cheer up, Mem," he observed. +"There's a better time coming." His last +recollection of her eyes was of a soft mistiness not +far from tears. His pouch and pipe had strange +company jostling them in his pocket as he followed +the others down the ladder into the night.</p> + +<p>Dougal insisted that they must return by the road +of the morning. "We daren't go by the Laver, for +that would bring us by the public-house. If the +worst comes to the worst, and we fall in wi' any +of the deevils, they must think ye've changed your +mind and come back from Auchenlochan."</p> + +<p>The night smelt fresh and moist as if a break in +the weather were imminent. As they scrambled +along the Garple Dean a pinprick of light below +showed where the tinklers were busy by their fire. +Dickson's spirits suffered a sharp fall and he began +to marvel at his temerity. What in Heaven's name +had he undertaken? To carry very precious things, +to which certainly he had no right, through the +enemy to distant Glasgow. How could he escape +the notice of the watchers? He was already suspect, +and the sight of him back again in Dalquharter +would double that suspicion. He must brazen it +out, but he distrusted his powers with such tell-tale +stuff in his pockets. They might murder him anywhere +on the moor road or in an empty railway carriage. +An unpleasant memory of various novels he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +had read in which such things happened haunted his +mind.... There was just one consolation. This +job over, he would be quit of the whole business. +And honourably quit, too, for he would have played +a manly part in a most unpleasant affair. He could +retire to the idyllic with the knowledge that he had +not been wanting when Romance called. Not a soul +should ever hear of it, but he saw himself in the +future tramping green roads or sitting by his winter +fireside pleasantly retelling himself the tale.</p> + +<p>Before they came to the Garple bridge Dougal +insisted that they should separate, remarking that +"it would never do if we were seen thegither." +Heritage was despatched by a short cut over fields +to the left, which eventually, after one or two +plunges into ditches, landed him safely in Mrs. +Morran's back yard. Dickson and Dougal crossed +the bridge and tramped Dalquharter-wards by the +highway. There was no sign of human life in that +quiet place with owls hooting and rabbits rustling in +the undergrowth. Beyond the woods they came in +sight of the light in the back kitchen, and both +seemed to relax their watchfulness when it was most +needed. Dougal sniffed the air and looked seaward.</p> + +<p>"It's coming on to rain," he observed. "There +should be a muckle star there, and when you can't +see it it means wet weather wi' this wind."</p> + +<p>"What star?" Dickson asked.</p> + +<p>"The one wi' the Irish-lukkin' name. What's +that they call it? O'Brien?" And he pointed to +where the constellation of the Hunter should have +been declining on the western horizon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was a bend of the road behind them, and +suddenly round it came a dogcart driven rapidly. +Dougal slipped like a weasel into a bush, and presently +Dickson stood revealed in the glare of a lamp. +The horse was pulled up sharply and the driver +called out to him. He saw that it was Dobson the +innkeeper with Léon beside him.</p> + +<p>"Who is it?" cried the voice. "Oh, you! I +thought ye were off the day?"</p> + +<p>Dickson rose nobly to the occasion.</p> + +<p>"I thought myself I was. But I didn't think +much of Auchenlochan, and I took a fancy to come +back and spend the last night of my holiday with +my Auntie. I'm off to Glasgow first thing the +morn's morn."</p> + +<p>"So!" said the voice. "Queer thing I never saw +ye on the Auchenlochan road, where ye can see three +mile before ye."</p> + +<p>"I left early and took it easy along the shore."</p> + +<p>"Did ye so? Well, good-night to ye."</p> + +<p>Five minutes later Dickson walked into Mrs. +Morran's kitchen, where Heritage was busy making +up for a day of short provender.</p> + +<p>"I'm for Glasgow to-morrow, Auntie Phemie," +he cried. "I want you to loan me a wee trunk with +a key, and steek the doors and windows, for I've a +lot to tell you."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<p class="center">HOW MR. M<sup>c</sup>CUNN DEPARTED WITH RELIEF AND +RETURNED WITH RESOLUTION</p> + + +<p>At seven o'clock on the following morning the +post-cart, summoned by an early message from +Mrs. Morran, appeared outside the cottage. In it +sat the ancient postman, whose real home was +Auchenlochan, but who slept alternate nights in +Dalquharter, and beside him Dobson the innkeeper. +Dickson and his hostess stood at the garden-gate, +the former with his pack on his back and at his feet +a small stout wooden box, of the kind in which +cheeses are transported, garnished with an immense +padlock. Heritage for obvious reasons did not +appear; at the moment he was crouched on the floor +of the loft watching the departure through a gap +in the dimity curtains.</p> + +<p>The traveller, after making sure that Dobson +was looking, furtively slipped the key of the trunk +into his knapsack.</p> + +<p>"Well, good-bye, Auntie Phemie," he said. "I'm +sure you've been awful kind to me, and I don't know +how to thank you for all you're sending."</p> + +<p>"Tuts, Dickson, my man, they're hungry folk +about Glesca that'll be glad o' my scones and jeelie. +Tell Mirren I'm rale pleased wi' her man and haste +ye back soon."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> + +<p>The trunk was deposited on the floor of the cart +and Dickson clambered into the back seat. He was +thankful that he had not to sit next to Dobson, for +he had tell-tale stuff on his person. The morning +was wet, so he wore his waterproof, which concealed +his odd tendency to stoutness about the middle.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran played her part well, with all the +becoming gravity of an affectionate aunt, but so soon +as the post-cart turned the bend of the road her +demeanour changed. She was torn with convulsions +of silent laughter. She retreated to the kitchen, +sank into a chair, wrapped her face in her apron +and rocked. Heritage, descending, found her struggling +to regain composure. "D'ye ken his wife's +name?" she gasped. "I ca'ed her Mirren! And +maybe the body's no mairried! Hech sirs! Hech +sirs!"</p> + +<p>Meantime Dickson was bumping along the moor-road +on the back of the post-cart. He had worked +out a plan, just as he had been used aforetime to +devise a deal in foodstuffs. He had expected one +of the watchers to turn up, and was rather relieved +that it should be Dobson, whom he regarded as "the +most natural beast" of the three. Somehow he did +not think that he would be molested before he +reached the station, since his enemies would still be +undecided in their minds. Probably they only +wanted to make sure that he had really departed to +forget all about him. But if not, he had his plan +ready.</p> + +<p>"Are you travelling to-day?" he asked the innkeeper.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Just as far as the station to see about some oil-cake +I'm expectin'. What's in your wee kist? Ye +came here wi' nothing but the bag on your back."</p> + +<p>"Ay, the kist is no' mine. It's my auntie's. She's +a kind body, and nothing would serve but she must +pack a box for me to take back. Let me see. +There's a baking of scones; three pots of honey and +one of rhubarb jam—she was aye famous for her +rhubarb jam; a mutton ham, which you can't get +for love or money in Glasgow; some home-made +black puddings and a wee skim-milk cheese. I doubt +I'll have to take a cab from the station."</p> + +<p>Dobson appeared satisfied, lit a short pipe and +relapsed into meditation. The long uphill road, +ever climbing to where far off showed the tiny whitewashed +buildings which were the railway station, +seemed interminable this morning. The aged postman +addressed strange objurgations to his aged +horse and muttered reflections to himself, the innkeeper +smoked, and Dickson stared back into the +misty hollow where lay Dalquharter. The south-west +wind had brought up a screen of rain clouds +and washed all the countryside in a soft wet grey. +But the eye could still travel a fair distance, and +Dickson thought he had a glimpse of a figure on a +bicycle leaving the village two miles back. He wondered +who it could be. Not Heritage, who had no +bicycle. Perhaps some woman who was conspicuously +late for the train. Women were the chief +cyclists nowadays in country places.</p> + +<p>Then he forgot about the bicycle and twisted his +neck to watch the station. It was less than a mile<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> +off now, and they had no time to spare, for away +to the south among the hummocks of the bog he +saw the smoke of the train coming from Auchenlochan. +The postman also saw it and whipped up +his beast into a clumsy canter. Dickson, always +nervous about being late for trains, forced his eyes +away and regarded again the road behind them. +Suddenly the cyclist had become quite plain—a little +more than a mile behind—a man, and pedalling +furiously in spite of the stiff ascent.... It could +only be one person—Léon. He must have discovered +their visit to the House yesterday and be on +the way to warn Dobson. If he reached the station +before the train, there would be no journey to Glasgow +that day for one respectable citizen.</p> + +<p>Dickson was in a fever of impatience and fright. +He dared not abjure the postman to hurry, lest +Dobson should turn his head and descry his colleague. +But that ancient man had begun to realise +the shortness of time and was urging the cart along +at a fair pace, since they were now on the flatter +shelf of land which carried the railway. Dickson +kept his eyes fixed on the bicycle and his teeth shut +tight on his lower lip. Now it was hidden by the +last dip of hill; now it emerged into view not a +quarter of a mile behind, and its rider gave vent to +a shrill call. Luckily the innkeeper did not hear, +for at that moment with a jolt the cart pulled up +at the station door, accompanied by the roar of the +incoming train.</p> + +<p>Dickson whipped down from the back seat and +seized the solitary porter. "Label the box for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +Glasgow and into the van with it. Quick, man, and +there'll be a shilling for you." He had been doing +some rapid thinking these last minutes and had made +up his mind. If Dobson and he were alone in a +carriage he could not have the box there; that must +be elsewhere, so that Dobson could not examine it +if he were set on violence, somewhere in which it +could still be a focus of suspicion and attract attention +from his person. He took his ticket, and rushed +on to the platform, to find the porter and the box +at the door of the guard's van. Dobson was not +there. With the vigour of a fussy traveller he +shouted directions to the guard to take good care +of his luggage, hurled a shilling at the porter and +ran for a carriage. At that moment he became +aware of Dobson hurrying through the entrance. +He must have met Léon and heard news from him, +for his face was red and his ugly brows darkening.</p> + +<p>The train was in motion. "Here, you!" Dobson's +voice shouted. "Stop! I want a word wi' ye." +Dickson plunged at a third-class carriage, for he saw +faces behind the misty panes, and above all things +then he feared an empty compartment. He clambered +on to the step, but the handle would not turn, +and with a sharp pang of fear he felt the innkeeper's +grip on his arm. Then some Samaritan +from within let down the window, opened the door +and pulled him up. He fell on a seat and a second +later Dobson staggered in beside him.</p> + +<p>Thank Heaven, the dirty little carriage was +nearly full. There were two herds, each with a dog +and a long hazel crook, and an elderly woman who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +looked like a ploughman's wife out for a day's marketing. +And there was one other whom Dickson +recognised with a peculiar joy—the bagman in the +provision line of business whom he had met three +days before at Kilchrist.</p> + +<p>The recognition was mutual. "Mr. McCunn!" +the bagman exclaimed. "My, but that was running +it fine! I hope you've had a pleasant holiday, sir?"</p> + +<p>"Very pleasant. I've been spending two nights +with friends down hereaways. I've been very fortunate +in the weather, for it has broke just when +I'm leaving."</p> + +<p>Dickson sank back on the hard cushions. It had +been a near thing, but so far he had won. He +wished his heart did not beat so fast, and he hoped +he did not betray his disorder in his face. Very +deliberately he hunted for his pipe and filled it +slowly. Then he turned to Dobson. "I didn't +know you were travelling the day. What about +your oil-cake?"</p> + +<p>"I've changed my mind," was the gruff answer.</p> + +<p>"Was that you I heard crying on me, when we +were running for the train?"</p> + +<p>"Ay. I thought ye had forgot about your kist."</p> + +<p>"No fear," said Dickson. "I'm no' likely to +forget my auntie's scones."</p> + +<p>He laughed pleasantly and then turned to the +bagman. Thereafter the compartment hummed +with the technicalities of the grocery trade. He +exerted himself to draw out his companion, to have +him refer to the great firm of D. McCunn, so that +the innkeeper might be ashamed of his suspicions.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +What nonsense to imagine that a noted and wealthy +Glasgow merchant—the bagman's tone was almost +reverential—would concern himself with the affairs +of a forgotten village and a tumbledown house!</p> + +<p>Presently the train drew up at Kirkmichael station. +The woman descended, and Dobson, after +making sure that no one else meant to follow her +example, also left the carriage. A porter was shouting: +"Fast train to Glasgow—Glasgow next stop." +Dickson watched the innkeeper shoulder his way +through the crowd in the direction of the booking +office. "He's off to send a telegram," he decided. +"There'll be trouble waiting for me at the other +end."</p> + +<p>When the train moved on he found himself disinclined +for further talk. He had suddenly become +meditative, and curled up in a corner with his head +hard against the window pane, watching the wet +fields and glistening roads as they slipped past. He +had his plans made for his conduct at Glasgow, but +Lord! how he loathed the whole business! Last +night he had had a kind of gusto in his desire to +circumvent villainy; at Dalquharter station he had +enjoyed a momentary sense of triumph; now he +felt very small, lonely and forlorn. Only one +thought far at the back of his mind cropped up now +and then to give him comfort. He was entering on +the last lap. Once get this detestable errand done +and he would be a free man, free to go back to the +kindly humdrum life from which he should never +have strayed. Never again, he vowed, never again. +Rather would he spend the rest of his days in hydro<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>pathics +than come within the pale of such horrible +adventures. Romance, forsooth! This was not the +mild goddess he had sought, but an awful harpy +who battened on the souls of men.</p> + +<p>He had some bad minutes as the train passed +through the suburbs, and along the grimy embankment +by which the southern lines enter the city. But +as it rumbled over the river bridge and slowed down +before the terminus, his vitality suddenly revived. +He was a business man, and there was now something +for him to do.</p> + +<p>After a rapid farewell to the bagman, he found +a porter and hustled his box out of the van in the +direction of the left-luggage office. Spies, summoned +by Dobson's telegram, were, he was convinced, +watching his every movement, and he meant +to see that they missed nothing. He received his +ticket for the box, and slowly and ostentatiously +stowed it away in his pack. Swinging the said pack +on his arm he sauntered through the entrance hall +to the row of waiting taxi-cabs, and selected that +one which seemed to him to have the oldest and +most doddering driver. He deposited the pack inside +on the seat, and then stood still as if struck +with a sudden thought.</p> + +<p>"I breakfasted terrible early," he told the driver. +"I think I'll have a bite to eat. Will you wait?"</p> + +<p>"Ay," said the man, who was reading a grubby +sheet of newspaper. "I'll wait as long as ye like, +for it's you that pays."</p> + +<p>Dickson left his pack in the cab and, oddly +enough for a careful man, he did not shut the door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +He re-entered the station, strolled to the bookstall +and bought a <i>Glasgow Herald</i>. His steps then +tended to the refreshment room, where he ordered +a cup of coffee and two Bath buns, and seated himself +at a small table. There he was soon immersed +in the financial news, and though he sipped his coffee +he left the buns untasted. He took out a penknife +and cut various extracts from the <i>Herald</i>, bestowing +them carefully in his pocket. An observer would +have seen an elderly gentleman absorbed in market +quotations.</p> + +<p>After a quarter of an hour had been spent in this +performance he happened to glance at the clock and +rose with an exclamation. He bustled out to his +taxi and found the driver still intent upon his reading. +"Here I am at last," he said cheerily, and had +a foot on the step, when he stopped suddenly with +a cry. It was a cry of alarm, but also of satisfaction.</p> + +<p>"What's become of my pack? I left it on the +seat, and now it's gone! There's been a thief here."</p> + +<p>The driver, roused from his lethargy, protested +in the name of his gods that no one had been near it. +"Ye took it into the station wi' ye," he urged.</p> + +<p>"I did nothing of the kind. Just you wait here +till I see the inspector. A bonny watch <i>you</i> keep on +a gentleman's things."</p> + +<p>But Dickson did not interview the railway authorities. +Instead he hurried to the left-luggage +office. "I deposited a small box here a short time +ago. I mind the number. Is it there still?"</p> + +<p>The attendant glanced at a shelf. "A wee deal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> +box with iron bands. It was took out ten minutes +syne. A man brought the ticket and took it away +on his shoulder."</p> + +<p>"Thank you. There's been a mistake, but the +blame's mine. My man mistook my orders."</p> + +<p>Then he returned to the now nervous taxi-driver. +"I've taken it up with the station-master and he's +putting the police on. You'll likely be wanted, so +I gave him your number. It's a fair disgrace that +there should be so many thieves about this station. +It's not the first time I've lost things. Drive me to +West George Street and look sharp." And he +slammed the door with the violence of an angry +man.</p> + +<p>But his reflections were not violent, for he smiled +to himself. "That was pretty neat. They'll take +some time to get the kist open, for I dropped the +key out of the train after we left Kirkmichael. +That gives me a fair start. If I hadn't thought of +that, they'd have found some way to grip me and +ripe me long before I got to the Bank." He shuddered +as he thought of the dangers he had escaped. +"As it is, they're off the track for half an hour at +least, while they're rummaging among Auntie +Phemie's scones." At the thought he laughed +heartily, and when he brought the taxi-cab to a +standstill by rapping on the front window, he left +it with a temper apparently restored. Obviously +he had no grudge against the driver, who to his +immense surprise was rewarded with ten shillings.</p> + +<p>Three minutes later Mr. McCunn might have +been seen entering the head office of the Strathclyde<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +Bank, and inquiring for the manager. There was +no hesitation about him now, for his foot was on +his native heath. The chief cashier received him +with deference, in spite of his unorthodox garb, for +he was not the least honoured of the bank's customers. +As it chanced he had been talking about +him that very morning to a gentleman from London. +"The strength of this city," he had said, tapping +his eyeglasses on his knuckles, "does not lie in its +dozen very rich men, but in the hundred or two +homely folk who make no parade of wealth. Men +like Dickson McCunn, for example, who live all +their life in a semi-detached villa and die worth half +a million." And the Londoner had cordially assented.</p> + +<p>So Dickson was ushered promptly into an inner +room, and was warmly greeted by Mr. Mackintosh, +the patron of the Gorbals Die-Hards.</p> + +<p>"I must thank you for your generous donation, +McCunn. Those boys will get a little fresh air and +quiet after the smoke and din of Glasgow. A little +country peace to smooth out the creases in their poor +little souls."</p> + +<p>"Maybe," said Dickson, with a vivid recollection +of Dougal as he had last seen him. Somehow he +did not think that peace was likely to be the portion +of that devoted band. "But I've not come here to +speak about that."</p> + +<p>He took off his waterproof; then his coat and +waistcoat; and showed himself a strange figure with +sundry bulges about the middle. The manager's +eyes grew very round. Presently these excrescences<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +were revealed as linen bags sewn on to his shirt, +and fitting into the hollow between ribs and hip. +With some difficulty he slit the bags and extracted +three hide-bound packages.</p> + +<p>"See here, Mackintosh," he said solemnly. "I +hand you over these parcels, and you're to put them +in the innermost corner of your strong room. You +needn't open them. Just put them away as they are, +and write me a receipt for them. Write it now."</p> + +<p>Mr. Mackintosh obediently took pen in hand.</p> + +<p>"What'll I call them?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Just the three leather parcels handed to you by +Dickson McCunn, Esq., naming the date."</p> + +<p>Mr. Mackintosh wrote. He signed his name +with his usual flourish and handed the slip to his +client.</p> + +<p>"Now," said Dickson, "you'll put that receipt in +the strong box where you keep my securities, and +you'll give it up to nobody but me in person, and +you'll surrender the parcels only on presentation of +the receipt. D'you understand?"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly. May I ask any questions?"</p> + +<p>"You'd better not if you don't want to hear lees."</p> + +<p>"What's in the packages?" Mr. Mackintosh +weighed them in his hand.</p> + +<p>"That's asking," said Dickson. "But I'll tell ye +this much. It's jools."</p> + +<p>"Your own?"</p> + +<p>"No, but I'm their trustee."</p> + +<p>"Valuable?"</p> + +<p>"I was hearing they were worth more than a million +pounds."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p> + +<p>"God bless my soul," said the startled manager. +"I don't like this kind of business, McCunn."</p> + +<p>"No more do I. But you'll do it to oblige an old +friend and a good customer. If you don't know +much about the packages you know all about me. +Now, mind, I trust you."</p> + +<p>Mr. Mackintosh forced himself to a joke. "Did +you maybe steal them?"</p> + +<p>Dickson grinned. "Just what I did. And that +being so, I want you to let me out by the back door."</p> + +<p>When he found himself in the street he felt the +huge relief of a boy who had emerged with credit +from the dentist's chair. Remembering that there +would be no midday dinner for him at home, his +first step was to feed heavily at a restaurant. He +had, so far as he could see, surmounted all his troubles, +his one regret being that he had lost his pack, +which contained among other things his <i>Izaak +Walton</i> and his safety razor. He bought another +razor and a new Walton, and mounted an electric +tram-car <i>en route</i> for home.</p> + +<p>Very contented with himself he felt as the car +swung across the Clyde bridge. He had done well—but +of that he did not want to think, for the whole +beastly thing was over. He was going to bury that +memory, to be resurrected perhaps on a later day +when the unpleasantness had been forgotten. Heritage +had his address, and knew where to come when +it was time to claim the jewels. As for the watchers, +they must have ceased to suspect him, when they +discovered the innocent contents of his knapsack +and Mrs. Morran's box. Home for him, and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> +luxurious tea by his own fireside; and then an evening +with his books, for Heritage's nonsense had +stimulated his literary fervour. He would dip into +his old favourites again to confirm his faith. To-morrow +he would go for a jaunt somewhere—perhaps +down the Clyde, or to the South of England, +which he had heard was a pleasant, thickly peopled +country. No more lonely inns and deserted villages +for him; henceforth he would make certain of comfort +and peace.</p> + +<p>The rain had stopped, and, as the car moved +down the dreary vista of Eglinton Street, the sky +opened into fields of blue and the April sun silvered +the puddles. It was in such place and under such +weather that Dickson suffered an overwhelming +experience.</p> + +<p>It is beyond my skill, being all unlearned in the +game of psycho-analysis, to explain how this thing +happened. I concern myself only with facts. Suddenly +the pretty veil of self-satisfaction was rent +from top to bottom, and Dickson saw a figure of +himself within, a smug leaden little figure which +simpered and preened itself and was hollow as a +rotten nut. And he hated it.</p> + +<p>The horrid truth burst on him that Heritage had +been right. He only played with life. That imbecile +image was a mere spectator, content to applaud, +but shrinking from the contact of reality. It had +been all right as a provision merchant, but when it +fancied itself capable of higher things it had deceived +itself. Foolish little image with its brave +dreams and its swelling words from Browning! All<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +make-believe of the feeblest. He was a coward, +running away at the first threat of danger. It was +as if he were watching a tall stranger with a wand +pointing to the embarrassed phantom that was himself, +and ruthlessly exposing its frailties! And yet +the pitiless showman was himself too—himself as +he wanted to be, cheerful, brave, resourceful, indomitable.</p> + +<p>Dickson suffered a spasm of mortal agony. "Oh, +I'm surely not so bad as all that," he groaned. But +the hurt was not only in his pride. He saw himself +being forced to new decisions, and each alternative +was of the blackest. He fairly shivered with the +horror of it. The car slipped past a suburban station +from which passengers were emerging—comfortable +black-coated men such as he had once been. +He was bitterly angry with Providence for picking +him out of the great crowd of sedentary folk for +this sore ordeal. "Why was I tethered to sich a +conscience?" was his moan. But there was that +stern inquisitor with his pointer exploring his soul. +"You flatter yourself you have done your share," +he was saying. "You will make pretty stories about +it to yourself, and some day you may tell your +friends, modestly disclaiming any special credit. +But you will be a liar, for you know you are afraid. +You are running away when the work is scarcely +begun, and leaving it to a few boys and a poet whom +you had the impudence the other day to despise. +I think you are worse than a coward. I think you +are a cad."</p> + +<p>His fellow-passengers on the top of the car saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +an absorbed middle-aged gentleman who seemed to +have something the matter with his bronchial tubes. +They could not guess at the tortured soul. The decision +was coming nearer, the alternatives loomed +up dark and inevitable. On one side was submission +to ignominy, on the other a return to that place, +which he detested, and yet loathed himself for detesting. +"It seems I'm not likely to have much +peace either way," he reflected dismally.</p> + +<p>How the conflict would have ended had it continued +on these lines I cannot say. The soul of Mr. +McCunn was being assailed by moral and metaphysical +adversaries with which he had not been +trained to deal. But suddenly it leapt from negatives +to positives. He saw the face of the girl in +the shuttered House, so fair and young and yet so +haggard. It seemed to be appealing to him to +rescue it from a great loneliness and fear. Yes, he +had been right, it had a strange look of his Janet—the +wide-open eyes, the solemn mouth. What +was to become of that child if he failed her in her +great need?</p> + +<p>Now Dickson was a practical man and this view +of the case brought him into a world which he +understood. "It's fair ridiculous," he reflected. +"Nobody there to take a grip of things. Just a +wheen Gorbals keelies and the lad Heritage. Not +a business man among the lot."</p> + +<p>The alternatives, which hove before him like two +great banks of cloud, were altering their appearance. +One was becoming faint and tenuous; the +other, solid as ever, was just a shade less black.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +He lifted his eyes and saw in the near distance the +corner of the road which led to his home. "I must +decide before I reach that corner," he told himself.</p> + +<p>Then his mind became apathetic. He began to +whistle dismally through his teeth, watching the +corner as it came nearer. The car stopped with a +jerk. "I'll go back," he said aloud, clambering +down the steps. The truth was he had decided five +minutes before when he first saw Janet's face.</p> + +<p>He walked briskly to his house, entirely refusing +to waste any more energy on reflection. "This is +a business proposition," he told himself, "and I'm +going to handle it as sich." Tibby was surprised +to see him and offered him tea in vain. "I'm just +back for a few minutes. Let's see the letters."</p> + +<p>There was one from his wife. She proposed to +stay another week at the Neuk Hydropathic and +suggested that he might join her and bring her +home. He sat down and wrote a long affectionate +reply, declining, but expressing his delight that she +was soon returning. "That's very likely the last +time Mamma will hear from me," he reflected, but—oddly +enough—without any great fluttering of +the heart.</p> + +<p>Then he proceeded to be furiously busy. He sent +out Tibby to buy another knapsack and to order +a cab and to cash a considerable cheque. In the +knapsack he packed a fresh change of clothing and +the new safety razor, but no books, for he was past +the need of them. That done, he drove to his +solicitors.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What like a firm are Glendonan and Speirs in +Edinburgh?" he asked the senior partner.</p> + +<p>"Oh, very respectable. Very respectable indeed. +Regular Edinburgh W.S. lot. Do a lot of factoring."</p> + +<p>"I want you to telephone through to them and +inquire about a place in Carrick called Huntingtower, +near the village of Dalquharter. I understand +it's to let, and I'm thinking of taking a lease +of it."</p> + +<p>The senior partner after some delay got through +to Edinburgh, and was presently engaged in the +feverish dialectic which the long-distance telephone +involves. "I want to speak to Mr. Glendonan himself.... +Yes, yes, Mr. Caw of Paton and Linklater.... +Good afternoon.... Huntingtower. +Yes, in Carrick. Not to let? But I understand +it's been in the market for some months. You say +you've an idea it has just been let. But my client is +positive that you're mistaken, unless the agreement +was made this morning.... You'll inquire? Oh, +I see. The actual factoring is done by your local +agent. Mr. James Loudon, in Auchenlochan. You +think my client had better get into touch with him +at once. Just wait a minute, please."</p> + +<p>He put his hand over the receiver. "Usual Edinburgh +way of doing business," he observed caustically. +"What do you want done?"</p> + +<p>"I'll run down and see this Loudon. Tell Glendonan +and Speirs to advise him to expect me, for +I'll go this very day."</p> + +<p>Mr. Caw resumed his conversation. "My client<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> +would like a telegram sent at once to Mr. Loudon +introducing him. He's Mr. Dickson McCunn of +Mearns Street—the great provision merchant, you +know. Oh, yes! Good for any rent. Refer if you +like to the Strathclyde Bank, but you can take my +word for it. Thank you. Then that's settled. +Good-bye."</p> + +<p>Dickson's next visit was to a gunmaker who was +a fellow-elder with him in the Guthrie Memorial +Kirk.</p> + +<p>"I want a pistol and a lot of cartridges," he announced. +"I'm not caring what kind it is, so long +as it is a good one and not too big."</p> + +<p>"For yourself?" the gunmaker asked. "You +must have a licence, I doubt, and there's a lot of +new regulations."</p> + +<p>"I can't wait on a licence. It's for a cousin of +mine who's off to Mexico at once. You've got to +find some way of obliging an old friend, Mr. +McNair."</p> + +<p>Mr. McNair scratched his head. "I don't see +how I can sell you one. But I'll tell you what I'll +do—I'll lend you one. It belongs to my nephew, +Peter Tait, and has been lying in a drawer ever since +he came back from the front. He has no use for +it now that he's a placed minister."</p> + +<p>So Dickson bestowed in the pockets of his waterproof +a service revolver and fifty cartridges, and +bade his cab take him to the shop in Mearns Street. +For a moment the sight of the familiar place struck +a pang to his breast, but he choked down unavailing +regrets. He ordered a great hamper of foodstuffs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>—the +most delicate kind of tinned goods, two perfect +hams, tongues, Strassburg pies, chocolate, cakes, +biscuits and, as a last thought, half a dozen bottles +of old liqueur brandy. It was to be carefully +packed, addressed to Mrs. Morran, Dalquharter +Station, and delivered in time for him to take down +by the 7.33 train. Then he drove to the terminus +and dined with something like a desperate peace in +his heart.</p> + +<p>On this occasion he took a first-class ticket, for +he wanted to be alone. As the lights began to be +lit in the wayside stations and the clear April dusk +darkened into night, his thoughts were sombre yet +resigned. He opened the window and let the sharp +air of the Renfrewshire uplands fill the carriage. +It was fine weather again after the rain, and a bright +constellation—perhaps Dougal's friend O'Brien—hung +in the western sky. How happy he would +have been a week ago had he been starting thus for +a country holiday! He could sniff the faint scent +of moor-burn and ploughed earth which had always +been his first reminder of spring. But he had been +pitchforked out of that old happy world and could +never enter it again. Alas! for the roadside fire, +the cosy inn, the <i>Compleat Angler</i>, the Chavender +or Chub!</p> + +<p>And yet—and yet! He had done the right thing, +though the Lord alone knew how it would end. +He began to pluck courage from his very melancholy +and hope from his reflections upon the transitoriness +of life. He was austerely following Romance +as he conceived it, and if that capricious lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> +had taken one dream from him she might yet +reward him with a better. Tags of poetry came +into his head which seemed to favour this philosophy—particularly +some lines of Browning on +which he used to discourse to his Kirk Literary +Society. Uncommon silly, he considered, these +homilies of his must have been, mere twitterings +of the unfledged. But now he saw more in the lines, +a deeper interpretation which he had earned the +right to make.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0q">"Oh, world, where all things change and nought abides,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, life, the long mutation—is it so?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is it with life as with the body's change?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where, e'en tho' better follow, good must pass."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>That was as far as he could get, though he cudgelled +his memory to continue. Moralising thus, he became +drowsy, and was almost asleep when the train +drew up at the station of Kirkmichael.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<p class="center">SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK</p> + + +<p>From Kirkmichael on the train stopped at every +station, but no passenger seemed to leave or +arrive at the little platforms white in the moon. At +Dalquharter the case of provisions was safely transferred +to the porter with instructions to take charge +of it till it was sent for. During the next ten minutes +Dickson's mind began to work upon his problem +with a certain briskness. It was all nonsense +that the law of Scotland could not be summoned +to the defence. The jewels had been safely got rid +of, and who was to dispute their possession? Not +Dobson and his crew, who had no sort of title, and +were out for naked robbery. The girl had spoken +of greater dangers from new enemies—kidnapping +perhaps. Well, that was felony, and the police +must be brought in. Probably if all were known +the three watchers had criminal records, pages long, +filed at Scotland Yard. The man to deal with that +side of the business was Loudon the factor, and to +him he was bound in the first place. He had made +a clear picture in his head of this Loudon—a derelict +old country writer, formal, pedantic, lazy, +anxious only to get an unprofitable business off his +hands with the least possible trouble, never going +near the place himself, and ably supported in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +lethargy by conceited Edinburgh Writers to the +Signet. "Sich notions of business!" he murmured. +"I wonder that there's a single county family in +Scotland no' in the bankruptcy court!" It was his +mission to wake up Mr. James Loudon.</p> + +<p>Arrived at Auchenlochan he went first to the +Salutation Hotel, a pretentious place sacred to +golfers. There he engaged a bedroom for the +night and, having certain scruples, paid for it in +advance. He also had some sandwiches prepared +which he stowed in his pack, and filled his flask with +whisky. "I'm going home to Glasgow by the first +train to-morrow," he told the landlady, "and now +I've got to see a friend. I'll not be back till late." +He was assured that there would be no difficulty +about his admittance at any hour, and directed how +to find Mr. Loudon's dwelling.</p> + +<p>It was an old house fronting direct on the street, +with a fanlight above the door and a neat brass +plate bearing the legend "Mr. James Loudon, +Writer." A lane ran up one side leading apparently +to a garden, for the moonlight showed the +dusk of trees. In front was the main street of +Auchenlochan, now deserted save for a single +roysterer, and opposite stood the ancient town +house, with arches where the country folk came at +the spring and autumn hiring fairs. Dickson rang +the antiquated bell, and was presently admitted to +a dark hall floored with oil-cloth, where a single +gas-jet showed that on one side was the business +office and on the other the living-rooms. Mr. +Loudon was at supper, he was told, and he sent in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> +his card. Almost at once the door at the end on +the left side was flung open and a large figure appeared +flourishing a napkin. "Come in, sir, come +in," it cried. "I've just finished a bite of meat. +Very glad to see you. Here, Maggie, what d'you +mean by keeping the gentleman standing in that +outer darkness?"