Movatterモバイル変換

BROWSEthe site for other works by this author (and our other authors) or get HELP Reading, Downloading and Converting files) or SEARCHthe entire site withGoogle Site Search

Title:      The Free Fishers (1934)Author:     John Buchan* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.:  0301421h.htmlEdition:    1Language:   EnglishCharacter set encoding:     HTML(Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit)Date first posted:          November 2003Date most recently updated: November 2003This eBook was produced by: Don Lainson dlainson@sympatico.caProject Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online atgutenberg.net.au/licence.htmlTo contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mr Anthony Lammas, whose long legs had been covering ground atthe rate of five miles an hour, slackened his pace, for he feltthe need of ordering a mind which for some hours had been dancingwiddershins. For one thing the night had darkened, since the moonhad set, and the coast track which he followed craved warywalking. But it was the clear dark of a northern April, when,though the details are blurred, the large masses of the landscapeare apprehended. He was still aware of little headlandsdescending to a shadowy gulf which was the Firth. Far out thebrazier on the May was burning with a steady glow, like somelow-swung planet shaming with its ardour the cold stars. Hesniffed the sharp clean scent of the whins above the salt; hecould almost detect the brightness of their flowering. Theyshould have been thyme, he thought, thyme and arbutus andtamarisk clothing the capes of the Sicilian sea, for this was anight of Theocritus. . . .

Theocritus! What had he to do with Theocritus? It was highlynecessary to come to terms with this mood into which he hadfallen.

For Mr Lammas, a licensed minister of the Kirk and a professorin the University of St Andrews, had just come from keepingstrange company. Three years ago, through the good offices of hispatron and friend, Lord Snowdoun, he had been appointed to theChair of Logic and Rhetoric, with emoluments which, with dietmoney and kain-hens, reached the sum of £309 a year, afortune for a provident bachelor. His father, merchant andboat-builder in the town of Dysart, had left him also a smallpatrimony, so that he was in no way cumbered with material cares.His boyhood had been crowded with vagrant ambitions. At the burghschool he had hankered after the sea; later, the guns in Francehad drawn him to a soldier's life, and he had got as far asBurntisland before a scandalised parent reclaimed him. Thenscholarship had laid its spell on him. He had stridden to the topof his Arts classes in St Andrews, and at Edinburgh had been wellthought of as a theologian. His purpose then was the letteredlife, and he had hopes of the college living of Tweedsmuir, faroff in the southern moorlands, where he might cultivate the Musesand win some such repute as that of Mr Beattie at Aberdeen.

But Lord Snowdoun had shown him the way to better things, forto be a professor at twenty-five was to have a vantage-ground forloftier ascents. In the Logic part of his duties he had littleinterest, contenting himself with an exposition of Mr Reid'sInquiry and some perfunctory lectures on Descartes, but inthe Rhetoric classes, which began after Candlemas, his soulexpanded, and he had made himself a name for eloquence. Also hehad discovered an aptitude for affairs, and was already entrustedwith the heavy end of college business. A year ago he had beenappointed Questor, a post which carried the management of thesmall academic revenues. He stood well with his colleagues, wellwith the students, and behind him was Lord Snowdoun, that potentmanager of Scotland. Some day he would be Principal, when hewould rival the fame of old Tullidelph, and meantime as a writerhe would win repute far beyond the narrow shores of Fife. Had henot in his bureau a manuscript treatise on the relations of artand morals which, when he re-read it, astounded him by its acumenand wit, and a manuscript poem on the doings of Cardinal Beatounwhich he could not honestly deem inferior to the belauded verseof Mr Walter Scott!

So far the path of ambition, in which for a man oftwenty-eight he had made notable progress. Neat in person, alittle precise in manner, his mouth primmed to a becominggravity, his hair brushed back from his forehead to reveal alofty brow, Mr Lammas was the very pattern of a dignitary in themaking. . . . And yet an hour ago he had been drinking toddy withshaggy seafarers, and joining lustily in the chorus of "CockyBendy," and the tune to which his long legs had been marching was"Dunbarton's Drums." He was still whistling it:

"Dunbarton's drums are bonnie O--
I'll leave a' my friends and my daddie O--
I'll bide nae mair at hame, but I'll follow wi' thedrum,
And whenever it beats I'll be ready O."

This was a pretty business for a minister of the Kirk, theQuestor of St Andrews, and a professor of divine philosophy.

There was a long story behind it. As a boy his playground hadbeen the little rock-girt port of Dysart, and as the son ofhonest David Lammas, who could build a smack with any man betweenBerwick and Aberdeen, he had been made free of the harbour life.His intimates had been men who took their herring busses farnorth into the cold Shetland seas, whalers who sailed yearly forthe Färoes and Iceland and still stranger waters, skippersof Dutch luggers and Norway brigs who leavened their lawfulmerchantry with commodities not approved by law. He learned theirspeech and the tricks of their calling, and listened greedily totheir tales through many a summer twilight. Sometimes he went tothe fishing himself in the shore-cobles, but his dream was tosail beyond the May to the isles of the basking sharks and thepilot-whales and the cliffs snowy with sea-fowl. Only the awe ofhis father kept him from embarking one fine morning in aMiddleburg lugger with tulips in its cabin, and a cagedsinging-bird whose pipe to his ear was the trumpet of allromance.

There was a brotherhood among the sea-folk as close and secretas a masonic order. Its name was the Free Fishers of Forth, butits name was not often spoken. To be a member was to have behindone, so long as one obeyed its rules, a posse of stalwart allies.It had been founded long ago--no man knew when, though there weremany legends. Often it had fallen foul of the law, as in theJacobite troubles, when it had ferried more than one much-soughtgentlemen between France and Scotland. Its ostensible purpose wasthe protection of fisher rights, and a kind of co-operativeinsurance against the perils of the sea, but these rights weregenerously interpreted, and there had been times when free-tradewas its main concern, and the east-coast gaugers led a wearylife. But the war with France had drawn it to greater things. Nowand then the ship of a Free Fisher may have conveyed an escapingFrench prisoner to his own country, but it is certain that theybrought home many a British refugee who had struggled down to theBreton shore. Also the fraternity did famous secret services.They had their own private ways of gleaning news, and were oftenhigh in repute with an anxious Government. Letters would arriveby devious ways for this or that member, and a meeting wouldfollow in some nook of the coast with cloaked men who did noteasily grasp the Fife speech. More than once the Chief Fisher,old Sandy Kyles, had consulted in Edinburgh behind guarded doorswith the Lord Advocate himself.

To the boy the Free Fishers had been the supreme authority ofhis world, far more potent than the King in London. He cherishedevery hint of their doings that came to him, but he fell indocilely with the ritual and asked no questions. As he grew olderhe learned more, and his notion of the brotherhood was clarified;some day he would be a member of it like his father before him.But when he chose the path of scholarship he had to revise hisambitions, since the society was confined strictly to those whosebusiness lay with the sea. Yet the harbour-side was still hisfavourite haunt, and he went on adding to his seafaringfriendships.

"I'll tell you what," he told his chief ally, Tam Dorrit. "IfI cannot be a member, I'll be your chaplain. When I'm a ministeryou'll appoint me. King George has his chaplain, and LordSnowdoun, and all the great folk, and what for no the FreeFishers?"

The notion, offered half in jest, simmered in the heads of thebrotherhood, for they liked the lad and did not want to lose him,if fate should send him to some landward parish. So it came aboutthat when Mr Lammas had passed his trials and won his licence topreach, a special sederunt of the Free Fishers took place, and hewas duly appointed their chaplain, with whatever rights,perquisites and privileges might inhere in that dignity. In duecourse he was installed at a supper, where the guests, a littleawed by the shadow of the Kirk, comported themselves with a novelsobriety. Then for a year or two he saw nothing of them. He wasengaged by Lord Snowdoun as the governor of his heir, the youngLord Belses, and passed his time between the great house ofSnowdoun under the Ochils, the lesser seat of Catlaw inTweeddale, and his lordship's town lodgings in Edinburgh.Ambition had laid its spell on him, high-jinks were a thing ofthe past, and he was traversing that stage of ruthlesswordly-wisdom which follows on the passing of a man's firstyouth. It was a far cry from the echoing chambers and orderlyterraces of Snowdoun or the deep heather of Catlaw to the windybeaches of Fife.

But with his return to St Andrews he found himself compelledto pick up the threads of his youth. The stage of prematuremiddle-age had passed, and left him with a solid ambition,indeed, but with a more catholic outlook on the world. He had todeal with young men, and his youth was his chief asset; he hadstrong aspirations after literary success--in youthful spheres,too, like poetry and fantastic essays. He dared not bolt the dooragainst a past which he saw daily in happier colours. The FreeFishers had not forgotten him. They had solemnly congratulatedtheir chaplain on his new dignity, and they invited him to theirquarterly gatherings at this or that port of the Firth. Themessage was never by letter; it would come by devious means, awhispered word in the street or at the harbour-side or on thelinks from some shaggy emissary who did not wait to bequestioned.

At first Mr Lammas had been shy of the business. Could apreceptor of youth indulge in what was painfully akin to thoseextravagances of youth against which the Senatus warred? He hadobeyed the first summons with a nervous heart, and afterwards theenterprise was always undertaken in the deepest secrecy. Nochaise or saddle-horse for him; his legs carried him in theevening to the rendezvous, however distant, and brought him backin the same fashion. From the side of the Free Fishers, however,he knew that he need fear nothing, for they were silent as thetomb. So into the routine of his life came these hiatuses ofromance with a twofold consequence. They kept his hand in for hisdealings with his pupils. He became "Nanty" to the wholeundergraduate world, from the bejant to the magistrand. Hisclasses were popular and orderly, and many consulted him onprivate concerns which they would not have broached to any otherprofessor. Also, as if to salve his conscience, he began tocultivate a special gravity in his deportment. Among hiscolleagues he spoke little, but what he said was cogent; heacquired a name for whinstone common sense; he was a littlefeared and widely trusted. Soon his gravity became a secondnature, and his long upper lip was a danger-signal to folly. Yetall the while he was nursing his private fire of romance in themanuscripts accumulating in his study drawers, and once in awhile those fires were permitted to flicker in public. After adull day of Senatus meetings, when he would reprehend theplunderings by his colleagues of the College library, or framenew rules for the compulsory Sunday service in St Leonard's Kirkand the daily Prayer-hall at St Mary's, or bicker with DrWotherspoon, the Professor of Moral Philosophy, over thedelimitations of his subject, he would find himself among hisboyhood's friends, bandying queer by-names and joining in mostunacademic choruses.

This night the supper had been at Pittenweem. All day MrLammas had been engaged on high affairs. There was trouble overthe University revenue from the Priory lands, which was adiscretionary grant from the Exchequer; Government had shownitself unwilling to renew it on the old terms, and it had beendecided that Mr Lammas should proceed forthwith to London, laythe matter before Lord Snowdoun, and bespeak his lordship'sinterest. It was a notable compliment to the young man, and aheavy responsibility. Also he had received a letter from LordMannour, who as Mr Peter Kinloch had been the University'sstanding counsel, begging him to wait upon him without delay inEdinburgh. Mr Lammas, cumbered with such cares and about to setout on a difficult journey, had been in no mood for the FreeFishers, and had almost let the occasion slip. But some perverseloyalty had set his feet on the shore-road, and for some hours hehad been absorbed, not unhappily, into a fantastic world.

The sederunt had been the queerest in his recollection. Thegreat boat-shed on the edge of the tide had been bright at firstwith a red sunset, but presently the April dusk had gathered, andships' lanterns, swung from the rafters, had made patches oflight among its shadows. Beneath, round the rude table, had satfifty and more shaggy seafarers, each one entering the guardeddoor with the password for the night. Old Sandy Kyles was dead,and in the chair of the Chief Fisher sat Eben Garnock, amountainous man with a beard like Moses and far-sighted blue eyesbeneath pent-house brows. There were gaps in the familiarcompany, and Mr Lammas heard how one had lost his boat and hislife off the Bass in the great January storm, and another hadshipwrecked at Ushant and was now in a French gaol. But there wasa goodly number of old friends--Tam Dorrit, who had once takenhim on a memorable run to the Eastern Banks; Andrew Cairns, whohad sailed his smack far into the unpermitted Baltic; the old manStark who, said rumour, had been a pirate in western waters; andyoung Bob Muschat, a new member, who had bird-nested with himmany a Saturday in the Dunnikier woods. There were faces thatwere new to him, and he noted that they were of a wilder castthan those he first remembered. The war was drawing the FreeFishers into odd paths. There were men there who had been pressedfor the Navy and had seen Trafalgar, men who had mannedprivateers and fought obscure fights in forgotten seas, men whoon Government business had talked in secret chambers with greatfolk and risked their lives in the dark of the moon. It was nothis recovered boyhood that Mr Lammas saw, but a segment of agrimmer world whose echoes came faintly at intervals to StAndrews halls.

The company had been piped to meat by a bosun's whistle, andthey had said the Fisher's Grace, which begins:

"For flukes and partans, cakes and ale,
Salty beef and seein' kale--"

and concludes with a petition for the same mercies at the nextmeeting. There was no formality round their table, but there wasdecorum, the decorum of men for whom the world was both merry andmelancholy. They faced death daily, so even in their cups theycould not be children. Mighty eaters and drinkers, good fare onlyloosed their tongues. Mr Lammas heard tales which he knew wouldhaunt his dreams. When they forsook ale for whisky-toddy, brewedin great blue bowls of Dutch earthenware, the first songs began.He drank liquors new to him, in particular a brew of rum, burnedand spiced, which ran in his veins like a pleasant fire. Hisprecision was blown aside like summer mist; he joined lustily inthe choruses; himself he sang "Dunbarton's Drums" in his fulltenor; his soul melted and expanded till he felt a kindnesstowards all humanity and a poet's glory in the richness of theworld.

This high mood had accompanied his striding under the springmoon for three-quarters of his homeward journey. His fancy hadbeen kindled by glimpses into marvels--marvels casually mentionedas common incidents of life. One man had sailed round the butt ofNorway to Archangel, and on returning had been blocked for fivedays among icebergs. "Like heidstanes in a kirkyaird," he hadsaid--"I hae still the grue of them in my banes." Another hadgone into the Arctic among the great whales, and stammered atale--he had some defect in his speech--of waters red like abattlefield, of creatures large as a hill rolling and sighing intheir death-throes, and of blood rising in forty-foot spouts anddrenching the decks like rain. Still another, a little man with amild face and a mouth full of texts, had been cast away on thePortugal coast, and had shipped in a Spanish boat and spent twoyears in the rotting creeks of the Main. "God's wonders in thedeep!" he had cried. "Maybe, but it's the Deil's wonders in yonunco land," and, being a little drunk, he had babbled ofblood-sucking plants and evil beasts and men more evil. Poetrychurned in Mr Lammas's head, and he strung phrases which ravishedhim. . . .

But the excitement was ebbing, and "Dunbarton's Drums" wasdying in his ears. He was almost across the King's Muir, andcould see the first lights of St Andrews twinkling in the hollow.With an effort he pulled himself together. He was returning toduty, and must put away childish things.

Suddenly he was aware of a figure on his left. He saw it onlyas a deeper shadow in the darkness, but he heard its feet on thegravel of the track. A voice caused him to relax the grip whichhad tightened on his staff; it was a voice he knew.

"You have the pace of me, sir." The owner of the voice droppedinto step.

Had there been light to see, the face of Mr Lammas would havebeen observed to fall into lines of professorial dignity.

"You walk late, Mr Kinloch," he said.

"Like yourself, sir, and for the same cause. I, too, have beenin loco. . . . Dulce est desipere, you know. Old Braxfieldused to translate the line, 'How blessed it is now and then totalk noansense'!"

"I do not follow."

"I mean that I had the honour of supping in your company, sir.Of supping under your benediction. I am the latest recruit to thehonourable company of the Free Fishers."

Mr Lammas was startled. Here was his secret disclosed with avengeance, for one of his own pupils shared it. His safety lay inthe Fishers' Oath and also in the character of the participant.By the mercy of Providence this lad, Jock Kinloch, and he hadalways been on friendly terms. The only son of Lord Mannour, thejudge whom he was trysted to meet on the morrow, he was unlikethe ordinary boys from the country manse, the burgh shop or theplough-tail. Among the two hundred there was at the moment no"primar," that is, a nobleman's son, and Jock ranked as one ofthe few "secondars" or scions of the gentry. He was a stirringyouth, often at odds with authority, and he had more than oncebeen before the Rector and his assessors at the suit of anoutraged St Andrews townsman. He was popular among his fellows,for he had money to spend and spent it jovially, his laugh wasthe loudest at the dismal students' table in St Leonards, on thelinks he smote a mighty ball, he was esteemed a bold rider withthe Fife Hunt, and he donned the uniform of the Fencibles. Noscholar and a sparing attendant at lectures, he had neverthelessrevealed a certain predilection for the subjects which Mr Lammasprofessed, had won a prize for debate in the Logic class, and inRhetoric had shown a gift for declamation and a high-colouredtaste in English style. He had written poetry, too, gallopingiambics in the fashionable mode, and excursions in the vernacularafter the manner of Burns. Sometimes of an evening in theProfessor's lodgings there would be a session of flamboyantliterary talk, and once or twice Mr Lammas had been on the brinkof unlocking his study drawer and disclosing his own pursuit ofthe Muses. For most of his pupils he had a kindliness, but forJock Kinloch he felt something like affection.

"It is an old story with me," he said primly. "It goes back tomy Dysart boyhood, when I was never away from the harbour-side. Ihave kept up the link out of sentiment, Mr Kinloch. As one growsolder one is the more tenderly affectioned to the past."

The young man laughed.

"You needn't apologise to me, sir. I honour you for thisnight's cantrip--maybe I had always a notion of something of thesort, for there must be that in you that keeps the blood youngcompared to the sapless kail-runts of the Senatus. I had thoughtit might be a woman."

"You thought wrong," was the icy answer. Mr Lammas was alittle offended.

"Apparently I did, and I make you my apologies for a clumsyguess." The boy's tone was respectful, but Mr Lammas knew that,could he see it, there was a twinkle in the black eyes. JockKinloch's eyes were dark as a gipsy's and full of audaciousmerriment.

"Maybe yon queer folk at Pittenweem," he went on, "brew abetter elixir of youth than any woman. They were doubtless morecircumspect at your end of the table, but at my end the tongueswere slack and I got some wild tales. It would have done thatdouce St Andrews folk a world of good to sit down at yon boardand hear the great Professor ask the blessing. . . . But no, no,"he added, as if conscious of some mute protest from hiscompanion, "they'll never hear a word of it from me. There's theFishers' Oath between us. You'll be Professor Anthony Lammas asbefore, the man that keeps the Senatus in order and guides myerring steps in the paths of logic and good taste, and NantyLammas will be left among the partans and haddies and tarpots ofPittenweem."

"I am obliged to you, Mr Kinloch. As you say, the oath isbetween us, and the Free Fishers sup always under the rose."

The boy edged closer to his companion. The lights of the townwere growing near--few in number, for the hour was late. He laida hand upon Mr Lammas's arm.

"There's more in the oath than secrecy, sir," he said;"there's a promise of mutual aid. I took pains to make up on you,for I wanted to ask a favour from you as from a brother in themystery. I want information, and maybe I want advice. Will yougive it me?"

"Speak on." Mr Lammas, his mind at ease, was well disposed tothis garrulous youth.

"It's just this. When you finished college you were tutor inmy Lord Snowdoun's family? You were the governor of his eldestson and prepared him for Oxford? Am I right, sir?"

"I was governor to the young Lord Belses, and for two yearslived in his lordship's company."

"Well, I'd like to know what kind of a fellow he is. I don'twant to hear about a brilliant and promising young nobleman--bornto a great estate--a worthy successor of his father--bilge-pipestuff like that. I want a judgment of him from an honest man,whose hand must have often itched for his ears."

"I assure you it never did. There was much in Harry I did notunderstand, but there was little to offend me. He was a mosthopeful scholar, with taste and knowledge beyond his years. Hewas an adept at sports in which I could not share. His mannerswere remarkable for their urbanity and in person he wasaltogether pleasing."

"In short, a damned pompous popinjay!"

"I said nothing of the kind, and let me tell you that itill-becomes you, Mr Kinloch, to speak thus of one of whom you canknow nothing. Have you become a Jacobin to rave against rank?Have you ever seen the young lord?"

"Aye, I have seen him twice." The boy spoke moodily. "Once hecame out with the Hunt. He was the best mounted of the lot of us,and I won't deny he can ride. At first I took the fences side byside with him, but my old Wattie Wud-spurs was no match for hisblood beast, and I was thrown out before the kill. He spoke tome, and he was so cursed patronising I could have throttled him.Minced his words like an affected school-miss."

"I see in that no cause for offence."

"No, but the second time he gave me cause--weighty cause, byGod. It was at Mount Mordun, at the Hogmanay ball, and he camewith Kirsty Evandale's party. Kirsty was to be my partner in thefirst eightsome, and she jilted me, by gad--looked through mewhen I went to claim her--and danced all night with that rottenlordling."

"Your grievance seems to lie rather against Miss ChristianEvandale."

"No--she was beguiled--women are weak things. There were therest of us--country bumpkins compared to this spruce dandy, withthe waist of a girl and the steps of a dancing-master. There wasme--not a word to say for myself--boiling with passion andblushing and fuming--and all the time as gawky as a gander. . . .You say there has never been a woman in your life. Well, there'sone in mine--Kirsty. I'm so crazily in love with her that sheobscures daylight for me. They tell me that the Snowdouns want tomake a match of it with Belses, for they are none too well offfor grandees, and Kirsty will own half the land between Ore andEden. . . . Now here is what I want to know. What about thepopinjay? Is he scent and cambric and gold chains and silkwaistcoats and nothing more, or is there a man behind themillinery? For if there's a man, I'm determined to come to gripswith him."

The two were now under the shadow of the ruined tower of StRegulus, and their feet were on the southward cobbles of thelittle city.

"Dear me, you are very peremptory," said Mr Lammas. "Yousummon me like an advocate with an unfriendly witness."

"I summon you by the Fishers' Oath," said the boy. "I knowthat what you say will be honest and true."

"I am obliged, and I will answer you, but my knowledge stopsshort five years back. When I knew Harry he was immature--therewas no question of a man--he was only boy and dreamer. But I canbear witness to a warm heart, a just mind and a high spirit. Hemay end as a fantastic, but not as a fop or a fool. He madesomething of a name at Christ Church, I understand, has travelledmuch in Europe, and has now entered Parliament. I have heardrumour of some extravagance in his political views, but I haveheard no charge against his character. Your picture does not fitin with my recollection, Mr Kinloch, and you will do well torevise it. A dainty dress and deportment do not necessarily implyeffeminacy, just as rudeness is no proof of courage."

"You think he will fight, then?"

"Fight? What is this talk of fighting?"

"Simply that if he is going to cast his glamour over Kirsty,I'll have him out by hook or by crook. I'm so damnably in lovewith her that I'll stick at nothing."

"You are a foolish child. If I did my duty I would report youto--"

"The Fishers' Oath! Remember the Fishers' Oath--Nanty Lammas!"He darted down a side street without further word, as the clockon the town-kirk steeple struck the hour of twelve.

Mr Lammas tumbled into bed in the closet behind hisliving-room, and fell instantly asleep, for he was drowsy withsalt air and many long Scots miles. There seemed but an instantbetween his head touching the pillow and the knuckles of hislandlady, Mrs Babbie McKelvie, sounding on his door. "It'schappit five, Professor," her voice followed. "Ye'll mind ye maunbe on the road by seven."

He rose in a very different mood from that of the nightbefore. Now he was the learned professor, the trusted emissary ofhis university, setting out on a fateful journey. Gravity fellupon him like a frost. He shaved himself carefully, noting withapproval the firm set of his chin and the growing height of hisforehead as the hair retreated. A face, he flattered himself, tocommand respect. His locks had been newly cut by Jimmy Jardine,the college barber, and he subdued their vagaries with a littlepomatum. His dress was sober black, his linen was fresh, and hehad his father's seals at his fob; but, since he was to travelthe roads, he wore his second-best pantaloons and he strappedstrong frieze leggings round the lower part of them. Then heexamined the rest of his travelling wardrobe, the breeches andbuckled shoes to be worn on an occasion of ceremony, the six finecravats Mrs McKelvie had hemmed for him, the six cambric shirtswhich were the work of the same needlewoman, the double-breastedwaistcoat of wool and buckram to be worn if the weather grewchilly. He was content with his preparations, and packed hisvalise with a finicking neatness. He was going south of theBorder into unknown country, going to the metropolis itself touphold his university's cause among strangers. St Andrews shouldnot be shamed by her ambassador. He looked at his face again inhis little mirror. Young, but not too young--the mouthresponsible--a few fine lines of thought on the brow and aroundthe eyes--he might pass for a well-preserved forty, if he kepthis expression at a point of decent gravity.

As his habit was, he took a short turn in the street beforebreakfast. It was a wonderful morning, the wind set in thenorth-west, the sky clear but for a few streamers, and the baydelicately crisped like a frozen pool. The good-wives in the westend of the Mid Street were washing their doorsteps or fetchingwater from the well, and as they wrought they shouted to eachother the morning's news. There were no red gowns about, for itwas vacation time, but far down the street he saw a figure whichhe knew for the Professor of Humanity, returning from hispre-breakfast walk on the links. His colleague was a sick man wholived by a strict regime, and Mr Lammas thanked Heaven that hehad a sound body. Never had he felt more vigorous, more master ofhimself, he thought, as he drew the sweet air into his lungs. Hewas exhilarated, and would have liked to sing, but he repressedthe feeling and looked at the sky with the brooding brow of oneinterrupted in weighty thoughts. "Dunbarton's Drums" was ahundred years away. The housewives gave him good morning, and heceremonially returned their salutes. He knew that they knew thathe was bound for London--not in the ramshackle diligence thatlumbered its way daily westward, but riding post, as became a manon an urgent errand. In half an hour the horses from Morrison'sstables would be at the door, for at Kirkcaldy he must catch thetide and the Leith packet.

As he re-entered his house his mouth had shaped itself forwhistling, which he only just checked in time. "The Auld Man'sMare's Deid" was the inappropriate tune which had almost escapedhis lips. He bent his brows, and straightened his face, andbecame the dignitary. A faint smell of burning came to hisnostrils.

"Babbie," he thundered, "you are letting the porridge burnagain. Have I not told you a hundred times that I cannot abideburnt porridge?"

The scarlet face of Mrs McKelvie appeared from the littlekitchen. "'Deed sir, I'm sore flustered this morning. The lassiewas late wi' the baps, and the fire wadna kindle, and I daurednadish the parritch wi' you stravaigin' outbye. We maun haste, orCupar Tam will be round wi' the horses afore ye have drucken yourtea. . . . Eh, sirs, but ye're a sight for sair een, Mr Lammas.I've never seen ye sae trig and weel set up. Tak my advice andkeep out o' the lassies' gait, for they tell me there's daftqueans about England."

An hour later Mr Lammas had left the coast behind him and wasin a landward country of plough and pasture. Cupar Tam on thehorse which carried his mails rode discreetly some yards behind,and he was left free to think his own thoughts. He might evenhave whistled without scandal, but at first his mind was far fromwhistling.

Now that he was on the road, with every minute taking himfarther from home, he was a little weighted by the importance ofhis mission. He, the youngest in the Senatus, had been chosen tofight this battle far away among subtle lawyers and cold men ofaffairs. London, which at other times he had dreamed of as anHesperides of art and pleasure, now seemed like Bunyan's VanityFair, a hard place for a simple pilgrim. Also there was themeeting that very night in Edinburgh with Lord Mannour, aformidable figure as he remembered him, bushy-browed,gimlet-eyed, with none of the joviality of his son. He shookhimself with difficulty out of a mood of diffidence. The harderthe task, he reminded himself, the greater the credit. He forcedhimself to be worldly-wise. He was a man of affairs, and mustview the world with a dignified condescension. "An old head uponyoung shoulders" had been the Principal's words. So he fell torepeating the arguments he meant to adduce about the Priorylands--"We are a little home of the humanities, my lords--Rome inher great days was always kindly considerate of Athens." . ..

But the motion of his horse sent the blood running briskly inhis veins, the sun flushed his cheeks, and Mr Lammas becameconscious again of the spring. The rooks were wheeling over theplough-lands, and the peesweeps and snipe were calling in everymeadow. The hawthorn bushes were a young green, every hedge-roothad its celandines and primroses, and there were thickets ofsloe, white as if with linen laid out to bleach. The twin Lomondspoked their blue fingers into the western sky, and over themdrifted little clouds like ships in sail. A great wall of stonebounded the road for a mile or two, and he knew the place for thepark of Mount Moredun, of which Jock Kinloch had babbled thenight before. Far up on the slopes that rose north from the Edenvalley he saw too the dapper new woodlands which surroundedBalbarnit, the house of Miss Christian Evandale, that much-soughtlady.

The sight switched his thoughts to a new channel--thedifficulties of youth, the eternal and lovable foppery of theworld. He thought of the slim boy who had once been his pupil andthe callow yearnings of which he had once been the confidant; nowthe boy was a grown man in a glittering world, of which a Scotsprofessor knew nothing. He thought of Jock Kinloch eating out hisheart for a girl who was destined for his betters. And at therecollection he was filled with a humorous tenderness, for was henot himself a preceptor of youth, with a duty to trim itsvagaries and therefore to understand them?

The world around him was young--young lambs in the fields,young leaves on the trees, mating birds everywhere, whisperinggrasses and frolic winds. When he ate bread and cheese at middayin a village alehouse his head was brimming with fancies. Thevale through which he was riding seemed to him to have a classicgrace, with the austere little hills rimming the horizon and asky as blue as ever overhung a Sabine farm. He wished that he wasProfessor of Humanity, which had been his old ambition. He couldhave discoursed more happily on Horace and Virgil than on BarbaraCelarent and the barren logomachies of Mr Reid. . . . He took torepeating to himself what he held to be the best of his ownverses, and when the ground began to fall away towards the westand he came in sight again of the sea, he was back in the mood ofthe night before, and impenitently youthful.

It was the sea that did it, and the sudden waft of salt fromthe gleaming firth. Below him, tucked into a nook of the coast,lay Dysart, his childhood's home--he could see the steeple of itskirk pricking above a jumble of russet tiles, and the tall treesthat surrounded the policies of its great new house, where oncehe had bird-nested. A schooner was tacking out with every sailset to catch the breeze--in the Norway trade, he judged from itslines. The air was diamond-clear, and on the Lothian shore hecould make out the little towns, the thornbush which was thecluster of masts in Leith harbour, the Edinburgh spires on whichthe sun was shining, the lift of the Castle rock, and behind allthe blue backbone of the Pentlands. He had a sudden vision of theworld as an immense place full of blowing winds and a most joyousbustle. Classrooms and council chambers were well enough in theirway, but here around him was the raw matter, the essential stuffof life, without which schools and statesmen would be idle.

The looms were clacking in every cot-house as he rode throughthe weaving village of Gallatown; hammers were busy among thenailmakers of Pathhead; the smell of a tan-pit came to hisnostrils with a pleasing pungency; when he descended the longslope of the Path the sight of scaly fisherfolk and tarrysailormen gave him an inconsequent delight. As he saw the horsesbaited, and paid off Cupar Tam, and trod the cobbles of theharbour-walk he felt inexplicably happy. He stepped aboard thegrimy Leith packet with the gusto of an adventurer.

The little ship had to tack far down the firth to get theright slant of wind, and Mr Lammas stood in its bows, amid pilesof fresh-caught haddocks and much tarry lumber, in a happy dream."Nanty," Jock Kinloch had called him the night before, from whichit appeared that the St Andrews students knew him familiarlyamong themselves by his boy's name. Well, "Nanty" let it be. In asense it was a compliment, for he could not imagine any of hisstarched colleagues being thus made free of the sodality ofyouth. He felt more like Nanty than Anthony, and the title ofProfessor seemed absurd. A recollection of his errand clouded himfor an instant, but it was summarily dismissed. Time enough forthose grave things later; let him indulge the flying minute."It's not often I get such a lift of the heart," he told himself.This was the mood in which poetry was written; the thought of hisliterary ambitions gave a comforting air of prudence to hisabandonment; there was an air jigging in his head to which fineverses might be set. Everything was making music--the light windin the rigging, the rhythmical surge and heave of the vesselthrough the shining waters; and presently the blind fiddlersquatted under the mast struck up, and the tune he played was"Dunbarton's Drums."

A figure, looking like a fisherman in his Sabbath best, sidledup to him. He did not know the face, but the man made a familiarsign--two plucks at an unshaven chin followed by a leftforefinger drawn thrice along the brows. Mr Lammas responded withthe pass-word, and a huge hand was extended, in the hollow ofwhich lay a strip of dirty paper. "I've gotten this for yourhonour from ye ken who," said the man, and took himself off."Mum's the word to my father, J. K.," were the words thatMr Lammas read, before he crumpled the scrap and dropped itoverboard.

Silly fellow to be at such pains, as if he were likely toconfess a son's infatuation to a father with whom he had weightybusiness! But the message seemed to sharpen his exhilaration. Ithad come twenty miles that day up the coast with miraculousexpedition, and a certainty beyond his Majesty's mails. The FreeFishers were a potent folk, and he was one of them. . . . A queersensation stole into Mr Lammas's mind, expectancy, wonder, alittle fear. He was bound on a prosaic mission of which thebounds were strictly defined, but might not Providence, once hewas on the road, take a hand in ravelling his purpose? Heremembered something of a poem of Burns, which he had once turnedinto Latin longs and shorts:

"The best-laid schemes of mice and men
Gang aft agley."

He had had this sense of adventure upon him ever since hesmelt the salt from the Pathhead braes. He had cherished it alittle guiltily, as a lawful holiday mood, but might it not be apreparation for something momentous? Mr Lammas stepped ashore onthe pier of Leith with a not unpleasant solemnity upon hisspirit.

A hackney carriage took him to his inn behind the RegisterHouse, for he had no time to lose if he would keep hisappointment with Lord Mannour. There he spruced himself up, andset out briskly on foot for his lordship's residence in QueenStreet. The butler who admitted him announced that his master wasfor the moment engaged with his confidential clerk, but that theProfessor was expected. Mr Lammas was ushered into thewithdrawing-room on the first floor, which, owing to the lack offemales in the family--for her ladyship was dead these manyyears--was cheerless as a tomb. But the windows were bright withlate sunshine, and from them he had a wonderful prospect. Helooked down over Lord Moray's meadows to the wooded glen of theWater of Leith, and beyond, across fields of ancient pasture, toa gleaming strip of firth. He saw the Fife shore smoking with itsevening hearth-fires, the soft twin breasts of the Lomonds, and,to the left, at an infinite distance, the blue confusion of theHighland hills dappled with late snow. Ye gods, what a world ofmarvels! It was with an effort that he composed his countenanceto gravity when he heard the street-door shut on the confidentialclerk and his lordship's step on the stair.

Lord Mannour was but two years on the Bench. As Peter Kinlochhe had been a noted verdict-getter, the terror of judges, whom hetreated with small respect, and the joy of anxious clients. MrLammas had first met him when he was counsel for the Universityin an intricate matter of heritable property, and had respectedthe clean edge of his mind and the rough vigour of his tongue. Atthat time he had cultivated the manners of a country laird, hisdeep pockets looked as if they might hold twine andpruning-knives and samples of grain, and he did not condescend totrim his Fife speech to the gentility of some of his colleagues.The Bench had made his appearance more decorous, for there was nofault to be found with his full-cut black coat and well-shapedtrousers, and the white neckcloth which was voluminous in anelder fashion. But he had the heavy bent shoulders of acountryman who was much on horseback, and the ruddy cheeks of aman who was much in the east wind. Sixty years of age--seemingmore, for his once raven locks were prematurely white, and histhick brows hung like the eaves of a snowdrift. The contrast ofthe venerable hair with a face the hue of a vintage port, inwhich were set two brilliant dark eyes, gave him an air ofmasterful vitality. His repute as a lawyer was high, but higherstill as a man of affairs, for he was known to be Lord Snowdoun'schief adviser, and many believed him to be the real Minister forScotland. In private he had a name for good talk, for he was afriend of Walter Scott, a light of the Friday Club, and, afterLord Newton, the best judge of claret in the New Town. A Tory ofthe old rock, there were no politics in his private life, for hewas said to be happier pricking philosophic bubbles with JohnPlayfair or Dugald Stewart, discussing the laws of taste withFrancis Jeffrey, or arguing on antiquarian points with ThomasThomson than in the company of the ponderous lairds and sleekWriters to the Signet who shared his own faith.

He greeted Mr Lammas with a gusty friendliness. A servant wasat his heels as if waiting for orders.

"You have left your mails at Ramage's, Professor? Away downwith you, John, and have them moved to the Tappit Hen, which willbe more convenient for the coach. It leaves precisely at teno'clock, which does not allow you and me any too much time."

"I had bespoken a seat in to-morrow's Quicksilver," Mr Lammasbegan, but a wave of his lordship's hand cut him short.

"I know, I know, but I have taken the liberty to disposeotherwise. You'll agree, when you have heard what I have to tell.You'll travel by his Majesty's Mail, the Fly-by-Night, and notcramp your legs and get your death of cold in Gibbie Robison'sauld daily hearse. Away, John, and see that all is in order.Meantime we'll get to our meat. The owercome says that it's illspeaking between a full man and a fasting, but two fasting menare worse at a crack, and you and I have much to say to eachother. Follow me, for dinner is on the table, and thecockie-leekie will be cooling. My cook is a famous hand atit."

Mr Lammas descended to a gloomy apartment looking out on astrip of bleaching-green. The curtains were undrawn, thoughcandles had been lit on the table and an oil-lamp on thesideboard. The walls were in shadow except the one opposite thewindow, where hung a picture of a fair-haired girl, one of MrRaeburn's happiest efforts, which Mr Lammas took to be thelong-dead Mrs Kinloch. A small coal-fire burned in the grate, atwhich three uncorked bottles of claret were warming. The host sathimself in a chair with his back to the window, and the guesttook the place adjacent to the fire.

His lordship said grace.

"A glass of sherry with the soup? It prepares the way for itsnobler brother, Professor, even as Saul preceded the Psalmist. Ihope you are a claret-drinker, which every true Scot should be.Once it was the beverage of our people--my father minded wellwhen it was cried through the town of Stirling at six shillingsScots the chopin. Now, alack! there are gentlemen's boards whereyou never see it. Too many of this degenerate age confinethemselves to port, like the French Navy when Lord Nelson was onthe seas. . . . You took ship from Kirkcaldy? What like were thelambs as you came through the East Neuk? You would pass withintwo miles of the Kinloch gates. It is my grief that the sittingof the courts prevents me being with my herds at this season ofthe herds' harvest, for you must know, Professor, that I'm likeCato the Censor,agricolarum voluptatibus incredibiliterdelector. I would sooner fill my mouth with hoggs and weddersthan with sasines and cautioners.

"And how's my hopeful son?" he went on, when Mr Lammas hadexhausted his scanty agricultural knowledge. "You don't wheep atcollege? Pity that, for Jock, though he is eighteen years ofage--no, he is past nineteen--would be often the better of awell-warmed backside."

"He is a young man for whom I profess an extreme partiality.His talents are considerable, his heart is warm, and he deportshimself--"

"Ay, his deportment?"

"As decorously as can be expected from young blood."

"I am glad to hear you say so." His lordship cocked asceptical eyebrow. "I wish the partiality you speak of may notblind you to Jock's failings. The lad's like a jack-o'-lanthorn.He's all I possess, and I would have him follow me and wear anadvocate's gown, like four generations of Kinlochs. He'll ayehave the kitchen-midden in Fife to fall back on if he finds theParliament House thrawn. But his head is a wasp's byke formaggots. Now he would be a soldier, now he's for off abroad tosee the world, and again he would be a fine gentleman and cockhis beaver among his betters. There's still more yeast thanwheaten flour in yon loaf. . . . But I did not bring you here tospeak of son John. Till Dickson draws the cloth I have a word tosay to you on the St Andrews business that takes you south. Ihave prepared a small memorial to guide you, and I have sent ascart of the pen to Lord Snowdoun to advise him of my views."

For the rest of the meal Mr Lammas listened to a cogentsummary of the points in the University's case for presentationto the authorities of the Exchequer. Then the butler removed thetable-cloth, placed two massive decanters, one of claret and oneof brown sherry, a dish of nuts and a platter of biscuits on theshining mahogany, put coals on the fire, drew the curtains, littwo more candles on the mantelpiece, and left the room. LordMannour turned his chair towards the hearth.

"Now we'll get to the real business of this sederunt," hesaid. "What I brought you here for is no University concern. It'ssomething a deal more important than that. It's nothing less thanthe credit of a noble family and the future of an unhappy youth.Have you folk in St Andrews heard of a certain young lady whobides not a hundred miles from you--Miss Christian Evandale, ofBalbarnit?"

"I saw her park wall this very morning. Yes, I have heard ofher, though I have not seen her."

"She is a year younger than my Jock, and the two were bairnstogether. Old Balbarnit left me her sole trustee, and it's nolight charge to have in trust youth and siller. For I would haveyou know that Miss Christian is the best dowered lass in thekingdom of Fife."

"She has beauty also, I gather. Your son has talked to me ofher beauty."

"The devil he has!" His lordship gathered his brows. "I've hada notion that Jock was airting that way. The idiot will only burnhis fingers, for it is not to be permitted. I would be indeed afaithless curator if I abused my position by seeking an advantagefor my son. In this matter I will be the Roman father. Kirstywill make the brawest match in Scotland, and one that consortswith her looks and her fortune. Indeed, it is already made in allbut name, and the fortunate man is one whom you are acquaintedwith, Professor--the young Lord Belses, no less."

"What does the lady say?"

"The lady is a wise woman, and by no means disinclined to ahigh destiny. Why should she be averse to espouse rank andcomeliness? I have seen the lad a dozen times and he's likePhoebus Apollo."

"Is he willing--my young lord?"

The brows unbent, and Lord Mannour's face was wrinkled in awry smile.

"Acu rem tetigisti. In plain English, that's the devilof it. Dismiss Miss Kirsty from your mind, for I introduced heronly that you should be fully seized of the whole matter. I havehad a deal to do with my Lord Snowdoun over public affairs, forwhen he is invalided with the gout the Lord President takes overmuch of the conduct of Scots business, and I am his lordship'sright hand. Likewise this affair of Kirsty brought me often, asher trustee, into consultation, for I may tell you the Snowdounfamily ardently desires the match. Therefore I have heard much ofLord Belses, and had him much in my mind, and now his father hasopened his heart to me. That's why I bade you here to-night. Iwould speak to you, not as Questor and Professor of St Andrews,but as Anthony Lammas, umquhile governor to Lord Belses and, itmay be presumed, with some influence over him. For, let me tellyou, your young friend is ploughing a dangerous rig."

Lord Mannour held his glass so that the firelight made it aglowing ruby. He cocked his eye at it, sipped the wine for amoment in silence, and then swung round to his companion.

"He's riding a rough ford, and if you and I cannot help himacross, then by God he is down the burn and away with it. . . .Fill your glass, Professor, for it's with you that the heavy endof this job must rest. My Lord Snowdoun was here last week and wetook counsel together, and the gist of our discussion was thatthe key to the perplexity was just yourself. It seems that thelad cherishes a liking for you, and a respect which unhappily hedoes not feel for his natural parent. We concluded that you werethe only man alive that might correct his waywardness."

"It's more than three years since I saw him, and his letterslately have been few."

"Nevertheless, you are much in his mind. He quotes you--quotesyou to the confusion of his mentors. Your tongue must whiles havewagged unwisely when you had the lad in charge."

Mr Lammas blushed. "I was younger then, and I may have spokensometimes with the thoughtlessness of youth. . . . But I beg you,my lord, to put me out of suspense. What ill has befallen my dearHarry?"

"Your dear Harry has been playing the muckle gowk. That's theplain Scots of it. I will read you the counts in the indictment.In fairness, let me say that from some foibles of youth he seemsto be notably free. He does not gamble, which is so much thebetter for a family that has scarcely the means to support itsrank and its deserts. He is temperate, and at no time is eitherebrius, ebriolus or ebriosus, as old Gardenstone used toput it. Maybe it would have been better for all concerned if hehad birled the bottle and rattled the dice like the rest. No, buthe has taken up with more dangerous pastimes. His father was illadvised enough to let him travel abroad after Oxford, without adouce companion such as yourself. There's just the one capacityin which a man should cross the Channel in these days, and that'sas an officer of Lord Wellington's. Well, it seems that inforeign parts he picked up some Jacobin nonsense, and now that heis back he has been airing his daft-like politics to the scandalof honest folk."

"I am amazed," Mr Lammas cried. "Harry had a most sober andjudicious mind."

"Well, he has lost it, and I think I can put my finger on thereason why. I care not a bodle if a young gentleman flings hisheels and is a wee bit wild in his conversation. He is onlyblowing off the vapours of youth, and will soon settle down to bea 'sponsible citizen. But in this case there is more behind it.Lord Belses has found an aider and abetter. He is tied to thepetticoat tails of a daft wife."

"A wife! He is married then? . . ."

"No, no. There's no marriage. I used our vernacular term forthe other sex when we would speak of it without respect. Wife,but not his. She may be a widow, for I cannot just recollect ifher husband is still alive. His name is Cranmer, and he is--orwas--an ill-conditioned Northumberland squire. Hungrygrain is hisestate, in Yonderdale, on the backside of Cheviot. She is young,and by all accounts she is not ill-favoured, and she has boundthe poor boy to her with hoops of iron."

"Is she his mistress?"

"God knows! I jalouse not, for it seems that she is anenthusiast in religion as she is a Jacobin in politics. There'sno more dangerous creature on earth than a childless woman whotakes up with matters too high for her. There's some modicum ofsense left in the daftest man, but there's none in a daft hussy.It seems that poor Harry is fair besotted--will hear no word ofill about her--follows her like a shadow--sits at her feet toimbibe the worst heresies anent Church and State--an anxiety tohis family and a disgrace to his rank. What do you think of yourumquhile pupil, Professor?"

"I think--I do not know what to think--I am deeplydistressed."

"And that is not the worst of it, and here I come to thegravamen of the business. The woman not unnaturally bears an illname among decent folk. Things are said of her, gossip flies,evil is spoken which is maybe not always well-founded. The youngbloods make free with her repute, for her drunken husband, if heis still in life, is no kind of a protector. So what does ourbrave Harry do? Out he comes as her champion. Whoever says oneword against Mrs Cranmer, or even cocks a critical eyebrow, willhave to settle with him. That is his proclamation to the world.There is one young fellow--not so young, for they tell me he is aman of thirty--who is especially free with his tongue. It comesto my lord Harry's ear, who in a public place asks him to repeatit, and, when he is obliged, gives him the lie direct and gets acartel for his pain. The man--I have his name--one Sir TurnourWyse--is furious, and promises, as my father used to say, toknock the powder out of his lordship's wig. With that the fat isfairly in the fire. It seems that this Wyse is a truculentfellow, so there is no chance of a settlement. Further, he is anoted pistol-shot, and has already accounted for three men in thecool of the morning."