</p> + +<p>The room into which Dickson was ushered was +small and bright, with a red paper on the walls, a +fire burning and a big oil lamp in the centre of a +table. Clearly Mr. Loudon had no wife, for it was +a bachelor's den in every line of it. A cloth was +laid on a corner of the table, on which stood the +remnants of a meal. Mr. Loudon seemed to have +been about to make a brew of punch, for a kettle +simmered by the fire, and lemons and sugar flanked +a pot-bellied whisky decanter of the type that used +to be known as a "mason's mell."</p> + +<p>The sight of the lawyer was a surprise to Dickson +and dissipated his notions of an aged and +lethargic incompetent. Mr. Loudon was a strongly +built man who could not be a year over fifty. He +had a ruddy face, clean-shaven except for a grizzled +moustache; his grizzled hair was thinning round the +temples; but his skin was unwrinkled and his eyes +had all the vigour of youth. His tweed suit was +well cut, and the buff waistcoat with flaps and +pockets and the plain leather watchguard hinted at +the sportsman, as did the half-dozen racing prints +on the wall. A pleasant high-coloured figure he +made; his voice had the frank ring due to much use +out of doors; and his expression had the singular<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> +candour which comes from grey eyes with large +pupils and a narrow iris.</p> + +<p>"Sit down, Mr. McCunn. Take the arm-chair by +the fire. I've had a wire from Glendonan and +Speirs about you. I was just going to have a glass +of toddy—a grand thing for these uncertain April +nights. You'll join me? No? Well, you'll smoke +anyway. There's cigars at your elbow. Certainly, +a pipe if you like. This is Liberty Hall."</p> + +<p>Dickson found some difficulty in the part for +which he had cast himself. He had expected to +condescend upon an elderly inept and give him +sharp instructions; instead he found himself faced +with a jovial, virile figure which certainly did not +suggest incompetence. It has been mentioned already +that he had always great difficulty in looking +any one in the face, and this difficulty was intensified +when he found himself confronted with bold and +candid eyes. He felt abashed and a little nervous.</p> + +<p>"I've come to see you about Huntingtower +House," he began.</p> + +<p>"I know. So Glendonan's informed me. Well, +I'm very glad to hear it. The place has been standing +empty far too long, and that is worse for a new +house than an old house. There's not much money +to spend on it either, unless we can make sure of +a good tenant. How did you hear about it?"</p> + +<p>"I was taking a bit holiday and I spent a night +at Dalquharter with an old auntie of mine. You +must understand I've just retired from business, +and I'm thinking of finding a country place. I +used to have the big provision shop in Mearns<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +Street—now the United Supply Stores, Limited. +You've maybe heard of it?"</p> + +<p>The other bowed and smiled. "Who hasn't? +The name of Dickson McCunn is known far beyond +the city of Glasgow."</p> + +<p>Dickson was not insensible of the flattery, and he +continued with more freedom. "I took a walk and +got a glisk of the House and I liked the look of it. +You see, I want a quiet bit a good long way from +a town, and at the same time a house with all modern +conveniences. I suppose Huntingtower has +that?"</p> + +<p>"When it was built fifteen years ago it was considered +a model—six bathrooms, its own electric +light plant, steam heating, an independent boiler +for hot water, the whole bag of tricks. I won't +say but what some of these contrivances will want +looking to, for the place has been some time empty, +but there can be nothing very far wrong, and I can +guarantee that the bones of the house are good."</p> + +<p>"Well, that's all right," said Dickson. "I don't +mind spending a little money myself if the place +suits me. But of that, of course, I'm not yet certain, +for I've only had a glimpse of the outside. I +wanted to get into the policies, but a man at the +lodge wouldn't let me. They're a mighty uncivil +lot down there."</p> + +<p>"I'm very sorry to hear that," said Mr. Loudon +in a tone of concern.</p> + +<p>"Ay, and if I take the place I'll stipulate that +you get rid of the lodgekeepers."</p> + +<p>"There won't be the slightest difficulty about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +that, for they are only weekly tenants. But I'm +vexed to hear they were uncivil. I was glad to get +any tenant that offered, and they were well recommended +to me."</p> + +<p>"They're foreigners."</p> + +<p>"One of them is—a Belgian refugee that Lady +Morewood took an interest in. But the other—Spittal, +they call him—I thought he was Scotch."</p> + +<p>"He's not that. And I don't like the innkeeper +either. I would want him shifted."</p> + +<p>Mr. Loudon laughed. "I dare say Dobson is a +rough diamond. There's worse folk in the world +all the same, but I don't think he will want to stay. +He only went there to pass the time till he heard +from his brother in Vancouver. He's a roving +spirit, and will be off overseas again."</p> + +<p>"That's all right!" said Dickson, who was beginning +to have horrid suspicions that he might be +on a wild-goose chase after all. "Well, the next +thing is for me to see over the House."</p> + +<p>"Certainly. I'd like to go with you myself. +What day would suit you? Let me see. This is +Friday. What about this day week?"</p> + +<p>"I was thinking of to-morrow. Since I'm down +in these parts I may as well get the job done."</p> + +<p>Mr. Loudon looked puzzled. "I quite see that. +But I don't think it's possible. You see, I have to +consult the owners and get their consent to a lease. +Of course they have the general purpose of letting, +but—well, they're queer folk the Kennedys," and +his face wore the half-embarrassed smile of an +honest man preparing to make confidences. "When<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> +poor Mr. Quentin died, the place went to his two +sisters in joint ownership. A very bad arrangement, +as you can imagine. It isn't entailed, and I've always +been pressing them to sell, but so far they +won't hear of it. They both married Englishmen, +so it will take a day or two to get in touch with +them. One, Mrs. Stukely, lives in Devonshire. +The other—Miss Katie that was—married Sir +Francis Morewood, the general, and I hear that +she's expected back in London next Monday from +the Riviera. I'll wire and write first thing to-morrow +morning. But you must give me a day or +two."</p> + +<p>Dickson felt himself waking up. His doubts +about his own sanity were dissolving, for, as his +mind reasoned, the factor was prepared to do anything +he asked—but only after a week had gone. +What he was concerned with was the next few +days.</p> + +<p>"All the same I would like to have a look at +the place to-morrow, even if nothing comes of it."</p> + +<p>Mr. Loudon looked seriously perplexed. "You +will think me absurdly fussy, Mr. McCunn, but I +must really beg of you to give up the idea. The +Kennedys, as I have said, are—well, not exactly like +other people, and I have the strictest orders not to +let any one visit the house without their express +leave. It sounds a ridiculous rule, but I assure you +it's as much as my job is worth to disregard it."</p> + +<p>"D'you mean to say not a soul is allowed inside +the House?"</p> + +<p>"Not a soul."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, Mr. Loudon, I'm going to tell you a queer +thing, which I think you ought to know. When I +was taking a walk the other night—your Belgian +wouldn't let me into the policies, but I went down +the glen—what's that they call it? the Garple Dean—I +got round the back where the old ruin stands +and I had a good look at the House. I tell you +there was somebody in it."</p> + +<p>"It would be Spittal, who acts as caretaker."</p> + +<p>"It was not. It was a woman. I saw her on +the verandah."</p> + +<p>The candid grey eyes were looking straight at +Dickson, who managed to bring his own shy orbs +to meet them. He thought that he detected a +shade of hesitation. Then Mr. Loudon got up +from his chair and stood on the hearthrug looking +down at his visitor. He laughed, with some embarrassment, +but ever so pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"I really don't know what you will think of me, +Mr. McCunn. Here are you, coming to do us all +a kindness, and lease that infernal white elephant, +and here have I been steadily hoaxing you for the +last five minutes. I humbly ask your pardon. Set +it down to the loyalty of an old family lawyer. +Now, I am going to tell you the truth and take you +into our confidence, for I know we are safe with +you. The Kennedys are—always have been—just +a wee bit queer. Old inbred stock, you know. +They will produce somebody like poor Mr. Quentin, +who was as sane as you or me, but as a rule in every +generation there is one member of the family—or +more—who is just a little bit——" and he tapped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> +his forehead. "Nothing violent, you understand, +but just not quite 'wise and world-like,' as the old +folk say. Well, there's a certain old lady, an aunt +of Mr. Quentin and his sisters, who has always been +about tenpence in the shilling. Usually she lives at +Bournemouth, but one of her crazes is a passion for +Huntingtower, and the Kennedys have always humoured +her and had her to stay every spring. When +the House was shut up that became impossible, but +this year she took such a craving to come back, that +Lady Morewood asked me to arrange it. It had +to be kept very quiet, but the poor old thing is perfectly +harmless, and just sits and knits with her +maid and looks out of the seaward windows. Now +you see why I can't take you there to-morrow. I +have to get rid of the old lady, who in any case was +travelling south early next week. Do you understand?"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly," said Dickson with some fervour. +He had learned exactly what he wanted. The factor +was telling him lies. Now he knew where to +place Mr. Loudon.</p> + +<p>He always looked back upon what followed as a +very creditable piece of play-acting for a man who +had small experience in that line.</p> + +<p>"Is the old lady a wee wizened body, with a black +cap and something like a white cashmere shawl +round her shoulders?"</p> + +<p>"You describe her exactly," Mr. Loudon replied +eagerly.</p> + +<p>"That would explain the foreigners."</p> + +<p>"Of course. We couldn't have natives who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> +would make the thing the clash of the countryside."</p> + +<p>"Of course not. But it must be a difficult job to +keep a business like that quiet. Any wandering +policeman might start inquiries. And supposing the +lady became violent?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, there's no fear of that. Besides, I've a +position in this county—Deputy Fiscal and so forth—and +a friend of the Chief Constable. I think I +may be trusted to do a little private explaining if +the need arose."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Dickson. He saw, indeed, a great +deal which would give him food for furious thought. +"Well, I must just possess my soul in patience. +Here's my Glasgow address, and I look to you to +send me a telegram whenever you're ready for me. +I'm at the Salutation to-night, and go home to-morrow +with the first train. Wait a minute"—and +he pulled out his watch—"there's a train stops at +Auchenlochan at 10.17. I think I'll catch that.... +Well, Mr. Loudon, I'm very much obliged to +you, and I'm glad to think that it'll no be long till +we renew our acquaintance."</p> + +<p>The factor accompanied him to the door, diffusing +geniality. "Very pleased indeed to have met +you. A pleasant journey and a quick return."</p> + +<p>The street was still empty. Into a corner of the +arches opposite the moon was shining, and Dickson +retired thither to consult his map of the neighbourhood. +He found what he wanted and, as he lifted +his eyes, caught sight of a man coming down the +causeway. Promptly he retired into the shadow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +and watched the new-comer. There could be no +mistake about the figure; the bulk, the walk, the +carriage of the head marked it for Dobson. The +inn-keeper went slowly past the factor's house; then +halted and retraced his steps; then, making sure that +the street was empty, turned into the side lane +which led to the garden.</p> + +<p>This was what sailors call a cross-bearing, and +strengthened Dickson's conviction. He delayed no +longer, but hurried down the side street by which +the north road leaves the town.</p> + +<p>He had crossed the bridge of Lochan and was +climbing the steep ascent which led to the heathy +plateau separating that stream from the Garple +before he had got his mind quite clear on the case. +<i>First</i>, Loudon was in the plot, whatever it was; responsible +for the details of the girl's imprisonment, +but not the main author. That must be the Unknown +who was still to come, from whom Spidel +took his orders. Dobson was probably Loudon's +special henchman, working directly under him. +<i>Secondly</i>, the immediate object had been the jewels, +and they were happily safe in the vaults of the incorruptible +Mackintosh. But, <i>third</i>—and this only +on Saskia's evidence—the worst danger to her began +with the arrival of the Unknown. What could +that be? Probably, kidnapping. He was prepared +to believe anything of people like Bolsheviks. And, +<i>fourth</i>, this danger was due within the next day or +two. Loudon had been quite willing to let him into +the house and to sack all the watchers within a week +from that date. The natural and right thing was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +to summon the aid of the law, but, <i>fifth</i>, that would +be a slow business with Loudon able to put spokes +in the wheels and befog the authorities, and the +mischief would be done before a single policeman +showed his face in Dalquharter. Therefore, <i>sixth</i>, +he and Heritage must hold the fort in the meantime, +and he would send a wire to his lawyer, Mr. +Caw, to get to work with the constabulary. <i>Seventh</i>, +he himself was probably free from suspicion +in both Loudon's and Dobson's minds as a harmless +fool. But that freedom would not survive his +reappearance in Dalquharter. He could say, to be +sure, that he had come back to see his auntie, but +that would not satisfy the watchers, since, so far +as they knew, he was the only man outside the gang +who was aware that people were dwelling in the +House. They would not tolerate his presence in +the neighbourhood.</p> + +<p>He formulated his conclusions as if it were an +ordinary business deal, and rather to his surprise +was not conscious of any fear. As he pulled together +the belt of his waterproof he felt the reassuring +bulges in its pockets which were his pistol +and cartridges. He reflected that it must be very +difficult to miss with a pistol if you fired it at, say, +three yards, and if there was to be shooting that +would be his range. Mr. McCunn had stumbled +on the precious truth that the best way to be rid +of quaking knees is to keep a busy mind.</p> + +<p>He crossed the ridge of the plateau and looked +down on the Garple glen. There were the lights of +Dalquharter—or rather a single light, for the in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>habitants +went early to bed. His intention was to +seek quarters with Mrs. Morran, when his eye +caught a gleam in a hollow of the moor a little to +the east. He knew it for the camp-fire around +which Dougal's warriors bivouacked. The notion +came to him to go there instead, and hear the news +of the day before entering the cottage. So he +crossed the bridge, skirted a plantation of firs, and +scrambled through the broom and heather in what +he took to be the right direction.</p> + +<p>The moon had gone down, and the quest was +not easy. Dickson had come to the conclusion +that he was on the wrong road, when he was summoned +by a voice which seemed to arise out of the +ground.</p> + +<p>"Who goes there?"</p> + +<p>"What's that you say?"</p> + +<p>"Who goes there?" The point of a pole was +held firmly against his chest.</p> + +<p>"I'm Mr. McCunn, a friend of Dougal's."</p> + +<p>"Stand, friend." The shadow before him whistled +and another shadow appeared. "Report to the +Chief that there's a man here, name o' McCunn, +seekin' for him."</p> + +<p>Presently the messenger returned with Dougal +and a cheap lantern which he flashed in Dickson's +face.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's you," said that leader, who had his jaw +bound up as if he had the toothache. "What are +ye doing back here?"</p> + +<p>"To tell the truth, Dougal," was the answer, "I +couldn't stay away. I was fair miserable when I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +thought of Mr. Heritage and you laddies left to +yourselves. My conscience simply wouldn't let me +stop at home, so here I am."</p> + +<p>Dougal grunted, but clearly he approved, for +from that moment he treated Dickson with a new +respect. Formerly when he had referred to him at +all it had been as "auld McCunn." Now it was +"Mister McCunn." He was given rank as a +worthy civilian ally.</p> + +<p>The bivouac was a cheerful place in the wet night. +A great fire of pine roots and old paling posts +hissed in the fine rain, and around it crouched several +urchins busy making oatmeal cakes in the +embers. On one side a respectable lean-to had been +constructed by nailing a plank to two fir-trees, running +sloping poles thence to the ground, and thatching +the whole with spruce branches and heather. +On the other side two small dilapidated home-made +tents were pitched. Dougal motioned his companion +into the lean-to, where they had some privacy +from the rest of the band.</p> + +<p>"Well, what's your news?" Dickson asked. He +noticed that the Chieftain seemed to have been +comprehensively in the wars, for apart from the +bandage on his jaw, he had numerous small cuts on +his brow, and a great rent in one of his shirt +sleeves. Also he appeared to be going lame, and +when he spoke a new gap was revealed in his large +teeth.</p> + +<p>"Things," said Dougal solemnly, "has come to +a bonny cripus. This very night we've been in a +battle."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p> + +<p>He spat fiercely, and the light of war burned in +his eyes.</p> + +<p>"It was the tinklers from the Garple Dean. They +yokit on us about seven o'clock, just at the darkenin'. +First they tried to bounce us. We weren't +wanted here, they said, so we'd better clear. I +telled them that it was them that wasn't wanted. +'Awa' to Finnick,' says I. 'D'ye think we take our +orders from dirty ne'er-do-weels like you?' 'By +God,' says they, 'we'll cut your lights out,' and then +the battle started."</p> + +<p>"What happened?" Dickson asked excitedly.</p> + +<p>"They were four muckle men against six laddies, +and they thought they had an easy job! Little they +kenned the Gorbals Die-Hards! I had been expectin' +something of the kind, and had made my +plans. They first tried to pu' down our tents and +burn them. I let them get within five yards, reservin' +my fire. The first volley—stones from our +hands and our catties—halted them, and before +they could recover three of us had got hold o' +burnin' sticks frae the fire and were lammin' into +them. We kinnled their claes, and they fell back +swearin' and stampin' to get the fire out. Then I +gave the word and we were on them wi' our poles, +usin' the points accordin' to instructions. My +orders was to keep a good distance, for if they had +grippit one o' us he'd ha' been done for. They +were roarin' mad by now, and twae had out their +knives, but they couldn't do muckle, for it was +gettin' dark, and they didn't ken the ground like us, +and were aye trippin' and tumblin'. But they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> +pressed us hard, and one o' them landed me an +awful clype on the jaw. They were still aiming at +our tents, and I saw that if they got near the fire +again it would be the end o' us. So I blew my +whistle for Thomas Yownie, who was in command +o' the other half of us, with instructions to fall +upon their rear. That brought Thomas up, and +the tinklers had to face round about and fight a +battle on two fronts. We charged them and they +broke, and the last seen o' them they were coolin' +their burns in the Garple."</p> + +<p>"Well done, man. Had you many casualties?"</p> + +<p>"We're a' a wee thing battered, but nothing to +hurt. I'm the worst, for one o' them had a grip +o' me for about three seconds, and Gosh! he was +fierce."</p> + +<p>"They're beaten off for the night, anyway?"</p> + +<p>"Ay, for the night. But they'll come back, never +fear. That's why I said that things had come to +a cripus."</p> + +<p>"What's the news from the House?"</p> + +<p>"A quiet day, and no word o' Lean or Dobson."</p> + +<p>Dickson nodded. "They were hunting me."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Heritage has gone to bide in the Hoose. +They were watchin' the Garple Dean, so I took him +round by the Laver foot and up the rocks. He's +a grand climber, yon. We fund a road up the rocks +and got in by the verandy. Did ye ken that the +lassie had a pistol? Well, she has, and it seems +that Mr. Heritage is a good shot wi' a pistol, so +there's some hope thereaways.... Are the jools +safe?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Safe in the bank. But the jools were not the +main thing."</p> + +<p>Dougal nodded. "So I was thinkin'. The lassie +wasn't muckle the easier for gettin' rid o' them. I +didn't just quite understand what she said to Mr. +Heritage, for they were aye wanderin' into foreign +langwidges, but it seems she's terrible feared o' +somebody that may turn up any moment. What's +the reason I can't say. She's maybe got a secret, +or maybe it's just that she's ower bonny."</p> + +<p>"That's the trouble," said Dickson and proceeded +to recount his interview with the factor, to which +Dougal gave close attention. "Now the way I read +the thing is this. There's a plot to kidnap that +lady, for some infernal purpose, and it depends on +the arrival of some person or persons, and it's due +to happen in the next day or two. If we try to +work it through the police alone, they'll beat us, for +Loudon will manage to hang the business up till +it's too late. So we must take up the job ourselves. +We must stand a siege, Mr. Heritage and me and +you laddies, and for that purpose we'd better all +keep together. It won't be extra easy to carry her +off from all of us, and if they do manage it we'll +stick to their heels.... Man, Dougal, isn't it a +queer thing that whiles law-abiding folk have to +make their own laws?... So my plan is that the +lot of us get into the House and form a garrison. +If you don't, the tinklers will come back and you'll +no' beat them in the daylight."</p> + +<p>"I doubt no'," said Dougal. "But what about +our meat?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p> + +<p>"We must lay in provisions. We'll get what we +can from Mrs. Morran, and I've left a big box +of fancy things at Dalquharter station. Can you +laddies manage to get it down here?"</p> + +<p>Dougal reflected. "Ay, we can hire Mrs. Sempill's +powny, the same that fetched our kit."</p> + +<p>"Well, that's your job to-morrow. See, I'll +write you a line to the station-master. And will +you undertake to get it some way into the House?"</p> + +<p>"There's just the one road open—by the rocks. +It'll have to be done. It <i>can</i> be done."</p> + +<p>"And I've another job. I'm writing this telegram +to a friend in Glasgow who will put a spoke +in Mr. Loudon's wheel. I want one of you to go +to Kirkmichael to send it from the telegraph office +there."</p> + +<p>Dougal placed the wire to Mr. Caw in his bosom. +"What about yourself? We want somebody outside +to keep his eyes open. It's bad strawtegy to +cut off your communications."</p> + +<p>Dickson thought for a moment. "I believe +you're right. I believe the best plan for me is to +go back to Mrs. Morran's as soon as the old body's +like to be awake. You can always get at me there, +for it's easy to slip into her back kitchen without +anybody in the village seeing you.... Yes, I'll do +that, and you'll come and report developments to +me. And now I'm for a bite and a pipe. It's hungry +work travelling the country in the small hours."</p> + +<p>"I'm going to introjuice ye to the rest o' us," said +Dougal. "Here, men!" he called, and four figures +rose from the side of the fire. As Dickson munched<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +a sandwich he passed in review the whole company +of the Gorbals Die-Hards, for the pickets were also +brought in, two others taking their places. There +was Thomas Yownie, the Chief of Staff, with a +wrist wound up in the handkerchief which he had +borrowed from his neck. There was a burly lad +who wore trousers much too large for him, and +who was known as Peer Pairson, a contraction presumably +for Peter Paterson. After him came a +lean tall boy who answered to the name of Napoleon. +There was a midget of a child, desperately +sooty in the face either from battle or from fire-tending, +who was presented as Wee Jaikie. Last +came the picket who had held his pole at Dickson's +chest, a sandy-haired warrior with a snub nose and +the mouth and jaw of a pug-dog. He was Old Bill, +or in Dougal's parlance "Auld Bull."</p> + +<p>The Chieftain viewed his scarred following with +a grim content. "That's a tough lot for ye, Mr. +McCunn. Used a' their days wi' sleepin' in coalrees +and dunnies and dodgin' the polis. Ye'll no +beat the Gorbals Die-Hards."</p> + +<p>"You're right, Dougal," said Dickson. "There's +just the six of you. If there were a dozen, I think +this country would be needing some new kind of a +government."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<p class="center">HOW A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER ACCEPTED A +CHALLENGE</p> + + +<p>The first cocks had just begun to crow and the +clocks had not yet struck five when Dickson +presented himself at Mrs. Morran's back door. +That active woman had already been half an hour +out of bed, and was drinking her morning cup of +tea in the kitchen. She received him with cordiality, +nay, with relief.</p> + +<p>"Eh, sirs, but I'm glad to see ye back. Guid +kens what's gaun on at the Hoose thae days. Mr. +Heritage left here yestreen, creepin' round by +dyke-sides and berry-busses like a wheasel. It's a +mercy to get a responsible man in the place. I aye +had a notion ye wad come back, for, thinks I, nevoy +Dickson is no the yin to desert folk in trouble.... +Whaur's my wee kist?... Lost, ye say. That's +a peety, for it's been my cheese-box thae thirty +year."</p> + +<p>Dickson ascended to the loft, having announced +his need of at least three hours' sleep. As he rolled +into bed his mind was curiously at ease. He felt +equipped for any call that might be made on him. +That Mrs. Morran should welcome him back as a +resource in need gave him a new assurance of manhood.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p> + +<p>He woke between nine and ten to the sound of +rain lashing against the garret window. As he +picked his way out of the mazes of sleep and recovered +the skein of his immediate past, he found +to his disgust that he had lost his composure. All +the flock of fears that had left him when, on the top +of the Glasgow tram-car, he had made the great +decision had flown back again and settled like black +crows on his spirit. He was running a horrible risk +and all for a whim. What business had he to be +mixing himself up in things he did not understand? +It might be a huge mistake, and then he would be +a laughing stock; for a moment he repented his +telegram to Mr. Caw. Then he recanted that suspicion; +there could be no mistake, except the fatal +one that he had taken on a job too big for him. He +sat on the edge of his bed and shivered, with his +eyes on the grey drift of rain. He would have felt +more stout-hearted had the sun been shining.</p> + +<p>He shuffled to the window and looked out. There +in the village street was Dobson, and Dobson saw +him. That was a bad blunder, for his reason told +him that he should have kept his presence in Dalquharter +hid as long as possible.</p> + +<p>There was a knock at the cottage door, and presently +Mrs. Morran appeared.</p> + +<p>"It's the man frae the inn," she announced. +"He's wantin' a word wi' ye. Speakin' verra +ceevil, too."</p> + +<p>"Tell him to come up," said Dickson. He might +as well get the interview over. Dobson had seen +Loudon and must know of their conversation. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +sight of himself back again when he had pretended +to be off to Glasgow would remove him effectually +from the class of the unsuspected. He wondered +just what line Dobson would take.</p> + +<p>The innkeeper obtruded his bulk through the low +door. His face was wrinkled into a smile, which +nevertheless left the small eyes ungenial. His voice +had a loud vulgar cordiality. Suddenly Dickson +was conscious of a resemblance, a resemblance to +somebody whom he had recently seen. It was +Loudon. There was the same thrusting of the chin +forward, the same odd cheek-bones, the same +unctuous heartiness of speech. The innkeeper, well +washed and polished and dressed, would be no bad +copy of the factor. They must be near kin, perhaps +brothers.</p> + +<p>"Good morning to you, Mr. McCunn. Man, it's +pitifu' weather, and just when the farmers are wanting +a dry seed-bed. What brings ye back here? +Ye travel the country like a drover."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm a free man now and I took a fancy to +this place. An idle body has nothing to do but +please himself."</p> + +<p>"I hear ye're taking a lease of Huntingtower?"</p> + +<p>"Now who told you that?"</p> + +<p>"Just the clash of the place. Is it true?"</p> + +<p>Dickson looked sly and a little annoyed.</p> + +<p>"I maybe had half a thought of it, but I'll thank +you not to repeat the story. It's a big house for +a plain man like me, and I haven't properly inspected +it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll keep mum, never fear. But if ye've<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> +that sort of notion, I can understand you not being +able to keep away from the place."</p> + +<p>"That's maybe the fact," Dickson admitted.</p> + +<p>"Well! It's just on that point I want a word +with you." The innkeeper seated himself unbidden +on the chair which held Dickson's modest raiment. +He leaned forward and with a coarse forefinger +tapped Dickson's pyjama-clad knees. "I can't have +ye wandering about the place. I'm very sorry, but +I've got my orders from Mr. Loudon. So if you +think that by bidin' here ye can see more of the +House and the policies, ye're wrong, Mr. McCunn. +It can't be allowed, for we're no' ready for ye yet. +D'ye understand? That's Mr. Loudon's orders.... +Now, would it not be a far better plan if ye +went back to Glasgow and came back in a week's +time? I'm thinking of your own comfort, Mr. +McCunn."</p> + +<p>Dickson was cogitating hard. This man was +clearly instructed to get rid of him at all costs for +the next few days. The neighbourhood had to be +cleared for some black business. The tinklers had +been deputed to drive out the Gorbals Die-Hards, +and as for Heritage they seemed to have lost track +of him. He, Dickson, was now the chief object of +their care. But what could Dobson do if he refused? +He dared not show his true hand. Yet he +might, if sufficiently irritated. It became Dickson's +immediate object to get the innkeeper to reveal himself +by rousing his temper. He did not stop to consider +the policy of this course; he imperatively +wanted things cleared up and the issue made plain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'm sure I'm much obliged to you for thinking +so much about my comfort," he said in a voice into +which he hoped he had insinuated a sneer. "But +I'm bound to say you're awful suspicious folk about +here. You needn't be feared for your old policies. +There's plenty of nice walks about the roads, and +I want to explore the sea-coast."</p> + +<p>The last words seemed to annoy the innkeeper. +"That's no' allowed either," he said. "The shore's +as private as the policies.... Well, I wish ye joy +tramping the roads in the glaur."</p> + +<p>"It's a queer thing," said Dickson meditatively, +"that you should keep an hotel and yet be set on +discouraging people from visiting this neighbourhood. +I tell you what, I believe that hotel of yours +is all sham. You've some other business, you and +these lodgekeepers, and in my opinion it's not a very +creditable one."</p> + +<p>"What d'ye mean?" asked Dobson sharply.</p> + +<p>"Just what I say. You must expect a body to be +suspicious, if you treat him as you're treating me." +Loudon must have told this man the story with +which he had been fobbed off about the half-witted +Kennedy relative. Would Dobson refer to that?</p> + +<p>The innkeeper had an ugly look on his face, but +he controlled his temper with an effort. "There's +no cause for suspicion," he said. "As far as I'm +concerned it's all honest and aboveboard."</p> + +<p>"It doesn't look like it. It looks as if you were +hiding something up in the House which you don't +want me to see."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p> + +<p>Dobson jumped from his chair, his face pale with +anger. A man in pyjamas on a raw morning does +not feel at his bravest, and Dickson quailed under +the expectation of assault. But even in his fright +he realised that Loudon could not have told Dobson +the tale of the half-witted lady. The last remark +had cut clean through all camouflage and reached +the quick.</p> + +<p>"What the hell d' ye mean?" he cried. "Ye're +a spy, are ye? Ye fat little fool, for two cents I'd +wring your neck."</p> + +<p>Now it is an odd trait of certain mild people that +a suspicion of threat, a hint of bullying, will rouse +some unsuspected obstinacy deep down in their +souls. The insolence of the man's speech woke a +quiet but efficient little devil in Dickson.</p> + +<p>"That's a bonny tone to adopt in addressing a +gentleman. If you've nothing to hide what way are +you so touchy? I can't be a spy unless there's +something to spy on."</p> + +<p>The innkeeper pulled himself together. He was +apparently acting on instructions, and had not yet +come to the end of them. He made an attempt at +a smile.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I beg your pardon if I spoke too hot. +But it nettled me to hear ye say that.... I'll be +quite frank with ye, Mr. McCunn, and, believe me, +I'm speaking in your best interests. I give ye my +word there's nothing wrong up at the House. I'm +on the side of the law, and when I tell ye the whole +story ye'll admit it. But I can't tell it ye yet....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> +This is a wild, lonely bit and very few folk bide +in it. And these are wild times, when a lot of queer +things happen that never get into the papers. I tell +ye it's for your own good to leave Dalquharter for +the present. More I can't say, but I ask ye to look +at it as a sensible man. Ye're one that's accustomed +to a quiet life and no' meant for rough work. +Ye'll do no good if you stay, and, maybe, ye'll land +yourself in bad trouble."</p> + +<p>"Mercy on us!" Dickson exclaimed. "What is +it you're expecting? Sinn Fein?"</p> + +<p>The innkeeper nodded. "Something like that."</p> + +<p>"Did you ever hear the like? I never did think +much of the Irish."</p> + +<p>"Then ye'll take my advice and go home? Tell +ye what, I'll drive ye to the station."</p> + +<p>Dickson got up from the bed, found his new +safety-razor and began to strop it. "No, I think +I'll bide. If you're right there'll be more to see +than glaury roads."</p> + +<p>"I'm warning ye, fair and honest. Ye ... +can't ... be ... allowed ... to ... stay ... +here!"</p> + +<p>"Well, I never!" said Dickson. "Is there any +law in Scotland, think you, that forbids a man to +stop a day or two with his auntie?"</p> + +<p>"Ye'll stay?"</p> + +<p>"Ay, I'll stay."</p> + +<p>"By God, we'll see about that."</p> + +<p>For a moment Dickson thought that he would be +attacked, and he measured the distance that separated +him from the peg whence hung his waterproof<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> +with the pistol in its pocket. But the man restrained +himself and moved to the door. There he stood +and cursed him with a violence and a venom which +Dickson had not believed possible. The full hand +was on the table now.</p> + +<p>"Ye wee pot-bellied, pig-heided Glasgow grocer," +(I paraphrase), "would <i>you</i> set up to defy me? I +tell ye, I'll make ye rue the day ye were born." +His parting words were a brilliant sketch of the +maltreatment in store for the body of the defiant +one.</p> + +<p>"Impident dog," said Dickson without heat. He +noted with pleasure that the innkeeper hit his head +violently against the low lintel, and, missing a step, +fell down the loft stairs into the kitchen, where +Mrs. Morran's tongue could be heard speeding him +trenchantly from the premises.</p> + +<p>Left to himself, Dickson dressed leisurely, and by +and by went down to the kitchen and watched his +hostess making broth. The fracas with Dobson +had done him all the good in the world, for it had +cleared the problem of dubieties and had put an +edge on his temper. But he realised that it made +his continued stay in the cottage undesirable. He +was now the focus of all suspicion, and the innkeeper +would be as good as his word and try to +drive him out of the place by force. Kidnapping, +most likely, and that would be highly unpleasant, +besides putting an end to his usefulness. Clearly +he must join the others. The soul of Dickson +hungered at the moment for human companionship. +He felt that his courage would be sufficient for any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> +team-work, but might waver again if he were left +to play a lone hand.</p> + +<p>He lunched nobly off three plates of Mrs. Morran's +kail—an early lunch, for that lady, having +breakfasted at five, partook of the midday meal +about eleven. Then he explored her library, and +settled himself by the fire with a volume of Covenanting +tales, entitled <i>Gleanings among the Mountains</i>. +It was a most practical work for one in his +position, for it told how various eminent saints of +that era escaped the attention of Claverhouse's +dragoons. Dickson stored up in his memory several +of the incidents in case they should come in +handy. He wondered if any of his forbears had +been Covenanters; it comforted him to think that +some old progenitor might have hunkered behind +turf walls and been chased for his life in the +heather. "Just like me," he reflected. "But the +dragoons weren't foreigners, and there was a kind +of decency about Claverhouse too."