"They have not fought?" Mr Lammas quavered.

"Not yet, for steps have been taken to prevent their meeting.Lord Belses has been impounded by his family and is under lockand key. Sir Turnour Wyse has posted him as a coward and isranging the earth in quest of him. The belief is that Harry hascome to Scotland, and the mad baronet is after him like a whippetafter a hare. But, let me tell it in your ear, the lad is cannilyin London under duress, and there he must remain till he isbrought to a better mind. If he meets this Wyse he has not onechance in a thousand, and a young life must not be sacrificed tofolly. So to London you must go, and this very night, for anyhour may bring a tragedy."

"But what am I to do?"

"Reason with him. Free him from the toils of that accursedbaggage. No doubt the trouble with Wyse can be settled withoutdisgrace if the lad will only show a little sense. You are thelast hope of his worthy father--and of me that has Kirsty'sinterests in charge. The credit of a great house is at stake,and, what is more important for you, the future of one youlove."

"But if he will not be guided by me?"

"Then you must try other ways. You must conspire with LordSnowdoun to achieve by force what cannot be won by argument. Youmust be the bait to entice the lad somewhere where he will be outof mischief. Have no fear, Professor. This is your supreme duty,and Lord Snowdoun and I will set it right with your Senatus, eventhough St Andrews should not see you for many a day. Whatevermoney you need will be at your disposal. I have written down herethe address in London to which you will go, and where LordSnowdoun will give you full instructions. I place much on yourwise tongue and the old kindness between the two of you. If thesefail, there is the other way I have hinted at. There's plenty ofwild country for hidyholes between the Channel and the PentlandFirth. St Kilda has not had a tenant since Lord Grange spiritedaway his thrawn auld wife."

Lord Mannour had talked himself into confidence and goodtemper.

"You'll be thinking it strange that I, a Senator of theCollege of Justice, should counsel violent doing to a minister ofthe Kirk. If that's in your mind, let me tell you that both inlaw and in religion there is a debatable land not subject to thecommon rules. I ask you to do nothing which can conceivably beagainst your conscience. For myself, as a student of the law ofRome, I am strong for thepatria potestas, and that Jockknows to his cost."

"What is in my mind," said Mr Lammas, whose countenance wastroubled, "is that I am not the man for such a task. How can I, ahumble scholar and provincial, hope to influence a dweller in thegreat world? I am not even familiar with its language."

"Maybe, no. But when you get down to the bit, thosediscrepancies will count for little. Supposing it's a cadger'sbeast against a racehorse. As my father used to say, though onegoes farther on the road in five minutes than the other does inan hour, they will commonly stable together at night. It's theend of the journey that matters."

Mr Lammas passed a hand over his eyes.

"I am deeply distressed--and sore perplexed. My affection forHarry obliges me to do all that is in my power for his succour,but I am lamentably conscious that that all is but little."

"Tut, man! Why make such a poor mouth about it? You areover-modest. I tell you that I have for some time had my eye uponyou, and Lord Snowdoun has had his eye upon you, and we are bothconvinced of your competence. Maybe you lack something, but youare the best available. You have years enough and learning enoughto ballast you, and you are young enough to talk to youth in itsown tongue. My ne'er-do-well Jock, if he were here, would nodoubt bear me out on this latter point, for you are the one manhe speaks of with decent respect. . . . Here's Grierson with thetoddy-bowl. We'll drink a rummer to your success, and then youmust take the road."

The butler set on the mahogany a mighty tray with thematerials for punch--a china bowl, a pot-bellied flagon of whiskywith a silver stopper, two tall glasses, a kettle of hot water, abag of lemons and a dish of broken sugar-loaf. There was also aletter, which Lord Mannour, thinking it some ordinary missive onlegal business, at first disregarded. He brewed the toddy to histaste, filled the two glasses, and handed one to his guest.

"Here's to you," he said. "The toast is success to honesty andconfusion to folly."

But he set down his rummer untasted, for his eye had caughtthe superscription on the letter. With an exclamation he tore itopen, and as he read it his black brows came together.

"God ha' mercy!" he cried. "This is from Lord Snowdoun--byspecial messenger--the man must have flown, for it's dated onlytwo days back. Harry has broken bounds and disappeared, and theyhave no notion of his whereabouts. . . . Here's a bonny tangle toredd up!"

"Do my instructions still hold?" Mr Lammas asked timidly, forhis lordship's formidable face was very dark.

"More than ever," was the fierce answer. "But there's thisdiffer, that you must find the lad first before you can reasonwith him. There's just the one duty before you, to get on to hisscent like a hound with a tod. . . . Finish your glass, and beoff with you. My man's waiting to lead you to the coach. Whateverwit and wisdom there is in your head you must bend to thisgrievous task. The day after the morn you'll be with LordSnowdoun, and after that may God prosper you!"

Mr Lammas rose, but not heavily or dispiritedly. This lastpiece of news had mysteriously altered his outlook. Youth hadrisen in him as it had risen the night before under the Aprilsky. He felt himself called, not to a duty, but to anadventure.

The mood carried him with long strides to the hostelry of theTappit Hen, Lord Mannour's man John being forced to trot at hisside. The moon had scarcely risen, but the narrow street wasbright with stable lanterns and the great head-lights andtail-lights of a coach. The Fly-by-Night, carrying his Majesty'smails, seemed to Mr Lammas's country eye but a frail vessel inwhich to embark on a long journey. Its crimson undercarriage andthe panels which bore the royal arms glowed like jewels in thelantern light, for the polish was like that of a Dutch cabinet.The horses were being put to it, with a great clatter of hooveson the cobbles, but with none of the babble of stable-boys whichattended the setting out of the St Andrews diligence. This was ahigh ceremonial, performed with speed and silence.

Not more than three outside passengers were permitted on aroyal mail, and Mr Lammas, having seen his baggage stowed in theboot, climbed to the box seat. Thence he looked down upon a scenewhich filled him with romantic expectation. The coachman, who wasin royal livery--so he must have had long service behind him--andhad the best brushed boots and the best tied cravat that MrLammas had ever seen, was a little rosy man with a hat nicelycocked on one side of a great head. He drank a glass of somecordial which a maid from the inn presented to him on a silversalver, chucked the girl under the chin, and then walked to thehorses' heads, inspecting critically the curb chains and thecoupling reins, and taking particular note that the tongues ofthe billet-buckles were secure in their holes. A second passengerarrived for the outside, also a little man, in a top-coat whichenveloped his ears, and sat himself on one of the two roof seats.Then appeared the inside party, two ladies so shawled and scarfedthat nothing could be seen of their faces, and with them whatseemed to be their servant, who joined Mr Lammas on theoutside.

The coachman claimed to his box with the reins looped over onearm, settled himself comfortably, caught the thong of his whipthree times round the stick, and cried a word to the ostlers.These stood back from the leaders, and the beautiful creatures,young beasts nearly thoroughbred, flung up their heads as theywere given the office and plunged forward up to their bits, tillthe weight of the heavier wheelers steadied them and brought themback to their harness. The little crowd cheered, the guard played"Oh, dear, what can the matter be?" on a key bugle, and, almostbefore Mr Lammas was aware, the cobbles of Edinburgh and its lastfaubourgs were behind him, and he was being carried briskly alongthe new south road.

The coachman attended strictly to his business till they weresome miles from the city and moving between fresh-ploughed fieldsand a firth now silvered by moonlight. He then screwed his headand had a look at the two others behind. The prospect did notseem to please him. "Japanned! The whole dam lot of 'em!" hemurmured. "And me that looked for the Baronet! Devilish poor lotto kick." After that he sunk his head into his cravat, and hisfurther conversation was addressed to his leaders.

"He means," said a voice from behind, "that we're allministers of the Kirk, and are not likely to fee him well."

Mr Lammas turned and observed his two companions. The one whohad spoken was so small that his travelling coat made him looklike a mole emerging from its burrow. The moon showed his faceclearly--one of those faces in which an unnaturally square chinand unnaturally tight lips lose their effect from prominentgoggle eyes. The other was a taller fellow with a lugubriouscountenance and a thick white comforter round his throat. Sinceall three of them wore dark travelling coats the coachman'sassumption was not unreasonable.

"Are you a minister, sir, if I may make bold to speir?" askedthe man who had first spoken. He had a rich consequential voice,which put a spice of dignity into his inquisitiveness.

"I am a minister, but I have no charge." Mr Lammas was in toofriendly a mood to the world to resent questions.

"Stickit?"

"No, placed, but not in any parish. I am a professor."

"Keep us! On the divinity side?"

"No. My chair is philosophy. My name is Lammas."

The other repeated it with respect. "Lammas! And aphilosopher! Had you been a theologian I would have kenned thename. Well, sir, since we're to be company for the livelong nightwe may as well be friends. My name is Dott, Duncan Dott, and I'mthe town-clerk of the ancient and royal burgh of Waucht."

"A most honourable office," said Mr Lammas cordially.

"You may say so. Honourable but laborious. If I were to tellyou the battles I've had to fight on behalf of the commongood--the burgh lands and the pontage over the Waucht water--thewrestling with oppressive lairds--the constant strife over cessand fess and market dues and the minister's treinds--gudesakes,Professor, you'd be content with your own canny lot. But it's noton burgh business that I'm now on the road, for I'm likewise awriter and have the factoring of two or three kittleestates."

He checked himself, as if he felt that discretion demanded nofurther revelations. But his curiosity was still active.

"I wonder who the two inside passengers may be--the two womenrowed up like bolsters. . . . And can we have the favour of yourname, friend?" he asked, turning to the third man.

The answer came in a melancholy voice out of the folds of thewoollen muffler.

"Ye're welcome. My name is Pitten--Ebenezer Pitten--at leastthat is what I gang by. Properly it should be Pittendreich, likemy father afore me and a' my kin Dunfermline way. But MissGeorgie will not hae it. 'Ye're a dreich enough body,' she says,'without stickin' dreich at the end of your name. Forbye,' shesays, 'it's ower long to cry about the house.' So Pitten I'vebeen thae ten years, and I've near forgotten ony other. . . . Yespeir wha the two leddies are? Weel, I can tell ye, for I'm naeless than their butler. The younger--but ye'd not ken thedifference, for, as ye justly observe, they are both rowed uplike bolsters--the younger is my mistress, Miss ChristianEvandale, of Balbarnit, well kenned for the bonniest andbest-tochered young leddy in the kingdom of Fife. And the otheris just her auntie that bides with her, Miss Georgina Kinethmont,her that insists on calling me out o' my baptism name."

"I've heard tell of Miss Evandale," said Mr Dott respectfully."The clash is that all the lads in Fife and Angus and the feck ofthe Lothians are after her. She's bonny, you say?"

"Abundantly weel-favoured."

"And rich?"

"Fourteen thousand acres of guid farming land, and feus in adozen burgh-towns, forbye a wecht o' siller in the bank."

"And an ancient family, no doubt?"

"No her. That is to say, no on her father's side, though hermother's folk the Kinethmonts are weel enough come. Her fatherwas the son of auld Nicholas Ebbendaal, the Hollander that owneda' the Dundee whalers. He left his son awesome riches, andnaething would serve that son but that he maun tak the siller outof ships and put it intil land, and set up as a laird. Ebbendaalwasna considered gentrice enough, so he changed it to Evandale,when he bought Balbarnit from the drucken lad that was the lasto' the auld Metlands. 'Deed ye can see the Hollander in MissKirsty for a' her denty ways. I wadna put it by her to be a weething broad in the beam when she grows aulder, like a Rotterdambrig."

"You've an ill-scraped tongue," said Mr Dott.

"No me. I'm an auld and tried servant o' the family, and I kenmy place, but among friends I can open my mind. I've saidnaething against Miss Kirsty. She's mindfu' and mensefu' and asbonny as a simmer day."

"What like's her auntie, Miss what-d'ye-call her?"

Mr Pitten's voice sank, and he looked nervously round him."Speak not evil of dignitaries," he answered, "lest the birds ofthe air carry it. But them inside will no hear me with the rummleo' this coach. Miss Georgie"--his voice sank lower--"is a brawmanager and a grand heid for business, but she is like the upperand the nether millstone. She's a great woman, but an awfu' one,and she has a tongue in her heid that would deafen the solans.The best place for her would be wi' the sodgers, for I wagershe'd fricht Bonyparte if she ever won near him."

They were rolling along a flat road close to the shore, andthe easy motion predisposed Mr Lammas's companions to sleep. Thefirst change of horses was accomplished with the precision of amilitary movement and in not more than sixty seconds. "Behold,"said Mr Lammas to himself, "how use creates skill, and skillhabit." After that Mr Dott seemed to sink inside his great-coat,like a mole going back to earth, and his steady breathing,accompanied by an occasional gurgle, soon proclaimed that he wasasleep. The Balbarnit butler presently followed suit, snoringportentously, with his mouth open and his head wagging over thecoach's side. The noise caught the coachman's ear, and, when heobserved that Mr Lammas was alone wakeful, he showed himselfinclined to conversation.

"Let 'em snore," he said. "They'll be shook up and wakenedright enough on Kitterston hill. Was I right? Are all three o'you japanned?"

"You were wrong. I am the only one in holy orders, and I amnot a minister but a professor."

The other brooded over this information, and seemed to bepuzzled.

"Professor," he said. "They 'ave 'em in Oxford, but you're notthat breed. The only others I know of are the professors thatcure corns and rheumatiz at the fairs. There was one at Mitcham,I mind, that had a crown piece off me and left me lamer nor aduck. That your line o' country?"

"No," said Mr Lammas. "I am a professor of philosophy."

The coachman grinned.

"I'll shake hands with you on that. A philosopher--that's whatthey callsme. 'George Tolley,' they says, 'you're aphilosopher and no mistake. You always comes up smilin'. Never agrumble from you, George. And the philosophic way you handlesyour cattle is a fair treat to be'old.' So we're two of a trade,you and me, though we works different roads. How long have youbeen at it? Three years? It's thirty-seven years come Ladydaysince I first took up the ribbons and started in onphilosophy."

Mr Lammas asked if he had always driven the Royal Mail.

"Lord bless you, no. They don't let any amateur serve hisMajesty. The Mail, as you might say, is the last stage for aphilosopher. I began when I was a nipper as stable-boy atBadminton, with the old Dook. Then I was allowed to take a 'andwith his Grace's private coach, and then for four years I drovethe Beaufort back and forward from Gloucester to the Bull andMouth. After that I come north, and took the York Express fromLeeds to London. One hunner and ninety-six miles, and I have doneit in sixteen hours. It's them north-country roads as larns youyour job, for any ordinary tidy whip can push along the BrightonAge or the Bristol Triumph. It's nussin' horses that's thephilosophy of coachin'--not, as young bloods think, the knack offlicking a fly off a leader's ear. Just you watch," said MrTolley. "That off leader there is a bit too fresh. What does I dowith him?"

The horse in question was fretting and fidgeting, and suddenlybroke into a canter which upset the balance of the team. MrTolley promptly pulled in the wheelers, with the result that theleaders also were held back and made to feel the collar.

"A young spark," he said, "would have tried to pull him up bythe bit, and would ha' made him wuss by bringin' him back on thebar. I pulls him up by his harness, all as sweet as sugar. That'swhat I means by philosophy."

Mr Lammas was a willing pupil in this novel branch of hissubject. He asked the inevitable question. There were manyamateur drivers abroad, gentlemen who owned their own coaches, orfor a hobby drove a stage. How did such compare with theregulars?

It was a subject on which Mr Tolley felt deeply, but, being aphilosopher, he was a just man. With his whip hand he rubbed hissmooth chin.

"That ain't easy to answer. The college boys that drives theOxford and Cambridge stages are of no particular account, thoughsome of 'em larns the job in time. And there's heaps o' gentlemenas can make a pretty show with four nicely matched tits past HydePark Corner that I wouldn't trust for ser'ous work. But there'sno doubt that the gentleman when he sets his mind to it makes afine whip, for he does for love what me and my likes does forhire, and love helps any game. Besides, he has eddication, andcan think about things and find the reasons for 'em, while myphilosophy is just what God Almighty has larned me by 'ardknocks. But Lord save us! some of 'em are terrible pernickety.They've mostly all got some fad, and I've 'ad gentlemen comelecturin' me about 'aving a short wheel rein, and fastening thebuckles of my ribbons, and sich like. 'You may be right, mylord,' I says, very polite, but under my breath I says, 'Go andteach your grandma.'"

"The best?" Mr Tolley continued reflectively. "Well, there wasa Scotch gentleman, Captain Barclay, that drove this very Mailall the four hundred miles from Edinbro' to London. But I don'treckon 'im a finished whip, more what they calls a 'Ercules. Butthere's three--four--yes, five gentlemen I allows to be my equal,and the equal of any professional coachman that ever drew ongloves. There's Sir John Fagg in Kent. In Oxfordshire there's SirHenry Peyton with his greys, and Mr Harrison with his browns.There's Mr Warde as works from Warwickshire into Shropshire, andMr John Walker down Sussex way. Them five I calls my equals, butthere's one gentleman to whom I gives best every time. Whateverstakes he enters for George Tolley withdraws, for he knows hismaster. And that gent is Sir Turnour Wyse, Baronet, of WoodRising 'All, in the county of Norfolk. Well I knows the name, forhe sends my missus a brace of pheasants every Christmas."

Mr Lammas started.

"Sir Turnour Wyse! I did not know that he was a famouswhip."

"Well, you know now. The famousest! A pink! An out-and-outer,"cried Mr Tolley enthusiastically. "He sometimes travels with me,and then I keeps my ears open to pick up what I can. Not that he'asn't his fads. Short wheel reins--that's the wust of 'em. I sawhim this very day in Edinbro', and I was hopin' to have himsittin' to-night where you're sittin'. But if he's comin' southit'll likely be in his own chaise."

Mr Lammas's eyes were growing heavy, and this the coachmanobserved. "We'll dry up now," he said, "and you'd best have anap. We're comin' into hilly ground, and will have to slackendown a bit. In three hours we'll be at Berwick, where you'll geta glass of summat, and at Newcastle you'll have your bellyful ofbreakfast."

So Mr Lammas dozed uneasily, and woke up to find the Mailhalted at an inn for a change of horses. The little cold windwhich precedes the dawn was blowing, and he drew the collar ofhis coat about his ears. A light fog, too, was rolling up fromthe sea, which blanketed the ground, but left the inn gables anda tall tree sticking out in a dim grey half-light. He found MrTolley in a bad temper.

"This cussed fog," he grumbled. "Wuss than black darkness, forthe lights don't show. I wouldn't mind it if we 'ad decent narrowroads atween 'edges, but this stage is mostly in the open, andwhat's to hinder us from bumpin' into loose cattle. Likewisethese new quads are not up to the mark, and I'll be shot if Idon't report Mackutcheon for bad hosses. It ain't the first timehe's done it. Them wheelers is too small and weak for Kitterstonhill, and we can't slow down, for we're behind time already. AndI'll be shot if that near leader 'asn't 'ad the megrims. I don'tlike the stiff neck of him, and the way he's snatchin' at hiscollar."

Sunrise was not far off, but the mist dimmed the firstpremonition of it from the east, and though the nostrils smeltdawn the eyes were still in night. The morning was windless,except for tiny salt airs that rose like exhalations from theabyss on the left which was the sea. The road had become a sortof switchback among shallow glens, and the befogged lamps showedthat it was bounded by no paling or hedge or drystone dyke, butmarched directly with bent and heather. Curlews were beginning tocall like souls lost in the brume. They reminded Mr Lammas ofspring days at Snowdoun under the Ochils and at Catlaw inTweeddale; they also reminded him of his former pupil and hisdifficult errand, and so drove out the last dregs of sleep. Heobserved that his companions were also awake. Mr Dott's head hademerged like a turtle from his overcoat, and he was blinking andsniffing the raw air, while the Balbarnit butler, yawningextravagantly, was searching in some inner pocket for snuff.

The easy motion of the earlier hours had gone, and Mr Tolleyseemed to have his hands full with his horses, and to bedisinclined for conversation. As compared with the ordinarystage-coach the Mail was lightly laden; nevertheless, with fivepassengers and much baggage, it carried a full burden for itsmake. The horsing at the last halt had not been good--even MrLammas's unpractised eye could see that. The wheelers were smalland light and moved badly together, and the off one, when he feltthe weight behind pressing on him, was inclined to break into acanter. The near leader, a weedy bay with poor shoulders, seemedto be only half broken, for it kept its head jerked away from itspartner, and was perpetually shouldering the pole. In thesecircumstances the driver's tactics were to force the pace, takingmost of the short descents at a gallop and thereby acquiringmomentum for the next hill. The speed was exhilarating, but itwas also nerve-shaking, for the coach swayed ominously, and atone hill with a crook in it Mr Lammas was convinced that theywere over.

Mr Dott was nervous.

"I don't like it," he muttered between his clenched teeth."These are awesome hills if that fog would let us see them--I'vetravelled this road before--and it would have been wiser-like tohave had a lock-wheel or a drag chain instead of taking each braeas if it was the finish of Musselburgh races. What the--!"

His words were jerked out of him like squeaks from a bladder."Forgive me, but this will betray me into profane swearing. Hey,coachman--driver--are you determined to break all our necks?"

Mr Tolley disdained to answer, but after the fourth or fifthappeal he condescended to address Mr Lammas.

"Best way with this raw stuff is to sweat it, and in fiveminutes we'll have Kitterston hill behind us. Keep an easy mind,sir, for I've 'andled wuss cattle on wuss roads. We'd 'avedaylight if only this blasted fog would lift."

Presently they topped a rise, and after a hundred yards on theflat the road seemed to tilt forward into an immense trough ofshadow. It did not take Mr Dott's fervent "It's Kitterston--Godbe kind to us" to tell Mr Lammas that they were descending noordinary hill. Close to the top there was a patch of specialsteepness which brought the coach's weight down upon the wheelersand set them cantering. Mr Tolley whipped the canter into agallop, and, swaying sickeningly at the corners, they rocketeddown into the abyss. Mr Lammas felt an awful exhilaration, fornever had he known movement so swift and so mysterious. He sattight, clutching the handrail, his feet braced against thefoot-board, while from his companions behind came little noisesthat may have been prayers. Mr Tolley knew his job, for even inwhat seemed a reckless gallop he steered a course. The surface ofthe road was hard hill gravel on which the wheels scarcely bit,but on the left side was a rut of softer ground, and by keepingthe coach's near wheels there he made it act like a brake.

The fog thinned as they descended. Presently Mr Lammasrealised that they were over the worst, for he felt the gradientlessen and saw the road sweep before them in a gentler slope.They must be nearing the bottom, and at the bottom there would bea stream, and either a ford or a bridge. Once they were past thewater hazard they could breathe freely. . . . Then, as the vapourthinned he realised that it was actually daylight. The sun wasshowing through the cotton-wool layers, and the smell of the seacame with a pungent freshness. His spirits rose, his mouth shapeditself to whistling, and he was embarking on "Dunbarton's Drums,"when he saw something which froze the music on his lips. For inthe vanishing fog the road had cleared right to the valleybottom, and there, not ten yards off, was a flock of sheep, whichhad drifted down from the moor and were taking their ease on theKing's highway.

Mr Tolley saw it too, for he rose in his seat and endeavouredto pull up his team. It was too late, for the galloping leaderswere into the flock. They both fell, the main bar unhooked, andthe wheelers were on the top of them. The coach lurched, slewedround as the wheelers swung sharp to the right, and then with aviolent grating and creaking bowed forward into a shallow ditch.Mr Tolley did not lose his seat, and Mr Dott and the butler kepttheirs by a desperate clutch on the rail, but Mr Lammas, who hadgot to his feet in readiness to jump clear, was catapulted by theshock into a bush of heather.