</p> + +<p>About four o'clock Dougal presented himself in +the back kitchen. He was an even wilder figure +than usual, for his bare legs were mud to the knees, +his kilt and shirt clung sopping to his body, and, +having lost his hat, his wet hair was plastered over +his eyes. Mrs. Morran said, not unkindly, that he +looked "like a wull-cat glowerin' through a whin +buss."</p> + +<p>"How are you, Dougal?" Dickson asked genially. +"Is the peace of nature smoothing out the creases +in your poor little soul?"</p> + +<p>"What's that ye say?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, just what I heard a man say in Glasgow. +How have you got on?"</p> + +<p>"Not so bad. Your telegram was sent this mornin'. +Old Bill took it in to Kirkmichael. That's +the first thing. Second, Thomas Yownie has took +a party to get down the box from the station. He +got Mrs. Sempill's powny and he took the box +ayont the Laver by the ford at the herd's hoose and +got it on to the shore maybe a mile ayont Laverfoot. +He managed to get the machine up as far +as the water, but he could get no farther, for ye'll +no' get a machine over the wee waterfa' just before +the Laver ends in the sea. So he sent one o' the +men back with it to Mrs. Sempill, and, since the +box was ower heavy to carry, he opened it and took +the stuff across in bits. It's a' safe in the hole at +the foot o' the Huntingtower rocks, and he reports +that the rain has done it no harm. Thomas has +made a good job of it. Ye'll no fickle Thomas +Yownie."</p> + +<p>"And what about your camp on the moor?"</p> + +<p>"It was broke up afore daylight. Some of our +things we've got with us, and most is hid near at +hand. The tents are in the auld wife's henhoose," +and he jerked his disreputable head in the direction +of the back door.</p> + +<p>"Have the tinklers been back?"</p> + +<p>"Ay. They turned up about ten o'clock, no +doubt intendin' murder. I left Wee Jaikie to watch +developments. They fund him sittin' on a stone, +greetin' sore. When he saw them, he up and +started to run, and they cried on him to stop, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> +he wouldn't listen. Then they cried out where were +the rest, and he telled them they were feared for +their lives and had run away. After that they +offered to catch him, but ye'll no' catch Jaikie in a +hurry. When he had run round about them till +they were wappit, he out wi' his catty and got one +o' them on the lug. Syne he made for the Laverfoot +and reported."</p> + +<p>"Man, Dougal, you've managed fine. Now I've +something to tell you," and Dickson recounted his +interview with the innkeeper. "I don't think it's +safe for me to bide here, and if I did, I wouldn't +be any use, hiding in cellars and such like, and not +daring to stir a foot. I'm coming with you to the +House. Now tell me how to get there."</p> + +<p>Dougal agreed to this view. "There's been +nothing doing at the Hoose the day, but they're +keepin' a close watch on the policies. The cripus +may come any moment. There's no doubt, Mr. +McCunn, that ye're in danger, for they'll serve you +as the tinklers tried to serve us. Listen to me. +Ye'll walk up the station road, and take the second +turn on your left, a wee grass road that'll bring ye +to the ford at the herd's hoose. Cross the Laver—there's +a plank bridge—and take straight across the +moor in the direction of the peakit hill they call +Grey Carrick. Ye'll come to a big burn, which ye +must follow till ye get to the shore. Then turn +south, keepin' the water's edge till ye reach the +Laver, where you'll find one o' us to show ye the +rest of the road.... I must be off now, and I +advise ye not to be slow of startin', for wi' this rain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> +the water's risin' quick. It's a mercy it's such +coarse weather, for it spoils the veesibility."</p> + +<p>"Auntie Phemie," said Dickson a few minutes +later, "will you oblige me by coming for a short +walk?"</p> + +<p>"The man's daft," was the answer.</p> + +<p>"I'm not. I'll explain if you'll listen.... You +see," he concluded, "the dangerous bit for me is +just the mile out of the village. They'll no' be so +likely to try violence if there's somebody with me +that could be a witness. Besides, they'll maybe +suspect less if they just see a decent body out for +a breath of air with his auntie."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran said nothing, but retired, and returned +presently equipped for the road. She had +indued her feet with goloshes and pinned up her +skirts till they looked like some demented Paris +mode. An ancient bonnet was tied under her chin +with strings, and her equipment was completed by +an exceedingly smart tortoise-shell-handled umbrella, +which, she explained, had been a Christmas +present from her son.</p> + +<p>"I'll convoy ye as far as the Laverfoot herd's," +she announced. "The wife's a freend o' mine and +will set me a bit on the road back. Ye needna fash +for me. I'm used to a' weathers."</p> + +<p>The rain had declined to a fine drizzle, but a +tearing wind from the south-west scoured the land. +Beyond the shelter of the trees the moor was a +battle-ground of gusts which swept the puddles into +spindrift and gave to the stagnant bog-pools the +appearance of running water. The wind was behind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> +the travellers, and Mrs. Morran, like a full-rigged +ship, was hustled before it, so that Dickson, who +had linked arms with her, was sometimes compelled +to trot.</p> + +<p>"However will you get home, mistress?" he murmured +anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Fine. The wind will fa' at the darkenin'. +This'll be a sair time for ships at sea."</p> + +<p>Not a soul was about, as they breasted the +ascent of the station road and turned down the +grassy bypath to the Laverfoot herd's. The herd's +wife saw them from afar and was at the door to +receive them.</p> + +<p>"Megsty! Phemie Morran!" she shrilled. "Wha +wad ettle to see ye on a day like this? John's awa' +at Dumfries, buyin' tups. Come in, the baith o' +ye. The kettle's on the boil."</p> + +<p>"This is my nevoy Dickson," said Mrs. Morran. +"He's gaun to stretch his legs ayont the burn, and +come back by the Ayr road. But I'll be blithe to +tak' my tea wi' ye, Elspeth.... Now, Dickson, +I'll expect ye back on the chap o' seeven."</p> + +<p>He crossed the rising stream on a swaying plank +and struck into the moorland, as Dougal had +ordered, keeping the bald top of Grey Carrick before +him. In that wild place with the tempest +battling overhead he had no fear of human enemies. +Steadily he covered the ground, till he reached the +west-flowing burn that was to lead him to the shore. +He found it an entertaining companion, swirling +into black pools, foaming over little falls, and lying +in dark canal-like stretches in the flats. Presently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> +it began to descend steeply in a narrow green gully, +where the going was bad, and Dickson, weighted +with pack and waterproof, had much ado to keep +his feet on the sodden slopes. Then, as he rounded +a crook of hill, the ground fell away from his feet, +the burn swept in a water-slide to the boulders of +the shore, and the storm-tossed sea lay before him.</p> + +<p>It was now that he began to feel nervous. Being +on the coast again seemed to bring him inside his +enemies' territory, and had not Dobson specifically +forbidden the shore? It was here that they might +be looking for him. He felt himself out of condition, +very wet and very warm, but he attained a +creditable pace, for he struck a road which had been +used by manure-carts collecting seaweed. There +were faint marks on it, which he took to be the +wheels of Dougal's "machine" carrying the provision-box. +Yes. On a patch of gravel there was a +double set of tracks, which showed how it had returned +to Mrs. Sempill. He was exposed to the full +force of the wind, and the strenuousness of his +bodily exertions kept his fears quiescent, till the +cliffs on his left sunk suddenly and the valley of +the Laver lay before him.</p> + +<p>A small figure rose from the shelter of a boulder, +the warrior who bore the name of Old Bill. He +saluted gravely.</p> + +<p>"Ye're just in time. The water has rose three +inches since I've been here. Ye'd better strip."</p> + +<p>Dickson removed his boots and socks. "Breeks, +too," commanded the boy; "there's deep holes +ayont thae stanes."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span></p> + +<p>Dickson obeyed, feeling very chilly, and rather +improper. "Now, follow me," said the guide. The +next moment he was stepping delicately on very +sharp pebbles, holding on to the end of the scout's +pole, while an icy stream ran to his knees.</p> + +<p>The Laver as it reaches the sea broadens out to +the width of fifty or sixty yards and tumbles over +little shelves of rock to meet the waves. Usually +it is shallow, but now it was swollen to an average +depth of a foot or more, and there were deeper +pockets. Dickson made the passage slowly and +miserably, sometimes crying out with pain as his +toes struck a sharper flint, once or twice sitting +down on a boulder to blow like a whale, once slipping +on his knees and wetting the strange excrescence +about his middle, which was his tucked-up +waterproof. But the crossing was at length +achieved, and on a patch of sea-pinks he dried himself +perfunctorily and hastily put on his garments. +Old Bill, who seemed to be regardless of wind or +water, squatted beside him and whistled through +his teeth.</p> + +<p>Above them hung the sheer cliffs of the Huntingtower +cape, so sheer that a man below was completely +hidden from any watcher on the top. +Dickson's heart fell, for he did not profess to be +a cragsman and had indeed a horror of precipitous +places. But as the two scrambled along the foot, +they passed deep-cut gullies and fissures, most of +them unclimbable, but offering something more +hopeful than the face. At one of these Old Bill +halted and led the way up and over a chaos of fallen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> +rock and loose sand. The grey weather had +brought on the dark prematurely, and in the half-light +it seemed that this ravine was blocked by an +unscalable mass of rock. Here Old Bill whistled, +and there was a reply from above. Round the +corner of the mass came Dougal.</p> + +<p>"Up here," he commanded. "It was Mr. Heritage +that fund this road."</p> + +<p>Dickson and his guide squeezed themselves between +the mass and the cliff up a spout of stones, +and found themselves in an upper storey of the +gulley, very steep but practicable even for one who +was no cragsman. This in turn ran out against a +wall up which there led only a narrow chimney. At +the foot of this were two of the Die-Hards, and +there were others above, for a rope hung down by +the aid of which a package was even now ascending.</p> + +<p>"That's the top," said Dougal, pointing to the +rim of sky, "and that's the last o' the supplies." +Dickson noticed that he spoke in a whisper, and +that all the movements of the Die-Hards were +judicious and stealthy. "Now, it's your turn. Take +a good grip o' the rope, and ye'll find plenty holes +for your feet. It's no more than ten yards and +ye're well held above."</p> + +<p>Dickson made the attempt and found it easier +than he expected. The only trouble was his pack +and waterproof, which had a tendency to catch on +jags of rock. A hand was reached out to him, he +was pulled over the edge, and then pushed down +on his face.</p> + +<p>When he lifted his head Dougal and the others<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> +had joined him and the whole company of the Die-Hards +was assembled on a patch of grass which +was concealed from the landward view by a thicket +of hazels. Another, whom he recognised as Heritage, +was coiling up the rope.</p> + +<p>"We'd better get all the stuff into the old Tower +for the present," Heritage was saying. "It's too +risky to move it into the House now. We'll need +the thickest darkness for that, after the moon is +down. Quick, for the beastly thing will be rising +soon and before that we must all be indoors."</p> + +<p>Then he turned to Dickson, and gripped his hand. +"You're a high class of sportsman, Dogson. And +I think you're just in time."</p> + +<p>"Are they due to-night?" Dickson asked in an +excited whisper, faint against the wind.</p> + +<p>"I don't know about They. But I've got a notion +that some devilish queer things will happen before +to-morrow morning."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<p class="center">THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES</p> + + +<p>The old keep of Huntingtower stood some +three hundred yards from the edge of the +cliffs, a gnarled wood of hazels and oaks protecting +it from the sea-winds. It was still in fair preservation, +having till twenty years before been an adjunct +of the house of Dalquharter, and used as kitchen, +buttery and servants' quarters. There had been +residential wings attached, dating from the mid-eighteenth +century, but these had been pulled down +and used for the foundations of the new mansion. +Now it stood a lonely shell, its three storeys, each +a single great room connected by a spiral stone +staircase, being dedicated to lumber and the storage +of produce. But it was dry and intact, its massive +oak doors defied any weapon short of artillery, its +narrow unglazed windows would scarcely have admitted +a cat—a place portentously strong, gloomy, +but yet habitable.</p> + +<p>Dougal opened the main door with a massy key. +"The lassie fund it," he whispered to Dickson, +"somewhere about the kitchen—and I guessed it +was the key o' this castle. I was thinkin' that if +things got ower hot it would be a good plan to flit +here. Change our base, like." The Chieftain's +occasional studies in war had trained his tongue to +a military jargon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p> + +<p>In the ground room lay a fine assortment of oddments, +including old bedsteads and servants' furniture, +and what looked like ancient discarded deer-skin +rugs. Dust lay thick over everything, and they +heard the scurry of rats. A dismal place, indeed, +but Dickson felt only its strangeness. The comfort +of being back again among allies had quickened his +spirit to an adventurous mood. The old lords of +Huntingtower had once quarrelled and revelled and +plotted here, and now here he was at the same game. +Present and past joined hands over the gulf of +years. The saga of Huntingtower was not +ended.</p> + +<p>The Die-Hards had brought with them their +scanty bedding, their lanterns and camp kettles. +These and the provisions from Mearns Street were +stowed away in a corner.</p> + +<p>"Now for the Hoose, men," said Dougal. They +stole over the downs to the shrubbery, and Dickson +found himself almost in the same place as he had +lain in three days before, watching a dusky lawn, +while the wet earth soaked through his trouser +knees and the drip from the azaleas trickled over +his spine. Two of the boys fetched the ladder and +placed it against the verandah wall. Heritage first, +then Dickson darted across the lawn and made the +ascent. The six scouts followed, and the ladder +was pulled up and hidden among the verandah litter. +For a second the whole eight stood still and listened. +There was no sound except the murmur of the now +falling wind and the melancholy hooting of owls. +The garrison had entered the Dark Tower.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> + +<p>A council in whispers was held in the garden +room.</p> + +<p>"Nobody must show a light," Heritage observed. +"It mustn't be known that we're here. Only the +Princess will have a lamp. Yes"—this in answer +to Dickson, "she knows that we're coming—you +too. We'll hunt for quarters later upstairs. You +scouts, you must picket every possible entrance. +The windows are safe, I think, for they are locked +from the inside. So is the main door. But there's +the verandah door, of which they have a key, and +the back door beside the kitchen, and I'm not at all +sure that there's not a way in by the boiler-house. +You understand. We're holding this place against +all comers. We must barricade the danger points. +The headquarters of the garrison will be in the hall, +where a scout must be always on duty. You've all +got whistles? Well, if there's an attempt on the +verandah door the picket will whistle once, if at the +back door twice, if anywhere else three times, and +it's everybody's duty, except the picket who whistles, +to get back to the hall for orders."</p> + +<p>"That's so," assented Dougal.</p> + +<p>"If the enemy forces an entrance we must overpower +him. Any means you like. Sticks or fists, +and remember that if it's a scrap in the dark make +for the man's throat. I expect you little devils have +eyes like cats. The scoundrels must be kept away +from the ladies at all costs. If the worst comes to +the worst, the Princess has a revolver."</p> + +<p>"So have I," said Dickson. "I got it in Glasgow."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The deuce you have! Can you use it?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know."</p> + +<p>"Well, you can hand it over to me, if you like. +But it oughtn't to come to shooting, if it's only the +three of them. The eight of us should be able to +manage three and one of them lame. If the others +turn up—well, God help us all! But we've got +to make sure of one thing, that no one lays hands +on the Princess so long as there's one of us left +alive to hit out."</p> + +<p>"Ye needn't be feared for that," said Dougal. +There was no light in the room, but Dickson was +certain that the morose face of the Chieftain was +lit with unholy joy.</p> + +<p>"Then off with you. Mr. McCunn and I will +explain matters to the ladies."</p> + +<p>When they were alone, Heritage's voice took a +different key. "We're in for it, Dogson, old man. +There's no doubt these three scoundrels expect reinforcements +at any moment, and with them will be +one who is the devil incarnate. He's the only thing +on earth that that brave girl fears. It seems he +is in love with her and has pestered her for years. +She hated the sight of him, but he wouldn't take no, +and being a powerful man—rich and well-born and +all the rest of it—she had a desperate time. I +gather he was pretty high in favour with the old +Court. Then when the Bolsheviks started he went +over to them, like plenty of other grandees, and now +he's one of their chief brains—none of your callow +revolutionaries, but a man of the world, a kind of +genius, she says, who can hold his own anywhere.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> +She believes him to be in this country, and only waiting +the right moment to turn up. Oh, it sounds +ridiculous, I know, in Britain in the twentieth century, +but I learned in the war that civilisation anywhere +is a very thin crust. There are a hundred +ways by which that kind of fellow could bamboozle +all our law and police and spirit her away. That's +the kind of crowd we have to face."</p> + +<p>"Did she say what he was like in appearance?"</p> + +<p>"A face like an angel—a lost angel, she says."</p> + +<p>Dickson suddenly had an inspiration.</p> + +<p>"D'you mind the man you said was an Australian—at +Kirkmichael? I thought myself he was a foreigner. +Well, he was asking for a place he called +Darkwater, and there's no sich place in the countryside. +I believe he meant Dalquharter. I believe +he's the man she's feared of."</p> + +<p>A gasped "By Jove!" came from the darkness. +"Dogson, you've hit it. That was five days ago, +and he must have got on the right trail by this time. +He'll be here to-night. That's why the three have +been lying so quiet to-day. Well, we'll go through +with it, even if we haven't a dog's chance. Only +I'm sorry that you should be mixed up in such a +hopeless business."</p> + +<p>"Why me more than you?"</p> + +<p>"Because it's all pure pride and joy for me to +be here. Good God, I wouldn't be elsewhere for +worlds. It's the great hour of my life. I would +gladly die for her."</p> + +<p>"Tuts, that's no' the way to talk, man. Time +enough to speak about dying when there's no other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +way out. I'm looking at this thing in a business +way. We'd better be seeing the ladies."</p> + +<p>They groped into the pitchy hall, somewhere in +which a Die-Hard was on picket, and down the passage +to the smoking-room. Dickson blinked in the +light of a very feeble lamp and Heritage saw that +his hands were cumbered with packages. He deposited +them on a sofa and made a ducking bow.</p> + +<p>"I've come back, Mem, and glad to be back. +Your jools are in safe keeping, and not all the blagyirds +in creation could get at them. I've come to +tell you to cheer up—a stout heart to a stey brae, +as the old folk say. I'm handling this affair as a +business proposition, so don't be feared, Mem. If +there are enemies seeking you, there's friends on the +road too.... Now, you'll have had your dinner, +but you'd maybe like a little dessert."</p> + +<p>He spread before them a huge box of chocolates, +the best that Mearns Street could produce, a box +of candied fruits, and another of salted almonds. +Then from his hideously overcrowded pockets he +took another box, which he offered rather shyly. +"That's some powder for your complexion. They +tell me that ladies find it useful whiles."</p> + +<p>The girl's strained face watched him at first in +mystification, and then broke slowly into a smile. +Youth came back to it, the smile changed to a laugh, +a low rippling laugh like far-away bells. She took +both his hands.</p> + +<p>"You are kind," she said, "you are kind and +brave. You are a de-ar."</p> + +<p>And then she kissed him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p> + +<p>Now, as far as Dickson could remember, no one +had ever kissed him except his wife. The light +touch of her lips on his forehead was like the pressing +of an electric button which explodes some powerful +charge and alters the face of a countryside. +He blushed scarlet; then he wanted to cry; then he +wanted to sing. An immense exhilaration seized +him, and I am certain that if at that moment the +serried ranks of Bolshevism had appeared in the +doorway, Dickson would have hurled himself upon +them with a joyful shout.</p> + +<p>Cousin Eugčnie was earnestly eating chocolates, +but Saskia had other business.</p> + +<p>"You will hold the house?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Please God, yes," said Heritage. "I look at it +this way. The time is very near when your three +gaolers expect the others, their masters. They have +not troubled you in the past two days as they threatened, +because it was not worth while. But they +won't want to let you out of their sight in the final +hours, so they will almost certainly come here to +be on the spot. Our object is to keep them out and +confuse their plans. Somewhere in this neighbourhood, +probably very near, is the man you fear most. +If we nonplus the three watchers, they'll have to +revise their policy, and that means a delay, and +every hour's delay is a gain. Mr. McCunn has +found out that the factor Loudon is in the plot, and +he has purchase enough, it seems, to blanket for a +time any appeal to the law. But Mr. McCunn has +taken steps to circumvent him, and in twenty-four +hours we should have help here."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I do not want the help of your law," the girl +interrupted. "It will entangle me."</p> + +<p>"Not a bit of it," said Dickson cheerfully. "You +see, Mem, they've clean lost track of the jools, and +nobody knows where they are but me. I'm a truthful +man, but I'll lie like a packman if I'm asked +questions. For the rest, it's a question of kidnapping, +I understand, and that's a thing that's not to +be allowed. My advice is to go to our beds and get +a little sleep while there's a chance of it. The +Gorbals Die-Hards are grand watch-dogs."</p> + +<p>This view sounded so reasonable that it was at +once acted upon. The ladies' chamber was next +door to the smoking-room—what had been the old +schoolroom. Heritage arranged with Saskia that +the lamp was to be kept burning low, and that on +no account were they to move unless summoned by +him. Then he and Dickson made their way to the +hall, where there was a faint glimmer from the +moon in the upper unshuttered windows—enough to +reveal the figure of Wee Jaikie on duty at the foot +of the staircase. They ascended to the second floor, +where, in a large room above the hall, Heritage had +bestowed his pack. He had managed to open a fold +of the shutters, and there was sufficient light to see +two big mahogany bedsteads without mattresses or +bedclothes, and wardrobes and chests of drawers +sheeted in holland. Outside the wind was rising +again, but the rain had stopped. Angry watery +clouds scurried across the heavens.</p> + +<p>Dickson made a pillow of his waterproof, +stretched himself on one of the bedsteads and, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> +quiet was his conscience and so weary his body from +the buffetings of the past days, was almost instantly +asleep. It seemed to him that he had scarcely +closed his eyes when he was awakened by Dougal's +hand pinching his shoulder. He gathered that +the moon was setting, for the room was pitchy +dark.</p> + +<p>"The three o' them is approachin' the kitchen +door," whispered the Chieftain. "I seen them from +a spy-hole I made out o' a ventilator."</p> + +<p>"Is it barricaded?" asked Heritage, who had +apparently not been asleep.</p> + +<p>"Ay, but I've thought o' a far better plan. Why +should we keep them out? They'll be safer inside. +Listen! We might manage to get them in one at +a time. If they can't get in at the kitchen door, +they'll send one o' them round to get in by another +door and open to them. That gives us a chance to +get them separated, and lock them up. There's +walth o' closets and hidy-holes all over the place, +each with good doors and good keys to them. Supposin' +we get the three o' them shut up—the others, +when they come, will have nobody to guide them. +Of course some time or other the three will break +out, but it may be ower late for them. At present +we're besieged and they're roamin' the country. +Would it no' be far better if they were the ones +lockit up and we were goin' loose?"</p> + +<p>"Supposing they don't come in one at a time?" +Dickson objected.</p> + +<p>"We'll make them," said Dougal firmly. "There's +no time to waste. Are ye for it?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes," said Heritage. "Who's at the kitchen +door?"</p> + +<p>"Peter Paterson. I told him no' to whistle, but +to wait on me.... Keep your boots off. Ye're +better in your stockin' feet. Wait you in the hall +and see ye're well hidden, for likely whoever comes +in will have a lantern. Just you keep quiet unless +I give ye a cry. I've planned it a' out, and we're +ready for them."</p> + +<p>Dougal disappeared, and Dickson and Heritage, +with their boots tied round their necks by their +laces, crept out to the upper landing. The hall was +impenetrably dark, but full of voices, for the wind +was talking in the ceiling beams, and murmuring +through the long passages. The walls creaked and +muttered and little bits of plaster fluttered down. +The noise was an advantage for the game of hide-and-seek +they proposed to play, but it made it hard +to detect the enemy's approach. Dickson, in order +to get properly wakened, adventured as far as the +smoking-room. It was black with night, but below +the door of the adjacent room a faint line of light +showed where the Princess's lamp was burning. He +advanced to the window, and heard distinctly a foot +on the gravel path that led to the verandah. This +sent him back to the hall in search of Dougal, whom +he encountered in the passage. That boy could certainly +see in the dark, for he caught Dickson's wrist +without hesitation.</p> + +<p>"We've got Spittal in the wine-cellar," he whispered +triumphantly. "The kitchen door was barricaded, +and when they tried it, it wouldn't open.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> +'Bide here,' says Dobson to Spittal, 'and we'll go +round by another door and come back and open to +ye.' So off they went, and by that time Peter +Paterson and me had the barricade down. As we +expected, Spittal tried the key again and it opens +quite easy. He comes in and locks it behind him, +and, Dobson having took away the lantern, he +gropes his way very carefu' towards the kitchen. +There's a point where the wine-cellar door and the +scullery door are aside each other. He should have +taken the second, but I had it shut so he takes the +first. Peter Paterson gave him a wee shove and he +fell down the two-three steps into the cellar, and +we turned the key on him. Yon cellar has a grand +door and no windies."</p> + +<p>"And Dobson and Léon are at the verandah +door? With a light?"</p> + +<p>"Thomas Yownie's on duty there. Ye can trust +him. Ye'll no fickle Thomas Yownie."</p> + +<p>The next minutes were for Dickson a delirium +of excitement not unpleasantly shot with flashes of +doubt and fear. As a child he had played hide-and-seek, +and his memory had always cherished the +delights of the game. But how marvellous to play +it thus in a great empty house, at dark of night, +with the heaven filled with tempest, and with death +or wounds as the stakes!</p> + +<p>He took refuge in a corner where a tapestry curtain +and the side of a Dutch awmry gave him +shelter, and from where he stood he could see the +garden-room and the beginning of the tiled passage +which led to the verandah door. That is to say, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> +could have seen these things if there had been any +light, which there was not. He heard the soft +flitting of bare feet, for a delicate sound is often +audible in a din when a loud noise is obscured. Then +a gale of wind blew towards him, as from an open +door, and far away gleamed the flickering light of +a lantern.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the light disappeared and there was a +clatter on the floor and a breaking of glass. Either +the wind or Thomas Yownie.</p> + +<p>The verandah door was shut, a match spluttered +and the lantern was relit. Dobson and Léon came +into the hall, both clad in long mackintoshes which +glistened from the weather. Dobson halted and +listened to the wind howling in the upper spaces. +He cursed it bitterly, looked at his watch, and then +made an observation which woke the liveliest interest +in Dickson lurking beside the awmry and +Heritage ensconced in the shadow of a window-seat.</p> + +<p>"He's late. He should have been here five minutes +syne. It would be a dirty road for his car."</p> + +<p>So the Unknown was coming that night. The +news made Dickson the more resolved to get the +watchers under lock and key before reinforcements +arrived, and so put grit in their wheels. Then his +party must escape—flee anywhere so long as it was +far from Dalquharter.</p> + +<p>"You stop here," said Dobson, "I'll go down and +let Spidel in. We want another lamp. Get the one +that the women use and for God's sake get a +move on."</p> + +<p>The sound of his feet died in the kitchen passage<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> +and then rung again on the stone stairs. Dickson's +ear of faith heard also the soft patter of naked feet +as the Die-Hards preceded and followed him. He +was delivering himself blind and bound into their +hands.</p> + +<p>For a minute or two there was no sound but the +wind, which had found a loose chimney cowl on the +roof and screwed out of it an odd sound like the +drone of a bagpipe. Dickson, unable to remain any +longer in one place, moved into the centre of the +hall, believing that Léon had gone to the smoking-room. +It was a dangerous thing to do, for suddenly +a match was lit a yard from him. He had the sense +to drop low, and so was out of the main glare of the +light. The man with the match apparently had no +more, judging by his execrations. Dickson stood +stock still, longing for the wind to fall so that he +might hear the sound of the fellow's boots on the +stone floor. He gathered that they were moving +towards the smoking-room.</p> + +<p>"Heritage," he whispered as loud as he dared, +but there was no answer.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly a moving body collided with him. +He jumped a step back and then stood at attention, +"Is that you, Dobson?" a voice asked.</p> + +<p>Now behold the occasional advantage of a nickname. +Dickson thought he was being addressed as +"Dogson" after the Poet's fashion. Had he +dreamed it was Léon he would not have replied, +but fluttered off into the shadows and so missed a +piece of vital news.</p> + +<p>"Ay, it's me," he whispered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span></p> + +<p>His voice and accent were Scotch, like Dobson's, +and Léon suspected nothing.</p> + +<p>"I do not like this wind," he grumbled. "The +Captain's letter said at dawn, but there is no chance +of the Danish brig making your little harbour in +this weather. She must lie off and land the men +by boats. That I do not like. It is too public."</p> + +<p>The news—tremendous news, for it told that the +new-comers would come by sea, which had never +before entered Dickson's head—so interested him +that he stood dumb and ruminating. The silence +made the Belgian suspect; he put out a hand and +felt a waterproofed arm which might have been +Dobson's. But the height of the shoulder proved +that it was not the burly innkeeper. There was an +oath, a quick movement, and Dickson went down +with a knee on his chest and two hands at his throat.</p> + +<p>"Heritage," he gasped. "Help!"</p> + +<p>There was a sound of furniture scraped violently +on the floor. A gurgle from Dickson served as a +guide, and the Poet suddenly cascaded over the +combatants. He felt for a head, found Léon's, +and gripped the neck so savagely that the owner +loosened his hold on Dickson. The last-named +found himself being buffeted violently by heavy-shod +feet which seemed to be manœuvring before +an unseen enemy. He rolled out of the road and +encountered another pair of feet, this time unshod. +Then came a sound of a concussion, as if metal or +wood had struck some part of a human frame, and +then a stumble and fall.</p> + +<p>After that a good many things all seemed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> +happen at once. There was a sudden light, which +showed Léon blinking with a short loaded life-preserver +in his hand, and Heritage prone in front +of him on the floor. It also showed Dickson the +figure of Dougal, and more than one Die-Hard in +the background. The light went out as suddenly +as it had appeared. There was a whistle, and a +hoarse "Come on, men," and then for two seconds +there was a desperate silent combat. It ended with +Léon's head meeting the floor so violently that its +possessor became oblivious of further proceedings. +He was dragged into a cubby-hole, which had once +been used for coats and rugs, and the door locked +on him. Then the light sprang forth again. It revealed +Dougal and five Die-Hards, somewhat the +worse for wear; it revealed also Dickson squatted +with outspread waterproof very like a sitting hen.</p> + +<p>"Where's Dobson?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"In the boiler-house," and for once Dougal's +gravity had laughter in it. "Govey Dick! but yon +was a fecht! Me and Peter Paterson and Wee +Jaikie started it, but it was the whole company afore +the end. Are ye better, Jaikie?"</p> + +<p>"Ay, I'm better," said a pallid midget.</p> + +<p>"He kickit Jaikie in the stomach and Jaikie was +seeck," Dougal explained. "That's the three accounted +for. Now they're safe for five hours at +the least. I think mysel' that Dobson will be the +first to get out, but he'll have his work letting out +the others. Now, I'm for flittin' to the old Tower. +They'll no ken where we are for a long time, and +anyway yon place will be far easier to defend.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> +Without they kindle a fire and smoke us out, I don't +see how they'll beat us. Our provisions are a' there, +and there's a grand well o' water inside. Forbye +there's the road down the rocks that'll keep our +communications open.... But what's come to Mr. +Heritage?"</p> + +<p>Dickson to his shame had forgotten all about his +friend. The Poet lay very quiet with his head on +one side and his legs crooked limply. Blood +trickled over his eyes from an ugly scar on his forehead. +Dickson felt his heart and pulse and found +them faint but regular. The man had got a swinging +blow and might have a slight concussion; for +the present he was unconscious.</p> + +<p>"All the more reason why we should flit," said +Dougal. "What d'ye say, Mr. McCunn?"</p> + +<p>"Flit, of course, but further than the old Tower. +What's the time?" He lifted Heritage's wrist and +saw from his watch that it was half-past three. +"Mercy! It's nearly morning. Afore we put these +blagyirds away, they were conversing, at least +Léon and Dobson were. They said that they expected +somebody every moment, but that the car +would be late. We've still got that Somebody to +tackle. Then Léon spoke to me in the dark, thinking +I was Dobson, and cursed the wind, saying it +would keep the Danish brig from getting in at dawn +as had been intended. D'you see what that means? +The worst of the lot, the ones the ladies are in +terror of, are coming by sea. Ay, and they can +return by sea. We thought that the attack would +be by land, and that even if they succeeded we could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> +hang on to their heels and follow them, till we got +them stopped. But that's impossible! If they come +in from the water, they can go out by the water, +and there'll never be more heard tell of the ladies +or of you or me."</p> + +<p>Dougal's face was once again sunk in gloom. +"What's your plan, then?"</p> + +<p>"We must get the ladies away from here—away +inland, far from the sea. The rest of us must stand +a siege in the old Tower, so that the enemy will +think we're all there. Please God we'll hold out +long enough for help to arrive. But we mustn't +hang about here. There's the man Dobson mentioned—he +may come any second, and we want to +be away first. Get the ladder, Dougal.... Four +of you take Mr. Heritage, and two come with me +and carry the ladies' things. It's no' raining, but +the wind's enough to take the wings off a seagull."</p> + +<p>Dickson roused Saskia and her cousin, bidding +them be ready in ten minutes. Then with the help +of the Die-Hards he proceeded to transport the +necessary supplies—the stove, oil, dishes, clothes +and wraps; more than one journey was needed of +small boys, hidden under clouds of baggage. When +everything had gone he collected the keys, behind +which, in various quarters of the house, three +gaolers fumed impotently, and gave them to Wee +Jaikie to dispose of in some secret nook. Then he +led the two ladies to the verandah, the elder cross +and sleepy, the younger alert at the prospect of +movement.</p> + +<p>"Tell me again," she said. "You have locked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> +all the three up, and they are now the imprisoned?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it was the boys that, properly speaking, +did the locking up."</p> + +<p>"It is a great—how do you say?—a turning of +the tables. Ah—what is that?"</p> + +<p>At the end of the verandah there was a clattering +down of pots which could not be due to the wind, +since the place was sheltered. There was still only +the faintest hint of light, and black night still +lurked in the crannies. Followed another fall of +pots, as from a clumsy intruder, and then a man +appeared, clear against the glass door by which the +path descended to the rock garden.</p> + +<p>It was the fourth man, whom the three prisoners +had awaited. Dickson had no doubt at all about +his identity. He was that villain from whom all +the others took their orders, the man whom the +Princess shuddered at. Before starting he had +loaded his pistol. Now he tugged it from his +waterproof pocket, pointed it at the other and fired.</p> + +<p>The man seemed to be hit, for he spun round and +clapped a hand to his left arm. Then he fled +through the door, which he left open.</p> + +<p>Dickson was after him like a hound. At the door +he saw him running and raised his pistol for another +shot. Then he dropped it, for he saw something +in the crouching, dodging figure which was +familiar.</p> + +<p>"A mistake," he explained to Jaikie when he returned. +"But the shot wasn't wasted. I've just +had a good try at killing the factor!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<p class="center">DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND A JOURNEY</p> + + +<p>Five scouts' lanterns burned smokily in the +ground room of the keep when Dickson ushered +his charges through its cavernous door. The lights +flickered in the gusts that swept after them and +whistled through the slits of window, so that the +place was full of monstrous shadows, and its accustomed +odour of mould and disuse was changed to +a salty freshness. Upstairs on the first floor +Thomas Yownie had deposited the ladies' baggage, +and was busy making beds out of derelict iron bedsteads +and the wraps brought from their room. On +the ground floor on a heap of litter covered by an +old scout's blanket lay Heritage, with Dougal in +attendance.</p> + +<p>The Chieftain had washed the blood from the +Poet's brow and the touch of cold water was bringing +back his senses. Saskia with a cry flew to him, +and waved off Dickson who had fetched one of the +bottles of liqueur brandy. She slipped a hand inside +his shirt and felt the beating of his heart. Then +her slim fingers ran over his forehead.</p> + +<p>"A bad blow," she muttered, "but I do not think +he is ill. There is no fracture. When I nursed in +the Alexander Hospital I learnt much about head +wounds. Do not give him cognac if you value his +life."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p> + +<p>Heritage was talking now and with strange +tongues. Phrases like "lined digesters" and "free +sulphurous acid" came from his lips. He implored +some one to tell him if "the first cook" was finished, +and he upbraided some one else for "cooling off" +too fast.</p> + +<p>The girl raised her head. "But I fear he has +become mad," she said.</p> + +<p>"Wheesht, Mem," said Dickson, who recognised +the jargon. "He's a paper maker."</p> + +<p>Saskia sat down on the litter and lifted his head +so that it rested on her breast. Dougal at her bidding +brought a certain case from her baggage, and +with swift, capable hands she made a bandage and +rubbed the wound with ointment before tying it up. +Then her fingers seemed to play about his temples +and along his cheeks and neck. She was the professional +nurse now, absorbed, sexless. Heritage +ceased to babble, his eyes shut and he was asleep.</p> + +<p>She remained where she was, so that the Poet, +when a few minutes later he woke, found himself +lying with his head in her lap. She spoke first, in +an imperative tone: "You are well now. Your head +does not ache. You are strong again."</p> + +<p>"No. Yes," he murmured. Then more clearly: +"Where am I? Oh, I remember, I caught a lick +on the head. What's become of the brutes?"</p> + +<p>Dickson, who had extracted food from the +Mearns Street box and was pressing it on the others, +replied through a mouthful of biscuit: "We're in the +old Tower. The three are lockit up in the House. +Are you feeling better, Mr. Heritage?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Poet suddenly realised Saskia's position and +the blood came to his pale face. He got to his feet +with an effort and held out a hand to the girl. +"I'm all right now, I think. Only a little dicky on +my legs. A thousand thanks, Princess. I've given +you a lot of trouble."</p> + +<p>She smiled at him tenderly. "You say that when +you have risked your life for me."</p> + +<p>"There's no time to waste," the relentless Dougal +broke in. "Comin' over here, I heard a shot. +What was it?"</p> + +<p>"It was me," said Dickson. "I was shootin' at +the factor."</p> + +<p>"Did ye hit him?"</p> + +<p>"I think so, but I'm sorry to say not badly. +When I last saw him he was running too quick for +a sore hurt man. When I fired I thought it was the +other man—the one they were expecting."</p> + +<p>Dickson marvelled at himself, yet his speech was +not bravado but the honest expression of his mind. +He was keyed up to a mood in which he feared +nothing very much, certainly not the laws of his +country. If he fell in with the Unknown, he was +entirely resolved, if his Maker permitted him, to +do murder as being the simplest and justest solution. +And if in the pursuit of this laudable intention he +happened to wing lesser game it was no fault of his.</p> + +<p>"Well, it's a pity ye didn't get him," said Dougal, +"him being what we ken him to be.... I'm for +holding a council o' war, and considerin' the whole +position. So far we haven't done that badly. +We've shifted our base without serious casualties.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> +We've got a far better position to hold, for there's +too many ways into yon Hoose, and here there's +just one. Besides, we've fickled the enemy. They'll +take some time to find out where we've gone. But, +mind you, we can't count on their staying long shut +up. Dobson's no' safe in the boiler-house, for +there's a skylight far up and he'll see it when the +light comes and maybe before. So we'd better get +our plans ready. A word with ye, Mr. McCunn," +and he led Dickson aside.</p> + +<p>"D'ye ken what these blagyirds were up to," he +whispered fiercely in Dickson's ear. "They were +goin' to pushion the lassie. How do I ken, says +you? Because Thomas Yownie heard Dobson say +to Lean at the scullery door, 'Have ye got the +dope?' he says, and Lean says, 'Ay.' Thomas +mindit the word for he had heard about it at the +Picters."</p> + +<p>Dickson exclaimed in horror.</p> + +<p>"What d'ye make o' that? I'll tell ye. They +wanted to make sure of her, but they wouldn't have +thought o' dope unless the men they expectit were +due to arrive any moment. As I see it, we've to +face a siege not by the three but by a dozen or +more, and it'll no' be long till it starts. Now, isn't +it a mercy we're safe in here?"</p> + +<p>Dickson returned to the others with a grave face.</p> + +<p>"Where d'you think the new folk are coming +from?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Heritage answered, "From Auchenlochan, I suppose? +Or perhaps down from the hills?"</p> + +<p>"You're wrong." And he told of Léon's mis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>taken +confidences to him in the darkness. "They +are coming from the sea, just like the old pirates."</p> + +<p>"The sea," Heritage repeated in a dazed voice.</p> + +<p>"Ay, the sea. Think what that means. If they +had been coming by the roads, we could have kept +track of them, even if they beat us, and some of +these laddies could have stuck to them and followed +them up till help came. It can't be such an easy +job to carry a young lady against her will along +Scotch roads. But the sea's a different matter. If +they've got a fast boat they could be out of the +Firth and away beyond the law before we could +wake up a single policeman. Ay, and even if the +Government took it up and warned all the ports +and ships at sea, what's to hinder them to find a +hidy-hole about Ireland—or Norway? I tell you, +it's a far more desperate business than I thought, +and it'll no' do to wait on and trust that the Chief +Constable will turn up afore the mischief's done."</p> + +<p>"The moral," said Heritage, "is that there can +be no surrender. We've got to stick it out in this +old place at all costs."</p> + +<p>"No," said Dickson emphatically. "The moral +is that we must shift the ladies. We've got the +chance while Dobson and his friends are locked up. +Let's get them as far away as we can from the sea. +They're far safer tramping the moors, and it's no' +likely the new folk will dare to follow us."</p> + +<p>"But I cannot go." Saskia, who had been listening +intently, shook her head. "I promised to wait +here till my friend came. If I leave I shall never +find him."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p> + +<p>"If you stay you certainly never will, for you'll +be away with the ruffians. Take a sensible view, +Mem. You'll be no good to your friend or your +friend to you if before night you're rocking in a +ship."</p> + +<p>The girl shook her head again, gently but decisively. +"It was our arrangement. I cannot break +it. Besides, I am sure that he will come in time, +for he has never failed——"</p> + +<p>There was a desperate finality about the quiet +tones and the weary face with the shadow of a smile +on it.</p> + +<p>Then Heritage spoke. "I don't think your plan +will quite do, Dogson. Supposing we all break for +the hinterland and the Danish brig finds the birds +flown, that won't end the trouble. They will get +on the Princess's trail, and the whole persecution +will start again. I want to see things brought to a +head here and now. If we can stick it out here long +enough, we may trap the whole push and rid the +world of a pretty gang of miscreants. Once let +them show their hand, and then, if the police are +here by that time, we can jug the lot for piracy or +something worse."</p> + +<p>"That's all right," said Dougal, "but we'd put +up a better fight if we had the women off our mind. +I've aye read that when a castle was going to be +besieged the first thing was to rid get of the +civilians."</p> + +<p>"Sensible to the last, Dougal," said Dickson approvingly. +"That's just what I'm saying. I'm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> +strong for a fight, but put the ladies in a safe bit +first, for they're our weak point."</p> + +<p>"Do you think that if you were fighting my +enemies, I would consent to be absent?" came +Saskia's reproachful question.</p> + +<p>"'Deed no, Mem," said Dickson heartily. His +martial spirit was with Heritage, but his prudence +did not sleep, and he suddenly saw a way of placating +both. "Just you listen to what I propose. +What do we amount to? Mr. Heritage, six laddies, +and myself—and I'm no more used to fighting than +an old wife. We've seven desperate villains against +us, and afore night they may be seventy. We've a +fine old castle here, but for defence we want more +than stone walls—we want a garrison. I tell you +we must get help somewhere. Ay, but how, says +you? Well, coming here I noticed a gentleman's +house away up ayont the railway and close to the +hills. The laird's maybe not at home, but there will +be men there of some kind—gamekeepers and woodmen +and such like. My plan is to go there at once +and ask for help. Now, it's useless me going alone, +for nobody would listen to me. They'd tell me to +go back to the shop or they'd think me demented. +But with you, Mem, it would be a different matter. +They wouldn't disbelieve you. So I want you to +come with me and to come at once, for God knows +how soon our need will be sore. We'll leave your +cousin with Mrs. Morran in the village, for bed's +the place for her, and then you and me will be off +on our business."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></p> + +<p>The girl looked at Heritage, who nodded. "It's +the only way," he said. "Get every man jack you +can raise, and if it's humanly possible get a gun or +two. I believe there's time enough, for I don't see +the brig arriving in broad daylight."</p> + +<p>"D'you not?" Dickson asked rudely. "Have +you considered what day this is? It's the Sabbath, +the best of days for an ill deed. There's no kirk +hereaways, and everybody in the parish will be sitting +indoors by the fire." He looked at his watch. +"In half an hour it'll be light. Haste you, Mem, +and get ready. Dougal, what's the weather?"</p> + +<p>The Chieftain swung open the door, and sniffed +the air. The wind had fallen for the time being, +and the surge of the tides below the rocks rose like +the clamour of a mob. With the lull, mist and a +thin drizzle had cloaked the world again.</p> + +<p>To Dickson's surprise Dougal seemed to be in +good spirits. He began to sing to a hymn tune a +strange ditty.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0q">"Class-conscious we are, and class-conscious wull be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till our fit's on the neck o' the Boorjoyzee."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"What on earth are you singing?" Dickson +inquired.</p> + +<p>Dougal grinned. "Wee Jaikie went to a Socialist +Sunday school last winter because he heard they +were for fechtin' battles. Ay, and they telled him +he was to jine a thing called an International, and +Jaikie thought it was a fitba' club. But when he +fund out there was no magic lantern or swaree at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> +Christmas he gie'd it the chuck. They learned him +a heap o' queer songs. That's one."</p> + +<p>"What does the last word mean?"</p> + +<p>"I don't ken. Jaikie thought it was some kind +of a draigon."</p> + +<p>"It's a daft-like thing anyway.... When's high +water?"</p> + +<p>Dougal answered that to the best of his knowledge +it fell between four and five in the afternoon.</p> + +<p>"Then that's when we may expect the foreign +gentry if they think to bring their boat in to the +Garple foot.... Dougal, lad, I trust you to keep +a most careful and prayerful watch. You had +better get the Die-Hards out of the Tower and all +round the place afore Dobson and Co. get loose, +or you'll no' get a chance later. Don't lose your +mobility, as the sodgers say. Mr. Heritage can +hold the fort, but you laddies should be spread out +like a screen."</p> + +<p>"That was my notion," said Dougal. "I'll detail +two Die-Hards—Thomas Yownie and Wee Jaikie—to +keep in touch with ye and watch for ye comin' +back. Thomas ye ken already; ye'll no fickle +Thomas Yownie. But don't be mistook about Wee +Jaikie. He's terrible fond of greetin', but it's no +fright with him but excitement. It's just a habit +he's gotten. When ye see Jaikie begin to greet, ye +may be sure that Jaikie's gettin' dangerous."</p> + +<p>The door shut behind them and Dickson found +himself with his two charges in a world dim with +fog and rain and the still lingering darkness. The +air was raw, and had the sour smell which comes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> +from soaked earth and wet boughs when the leaves +are not yet fledged. Both the women were miserably +equipped for such an expedition. Cousin Eugčnie +trailed heavy furs, Saskia's only wrap was a +bright-coloured shawl about her shoulders, and both +wore thin foreign shoes. Dickson insisted on stripping +off his trusty waterproof and forcing it on the +Princess, on whose slim body it hung very loose and +very short. The elder woman stumbled and whimpered +and needed the constant support of his arm, +walking like a townswoman from the knees. But +Saskia swung from the hips like a free woman, and +Dickson had much ado to keep up with her. She +seemed to delight in the bitter freshness of the +dawn, inhaling deep breaths of it, and humming +fragments of a tune.</p> + +<p>Guided by Thomas Yownie they took the road +which Dickson and Heritage had travelled the first +evening, through the shrubberies on the north side +of the House and the side avenue beyond which the +ground fell to the Laver glen. On their right the +House rose like a dark cloud, but Dickson had lost +his terror of it. There were three angry men inside +it, he remembered: long let them stay there. He +marvelled at his mood, and also rejoiced, for his +worst fear had always been that he might prove a +coward. Now he was puzzled to think how he could +ever be frightened again, for his one object was +to succeed, and in that absorption fear seemed +to him merely a waste of time. "It all comes of +treating the thing as a business proposition," he +told himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p> + +<p>But there was far more in his heart than this +sober resolution. He was intoxicated with the resurgence +of youth and felt a rapture of audacity +which he never remembered in his decorous boyhood. +"I haven't been doing badly for an old +man," he reflected with glee. What, oh, what had +become of the pillar of commerce, the man who +might have been a Bailie had he sought municipal +honours, the elder in the Guthrie Memorial Kirk, +the instructor of literary young men? In the past +three days he had levanted with jewels which had +once been an Emperor's and certainly were not his; +he had burglariously entered and made free of a +strange house; he had played hide-and-seek at the +risk of his neck and had wrestled in the dark with +a foreign miscreant; he had shot at an eminent +solicitor with intent to kill; and he was now engaged +in tramping the world with a fairy-tale Princess. +I blush to confess that of each of his doings he was +unashamedly proud, and thirsted for many more in +the same line. "Gosh, but I'm seeing life," was his +unregenerate conclusion.</p> + +<p>Without sight or sound of a human being, they +descended to the Laver, climbed again by the cart +track, and passed the deserted West Lodge and inn +to the village. It was almost full dawn when the +three stood in Mrs. Morran's kitchen.</p> + +<p>"I've brought you two ladies, Auntie Phemie," +said Dickson.</p> + +<p>They made an odd group in that cheerful place, +where the new-lit fire was crackling in the big grate—the +wet undignified form of Dickson, unshaven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> +of cheek and chin and disreputable in garb: the +shrouded figure of Cousin Eugčnie, who had sunk +into the arm-chair and closed her eyes; the slim +girl, into whose face the weather had whipped a +glow like blossom; and the hostess, with her petticoats +kilted and an ancient mutch on her head.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran looked once at Saskia, and then +did a thing which she had not done since her girlhood. +She curtseyed.</p> + +<p>"I'm proud to see ye here, Mem. Off wi' your +things, and I'll get ye dry claes. Losh, ye're fair +soppin'. And your shoon! Ye maun change your +feet.... Dickson! Awa' up to the loft, and +dinna you stir till I give ye a cry. The leddies will +change by the fire. And you, Mem"—this to +Cousin Eugčnie—"the place for you's your bed. +I'll kinnle a fire ben the hoose in a jiffy. And syne +ye'll have breakfast—ye'll hae a cup o' tea wi' me +now, for the kettle's just on the boil. Awa' wi' ye, +Dickson," and she stamped her foot.</p> + +<p>Dickson departed, and in the loft washed his +face, and smoked a pipe on the edge of the bed, +watching the mist eddying up the village street. +From below rose the sounds of hospitable bustle, +and when after some twenty minutes' vigil he +descended, he found Saskia toasting stockinged toes +by the fire in the great arm-chair, and Mrs. Morran +setting the table.</p> + +<p>"Auntie Phemie, hearken to me. We've taken +on too big a job for two men and six laddies, and +help we've got to get, and that this very morning. +D'you mind the big white house away up near the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> +hills ayont the station and east of the Ayr road? +It looked like a gentleman's shooting lodge. I was +thinking of trying there. Mercy!"</p> + +<p>The exclamation was wrung from him by his eyes +settling on Saskia and noting her apparel. Gone +were her thin foreign clothes, and in their place she +wore a heavy tweed skirt cut very short, and thick +homespun stockings, which had been made for some +one with larger feet than hers. A pair of the +coarse low-heeled shoes, which country folk wear +in the farmyard, stood warming by the hearth. +She still had her russet jumper, but round her neck +hung a grey wool scarf, of the kind known as a +"comforter." Amazingly pretty she looked in +Dickson's eyes, but with a different kind of prettiness. +The sense of fragility had fled, and he saw +how nobly built she was for all her exquisiteness. +She looked like a queen, he thought, but a queen +to go gipsying through the world with.</p> + +<p>"Ay, they're some o' Elspeth's things, rale guid +furthy claes," said Mrs. Morran complacently. +"And the shoon are what she used to gang about +the byres wi' when she was in the Castlewham dairy. +The leddy was tellin' me she was for trampin' the +hills, and thae things will keep her dry and warm.... +I ken the hoose ye mean. They ca' it the +Mains of Garple. And I ken the man that bides +in it. He's yin Sir Erchibald Roylance. English, +but his mither was a Dalziel. I'm no weel acquaint +wi' his forbears, but I'm weel eneuch acquaint wi' +Sir Erchie, and 'better a guid coo than a coo o' a +guid kind,' as my mither used to say. He used to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +be an awfu' wild callant, a freend o' puir Maister +Quentin, and up to ony deevilry. But they tell me +he's a quieter lad since the war, and sair lamed by +fa'in oot o' an airyplane."</p> + +<p>"Will he be at the Mains just now?" Dickson +asked.</p> + +<p>"I wadna wonder. He has a muckle place in +England, but he aye used to come here in the back-end +for the shootin' and in Aprile for birds. He's +clean daft about birds. He'll be out a' day at the +Craig watchin' solans, or lyin' a' mornin' i' the moss +lookin' at bog-blitters."</p> + +<p>"Will he help, think you?"</p> + +<p>"I'll wager he'll help. Onyway it's your best +chance, and better a wee bush than nae beild. Now, +sit in to your breakfast."</p> + +<p>It was a merry meal. Mrs. Morran dispensed +tea and gnomic wisdom. Saskia ate heartily, speaking +little, but once or twice laying her hand softly +on her hostess's gnarled fingers. Dickson was in +such spirits that he gobbled shamelessly, being both +hungry and hurried, and he spoke of the still unconquered +enemy with ease and disrespect, so that Mrs. +Morran was moved to observe that there was +"naething sae bauld as a blind mear." But when +in a sudden return of modesty he belittled his usefulness +and talked sombrely of his mature years he +was told that he "wad never be auld wi' sae muckle +honesty." Indeed it was very clear that Mrs. +Morran approved of her nephew.</p> + +<p>They did not linger over breakfast, for both were +impatient to be on the road. Mrs. Morran assisted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +Saskia to put on Elspeth's shoes. "'Even a young +fit finds comfort in an auld bauchle,' as my mother, +honest woman, used to say." Dickson's waterproof +was restored to him, and for Saskia an old raincoat +belonging to the son in South Africa was discovered, +which fitted her better. "Siccan weather," +said the hostess, as she opened the door to let in a +swirl of wind. "The deil's aye kind to his ain. +Haste ye back, Mem, and be sure I'll tak' guid care +o' your leddy cousin."</p> + +<p>The proper way to the Mains of Garple was +either by the station and the Ayr road, or by the +Auchenlochan highway, branching off half a mile +beyond the Garple bridge. But Dickson, who had +been studying the map and fancied himself as a +pathfinder, chose the direct route across the Long +Muir as being at once shorter and more sequestered. +With the dawn the wind had risen again, but it had +shifted towards the north-west and was many degrees +colder. The mist was furling on the hills like +sails, the rain had ceased, and out at sea the eye +covered a mile or two of wild water. The moor +was drenching wet, and the peat bogs were brimming +with inky pools, so that soon the travellers +were soaked to the knees. Dickson had no fear of +pursuit, for he calculated that Dobson and his +friends, even if they had got out, would be busy +looking for the truants in the vicinity of the House +and would presently be engaged with the old Tower. +But he realised, too, that speed on his errand was +vital, for at any moment the Unknown might arrive +from the sea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p> + +<p>So he kept up a good pace, half-running, half-striding, +till they had passed the railway, and he +found himself gasping with a stitch in his side, and +compelled to rest in the lee of what had once been +a sheepfold. Saskia amazed him. She moved over +the rough heather like a deer, and it was her hand +that helped him across the deeper hags. Before +such youth and vigour he felt clumsy and old. She +stood looking down at him as he recovered his +breath, cool, unruffled, alert as Diana. His mind +fled to Heritage, and it occurred to him suddenly +that the Poet had set his affections very high. +Loyalty drove him to speak a word for his friend.</p> + +<p>"I've got the easy job," he said. "Mr. Heritage +will have the whole pack on him in that old Tower, +and him with such a sore clout on his head. I've +left him my pistol. He's a terrible brave man!"</p> + +<p>She smiled.</p> + +<p>"Ay, and he's a poet too."</p> + +<p>"So?" she said. "I did not know. He is very +young."</p> + +<p>"He's a man of very high ideels."</p> + +<p>She puzzled at the word, and then smiled. "I +know him. He is like many of our young men in +Russia, the students—his mind is in a ferment +and he does not know what he wants. But he is +brave."</p> + +<p>This seemed to Dickson's loyal soul but a chilly +tribute.</p> + +<p>"I think he is in love with me," she continued.</p> + +<p>He looked up startled and saw in her face that +which gave him a view into a strange new world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> +He had thought that women blushed when they +talked of love, but her eyes were as grave and +candid as a boy's. Here was one who had gone +through waters so deep that she had lost the foibles +of sex. Love to her was only a word of ill omen, +a threat on the lips of brutes, an extra battalion of +peril in an army of perplexities. He felt like some +homely rustic who finds himself swept unwittingly +into the moonlight hunt of Artemis and her +maidens.</p> + +<p>"He is a romantic," she said. "I have known +so many like him."</p> + +<p>"He's no' that," said Dickson shortly. "Why, +he used to be aye laughing at me for being romantic. +He's one that's looking for truth and +reality, he says, and he's terrible down on the kind +of poetry I like myself."</p> + +<p>She smiled. "They all talk so. But you, my +friend Dickson" (she pronounced the name in two +staccato syllables ever so prettily), "you are different. +Tell me about yourself."</p> + +<p>"I'm just what you see—a middle-aged retired +grocer."</p> + +<p>"Grocer?" she queried. "Ah, yes, <i>épicier</i>. But +you are a very remarkable <i>épicier</i>. Mr. Heritage +I understand, but you and those little boys—no. I +am sure of one thing—you are not a romantic. You +are too humorous and—and——I think you are +like Ulysses, for it would not be easy to defeat +you."</p> + +<p>Her eyes were kind, nay affectionate, and Dickson +experienced a preposterous rapture in his soul, fol<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>lowed +by a sinking, as he realised how far the job +was still from being completed.</p> + +<p>"We must be getting on, Mem," he said hastily, +and the two plunged again into the heather.</p> + +<p>The Ayr road was crossed, and the fir wood +around the Mains became visible, and presently the +white gates of the entrance. A wind-blown spire of +smoke beyond the trees proclaimed that the house +was not untenanted. As they entered the drive the +Scots firs were tossing in the gale, which blew +fiercely at this altitude, but, the dwelling itself being +more in the hollow, the daffodil clumps on the lawn +were but mildly fluttered.</p> + +<p>The door was opened by a one-armed butler who +bore all the marks of the old regular soldier. Dickson +produced a card and asked to see his master on +urgent business. Sir Archibald was at home, he +was told, and had just finished breakfast. The two +were led into a large bare chamber which had all +the chill and mustiness of a bachelor's drawing-room. +The butler returned, and said Sir Archibald +would see him. "I'd better go myself first and prepare +the way, Mem," Dickson whispered and followed +the man across the hall.</p> + +<p>He found himself ushered into a fair-sized room +where a bright fire was burning. On a table lay the +remains of breakfast, and the odour of food mingled +pleasantly with the scent of peat. The horns +and heads of big game, foxes' masks, the model of +a gigantic salmon and several bookcases adorned +the wall, and books and maps were mixed with +decanters and cigar-boxes on the long sideboard.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> +After the wild out of doors the place seemed the +very shrine of comfort. A young man sat in an +armchair by the fire with a leg on a stool; he was +smoking a pipe, and reading the <i>Field</i>, and on +another stool at his elbow was a pile of new novels. +He was a pleasant brown-faced young man, with +remarkably smooth hair and a roving humorous eye.</p> + +<p>"Come in, Mr. McCunn. Very glad to see you. +If, as I take it, you're the grocer, you're a household +name in these parts. I get all my supplies +from you, and I've just been makin' inroads on one +of your divine hams. Now, what can I do for +you?"</p> + +<p>"I'm very proud to hear what you say, Sir +Archibald. But I've not come on business. I've +come with the queerest story you ever heard in your +life, and I've come to ask your help."</p> + +<p>"Go ahead. A good story is just what I want +this vile mornin'."</p> + +<p>"I'm not here alone. I've a lady with me."</p> + +<p>"God bless my soul! A lady!"</p> + +<p>"Ay, a princess. She's in the next room."</p> + +<p>The young man looked wildly at him and waved +the book he had been reading.</p> + +<p>"Excuse me, Mr. McCunn, but are you quite +sober? I beg your pardon. I see you are. But +you know, it isn't done. Princesses don't as a rule +come here after breakfast to pass the time of day. +It's more absurd than this shocker I've been +readin'."</p> + +<p>"All the same it's a fact. She'll tell you the story +herself, and you'll believe her quick enough. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> +to prepare your mind I'll just give you a sketch of +the events of the last few days."</p> + +<p>Before the sketch was concluded the young man +had violently rung the bell. "Sime," he shouted +to the servant, "clear away this mess and lay the +table again. Order more breakfast, all the breakfast +you can get. Open the windows and get the +tobacco smoke out of the air. Tidy up the place for +there's a lady comin'. Quick, you juggins!"</p> + +<p>He was on his feet now, and, with his arm in +Dickson's, was heading for the door.</p> + +<p>"My sainted aunt! And you topped off with +pottin' at the factor. I've seen a few things in my +day, but I'm blessed if I ever met a bird like you!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<p class="center">GRAVITY OUT OF BED</p> + + +<p>It is probable that Sir Archibald Roylance did not +altogether believe Dickson's tale; it may be that +he considered him an agreeable romancer, or a little +mad, or no more than a relief to the tedium of a +wet Sunday morning. But his incredulity did not +survive one glance at Saskia as she stood in that +bleak drawing-room among Victorian water-colours +and faded chintzes. The young man's boyishness +deserted him. He stopped short in his tracks, and +made a profound and awkward bow. "I am at your +service, Mademoiselle," he said, amazed at himself. +The words seemed to have come out of a confused +memory of plays and novels.</p> + +<p>She inclined her head—a little on one side, and +looked towards Dickson.</p> + +<p>"Sir Archibald's going to do his best for us," said +that squire of dames. "I was telling him that we +had had our breakfast."</p> + +<p>"Let's get out of this sepulchre," said their host, +who was recovering himself. "There's a roasting +fire in my den. Of course you'll have something to +eat—hot coffee, anyhow—I've trained my cook to +make coffee like a Frenchwoman. The housekeeper +will take charge of you, if you want to tidy up, and +you must excuse our ramshackle ways, please. I +don't believe there's ever been a lady in this house +before, you know."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> + +<p>He led her to the smoking-room and ensconced +her in the great chair by the fire. Smilingly she +refused a series of offers which ranged from a +sheepskin mantle which he had got in the Pamirs +and which he thought might fit her, to hot whisky +and water as a specific against a chill. But she accepted +a pair of slippers and deftly kicked off the +brogues provided by Mrs. Morran. Also, while +Dickson started rapaciously on a second breakfast, +she allowed him to pour her out a cup of coffee.</p> + +<p>"You are a soldier?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Two years infantry—5th Battalion Lennox +Highlanders, and then Flying Corps. Top-hole +time I had too, till the day before the Armistice +when my luck gave out and I took a nasty toss. +Consequently I'm not as fast on my legs now as +I'd like to be."</p> + +<p>"You were a friend of Captain Kennedy?"</p> + +<p>"His oldest. We were at the same private +school, and he was at m' tutor's, and we were never +much separated till he went abroad to cram for the +Diplomatic and I started east to shoot things."</p> + +<p>"Then I will tell you what I told Captain Kennedy." +Saskia, looking into the heart of the peats, +began the story of which we have already heard a +version, but she told it differently, for she was telling +it to one who more or less belonged to her own +world. She mentioned names at which the other +nodded. She spoke of a certain Paul Abreskov. "I +heard of him at Bokhara in 1912," said Sir Archie, +and his face grew solemn. Sometimes she lapsed +into French, and her hearer's brow wrinkled, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> +he appeared to follow. When she had finished he +drew a long breath.</p> + +<p>"My Aunt! What a time you've been through! +I've seen pluck in my day, but yours! It's not +thinkable. D'you mind if I ask a question, Princess? +Bolshevism we know all about, and I admit +Trotsky and his friends are a pretty effective push; +but how on earth have they got a world-wide graft +going in the time so that they can stretch their net +to an out-of-the-way spot like this? It looks as if +they had struck a Napoleon somewhere."</p> + +<p>"You do not understand," she said. "I cannot +make any one understand—except a Russian. My +country has been broken to pieces, and there is no +law in it; therefore it is a nursery of crime. So +would England be, or France, if you had suffered +the same misfortunes. My people are not wickeder +than others, but for the moment they are sick and +have no strength. As for the government of the +Bolsheviki it matters little, for it will pass. Some +parts of it may remain, but it is a government of the +sick and fevered, and cannot endure in health. +Lenin may be a good man—I do not think so, but +I do not know—but if he were an archangel he +could not alter things. Russia is mortally sick and +therefore all evil is unchained, and the criminals +have no one to check them. There is crime everywhere +in the world, and the unfettered crime in +Russia is so powerful that it stretches its hand to +crime throughout the globe and there is a great +mobilising everywhere of wicked men. Once you +boasted that law was international and that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> +police in one land worked with the police of all +others. To-day that is true about criminals. After +a war evil passions are loosed, and, since Russia is +broken, in her they can make their headquarters.... +It is not Bolshevism, the theory, you need +fear, for that is a weak and dying thing. It is +crime, which to-day finds its seat in my country, but +is not only Russian. It has no fatherland. It is +as old as human nature and as wide as the earth."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Sir Archie. "Gad, here have I +been vegetatin' and thinkin' that all excitement had +gone out of life with the war, and sometimes even +regrettin' that the beastly old thing was over, and +all the while the world fairly hummin' with interest. +And Loudon too!"</p> + +<p>"I would like your candid opinion on yon factor, +Sir Archibald," said Dickson.</p> + +<p>"I can't say I ever liked him, and I've once or +twice had a row with him, for he used to bring his +pals to shoot over Dalquharter and he didn't quite +play the game by me. But I know dashed little +about him, for I've been a lot away. Bit hairy +about the heels, of course. A great figure at local +race-meetin's, and used to toady old Carforth and +the huntin' crowd. He has a pretty big reputation +as a sharp lawyer and some of the thick-headed +lairds swear by him, but Quentin never could stick +him. It's quite likely he's been gettin' into Queer +Street, for he was always speculatin' in horse-flesh, +and I fancy he plunged a bit on the Turf. But I +can't think how he got mixed up in this show."</p> + +<p>"I'm positive Dobson's his brother."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And put this business in his way. That would +explain it all right.... He must be runnin' for +pretty big stakes, for that kind of lad don't dabble +in crime for six-and-eightpence.... Now for the +layout. You've got three men shut up in Dalquharter +House, who by this time have probably +escaped. One of you—what's his name?—Heritage?—is +in the old Tower, and you think that <i>they</i> +think the Princess is still there and will sit round +the place like terriers. Sometime to-day the Danish +brig will arrive with reinforcements, and then there +will be a hefty fight. Well, the first thing to be +done is to get rid of Loudon's stymie with the authorities. +Princess, I'm going to carry you off in +my car to the Chief Constable. The second thing +is for you after that to stay on here. It's a deadly +place on a wet day, but it's safe enough."</p> + +<p>Saskia shook her head and Dickson spoke for her.</p> + +<p>"You'll no' get her to stop here. I've done my +best, but she's determined to be back at Dalquharter. +You see she's expecting a friend, and besides, if +there's going to be a battle she'd like to be in it. +Is that so, Mem?"</p> + +<p>Sir Archie looked helplessly around him, and the +sight of the girl's face convinced him that argument +would be fruitless. "Anyhow she must come with +me to the Chief Constable. Lethington's a slow +bird on the wing, and I don't see myself convincin' +him that he must get busy unless I can produce the +Princess. Even then it may be a tough job, for it's +Sunday, and in these parts people go to sleep till +Monday mornin'."