He picked himself up, shaken but with unbroken bones, andhurried back to the place of disaster. There he was the witnessof a wild spectacle. The leaders were wallowing under thesplinter-bar and Mr Tolley was struggling to disengage them,while the guard dealt with the half-frantic wheelers. Barring cutknees the horses seemed to have taken no harm, but the pole ofthe coach had snapped. Mr Dott, still on the roof, wasinvestigating a brown leather satchel to see that his papers weresafe, and the butler was descending with difficulty to resume hisduties. For his two ladies had emerged from the coach's interior,and one, who was still masked and shawled like a highwayman, wasfilling the morning air with her complaints. The other, who hadrid herself of her cloak, revealed a very pretty face under agreen travelling hat. "Hold your tongue, Aunt Georgie," she wassaying. "There is no harm done. You're screaming like a seagullover nothing."

Suddenly beside the wrecked Mail there drew up anothervehicle, also coming from the north. It was a curious make ofchaise, very broad, with a dicky behind it; it had a pole insteadof the usual shafts, and it was drawn by two cobs who seemed tohave come fast and far. In the dicky sat a servant in a darklivery, and the driver was a tall man, who wore a white beaverand one of the massive frieze coats called dreadnoughts. He wason the ground in a second, and strode to the struggling Mr Tolleyat the coach's head. He seemed to know his work, for he unbuckledcertain straps and helped to get the leaders on to their feet,quieting the near one with curious pattings and strokings. Thenhe cast an eye over the broken pole and the panting wheelers.

"You've made a pretty mess of it, George," he said. "I alwayswarned you what would happen."

The driver raised a furious red face, but one glance at thespeaker was enough to compose his features into respect. Hetouched the rim of his hat.

"'Twas bad hosses as done it, your honour," he grumbled. "Badhosses and them bloody sheeps."

"Bad horses be hanged and bloody sheep be crucified," was theanswer. "You hadn't control of your team or you could have pulledup in time. The fog has been lightening for twenty minutes--Iwatched it coming down the hill. It's the old story. If you hadhad short wheel reins and breechings to your harness, this neednever have happened. How often have I told you that?"

Mr Tolley would no doubt have made answer, but the tall mangave him no chance. "Bustle along, George," he said, "for hisMajesty's business can't wait. Let the guard--who isit?--Ribston?--take one of the wheelers and ride the four milesto Berwick, for the mails must be in time for the morningHighflyer. Take you the other wheeler and go hunt for asmith--that pole is smith's work--and put up the leaders at theinn here. They won't be fit for much for a week. Ribston willbring out fresh beasts, and you should be in Berwick by midday. .. . As for these gentlemen, my advice is that they look forbreakfast and then take a chaise to Berwick. Ah, you haveladies?" he added, as he caught sight of the two figures who werestriving with the shaken Mr Pitten. He advanced with hat in hand,and addressed the elder.

"Madam," he said, "I have the good fortune to be travellingthe same road. Can I have the felicity of serving you? I canoffer you two seats in my humble chariot, and my servant canassist yours in bringing on the baggage. I can promise you thatin half an hour I will turn you over to the chambermaids at theRed Lion."

Miss Georgie seemed about to raise difficulties and MissKirsty to make polite protests, but he smilingly ignored them.This was a man of action, for in three minutes the elder womanwas sitting at his side and the younger in the seat behind, hehad taken the reins, lifted his whip, and the cobs were trottingBerwick-wards. His orders about the coach, too, were beingexactly fulfilled. The leaders were limping to the inn stables inthe charge of Mr Tolley, and the guard, laden with mail bags, hadset forth on one of the wheelers. The other passengers, havingsecured their valises, were making shift to carry them to theinn, and the two servants were struggling with the ladies'baggage. As they reached the door, Mr Tolley was leaving on hisquest for a smith, and he shook hands ruefully with MrLammas.

"That was an accident as no mortal man could prevent," hedeclared. "He's wrong--you take my word for it--clean wrong. It'ad nothing to do with long wheel-reins or breechin' to the'arness. It was bad hosses and bloody sheeps. For all his wisdomhe 'as his megrims, just like that cussed near leader."

"Who was the gentleman?" Mr Lammas asked.

"Why, Sir Turnour Wyse, Baronet--him I was tellin' youabout."

With a preoccupied mind Mr Lammas entered the lobby of thelittle inn with its homely fragrance of new-kindled fires,oil-lamps and morning cooking, bowed to the smiling and flusteredlandlady, and heard Mr Dott order a generous breakfast. Thatcommanding figure in the dreadnought had strongly impressed him,and he marvelled at the way in which fate was speeding up hisexperience. Ten hours ago he had heard from Lord Mannour the nameof Sir Turnour Wyse as the main peril which threatened the youngman whom it was his mission to save; Mr Tolley on the coach hadspoken of him in worshipping accents; and now the man himself hadappeared, a god from a machine, looking, like some Homeric hero,larger than human in the morning fog. Most clearly destiny wastaking a hand in the game.

Horses could be provided, said the landlady. The gig had beenalready bespoken to carry the ladies' baggage and the servants,but the sociable was at the gentlemen's disposal and would beready as soon as Rob Dickson had had his brose and had caught theyoung mare. Again Mr Lammas had a delicious sense of being drawninto a new world. The short walk to the inn had been like a bathin cold water, for the mist was furling into airy corridors whichrevealed at their end the bluest of skies, and a great saltyfreshness was coming up from the sea. The bustle of the inn andthe demand for horses was like a sudden resurrection of hisboyhood. Also he was furiously hungry, and Mr Dott's command forfresh haddocks, eggs, and a brandered collop to follow had amplyinterpreted his desires.

Out from the parlour came the sound of lusty singing.

"Katie Beardie had a coo,
A' black about the moo,--
Wasna yon a denty coo!--
Dance, Katie Beardie."

He recognised both the voice and the song. He opened the doorto find Jock Kinloch taking his ease before the remnants of amutton ham.

There was nothing of the St Andrews secondar about Jock'sappearance. He wore a coarse, knitted woollen jersey, andmuch-stained nether garments, of which the ends were stuffed intoheavy sea-boots. His head was more tousled than ever, and theweather had given his complexion the ripeness of hisfather's.

"God be kind to us!" he cried. "Nanty!" And then he stopped,for he saw that a stranger was present and changed his address to"Professor." "You're a sight for sore eyes, but I never looked tomeet you here. I thought that at this moment you would be atRamage's taking your seat in the Quicksilver."

"I left last night with the Mail, and half an hour back we hada breakdown at the hill foot. May I present to you Mr DuncanDott, the town-clerk of the burgh of Waucht? This is Mr JohnKinloch, Mr Dott. You are no doubt familiar with his father'sname."

"Not Lord Mannour's son?" said Mr Dott, relaxing his tightjaws into a grin, and holding out a cordial hand. "Indeed I knowof your father, young sir, and what is more, in the old days Ihave often fee'd him, for he was the burgh's favourite counsel intheir bits of law business. Ay, and three months back he did us agreat service. The burgh had a plea against Dalitho the tanneranent his stink-pots on Waucht Green. We lost before the LordOrdinary--a most inequitable decision, but old Curlywee is longpast his best, but the Upper House gave it in our favour, andyour worthy father, sir, delivered a judgment which will long beremembered as the pure milk of the legal word. I'm honoured tomeet his son. . . . You'll take another bite of breakfast withus, for it's a snell morning."

"I'll have a cup of tea with you when the wife brings it, butI must get back to the boat. You say the Mail has spilt itself?That would be the clatter of horses I heard at the stable doorand took for the gaugers from Berwick."

"You haven't told me what brought you here," said Mr Lammas."I got a request from you on the Burntisland packet, and I neednot tell you that I obeyed it. But I thought you were atKinloch."

Jock winked mysteriously.

"I'm on a bit of a jaunt," he said. "I came down the coastyesterday with some friends of mine--friends of yours too,Professor."

"Where are you bound?"

Again Jock winked.

"That's telling. Maybe just to see the world, and get the finefresh air, and see the solans on the Bass."

"Who are your companions?"

"The best. Who but Bob Muschat, your old crony, and EbenGarnock himself."

Mr Lammas started. What took the Chief Fisher in such hastedown the Berwick shore, for Eben Garnock was a great man who didnot stir himself except for a good purpose. It could not befishing business, for the herrings were gone north towards theTay. And how came a new member of the brotherhood like JockKinloch to be taken thus early into the inner circle?

Jock's face had an unwonted gravity. "I would like a word withyou, Professor, before you go. Maybe I can do something for youand you for me."

At that moment an untidy kitchen-maid brought in the breakfastand plumped it on the table, and the landlady followed moreceremoniously with the tea-urn and a great jug of creamy milk.The travellers fell greedily upon the food, but Jock contentedhimself with a cup of tea and a new-baked scone. Conversationceased while the first pangs of hunger were being quieted.

But the peace was suddenly broken. A melancholy countenancepoked itself round a half-opened door. "We're for off"--it said,addressing Mr Lammas. "Is there onything I can do for you inBerwick? We'll be there long or you."

Jock Kinloch sprang to his feet.

"Pitten!" he cried. "Where on earth have you sprung from?"

The head came a little farther into the room.

"I've been delivered by the mercy of God from the miry pit.Have ye not heard, Mr Kinloch? The Mail coupit--or came near tocoupin'--at the foot o' Kitterston hill, and left the haleclanjamphry o' us on our flat feet. Nae blood spilt, the Lord bethankit, but such a stramash I never beheld."

"Butyou--What broughtyou here?"

"I was with my leddies--Miss Christian Evandale of Balbarnit,and her auntie, Miss Georgina Kinethmont. Well ye ken them, MrKinloch. We're off to London, and we have startit unco ill."

"The ladies! They took no hurt?"

"Not a bodle. They sat snug as mice in the inside o' thecoach, though Miss Georgie was wantin' somebody hangit for thebreakdown. Syne by comes a braw gentleman in a chaise, and hewhups the twasome awa' wi' him to Berwick. They're at the RedLion, and I'm followin' wi' their mails. I maun haste, or I'llget the ill-scrapit side o' Miss Georgie's tongue."

The head withdrew and Jock flung himself from the room inpursuit. Sounds of whispering and then of loud command were heardfrom the lobby. Jock returned with a fiery face and a sternpurpose in his eye.

"I'm off, Nanty," he said, forgetting the presence of Mr Dott."The wind's right and I'll get Eben to slip down in the boat, andI'll be there before Pitten in his old hearse of a gig. Kirsty introuble and me not beside her--the thing's not thinkable! You'recertain she wasn't hurt? Tell me, did you speak to her? Did youhear her plans?"

"Not I," said Mr Lammas. "She and her aunt were swathed likemummies in the inside, while I took the air on the box. All I sawof her was for three minutes this morning, and all I learned wasthat she had a pretty face."

"Never mind her looks. What like was the man who picked themup in his curricle?"

Mr Dott answered. "Well-favoured and well set-up andeverything handsome about him. A young Corinthian, I doubt, forhe seemed to know more about horseflesh than is becoming in a manwho does not make his living by it."

Jock groaned.

"I'll be obliged, Nanty, if you lose no time in getting toBerwick. I may be glad of your company there. If they and thatfellow are at the Red Lion, you had better go to the othershop--the King's Arms--about the middle of Hide Hill as you godown to the Sand Gate. Whether they take the Highflyer or apost-chaise, I must catch them before they leave. Meet me therein an hour's time."

Mr Dott looked after the departing figure with a reflectivesmile.

"A stirring lad," he decided, "with much of his father'sspunk. Love, I suppose. Calf-love."

"They were children together."

"All the more dangerous, and the more hopeless. The affectionof bairns is a poor foundation for a wooing, for the light femalemind wants something new. I would not give a groat for Mr Jock'schances, for they tell me that Miss Kirsty is like the lassie inthe song--wooers pulling at her from every airt. We'd better stirour shanks, Professor, for, besides our proper business, I wouldlike you to keep tryst with that young man."

Rob Dickson had eaten his brose and caught the mare, and thetwo embarked in an ancient vehicle which must have carried goodsas well as passengers, for it was floury with pease-meal andsmelt strongly of wool and tar. It was a cumbrous concern, andRob was a poor charioteer; also the young mare, just off thegrass, was both sluggish and capricious. She bored into the leftside of the road, took the hills at a dragging walk, and shiedfuriously at every stirk that put its head over the adjacentdykes. So their progress was erratic and slow, and both grewimpatient.

"This donnered animal will have you late for your tryst," saidMr Dott.

"It will make me miss the Highflyer," said Mr Lammas, "andthat I cannot afford to do."

"We're in too great a hurry nowadays," said Mr Dott. "It's anawful thing the speed of this modern world. When my father tookthe road it was on the outside of a beast, not in a varnishedcontrivance on wheels, and little it mattered to him, honest man,whether he was an hour late or a day late. But nowadays we mustscour the country as if the devil were behind us, and if there'sa crack in our perjink plans the whole edifice goes blaff.Bethankit that I go no farther than Berwick, so I'm near mygoal."

Mr Lammas, watching bitterly the stagnant rump of the youngmare, asked if Mr Dott's business would be concluded there.

"Not precisely, but Berwick will be my headquarters. I have ajourney to make into the adjacent hills. A queer bit, Professor.Heard you ever such a name as Hungrygrain in Yonderdale?"

Mr Lammas was stirred to attention. Where had he met theseuncouth syllables? He searched his memory and recollected. Lastnight Lord Mannour had named the place as the home of the Delilahwho had enchanted Lord Belses. Here was one who could give himvaluable news.

"Strangely enough I have heard the name before. Isn't it theproperty of a Mrs Cranmer?" He spoke with studied negligence, forthe topic might be uncongenial to his companion.

But Mr Dott showed no embarrassment.

"Not precisely. Hungrygrain is the property of Justin Cranmer,Esquire, a justice of the peace and a deputy-lieutenant for thecounty of Northumberland, and formerly of his Majesty's 2ndRegiment of Foot. Of him I know nothing, but report says that heis another than a good one. My business is with his lady, GabrielCornelia Lucy Perceval or Cranmer--it's surely a daft-like thingto christen a woman after an archangel--in her own right mistressof Overy Hall in the county of Norfolk, a far better estate thanHungrygrain."

"You know this Mrs Cranmer--you have seen her?" Mr Lammasasked eagerly.

"Never set eyes on her, but numerous letters have passedatween us. You'll be wondering, maybe, what a country writer inScotland has to do with a great English lady. The matter issimple. Mrs Cranmer, through her mother, who was a Hamilton ofMells, heired some sheep-farms at the head of Waucht water, whichI have the factoring of, as my father had before me. The rental'sgood enough, but there has aye been some factious dispute aboutthe marches, and I've long had her instructions to sell if Icould get a good bid. I've got the bid, but the deil's in her toclinch it, for the lady is like a bog-blitter, here the day andgone the morn. So when I heard she was at Hungrygrain I sent hera letter saying I proposed to wait on her in person, got thepapers together, packed my pockmanty, and here I am. A chaise toYonderdale, which is somewhere up in the Cheviot hills, an hourwith her ladyship, and then I can birl home with an easymind."

The dreariest journey has its end, and the sociable was now onhigh ground, looking down on a plain where a broad river twinedamong meadows. Suddenly they found themselves on the edge of thetown of Berwick, walled and ramparted like a fortress, with redroofs shining agreeably in the morning sun. They entered by theScotch Gate and came into a broad street which was full ofbustle, for a fish market was being held along one side, and fromit rose the voices of vendors accustomed at sea to shout againstthe wind, a babble punctuated oddly by a bugle blown from theadjacent barracks. They passed the Red Lion with its flappingsign, admired the Town Hall with its elegant piazza, turned intoHide Hill, and drew up before the broad entry of the King'sArms.

"So this is Berwick," remarked Mr Dott. "A burgh-town thatcost Scotland muckle good blood. It's waesome to think that ourold enemies of England have got it safe in their pouch atlast."

They were the first at the tryst, for, as they were givingtheir bags to the boots, who had informed them that there wererooms at their disposal, Jock Kinloch's fiery face appeared onthe kerb. He had changed his fisherman's clothes for the kind ofthing he wore at Kinloch--corduroy pantaloons and stout shoes, anill-cut grass-green coat, and a white hunting stock. "Nothing butmy old duds," he lamented, "and me with a new suit fromMcKimmie's lying in camphor. Come on, Nanty, for we've no time tolose--the south coach will be starting in half an hour. I had ajob to persuade Eben to set me here, for he doesn't likeBerwick--that was why we put in for water this morning up thecoast. He says the Meadow Haven is like hell--you can get in fineand easy, but it's damned hard to get out."

While Mr Dott entered the inn, Jock took Mr Lammas at a roundpace to the Red Lion, cleaving his way through the marketfrequenters like the forefoot of a ship through yeasty seas. Inthe yard of that hostelry stood the Highflyer ready for itshorses, with the baggage already strapped in its place. Mr Lammasnoted the chaise which he had seen that morning on Kitterstonhill, and which an ostler was washing under the instructions of agentleman's servant. Jock, a little flustered, led the way in bya side door, and the two found themselves in a low-ceilinged hallfrom which a broad staircase led to the upper floors. It wasempty, and he was just about to dive into a pantry in search ofsome servant to conduct him to the ladies, when he saw somethingwhich made him straighten his back and pull off his hat. A partywas descending the stairs.

Miss Georgie had swathed herself again for the road in clotheslike a polar explorer's, but Miss Kirsty had donned a lightertravelling cloak in the shape of a long pelisse of brown velvet,which was open in front and gave a glimpse of a pale-yellowmuslin gown. Round her throat she wore a muslin kerchief like asmall ruff which made a fitting base for her handsome head.Amazingly handsome she was, all ripe and golden, with herexquisite skin and bright hair and merry, commanding blue eyes.There was a flush on her face, and she was smiling, and theglimpse of white teeth between red lips increased her brilliance.Mr Lammas was impressed, but he was not dazzled, for heremembered Pitten's words about her ancestry. There was in herbeauty a promise of coming heaviness. Some day this radiantcreature might be too fair of flesh, when the girlish lines hadcoarsened, and the peach-bloom of the complexion had gone. Evennow there was just a hint of over-ripeness.

She had been given the arm of a very splendid creature. SirTurnour Wyse, having shed his dreadnought and submitted to theattentions of his valet, shone like Phoebus in his strength. Hehad a strong square face, a thought too full in the cheeks, butmost wholesomely browned by weather. There was nothing flamboyantin his appearance. His dark hair, cut short in the sportsman'sstyle, was innocent of pomatum; his fine white hands had but theone ring; he had a plain bunch of seals at his fob. And yeteverything about him breathed an air of extreme fashion, thefinest and most workmanlike fashion. His coat, cut full about thepockets and of some tint between plum and claret, fitted hisbroad shoulders like a glove. His plain neckcloth was perfectlytied, and his long hunting waistcoat had not a crease in it. Hisbreeches were elegantly shaped, his boots seemed moulded to hislegs, and his tops had the bloom of a horse-chestnut. But theman's clothes, even his figure and face, were the least of him;what made him impressive was his air of arrogant, well-bredsecurity. Here was one whom none of life's checks would findwanting.

There followed, in those few minutes before the horses wereput to the Highflyer, a scene which made Mr Lammas's spine coldwith misery.

Jock Kinloch stepped forward, and it was at once apparent tohis friend that he could not meet the situation. He lookedshabby, flustered, provincial.

"Kirsty," he cried, and his voice faltered. "Are you allright, my dear? I heard of your mishap, and I'm here to offer myservices."

It was Miss Georgie who replied, and she was clearly no friendof Jock's. "Thank you kindly, Mr John," she said with acid in hervoice, "but we have no need of your services. Miss Evandale is onthe road to the metropolis, and she has made all arrangements.What, may I make bold to speir, areyou doing in Berwickwhen you should be at your books?"

She had reduced him to the undergraduate, the hobbledehoy whohad intruded himself upon his elders. Jock flushed and lookedpiteously at Miss Kirsty. But that young lady was under theglamour of a new and prodigious experience, and she had no eyesfor him. Or rather she had eyes only to dazzle, not to welcome,and for this purpose Jock was poor game. He was a slave whom shehad long ago mastered and who might now be sent back to theservants' quarters. But her voice was friendly, with the casualfriendliness with which one addresses a faithful but officiousdog.

"I am obliged," she said, "but I have no call to make on yourgood nature. My aunt and I are about to take coach for the south.We are London-bound. We intend to pay a visit on the way. Weshall meet, no doubt, come October at the fox-cubbing."

Then, feeling something strained in the air, she made a hastyintroduction. "Mr Kinloch--Sir Turnour. The son of a countryneighbour."

Had she said "a country neighbour" it would have been lesshard, but the words "son of" seemed to rank the boy far down inthe degrees of the negligible.

Sir Turnour was no fop with a quizzing eyeglass. He regardedJock with the fresh critical eyes which he would have turned upona horse or dog. Those eyes took in every detail of the ill-madeclothes, the ungainly posture, the nervous lips. They were nothostile. They were not disparaging. But they seemed to look froma great height upon something very lowly.

He bowed curtly.

"The gentleman addressed you familiarly," he said. "Is heperhaps a Scotch cousin?"

"Oh no. Only a childhood's friend. Long ago we playedtogether."

Sir Turnour smiled with infinite tolerance.

"I see. As your Scotch poet sings,

"'We two have paddled in the burn.'

It is a claim to acquaintance which should not be denied. Yourservant, Mr Kinloch," and he made him a second bow. "I fear," headded, turning to his companions, "that there is no time toexchange youthful reminiscences, for I hear the horses on thecobbles. I must see you comfortably bestowed, and would to heavenI could be your fellow-traveller! But I have your promise, MissEvandale, that you will sit by me when I drive my blue roans nextto Richmond, and I shall not fail to exact its fulfilment."

He swept the ladies with him, and no one of the three hadanother glance for the melancholy Jock. Miss Kirsty, blushingdivinely, clung closer to Sir Turnour's arm, and Miss Georgietossed her towering head-dress. Clearly the girl was powerfullyattracted by this new cavalier, and it was not less plain that hewas smitten, for the eyes with which he looked down on her facewere suddenly drained of arrogance.

This Jock saw, and it left him white and gaping--not wrathful,but stricken, as one who finds the foundations of life destroyed.It was the bereavement he suffered from, not the insult. But MrLammas was furiously angry, and had an unregenerate impulse torun after the stately gentleman and buffet his ears. For thescene he had witnessed had outraged his innermost decencies. Theman had not been uncivil, nor had he been contemptuous--farbetter if he had, for it would have been proof of jealousy,vanity, or some other respectable human emotion. He had scarcelyeven been condescending. He had simply by his manner blotted outJock from the world, ignored him as a thing too trivial for athought. This god-like aloofness was the cruellest insolence thathe had ever witnessed, and his heart ached for the boy. The greatworld had shown itself to the humble provinces and withered themwith its stare. Mr Lammas for the moment was a hot Jacobin. Helonged to take that world by the scruff, with its wealth andbrave clothes and fine, well-fed, well-tended bodies, and rub itsnose in something mighty unpleasant.

Jock still stood limply, like a man who has been struckbetween the eyes. Mr Lammas dragged him to a chair, and fetched amug of strong ale from the adjacent taproom.

"Drink that," he said fiercely, "and pull yourself together.Don't stand mooning there like a dying duck."

Jock drank, and presently he raised his head.

"You saw that? I've got mycongé with avengeance. . . . 'Son of a country neighbour!' . . . Did you everhear the like? And yon old Jezebel of an aunt girning at me! AndKirsty smiling up at yon fatted calf!"