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That's just what I'm trying to get at," said +Dickson. "By all means go to the Chief Constable, +and tell him it's life or death. My lawyer in Glasgow, +Mr. Caw, will have been stirring him up yesterday, +and you two should complete the job.... +But what I'm feared is that he'll not be in time. +As you say, it's the Sabbath day, and the police are +terrible slow. Now any moment that brig may be +here, and the trouble will start. I'm wanting to +save the Princess, but I'm wanting too to give these +blagyirds the roughest handling they ever got in +their lives. Therefore I say there's no time to lose. +We're far ower few to put up a fight, and we want +every man you've got about this place to hold the +fort till the police come."</p> + +<p>Sir Archibald looked upon the earnest flushed +face of Dickson with admiration. "I'm blessed if +you're not the most whole-hearted brigand I've +ever struck."</p> + +<p>"I'm not. I'm just a business man."</p> + +<p>"Do you realise that you're levying a private +war and breaking every law of the land?"</p> + +<p>"Hoots!" said Dickson. "I don't care a docken +about the law. I'm for seeing this job through. +What force can you produce?"</p> + +<p>"Only cripples, I'm afraid. There's Sime, my +butler. He was a Fusilier Jock and, as you saw, +has lost an arm. Then McGuffog the keeper is a +good man, but he's still got a Turkish bullet in his +thigh. The chauffeur, Carfrae, was in the Yeomanry, +and lost half a foot, and there's myself, as +lame as a duck. The herds on the home farm are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> +no good, for one's seventy and the other is in bed +with jaundice. The Mains can produce four men, +but they're rather a job lot."</p> + +<p>"They'll do fine," said Dickson heartily. "All +sodgers, and no doubt all good shots. Have you +plenty guns?"</p> + +<p>Sir Archie burst into uproarious laughter. "Mr. +McCunn, you're a man after my own heart. I'm +under your orders. If I had a boy I'd put him into +the provision trade, for it's the place to see fightin'. +Yes, we've no end of guns. I advise shot-guns, for +they've more stoppin' power in a rush than a rifle, +and I take it it's a rough-and-tumble we're lookin' +for."</p> + +<p>"Right," said Dickson. "I saw a bicycle in the +hall. I want you to lend it me, for I must be getting +back. You'll take the Princess and do the +best you can with the Chief Constable."</p> + +<p>"And then?"</p> + +<p>"Then you'll load up your car with your folk, +and come down the hill to Dalquharter. There'll +be a laddie, or maybe more than one, waiting for +you on this side the village to give you instructions. +Take your orders from them. If it's a red-haired +ruffian called Dougal you'll be wise to heed what +he says, for he has a grand head for battles."</p> + +<p>Five minutes later Dickson was pursuing a quavering +course like a snipe down the avenue. He was +a miserable performer on a bicycle. Not for twenty +years had he bestridden one, and he did not understand +such new devices as free-wheels and change +of gears. The mounting had been the worst part<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> +and it had only been achieved by the help of a +rockery. He had begun by cutting into two flower-beds, +and missing a birch tree by inches. But he +clung on desperately, well knowing that if he fell +off it would be hard to remount, and at length he +gained the avenue. When he passed the lodge +gates he was riding fairly straight, and when he +turned off the Ayr highway to the side road that +led to Dalquharter he was more or less master of +his machine.</p> + +<p>He crossed the Garple by an ancient hunch-backed +bridge, observing even in his absorption with the +handle-bars that the stream was in roaring spate. +He wrestled up the further hill, with aching calf-muscles, +and got to the top just before his strength +gave out. Then as the road turned seaward he had +the slope with him, and enjoyed some respite. It +was no case for putting up his feet, for the gale +was blowing hard on his right cheek, but the downward +grade enabled him to keep his course with +little exertion. His anxiety to get back to the scene +of action was for the moment appeased, since he +knew he was making as good speed as the weather +allowed, so he had leisure for thought.</p> + +<p>But the mind of this preposterous being was not +on the business before him. He dallied with irrelevant +things—with the problems of youth and love. +He was beginning to be very nervous about Heritage, +not as the solitary garrison of the old Tower, +but as the lover of Saskia. That everybody should +be in love with her appeared to him only proper, +for he had never met her like, and assumed that it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> +did not exist. The desire of the moth for the star +seemed to him a reasonable thing, since hopeless +loyalty and unrequited passion were the eternal +stock-in-trade of romance. He wished he were +twenty-five himself to have the chance of indulging +in such sentimentality for such a lady. But Heritage +was not like him and would never be content +with a romantic folly.... He had been in love +with her for two years—a long time. He spoke +about wanting to die for her, which was a flight +beyond Dickson himself. "I doubt it will be what +they call a 'grand passion,'" he reflected with reverence. +But it was hopeless; he saw quite clearly +that it was hopeless.</p> + +<p>Why, he could not have explained, for Dickson's +instincts were subtler than his intelligence. He +recognised that the two belonged to different circles +of being, which nowhere intersected. That mysterious +lady, whose eyes had looked through life to +the other side, was no mate for the Poet. His +faithful soul was agitated, for he had developed +for Heritage a sincere affection. It would break +his heart, poor man. There was he holding the +fort alone and cheering himself with delightful +fancies about one remoter than the moon. Dickson +wanted happy endings, and here there was no hope +of such. He hated to admit that life could be +crooked, but the optimist in him was now fairly +dashed.</p> + +<p>Sir Archie might be the fortunate man, for of +course he would soon be in love with her, if he were +not so already. Dickson like all his class had a pro<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>found +regard for the country gentry. The business +Scot does not usually revere wealth, though he may +pursue it earnestly, nor does he specially admire +rank in the common sense. But for ancient race he +has respect in his bones, though it may happen +that in public he denies it, and the laird has for him +a secular association with good family.... Sir +Archie might do. He was young, good-looking, +obviously gallant.... But no! He was not quite +right either. Just a trifle too light in weight, too +boyish and callow. The Princess must have youth, +but it should be mighty youth, the youth of a Napoleon +or a Cćsar. He reflected that the Great +Montrose, for whom he had a special veneration, +might have filled the bill. Or young Harry with +his beaver up? Or Claverhouse in the picture with +the flush of temper on his cheek?</p> + +<p>The meditations of the match-making Dickson +came to an abrupt end. He had been riding negligently, +his head bent against the wind, and his eyes +vaguely fixed on the wet hill-gravel of the road. +Of his immediate environs he was pretty well unconscious. +Suddenly he was aware of figures on +each side of him who advanced menacingly. Stung +to activity he attempted to increase his pace, which +was already good, for the road at this point descended +steeply. Then, before he could prevent it, +a stick was thrust into his front wheel, and the next +second he was describing a curve through the air. +His head took the ground, he felt a spasm of blinding +pain, and then a sense of horrible suffocation +before his wits left him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Are ye sure it's the richt man, Ecky?" said a +voice which he did not hear.</p> + +<p>"Sure. It's the Glesca body Dobson telled us to +look for yesterday. It's a pund note atween us for +this job. We'll tie him up in the wud till we've +time to attend to him."</p> + +<p>"Is he bad?"</p> + +<p>"It doesna maitter," said the one called Ecky. +"He'll be deid onyway long afore the morn."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Mrs. Morran all forenoon was in a state of un-Sabbatical +disquiet. After she had seen Saskia and +Dickson start she finished her housewifely duties, +took Cousin Eugčnie her breakfast, and made +preparation for the midday dinner. The invalid +in the bed in the parlour was not a repaying subject. +Cousin Eugčnie belonged to that type of +elderly women who, having been spoiled in youth, +find the rest of life fall far short of their expectations. +Her voice had acquired a perpetual wail, +and the corners of what had once been a pretty +mouth drooped in an eternal peevishness. She +found herself in a morass of misery and shabby +discomfort, but had her days continued in an even +tenor she would still have lamented. "A dingy +body," was Mrs. Morran's comment, but she laboured +in kindness. Unhappily they had no common +language, and it was only by signs that the +hostess could discover her wants and show her +goodwill. She fed her and bathed her face, saw +to the fire and left her to sleep. "I'm boilin' a hen +to mak' broth for your denner, Mem. Try and get<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> +a bit sleep now." The purport of the advice was +clear, and Cousin Eugčnie turned obediently on her +pillow.</p> + +<p>It was Mrs. Morran's custom of a Sunday to +spend the morning in devout meditation. Some +years before she had given up tramping the five +miles to kirk, on the ground that having been a +regular attendant for fifty years she had got all the +good out of it that was probable. Instead she read +slowly aloud to herself the sermon printed in a certain +religious weekly which reached her every Saturday, +and concluded with a chapter or two of the +Bible. But to-day something had gone wrong with +her mind. She could not follow the thread of the +Reverend Doctor MacMichael's discourse. She +could not fix her attention on the wanderings and +misdeeds of Israel as recorded in the Book of +Exodus. She must always be getting up to look at +the pot on the fire, or to open the back door and +study the weather. For a little she fought against +her unrest, and then she gave up the attempt at +concentration. She took the big pot off the fire and +allowed it to simmer, and presently she fetched her +boots and umbrella, and kilted her petticoats. "I'll +be none the waur o' a breath o' caller air," she +decided.</p> + +<p>The wind was blowing great guns but there was +only the thinnest sprinkle of rain. Sitting on the +hen-house roof and munching a raw turnip was a +figure which she recognised as the smallest of the +Die-Hards. Between bites he was singing dolefully<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> +to the tune of "Annie Laurie" one of the ditties of +his quondam Sunday school:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i5q">"The Boorjoys' brays are bonny,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Too-roo-ra-roo-raloo,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">But the Worrkers o' the Worrld<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Wull gar them a' look blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Wull gar them a' look blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And droon them in the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">And—for bonnie Annie Laurie<br /></span> +<span class="i6">I'll lay me down and dee."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Losh, laddie," she cried, "that's cauld food for +the stamach. Come indoors about midday and I'll +gie ye a plate o' broth!" The Die-Hard saluted +and continued on the turnip.</p> + +<p>She took the Auchenlochan road across the +Garple bridge, for that was the best road to the +Mains and by it Dickson and the others might be +returning. Her equanimity at all seasons was like +a Turk's, and she would not have admitted that +anything mortal had power to upset or excite her: +nevertheless it was a fast-beating heart that she now +bore beneath her Sunday jacket. Great events, she +felt, were on the eve of happening, and of them +she was a part. Dickson's anxiety was hers, to +bring things to a business-like conclusion. The +honour of Huntingtower was at stake and of the +old Kennedys. She was carrying out Mr. Quentin's +commands, the dead boy who used to clamour for +her treacle scones. And there was more than duty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> +in it, for youth was not dead in her old heart, and +adventure had still power to quicken it.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran walked well, with the steady long +paces of the Scots countrywoman. She left the +Auchenlochan road and took the side path along the +tableland to the Mains. But for the surge of the +gale and the far-borne boom of the furious sea there +was little noise; not a bird cried in the uneasy air. +With the wind behind her Mrs. Morran breasted +the ascent till she had on her right the moorland +running south to the Lochan valley and on her left +Garple chafing in its deep forested gorges. Her +eyes were quick and she noted with interest a weasel +creeping from a fern-clad cairn. A little way on +she passed an old ewe in difficulties and assisted it +to rise. "But for me, my wumman, ye'd hae been +braxy ere nicht," she told it as it departed bleating. +Then she realised that she had come a certain distance. +"Losh, I maun be gettin' back or the hen +will be spiled," she cried, and was on the verge of +turning.</p> + +<p>But something caught her eye a hundred yards +further on the road. It was something which moved +with the wind like a wounded bird, fluttering from +the roadside to a puddle and then back to the +rushes. She advanced to it, missed it, and caught it.</p> + +<p>It was an old dingy green felt hat, and she recognised +it as Dickson's.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran's brain, after a second of confusion, +worked fast and clearly. She examined the +road and saw that a little way on the gravel had +been violently agitated. She detected several prints<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> +of hobnailed boots. There were prints too, on a +patch of peat on the south side behind a tall bank +of sods. "That's where they were hidin'," she concluded. +Then she explored on the other side in a +thicket of hazels and wild raspberries, and presently +her perseverance was rewarded. The scrub was all +crushed and pressed as if several persons had been +forcing a passage. In a hollow was a gleam of +something white. She moved towards it with a +quaking heart, and was relieved to find that it was +only a new and expensive bicycle with the front +wheel badly buckled.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran delayed no longer. If she had +walked well on her out journey, she beat all records +on the return. Sometimes she would run till +her breath failed; then she would slow down till +anxiety once more quickened her pace. To her joy +on the Dalquharter side of the Garple bridge she +observed the figure of a Die-Hard. Breathless, +flushed, with her bonnet awry and her umbrella held +like a scimitar, she seized on the boy.</p> + +<p>"Awfu' doin's! They've grippit Maister McCunn +up the Mains road just afore the second milestone +and forenent the auld bucht. I fund his hat, +and a bicycle's lyin' broken in the wud. Haste ye, +man, and get the rest and awa' and seek him. It'll +be the tinklers frae the Dean. I'd gang mysel', but +my legs are ower auld. Oh, laddie, dinna stop to +speir questions. They'll hae him murdered or awa' +to sea. And maybe the leddy was wi' him and +they've got them baith. Wae's me! Wae's me!"</p> + +<p>The Die-Hard, who was Wee Jaikie, did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> +delay. His eyes had filled with tears at her news, +which we know to have been his habit. When Mrs. +Morran, after indulging in a moment of barbaric +keening, looked back the road she had come, she +saw a small figure trotting up the hill like a terrier +who has been left behind. As he trotted he wept +bitterly. Jaikie was getting dangerous.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<p class="center">HOW MR. M<sup>c</sup>CUNN COMMITTED AN ASSAULT +UPON AN ALLY</p> + + +<p>Dickson always maintained that his senses did +not leave him for more than a second or two, +but he admitted that he did not remember very +clearly the events of the next few hours. He was +conscious of a bad pain above his eyes, and something +wet trickling down his cheek. There was a +perpetual sound of water in his ears and of men's +voices. He found himself dropped roughly on the +ground and forced to walk, and was aware that his +legs were inclined to wobble. Somebody had a grip +on each arm, so that he could not defend his face +from the brambles, and that worried him, for his +whole head seemed one aching bruise and he +dreaded anything touching it. But all the time he +did not open his mouth, for silence was the one duty +that his muddled wits enforced. He felt that he +was not the master of his mind, and he dreaded +what he might disclose if he began to babble.</p> + +<p>Presently there came a blank space of which he +had no recollection at all. The movement had +stopped, and he was allowed to sprawl on the +ground. He thought that his head had got another +whack from a bough, and that the pain put him +into a stupor. When he awoke he was alone.</p> + +<p>He discovered that he was strapped very tightly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> +to a young Scotch fir. His arms were bent behind +him and his wrists tied together with cords knotted +at the back of the tree; his legs were shackled, and +further cords fastened them to the bole. Also +there was a halter round the trunk and just under +his chin, so that while he breathed freely enough, +he could not move his head. Before him was a +tangle of bracken and scrub, and beyond that the +gloom of dense pines; but as he could only see +directly in front his prospect was strictly circumscribed.</p> + +<p>Very slowly he began to take his bearings. The +pain in his head was now dulled and quite bearable, +and the flow of blood had stopped, for he felt the +incrustation of it beginning on his cheeks. There +was a tremendous noise all around him, and he +traced this to the swaying of tree-tops in the gale. +But there was an undercurrent of deeper sound—water +surely, water churning among rocks. It was +a stream—the Garple of course—and then he remembered +where he was and what had happened.</p> + +<p>I do not wish to portray Dickson as a hero, for +nothing would annoy him more; but I am bound +to say that his first clear thought was not of his own +danger. It was intense exasperation at the miscarriage +of his plans. Long ago he should have +been with Dougal arranging operations, giving him +news of Sir Archie, finding out how Heritage was +faring, deciding how to use the coming reinforcements. +Instead he was trussed up in a wood, a +prisoner of the enemy, and utterly useless to his +side. He tugged at his bonds, and nearly throttled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> +himself. But they were of good tarry cord and +did not give a fraction of an inch. Tears of bitter +rage filled his eyes and made furrows on his encrusted +cheeks. Idiot that he had been, he had +wrecked everything! What would Saskia and +Dougal and Sir Archie do without a business man +by their side? There would be a muddle, and the +little party would walk into a trap. He saw it all +very clearly. The men from the sea would overpower +them, there would be murder done, and an +easy capture of the Princess; and the police would +turn up at long last to find an empty headland.</p> + +<p>He had also most comprehensively wrecked himself, +and at the thought the most genuine panic +seized him. There was no earthly chance of escape, +for he was tucked away in this infernal jungle till +such time as his enemies had time to deal with him. +As to what that dealing would be like he had no +doubts, for they knew that he had been their chief +opponent. Those desperate ruffians would not +scruple to put an end to him. His mind dwelt with +horrible fascination upon throat-cutting, no doubt +because of the presence of the cord below his chin. +He had heard it was not a painful death; at any +rate he remembered a clerk he had once had, a +feeble, timid creature, who had twice attempted +suicide that way. Surely it could not be very bad, +and it would soon be over.</p> + +<p>But another thought came to him. They would +carry him off in the ship and settle with him at their +leisure. No swift merciful death for him. He had +read dreadful tales of the Bolsheviks' skill in tor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span>ture, +and now they all came back to him—stories +of Chinese mercenaries, and men buried alive, and +death by agonising inches. He felt suddenly very +cold and sick, and hung in his bonds for he had no +strength in his limbs. Then the pressure on his +throat braced him, and also quickened his numb +mind. The liveliest terror ran like quicksilver +through his veins.</p> + +<p>He endured some moments of this anguish, till +after many despairing clutches at his wits he managed +to attain a measure of self-control. He certainly +wasn't going to allow himself to become mad. +Death was death whatever form it took, and he +had to face death as many better men had done +before him. He had often thought about it and +wondered how he should behave if the thing came +to him. Respectably, he had hoped; heroically, he +had sworn in his moments of confidence. But he +had never for an instant dreamed of this cold, +lonely, dreadful business. Last Sunday, he remembered, +he had been basking in the afternoon sun in +his little garden and reading about the end of +Fergus MacIvor in <i>Waverley</i> and thrilling to the +romance of it; and then Tibby had come out and +summoned him in to tea. Then he had rather +wanted to be a Jacobite in the '45 and in peril of +his neck, and now Providence had taken him most +terribly at his word.</p> + +<p>A week ago——! He groaned at the remembrance +of that sunny garden. In seven days he had +found a new world and tried a new life, and had +come now to the end of it. He did not want to die,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> +less now than ever with such wide horizons opening +before him. But that was the worst of it, he reflected, +for to have a great life great hazards must +be taken, and there was always the risk of this +sudden extinguisher.... Had he to choose again, +far better the smooth sheltered bypath than this +accursed romantic highway on to which he had +blundered.... No, by Heaven, no! Confound +it, if he had to choose he would do it all again. +Something stiff and indomitable in his soul was +bracing him to a manlier humour. There was no +one to see the figure strapped to the fir, but had +there been a witness he would have noted that at +this stage Dickson shut his teeth and that his +troubled eyes looked very steadily before him.</p> + +<p>His business, he felt, was to keep from thinking, +for if he thought at all there would be a flow of +memories, of his wife, his home, his books, his +friends, to unman him. So he steeled himself to +blankness, like a sleepless man imagining white +sheep in a gate.... He noted a robin below the +hazels, strutting impudently. And there was a tit +on a bracken frond, which made the thing sway +like one of the see-saws he used to play with as a +boy. There was no wind in that undergrowth, and +any movement must be due to bird or beast. The +tit flew off, and the oscillations of the bracken +slowly died away. Then they began again, but +more violently, and Dickson could not see the bird +that caused them. It must be something down at +the roots of the covert, a rabbit, perhaps, or a fox, +or a weasel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p> + +<p>He watched for the first sign of the beast, and +thought he caught a glimpse of tawny fur. Yes, +there it was—pale dirty yellow, a weasel clearly. +Then suddenly the patch grew larger, and to his +amazement he looked at a human face—the face of +a pallid small boy.</p> + +<p>A head disentangled itself, followed by thin +shoulders, and then by a pair of very dirty bare +legs. The figure raised itself and looked sharply +round to make certain that the coast was clear. +Then it stood up and saluted, revealing the well-known +lineaments of Wee Jaikie.</p> + +<p>At the sight Dickson knew that he was safe by +that certainty of instinct which is independent of +proof, like the man who prays for a sign and has +his prayer answered. He observed that the boy +was quietly sobbing. Jaikie surveyed the position +for an instant with red-rimmed eyes and then unclasped +a knife, feeling the edge of the blade on his +thumb. He darted behind the fir, and a second +later Dickson's wrists were free. Then he sawed +at the legs, and cut the shackles which tied them +together, and then—most circumspectly—assaulted +the cord which bound Dickson's neck to the trunk. +There now remained only the two bonds which +fastened the legs and the body to the tree.</p> + +<p>There was a sound in the wood different from +the wind and stream. Jaikie listened like a startled +hind.</p> + +<p>"They're comin' back," he gasped. "Just you +bide where ye are and let on ye're still tied up."</p> + +<p>He disappeared in the scrub as inconspicuously as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> +a rat, while two of the tinklers came up the slope +from the waterside. Dickson in a fever of impatience +cursed Wee Jaikie for not cutting his remaining +bonds so that he could at least have made a +dash for freedom. And then he realised that the +boy had been right. Feeble and cramped as he was, +he would have stood no chance in a race.</p> + +<p>One of the tinklers was the man called Ecky. +He had been running hard, and was mopping his +brow.</p> + +<p>"Hob's seen the brig," he said. "It's droppin' +anchor ayont the Dookits whaur there's a beild frae +the wund and deep water. They'll be landit in half +an 'oor. Awa' you up to the Hoose and tell +Dobson, and me and Sim and Hob will meet the +boats at the Garplefit."</p> + +<p>The other cast a glance towards Dickson.</p> + +<p>"What about him?" he asked.</p> + +<p>The two scrutinised their prisoner from a distance +of a few paces. Dickson, well aware of his peril, +held himself as stiff as if every bond had been in +place. The thought flashed on him that if he were +too immobile they might think he was dying or +dead, and come close to examine him. If they only +kept their distance, the dusk of the wood would +prevent them detecting Jaikie's handiwork.</p> + +<p>"What'll you take to let me go?" he asked +plaintively.</p> + +<p>"Naething that you could offer, my mannie," +said Ecky.</p> + +<p>"I'll give you a five-pound note apiece."</p> + +<p>"Produce the siller," said the other.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It's in my pocket."</p> + +<p>"It's no' that. We riped your pooches lang +syne."</p> + +<p>"I'll take you to Glasgow with me and pay you +there. Honour bright."</p> + +<p>Ecky spat. "D'ye think we're gowks? Man, +there's no siller ye could pay wad mak' it worth +our while to lowse ye. Bide quiet there and ye'll +see some queer things ere nicht. C'way, Davie."</p> + +<p>The two set off at a good pace down the stream, +while Dickson's pulsing heart returned to its normal +rhythm. As the sound of their feet died away Wee +Jaikie crawled out from cover, dry-eyed now and +very business-like. He slit the last thongs, and +Dickson fell limply on his face.</p> + +<p>"Losh, laddie, I'm awful stiff," he groaned. +"Now, listen. Away all your pith to Dougal, and +tell him that the brig's in and the men will be landing +inside the hour. Tell him I'm coming as fast +as my legs will let me. The Princess will likely be +there already and Sir Archibald and his men, but +if they're no', tell Dougal they're coming. Haste +you, Jaikie. And see here, I'll never forget what +you've done for me the day. You're a fine wee +laddie!"</p> + +<p>The obedient Die-Hard disappeared, and Dickson +painfully and laboriously set himself to climb +the slope. He decided that his quickest and safest +route lay by the highroad, and he had also some +hopes of recovering his bicycle. On examining his +body he seemed to have sustained no very great +damage, except a painful cramping of legs and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> +arms and a certain dizziness in the head. His +pockets had been thoroughly rifled, and he reflected +with amusement that he, the well-to-do Mr. McCunn, +did not possess at the moment a single copper.</p> + +<p>But his spirits were soaring, for somehow his +escape had given him an assurance of ultimate success. +Providence had directly interfered on his +behalf by the hand of Wee Jaikie, and that surely +meant that it would see him through. But his chief +emotion was an ardour of impatience to get to the +scene of action. He must be at Dalquharter before +the men from the sea; he must find Dougal and +discover his dispositions. Heritage would be on +guard in the Tower and in a very little the enemy +would be round it. It would be just like the Princess +to try and enter there, but at all costs that +must be hindered. She and Sir Archie must not be +cornered in stone walls, but must keep their communications +open and fall on the enemy's flank. +Oh, if the police would only come in time, what a +rounding-up of miscreants that day would see!</p> + +<p>As the trees thinned on the brow of the slope and +he saw the sky, he realised that the afternoon was +far advanced. It must be well on for five o'clock. +The wind still blew furiously, and the oaks on the +fringes of the wood were whipped like saplings. +Ruefully he admitted that the gale would not defeat +the enemy. If the brig found a sheltered anchorage +on the south side of the headland beyond the Garple, +it would be easy enough for boats to make the +Garple mouth, though it might be a difficult job to +get out again. The thought quickened his steps,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> +and he came out of cover on to the public road +without a prior reconnaissance.</p> + +<p>Just in front of him stood a motor-bicycle. Something +had gone wrong with it for its owner was +tinkering at it, on the side farthest from Dickson. +A wild hope seized him that this might be the vanguard +of the police, and he went boldly towards it. +The owner, who was kneeling, raised his face at the +sound of footsteps and Dickson looked into his +eyes.</p> + +<p>He recognised them only too well. They belonged +to the man he had seen in the inn at Kirkmichael, +the man whom Heritage had decided was +an Australian, but whom they now knew to be their +arch-enemy—the man called Paul who had persecuted +the Princess for years and whom alone of all +beings on earth she feared. He had been expected +before, but had arrived now in the nick of time +while the brig was casting anchor. Saskia had said +that he had a devil's brain, and Dickson, as he +stared at him, saw a fiendish cleverness in his +straight brows and a remorseless cruelty in his stiff +jaw and his pale eyes.</p> + +<p>He achieved the bravest act of his life. Shaky +and dizzy as he was, with freedom newly opened to +him and the mental torments of his captivity still +an awful recollection, he did not hesitate. He saw +before him the villain of the drama, the one man +that stood between the Princess and peace of mind. +He regarded no consequences, gave no heed to his +own fate, and thought only how to put his enemy +out of action. There was a big spanner lying on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> +the ground. He seized it and with all his strength +smote at the man's face.</p> + +<p>The motor-cyclist, kneeling and working hard at +his machine, had raised his head at Dickson's approach +and beheld a wild apparition—a short man +in ragged tweeds, with a bloody brow and long +smears of blood on his cheeks. The next second +he observed the threat of attack, and ducked his +head so that the spanner only grazed his scalp. +The motor-bicycle toppled over, its owner sprang +to his feet, and found the short man, very pale and +gasping, about to renew the assault. In such a +crisis there was no time for inquiry, and the cyclist +was well trained in self-defence. He leaped the +prostrate bicycle, and before his assailant could get +in a blow brought his left fist into violent contact +with his chin. Dickson tottered back a step or two +and then subsided among the bracken.</p> + +<p>He did not lose his senses, but he had no more +strength in him. He felt horribly ill, and struggled +in vain to get up. The cyclist, a gigantic figure, +towered above him. "Who the devil are you?" +he was asking. "What do you mean by it?"</p> + +<p>Dickson had no breath for words, and knew that +if he tried to speak he would be very sick. He +could only stare up like a dog at the angry eyes. +Angry beyond question they were, but surely not +malevolent. Indeed, as they looked at the shameful +figure on the ground, amusement filled them. The +face relaxed into a smile.</p> + +<p>"Who on earth are you?" the voice repeated. +And then into it came recognition. "I've seen you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> +before. I believe you're the little man I saw last +week at the Black Bull. Be so good as to explain +why you want to murder me?"</p> + +<p>Explanation was beyond Dickson, but his conviction +was being wofully shaken. Saskia had said +her enemy was as beautiful as a devil—he remembered +the phrase, for he had thought it ridiculous. +This man was magnificent, but there was nothing +devilish in his lean grave face.</p> + +<p>"What's your name?" the voice was asking.</p> + +<p>"Tell me yours first," Dickson essayed to stutter +between spasms of nausea.</p> + +<p>"My name is Alexander Nicholson," was the +answer.</p> + +<p>"Then you're no' the man." It was a cry of +wrath and despair.</p> + +<p>"You're a very desperate little chap. For whom +had I the honour to be mistaken?"</p> + +<p>Dickson had now wriggled into a sitting position +and had clasped his hands above his aching head.</p> + +<p>"I thought you were a Russian, name of Paul," +he groaned.</p> + +<p>"Paul! Paul who?"</p> + +<p>"Just Paul. A Bolshevik and an awful bad lot."</p> + +<p>Dickson could not see the change which his words +wrought in the other's face. He found himself +picked up in strong arms and carried to a bog-pool +where his battered face was carefully washed, his +throbbing brows laved, and a wet handkerchief +bound over them. Then he was given brandy in +the socket of a flask, which eased his nausea. The +cyclist ran his bicycle to the roadside, and found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> +a seat for Dickson behind the turf-dyke of the old +bucht.</p> + +<p>"Now you are going to tell me everything," he +said. "If the Paul who is your enemy is the Paul +I think him, then we are allies."</p> + +<p>But Dickson did not need this assurance. His +mind had suddenly received a revelation. The +Princess had expected an enemy, but also a friend. +Might not this be the long-awaited friend, for +whose sake she was rooted to Huntingtower with +all its terrors?</p> + +<p>"Are you sure you name's no' Alexis?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"In my own country I was called Alexis Nicolaevitch, +for I am a Russian. But for some years I +have made my home with your folk, and I call +myself Alexander Nicholson, which is the English +form. Who told you about Alexis?"</p> + +<p>"Give me your hand," said Dickson shamefacedly. +"Man, she's been looking for you for weeks. +You're terribly behind the fair."</p> + +<p>"She!" he cried. "For God's sake tell me all +you know."</p> + +<p>"Ay, she—the Princess. But what are we havering +here for? I tell you at this moment she's somewhere +down about the old Tower, and there's boatloads +of blagyirds landing from the sea. Help me +up, man, for I must be off. The story will keep. +Losh, it's very near the darkening. If you're Alexis, +you're just about in time for a battle."</p> + +<p>But Dickson on his feet was but a frail creature. +He was still deplorably giddy, and his legs showed +an unpleasing tendency to crumple. "I'm fair<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> +done," he moaned. "You see, I've been tied up all +day to a tree and had two sore bashes on my head. +Get you on that bicycle and hurry on, and I'll hirple +after you the best I can. I'll direct you the road, +and if you're lucky you'll find a Die-Hard about +the village. Away with you, man, and never mind +me."</p> + +<p>"We go together," said the other quietly. "You +can sit behind me and hang on to my waist. Before +you turned up I had pretty well got the thing in +order."</p> + +<p>Dickson in a fever of impatience sat by while the +Russian put the finishing touches to the machine, +and as well as his anxiety allowed put him in possession +of the main facts of the story. He told of +how he and Heritage had come to Dalquharter, of +the first meeting with Saskia, of the trip to Glasgow +with the jewels, of the exposure of Loudon the +factor, of last night's doings in the House, and of +the journey that morning to the Mains of Garple. +He sketched the figures on the scene—Heritage and +Sir Archie, Dobson and his gang, the Gorbals Die-Hards. +He told of the enemy's plans so far as he +knew them.</p> + +<p>"Looked at from a business point of view," he +said, "the situation's like this. There's Heritage in +the Tower, with Dobson, Léon and Spidel sitting +round him. Somewhere about the place there's the +Princess and Sir Archibald and three men with guns +from the Mains. Dougal and his five laddies are +running loose in the policies. And there's four +tinklers and God knows how many foreign ruffians<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> +pushing up from the Garplefoot, and a brig lying +waiting to carry off the ladies. Likewise there's +the police, somewhere on the road, though the dear +kens when they'll turn up. It's awful the incompetence +of our Government, and the rates and taxes +that high!... And there's you and me by this +roadside, and I'm no more use than a tattie-bogle.... +That's the situation, and the question is what's +our plan to be? We must keep the blagyirds in +play till the police come, and at the same time we +must keep the Princess out of danger. That's why +I'm wanting back, for they've sore need of a business +head. Yon Sir Archibald's a fine fellow, but +I doubt he'll be a bit rash, and the Princess is no' +to hold or bind. Our first job is to find Dougal +and get a grip of the facts."</p> + +<p>"I am going to the Princess," said the Russian.</p> + +<p>"Ay, that'll be best. You'll be maybe able to +manage her, for you'll be well acquaint."</p> + +<p>"She is my kinswoman. She is also my affianced +wife."</p> + +<p>"Keep us!" Dickson exclaimed, with a doleful +thought of Heritage. "What ailed you then no' to +look after her better?"</p> + +<p>"We have been long separated, because it was +her will. She had work to do and disappeared from +me, though I searched all Europe for her. Then +she sent me word, when the danger became extreme, +and summoned me to her aid. But she gave me +poor directions, for she did not know her own plans +very clearly. She spoke of a place called Darkwater, +and I have been hunting half Scotland for it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> +It was only last night that I heard of Dalquharter +and guessed that that might be the name. But I +was far down in Galloway, and have ridden fifty +miles to-day."</p> + +<p>"It's a queer thing, but I wouldn't take you for +a Russian."</p> + +<p>Alexis finished his work and put away his tools. +"For the present," he said, "I am an Englishman, +till my country comes again to her senses. Ten +years ago I left Russia, for I was sick of the foolishness +of my class and wanted a free life in a new +world. I went to Australia and made good as an +engineer. I am a partner in a firm which is pretty +well known even in Britain. When war broke out +I returned to fight for my people, and when Russia +fell out of the war, I joined the Australians in +France and fought with them till the Armistice. +And now I have only one duty left, to save the +Princess and take her with me to my new home till +Russia is a nation once more."</p> + +<p>Dickson whistled joyfully. "So Mr. Heritage +was right. He aye said you were an Australian.... +And you're a business man! That's grand +hearing and puts my mind at rest. You must take +charge of the party at the House, for Sir Archibald's +a daft young lad and Mr. Heritage is a poet. +I thought I would have to go myself, but I doubt +I would just be a hindrance with my dwaibly legs. +I'd be better outside, watching for the police.... +Are you ready, sir?"</p> + +<p>Dickson not without difficulty perched himself +astride the luggage carrier, firmly grasping the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> +rider round the middle. The machine started, but +it was evidently in a bad way, for it made poor +going till the descent towards the main Auchenlochan +road. On the slope it warmed up and they +crossed the Garple bridge at a fair pace. There +was to be no pleasant April twilight, for the stormy +sky had already made dusk, and in a very little the +dark would fall. So sombre was the evening that +Dickson did not notice a figure in the shadow of +the roadside pines till it whistled shrilly on its +fingers. He cried on Alexis to stop, and, this being +accomplished with some suddenness, fell off at +Dougal's feet.</p> + +<p>"What's the news?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>Dougal glanced at Alexis and seemed to approve +his looks.</p> + +<p>"Napoleon has just reported that three boatloads, +making either twenty-three or twenty-four +men—they were gey ill to count—has landed at +Garplefit and is makin' their way to the auld Tower. +The tinklers warned Dobson and soon it'll be a' +bye wi' Heritage."</p> + +<p>"The Princess is not there?" was Dickson's +anxious inquiry.</p> + +<p>"Na, na. Heritage is there his lone. They were +for joinin' him, but I wouldn't let them. She came +wi' a man they call Sir Erchibald and three gemkeepers +wi' guns. I stoppit their cawr up the road +and tell't them the lie o' the land. Yon Sir Erchibald +has poor notions o' strawtegy. He was for +bangin' into the auld Tower straight away and +shootin' Dobson if he tried to stop them. 'Havers,'<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> +say I, 'let them break their teeth on the Tower, +thinkin' the leddy's inside, and that'll give us time, +for Heritage is no' the lad to surrender in a +hurry.'"</p> + +<p>"Where are they now?"</p> + +<p>"In the Hoose o' Dalquharter, and a sore job I +had gettin' them in. We've shifted our base again, +without the enemy suspectin'."</p> + +<p>"Any word of the police?"</p> + +<p>"The polis!" and Dougal spat cynically. "It +seems they're a dour crop to shift. Sir Erchibald +was sayin' that him and the lassie had been to the +Chief Constable, but the man was terrible auld and +slow. They convertit him, but he threepit that it +would take a long time to collect his men and that +there was no danger o' the brig landin' afore night. +He's wrong there onyway, for they're landit."</p> + +<p>"Dougal," said Dickson, "you've heard the Princess +speak of a friend she was expecting here called +Alexis. This is him. You can address him as Mr. +Nicholson. Just arrived in the nick of time. You +must get him into the House, for he's the best right +to be beside the lady.... Jaikie would tell you +that I've been sore mishandled the day, and am no' +very fit for a battle. But Mr. Nicholson's a business +man and he'll do as well. You're keeping the +Die-Hards outside, I hope?"</p> + +<p>"Ay. Thomas Yownie's in charge, and Jaikie +will be in and out with orders. They've instructions +to watch for the polis, and keep an eye on the +Garplefit. It's a mortal long front to hold, but +there's no other way. I must be in the Hoose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> +mysel'. Thomas Yownie's headquarters is the auld +wife's hen-hoose."</p> + +<p>At that moment in a pause of the gale came the +far-borne echo of a shot.</p> + +<p>"Pistol," said Alexis.</p> + +<p>"Heritage," said Dougal. "Trade will be gettin' +brisk with him. Start your machine and I'll hang +on ahint. We'll try the road by the West Lodge."</p> + +<p>Presently the pair disappeared in the dusk, the +noise of the engine was swallowed up in the wild +orchestra of the wind, and Dickson hobbled towards +the village in a state of excitement which made him +oblivious of his wounds. That lonely pistol shot +was, he felt, the bell to ring up the curtain on the +last act of the play.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<p class="center">THE COMING OF THE DANISH BRIG</p> + + +<p>Mr. John Heritage, solitary in the old +Tower, found much to occupy his mind. His +giddiness was passing, though the dregs of a headache +remained, and his spirits rose with his responsibilities. +At daybreak he breakfasted out of the +Mearns Street provision box, and made tea in one +of the Die-Hards' camp kettles. Next he gave some +attention to his toilet, necessary after the rough-and-tumble +of the night. He made shift to bathe +in icy water from the Tower well, shaved, tidied +up his clothes and found a clean shirt from his +pack. He carefully brushed his hair, reminding +himself that thus had the Spartans done before +Thermopylć. The neat and somewhat pallid young +man that emerged from these rites then ascended +to the first floor to reconnoitre the landscape from +the narrow unglazed windows.</p> + +<p>If any one had told him a week ago that he +would be in so strange a world he would have quarrelled +violently with his informant. A week ago +he was a cynical clear-sighted modern, a contemner +of illusions, a swallower of formulas, a breaker of +shams—one who had seen through the heroical and +found it silly. Romance and such-like toys were +playthings for fatted middle-age, not for strenuous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> +and cold-eyed youth. But the truth was that now +he was altogether spellbound by these toys. To +think that he was serving his lady was rapture—ecstasy, +that for her he was single-handed venturing +all. He rejoiced to be alone with his private +fancies. His one fear was that the part he had cast +himself for should be needless, that the men from +the sea should not come, or that reinforcements +would arrive before he should be called upon. He +hoped alone to make a stand against thousands. +What the upshot might be he did not trouble to +inquire. Of course the Princess would be saved, +but first he must glut his appetite for the heroic.</p> + +<p>He made a diary of events that day, just as he +used to do at the front. At twenty minutes past +eight he saw the first figure coming from the House. +It was Spidel, who limped round the Tower, tried +the door, and came to a halt below the window. +Heritage stuck out his head and wished him good +morning, getting in reply an amazed stare. The +man was not disposed to talk, though Heritage +made some interesting observations on the weather, +but departed quicker than he came, in the direction +of the West Lodge.</p> + +<p>Just before nine o'clock he returned with Dobson +and Léon. They made a very complete reconnaissance +of the Tower, and for a moment Heritage +thought that they were about to try to force an +entrance. They tugged and hammered at the great +oak door, which he had further strengthened by +erecting behind it a pile of the heaviest lumber he +could find in the place. It was imperative that they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> +should not get in, and he got Dickson's pistol ready +with the firm intention of shooting them if necessary. +But they did nothing, except to hold a conference +in the hazel clump a hundred yards to the +north, when Dobson seemed to be laying down the +law, and Léon spoke rapidly with a great fluttering +of hands. They were obviously puzzled by the +sight of Heritage, whom they believed to have left +the neighbourhood. Then Dobson went off, leaving +Léon and Spidel on guard, one at the edge of the +shrubberies between the Tower and the House, the +other on the side nearest the Laver glen. These +were their posts, but they did sentry-go around the +building, and passed so close to Heritage's window +that he could have tossed a cigarette on their heads.</p> + +<p>It occurred to him that he ought to get busy with +camouflage. They must be convinced that the +Princess was in the place, for he wanted their whole +mind to be devoted to the siege. He rummaged +among the ladies' baggage, and extracted a skirt +and a coloured scarf. The latter he managed to +flutter so that it could be seen at the window the +next time one of the watchers came within sight. +He also fixed up the skirt so that the fringe of it +could be seen, and, when Léon appeared below, he +was in the shadow talking rapid French in a very +fair imitation of the tones of Cousin Eugčnie. The +ruse had its effect, for Léon promptly went off to +tell Spidel, and when Dobson appeared he too was +given the news. This seemed to settle their plans, +for all three remained on guard, Dobson nearest +to the Tower, seated on an outcrop of rock with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> +his mackintosh collar turned up, and his eyes +usually turned to the misty sea.</p> + +<p>By this time it was eleven o'clock, and the next +three hours passed slowly with Heritage. He fell +to picturing the fortunes of his friends. Dickson +and the Princess should by this time be far inland, +out of danger and in the way of finding succour. +He was confident that they would return, but he +trusted not too soon, for he hoped for a run for his +money as Horatius in the Gate. After that he was +a little torn in his mind. He wanted the Princess +to come back and to be somewhere near if there +was a fight going, so that she might be a witness of +his devotion. But she must not herself run any risk, +and he became anxious when he remembered her +terrible sangfroid. Dickson could no more restrain +her than a child could hold a greyhound.... But +of course it would never come to that. The police +would turn up long before the brig appeared—Dougal +had thought that would not be till high tide, +between four and five—and the only danger would +be to the pirates. The three watchers would be put +in the bag, and the men from the sea would walk +into a neat trap. This reflection seemed to take all +the colour out of Heritage's prospect. Peril and +heroism were not to be his lot—only boredom.</p> + +<p>A little after twelve two of the tinklers appeared +with some news which made Dobson laugh and pat +them on the shoulder. He seemed to be giving +them directions, pointing seaward and southward. +He nodded to the Tower, where Heritage took +the opportunity of again fluttering Saskia's scarf<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> +athwart the window. The tinklers departed at a +trot, and Dobson lit his pipe as if well pleased. He +had some trouble with it in the wind, which had +risen to an uncanny violence. Even the solid Tower +rocked with it, and the sea was a waste of spindrift +and low scurrying cloud. Heritage discovered a +new anxiety—this time about the possibility of the +brig landing at all. He wanted a complete bag, +and it would be tragic if they got only the three +seedy ruffians now circumambulating his fortress.</p> + +<p>About one o'clock he was greatly cheered by the +sight of Dougal. At the moment Dobson was +lunching off a hunk of bread and cheese directly between +the Tower and the House, just short of the +crest of the ridge on the other side of which lay +the stables and the shrubberies; Léon was on the +north side opposite the Tower door, and Spidel was +at the south end near the edge of the Garple glen. +Heritage, watching the ridge behind Dobson and +the upper windows of the House which appeared +over it, saw on the very crest something like a tuft +of rusty bracken which he had not noticed before. +Presently the tuft moved, and a hand shot up from +it waving a rag of some sort. Dobson at the moment +was engaged with a bottle of porter, and +Heritage could safely wave a hand in reply. He +could now make out clearly the red head of +Dougal.</p> + +<p>The Chieftain, having located the three watchers, +proceeded to give an exhibition of his prowess for +the benefit of the lonely inmate of the Tower. +Using as cover a drift of bracken, he wormed his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> +way down till he was not six yards from Dobson, +and Heritage had the privilege of seeing his grinning +countenance a very little way above the innkeeper's +head. Then he crawled back and reached +the neighbourhood of Léon, who was sitting on a +fallen Scotch fir. At that moment it occurred to the +Belgian to visit Dobson. Heritage's breath stopped, +but Dougal was ready, and froze into a motionless +blur in the shadow of a hazel bush. Then he +crawled very fast into the hollow where Léon had +been sitting, seized something which looked like a +bottle, and scrambled back to the ridge. At the top +he waved the object, whatever it was, but Heritage +could not reply, for Dobson happened to be looking +towards the window. That was the last he saw of +the Chieftain, but presently he realised what was +the booty he had annexed. It must be Léon's life-preserver, +which the night before had broken Heritage's +head.</p> + +<p>After that cheering episode boredom again set +in. He collected some food from the Mearns +Street box, and indulged himself with a glass of +liqueur brandy. He was beginning to feel miserably +cold, so he carried up some broken wood and +made a fire on the immense hearth in the upper +chamber. Anxiety was clouding his mind again, +for it was now two o'clock, and there was no sign +of the reinforcements which Dickson and the Princess +had gone to find. The minutes passed, and +soon it was three o'clock, and from the window he +saw only the top of the gaunt shuttered House, now +and then hidden by squalls of sleet, and Dobson<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> +squatted like an Eskimo, and trees dancing like a +witch-wood in the gale. All the vigour of the morning +seemed to have gone out of his blood; he felt +lonely and apprehensive and puzzled. He wished +he had Dickson beside him, for that little man's +cheerful voice and complacent triviality would be a +comfort.... Also, he was abominably cold. He +put on his waterproof, and turned his attention to +the fire. It needed re-kindling, and he hunted in his +pockets for paper, finding only the slim volume lettered +<i>Whorls</i>.</p> + +<p>I set it down as the most significant commentary +on his state of mind. He regarded the book with +intense disfavour, tore it in two, and used a handful +of its fine deckle-edged leaves to get the fire going. +They burned well, and presently the rest followed. +Well for Dickson's peace of mind that he was not +a witness of such vandalism.</p> + +<p>A little warmer but in no way more cheerful, he +resumed his watch near the window. The day was +getting darker, and promised an early dusk. His +watch told him that it was after four, and still nothing +had happened. Where on earth were Dickson +and the Princess? Where in the name of all that +was holy were the police? Any minute now the brig +might arrive and land its men, and he would be left +there as a burnt-offering to their wrath. There +must have been an infernal muddle somewhere.... +Anyhow the Princess was out of the trouble, +but where the Lord alone knew.... Perhaps the +reinforcements were lying in wait for the boats at +the Garplefoot. That struck him as a likely ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>planation, +and comforted him. Very soon he might +hear the sound of an engagement to the south, and +the next thing would be Dobson and his crew in +flight. He was determined to be in the show somehow +and would be very close on their heels. He +felt a peculiar dislike to all three, but especially to +Léon. The Belgian's small baby features had for +four days set him clenching his fists when he thought +of them.</p> + +<p>The next thing he saw was one of the tinklers +running hard towards the Tower. He cried something +to Dobson, which Heritage could not catch, +but which woke the latter to activity. The innkeeper +shouted to Léon and Spidel, and the tinkler +was excitedly questioned. Dobson laughed and +slapped his thigh. He gave orders to the others, +and himself joined the tinkler and hurried off in the +direction of the Garplefoot. Something was happening +there, something of ill omen, for the man's +face and manner had been triumphant. Were the +boats landing?</p> + +<p>As Heritage puzzled over this event, another +figure appeared on the scene. It was a big man in +knickerbockers and mackintosh, who came round +the end of the House from the direction of the +South Lodge. At first he thought it was the +advance-guard from his own side, the help which +Dickson had gone to find, and he only restrained +himself in time from shouting a welcome. But +surely their supports would not advance so confidently +in enemy country. The man strode over the +slopes as if looking for somebody; then he caught<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> +sight of Léon and waved him to come. Léon must +have known him, for he hastened to obey.</p> + +<p>The two were about thirty yards from Heritage's +window. Léon was telling some story volubly, +pointing now to the Tower and now towards the +sea. The big man nodded as if satisfied. Heritage +noted that his right arm was tied up, and that the +mackintosh sleeve was empty, and that brought him +enlightenment. It was Loudon the factor, whom +Dickson had winged the night before. The two of +them passed out of view in the direction of Spidel.</p> + +<p>The sight awoke Heritage to the supreme unpleasantness +of his position. He was utterly alone +on the headland, and his allies had vanished into +space, while the enemy plans, moving like clock-work, +were approaching their consummation. For +a second he thought of leaving the Tower and +hiding somewhere in the cliffs. He dismissed the +notion unwillingly, for he remembered the task that +had been set him. He was there to hold the fort +to the last—to gain time, though he could not for +the life of him see what use time was to be when +all the strategy of his own side seemed to have miscarried. +Anyhow, the blackguards would be sold +for they would not find the Princess. But he felt +a horrid void in the pit of his stomach, and a looseness +about his knees.</p> + +<p>The moments passed more quickly as he wrestled +with his fears. The next he knew the empty space +below his window was filling with figures. There +was a great crowd of them, rough fellows with seamen's +coats, still dripping as if they had had a wet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> +landing. Dobson was with them, but for the rest +they were strange figures.</p> + +<p>Now that the expected had come at last Heritage's +nerves grew calmer. He made out that the +newcomers were trying the door, and he waited to +hear it fall, for such a mob could soon force it. But +instead a voice called from beneath.</p> + +<p>"Will you please open to us?" it said.</p> + +<p>He stuck his head out and saw a little group with +one man at the head of it, a young man clad in oilskins +whose face was dim in the murky evening. +The voice was that of a gentleman.</p> + +<p>"I have orders to open to no one," Heritage +replied.</p> + +<p>"Then I fear we must force an entrance," said +the voice.</p> + +<p>"You can go to the devil," said Heritage.</p> + +<p>That defiance was the screw which his nerves +needed. His temper had risen, he had forgotten all +about the Princess, he did not even remember his +isolation. His job was to make a fight for it. He +ran up the staircase which led to the attics of the +Tower, for he recollected that there was a window +there which looked over the ground before the door. +The place was ruinous, the floor filled with holes, +and a part of the roof sagged down in a corner. +The stones around the window were loose and +crumbling and he managed to pull several out so +that the slit was enlarged. He found himself looking +down on a crowd of men, who had lifted the +fallen tree on which Léon had perched, and were +about to use it as a battering ram.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The first fellow who comes within six yards of +the door I shoot," he shouted.</p> + +<p>There was a white wave below as every face was +turned to him. He ducked back his head in time +as a bullet chipped the side of the window.</p> + +<p>But his position was a good one, for he had a +hole in the broken wall through which he could see, +and could shoot with his hand at the edge of the +window while keeping his body in cover. The battering +party resumed their task, and as the tree +swung nearer, he fired at the foremost of them. +He missed, but the shot for a moment suspended +operations.</p> + +<p>Again they came on, and again he fired. This +time he damaged somebody, for the trunk was +dropped.</p> + +<p>A voice gave orders, a sharp authoritative voice. +The battering squad dissolved, and there was a general +withdrawal out of the line of fire from the +window. Was it possible that he had intimidated +them? He could hear the sound of voices, and then +a single figure came into sight again, holding something +in its hand.</p> + +<p>He did not fire, for he recognised the futility of +his efforts. The baseball swing of the figure below +could not be mistaken. There was a roar beneath, +and a flash of fire, as the bomb exploded on the +door. Then came a rush of men, and the Tower +had fallen.</p> + +<p>Heritage clambered through a hole in the roof +and gained the topmost parapet. He had still a +pocketful of cartridges, and there in a coign of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> +old battlements he would prove an ugly customer +to the pursuit. Only one at a time could reach that +siege perilous.... They would not take long to +search the lower rooms, and then would be hot on +the trail of the man who had fooled them. He +had not a scrap of fear left or even of anger—only +triumph at the thought of how properly those +ruffians had been sold. "Like schoolboys they who +unaware"—instead of two women they had found +a man with a gun. And the Princess was miles off +and forever beyond their reach. When they had +settled with him they would no doubt burn the +House down, but that would serve them little. +From his airy pinnacle he could see the whole sea-front +of Huntingtower, a blur in the dusk but for +the ghostly eyes of its white-shuttered windows.</p> + +<p>Something was coming from it, running lightly +over the lawns, lost for an instant in the trees, and +then appearing clear on the crest of the ridge +where some hours earlier Dougal had lain. With +horror he saw that it was a girl. She stood with +the wind plucking at her skirts and hair, and she +cried in a high, clear voice which pierced even the +confusion of the gale. What she cried he could not +tell for it was in a strange tongue....</p> + +<p>But it reached the besiegers. There was a sudden +silence in the din below him and then a confusion +of shouting. The men seemed to be pouring out +of the gap which had been the doorway, and as he +peered over the parapet first one and then another +entered his area of vision. The girl on the ridge, +as soon as she saw that she had attracted attention,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> +turned and ran back, and after her up the slopes +went the pursuit bunched like hounds on a good +scent.</p> + +<p>Mr. John Heritage, swearing terribly, started to +retrace his steps.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<p class="center">THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES</p> + + +<p>The military historian must often make shift to +write of battles with slender data, but he can +pad out his deficiencies by learned parallels. If his +were the talented pen describing this, the latest +action fought on British soil against a foreign foe, +he would no doubt be crippled by the absence of +written orders and war diaries. But how eloquently +he would discant on the resemblance between +Dougal and Gouraud—how the plan of leaving the +enemy to waste his strength upon a deserted position +was that which on the 15th of July, 1918, the +French general had used with decisive effect in +Champagne! But Dougal had never heard of +Gouraud, and I cannot claim that, like the Happy +Warrior, he</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"through the heat of conflict kept the law<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In calmness made, and saw what he foresaw."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I have had the benefit of discussing the affair with +him and his colleagues, but I should offend against +historic truth if I represented the main action as +anything but a scrimmage—a "soldiers' battle," the +historian would say, a Malplaquet, an Albuera.</p> + +<p>Just after half-past three that afternoon the +Commander-in-Chief was revealed in a very bad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> +temper. He had intercepted Sir Archie's car, and, +since Léon was known to be fully occupied, had +brought it in by the West Lodge, and hidden it behind +a clump of laurels. There he had held a +hoarse council of war. He had cast an appraising +eye over Sime the butler, Carfrae the chauffeur, and +McGuffog the gamekeeper, and his brows had lightened +when he beheld Sir Archie with an armful of +guns and two big cartridge-magazines. But they +had darkened again at the first words of the leader +of the reinforcements.</p> + +<p>"Now for the Tower," Sir Archie had observed +cheerfully. "We should be a match for the three +watchers, my lad, and it's time that poor devil +What's-his-name was relieved."</p> + +<p>"A bonny-like plan that would be," said Dougal. +"Man, ye would be walkin' into the very trap they +want. In an hour, or maybe two, the rest will turn +up from the sea and they'd have ye tight by the +neck. Na, na! It's time we're wantin', and the +longer they think we're a' in the auld Tower the +better for us. What news o' the polis?"</p> + +<p>He listened to Sir Archie's report with a gloomy +face.</p> + +<p>"Not afore the darkenin'? They'll be ower late—the +polis are aye ower late. It looks as if we had +the job to do oursels. What's <i>your</i> notion?"</p> + +<p>"God knows," said the baronet whose eyes were +on Saskia. "What's yours?"</p> + +<p>The deference conciliated Dougal. "There's just +the one plan that's worth a docken. There's five o' +us here, and there's plenty weapons. Besides<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> +there's five Die-Hards somewhere about, and +though they've never tried it afore they can be +trusted to loose off a gun. My advice is to hide +at the Garplefoot and stop the boats landin'. We'd +have the tinklers on our flank, no doubt, but I'm +not muckle feared o' them. It wouldn't be easy for +the boats to get in wi' this tearin' wind and us firin' +volleys from the shore."</p> + +<p>Sir Archie stared at him with admiration. +"You're a hearty young fire-eater. But Great +Scott! we can't go pottin' at strangers before we +find out their business. This is a law-abidin' country, +and we're not entitled to start shootin' except +in self-defence. You can wash that plan out, for +it ain't feasible."</p> + +<p>Dougal spat cynically. "For all that it's the right +strawtegy. Man, we might sink the lot, and then +turn and settle wi' Dobson, and all afore the first +polisman showed his neb. It would be a grand performance. +But I was feared ye wouldn't be for it.... +Well, there's just the one other thing to do. +We must get inside the Hoose and put it in a state +of defence. Heritage has McCunn's pistol, and +he'll keep them busy for a bit. When they've +finished wi' him and find the place is empty, they'll +try the Hoose and we'll give them a warm reception. +That should keep us goin' till the polis arrive, +unless they're comin' wi' the blind carrier."</p> + +<p>Sir Archie nodded. "But why put ourselves in +their power at all? They're at present barking up +the wrong tree. Let them bark up another wrong +'un. Why shouldn't the House remain empty? I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> +take it we're here to protect the Princess. Well, +we'll have done that if they go off empty-handed."</p> + +<p>Dougal looked up to the heavens. "I wish McCunn +was here," he sighed. "Ay, we've got to +protect the Princess, and there's just the one way +to do it, and that's to put an end to this crowd o' +blagyirds. If they gang empty-handed, they'll +come again another day, either here or somewhere +else, and it won't be long afore they get the lassie. +But if we finish with them now she can sit down +wi' an easy mind. That's why we've got to hang +on to them till the polis comes. There's no way +out o' this business but a battle."</p> + +<p>He found an ally. "Dougal is right," said +Saskia. "If I am to have peace, by some way or +other the fangs of my enemies must be drawn for +ever."</p> + +<p>He swung round and addressed her formally. +"Mem, I'm askin' ye for the last time. Will ye +keep out of this business? Will ye gang back and +sit doun aside Mrs. Morran's fire and have your +tea and wait till we come for ye? Ye can do no +good, and ye're puttin' yourself terrible in the +enemy's power. If we're beat and ye're no' there, +they get very little satisfaction, but if they get <i>you</i> +they get what they've come seekin'. I tell ye +straight—ye're an encumbrance."</p> + +<p>She laughed mischievously. "I can shoot better +than you," she said.</p> + +<p>He ignored the taunt. "Will ye listen to sense +and fall to the rear?"</p> + +<p>"I will not," she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Then gang your own gait. I'm ower wise to +argy-bargy wi' women. The Hoose be it!"</p> + +<p>It was a journey which sorely tried Dougal's +temper. The only way in was by the verandah, but +the door at the west end had been locked, and the +ladder had disappeared. Now of his party three +were lame, one lacked an arm, and one was a girl; +besides, there were the guns and cartridges to transport. +Moreover, at more than one point before the +verandah was reached the route was commanded +by a point on the ridge near the old Tower, and +that had been Spidel's position when Dougal made +his last reconnaissance. It behoved to pass these +points swiftly and unobtrusively, and his company +was neither swift nor unobtrusive. McGuffog had +a genius for tripping over obstacles, and Sir Archie +was for ever proffering his aid to Saskia, who was +in a position to give rather than to receive, being +far the most active of the party. Once Dougal had +to take the gamekeeper's head and force it down, +a performance which would have led to an immediate +assault but for Sir Archie's presence. Nor did +the latter escape. "Will ye stop heedin' the lassie, +and attend to your own job," the Chieftain growled. +"Ye're makin' as much noise as a road-roller."</p> + +<p>Arrived at the foot of the verandah wall there +remained the problem of the escalade. Dougal +clambered up like a squirrel by the help of cracks +in the stones, and he could be heard trying the +handle of the door into the House. He was absent +for about five minutes and then his head peeped +over the edge accompanied by the hooks of an iron<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> +ladder. "From the boiler-house," he informed +them as they stood clear for the thing to drop. It +proved to be little more than half the height of +the wall.</p> + +<p>Saskia ascended first, and had no difficulty in +pulling herself over the parapet. Then came the +guns and ammunition, and then the one-armed +Sime, who turned out to be an athlete. But it was +no easy matter getting up the last three. Sir +Archie anathematised his frailties. "Nice old crock +to go tiger-shootin' with," he told the Princess. +"But set me to something where my confounded leg +don't get in the way, and I'm still pretty useful!" +Dougal, mopping his brow with the rag he called +his handkerchief, observed sourly that he objected +to going scouting with a herd of elephants.</p> + +<p>Once indoors his spirits rose. The party from +the Mains had brought several electric torches and +the one lamp was presently found and lit. "We +can't count on the polis," Dougal announced, "and +when the foreigners is finished wi' the Tower they'll +come on here. If no', we must make them. What +is it the sodgers call it? Forcin' a battle? Now +see here! There's the two roads into this place, +the back door and the verandy, leavin' out the front +door which is chained and lockit. They'll try those +two roads first and we must get them well barricaded +in time. But mind, if there's a good few o' +them, it'll be an easy job to batter in the front door +or the windies, so we maun be ready for that."</p> + +<p>He told off a fatigue party—the Princess, Sir +Archie and McGuffog—to help in moving furniture<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> +to the several doors. Sime and Carfrae attended +to the kitchen entrance, while he himself made a +tour of the ground-floor windows. For half an +hour the empty house was loud with strange sounds. +McGuffog, who was a giant in strength, filled the +passage at the verandah end with an assortment of +furniture ranging from a grand piano to a vast +mahogany sofa, while Saskia and Sir Archie pillaged +the bedrooms and packed up the interstices with +mattresses in lieu of sandbags. Dougal on his return +saw fit to approve their work.</p> + +<p>"That'll fickle the blagyirds. Down at the +kitchen door we've got a mangle, five wash-tubs and +the best part of a ton o' coal. It's the windies I'm +anxious about, for they're ower big to fill up. But +I've gotten tubs o' water below them and a lot o' +wire-nettin' I fund in the cellar."</p> + +<p>Sir Archie morosely wiped his brow. "I can't +say I ever hated a job more," he told Saskia. "It +seems pretty cool to march into somebody else's +house and make free with his furniture. I hope to +goodness our friends from the sea do turn up, or +we'll look pretty foolish. Loudon will have a score +against me he won't forget."</p> + +<p>"Ye're no' weakenin'?" asked Dougal fiercely.</p> + +<p>"Not a bit. Only hopin' somebody hasn't made +a mighty big mistake."</p> + +<p>"Ye needn't be feared for that. Now you listen +to your instructions. We're terrible few for such +a big place, but we maun make up for shortness o' +numbers by extra mobility. The gemkeeper will +keep the windy that looks on the verandy, and fell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> +any man that gets through. You'll hold the verandy +door, and the ither lame man—is't Carfrae ye call +him?—will keep the back door. I've telled the +one-armed man, who has some kind of a head on +him, that he maun keep on the move, watchin' to +see if they try the front door or any o' the other +windies. If they do, he takes his station there. +D'ye follow?"</p> + +<p>Sir Archie nodded gloomily. "What is my +post?" Saskia asked.</p> + +<p>"I've appointed ye my Chief of Staff," was the +answer. "Ye see we've no reserves. If this door's +the dangerous bit, it maun be reinforced from elsewhere; +and that'll want savage thinkin'. Ye'll have +to be ay on the move, Mem, and keep me informed. +If they break in at two bits, we're beat, +and there'll be nothin' for it but to retire to our +last position. Ye ken the room ayont the hall +where they keep the coats. That's our last trench, +and at the worst we fall back there and stick it out. +It has a strong door and a wee windy, so they'll +no' be able to get in on our rear. We should be +able to put up a good defence there, unless they fire +the place over our heads.... Now, we'd better +give out the guns."</p> + +<p>"We don't want any shootin' if we can avoid it," +said Sir Archie, who found his distaste for Dougal +growing, though he was under the spell of the one +being there who knew precisely his own mind.</p> + +<p>"Just what I was goin' to say. My instructions +is, reserve your fire, and don't loose off till you have +a man up against the end o' your barrel."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Good Lord, we'll get into a horrible row. The +whole thing may be a mistake, and we'll be had up +for wholesale homicide. No man shall fire unless +I give the word."</p> + +<p>The Commander-in-Chief looked at him darkly. +Some bitter retort was on his tongue, but he restrained +himself.</p> + +<p>"It appears," he said, "that ye think I'm doin' +all this for fun. I'll no 'argy wi' ye. There can be +just the one general in a battle, but I'll give ye +permission to say the word when to fire.... Macgreegor!" +he muttered, a strange expletive only +used in moments of deep emotion. "I'll wager +ye'll be for sayin' the word afore I'd say it +mysel'."</p> + +<p>He turned to the Princess. "I hand over to you, +till I am back, for I maun be off and see to the Die-Hards. +I wish I could bring them in here, but I +daren't lose my communications. I'll likely get in +by the boiler-house skylight when I come back, but +it might be as well to keep a road open here unless +ye're actually attacked."</p> + +<p>Dougal clambered over the mattresses and the +grand piano; a flicker of waning daylight appeared +for a second as he squeezed through the door, and +Sir Archie was left staring at the wrathful countenance +of McGuffog. He laughed ruefully.</p> + +<p>"I've been in about forty battles, and here's that +little devil rather worried about my pluck, and +talkin' to me like a corps commander to a newly +joined second-lieutenant. All the same he's a remarkable +child, and we'd better behave as if we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> +were in for a real shindy. What do you think, +Princess?"</p> + +<p>"I think we are in for what you call a shindy. +I am in command, remember. I order you to serve +out the guns."