His temper rose. "What did she call the fellow?" he shouted."Sir Something Somebody? Two yards of haberdashery and buxomflesh and a red face atop of them--that's a woman's fancy. Thedevil fly away with the whole sex. . . ." He repented. "No, Iwon't ban little Kirsty. She's still a baby and easy glamoured.But by God I'll be even with the man." Then in sheer misery hedropped his head on his arms and wept.

A horn blew loud in the yard. Mr Lammas jumped to his feet inconsternation. "I should go with the coach," he cried. "And mymails are at the King's Arms and I have no place bespoken." . ..

Jock clutched his arm, and turned on him a distraughtface.

"You can't leave me, Nanty. For God's sake stay with me. I begyou in the name of common humanity. I summon you by the Fishers'Oath. I'm in hell, and if you leave me alone I swear I'll cut mythroat or drop into the harbour."

Mr Lammas was in a sad quandary. In two minutes the coachwould be gone, and he would have failed in his duty of urgentspeed. But could he forsake this white-faced boy whose eyes hadthe pleading pathos of a dog's?

"What's your hurry, man?" Jock moaned. "Your snuffy oldcollege business can surely wait a day."

"I have a private mission as well, and that is of extremeurgency."

"Well, you've a private mission here in Berwick that's just asurgent."

Mr Lammas came to a sudden resolution. He would take Jock intohis confidence, for one of the actors in the play had fiveminutes back wounded him cruelly, and he would sympathise with MrLammas's errand.

"That man with Miss Evandale," he said, "was Sir Turnour Wyse.He is the best whip in England and reputed to be one of the bestshots. He has challenged Lord Belses in a private quarrel, and isseeking him to force him to fight. At Lord Snowdoun's request Igo to London to find my dear Harry, and, please God, to save hislife."

These words wrought a miraculous change in Jock Kinloch. Herose violently and sent the ale-mug crashing to the floor. Heseized Mr Lammas's coat by the lapels and thrust his face closeto his. His sorrows seemed to be forgotten in a strongexcitement.

"Wyse!" he exclaimed. "That fellow was Sir Turnour Wyse? Andhe is after Belses to pistol him. By God, this time I'm on theside of the hare. . . . And you're for London seeking Belses?You're in luck, Nanty, for you have come to the right bit and theright man. Would it surprise you to hear that at this momentBelses is a long sight nearer Berwick than London? . . . There'sthe filthy coach starting. Let it go and good speed to it, forI've done with the whole concern. We're for a bigger game, Nanty,my lad. I'll have Eben Garnock at the King's Arms in half anhour. Back with you there, and get us a room to ourselves. Aroom, mind you, with a key to the door."

Jock Kinloch flung himself out by the entrance which gave onthe High Street, while Mr Lammas remained seated till he heardthe toot of the guard's horn which proclaimed that the Highflyerhad started on its southward journey. Then he sought thecourtyard, from which ostlers, grooms and idle spectators wereslowly clearing. There was no sign of Sir Turnour, but his broadchaise was there, and his servant was superintending the lastcleaning and polishing operations. Bright as a new pin it shonein the morning sun.

At this point it behoves the chronicler to get on more easyterms with his hero. The titular dignities of Mr Lammas must bedropped, for they are now out of place in a world in which theyhave no meaning. To us he shall be Nanty, as he already was toJock Kinloch and to the humblest bejant of St Andrews.

Certainly there was nothing of the professor in the young manwho jostled his way among the market folk in the High Street andswung into Hide Hill, from which he looked over the shining riverto the red roofs of Tweedmouth, and the green pastures which wereEngland. His sober black clothes did not rank him among thesedentary, for his long strides were like those of a hillshepherd, and there was an odd light in his eyes. His feelingswere a compound of anger and excitement. The scene at the RedLion had stirred in him what he had scarcely looked for, a mostunphilosophic wrath. That assured baronet represented a worldwhich he had hitherto admired and cultivated, for it was to it helooked for the fulfilling of his ambitions; but now he found thatit roused in him the liveliest antagonism, for it had treated afriend like dirt. Was it some Jacobinical strain in him, hewondered, that made his soul revolt against such arrogantcondescension? He clenched a fist with which he would joyfullyhave assaulted Sir Turnour's comeliness. . . . But, steadying andcooling his indignation, came the reflection that he had heardnews of high practical import.

In the last twelve hours he had thought of his task as meaninga visit to London, a conference with Lord Snowdoun, and a searchfor the missing lad in some far quarter of England. Now, if Jockspoke the truth, Lord Belses was somewhere close at hand, and atany moment he might be facing the purpose of his mission. Asudden thought made him quicken his pace. Sir Turnour wasdallying in Berwick. Why? The man had come north looking forBelses, to force him to fight, or to make him eat humble pie. SirTurnour also might be aware of Jock's news. Some time in the nextday or two, somewhere in this neighbourhood, it was his businessto rescue the boy from this intolerable bravo. The thought sentlittle shivers down Nanty's spine, for the man had lookedimmensely formidable, but he was conscious, too, that itstiffened his resolution. If he was to go into battle, let it beagainst this baronet, and all the cruel, glittering world forwhich he stood.

He mounted to his bedroom in the massive stone hostelry of theKing's Arms. There was no sign of Mr Dott, but he found thelandlord, and arranged for privacy in a little chamber on thefirst floor which was a withdrawing-room used by the WhitaderClub at their monthly dinners. Then he descended to the street,where three minutes later Jock appeared in company with EbenGarnock. The Chief Fisher was a man a year or two on the wrongside of fifty, huge in frame, at once massive and spare, with agreat grizzled beard which almost covered his broad chest. Hiseyebrows, too, were thick and grizzled, and from the cavesbeneath them eyes of an intense blue looked out upon the world.They were notable eyes, for they were at once calm and vigilant.Nothing would either escape or perturb them. His forehead was afull round dome, and when he removed his cap it combined with thebaldness of his head to give him an air of solemn, broodingsagacity. But Nanty knew that that mountainous face could quickenreadily into a mountainous humour, and he could picture Ebenwrestling with North Sea gales, his beard tossing on the wind,taming the elements to domesticity, half elder of the Kirk andhalf pirate from a Norway wick.

When the three were seated in the little room, with the doorlocked and the key on the table, Nanty felt a sudden shynesswhich he had never known at Senatus meetings. His boyishupbringing told, and he realised that he looked upon Eben Garnockwith a respect which he did not feel for any of his learnedcolleagues. These belonged to his familiar life, and he met themon equal terms; but Eben ruled in a strange world in which he wasthe merest novice--a world, moreover, in which for a time he mustnow dwell. So he left it to the Chief Fisher to begin. But Ebenwas a man of sparing speech, and he was occupied in filling andlighting a deep-bowled pipe. So there was a short silence, whileJock looked out from the window on the main courtyard.

"There's the man who was at breakfast," he reported. "Thetown-clerk, I mean. I wonder where he is bound for."

Nanty looked out, and saw Mr Dott seated in a high red gigwith yellow wheels. In the shafts was an animal, one of whosenear progenitors must have been a carthorse. His brown satchelwas under his arm, and his air was that of a country doctorsuddenly called in ill weather to visit a distant patient, acombination of distaste and dutiful resolution.

"I know, for he told me. He is going on legal business to ahouse called Hungrygrain in the Cheviot hills."

Jock cried out, and Eben, having got his pipe going, lookedsharply at Jock.

"He'll find some wild things there," said the latter."Hungrygrain! If that isn't the queerest chance! Yonderdale's noplace just now for a poking lawyer, and he has as much hope ofdoing business as a snowball of rolling through hell. He'lllikely take some mischief. A decent soul, too. I wish it had beenpossible to warn him."

"What is wrong with Hungrygrain besides the name?" Nantyasked.

Jock laughed. "If you could tell me that you would tell mesomething that Eben would like very greatly to know. Aye, and hisMajesty's Government, too. . . . We'd better get to work, forthere is no time to waste. All the cards go on to the table,Nanty Lammas--for Nanty, you are in this ploy, and St Salvator'sand the logic class-room are at the other side of the moon. Thereare no secrets between us, for we are all Free Fishers. Eben hasempowered me to speak, for I have more of the gift of the gabthan him. Well, the first thing I have to say to you is that thisis King's business, and devilish high business. Three days backEben was closeted with the Lord Advocate and with other folk thatshall be nameless, and he got his orders. It's not the first jobhe has done for his Majesty, though it may be the kittlest, andhe did me the honour to pick me along with Bob Muschat, for hewanted somebody who had some pretension to gentility. Ay,gentility," he added bitterly, "though yon cedar of Lebanon up atthe Red Lion might not allow the claim."

The broken-hearted lover seemed to have disappeared. Jockspoke with assurance and a crisp vigour.

"And you're in it, too, Nanty, as Providence has ordained, andyour St Andrews business must go hang. You saw my father lastnight, and I'll warrant your talk wasn't only about collegeproperty. Was it about Belses?"

The other nodded.

"I guessed as much. Now let us have your story, and thenyou'll hear ours. I have a notion they'll fit together like thesquares on a dambrod."

Nanty repeated the gist of what Lord Mannour had told him,while Jock listened with sundry exclamations, and Eben silentlywith eyes on the floor.

"And I thought the fellow was my enemy," was Jock's comment."And I had worked myself into a fine glow of hatred, as I toldyou on the Pittenweem road. Now I could love him like a brother.The man's a victim to be pitied."

"And to be rescued."

"Ay, please God, to be rescued. You say that that red-facedbaronet is seeking his blood? Well, I'm seeking his, or my nameis not John Kinloch, and that simplifies my purpose, though itcomplicates the job. He is still in Berwick?

"I saw his chaise twenty minutes ago in the Red Lionyard."

"Then it's possible that he knows what we know--that he isclose on his quarry. God, there'll soon be rough work atHungrygrain."

"Hungrygrain?"

"Just Hungrygrain. That is where my Lord Belses is at themoment. It's a bleak, God-forgotten spot among whaups andpeesweeps and peatmosses. But there have been queer ongoingsthere for many a day, and at this very hour there are queererstill. And now there's converging upon that moorland bit a dourcountry writer, who'll likely get his throat cut, and a finegentleman in buckskins who seeks satisfaction for his woundedhonour. He'll maybe get more satisfaction than he likes. It's abonny kettle of fish, and it will soon come to the boil."

"We must get the poor boy out of the place before his pursuergets there." Nanty was on his feet, for his immediate duty seemedplain.

"Sit you down," said Jock. "The thing is not so simple asthat. You have still to hear our side of the business--the King'sside. My father told you that Belses was being made a fool of bya woman. Well, that woman is the pivot of the thing. Mrs Cranmerthey call her."

"Mr Dott's client."

"A bonny client! Now what takes a woman like Mrs Cranmer tohave for her doer a Scots writer from a forsaken hole likeWaucht?"

"Mr Dott said she was kin to the Hamiltons of Mells and hadsome farms on Waucht side."

"So? If there's Scots blood in her, that makes her the moredangerous. But, whether or not, there's no question of her powerfor ill, and it would seem that she comes between Ministers andtheir sleep. What kind of a character did my father giveher?"

"He said she was young and handsome, and a religiousenthusiast, and tainted with Jacobinical views."

"Aye. That's the character she has with most people, andthat's the kind of candle that attracts a poor moth like Belses.I wonder if my father knows more, or my Lord Snowdoun. Maybe not,for the Cranmer case is not yet a Cabinet matter, Iunderstand--still in the stage of proof, and not ripe forjudgment. Maybe it is still secret between the Advocate and themilitary and the Free Fishers." He looked towards Eben, whogravely nodded.

"Rid your mind of that picture, Nanty, my man," he went on;"the innocent sweet lady, a thought highflying in her politics,the kind of siren to capture a young man of sensibility. Putsomething very different in its place. Put a woman who hates thisland of Britain with a cold hatred--who will stick at nothing toget her ends--who can play a desperate game with the patience ofJob and the subtlety of Monsieur Talleyrand and the courage ofLucifer--who does not know the meaning of love or honour orfriendship--who will use every gift of mind and body for a blackpurpose. Have you got that clear, for it's gospel truth? Eben hasseen some of the proofs of it, and they damn her to the lowesthell."

Nanty shuddered. "My poor Harry!" he muttered.

"Well may you say your poor Harry. He is nothing more than acat's-paw. To have the son of my Lord Snowdoun, the manager ofScotland, dangling at her petticoat tails is a sort of evidenceof respectability, you see, and she misses no point in thegame."

"That game--what is it?" Nanty asked.

"It's easy told. Britain, as I have often heard you say, isfighting for her life and for the liberties of Europe. We haveplenty of ill-wishers at home to stir up trouble, and the moretrouble here the weaker our stroke will be on the battlefield.That's an axiom, as you logicians say. We are fighting thegreatest military genius of all history, and that does not leaveus much margin. Whatever happens, it will be a damned near thing.So any knowledge of our plans that may get to the enemy is wortha hundredfold more than in an ordinary war, the margin, as I say,being so close. That is what this beldame is doing. She has spunher web up and down the land, even in high places, and the sillyflies walk in. She had made a great bureau of treason to fosterrevolution at home and to send damning confidences abroad."

"An incendiary and a spy!"

"You've hit the mark, Nanty. Arch-incendiary and master-spy.Now that web has to be swept down and the spider destroyed."

Jock's face had an earnest passion which made him suddenly anolder and shrewder man. For the first time he reminded Nanty ofhis father.

"That is a shocking tale," he said. "This woman--is she wifeor widow?"

"She has a husband, and that is one of her chief assets. Theother is the reputation she has built up for sentimentalinnocence. Her husband, Justin Cranmer, is a trumpery body,another cat's-paw. Eben can tell you of him."

"A long, black-avised man," said the Chief Fisher, "wi' a skinlike a candle-dowp. I've seen him twa-three times. When he's athome he is either hunting the hills wi' his dowgs, or lying asfou' as the Baltic--at least that's what they tell me. But thefeck o' the time he's ranging the land at cockings andhorse-racings."

"Ay," said Jock, "but he's the laird of Hungrygrain, andHungrygrain is a godsend to his lady wife. She has estates of herown in Norfolk, so she is well-dowered, besides what herpaymasters give her. But Norfolk is too conspicuous a place forher game, so her headquarters are shifted to the North. The devilmight have made Hungrygrain for her purpose. It lies at the backend of a moorland glen called Yonderdale, and there's no road buta drove-road within five miles. There's a bit of a clachan, butthe inhabitants are all Squire Cranmer's folk, and a savage packof heathens by all tales. There are no neighbours except a fewdrunken bonnet-lairds, and Cheviot hems it in like a dyke. Aboveall, it is not ten miles from the sea--take note of that,Nanty--a lonely bit of coast with a snug little harbour at a burnmouth. She is a noble spirit, her friends say, unequally yoked toa boor, but her wifely duty and her care for the poortenant-bodies take her often to Hungrygrain. But when she isthere this Methody fine lady queens it among poachers andblack-fishers and tinklers who do her biddings and know fine thatthey would lose their tongues if they blabbed. . . . What do youthink of my picture? It's wilder than anything in Walter Scott orLord Byron, but Eben will bear me out that it's God's truth."

"If Harry has gone there, surely he will learn the facts andbe disillusioned."

"That is just what puzzles me. This morning we heard, nevermind how, that he had arrived there yesterday. We had heard, too,some rumour of his quarrel with Wyse. He was looking forsanctuary no doubt, and Hungrygrain struck him as remote andsecret. Very likely the woman knew nothing of his coming till heappeared, and may not have welcomed him. If she connived at it,then it looks as if she had made him a partner in herinfamy."

"That I will never believe," said Nanty firmly.

"Well, put that question aside, for we shall soon beenlightened. Now you must hear more of Hungrygrain. Eben, youtake up the tale."

"In the auld days afore the Union," said the Chief Fisher,"there was a brisk smuggling trade across the Border. Ye'll maybehave heard o' that, Mr Lammas. Every second man in Jeddart, theysay, was a free-trader. Well, Yonderdale was the hame o' thebusiness, and the laird o' Hungrygrain the chief manager o't, andthe cotter-folk o' Hungrygrain deep to their necks in it. Theywere a wild clan wi' an ill name--the warst fighters at ilka fairfrom Stagshawbank to St Boswells, a thrawn lot that stuckthegither and made ony man's quarrel the quarrel o' a'. Weel, theUnion came, but Yonderdale didna change its trade. It turned itseyes to the sea, and found a howff where it could land its bitso' contraband and send them along the Border. Yondermouth is naeuse, for the Water o' Yonder taks a long bend to the south aforeit wins to the sea, and besides, Yondermouth is a well-kennedfisher toun where lawless doings wad be bridled--a toun like ourain Leven or Anster. So they found what they wanted up northalong the shore at a place they ca' Hopcraw, where a burn comesin frae the hills. There's deep water there for them that kenwhere to look for it, and there's not a cot-house within threemile. Mair, by a straight road over the muir it's no above tenmile frae Hungrygrain. The place is well kenned by us fishers,but it's no our business to speak o't. The gaugers, too, have anotion o't, but they never seem to hit the right hour and theright corner, and mony a weary traivel they've had for smallpurpose. There's nae better mart for the free trade on the eastshore, and a' the lairds frae Liddel to Till, aye and ower theBorder too, get their tea and brandy and tobacco from the guidfolk o' Hopcraw."

"And that's the channel through which this woman communicateswith France?--"

"One o' them. Nae doubt there's others--one maybe down in theNorfolk sands near her ain estates--but Hopcraw is thechief."

"What are your orders from Government?"

"Just to watch--and report. We have word that one of her ploysis comin' to a heid, and we hope to nip it, and bring to justicethem that's 'sponsible."

"That will mean violence and fighting."

"Na, na. The Free Fishers are men o' peace. Nae fechtin' forus except in our ain canny way o' business. There's King's shipsthat'll dae what fechtin' is needit, and there's a plan by whichwe can get word to them."

"Then your purpose is to go to Hopcraw?"

"No me," said Eben with a slow smile which brought his browsdown over his eyes. "To steer for Hopcraw wad be like kindling abeacon on the hilltops. We maun gang warily in this business, forHungrygrain has plenty sharp een on the watch. That's why I wassweir to come into this river o' Tweed. I wadna trust the Berwickboats that carry the frostit saumons to London, for some o' themare chief wi' Hungrygrain and wad signal news o' us if theysuspected our job. Na, we're for Youndermouth, where I'mwell-kenned. Some o' our Fife lads are out east at the Banks atthe white-fishing, and what mair natural than that we should jointhem? We'll hae some sma' trouble wi' a yaird that'll take us inthere for twa-three days to Davie Dimmock, the boat-builder's,and while we're lying snug we'll send out spies like the auldIsraelites."

Jock burst in.

"Eben will keep theMerry Mouth in Yondermouth, andfind some way of slipping up to Hopcraw and seeing what goes onthere. Meantime Bob Muschat and I take a quiet step Yonderdaleway. Ay, and you too, Nanty, for we need you to deal with Belses.There's a ticklish job there for somebody."

"I cannot. I must be off at once to Hungrygrain by theshortest road. I tell you, there's not a moment to lose, for SirTurnour Wyse may get to him this very day."

"Remember your calling, Nanty," said Jock. "Logic, my braveboy! The baronet is not going to pistol your Harry like a commoncut-throat. Whatever mischief is on foot, we have a day or two ofgrace to prevent it. What good would you do if you posted off toHungrygrain and hammered at the front door? They would only setthe dogs on you, for you have nolocus, as my father wouldsay. You would find the folk there in an ill key, pestered by abumptious lawyer, and maybe on the top of it the baronet damningtheir eyes and telling them they are dirt. What would you do insuch a collieshangie? No, no, our way's the best. The wind'sfair, and we'll drop down the coast, and be in Yondermouth in theafternoon. There's a grand moon, and at the darkening you and meand Bob will slip off up the water, and see what's to be seen.They that work with Hungrygrain must take the tinkler's road--thedeep wood and the thick bracken and the long heather."

"Then for Heaven's sake let us be off."

"You're coming?"

"I'm coming. And I warn you I'll press the pace."

"God, Nanty, you're a man after my heart," Jock cried. "We'rein luck, Eben. We have the Law on our side, and now we've got theGospel. The expeditionary force is complete, chaplain andall."

In the street they looked down Hide Hill towards the SandGate; it dropped steeply to a quay, beyond which the river laylike a broad band of light. The passers-by on the kerb had cometo a halt, for over the cobbles rattled a striking equipage. Itwas a broad chaise, drawn by two stout galloways, with a dickybehind in which a servant sat with folded arms. Sir Turnour hadshed his dreadnought in the warm spring sunshine, and hisshoulders showed trim and square on the box-seat. Rarely hadBerwick seen a better-shaped coat, or a smarter beaver, or socomplete a mastery of whip and ribbons, as he steered the pair ata good pace down the uneven street amid the fishcarts and countrywagons.

The three watched him as he reached the Sand Gate and turnedwest along the dock side.

"He's a comely body, your baronet," said Eben, "and he canmanage a horse. He's for the English Gate and the Tweedbrig."

"I wish I knew his purpose," said Nanty. "For all we can tellhe may be on his way to London."

Two of the onlookers were commenting on the sight,horsy-looking gentry in tight breeches and battered leggings.

"Whae is the gentleman?" one asked. "I never saw beasts betterguidit."

"I dinna ken," was the answer. "He doesna belonghereways."

"For Newcastle, think ye?"

"No him. He has gotten the pair that Davidson hires out forthe Yetholm coursin'. Slugs on the high-road but graund on thebraes. That ane's no for Newcastle. He's for the hills."

Mr Duncan Dott, perched atop of the narrow gig of the King'sArms, prepared to enjoy himself. His valise was left behind atthe inn, for he proposed to return there in the evening, and hadindeed bespoken for himself a snug little supper. His onlybaggage was his brown leather satchel of papers, which wassecurely wedged between himself and the driver. The morning wasfresh, what wind there was blew from the north-west, and theascending sun promised before noon the mellow warmth of spring.Only in the west, where at a great distance the valley was closedby a line of little hills, a thin cloudbank broke the even blueof the sky.

"It'll be a grand day," he observed to his companion. "Thewind's in a dry airt."

The other pursed his lips.

"Ye'll maybe need your topcoat or night. I dinna like yon weecluds, and it was ower bright this mornin' when I was washin' myface."

As they crossed the bridge of Tweed the tide was running andthe salmon-cobles were straining at their moorings. Thereafterthey entered a shining world, fields of bent noisy with younglambs, cot-houses snowy with fresh harling, hawthorns burstinginto green, and on their left the sea, which had no colour butshone like a vast crystal with essential light. Mr Dott's spiritssoared, and he unbuttoned his great-coat so that the air couldplay about his throat.

"England's a fine country," he remarked. "It's the first timeI've crossed the Border, and if it's all like this I don't blameour forbears for raiding it whiles to see what they could find.There's sour bits in Scotland."

"There's sour bits in England," said the driver, a morose mancalled Niven. "Ye're for Yonderdale? Wait till ye see it afore yemak up your mind about England."

"What sort of a place is Yonderdale?" Mr Dott enquired.

"Sour," said the driver, and spat. "Sour I would ca' it. Alang dreich glen--naething but burns and hill-faces--perishin'cauld in winter, for the drifts at the top o't dinna melt tillMay, and no that cheery in the best o' weather. It's ower high upin Cheviot for human habitation. What takes ye to Yonderdale,sir?"

"Business. A small matter of business."

The other laughed.

"It's no muckle business gangs up Yonder water, except its ainkind o' business, and I'll wager that's no your kind. Ye're alawyer, I take it? Well, there's just the one sort o' law inYonderdale and that's the stout arm and the holly cudgel. Ay, andwaur. There's sudden deaths up thereaways that nae coroner sitson. Ye'll no ken what a coroner is, maybe?--he's a kind of aprocurator fiscal."