</p> + +<p>This was done, a shot-gun and a hundred cartridges +to each, while McGuffog, who was a marksman, +was also given a sporting Mannlicher, and two +other rifles, a .303 and a small-bore Holland, were +kept in reserve in the hall. Sir Archie, free from +Dougal's compelling presence, gave the gamekeeper +peremptory orders not to shoot till he was bidden, +and Carfrae at the kitchen door was warned to the +same effect. The shuttered house, where the only +light apart from the garden-room was the feeble +spark of the electric torches, had the most disastrous +effect upon his spirits. The gale which +roared in the chimney and eddied among the rafters +of the hall seemed an infernal commotion in a tomb.</p> + +<p>"Let's go upstairs," he told Saskia; "there must +be a view from the upper windows."</p> + +<p>"You can see the top of the old Tower, and part +of the sea," she said. "I know it well, for it was +my only amusement to look at it. On clear days, +too, one could see high mountains far in the west." +His depression seemed to have affected her, for she +spoke listlessly, unlike the vivid creature who had +led the way in.</p> + +<p>In a gaunt west-looking bedroom, the one in +which Heritage and Dickson had camped the night +before, they opened a fold of the shutters and +looked out into a world of grey wrack and driving<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> +rain. The Tower roof showed mistily beyond the +ridge of down, but its environs were not in their +prospect. The lower regions of the House had been +gloomy enough, but this bleak place with its drab +outlook struck a chill to Sir Archie's soul. He dolefully +lit a cigarette.</p> + +<p>"This is a pretty rotten show for you," he told +her. "It strikes me as a rather unpleasant brand +of nightmare."</p> + +<p>"I have been living with nightmares for three +years," she said wearily.</p> + +<p>He cast his eyes round the room. "I think the +Kennedys were mad to build this confounded barrack. +I've always disliked it, and old Quentin +hadn't any use for it either. Cold, cheerless, raw +monstrosity! It hasn't been a very giddy place for +you, Princess."</p> + +<p>"It has been my prison, when I hoped it would +be a sanctuary. But it may yet be my salvation."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I hope so. I say, you must be jolly +hungry. I don't suppose there's any chance of tea +for you."</p> + +<p>She shook her head. She was looking fixedly at +the Tower, as if she expected something to appear +there, and he followed her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Rum old shell, that. Quentin used to keep all +kinds of live stock there, and when we were boys +it was our castle where we played at bein' robber +chiefs. It'll be dashed queer if the real thing should +turn up this time. I suppose McCunn's Poet is +roostin' there all by his lone. Can't say I envy him +his job."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span></p> + +<p>Suddenly she caught his arm. "I see a man," she +whispered. "There! He is behind those far +bushes. There is his head again!"</p> + +<p>It was clearly a man, but he presently disappeared, +for he had come round by the south end +of the House, past the stables, and had now gone +over the ridge.</p> + +<p>"The cut of his jib is uncommonly like Loudon, +the factor. I thought McCunn had stretched him +on a bed of pain. Lord, if this thing should turn +out a farce, I simply can't face Loudon.... I say, +Princess, you don't suppose by any chance that McCunn's +a little bit wrong in the head?"</p> + +<p>She turned her candid eyes on him. "You are in +a very doubting mood."</p> + +<p>"My feet are cold and I don't mind admittin' it. +Hanged if I know what it is, but I don't feel this +show a bit real. If it isn't, we're in a fair way to +make howlin' idiots of ourselves, and get pretty well +embroiled with the law. It's all right for the red-haired +boy, for he can take everything seriously, +even play. I could do the same thing myself when +I was a kid. I don't mind runnin' some kinds of +risk—I've had a few in my time—but this is so infernally +outlandish and I—I don't quite believe in +it. That is to say, I believe in it right enough when +I look at you or listen to McCunn, but as soon as +my eyes are off you I begin to doubt again. I'm +gettin' old and I've a stake in the country, and I +daresay I'm gettin' a bit of a prig—anyway I don't +want to make a jackass of myself. Besides, there's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> +this foul weather and this beastly house to ice my +feet."</p> + +<p>He broke off with an exclamation, for on the grey +cloud-bounded stage in which the roof of the Tower +was the central feature, actors had appeared. Dim +hurrying shapes showed through the mist, dipping +over the ridge, as if coming from the Garplefoot.</p> + +<p>She seized his arm and he saw that her listlessness +was gone. Her eyes were shining.</p> + +<p>"It is they," she cried. "The nightmare is real +at last. Do you doubt now?"</p> + +<p>He could only stare, for these shapes arriving and +vanishing like wisps of fog still seemed to him +phantasmal. The girl held his arm tightly clutched, +and craned towards the window space. He tried to +open the frame, and succeeded in smashing the glass. +A swirl of wind drove inwards and blew a loose +lock of Saskia's hair across his brow.</p> + +<p>"I wish Dougal were back," he muttered, and +then came the crack of a shot.</p> + +<p>The pressure on his arm slackened, and a pale +face was turned to him. "He is alone—Mr. Heritage. +He has no chance. They will kill him like +a dog."</p> + +<p>"They'll never get in," he assured her. "Dougal +said the place could hold out for hours."</p> + +<p>Another shot followed and presently a third. +She twined her hands and her eyes were wild.</p> + +<p>"We can't leave him to be killed," she gasped.</p> + +<p>"It's the only game. We're playin' for time, remember. +Besides he won't be killed. Great Scott!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span></p> + +<p>As he spoke, a sudden explosion cleft the drone +of the wind and a patch of gloom flashed into yellow +light.</p> + +<p>"Bomb!" he cried. "Lord, I might have thought +of that."</p> + +<p>The girl had sprung back from the window. "I +cannot bear it. I will not see him murdered in sight +of his friends. I am going to show myself, and +when they see me they will leave him.... No, +you must stay here. Presently they will be round +this house. Don't be afraid for me—I am very +quick of foot."</p> + +<p>"For God's sake, don't! Here, Princess, stop," +and he clutched at her skirt. "Look here, I'll go."</p> + +<p>"You can't. You have been wounded. I am in +command, you know. Keep the door open till I +come back."</p> + +<p>He hobbled after her, but she easily eluded him. +She was smiling now, and blew a kiss to him. "La, +la, la," she trilled, as she ran down the stairs. He +heard her voice below, admonishing McGuffog. +Then he pulled himself together and went back to +the window. He had brought the little Holland +with him, and he poked its barrel through the hole +in the glass.</p> + +<p>"Curse my game leg," he said, almost cheerfully, +for the situation was now becoming one with which +he could cope. "I ought to be able to hold up the +pursuit a bit. My aunt! What a girl!"</p> + +<p>With the rifle cuddled to his shoulder he watched +a slim figure come into sight on the lawn, running +towards the ridge. He reflected that she must have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> +dropped from the high verandah wall. That reminded +him that something must be done to make +the wall climbable for her return, so he went down +to McGuffog, and the two squeezed through the +barricaded door to the verandah. The boiler-house +ladder was still in position, but it did not reach half +the height, so McGuffog was adjured to stand by +to help, and in the meantime to wait on duty by the +wall. Then he hurried upstairs to his watch-tower.</p> + +<p>The girl was in sight, almost on the crest of the +high ground. There she stood for a moment, one +hand clutching at her errant hair, the other shielding +her eyes from the sting of the rain. He heard +her cry, as Heritage had heard her, but since the +wind was blowing towards him the sound came +louder and fuller. Again she cried, and then stood +motionless with her hands above her head. It was +only for an instant, for the next he saw she had +turned and was racing down the slope, jumping the +little scrogs of hazel like a deer. On the ridge +appeared faces, and then over it swept a mob of +men.</p> + +<p>She had a start of some fifty yards, and laboured +to increase it, having doubtless the verandah wall +in mind. Sir Archie, sick with anxiety, nevertheless +spared time to admire her prowess. "Gad! she's a +miler," he ejaculated. "She'll do it. I'm hanged +if she don't do it."</p> + +<p>Against men in seaman's boots and heavy clothing +she had a clear advantage. But two shook +themselves loose from the pack and began to gain +on her. At the main shrubbery they were not thirty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> +yards behind, and in her passage through it her +skirts must have delayed her, for when she emerged +the pursuit had halved the distance. He got the +sights of the rifle on the first man, but the lawns +sloped up towards the house, and to his consternation +he found that the girl was in the line of fire. +Madly he ran to the other window of the room, +tore back the shutters, shivered the glass, and flung +his rifle to his shoulder. The fellow was within +three yards of her, but thank God! he had now a +clear field. He fired low and just ahead of him, and +had the satisfaction to see him drop like a rabbit, +shot in the leg. His companion stumbled over him, +and for a moment the girl was safe.</p> + +<p>But her speed was failing. She passed out of +sight on the verandah side of the house, and the +rest of the pack had gained ominously over the +easier ground of the lawn. He thought for a moment +of trying to stop them by his fire, but realised +that if every shot told there would still be enough +of them left to make sure of her capture. The only +chance was at the verandah, and he went downstairs +at a pace undreamed of since the days when he had +two whole legs.</p> + +<p>McGuffog, Mannlicher in hand, was poking his +neck over the wall. The pursuit had turned the +corner and were about twenty yards off; the girl was +at the foot of the ladder, breathless, drooping with +fatigue. She tried to climb, limply and feebly, and +very slowly, as if she were too giddy to see clear. +Above were two cripples, and at her back the van +of the now triumphant pack.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> + +<p>Sir Archie, game leg or no, was on the parapet +preparing to drop down and hold off the pursuit +were it only for seconds. But at that moment he +was aware that the situation had changed.</p> + +<p>At the foot of the ladder a tall man seemed to +have sprung out of the ground. He caught the girl +in his arms, climbed the ladder, and McGuffog's +great hands reached down and seized her and +swung her into safety. Up the wall, by means of +cracks and tufts, was shinning a small boy.</p> + +<p>The stranger coolly faced the pursuers and at the +sight of him they checked, those behind stumbling +against those in front. He was speaking to them +in a foreign tongue, and to Sir Archie's ear the +words were like the crack of a lash. The hesitation +was only for a moment, for a voice among them +cried out, and the whole pack gave tongue shrilly +and surged on again. But that instant of check had +given the stranger his chance. He was up the +ladder, and, gripping the parapet, found rest for +his feet in a fissure. Then he bent down, drew up +the ladder, handed it to McGuffog and with a +mighty heave pulled himself over the top.</p> + +<p>He seemed to hope to defend the verandah, but +the door at the west end was being assailed by a +contingent of the enemy, and he saw that its thin +woodwork was yielding.</p> + +<p>"Into the House," he cried, as he picked up the +ladder and tossed it over the wall on the pack surging +below. He was only just in time, for the west +door yielded. In two steps he had followed McGuffog +through the chink into the passage, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> +concussion of the grand piano pushed hard against +the verandah door from within coincided with the +first battering on the said door from without.</p> + +<p>In the garden-room the feeble lamp showed a +strange grouping. Saskia had sunk into a chair to +get her breath, and seemed too dazed to be aware +of her surroundings. Dougal was manfully striving +to appear at his ease, but his lip was quivering.</p> + +<p>"A near thing that time," he observed. "It was +the blame of that man's auld motor-bicycle."</p> + +<p>The stranger cast sharp eyes around the place +and company.</p> + +<p>"An awkward corner, gentlemen," he said. +"How many are there of you? Four men and a +boy? And you have placed guards at all the entrances?"</p> + +<p>"They have bombs," Sir Archie reminded him.</p> + +<p>"No doubt. But I do not think they will use +them here—or their guns, unless there is no other +way. Their purpose is kidnapping, and they hope +to do it secretly and slip off without leaving a trace. +If they slaughter us, as they easily can, the cry will +be out against them, and their vessel will be unpleasantly +hunted. Half their purpose is already +spoiled, for it is no longer secret.... They may +break us by sheer weight, and I fancy the first +shooting will be done by us. It's the windows I'm +afraid of."</p> + +<p>Some tone in his quiet voice reached the girl in +the wicker chair. She looked up wildly, saw him +and with a cry of "Alesha" ran to his arms. There +she hung, while his hand fondled her hair, like a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> +mother with a scared child. Sir Archie, watching +the whole thing in some stupefaction, thought he +had never in his days seen more nobly matched +human creatures.</p> + +<p>"It is my friend," she cried triumphantly, "the +friend whom I appointed to meet me here. Oh, I +did well to trust him. Now we need not fear anything."</p> + +<p>As if in ironical answer came a great crashing at +the verandah door, and the twanging of chords +cruelly mishandled. The grand piano was suffering +internally from the assaults of the boiler-house +ladder.</p> + +<p>"Wull I gie them a shot?" was McGuffog's hoarse +inquiry.</p> + +<p>"Action stations," Alexis ordered, for the command +seemed to have shifted to him from Dougal. +"The windows are the danger. The boy will patrol +the ground floor, and give us warning, and I and +this man," pointing to Sime, "will be ready at the +threatened point. And for God's sake no shooting, +unless I give the word. If we take them on at that +game we haven't a chance."</p> + +<p>He said something to Saskia in Russian and she +smiled assent and went to Sir Archie's side. "You +and I must keep this door," she said.</p> + +<p>Sir Archie was never very clear afterwards about +the events of the next hour. The Princess was in +the maddest spirits, as if the burden of three years +had slipped from her and she was back in her first +girlhood. She sang as she carried more lumber to +the pile—perhaps the song which had once en<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>tranced +Heritage, but Sir Archie had no ear for +music. She mocked at the furious blows which +rained at the other end, for the door had gone now, +and in the windy gap could be seen a blur of dark +faces. Oddly enough, he found his own spirits +mounting to meet hers. It was real business at last, +the qualms of the civilian had been forgotten, and +there was rising in him that joy in a scrap which +had once made him one of the most daring airmen +on the Western Front. The only thing that worried +him now was the coyness about shooting. +What on earth were his rifles and shot-guns for +unless to be used? He had seen the enemy from +the verandah wall, and a more ruffianly crew he had +never dreamed of. They meant the uttermost business, +and against such it was surely the duty of good +citizens to wage whole-hearted war.</p> + +<p>The Princess was humming to herself a nursery +rhyme. "The King of Spain's daughter," she +crooned, "came to visit me, and all for the sake——Oh, +that poor piano!" In her clear voice she cried +something in Russian, and the wind carried a laugh +from the verandah. At the sound of it she stopped. +"I had forgotten," she said. "Paul is there. I had +forgotten." After that she was very quiet, but she +redoubled her labours at the barricade.</p> + +<p>To the man it seemed that the pressure from +without was slackening. He called to McGuffog to +ask about the garden-room window, and the reply +was reassuring. The gamekeeper was gloomily +contemplating Dougal's tubs of water and wire-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span>netting, +as he might have contemplated a vermin +trap.</p> + +<p>Sir Archie was growing acutely anxious—the +anxiety of the defender of a straggling fortress +which is vulnerable at a dozen points. It seemed +to him that strange noises were coming from the +rooms beyond the hall. Did the back door lie that +way? And was not there a smell of smoke in the +air? If they tried fire in such a gale the place would +burn like matchwood.</p> + +<p>He left his post and in the hall found Dougal.</p> + +<p>"All quiet," the Chieftain reported. "Far ower +quiet. I don't like it. The enemy's no' puttin' out +his strength yet. The Russian says a' the west +windies are terrible dangerous. Him and the chauffeur's +doin' their best, but ye can't block thae +muckle glass panes."</p> + +<p>He returned to the Princess, and found that the +attack had indeed languished on that particular barricade. +The withers of the grand piano were left +unwrung, and only a faint scuffling informed him +that the verandah was not empty. "They're gathering +for an attack elsewhere," he told himself. +But what if that attack were a feint? He and McGuffog +must stick to their post, for in his belief the +verandah door and the garden-room window were +the easiest places where an entry in mass could be +forced.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Dougal's whistle blew, and with it came +a most almighty crash somewhere towards the west +side. With a shout of "Hold tight, McGuffog,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> +Sir Archie bolted into the hall, and, led by the +sound, reached what had once been the ladies' bedroom. +A strange sight met his eyes, for the whole +framework of one window seemed to have been +thrust inward, and in the gap Alexis was swinging +a fender. Three of the enemy were in the room—one +senseless on the floor, one in the grip of Sime, +whose single hand was tightly clenched on his +throat, and one engaged with Dougal in a corner. +The Die-Hard leader was sore pressed, and to his +help Sir Archie went. The fresh assault made the +seaman duck his head, and Dougal seized the occasion +to smite him hard with something which caused +him to roll over. It was Spidel's life-preserver +which he had annexed that afternoon.</p> + +<p>Alexis at the window seemed to have for a moment +daunted the attack. "Bring that table," he +cried, and the thing was jammed into the gap. +"Now you"—this to Sime—"get the man from the +back door to hold this place with his gun. There's +no attack there. It's about time for shooting now, +or we'll have them in our rear. What in heaven is +that?"</p> + +<p>It was McGuffog whose great bellow resounded +down the corridor. Sir Archie turned and shuffled +back, to be met by a distressing spectacle. The +lamp, burning as peacefully as it might have burned +on an old lady's tea-table, revealed the window of +the garden-room driven bodily inward, shutters and +all, and now forming an inclined bridge over +Dougal's ineffectual tubs. In front of it stood McGuffog, +swinging his gun by the barrel and yelling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> +curses, which, being mainly couched in the vernacular, +were happily meaningless to Saskia. She +herself stood at the hall door, plucking at something +hidden in her breast. He saw that it was a +little ivory-handled pistol.</p> + +<p>The enemy's feint had succeeded, for even as Sir +Archie looked three men leaped into the room. On +the neck of one the butt of McGuffog's gun crashed, +but two scrambled to their feet and made for the +girl. Sir Archie met the first with his fist, a clean +drive on the jaw, followed by a damaging hook +with his left that put him out of action. The other +hesitated for an instant and was lost, for McGuffog +caught him by the waist from behind and sent him +through the broken frame to join his comrades +without.</p> + +<p>"Up the stairs," Dougal was shouting, for the +little room beyond the hall was clearly impossible. +"Our flank's turned. They're pourin' through the +other windy." Out of a corner of his eye Sir Archie +caught sight of Alexis, with Sime and Carfrae in +support, being slowly forced towards them along +the corridor. "Upstairs," he shouted. "Come on, +McGuffog. Lead on, Princess." He dashed out +the lamp, and the place was in darkness.</p> + +<p>With this retreat from the forward trench line +ended the opening phase of the battle. It was +achieved in good order, and position was taken up +on the first-floor landing, dominating the main staircase +and the passage that led to the back stairs. At +their back was a short corridor ending in a window +which gave on the north side of the House above<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> +the verandah, and from which an active man might +descend to the verandah roof. It had been carefully +reconnoitred beforehand by Dougal, and his +were the dispositions.</p> + +<p>The odd thing was that the retreating force were +in good heart. The three men from the Mains +were warming to their work, and McGuffog wore +an air of genial ferocity. "Dashed fine position I +call this," said Sir Archie. Only Alexis was silent +and preoccupied. "We are still at their mercy," he +said. "Pray God your police come soon." He +forbade shooting yet awhile. "The lady is our +strong card," he said. "They won't use their guns +while she is with us, but if it ever comes to shooting +they can wipe us out in a couple of minutes. One +of you watch that window, for Paul Abreskov is no +fool."</p> + +<p>Their exhilaration was short-lived. Below in the +hall it was black darkness save for a greyness at +the entrance of the verandah passage; but the defence +was soon aware that the place was thick with +men. Presently there came a scuffling from Carfrae's +post towards the back stairs, and a cry as of +some one choking. And at the same moment a flare +was lit below which brought the whole hall from +floor to rafters into blinding light.</p> + +<p>It revealed a crowd of figures, some still in the +hall and some half-way up the stairs, and it revealed, +too, more figures at the end of the upper landing +where Carfrae had been stationed. The shapes +were motionless like mannequins in a shop window.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p> + +<p>"They've got us treed all right," Sir Archie +groaned. "What the devil are they waiting for?"</p> + +<p>"They wait for their leader," said Alexis.</p> + +<p>No one of the party will ever forget the ensuing +minutes. After the hubbub of the barricades the +ominous silence was like icy water, chilling and +petrifying with an indefinable fear. There was no +sound but the wind, but presently mingled with it +came odd wild voices.</p> + +<p>"Hear to the whaups," McGuffog whispered.</p> + +<p>Sir Archie, who found the tension unbearable, +sought relief in contradiction. "You're an unscientific +brute, McGuffog," he told his henchman. "It's +a disgrace that a gamekeeper should be such a +rotten naturalist. What would whaups be doin' +here at this time of year?"</p> + +<p>"A' the same, I could swear it's whaups, Sir +Erchibald."</p> + +<p>Then Dougal broke in and his voice was excited. +"It's no whaups. That's our patrol signal. Man, +there's hope for us yet. I believe it's the polis."</p> + +<p>His words were unheeded, for the figures below +drew apart and a young man came through them. +His beautifully-shaped dark head was bare, and as +he moved he unbuttoned his oilskins and showed the +trim dark-blue garb of the yachtsman. He walked +confidently up the stairs, an odd elegant figure +among his heavy companions.</p> + +<p>"Good afternoon, Alexis," he said in English. +"I think we may now regard this interesting episode +as closed. I take it that you surrender. +Saskia, dear, you are coming with me on a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> +journey. Will you tell my men where to find your +baggage?"</p> + +<p>The reply was in Russian. Alexis' voice was as +cool as the other's, and it seemed to wake him to +anger. He replied in a rapid torrent of words, and +appealed to the men below, who shouted back. The +flare was dying down, and shadows again hid most +of the hall.</p> + +<p>Dougal crept up behind Sir Archie. "Here, I +think it's the polis. They're whistlin' outbye, and +I hear folk cryin' to each other—no' the foreigners."</p> + +<p>Again Alexis spoke, and then Saskia joined in. +What she said rang sharp with contempt, and her +fingers played with her little pistol.</p> + +<p>Suddenly before the young man could answer +Dobson bustled towards him. The innkeeper was +labouring under some strong emotion, for he seemed +to be pleading and pointing urgently towards the +door.</p> + +<p>"I tell ye it's the polis," whispered Dougal. +"They're nickit."</p> + +<p>There was a swaying in the crowd and anxious +faces. Men surged in, whispered and went out, and +a clamour arose which the leader stilled with a fierce +gesture.</p> + +<p>"You there," he cried, looking up, "you English. +We mean you no ill, but I require you to hand over +to me the lady and the Russian who is with her. I +give you a minute by my watch to decide. If you +refuse my men are behind you and around you, and +you go with me to be punished at my leisure."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I warn you," cried Sir Archie. "We are armed, +and will shoot down any one who dares to lay a +hand on us."</p> + +<p>"You fool," came the answer. "I can send you +all to eternity before you touch a trigger."</p> + +<p>Léon was by his side now—Léon and Spidel, +imploring him to do something which he angrily +refused. Outside there was a new clamour, faces +showing at the door and then vanishing, and an +anxious hum filled the hall.... Dobson appeared +again and this time he was a figure of fury.</p> + +<p>"Are ye daft, man?" he cried. "I tell ye the +polis are closin' round us, and there's no' a moment +to lose if we would get back to the boats. If ye'll +no' think o' your own neck, I'm thinkin' o' mine. +The whole thing's a bloody misfire. Come on, lads, +if ye're no' besotted on destruction."</p> + +<p>Léon laid a hand on the leader's arm and was +roughly shaken off. Spidel fared no better, and the +little group on the upper landing saw the two shrug +their shoulders and make for the door. The hall +was emptying fast, and the watchers had gone from +the back stairs. The young man's voice rose to a +scream; he commanded, threatened, cursed; but +panic was in the air and he had lost his mastery.</p> + +<p>"Quick," croaked Dougal, "now's the time for +the counter-attack."</p> + +<p>But the figure on the stairs held them motionless. +They could not see his face, but by instinct they +knew that it was distraught with fury and defeat. +The flare blazed up again as the flame caught a knot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> +of fresh powder, and once more the place was bright +with the uncanny light.... The hall was empty +save for the pale man who was in the act of +turning.</p> + +<p>He looked back. "If I go now, I will return. +The world is not wide enough to hide you from me, +Saskia."</p> + +<p>"You will never get her," said Alexis.</p> + +<p>A sudden devil flamed into his eyes, the devil of +some ancestral savagery, which would destroy what +is desired but unattainable. He swung round, his +hand went to his pocket, something clicked, and his +arm shot out like a baseball pitcher's.</p> + +<p>So intent was the gaze of the others on him, that +they did not see a second figure ascending the stairs. +Just as Alexis flung himself before the Princess, the +new-comer caught the young man's outstretched +arm and wrenched something from his hand. The +next second he had hurled it into a far corner where +stood the great fireplace. There was a blinding +sheet of flame, a dull roar, and then billow upon +billow of acrid smoke. As it cleared they saw that +the fine Italian chimneypiece, the pride of the +builder of the House, was a mass of splinters, and +that a great hole had been blown through the wall +into what had been the dining-room.... A figure +was sitting on the bottom step feeling its bruises. +The last enemy had gone.</p> + +<p>When Mr. John Heritage raised his eyes he saw +the Princess with a very pale face in the arms of a +tall man whom he had never seen before. If he +was surprised at the sight, he did not show it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> +"Nasty little bomb that. Time fuse. I remember +we struck the brand first in July '18."</p> + +<p>"Are they rounded up?" Sir Archie asked.</p> + +<p>"They've bolted. Whether they'll get away is +another matter. I left half the mounted police a +minute ago at the top of the West Lodge avenue. +The other lot went to the Garplefoot to cut off the +boats."</p> + +<p>"Good Lord, man," Sir Archie cried, "the police +have been here for the last ten minutes."</p> + +<p>"You're wrong. They came with me."</p> + +<p>"Then what on earth——?" began the astonished +baronet. He stopped short, for he suddenly +got his answer. Into the hall from the verandah +limped a boy. Never was there seen so ruinous a +child. He was dripping wet, his shirt was all but +torn off his back, his bleeding nose was poorly +staunched by a wisp of handkerchief, his breeches +were in ribbons, and his poor bare legs looked as if +they had been comprehensively kicked and scratched. +Limpingly he entered, yet with a kind of pride, like +some small cock-sparrow who has lost most of his +plumage but has vanquished his adversary.</p> + +<p>With a yell Dougal went down the stairs. The +boy saluted him, and they gravely shook hands. It +was the meeting of Wellington and Blücher.</p> + +<p>The Chieftain's voice shrilled in triumph, but +there was a break in it. The glory was almost too +great to be borne.</p> + +<p>"I kenned it," he cried. "It was the Gorbals +Die-Hards. There stands the man that done it.... +Ye'll no' fickle Thomas Yownie."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> + +<p class="center">THE GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION</p> + + +<p>We left Mr. McCunn, full of aches but desperately +resolute in spirit, hobbling by the +Auchenlochan road into the village of Dalquharter. +His goal was Mrs. Morran's hen-house, which was +Thomas Yownie's <i>poste de commandement</i>. The +rain had come on again, and, though in other +weather there would have been a slow twilight, already +the shadow of night had the world in its grip. +The sea even from the high ground was invisible, +and all to westward and windward was a ragged +screen of dark cloud. It was foul weather for foul +deeds.</p> + +<p>Thomas Yownie was not in the hen-house, but in +Mrs. Morran's kitchen, and with him were the pug-faced +boy known as Old Bill, and the sturdy figure +of Peter Paterson. But the floor was held by the +hostess. She still wore her big boots, her petticoats +were still kilted, and round her venerable head in +lieu of a bonnet was drawn a tartan shawl.</p> + +<p>"Eh, Dickson, but I'm blithe to see ye. And, +puir man, ye've been sair mishandled. This is the +awfu'est Sabbath day that ever you and me pit in. +I hope it'll be forgiven us.... Whaur's the young +leddy?"</p> + +<p>"Dougal was saying she was in the House with +Sir Archibald and the men from the Mains."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Wae's me!" Mrs. Morran keened. "And what +kind o' place is yon for her? Thae laddies tell me +there's boatfu's o' scoondrels landit at the Garplefit. +They'll try the auld Tower, but they'll no' wait +there when they find it toom, and they'll be inside +the Hoose in a jiffy and awa' wi' the puir lassie. +Sirs, it maunna be. Ye're lippenin' to the polis, but +in a' my days I never kenned the polis in time. We +maun be up and daein' oorsels. Oh, if I could get +a haud o' that red-heided Dougal...."</p> + +<p>As she spoke, there came on the wind the dull +reverberation of an explosion.</p> + +<p>"Keep us, what's that?" she cried.</p> + +<p>"It's dinnymite," said Peter Paterson.</p> + +<p>"That's the end o' the auld Tower," observed +Thomas Yownie in his quiet even voice. "And it's +likely the end o' the man Heritage."</p> + +<p>"Lord peety us!" the old woman wailed. "And +us standin' here like stookies and no' liftin' a hand. +Awa' wi' ye, laddies, and dae something. Awa' you +too, Dickson, or I'll tak' the road mysel'."</p> + +<p>"I've got orders," said the Chief of Staff, "no' to +move till the sityation's clear. Napoleon's up at the +Tower and Jaikie in the policies. I maun wait on +their reports."</p> + +<p>For a moment Mrs. Morran's attention was distracted +by Dickson, who suddenly felt very faint and +sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. "Man, ye're +as white as a dish-clout," she exclaimed with compunction. +"Ye're fair wore out, and ye'll have had +nae meat sin' your breakfast. See, and I'll get ye +a cup o' tea."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p> + +<p>She proved to be in the right, for as soon as +Dickson had swallowed some mouthfuls of her +strong scalding brew the colour came back to his +cheeks, and he announced that he felt better. "Ye'll +fortify it wi' a dram," she told him, and produced +a black bottle from her cupboard. "My father aye +said that guid whiskey and het tea keepit the doctor's +gig oot o' the close."</p> + +<p>The back door opened and Napoleon entered, his +thin shanks blue with cold. He saluted and made +his report in a voice shrill with excitement.</p> + +<p>"The Tower has fallen. They've blown in the +big door, and the feck o' them's inside."</p> + +<p>"And Mr. Heritage?" was Dickson's anxious +inquiry.</p> + +<p>"When I last saw him he was up at a windy, +shootin'. I think he's gotten on to the roof. I +wouldna wonder but the place is on fire."</p> + +<p>"Here, this is awful," Dickson groaned. "We +can't let Mr. Heritage be killed that way. What +strength is the enemy?"</p> + +<p>"I counted twenty-seven, and there's stragglers +comin' up from the boats."</p> + +<p>"And there's me and you five laddies here, and +Dougal and the others shut up in the House." He +stopped in sheer despair. It was a fix from which +the most enlightened business mind showed no +escape. Prudence, inventiveness were no longer +in question; only some desperate course of violence.</p> + +<p>"We must create a diversion," he said. "I'm for +the Tower, and you laddies must come with me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> +We'll maybe see a chance. Oh, but I wish I had +my wee pistol."</p> + +<p>"If ye're gaun there, Dickson, I'm comin' wi' ye," +Mrs. Morran announced.</p> + +<p>Her words revealed to Dickson the preposterousness +of the whole situation, and for all his anxiety +he laughed. "Five laddies, a middle-aged man +and an auld wife," he cried. "Dod, it's pretty +hopeless. It's like the thing in the Bible about the +weak things of the world trying to confound the +strong."</p> + +<p>"The Bible's whiles richt," Mrs. Morran answered +drily. "Come on, for there's no time to +lose."</p> + +<p>The door opened again to admit the figure of +Wee Jaikie. There were no tears in his eyes, and +his face was very white.</p> + +<p>"They're a' round the Hoose," he croaked. "I +was up a tree forenent the verandy and seen them. +The lassie ran oot and cried on them from the top +o' the brae, and they a' turned and hunted her back. +Gosh, but it was a near thing. I seen the Captain +sklimmin' the wall, and a muckle man took the lassie +and flung her up the ladder. They got inside just +in time and steekit the door, and now the whole +pack is roarin' round the Hoose seekin' a road in. +They'll no' be long over the job, neither."</p> + +<p>"What about Mr. Heritage?"</p> + +<p>"They're no' heedin' about him any more. The +auld Tower's bleezin'."</p> + +<p>"Worse and worse," said Dickson. "If the +police don't come in the next ten minutes, they'll be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> +away with the Princess. They've beaten all +Dougal's plans, and it's a straight fight with odds +of six to one. It's not possible."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran for the first time seemed to lose +hope. "Eh, the puir lassie!" she wailed, and sinking +on a chair covered her face with her shawl.</p> + +<p>"Laddies, can you no' think of a plan?" asked +Dickson, his voice flat with despair.</p> + +<p>Then Thomas Yownie spoke. So far he had +been silent, but under his tangled thatch of hair, his +mind had been busy. Jaikie's report seemed to +bring him to a decision.</p> + +<p>"It's gey dark," he said, "and it's gettin' darker."</p> + +<p>There was that in his voice which promised +something, and Dickson listened.</p> + +<p>"The enemy's mostly foreigners, but Dobson's +there and I think he's a kind of guide to them. +Dobson's feared of the polis, and if we can terrify +Dobson he'll terrify the rest."</p> + +<p>"Ay, but where are the police?"</p> + +<p>"They're no' here yet, but they're comin'. The +fear o' them is aye in Dobson's mind. If he thinks +the polis has arrived, he'll put the wind up the lot.... +<i>We</i> maun be the polis."</p> + +<p>Dickson could only stare while the Chief of Staff +unfolded his scheme. I do not know to whom the +Muse of History will give the credit of the tactics +of "infiltration"—whether to Ludendorff or von +Hutier or some other proud captain of Germany, +or to Foch, who revised and perfected them. But +I know that the same notion was at this moment of +crisis conceived by Thomas Yownie, whom no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> +parents acknowledged, who slept usually in a coal +cellar, and who had picked up his education among +Gorbals closes and along the wharves of Clyde.</p> + +<p>"It's gettin' dark," he said, "and the enemy are +that busy tryin' to break into the Hoose that they'll +no' be thinkin' o' their rear. The five o' us Die-Hards +is grand at dodgin' and keepin' out of sight, +and what hinders us to get in among them, so that +they'll hear us but never see us? We're used to the +ways o' the polis, and can imitate them fine. Forbye +we've all got our whistles, which are the same as a +bobbie's birl, and Old Bill and Peter are grand at +copyin' a man's voice. Since the Captain is shut +up in the Hoose, the command falls to me, and +that's my plan."</p> + +<p>With a piece of chalk he drew on the kitchen floor +a rough sketch of the environs of Huntingtower. +Peter Paterson was to move from the shrubberies +beyond the verandah, Napoleon from the stables, +Old Bill from the Tower, while Wee Jaikie and +Thomas himself were to advance as if from the +Garplefoot, so that the enemy might fear for his +communications. "As soon as one o' ye gets into +position he's to gie the patrol cry, and when each +o' ye has heard five cries, he's to advance. Begin +birlin' and roarin' afore ye get among them, and +keep it up till ye're at the Hoose wall. If they've +gotten inside, in ye go after them. I trust each +Die-Hard to use his judgment, and above all to keep +out o' sight and no let himsel' be grippit."