"Dearie me," said Mr Dott. "That's a bad account. Does yourjob take you often there?"

"No above twice a year--wi' a dealer in the back-end after thehogg lambs, or a farmer seekin' store cattle. And Yonderdaledoesna come muckle our way, neither. They're queer folk and keepthemselves to themselves, nae doubt wi' good cause. What part o'Yonderdale are ye for?"

Mr Dott's answer induced a whistle, a lugubrious sound whichexpressed something more than surprise.

"Hungrygrain! Keep us, but what seek ye at Hungrygrain? Are yeacquaint wi' the folks there? Are ye expectit?"

"I have given notice of my coming," said Mr Dott primly.

The driver seemed to ponder. His taciturnity had given placeto curiosity, for he proceeded to ply Mr Dott with questions,which that gentleman answered in monosyllables. He had becomesuddenly the confidential man of business. One question only heasked in return--had Niven ever seen or spoken to SquireCranmer?

"Spoken to him? No likely. But I've seen him a score o' times,and I've heard enough about him to fill a book."

But what he had heard he showed no wish to communicate."There's an owercome in the hills, 'queer like the folk o'Hungrygrain,' and if a' tales be true the squire's the queeresto' the batch. If your business is wi' him I wish ye weel, forhe's a kittle customer, and if ye're servin' a writ or onythingunpleasant ye'll be lucky to get awa' wi' hale banes. Dinna counton me, for I meddle not wi' Hungrygrain. I'll take ye there,which is my lawful calling, and syne ye maun fend foryoursel'."

Mr Dott's spirits were a little dashed, especially as Nivenwith a fateful countenance continued to ingeminate the word"Hungrygrain." They had left the shore road and were now in acountry of sheep-walks, fields of grass bounded by drystonedykes, and now and then a common bright with furze and the youngsprouts of heather. It was no longer the gleaming country of themorning, for, though the sun still shone, colour seemed to havegone out of the landscape, which now wore an air of bleakness andmelancholy. Presently they topped a ridge, and looked across ashallow trough of bog and bent to the lift of a mountain range.On their left was the loom of woodlands with the sea beyond, andto their right a glimpse of a habitable farming country, but theimmediate prospect was strangely wild and desolate. The mountainshad a thick veil of cloud on their summits, a veil which seemedto be steadily dropping lower.

"Cheviot," said Niven, pointing with his whip. "And illweather on its road. We'll be drookit or we win hame. That's thewater o' Yonder ye see in the howe, and Yonderdale begins wherethe twae hills hurkle thegither. Hungrygrain is at the backsideo' the bigger yin."

As they were about to descend into a hollow, there came asound of wheels behind them, and Niven drew sharply into theroadside to allow another conveyance to pass. This was a broadchaise with a dicky behind in which a servant sat. In thedriver's seat was a figure more in keeping with Hyde Park or theBrighton road than with that moorland solitude. He acknowledgedNiven's courtesy by raising his whip, and the pair of horses,handled by a master, took the hill at a steady trot.

"Now, whae the deevil is that?" Niven enquired. Thoughts ofHungrygrain seemed to have laid on him a spell of depressionwhich was broken by the spectacle of this splendid gentleman."He's drivin' the Red Lion galloways, and Davidson doesna lendthem to a' body. Man, he's a provost at the job. Did ye see theway he managed the near beast when he was for shyin' at the bogaik?"

"I know who the gentleman is," said Mr Dott. "He made himselfuseful this morning at the accident to the Edinburgh coach ofwhich I told you. He is a sporting baronet--one Sir Turnour Wyse.What puzzles me is what he can want in Yonderdale."

"He's no for Yonderdale. The Yonderdale turn is twae miles on,and this road gangs to mony places. Alnwick, for yin. Ay, he'llbe for the Duke's at Alnwick. He's no the breed that frequentsYonderdale."

The rain began before they reached the hills, a thin springrain with little wind behind it. It blanketed the view except fora few hundred yards of moor. Niven turned to his right up a stonyrut like the track to a farm-town. Presently a knuckle of hillloomed through the mist, and the road descended through a coppiceof wildwood to the edge of a stream which was running low in thespring drought.

"The water o' Yonder," said Niven. "Aye when I've been hereafore it has been running frae bank to brae. This is a dooms illroad, but Yonderdale doesna work muckle wi' wheeled carriages.Pack-horses and shanks's pony is mair its way o't. We'll draw upand eat our piece, sir, if ye're agreeable, for we're no abovethree miles frae Hungrygrain."

"Is there no inn?" asked Mr Dott, who had hoped for a dramwith his bread and cheese.

"There's an inn, but it's the other side o' the water, andwe'll no trouble it the day. Purdey is the man that keeps it, andhe's not just precisely a friend o' mine. If ye ca'd him anill-tongued sauvage ye wadna be far wrong."

They ate their snack in the lee of a clump of rowens, a coldmeal to which the weather made an indifferent kitchen. Soon thedrizzle became a downpour, and in that funnel of a glen the windgathered force, and drove the rain in spouts and sheets whichsearched out every corner of the travellers' persons.

"Let's get on," said Mr Dott, shaking a deluge from his hat."My business will not take long, and then I'm for dry breeks andthe fireside." Niven, a sodden pillar of depression, whipped uphis beast and the gig jolted out of the trees up a longincline.

Even in the thick weather Mr Dott realised that he was cominginto a different kind of country. He was conscious of open spacesaround him instead of coverts. They passed a cottage or two, andthe smell of peat-reek tantalised him with a hint of unattainablecomfort. It had become colder and he shivered a little inside hisgreat-coat. Three miles, Niven had said; then half an hour'stalk, a scart or two of the pen, and his face was set for hisnative Waucht.

A heavy gate of axe-hewn bars shut the road, and he had todescend and open it with cramped fingers. It looked as if theywere entering some sort of neglected policies. Stunted evergreensdotted the roadside, and a burn was crossed by what had once beenan ornamental bridge with a broken stucco coping. Mr Dott peeredinto the gloom to detect the first sign of a dwelling.

Suddenly at a turn of the road a man stepped from a clump ofhollies.

He was a long man in a frieze coat, and on his head was aleather cap with the flaps tied under his chin--a cross betweenkeeper and earth-stopper. He held up a hand and whistled, and atthe sound two men appeared from the opposite side of the road,smaller men, but cut to the same pattern. He roughly seized thehorse's bridle and forced him back.

"Who are you that make so free with Hungrygrain?" he asked ina voice as harsh as a crow's. Mr Dott observed that his accentwas not that of a peasant.

"Canny, friend," said Niven. "We're frae the King's Arms inBerwick. This gentleman is seekin' a word wi' the laird."

Mr Dott spoke up.

"I have announced my coming by letter to her ladyship. It'swith her that my business lies, for I'm the factor of her landsin Scotland."

The tall man did not take his hand from the bridle.

"Are you so! A responsible job. But you have come on a fool'serrand, for we have no use for factors in Hungrygrain. Turn youabout and back with you before you get a belt on yourhinderlands."

Mr Dott's temper rose. "What the devil have you to do withyour mistress's affairs? I tell you this is an important matterin which good money is involved. Take your hand from the beast'shead or I'll report you for insolence."

The man laughed, showing broken teeth.

"You're a brisk little bantam, but you are crowing on thewrong dungheap. There is no mistress here."

"But I had it from her own pen that she was to be here in thisweek of April. Stand out of the way. I will see the lady."

"There is no lady here."

"Where is she?"

"Where indeed?" The man had a disquieting gap-toothed grin."Where can she be? Maybe

'Up the mossy mountain
And down the dowie glen?'

Anyway, she is not here."

"Then I will speak with Squire Cranmer."

The other's grin vanished, and his face became suddenly fierceand malevolent.

"You will not speak with the Squire. You'll be out of here inten seconds. You're not wanted."

"I protest," Mr Dott began, but his words were cut short, forthe tall man swung the horse round so violently that it almostfell, and the wheels crashed into a tangle of young birches. Oneof the others struck the animal over the rump with a cuttingswitch, and the next the travellers knew they were being borne ata gallop back the road they had come.

Niven after five minutes succeeded in pulling up on a littlehill. He wiped his brow with a damp sleeve.

"So that's that," he observed. "Did I no tell you there werequeer folk in Hungrygrain?"

Mr Dott was in a furious temper. "Heard you ever the like ofsuch impudence? You'll turn this moment and go back."

"No me. I'm no for a slit weazand, and that's what we'll getif we gang contrar to Gibbie Winfortune."

"Winfortune?"

"Ay, that's the name o' the lang chiel."

"You know him?"

"Muckle o' him and naething that's guid. I'm bauld enough inmy day, but the bauldest will keep a quiet tongue if Winfortuneis on the road. He's kenned for the wildest deevil atween Tyneand Till."

The rain had stopped and the wind had blown clear a space inthe clouds which suddenly revealed the sun. What had been anenclave in the fog expanded for a moment into a wide landscape.Mr Dott looked back, and got his first view of Hungrygrain.

The glen above the gorge became a valley a mile broad betweensteep grey-green hills. To Mr Dott, accustomed to Waucht side,where the lairds vied with each other in lining their fields withstrips of woodland and crowning the tops with acres of featherylarch, the place seemed indecently bare. There appeared to be nocultivation, no ploughland. He was on an eminence and could seethe house itself in its shabby policies, and the upper course ofthe stream. The Yonder ran in a deep-cut green trench well belowthe valley level, so that it showed no friendly pools andshallows, but had the secret air of a river underground. Thecontaining walls of the hills seemed so sheer that only a goatcould graze on them. Mr Dott had been wont to look on a pastoralupland as a thing homely and kindly, but this place had a horridsavagery, a chill sharper than the April rain.

But it was the sight of the house of Hungrygrain that sent ashiver down his spine. He had never been so unpleasantly affectedby any human habitation. It stood in what may once have been alawn, but was now a rough field. Part was a ruinous peel-tower,to which wings had been added of good whinstone with somepretensions to elegance; likewise there was a small squarebuilding connected with the rest by a kind of arcade. The wholeplace was of an extreme shabbiness, but, except for the peel, itwas not in decay; it was lived in, used, misused, a place not ofdeath and emptiness, but crowded with a maleficent life. Secret,too, as secret as the deep-trenched stream. The blink of sun onlymade it more eerie. It would have been more decent, he felt, hadit been perpetually shrouded in mist, for no sunshine could makeit other than menacing and furtive.

"An ugly bit," said the philosophic Niven. "Weel, the soonerwe're ower Tweed the better."

"I'm not going back," said Mr Dott.

"Are ye clean daft?"

Mr Dott felt that he was, but the behaviour of the manWinfortune had roused in his soul a desperate obstinacy whichmystified and slightly scared him.

"I do not leave till I have done my business. I did not travelall these miles from Waucht to be turned away by an impudent dogof a gamekeeper. You will turn and go back."

"I'll do naething of the kind. I'm not meeting my Maker aforemy time. Bethink ye, sir. If ye go back to Hungrygrain ye'll beflung out and get rougher usage than afore. One man canna force adoor that a dozen are haudin' against him."

"Nevertheless, I must try. And if you will not take me, myfeet will." Suiting his action to his words Mr Dott attempted todescend from the gig.

Niven rubbed his chin in dire perplexity.

"If I did my duty I would carry ye back to Berwick, though Ihad to fell ye first. . . . Bide a wee, sir. There's maybeanother way. Ye canna get into Hungrygrain wi' Winfortune on therampage, but he'll no aye be there. Half his time they tell me isspent ryngin' the country. What for should ye no sit ye downsomewhere in Yonderdale and wait your chance? Ye'd maybe find theleddy walkin' her lane. Or get a word wi' the maister, whae'smair ceevil-spoken than the man."

"You're right," said Mr Dott. "I'll go to the inn."

"Ye maunna do that. Purdey's ower thick wi' Winfortune. Na,na, but I'll tell ye what. I'll tak ye to the manse."

"The manse? We're not in Scotland."

"No, but Yonderdale has a minister. Oh, a rector o' the parishlikewise that bides in the low country, but up here there's akirk, manse and minister. Ye see, sir, in the auld days the folkcame to Yonderdale maistly frae the other side o' the Border--frae Rule Water and Jeddart way--in the early days o' the langsheep. And they brought their kirk wi' them, and built a manse,and had their placed minister and twae screeds ilka Sabbath day.Things is sore changed now, and I doubt there's few darkens thekirk door, forby a wheen wives and weans. But there's a ministerstill, whae baptises them and buries them, and marries them whenthey've the decency to think o' lawfu' marriage. His name'sBlackstocks, Richie Blackstocks, frae Ettrick or Yarrow, I mindnawhich. He's an auld man that bides alane wi' nae wife, and by a'accounts a quiet mensefu' body and wise enough to let sleepin'tykes lie. He'll gie ye a bed for the nicht, and tell ye the lieo' the land. I'll drive ye to the manse. It's down in the wudsthey ca' Yonder Dene."

They jogged downhill back to the narrow part of the glen andthe thick coverts, Mr Dott's mind in a sad ferment. He was atonce resolved and miserably afraid. The training of a lifetimeforbade him to give up a piece of business before it wascompleted, but in Waucht there were peaceable folk who treatedhim with respect, and never before had he encountered nakedsavagery. His world was disrupted, he had lost his bearings, andit was necessary that he should find again the points of hismental compass.

The brief sunlight passed, and once again the rain descended,this time with a steadiness which promised a wet evening. Niventurned down a woodland track which seemed to lead towards thestream. In a few hundred yards it opened upon a clearing in thetrees, a shelf of level ground beyond and behind which, even inthe wild weather, could be heard the churning of the Yonder. Alow privet hedge bounded a little garden.

"Here's the manse," said Niven. "Ye've nae baggage? Weel, I'llwait till I see ye inside."

Mr Dott pushed open a white gate and very stiffly advanced upa path gravelled with rough pebbles from the stream. The housewas scarcely more than a cottage, but it had been newlywhitewashed, the garden was tidy and bright with daffodil andprimrose, and from the smoking chimney came the comforting smellof peat-reek.

He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. Again heknocked, and then with the head of his stick he beat a loudtattoo. By and by steps were heard approaching, the latch waslifted, and before him stood a little old man. Behind this figurea moment later appeared a second, a stalwart old woman in a mutchwith her skirts kilted as if she had been tramping the fields. Itwas she who spoke.

"Whae is it? If ye're frae Hedderwick's at Yondermouth ye cangang back, for there's nae mair dealings atween him and huz. Thelast seed tatties ye sent us were a black disgrace."

"I am a traveller from Scotland," said Mr Dott, "with businessat Hungrygrain, on which I would fain as a fellow Scot consultthe minister."

The woman's face changed.

"Come inbye, sir," she said. "There's no mony travellers seekthe manse o' Yonderdale. Come your ways in, for ye canna standthere in this unconvenantit weather. And you, sir," this to theold man, "ye'll get your death o' cauld standin' there in yourhosen feet. Where's your bauchles?"

As he entered Mr Dott heard wheels move on the road. Niven,seeing him safely bestowed, had departed for Berwick.

He was ushered into a little low-ceilinged room, with bookseverywhere, lining the walls in home-made shelves, stacked incorners, and piled on chairs and on most of the table. Apeat-fire glowed dully, and a little clock on the mantelpiece asthey entered chimed very sweetly the hour of five.

"Ye'll hae to change your clothes," said the woman, "for ye'reas wat as a flowe-moss. Ye'll put on a sark o' the minister's andan auld pair o' his breeks, and his chamber-robe, till your ainthings are dried. I'll mak up a bed for ye, and get ye ane o' hisnightgowns, though it'll maybe jimp your size. . . . Ye're fraeScotland, sir? Whatna pairt?

"Waucht!" she cried. "Man, I was bred within five miles o't,though we flittit to Caddonside when I was a young lassie.Brydon, they ca' me, and we bode at the Blackcleuchfoot. It'sheartsome to see a body frae Waucht. Quick wi' your changin',sir, for ye'll be wantin' meat. The minister has his supper atsix."

The old man had not spoken, but had made little sounds ofwelcome, and now he patted Mr Dott's arm. He had thin silveryhair which hung almost to his shoulders, and a fine-drawn facethe colour of old ivory. His dress was knee-breeches of homespun,homespun stockings, and a very shabby black coat. He looked old,but hale, and there was still vigour in his movements. Mr Dott,as he got rid of his drenched garments, began to think lessevilly of Yonderdale.

Half an hour later he sat warm and dry before a fire which hadbeen enlivened with birch billets. Presently came the housekeeperwith a summons to meat, and in the other living-room, whichlooked towards the stream, he listened to a lengthy grace. Thenthe three fell to a meal of burn trout, oatcakes, scones,cloudberry jam, and thick creamy milk, after which the hostconcocted a modest bowl of toddy.

"Awa' into the study," the housekeeper told them, "and haeyour crack. The weather's clearin' and you'll maybe get yournightcap after a'. The minister," she turned to Mr Dott, "is fondo' a breath o' caller air afore he gangs to his bed. He ca's ithis nightcap, and, certes, it maun be guid for his health, forthere was never a man o' his age less troubled wi' his perishin'body."

The conversation at the meal had been of the most formal kind,chiefly, on Mr Dott's part, replies to the housekeeper'squestions about Waucht and its people. But when the two men satby the study fire they seemed to enter suddenly into intimacy. MrDott's voice may have been one reason, the soft singsong verydifferent from the Northumbrian burr, and the sight of theminister's face was another, for from every line of it shone akindly simplicity. But it was simplicity that did not excludeshrewdness, for he had already guessed Mr Dott's predicament.

"You went to Hungrygrain on an honest errand, and got a surlyanswer? That, I regret to say, is nothing uncommon. . . . No, Ihave no dealings with the squire or his people. I cannot tell youif Mrs Cranmer is there now. I see none of the family. Threeyears ago when she was a bride she visited me, but since then Ihave heard little of her and have seen nothing. I fear that itmay be an ill-assorted marriage, and I do not think it can be thelady's fault, for she seemed to me as kind as she was beautiful.. . . The squire I can hardly claim even as an acquaintance.There is a small endowment from which my stipend is paid by afirm of Newcastle lawyers, so I have no cause to meet SquireCranmer on worldly affairs, and he does not frequent the house ofGod."

Mr Blackstocks drew a strange picture of the valley. "Ahundred years ago," he said, "Yonderdale was a pleasant littlehaven by a burnside. The Squire Cranmer of that day had lands inTeviotdale through his wife, and was a leader in the new ways ofsheep-farming. So he brought many Scots folk to Yonderdale, andwith them their Presbyterian faith. Since then there has been asad decline, both in the lairds and in the people. The place hadalways a certain repute for lawlessness, but then it was no worsethan shifting from glen to glen merchandise which had not paidthe King his dues. But soon the thing took a darker colour. Ourmen became known as hard drinkers and desperate fighters, and gotan ill name over all the Border. When I came here forty years agoI lifted up my testimony against the iniquity, and for ten yearsI was a voice crying in the wilderness. It was as useless, MrDott, as the bleating of a snipe. But I loved the place and someof the folk and I resolved to stay here. I could still lead asheep or two into the fold, and if Ephraim was joined to hisidols I might be of use to Ephraim's wife and bairns. I hadfailed as an iconoclast, but I believed that I might still be acomforter. So I stayed on, and shall doubtless lay my boneshere."

The old man's conversation was as soothing to Mr Dott as thewarm fire and the excellent supper. His errand and the mischancesof the day slipped from his mind, and he was content to explorethe soul of this philosopher, for he had a lively interest in hisfellows. He asked his host how he filled his time.

"Too pleasantly, I fear," was the answer. "I have the dutiesof my calling--my diets of worship on the Sabbath, and suchpastoral visitation as I am permitted. But for the rest I have anoble leisure, and I am fortunate enough to have the tastes tofill it. I am a devout lover of nature and something of anaturalist. I derive much happiness from cultivating my littlegarden, and I am a noted bee-keeper. But I have two occupationswhich lie next my heart. Imprimis, I am a fisherman, and I thinkI have cast a fly in every burn in Cheviot, for I used to be afamous walker, Mr Dott, and these ageing shanks of mine can stilldo their twenty miles in a day over heather. Yonder is a greatstream for fish--the trouts you ate at supper were taken from itby myself. It is a sport in which I have no competitor save thelittle boys who guddle the stones, for the folk of the glenfollow less innocent pursuits. Secundo, I have my books. You seethem round you, and soon they will drive me out of house andhome. A new volume from Newcastle or Edinburgh is my chiefindulgence. You are college-bred, Mr Dott?"

"Glasgow," was the answer.

"Ah, I was at the college of Edinburgh, and I fear I gave moretime to pagan lore than to the Scriptures. I fell in love withthe classics and the classical philosophers. I mind how my worthyfather would reprehend me when I quoted Plato or Seneca. He was adivine of the old Scottish stamp and would shake his headwoefully. 'I am not concerned,' he would say, 'to hear what theheathen have thought. What did Mr Alexander Henderson think, orMr George Gillespie, or Mr Samuel Rutherford?' But he lived tosee me a placed minister, though he never held me quite sound inthe fundamentals. . . . Dearie me! As we grow old we see thatthere are many roads to Jerusalem.Uno itinere non potestpervenire ad tam grande secretum. The classics have eversince been my delight, and I amuse myself by little ventures intranslation--in emendation, too--the idle pleasures of an idleold man. So with that and angling I fill my dayscontentedly."

"You're the first true philosopher I have ever met," said MrDott. "Man, you've discovered the secret of a happy life."

The minister smiled and held up a deprecatory hand.

"No, no," he said. "Only of an idle one. Yet I hope I do notlet these trifling joys come between me and my duty God-wards. Itry to sit loose to my pleasant idols, for soon I must bid themgood-bye. This very morning, reading in Epictetus, I found a wordfor myself."

He rose and fetched a book from the table.

"Here is what theEnchiridion says. I will roughlytranslate the passage. Listen, Mr Dott. 'As on a voyage, whenyour ship has moored off-shore, if you go on land to get freshwater, you may pick up as an extra on your way a small mussel ora little fish; but you have to keep your attention fixed on theship and turn round frequently for fear lest the captain shouldcall. So it is also in life. If there is given you, instead of alittle fish or a small mussel, a little wife or a small child,there is no harm in it. But if the captain calls, give up allthat and run to the ship without even turning to look back. Andif you are an old man, never even get far away from the ship, forfear that when he calls you may be missing.' That is a word inseason for me. I have no wife and child, and my little fish andsmall mussel are my rod and my books. But I must sit loose tothem, for my call will not be long in coming."

An hour later the housekeeper looked in. "It's a braw nichtnow and a fine mune. Haste and get your nightcap, sir, for it'snear time for your bed."

"Marget must be obeyed," said the minister, and, havingclapped an ancient hat on his head, he led his guest out of theback-door to the shelf of garden above the Yonder. After the rainthe stream was loud, but the wind had sunk, and there was noother sound but an occasional owl and the soft rustle of homingbeasts. On the other bank the trees ceased at the gorge's edge,and the bare breast of a hill rose to the pale sky. It was thecolour of ripe corn in the moonlight and dotted with the whiteforms of sheep.

The old man filled his lungs with the soft air.

"That is a sight I love," he said. "The sheep look like whitetombstones in some ancient graveyard of the gods."

Mr Dott did not love it. The peace of the minister's study hadgone from him, and he knew again the curious disquiet that he hadfelt at the sight of Hungrygrain. It was not the loneliness butthe secrecy which oppressed him, an unpleasing sense ofanticipation.

"What's that moving among the sheep?" he asked sharply.

Something was making the animals scatter. Something stirred atthe far side of the Yonder. Mr Dott waited tensely, for herealised that whatever it was it was coming towards them. Heglanced back to the house where the open door made an oblong oflight. Mr Blackstocks was quoting Greek, but he did not listen,for his eyes were strained upon the near lip of the ravine.

Suddenly a figure appeared on it and stumbled towards them. MrDott caught the minister's arm and would have drawn him towardsthe house, till he saw that there was no menace in the figure. Itwas that of a young man, whose clothes were dripping wet and muchdisordered and whose face was white and weary. Blood from a woundon his forehead was blinding his eyes.

The young man's face was ghastly in the light of the moon. Heclutched at Mr Dott, who retreated in alarm, but who came forwardwhen he realised the truth. This was a sick man with no purposeof hostility; his clothes were stained, and one coat-sleeve wastorn, but they had once been fashionable; his cravat was wildlydisordered, but it was of fine cambric; his countenance was dirtyand blood-smeared, but the features showed breeding. Mr Dott wasreassured.

"Hold up, sir," he said, giving him his arm. Then to theminister, "We must get him inbye, for this garden is no place fora dwam. Your study sofa is the bit for him."

He was a tall youth and leaned heavily on his small companion.They were met in the passage by the housekeeper, who exclaimedshrilly, "Is't the minister? Is't himsel'? Whae in the world? . .. Tuts, gie me a haud o' him. The chiel's sick, and, gudesakes,he's gotten an unco clour on the heid. . . . Losh, he's awa' wi'it." Sure enough the young man fainted and was carried by sturdyfemale arms to the lamplit study.

The minister stood by twittering gently, while the housekeeperlaid the youth on the sofa, undid his neckcloth, unstrapped hispantaloons, and drew off his boots. She fetched a basin of hotwater and bathed his brow, felt his pulse in the mostprofessional manner, and shook a disapproving head.

"Nae wound to speak o'," she announced. "Just a wheen scartson the scalp as if a gled had pikit at him. But the lad's sairforfochen--fair foundered. There's been ill work somewhere thisnight."

"A drop of brandy is what he needs," said Mr Dott.

"And whaur am I to get brandy, think ye? There's no the savouro't in this house. There's whisky in plenty, but whisky's naeguid, for it wad only fever him."

There was something ominous about the dead-white face, and thewet hair streaked over the still bleeding forehead. The sick mangave no appearance of coming to himself, but lay with his headlimp and his pale lips open, and his breath seemed to be faintand difficult.

"We must get a doctor," said Mr Dott.

"There's nae doctor nearer than Yondermouth, and he wadna bemuckle use if ye got him. He's yin that's no often sober. Butthere's nae surgeon's wark needit. Thae wounds are just scartsand scrapes and the bleedin' is near stoppit. I've skill enougho' medicine to ken that. If I could get a cup o' brandy and hetmilk down his throat, I'se warrant he'd sleep like a bairn and bea weel man in the mornin'."

"Then brandy must be found," said Mr Dott. "Is there noChristian house nearby where we could beg a bottle?"

"Nane but Hungrygrain, and he'd be a bauld man that wentseekin' favours at yon door."

"But there is an inn. I've heard tell of an inn."

The housekeeper raised her head.

"Ay, there's an inn. It's a queer kind o' hostel, but ye'dmaybe get what ye sought."

"Is it near?"

"Ayont the water. No above a mile. Ye'd hae to cross the plankbrig at Ritterford."

"Then I'm off to the inn. There's a grand moon to light me, ifyou'll set me on the road."

"Ye canna miss it. There's a path doun this side o' the Yondertill ye come to the brig, and ayont it there's the inn on the tapo' the brae. Ye'll hae to speak the landlord fair, sir, for he'sa thrawn body. I've kenned better men than Purdey, but I'vekenned waur. Haste ye, for there's nae time to loss. I'll get thepuir lad out o' his clothes and inside one o' the minister'snightgowns, and into the spare bed. See, he's comin' to. . . .But I daurna let him sleep till he has gotten his cordial."

The figure on the sofa stirred, its eyes opened, and a strongshudder overtook it. As Mr Dott set out on his errand it seemedto be trying to speak.

Sir Turnour Wyse did not turn his chaise up the hill trackwhich Mr Dott had followed. His goal was the inn, and he had beenadvised in Berwick to cross the Yonder by what was known as theRoman Brig, and then to bend right through a firwood, to cross astrip of moor, to traverse the village of Yonder, and so find theinn a mile beyond on the hill above the stream. The directionshad been given him with curious covert looks, which Sir Turnourhad remarked but heeded little. He felt himself to be too farnorth for the manners of civilisation.

The road, once he had left the highway, proved to be vile inthe extreme, and the steady downpour of rain which had begun didnot add to its cheerfulness. He buttoned the high collar of hisdreadnought, but the deluge trickled down his neck, and madegreat pools on his leather driving apron. Sir Turnour was notcommonly sensitive to landscape or weather, but this place struckhim as wholly abominable. The ragged fir trees looked likegibbets. When he emerged on the moor he was met by such a blastof wind and water that he could scarcely see the track, and hisgalloways stumbled among ruts and pot-holes. The clachan, throughwhich he presently passed, was sodden, shabby and tumble-down,like a city slum transported to a sour upland. There was no signof life in its street, not even a wandering dog, but he wasconscious of unfriendly eyes watching him from behind dirtywindows.

Sir Turnour, who that morning had been an easy master of hisworld, began to feel at a disadvantage, and the novel sensationaffected his temper. He had come north on an errand which boredhim, but which he could not shirk. No man had ever insulted himwith impunity, and at whatever trouble to himself he must bringthis young whipper-snapper to instant account. It was not hisreputation that moved him, for that he believed to beimpregnable: it was his own self-respect. He could not becomfortable in his mind while one walked unpunished who hadquestioned his breeding or his courage. . . . But the enterprise,which had hitherto worn the guise of a majestic punitiveexpedition, was now losing its dignity. He had hoped to findBelses in his own home and to bring him to book with all thedecencies of good society. He had learned by secret channels thathe had gone to his mistress's Northumbrian home, and that hadseemed a not unfitting venue for a settlement. But to seek him inthis howling wilderness was another matter. What code of mannerscould obtain in such a desert? His purpose was to meet one of hisown class in the environment of that class, and not to dig out awretched fugitive like a fox from a hole. He felt that his grand,rock-like self-sufficiency, his complete competence in life, wasbeing imperilled. He might even be in danger of becomingridiculous. It was an irritated and discomposed baronet thatpulled up at the inn.

The place was in the last degree forbidding. It may once havebeen the mansion of a small laird, for its high-pitched roof andcrow-step gables seemed ancient, there was a little courtyardbefore it, and a ruinous dovecot crowned the slope behind it. Butits visage was inhospitable as seen in the driving rain. Thesmall casements were uncurtained, there was no sign above thedoor, and the door did not stand wide, as a good inn-door should,to welcome the traveller. The forecourt was dirty and cumberedwith rubbish, and there was at least one broken pane in eachwindow. One detail alone was satisfactory. Flanking the housewere roomy stables, which seemed to be well-cared for, and fromwhich came the stirring of horses. A place could not be whollycomfortless where horseflesh was respected.

The first fury of the rain had ceased, and there was a breakin the mist which, from the high vantage-ground of the inn,opened the upper valley. The tree-filled gorge of the stream gaveplace to a bare glen flanked by hills which to Sir Turnour'slowland eyes seemed monstrous precipices. In the middle distancea house was apparent, a gaunt rambling erection set amongstarveling evergreens and ill-nourished firs. A gleam of suncaught its walls, but gave them no cheerfulness, and the end of abroken rainbow on the hillside gave it no colour. The place wasugly as a brickyard and cold as a tomb, and it had a character,too, which Sir Turnour was conscious of but could not define. Itwas ominous, and stared at him with malign eyes; on that he wasclear enough, for he was accustomed to trust his intuitions andback his fancy.

The water from a gutter gathered in the eaves above the inndoor and descended thence in a steady cascade, so that anyoneentering ran the risk of a wetting. So Sir Turnour sat in hischaise and shouted for the landlord.

At first there was no answer. There was a fresh stamping ofhooves from the stables, and what sounded like the voice of anangry man. A cow routed in some outhouse, and a clatter of pailswas heard in the direction of the steading. But the weatherworndoor behind its curtain of water did not open.

Again and yet again Sir Turnour shouted, and each time hisvoice became angrier. He was just about to descend, with his whipready for action, when a voice spoke behind him. Someone had comeup from the direction of the stream.

It was a big man, who wore corduroy breeches and a homespuncoat with huge pockets. Thick blue worsted stockings envelopedhis enormous calves and bulged over his stout country shoes. Hisrounded shoulders and the downward thrust of his shaggy head gavehim the air of a dangerous bull.

"What's the steer, mannie?" he asked.

Sir Turnour did not understand the question, but realised thatit was not friendly.

"Are there no men about this god-forsaken hole?" hethundered.

"There's me."

"Are you the innkeeper?"

"Ye've said it."

"Then what the devil do you mean by not attending to yourduties? I want a stable for my horse, and rooms and fire, andfood for myself and my servant. Look sharp about it." He flungback his driving apron, and descended from the chaise.

The man did not move.

"Ye can get back into your coachie, and turn your beasts'heads, and return the road ye came. There's no place for yehere."

Sir Turnour was at his ease again. Here was a surly ruffian tobe brought to heel, and that was a task with which he wasfamiliar. He divested himself of his dreadnought and his gloves,and handed them to his servant, who was standing at thegalloways' heads. Then he strolled round the chaise andconfronted the innkeeper.

The latter had menace in every line of him. He advanced a stepwith his head thrust forward and his long arms loose for defenceor attack. But when he raised his eyes and saw the other clearly,the resolution seemed to go out of his air. For what he saw wasno fleshy, dandified traveller, as he had judged from the voiceand the figure as it had appeared on the box seat. Sir Turnourstood on his toes as lightly as a runner, his strong clenchedhands white at the knuckles, his poise easy but as charged withswift power as a thundercloud is charged with fire. The innkeepermarked the square shoulders, the corded muscles of the shapelyneck, the slim flanks--above all, he marked the vigilant andscornful eye. He was himself a noted wrestler, but he knew thathe could not give this man a fall, for he would never get togrips with him. The other would dance round him on those lightfeet, and an arm like a flail would smite him intounconsciousness. He was a bold man but no fool, and he recognisedthe trained fighter, no genteel amateur, but one bred in a toughschool. So he surrendered at discretion and touched a dampforelock.

"No offence," he grunted. "Ye take up a man too short, sir.What's your honour's will."

Sir Turnour smiled.

"Jarvis," he cried to his servant. "Take my baggage indoors.Kick open that door, if it is locked." Then to the innkeeper. "Mywill? That you should be a little more active in your publicduties, friend. I want rooms, fire and food, andcivility--civility observe, for I am particular on that point.Quick with you, for your accursed sky is beginning to dripagain."

The innkeeper showed a surprising activity. He was at the doorbefore Jarvis could assault it, opened it with a clumsy bow, andhimself carried in the larger of Sir Turnour's two valises. Thetravellers found themselves in a stone-flagged hall which smelthalf of stable and half of taproom. Tables and settles werelittered with crops, rusty and broken spurs, hawks' jesses,medicines for hawks, hounds and horses, powder-flasks,shot-pouches and a miscellany of other litter. The landlord ledthem up an oaken stair, with many broken treads, to an upper hallwhich was chiefly remarkable for possessing a huge rug of wovenrushes into which the feet sank. He flung open a door.

"There's your parlour, my denty sir, and ayont it lies yourbedchamber. Your servant will have to bed in the garret. I'll geta fire going in a jiffy, but it's a dry house, this o' mine, andthe roof's tight, and it's no ill to warm. Meat ye'll want. Whattime will ye be pleased to dine?"

"Your cursed roads have given me a twist. Let us say sixo'clock, sharp to the minute. What can you give me?"

He listened gravely to the landlord's inventory of his larder,for he was one that took his meals seriously. "Faith, we shallnot do so dustily. A grilled salmon steak, a cut of hill mutton,and a welsh rarebit--I have dined more scurvily in my day.Claret, no. I have no stomach for your north-country claret. Ifyour ale is sound I will have a tankard of it, and a bottle ofyour best port for the good of the house. But first I must have amessage sent to the house of Hungrygrain. The place is close athand, I think?"

At the mention of Hungrygrain the landlord, who had driftedinto a complaisance which was almost servility, bristled like aterrier.

"What do ye want with Hungrygrain?" he asked surlily.

"What the devil is your business what I want with Hungrygrain?Civility, my friend." Sir Turnour's eyes had a frosty gleam inthem. "You will take a message to Squire Cranmer--that, I think,is the name--and you will say that--"

"I will take no message. No message will gang out of thisplace the day."

"Oho! So that is the way the wind's set! Listen, my man. Youwill take, or procure the taking of, my message, and thatinstantly. If you do not, I shall take it myself. But in thatevent I shall first of all have had the felicity to thrash yousoundly and to fling you down these steep stairs of yours. Makeyour choice, friend. I am stiff with sitting in my chaise and Ishould not be averse to a little exercise."

Once again the two men measured each other with their eyes,and once again the landlord's conclusion was pessimistic abouthis chances.

"What's your errand?" he growled.

"You will make my compliments to Squire Cranmer--thecompliments of Sir Turnour Wyse, Baronet, of Wood Rising Hall inthe county of Norfolk, and of White's Club--you will present mycarte de visite--and you will inform him that I propose todo myself the honour of waiting upon him tomorrow morning at teno'clock. You will add that, as the matter is somewhat private, Iwould beg of him to say nothing of it, and not to mention my nametill after our meeting. Do you follow?"

"I follow. What if the Squire will not see ye?"

"Now, what do you know of the courtesies due betweengentlemen? You take too much upon you, my man." Sir Turnourextracted a slip of pasteboard from an ivory case, and placed itin an envelope which he took from his valise.

"See that the rain does not make it pulp," he said. "Off withyou or send your trustiest man. Let me have an answer by six, andthe dinner you have promised me, and we shall yet be goodfriends. . . . God, man, what is the trouble? The Squire is yourmaster, and a good one by all I hear, but you seem as shy ofapproaching him as if he were the Devil with his tongs! Did younever take a message before from one gentleman to another?"

The landlord departed, a slovenly maid appeared with a pailfulof red peats and another of birch billets; the valet Jarvis, whohad been busy in the bed-chamber, assisted Sir Turnour to histoilet before the fire. His boots were drawn off, and his legsadorned with fine silk stockings, and a pair of handsomemonogrammed velvet slippers. He exchanged his coat for anegligé jacket of a loud-patterned tweed, and a quiltedsilk dressing-gown. Water was boiled somewhere downstairs, and abasin provided wherein Sir Turnour delicately washed his handsand face. Then he lay back in a much-rubbed leather armchair,trimmed his nails with a pen-knife, and proposed to enjoy asiesta before dinner.

But, though he was a little stiff and the fire was graciousafter the stormy out-of-doors, Sir Turnour did not doze. Insteadhe indulged in day-dreams. The shining form of Miss KirstyEvandale tripped through the corridors of his fancy. He had neverhad the name of a woman-fancier--more stirring occupations hadfilled his time. On the whole women had bored him with their airsand graces, their extravagant demands, their exigent charms. Hedid not even greatly admire the female form--too full ofmeaningless curves and cushions, too bottle-shouldered andheavy-hipped--a well-made man seemed to him a far finer creationof God. He could talk to them, banter them, take his pleasurewith them, but none had ever touched his heart. But the girl thatmorning--she differed from any other woman he had ever known! Shewalked like a free creature, she was ripe and vital and yet freshas a spring flower, a dainty being yet wholesome as ablood-horse, and she had the most darling laughing eyes! SirTurnour found himself moved to poetry, and strove to dig Latintags out of his Harrow memories.

Suddenly his dream was broken. The door had opened and astranger had entered.

Sir Turnour saw a tall man, booted and spurred and muchsplashed with mire, who brought into the warm room the tang ofsharp weather. His shoulders were a little bent as if he weremuch in the saddle, and his hair, like Sir Turnour's, was cut asshort as a groom's. But his dress, though plain, was not rustic,and he bore himself with dignity and assurance. His face was afine oval, a little heavy perhaps at the chin; he had a smallmouth and full lips, which were parted as if he were perpetuallyon the brink of a smile. But the notable feature was his pallor,a dead white which accentuated the darkness of his hair and eyes.It was a surprising face, for it had a beauty rare in his sex,the delicacy of a woman combined with a most masculineauthority.

"Childe Harold," thought Sir Turnour, as he hove himself outof his chair. "Or his creator?" He had stripped the young LordByron of many a guinea at the Cocoa Tree.

The two men bowed, and the new-comer held out his hand.

"Sir Turnour Wyse?" he said. "I am honoured to make youracquaintance, sir. Your fame has travelled even to these moorlandsolitudes. Your message was delivered to me, and I hastened towait upon you to receive your commands. Would to heaven I couldoffer you the hospitality of Hungrygrain, but alas, at the momentmy household is in confusion and no fit lodging for a gentleman."He shrugged his shoulders as if to imply a host of pettydisasters needless to recount. "In what way can I serve you,sir?"

"I am deeply obliged, Mr Cranmer. My errand is simple andshould be short. I desire an interview on a strictly privatematter with one whom I believe to be at present your guest. Butsince the affair has a certain unpleasantness, I thought itcommon courtesy first of all to acquaint you with my purpose andto desire your assent to it."

Mr Cranmer looked puzzled.

"A guest? Hungrygrain has few guests."

"I will be explicit. The gentleman I seek is my lordBelses."

The other frowned and seemed to meditate. Then the nascentsmile on his lips broadened into a laugh.

"Belses! The Snowdoun hopeful! My dear sir, you have come on acurious errand. Now I think of it I have heard some tale of aquarrel between you and his callow lordship--I returned only theother day from town--it was common gossip in the clubs. But whatwhim possessed you to think that you would find the cubhere?"

"I had information in Scotland that he was at your house." SirTurnour was trying to decide just how much he disliked this darkAdonis.

Mr Cranmer bent his brows so that they made a straight linebeneath his pale forehead.

"Sir Turnour," he said, "we are two men of the world and canspeak frankly. You have heard rumours of some connection betweenthis Lord Belses and my family? I will not particularise, for thetopic, as you will understand, is painful to me. But I ask you,is it likely that I would receive in my house one to whom suchgossip attaches? Do I look like a man who would tamely consent tobe cuckolded under his own roof-tree?"

Mr Cranmer drew himself up, and his pose was that of indignantvirtue, a chivalrous and noble wrath. Sir Turnour had seen justthat same pose in admired actors on the London stage. But all thetime there was that lurking smile at his lips. He realised thathe disliked him exceedingly.

"You can assure me that Lord Belses is not atHungrygrain?"

"After what I have said another man might take your questionas an insult, but I can make allowance for your naturalirritation. You have been shamelessly misled, Sir Turnour. LordBelses is not now in my house and never has been. Were he in mypower, I should be the first to deliver him to you for justpunishment. . . . That is my answer, and I rejoice that it willsave you a longer stay in these poor quarters in this dolefulweather."

He held out his hand. Sir Turnour took it ungraciously, butdid not forget his manners.

"I am about to dine," he said. "Will you join me?"

"I thank you, but I have already dined--at our unfashionableNorthumbrian hour. I bid you good-day, Sir Turnour, and I wishyou speedily better luck in your mission."

A minute later there was the sound of departing hooves on thecobbles of the inn yard. Sir Turnour did not resume his armchair,for he was profoundly discomposed. His information about Belseshad come to him from a sure source, he had implicitly believedit, and had looked forward to bringing a tiresome affair to aproper close. But now he must resume his quest--after a snubbing.For this damned play-actor had snubbed him, had taken a high linewith him, had proved him deficient in the finer feelings of agentleman. . . . What had he heard about Cranmer? A complaisanthusband. A bumpkin whose heart was in some provincial hunt. Hadthere not been a story, too, of heavy drinking? Yet the man'sappearance had not suggested these things. He looked active,shrewd, formidable. He had the air of one accustomed to goodsociety. His pallor could scarcely come from a disordered liver,for his physique was vigorous, a point on which the baronet wasno small authority.

Dinner was served, but Sir Turnour did scant justice to themeal. His appetite had mysteriously gone, and even the excellentport did not improve his spirits. The memory rankled of aninterview in which he felt that he had shown at somedisadvantage. . . . This Cranmer, could he trust him? Was helying? But why should he lie? He could have no reason to protectBelses. . . . The one thing clear in his mind was that hedetested Cranmer as vigorously as he had ever detested a fellowmortal, the more vigorously because he had no just cause for hisdislike. Sir Turnour was a good-humoured man, and a hatred soirrational and intense made him uncomfortable.

The table was cleared, and he sat sipping his port in thearmchair by the fire. His confused thoughts and the heat of thelamplit, shuttered room presently made him drowsy, and he thoughtof ringing for Jarvis to put him to bed.

Then came a small knock at the door. It opened to admit thehesitating form of a little man in a great-coat, a man with anutcracker jaw and prominent goggle eyes.

Sir Turnour stared at the singular figure which was now insidethe room and busy with apologetic shuffles and bows. He seemed tobe a small man of the professional class, a country doctor maybe,for sober black apparel was revealed under the flappinggreat-coat.

"Your pardon, sir," said the figure. "I'm sure I beg yourpardon for intruding on you. But I'm seeking the landlord, andthis hostel is as short of folk as a kirk on Monday."

Sir Turnour did not rise from his chair. He had no mind tohave his private chamber treated as a taproom.

"I know nothing of the landlord's whereabouts," he saidcoldly. "I have the honour to wish you good night, sir."

"But I cannot find him," the little man wailed. "No, nor aJock or Jenny to do my business. The place is as deserted as thegrave. And find somebody I must, for I cannot wait."

Sir Turnour grew cross. "What concern have I with yourbusiness? What do you want?"

"Brandy," was the answer.

"Confound your impudence. Do you take me for a drawer?"

"No, no, your honour." The little man shrunk back as if hefeared that the formidable presence in the chair would do him amischief. "I was just seeking help from a fellow-Christian. Thebrandy is not for myself, but for a young gentleman that hasgotten a sore clout on the head and now lies in a dwam."

"Where is he?" In spite of himself Sir Turnour's interest wasawakened.

"He's bedded at the manse."

"The what?"

"The manse. The minister's house. They have a manse here,though it's not Scotland. And the wife there, who seems to havesome skill of medicine, says the lad must have a cordial if he isto sleep off his weakness."

A fantastic suspicion entered Sir Turnour's mind.

"Who is this young man? Describe him."

Mr Dott came a step farther into the room as he saw thebaronet's severity relax.

"That's just what we don't know. He came out of the wood anhour syne stottering like a palsied man, and all bloody about theforehead, and before we could speir who he was he spins roundlike a peery and goes off into a dwam. He's just a laddie, yourhonour, and a gentleman, if I'm any judge of gentility."

"Describe his appearance."

"Very dirty and dishevelled, for he had been among the sheughsand craigs of the burnside. But let me see. . . . Yellow hair--Ithink it would be yellow, under the blood and mire. A smallwhitish face, and a kind of thin gentry nose. He had on him agood stand of clothes, though they had had rough usage, and hishands were as fine as a lassie's.

"His height?"

"About the same as your own, but he's a lath of a lad, and notbuirdly like your honour."