</p> + +<p>The plan, like all great tactics, was simple, and +no sooner was it expounded than it was put into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> +action. The Die-Hards faded out of the kitchen +like fog-wreaths, and Dickson and Mrs. Morran +were left looking at each other. They did not look +long. The bare feet of Wee Jaikie had not crossed +the threshold fifty seconds, before they were followed +by Mrs. Morran's out-of-doors boots and +Dickson's tackets. Arm in arm the two hobbled +down the back path behind the village which led +to the South Lodge. The gate was unlocked, for +the warder was busy elsewhere, and they hastened +up the avenue. Far off Dickson thought he saw +shapes fleeting across the park, which he took to be +the shock-troops of his own side, and he seemed to +hear snatches of song. Jaikie was giving tongue, +and this was what he sang:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4q">"Proley Tarians, arise!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Wave the Red Flag to the skies,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Heed nae mair the Fat Man's lees,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Stap them doun his throat!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Nocht to loss except our chains,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">We maun drain oor dearest veins—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A' the worrld shall be our gains——"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But he tripped over a rabbit wire and thereafter +conserved his breath.</p> + +<p>The wind was so loud that no sound reached +them from the House, which blank and immense +now loomed before them. Dickson's ears were +alert for the noise of shots or the dull crash of +bombs; hearing nothing, he feared the worst, and +hurried Mrs. Morran at a pace which endangered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> +her life. He had no fear for himself, arguing that +his foes were seeking higher game, and judging, +too, that the main battle must be round the verandah +at the other end. The two passed the shrubbery +where the road forked, one path running to +the back door and one to the stables. They took +the latter and presently came out on the downs, +with the ravine of the Garple on their left, the +stables in front, and on the right the hollow of a +formal garden running along the west side of the +House.</p> + +<p>The gale was so fierce, now that they had no +wind-break between them and the ocean, that Mrs. +Morran could wrestle with it no longer, and found +shelter in the lee of a clump of rhododendrons. +Darkness had all but fallen, and the house was a +black shadow against the dusky sky, while a confused +greyness marked the sea. The old Tower +showed a tooth of masonry; there was no glow +from it, so the fire, which Jaikie had reported, must +have died down. A whaup cried loudly, and very +eerily: then another.</p> + +<p>The birds stirred up Mrs. Morran. "That's the +laddies' patrol," she gasped. "Count the cries, +Dickson."</p> + +<p>Another bird wailed, this time very near. Then +there was perhaps three minutes' silence, till a +fainter wheeple came from the direction of the +Tower. "Four," said Dickson, but he waited in +vain on the fifth. He had not the acute hearing of +the boys, and could not catch the faint echo of Peter +Paterson's signal beyond the verandah. The next<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> +he heard was a shrill whistle cutting into the wind, +and then others in rapid succession from different +quarters, and something which might have been the +hoarse shouting of angry men.</p> + +<p>The Gorbals Die-Hards had gone into action.</p> + +<p>Dull prose is no medium to tell of that wild adventure. +The sober sequence of the military historian +is out of place in recording deeds that knew +not sequence or sobriety. Were I a bard, I would +cast this tale in excited verse, with a lilt which would +catch the speed of the reality. I would sing of +Napoleon, not unworthy of his great namesake, who +penetrated to the very window of the ladies' bedroom, +where the framework had been driven in and +men were pouring through; of how there he made +such pandemonium with his whistle that men tumbled +back and ran about blindly seeking for guidance; +of how in the long run his pugnacity mastered +him, so that he engaged in combat with an unknown +figure and the two rolled into what had once been +a fountain. I would hymn Peter Paterson, who +across tracts of darkness engaged Old Bill in a conversation +which would have done no discredit to a +Gallogate policeman. He pretended to be making +reports and seeking orders. "We've gotten three +o' the deevils, sir. What'll we dae wi' them?" he +shouted; and back would come the reply in a slightly +more genteel voice: "Fall them to the rear. Tamson +has charge of the prisoners." Or it would be: +"They've gotten pistols, sir. What's the orders?" +and the answer would be: "Stick to your batons. +The guns are posted on the knowe, so we needn't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> +hurry." And over all the din there would be a +perpetual whistling and a yelling of "Hands up!"</p> + +<p>I would sing, too, of Wee Jaikie, who was having +the red-letter hour of his life. His fragile form +moved like a lizard in places where no mortal could +be expected, and he varied his duties with impish +assaults upon the persons of such as came in his +way. His whistle blew in a man's ear one second +and the next yards away. Sometimes he was moved +to song, and unearthly fragments of "Class-conscious +we are" or "Proley Tarians, arise!" mingled +with the din, like the cry of seagulls in a storm. He +saw a bright light flare up within the house which +warned him not to enter, but he got as far as the +garden-room, in whose dark corners he made havoc. +Indeed he was almost too successful, for he created +panic where he went, and one or two fired blindly +at the quarter where he had last been heard. These +shots were followed by frenzied prohibitions from +Spidel and were not repeated. Presently he felt +that aimless surge of men that is the prelude to +flight, and heard Dobson's great voice roaring in +the hall. Convinced that the crisis had come, he +made his way outside, prepared to harass the rear +of any retirement. Tears now flowed down his +face, and he could not have spoken for sobs, but +he had never been so happy.</p> + +<p>But chiefly would I celebrate Thomas Yownie, +for it was he who brought fear into the heart of +Dobson. He had a voice of singular compass, and +from the verandah he made it echo round the +House. The efforts of Old Bill and Peter Paterson<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> +had been skilful indeed, but those of Thomas +Yownie were deadly. To some leader beyond he +shouted news: "Robison's just about finished wi' his +lot, and then he'll get the boats." A furious charge +upset him, and for a moment he thought he had +been discovered. But it was only Dobson rushing +to Léon, who was leading the men in the doorway. +Thomas fled to the far end of the verandah, and +again lifted up his voice. "All foreigners," he +shouted, "except the man Dobson. Ay. Ay. +Ye've got Loudon? Well done!"</p> + +<p>It must have been this last performance which +broke Dobson's nerve and convinced him that the +one hope lay in a rapid retreat to the Garplefoot. +There was a tumbling of men in the doorway, a +muttering of strange tongues, and the vision of the +innkeeper shouting to Léon and Spidel. For a second +he was seen in the faint reflection that the +light in the hall cast as far as the verandah, a wild +figure urging the retreat with a pistol clapped to +the head of those who were too confused by the +hurricane of events to grasp the situation. Some +of them dropped over the wall, but most huddled +like sheep through the door on the west side, +a jumble of struggling, panic-stricken mortality. +Thomas Yownie, staggered at the success of his +tactics, yet kept his head and did his utmost to confuse +the retreat, and the triumphant shouts and +whistles of the other Die-Hards showed that they +were not unmindful of this final duty....</p> + +<p>The verandah was empty, and he was just about +to enter the House, when through the west door<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> +came a figure, breathing hard and bent apparently +on the same errand. Thomas prepared for battle, +determined that no straggler of the enemy should +now wrest from him victory, but, as the figure came +into the faint glow at the doorway, he recognised +it as Heritage. And at the same moment he heard +something which made his tense nerves relax. +Away on the right came sounds, a thud of galloping +horses on grass and the jingle of bridle reins +and the voices of men. It was the real thing at +last. It is a sad commentary on his career, but now +for the first time in his brief existence Thomas +Yownie felt charitably disposed towards the police.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The Poet, since we left him blaspheming on the +roof of the Tower, had been having a crowded hour +of most inglorious life. He had started to descend +at a furious pace, and his first misadventure was +that he stumbled and dropped Dickson's pistol over +the parapet. He tried to mark where it might have +fallen in the gloom below, and this lost him precious +minutes. When he slithered through the trap into +the attic room, where he had tried to hold up the +attack, he discovered that it was full of smoke which +sought in vain to escape by the narrow window. +Volumes of it were pouring up the stairs, and when +he attempted to descend he found himself choked +and blinded. He rushed gasping to the window, +filled his lungs with fresh air, and tried again, but +he got no further than the first turn, from which +he could see through the cloud red tongues of flame +in the ground room. This was solemn indeed, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> +he sought another way out. He got on the roof, +for he remembered a chimney-stack, cloaked with +ivy, which was built straight from the ground, and +he thought he might climb down it.</p> + +<p>He found the chimney and began the descent, +confidently, for he had once borne a good reputation +at the Montanvert and Cortina. At first all +went well, for stones stuck out at decent intervals +like the rungs of a ladder, and roots of ivy supplemented +their deficiencies. But presently he came to +a place where the masonry had crumbled into a cave, +and left a gap some twenty feet high. Below it he +could dimly see a thick mass of ivy which would +enable him to cover the further forty feet to the +ground, but at that cave he stuck most finally. All +round the lime and stone had lapsed into debris, +and he could find no safe foothold. Worse still, the +block on which he relied proved loose, and only by +a dangerous traverse did he avert disaster.</p> + +<p>There he hung for a minute or two, with a cold +void in his stomach. He had always distrusted the +handiwork of man as a place to scramble on, and +now he was planted in the dark on a decomposing +wall, with an excellent chance of breaking his neck, +and with the most urgent need for haste. He could +see the windows of the House and, since he was +sheltered from the gale, he could hear the faint +sound of blows on woodwork. There was clearly +the devil to pay there, and yet here he was helplessly +stuck.... Setting his teeth, he started to ascend +again. Better the fire than this cold breakneck +emptiness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span></p> + +<p>It took him the better part of half an hour to +get back, and he passed through many moments of +acute fear. Footholds which had seemed secure +enough in the descent now proved impossible, and +more than once he had his heart in his mouth when a +rotten ivy stump or a wedge of stone gave in his +hands, and dropped dully into the pit of night, leaving +him crazily spread-eagled. When at last he +reached the top he rolled on his back and felt very +sick. Then, as he realised his safety, his impatience +revived. At all costs he would force his way out +though he should be grilled like a herring.</p> + +<p>The smoke was less thick in the attic, and with +his handkerchief wet with the rain and bound across +his mouth he made a dash for the ground room. It +was as hot as a furnace, for everything inflammable +in it seemed to have caught fire, and the lumber +glowed in piles of hot ashes. But the floor and walls +were stone, and only the blazing jambs of the door +stood between him and the outer air. He had +burned himself considerably as he stumbled downwards, +and the pain drove him to a wild leap +through the broken arch, where he miscalculated the +distance, charred his shins, and brought down a red-hot +fragment of the lintel on his head. But the +thing was done, and a minute later he was rolling +like a dog in the wet bracken to cool his burns and +put out various smouldering patches on his raiment.</p> + +<p>Then he started running for the House, but, confused +by the darkness, he bore too much to the +north, and came out in the side avenue from which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> +he and Dickson had reconnoitred on the first evening. +He saw on the right a glow in the verandah +which, as we know, was the reflection of the flare in +the hall, and he heard a babble of voices. But he +heard something more, for away on his left was the +sound which Thomas Yownie was soon to hear—the +trampling of horses. It was the police at last, +and his task was to guide them at once to the critical +point of action.... Three minutes later a figure +like a scarecrow was admonishing a bewildered +sergeant, while his hands plucked feverishly at a +horse's bridle.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It is time to return to Dickson in his clump of +rhododendrons. Tragically aware of his impotence +he listened to the tumult of the Die-Hards, hopeful +when it was loud, despairing when there came a +moment's lull, while Mrs. Morran like a Greek +chorus drew loudly upon her store of proverbial +philosophy and her memory of Scripture texts. +Twice he tried to reconnoitre towards the scene of +battle, but only blundered into sunken plots and pits +in the Dutch garden. Finally he squatted beside +Mrs. Morran, lit his pipe, and took a firm hold on +his patience.</p> + +<p>It was not tested for long. Presently he was +aware that a change had come over the scene—that +the Die-Hards' whistles and shouts were being +drowned in another sound, the cries of panicky men. +Dobson's bellow was wafted to him. "Auntie +Phemie," he shouted, "the innkeeper's getting rattled. +Dod, I believe they're running." For at that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> +moment twenty paces on his left the van of the retreat +crashed through the creepers on the garden's +edge and leaped the wall that separated it from the +cliffs of the Garplefoot.</p> + +<p>The old woman was on her feet.</p> + +<p>"God be thankit, is't the polis?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe. Maybe no'. But they're running."</p> + +<p>Another bunch of men raced past, and he heard +Dobson's voice.</p> + +<p>"I tell you, they're broke. Listen, it's horses. +Ay, it's the police, but it was the Die-Hards that +did the job.... Here! They mustn't escape. +Have the police had the sense to send men to the +Garplefoot?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Morran, a figure like an ancient prophetess, +with her tartan shawl lashing in the gale, clutched +him by the shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Doun to the waterside and stop them. Ye'll no' +be beat by wee laddies! On wi' ye and I'll follow! +There's gaun to be a juidgment on evil-doers this +nicht."</p> + +<p>Dickson needed no urging. His heart was hot +within him, and the weariness and stiffness had gone +from his limbs. He, too, tumbled over the wall, +and made for what he thought was the route by +which he had originally ascended from the stream. +As he ran he made ridiculous efforts to cry like a +whaup in the hope of summoning the Die-Hards. +One, indeed, he found—Napoleon, who had suffered +a grievous pounding in the fountain and had +only escaped by an eel-like agility which had aforetime +served him in good stead with the law of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> +native city. Lucky for Dickson was the meeting, +for he had forgotten the road and would certainly +have broken his neck. Led by the Die-Hard he slid +forty feet over screes and boiler-plates, with the +gale plucking at him, found a path, lost it, and then +tumbled down a raw bank of earth to the flat ground +beside the harbour. During all this performance, +he has told me, he had no thought of fear, nor any +clear notion what he meant to do. He just wanted +to be in at the finish of the job.</p> + +<p>Through the narrow entrance the gale blew as +through a funnel, and the usually placid waters of +the harbour were a mass of angry waves. Two +boats had been launched and were plunging furiously, +and on one of them a lantern dipped and fell. +By its light he could see men holding a further boat +by the shore. There was no sign of the police; he +reflected that probably they had become tangled in +the Garple Dean. The third boat was waiting for +some one.</p> + +<p>Dickson—a new Ajax by the ships—divined who +this some one must be and realised his duty. It was +the leader, the arch-enemy, the man whose escape +must at all costs be stopped. Perhaps he had the +Princess with him, thus snatching victory from +apparent defeat. In any case he must be tackled, +and a fierce anxiety gripped his heart. "Aye finish +a job," he told himself, and peered up into the +darkness of the cliffs, wondering just how he should +set about it, for except in the last few days he had +never engaged in combat with a fellow-creature.</p> + +<p>"When he comes, you grip his legs," he told<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> +Napoleon, "and get him down. He'll have a pistol, +and we're done if he's on his feet."</p> + +<p>There was a cry from the boats, a shout of guidance, +and the light on the water was waved madly. +"They must have good eyesight," thought Dickson, +for he could see nothing. And then suddenly he +was aware of steps in front of him, and a shape like +a man rising out of the void at his left hand.</p> + +<p>In the darkness Napoleon missed his tackle, and +the full shock came on Dickson. He aimed at what +he thought was the enemy's throat, found only an +arm and was shaken off as a mastiff might shake off +a toy terrier. He made another clutch, fell, and in +falling caught his opponent's leg so that he brought +him down. The man was immensely agile, for he +was up in a second and something hot and bright +blew into Dickson's face. The pistol bullet had +passed through the collar of his faithful waterproof, +slightly singeing his neck. But it served its +purpose, for Dickson paused, gasping, to consider +where he had been hit, and before he could resume +the chase the last boat had pushed off into deep +water.</p> + +<p>To be shot at from close quarters is always irritating, +and the novelty of the experience increased +Dickson's natural wrath. He fumed on the shore +like a deerhound when the stag has taken to the sea. +So hot was his blood that he would have cheerfully +assaulted the whole crew had they been within his +reach. Napoleon, who had been incapacitated for +speed by having his stomach and bare shanks savagely +trampled upon, joined him, and together they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> +watched the bobbing black specks as they crawled +out of the estuary into the grey spindrift which +marked the harbour mouth.</p> + +<p>But as he looked the wrath died out of Dickson's +soul. For he saw that the boats had indeed sailed +on a desperate venture, and that a pursuer was on +their track more potent than his breathless middle-age. +The tide was on the ebb, and the gale was +driving the Atlantic breakers shoreward, and in the +jaws of the entrance the two waters met in an unearthly +turmoil. Above the noise of the wind came +the roar of the flooded Garple and the fret of the +harbour, and far beyond all the crashing thunder +of the conflict at the harbour mouth. Even in the +darkness, against the still faintly grey western sky, +the spume could be seen rising like waterspouts. +But it was the ear rather than the eye which made +certain presage of disaster. No boat could face the +challenge of that loud portal.</p> + +<p>As Dickson struggled against the wind and stared, +his heart melted and a great awe fell upon him. +He may have wept; it is certain that he prayed. +"Poor souls, poor souls!" he repeated. "I doubt +the last hour or two has been a poor preparation +for eternity."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The tide next day brought the dead ashore. +Among them was a young man, different in dress +and appearance from the rest—a young man with +a noble head and a finely-cut classic face, which was +not marred like the others from pounding among +the Garple rocks. His dark hair was washed back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> +from his brow, and the mouth, which had been hard +in life, was now relaxed in the strange innocence of +death.</p> + +<p>Dickson gazed at the body and observed that +there was a slight deformation between the +shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Poor fellow," he said. "That explains a lot.... +As my father used to say, cripples have a +right to be cankered."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + +<p class="center">IN WHICH A PRINCESS LEAVES A DARK TOWER AND +A PROVISION MERCHANT RETURNS TO HIS FAMILY</p> + + +<p>The three days of storm ended in the night, +and with the wild weather there departed +from the Cruives something which had weighed on +Dickson's spirits since he first saw the place. Monday—only +a week from the morning when he had +conceived his plan of holiday—saw the return of +the sun and the bland airs of spring. Beyond the +blue of the yet restless waters rose dim mountains +tipped with snow, like some Mediterranean seascape. +Nesting birds were busy on the Laver banks +and in the Huntingtower thickets; the village +smoked peacefully to the clear skies; even the House +looked cheerful if dishevelled. The Garple Dean +was a garden of swaying larches, linnets, and wild +anemones. Assuredly, thought Dickson, there had +come a mighty change in the countryside, and he +meditated a future discourse to the Literary Society +of the Guthrie Memorial Kirk on "Natural +Beauty in Relation to the Mind of Man."</p> + +<p>It remains for the chronicler to gather up the +loose ends of his tale. There was no newspaper +story with bold headlines of this the most recent +assault on the shores of Britain. Alexis Nicolaevitch, +once a Prince of Muscovy and now Mr. Alex<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span>ander +Nicholson of the rising firm of Sprot and +Nicholson of Melbourne, had interest enough to +prevent it. For it was clear that if Saskia was to be +saved from persecution, her enemies must disappear +without trace from the world, and no story be told +of the wild venture which was their undoing. The +constabulary of Carrick and Scotland Yard were indisposed +to ask questions, under a hint from their +superiors, the more so as no serious damage had +been done to the persons of His Majesty's lieges, +and no lives had been lost except by the violence of +Nature. The Procurator-Fiscal investigated the +case of the drowned men, and reported that so +many foreign sailors, names and origins unknown, +had perished in attempting to return to their ship +at the Garplefoot. The Danish brig had vanished +into the mist of the northern seas. But one signal +calamity the Procurator-Fiscal had to record. The +body of Loudon the factor was found on the Monday +morning below the cliffs, his neck broken by +a fall. In the darkness and confusion he must +have tried to escape in that direction, and he had +chosen an impracticable road or had slipped on the +edge. It was returned as "death by misadventure" +and the <i>Carrick Herald</i> and the <i>Auchenlochan Advertiser</i> +excelled themselves in eulogy. Mr. Loudon, +they said, had been widely known in the south-west +of Scotland as an able and trusted lawyer, an +assiduous public servant, and not least as a good +sportsman. It was the last trait which had led to +his death, for, in his enthusiasm for wild nature, +he had been studying bird life on the cliffs of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> +Cruives during the storm, and had made that fatal +slip which had deprived the shire of a wise counsellor +and the best of good fellows.</p> + +<p>The tinklers of the Garplefoot took themselves +off, and where they may now be pursuing their +devious courses is unknown to the chronicler. Dobson, +too, disappeared, for he was not among the +dead from the boats. He knew the neighbourhood +and probably made his way to some port from which +he took passage to one or other of those foreign +lands which had formerly been honoured by his +patronage. Nor did all the Russians perish. Three +were found skulking next morning in the woods, +starving and ignorant of any tongue but their own, +and five more came ashore much battered but alive. +Alexis took charge of the eight survivors, and arranged +to pay their passage to one of the British +Dominions and to give them a start in a new life. +They were broken creatures, with the dazed look +of lost animals, and four of them had been peasants +on Saskia's estates. Alexis spoke to them in their +own language. "In my grandfather's time," he +said, "you were serfs. Then there came a change, +and for some time you were free men. Now you +have slipped back into being slaves again—the worst +of slaveries, for you have been the serfs of fools +and scoundrels and the black passion of your own +hearts. I give you a chance of becoming free men +once more. You have the task before you of working +out your own salvation. Go, and God be with +you."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span></p><hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Before we take leave of these companions of a +single week I would present them to you again as +they appeared on a certain sunny afternoon when +the episode of Huntingtower was on the eve of +closing. First we see Saskia and Alexis walking on +the thymy sward of the cliff-top, looking out to the +fretted blue of the sea. It is a fitting place for +lovers, above all for lovers who have turned the +page on a dark preface, and have before them still +the long bright volume of life. The girl has her +arm linked with the man's, but as they walk she +breaks often away from him, to dart into copses, to +gather flowers, or to peer over the brink where the +gulls wheel and oyster-catchers pipe among the +shingle. She is no more the tragic muse of the past +week, but a laughing child again, full of snatches of +song, her eyes bright with expectation. They talk +of the new world which lies before them, and her +voice is happy. Then her brows contract, and, as +she flings herself down on a patch of young heather, +her air is thoughtful.</p> + +<p>"I have been back among fairy tales," she says. +"I do not quite understand, Alesha. Those gallant +little boys! They are youth, and youth is always +full of strangeness. Mr. Heritage! He is youth, +too, and poetry, perhaps, and a soldier's tradition. +I think I know him.... But what about Dickson? +He is the <i>petit bourgeois</i>, the <i>épicier</i>, the class +which the world ridicules. He is unbelievable. The +others with good fortune I might find elsewhere—in +Russia perhaps. But not Dickson."</p> + +<p>"No," is the answer. "You will not find him in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> +Russia. He is what we call the middle-class, which +we who were foolish used to laugh at. But he is +the stuff which above all others makes a great people. +He will endure when aristocracies crack and +proletariats crumble. In our own land we have +never known him, but till we create him our land +will not be a nation."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Half a mile away on the edge of the Laver glen +Dickson and Heritage are together, Dickson placidly +smoking on a tree-stump and Heritage walking +excitedly about and cutting with his stick at the +bracken. Sundry bandages and strips of sticking +plaster still adorn the Poet, but his clothes have +been tidied up by Mrs. Morran, and he has recovered +something of his old precision of garb. The +eyes of both are fixed on the two figures on the cliff-top. +Dickson feels acutely uneasy. It is the first +time that he has been alone with Heritage since the +arrival of Alexis shivered the Poet's dream. He +looks to see a tragic grief; to his amazement he beholds +something very like exultation.</p> + +<p>"The trouble about you, Dogson," says Heritage, +"is that you're a bit of an anarchist. All you false +romantics are. You don't see the extraordinary +beauty of the conventions which time has consecrated. +You always want novelty, you know, and +the novel is usually the ugly and rarely the true. I +am for romance, but upon the old, noble classic +lines."</p> + +<p>Dickson is scarcely listening. His eyes are on the +distant lovers and he longs to say something which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> +will gently and graciously express his sympathy with +his friend.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid," he begins hesitatingly, "I'm afraid +you've had a bad blow, Mr. Heritage. You're +taking it awful well, and I honour you for it."</p> + +<p>The Poet flings back his head. "I am reconciled," +he says. "After all ''tis better to have loved and +lost, than never to have loved at all.' It has been +a great experience and has shown me my own heart. +I love her, I shall always love her, but I realise that +she was never meant for me. Thank God I've been +able to serve her—that is all a moth can ask of a +star. I'm a better man for it, Dogson. She will +be a glorious memory, and Lord! what poetry I +shall write! I give her up joyfully, for she has +found her true mate. 'Let us not to the marriage +of true minds admit impediments!' The thing's +too perfect to grieve about.... Look! There is +romance incarnate."</p> + +<p>He points to the figures now silhouetted against +the further sea. "How does it go, Dogson?" he +cries. "'And on her lover's arm she leant'—what +next? You know the thing."</p> + +<p>Dickson assists and Heritage declaims:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4q">"And on her lover's arm she leant,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">And round her waist she felt it fold,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And far across the hills they went<br /></span> +<span class="i5">In that new world which is the old:<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Across the hills, and far away<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Beyond their utmost purple rim,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And deep into the dying day<br /></span> +<span class="i5">The happy princess followed him."<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>He repeats the last two lines twice and draws a +deep breath. "How right!" he cries. "How absolutely +right! Lord! It's astonishing how that old +bird Tennyson got the goods!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>After that Dickson leaves him and wanders +among the thickets on the edge of the Huntingtower +policies above the Laver glen. He feels childishly +happy, wonderfully young, and at the same +time supernaturally wise. Sometimes he thinks the +past week has been a dream, till he touches the +sticking-plaster on his brow, and finds that his left +thigh is still a mass of bruises and that his right +leg is wofully stiff. With that the past becomes +very real again, and he sees the Garple Dean in +that stormy afternoon, he wrestles again at midnight +in the dark House, he stands with quaking +heart by the boats to cut off the retreat. He sees +it all, but without terror in the recollection, rather +with gusto and a modest pride. "I've surely had +a remarkable time," he tells himself, and then Romance, +the goddess whom he has worshipped so +long, marries that furious week with the idyllic. +He is supremely content, for he knows that in his +humble way he has not been found wanting. Once +more for him the Chavender or Chub, and long +dreams among summer hills. His mind flies to the +days ahead of him, when he will go wandering with +his pack in many green places. Happy days they +will be, the prospect with which he has always +charmed his mind. Yes, but they will be different +from what he had fancied, for he is another man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> +than the complacent little fellow who set out a week +ago on his travels. He has now assurance of himself, +assurance of his faith. Romance, he sees, is +one and indivisible....</p> + +<p>Below him by the edge of the stream he sees the +encampment of the Gorbals Die-Hards. He calls +and waves a hand, and his signal is answered. It +seems to be washing day, for some scanty and tattered +raiment is drying on the sward. The band is +evidently in session, for it is sitting in a circle, deep +in talk.</p> + +<p>As he looks at the ancient tents, the humble equipment, +the ring of small shockheads, a great tenderness +comes over him. The Die-Hards are so tiny, +so poor, so pitifully handicapped, and yet so bold in +their meagreness. Not one of them has had anything +that might be called a chance. Their few +years have been spent in kennels and closes, always +hungry and hunted, with none to care for them; +their childish ears have been habituated to every +coarseness, their small minds filled with the desperate +shifts of living.... And yet, what a heavenly +spark was in them! He had always thought +nobly of the soul; now he wants to get on his knees +before the queer greatness of humanity.</p> + +<p>A figure disengages itself from the group, and +Dougal makes his way up the hill towards him. +The Chieftain is not more reputable in garb than +when we first saw him, nor is he more cheerful of +countenance. He has one arm in a sling made out +of his neckerchief, and his scraggy little throat rises +bare from his voluminous shirt. All that can be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> +said for him is that he is appreciably cleaner. He +comes to a standstill and salutes with a special +formality.</p> + +<p>"Dougal," says Dickson, "I've been thinking. +You're the grandest lot of wee laddies I ever heard +tell of, and, forbye, you've saved my life. Now, +I'm getting on in years, though you'll admit that +I'm not that dead old, and I'm not a poor man, and +I haven't chick or child to look after. None of you +has ever had a proper chance or been right fed or +educated or taken care of. I've just the one thing +to say to you. From now on you're <i>my</i> bairns, +every one of you. You're fine laddies, and I'm going +to see that you turn into fine men. There's the +stuff in you to make Generals and Provosts—ay, +and Prime Ministers, and Dod! it'll not be my +blame if it doesn't get out."</p> + +<p>Dougal listens gravely and again salutes.</p> + +<p>"I've brought ye a message," he says. "We've +just had a meetin' and I've to report that ye've been +unanimously eleckit Chief Die-Hard. We're a' +hopin' ye'll accept."</p> + +<p>"I accept," Dickson replies. "Proudly and gratefully +I accept."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The last scene is some days later, in a certain +southern suburb of Glasgow. Ulysses has come +back to Ithaca, and is sitting by his fireside, waiting +on the return of Penelope from the Neuk Hydropathic. +There is a chill in the air, so a fire is burning +in the grate, but the laden tea-table is bright +with the first blooms of lilac. Dickson, in a new<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> +suit with a flower in his buttonhole, looks none the +worse for his travels, save that there is still sticking-plaster +on his deeply sunburnt brow. He waits impatiently +with his eye on the black marble timepiece, +and he fingers something in his pocket.</p> + +<p>Presently the sound of wheels is heard, and the +peahen voice of Tibby announces the arrival of +Penelope. Dickson rushes to the door and at the +threshold welcomes his wife with a resounding kiss. +He leads her into the parlour and settles her in her +own chair.</p> + +<p>"My! but it's nice to be home again!" she says. +"And everything that comfortable. I've had a fine +time, but there's no place like your own fireside. +You're looking awful well, Dickson. But losh! +What have you been doing to your head?"</p> + +<p>"Just a small tumble. It's very near mended +already. Ay, I've had a grand walking tour, but +the weather was a wee bit thrawn. It's nice to +see you back again, Mamma. Now that I'm an +idle man you and me must take a lot of jaunts together."</p> + +<p>She beams on him as she stays herself with Tibby's +scones, and when the meal is ended, Dickson draws +from his pocket a slim case. The jewels have been +restored to Saskia, but this is one of her own which +she has bestowed upon Dickson as a parting +memento. He opens the case and reveals a necklet +of emeralds, any one of which is worth half the +street.</p> + +<p>"This is a present for you," he says bashfully.</p> + +<p>Mrs. McCunn's eyes open wide. "You're far<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> +too kind," she gasps. "It must have cost an awful +lot of money."</p> + +<p>"It didn't cost me that much," is the truthful +answer.</p> + +<p>She fingers the trinket and then clasps it round +her neck, where the green depths of the stones glow +against the black satin of her bodice. Her eyes are +moist as she looks at him. "You've been a kind +man to me," she says, and she kisses him as she has +not done since Janet's death.</p> + +<p>She stands up and admires the necklet in the +mirror. Romance once more, thinks Dickson. That +which has graced the slim throats of princesses in +far-away Courts now adorns an elderly matron in +a semi-detached villa; the jewels of the wild Nausicaa +have fallen to the housewife Penelope.</p> + +<p>Mrs. McCunn preens herself before the glass. "I +call it very genteel," she says. "Real stylish. It +might be worn by a queen."</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't say but it has," says Dickson.</p> + + +<p class="center big">THE END</p> + + + +<p>FOOTNOTES:</p> +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The reader is referred to the improved version of Mr. Heritage's +sketch reproduced as a frontispiece.</p></div> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Huntingtower, by John Buchan + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUNTINGTOWER *** + +***** This file should be named 3782-h.htm or 3782-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/8/3782/ + +Produced by Edward A. White, Robert F. 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