Mr Dott was gaining confidence. He had now recognised the manbefore him as the god from the machine who had intervened onKitterston hill, and he had resolved to appeal for aid to one whowas such a master of circumstance. Sir Turnour's suspicion wasgrowing into a certainty. His dislike of Justin Cranmer had madehim violently distrustful of every word that gentleman hadspoken. The man had lied to him, and he was not wont to let a liego unpunished. For the moment he saw in Cranmer a more fittingobject of his wrath than the youth who had been the purpose ofhis journey.

But Sir Turnour's face was schooled to impassivity, and MrDott read in it none of these changing emotions. He saw in itonly reflection, and it gave him hope.

"I have already seen your honour twice this day," he said. "Iwas in the Mail when it coupit on Kitterston hill, and yourhonour came biding up like Jehu. And you passed me on the roadabout midday when yon ne'er-do-well from the King's Arms wasdriving me here. It's a sore time of night to disturb agentleman, but if you could find it in your heart to do aChristian act by the poor lad . . . help me to get some brandy inthis house . . . or maybe--"

Sir Turnour was on his feet, shouting for his servant, whoappeared at once from the bedroom.

"Where is this manse, or whatever you call it?"

"Oh, just a step--less than a mile--a wee bit ayont theburn."

"My boots," he told his valet. "And get me the flask ofeau-de-vie from my dressing-case. I am going out for an hour. Seethat the fire is kept bright, and have a glass of punch ready formy return. . . . I have not the favour of your name, Sir. Dott?Well, Mr Dott, I will accompany you to the parsonage, and have alook at the sick man. I may know something about him. And sincebroken heads are going in these parts, we will takeprecautions."

When he had been assisted into his boots, Sir Turnour buckledunder his coat a brace of pistols.

There was little talk between the two as they threaded a trackthrough the dene much clogged with tree-roots. The baronet wasoccupied in nursing his wrath against Justin Cranmer, his dislikeof whom was fast growing to a passion. He had never felt in thisway towards Belses, whom he had considered a puppy that musttaste the whip, but otherwise a mere unpleasing accident like thetoothache. But Cranmer was grown man and formidable man; nomistake about that, for he had the wary eye of the duellist andthe face of one not accustomed to refusal. He had been polite butarrogant, that confounded hedge-squire. Sir Turnour had longed atthe time to fasten some quarrel on him, and if he had been liedto, here was ample cause for quarrel. Also the track wasinfernal. Mr Dott in stout high-lows, well nailed by the Wauchtcobbler, made good going, but Sir Turnour's smooth-soled ridingboots were perpetually slipping on the sodden earth.

At the manse door they were met by the house-keeper.

"Ha'e ye brocht the brandy?" she demanded of Mr Dott.

"Aye, and I've brought a gentleman to give us a hand."

The woman cast one look at Sir Turnour's massive figure in themoonlight, and then bobbed a curtsey. She recognised someone of atype not often seen in Yonderdale.

"He's come to himsel'," she whispered. "The minister's wi'him. He's snug in the best bed, and I hae the milk for hiscordial on the boil. Whaur's the brandy?"

Sir Turnour drew from the pocket of his greatcoat a silverflask. "It is eau-de-vie I'll warrant," he said, "such as rarelyvisits Northumberland. Has the sick man spoken and told who heis?"

"No yet. He has gotten his speech but nae freedom wi't. Hecried out something about an angel--Gabriel, I think it was--andthen he seemed to be feared for what he had said. But his een aregettin' mair world-like, and the minister is guidin' him back tosense. I heard the crack o' the twae through the door. Yince hehas had his cordial he'll be a new man."

"Will you lead me to him at once, my good woman?"

"When I've gotten his draught prepared, and that'll no be aminute. Bide ye here, sir."

The housekeeper retreated into her tiny kitchen, and a fewmoments later appeared with a steaming posset-cup which sentforth an agreeable odour of good brandy. She led the way up thesteep staircase and opened a bedroom door. There was a sound oftalk coming through the door, which ceased when it opened.

Sir Turnour and Mr Dott, following close on her heels, saw alittle square room almost filled by a great uncurtainedfour-poster. Beside it sat the minister, and four candlesguttered in the draught of the open window. Their light showed ayoung man in a flannel nightgown, whose face was paler than thebleached linen of the pillowslips. His forehead was bandaged andsurmounted by an incongruous red night-cap. At first his figurewas blocked by the housekeeper, who was feeding him from theposset-cup. When he had drained it he lay back again upon hispillow, and a faint colour returned to his cheeks.

Sir Turnour at the bottom of the bed was gazing earnestly atthe face, which was now a little in dusk, since the table withthe candles had been pushed aside. Doubt, recognition, and doubtagain were in the baronet's eyes. But the sick man put an end toall uncertainty. The baronet stood out clear in the candlelight,and the patient became suddenly conscious of his gaze. He pulledhimself up in bed with such vigour as to displace his night-capand set the candles rocking.

"Wyse, by all that's lucky!" he cried. "Speak, man. Are youWyse, or am I raving mad?"

"My name is Turnour Wyse," was the answer. "We shall havesomething to say to each other, my lord, when you are fit forspeech."

The young man let his head drop back, and his newly revealedhair was, as Mr Dott had said, as yellow as a girl's. He laughed,but not pleasantly; his laugh had discomfort in it, and fear, anda sharp anxiety.

"Have you come here for my sake?" he asked.

Sir Turnour bowed.

"I have requested satisfaction for an insult," he said, "andthat satisfaction has been withheld. I am not in the habit ofletting such requests go unanswered. So since you chose toseclude yourself from me, I have been forced to come in search ofyou."

He spoke firmly, and a little pompously, for these were thewords with which he had long proposed to open this particularconversation. But to his surprise, and indeed to his alarm, hefelt, as he spoke, something of a fool. This pallid youth in theflannel nightgown seemed a poor quarry for so noted a hunter. Hehad set out to draw a badger and found a rabbit, and hediscovered that he had no fury against the rabbit. Belses, trimand handsome and point-devise, with a coterie of affected youthsbehind him, had annoyed him extremely; but had he been the samebeing as this rag of a boy?

The housekeeper intervened.

"Ye maun let him sleep, sir. The posset will dae him nae guidif ye keep him conversin'."

But the lad in the bed seemed to have got a new vigour whichcould not be due only to the milk and brandy. He raised himselfon the pillows, and brought a slim boyish arm outside theblankets.

"I have that to say to this gentleman which cannot wait. . . .Sir Turnour, will you believe me when I tell you that I did nothide myself from you? I was not my own master. My familyintervened. . . . When I could free myself I found an urgent dutylaid on me, a matter of life and death. I would beg of you to letour affair lie over till my road is clear. Be assured that whenthe time comes I will give you all the satisfaction youdesire."

"A matter of honour does not permit of delay," was the answer,very stiffly spoken.

"Then, if you refuse postponement, I must take the other way.You shall have your apology, as grovelling as you please. I willeat humble pie."

Sir Turnour was scandalised. This rabbit was even poorer gamethan he had thought. He shrugged his fine shoulders, and on hiscomely face came an expression of surprised disgust.

"I had thought that I was dealing with a gentleman." hesaid.

The young man laughed miserably.

"A gentleman! Yes, I fancied myself one, but God knows whatthe word means! There are some that claim it who most foullyprofane it." . . . He stopped, for there was that in the other'sface, its confidence and simplicity and large honesty, whichswitched his thoughts on to a new track. It was as if he was forthe first time seeing clearly the man before him.

"Listen to me, sir," he said. "I respect the punctilios ofhonour and would observe them. But if I am faced with a desperatecrisis I will discard these punctilios like an old coat and stillclaim the title of gentleman. . . . If I could secure not yourforbearance only, but your active help in this crisis, there isno humility to which I would not bow. I would lick your boots,sir, and think I did honourably."

Sir Turnour was in no way mollified. He had heard this kind oftalk before, and did not like it; it savoured of poets andJacobins and creatures of sentiment who had no place in hisrobust world. But the earnestness of the young man's voiceimpressed him in spite of himself.

"What is this crisis?" he asked. "I must hear more about itbefore I answer you."

The young man looked round the room.

"I am among friends, I believe--friends, and one honourableenemy. My host is a servant of God and this woman is aministering angel. The fourth I do not know," and he looked at MrDott, "but he has an honest face. I fling myself upon your mercy.To-night I have been near death, but that is a small affair.There is worse than death in the house of Hungrygrain. There isan incarnate devil, and torture, and despair."

"Large words," said Sir Turnour. "Condescend to explainyourself." But he was not wholly sceptical, for he had a notionthat he had recently met the devil referred to.

Colour had come back to the young man's face. He addressed thehousekeeper. "I am perishingly hungry, for I have scarcely eatento-day. Can you give me some bread and cheese?"

The woman expostulated. "Na, na, sir, it's sleep ye need. Yeshould hae naething on your stomach but the het milk."

"But I am too hungry to sleep--and too hungry to speak--andspeak I must. Already I feel a new man, but an empty one."

Sir Turnour intervened.

"You were struck on the head--how long ago?"

"Four hours, perhaps."

"And since then?"

"I have been chased."

"And you fainted when you came here, and were senseless forhalf an hour? Your case is plain, sir. You have had a smallconcussion, which took some hours to affect you. I have sufferedthe same thing myself in the ring and in the hunting field. OnceI went for three days with a concussion on me, pursuing myordinary life, and then suddenly fainted dead away on the benchat Quarter Sessions, and it was an hour before I came to myself.Food will do you no harm, provided your meal is light."

"There's a mutton ham in the house, Marget," said theminister. "Bring it, and some of your new scones. It's far pastmy bedtime, but I think I could take a bite myself."

Ten minutes later four pairs of jaws were busy in the littleroom, for even Sir Turnour had accepted a slice of mutton ham anda glass of ale. Belses, propped up on his pillows, lookedwholesome enough except for his anxious eyes.

"Cranmer is at Hungrygrain--and his wife," he said.

"I came here to see her on business," said the aggrieved MrDott. "They said she was not here. There's some unholy liars inthis glen."

"There is devilry afoot there," Belses went on, "and she isbeing tortured to make her comply with it. I speak of yourSquire." He turned to the minister. "Have you anything to say inhis favour?"

The old man shook his head. "I have not spoken to him foryears," he said. The housekeeper pursed her lips. "I'll speak naeill, but I ken nae guid o' him."

"You know nothing of him? No one does. He goes through theworld with a mask on his face, which he removes only in thisvalley. Tell me, Sir Turnour, what repute has Justin Cranmer inyour world?"

The baronet shrugged his shoulders. "He has the name of arustic booby. At Mortimer's they say he is too fond of liftinghis elbow."

"I have heard that--that is the repute he wants--but it is alie, a monstrous lie. The man is cold and temperate and a deepschemer, but what his schemes are I cannot tell. . . . But I mustgo back in my tale." The boy pressed a hand on his bandagedforehead as if to clear his recollections.

"I met Cranmer first eighteen months ago in Italy, and for alittle we travelled together. He had some kind of business, I donot know what, but he was often absent from his lodgings and hehad dealings with a strange medley of people. He was civil andnot ill-educated, and he made a great parade of attention to hiswife. The lady--but I will not speak of her," he added as he sawSir Turnour's face harden. "For the moment, I am content to beneutral on the matter. It is enough to say that she has no singlequality in common with her husband.

"We parted, and met again in Bruges. There Mr Cranmer'sactivities were increased, and among the company he kept weresome who were not fit associates for his wife. He seemed tocultivate my acquaintance and make public parade of it as if itwere some sort of protection. There was one man who was much withhim--Aymer was the name he went by there--an evil fellow whostank of a false bonhomie. And there were others who roused mygorge and from whom Mrs Cranmer seemed to shrink. Yet she wasdeep in her husband's business, whatever it was--they oftenconsulted together--I have seen her head bent beside his overpapers. I could make nothing of it, for he is common flawedearthenware at the best, and she--she, by your leave, sir, issaint and angel."

Sir Turnour frowned. "On that point let us keep ourneutrality--it is your own word. I would hear more of thehusband."

"In London I renewed my acquaintance with the Cranmers attheir house in Great George Street. The man was much away fromhome, and I understood that he was visiting his properties in thenorth, but when we met he was uncommonly civil and seemed to havethe design of throwing me much into the company of his wife. Atfirst I did not actively dislike him. My feeling was ratherdistrust and lack of comprehension, for I could not reconcile therepute he seemed to cultivate as abon vivant and simplesportsman with the glimpses I had of the man in undress. In theselatter I detected a subtle brain and some mysterious consumingpurpose. Also there were moments when his affection for the ladyseemed to ring hollow, and I have found her often with the markof tears on her face and with terror in her eyes. You mustunderstand that she was all kindness and innocence--"

"We will let her innocence be."

"No, sir, but you must hear me on that, for it is most germaneto my story. I formed the opinion that, just as he was intent onmaking a particular public repute for himself, so he was busymaking one for his wife. He would twit her with Jacobinicalopinions and quote her sayings in company--sometimes jocularly,sometimes ruefully, for he himself posed as a staunch Governmentman. Sometimes he would carry her with him to the north, and fromthese visits she would return a pale ghost, like one who has beenin a torture-chamber. Or they would visit her own house inNorfolk, to which she professed a deep attachment, but, judgingfrom the effect on her, these journeys were not in the nature ofholidays. I was driven to conclude that Mr Cranmer was engaged inaffairs in which he forced his wife to take part, and that thatpart was hateful to her. And I could not think that these affairswere honest."

"You have evidence on that point?"

"None fit for a court of law. Only suspicions. I had enquiriesmade, but the tracks were well concealed. Twice I have seen inGreat George Street the man I knew in Bruges as Aymer--stumbledupon him as it were by an accident, which Cranmer did not regardas fortunate. But I found out one thing. His name in London isnot Aymer."

Sir Turnour laughed. "You are clearly no great success as aspy, sir."

The other shook his head mournfully. "I am not. I know littleof the underworld of the town, and the thing was too delicate topermit me to call in helpers. But day by day my conviction grew.I was assured that the lady was in deep unhappiness, and that itwas her husband's doing. I burned with indignation at thecharacter he was getting her. But I was like a man striving witha feather bed, for there was nothing hard at which I couldstrike. . . . Then came certain incidents with which you arefamiliar. I will cut my story short, for it is only theconclusion that matters. My family laid hold on me with privatelettres de cachet, and I was consigned to the familybastille. There word reached me that the Cranmers had gone toNorthumberland. My mind was in a fever. I cannot tell why, but Ihad a fixed belief that with this journey northward some tragedywas approaching its climax, and that the lady was in desperatedanger. . . . I broke from my prison. The house in Great GeorgeStreet was shuttered, and tenanted only by the old man Cottle,who acted as steward. From him I had confirmation of the journey.. . . Also I found at my lodgings a letter from Mrs Cranmer."

"She begged you to follow her?" Sir Turnour's tone wascynical.

"She begged me to forget her and never think of her more. Itwas the completestcongé a man ever had. Butbetween the lines I read that her heart was broken and that shewas in some deadly peril. From Cottle I had directions for theroad, so without an hour's delay I posted north."

"From spy you became Bow Street runner?" Sir Turnour, himselfa truthful man, bowed to veracity in another. Cottle had been, atvarious times, his own informant. "What, in God's name, did youhope to accomplish by rushing blindly upon the seclusion ofhusband and wife?"

"'Pon my soul, I don't know." There was a flush now on theyoung man's face. "I was distraught. I could not think. I had noplan. I only knew that I must act or go mad. I rode the northroad like Dick Turpin, and left some weary cattle behind me.Three days ago--it was Sunday night--I reached Hungrygrain as thedark was falling, having lost my way in those ultimate moorlands.I was alone, without a servant. The place was so silent that itseemed deserted, but I was aware that my approach had not beenunobserved, and that the neighbourhood was full of eyes. And now,sir, I became an actor in an extravagant play--God send it be nota tragedy!"

Belses stopped and again put his hand to his forehead. "Let meget the stages clear, for it still seems a sort of whirligig. . .. I was admitted after a long parley by a shaggy serving-man wholooked to be apter at cutting throats than at waiting table. Thehouse was bare and in confusion, as if its occupants were aboutto start on a journey. I asked for the master, and had to kick myheels for an hour in an ill-lit chamber as cold as a tomb. By andby Cranmer came to me, and he was no longer the suave gentleman Ihad known. His face was black with suspicion and his tone was amenace. Why in hell had I come uninvited, poking my nose intoanother's affairs? I was amazed, for an unexpected visit of onegentleman to another is not commonly construed as a threat, yetthat was how Mr Cranmer took my arrival. I felt that I had hadgood warrant for my forebodings. I made a story of a hastyjourney into Scotland, the road missed, and a recollection thathe dwelt in the vicinity, but I could see that I was notbelieved. I enquired for his lady, and was told that she was notthere, but had gone to her house in Norfolk. Then I thought hewould have put me to the door and left me to find a lodging inthe dark. But he seemed to change his mind, though with no accessof graciousness. I was bidden stay the night, and conducted bythe same bear of a servant to a little room up many cold stonestairs. I had a solitary meal--and was left to my own devices. Ifound the door locked and myself a prisoner."

Sir Turnour had awakened to a lively interest. He had sathimself on a corner of the bed, and now leaned forward that hemight not miss a word.

"In the morning I was given breakfast, but when I bade the manleave the door unlocked he only grinned. He was obeying Squire'sorders. He added in a guttural dialect, far coarser than ourScots, that I must bide till Squire came for me. All that day Ilooked out of a narrow window on the bare green face of a hill.Below was a stream and a path beside it, and some ruinoussheepfolds. People passed--not many--rough countryfolk--and thehouse with its massive walls was utterly silent. Yet I wasconscious that a fierce life was going on in it somewhere andthat something was preparing which concerned me most urgently.When my evening meal was brought--like a dog I was given but thetwo meals a day--I tried to force my way past the servant. But Iwas no match for him in strength. His great arms plucked me backand set me in a corner like a naughty child.

"By the second morning I was desperate. I professed to be ill,and demanded an interview with the Squire. Cranmer did not come,but instead a tall surly fellow who spoke the King's English andseemed to be something of a doctor. When he saw that my troublewas of the mind rather than of the body, he laughed and turnedhis back on me. But he knew who I was, for he called me 'mylord.' 'Keep quiet for a day or two,' he said, 'and no harm willcome to you. A few nights in Hungrygrain will cool your blood,which in a young man is apt to be hottest in the spring.'

"There was no hope of escape by the door, which was solid as arock. I turned to the window, and at first I saw no better chancethere. It was flush with the wall, and had no ledge; when Icraned my neck upward I found that the coping of the roof was atleast twenty feet above me. The ground was perhaps thirty feetbeneath--no great distance, but I had nothing with which to makea rope, for I was not a story-book hero to fashion cords out ofbedclothes with no tool but my teeth and fingers. I had a thoughtof trying the drop, but the landing seemed hard, and a broken legI thought would not better my position.

"So the second night came and I was still without hope. Thenext morning a strange thing happened. In the ground floor, or inthe cellar beneath it, there must have been some store-house forfuel, for in the forenoon three country carts arrived laden withpeats and proceeded to unload underneath my window. Theshovelling of the stuff into the store-house was left for a laterday, and in the meantime they merely decanted their loads in agreat heap and went away. In that heap I saw my chance, for itmade an irregular mound some ten feet high. I had now not morethan twenty feet to drop, and something soft to fall on. Theweather had changed, and violent flurries of rain swept down theglen, which would be nearly as good a concealment as the dark ofnight. I waited till the air was thick with drizzle, so that aman could not see a yard, and then ventured. The falling was notas soft as I had hoped, and I jarred every bone, but broke none.I got the peat dust out of my eyes, and started out toreconnoitre.

"My first impulse was to find my horse, or some body's horse,and put many miles, between myself and that accursed dwelling. .. . And then a doubt struck me. Cranmer had said that his wifewas in Norfolk, but he might have lied. I could not leave theplace without an effort to make certain, for if his doings therewere so sinister that he thought it necessary to make meprisoner, the lady, if she was in Hungrygrain, might be in anevil case. I remembered the tears I had seen in her eyes, and theshadow of terror. I could not leave till I was certain of herabsence.

"So in the screen of the rain and mist I crept along the housewall. First I came to a great ruinous tower which I took to bethe old peel, and which was certainly not lived in. My passagewas difficult, for I had to climb into and out of a cabbagegarden which lay beneath the tower. Then I found myself on theother side of the building at what I took to be the front. Roughpasture came up to the walls, but there were signs that oncethere had been some kind of a pleasance. Then, as ill-luck wouldhave it, the rain storm passed and the sun came out. I dared notgo farther, so I dropped down in a tuft of evergreens to wait forthe next shower.

"As I sat there, two figures crossed the grass. One was thetall man who had visited me the previous day. He wore a leathercap with the flaps tied down over his ears, and under his arm hecarried a gun like a gamekeeper. The other was the man I hadknown at Bruges as Aymer, and whose name in London had beenVallance. He was bareheaded, dressed roughly in country style,and he had a pen stuck behind his ear. He seemed to have come outof doors for a breath of air in the blink of fine weather. Icould not mistake the large mottled face and the thick, grey,tufted eyebrows.

"Then the sky clouded and the rain began more fiercely thanever. Now was my chance, so in the cover of it I approached thehouse again. I calculated that I must be near the entrance--orone entrance--so I moved with caution. Most of the ground-floorwindows were shuttered. The first unshuttered one opened on akind of gun-room, for it was full of old saddlery and poles forotter hunting, and on the walls were guns and fishing rods. Inthe next I saw a glint of fire, and, as I raised my head abovethe sill, the profile of a human face.

"There were several people in the room, but in the thickweather they showed very dim, for the glass of the window wasfoul, and the fire was only a glow of peats. Then someone calledfor a light and a lamp was set on the table. I saw Cranmer plain.He was seated in a big armchair with a long pipe in his hand, anda glass of wine at his elbow. There was a decanter on the table,and the others had glasses. One I think was Aymer, but I am notclear, and I did not consider the rest, for my eyes were held bya figure at the back, who sat pen in hand as if waiting forinstructions. It was Mrs Cranmer, and if ever a human countenancerevealed a soul in torment it was hers. Her eyes had a blindishlook as if she were trying to divert her mind from some fear bynursing a hope or a memory. But she was not succeeding. She wason the rack, and at any moment nerve and will might crack in anagony of panic.

"I lay crouched on the ground trying to think. It would be nogood to enter the house, for I should only be again a prisoner. Imust get away and find succour. But where? And how? Who wouldbelieve me? What friends had the lady other than myself? I couldthink of none, but her helplessness filled me with such fury thatI was determined that if need be I would save her alone, though Ishould have to do murder, and though it cost me my life. Myresolution was so white-hot that it made me calm. Not a minutecould be wasted, for I had a sense that whatever evil was comingwould come soon. I must get away from this glen to some placewhere Christians dwelt. I knew nothing of the countryside, but Iremembered that the Yonder flowed east to the sea, and by the seathere must be towns and civilisation. Being a Scotsman I had thepoints of the compass in my head, so I turned east and doubledacross the grass to the cover of a wood.

"The rain had abated a little, and I could see perhaps fiftyyards around me. So, alas, could other people. Suddenly Irealised that Cranmer had his sentinels posted, for before Ireached the wood a whistle was blown and answered by another, andI saw a man leap out of a clump of evergreens to intercept me. Mypassion had made me calm, as I have said, and also vigilant. I amlight on my feet and a good runner, and I have stalked the reddeer with my cousins of Breadalbane; and can hold my own with anyghillie. At that game I was not afraid of a loutish Northumbrian.. . . But I had not allowed for my ignorance of the ground. Ieasily gave the slip to my first pursuer, and entered the wood,which was carpeted with blaeberries and young heather. I reacheda stream which I crossed by a plank bridge, and was just stoppingto get my breath when I almost fell into the arms of a fellow whowas running up the left bank. With the enemy also behind me, Iwas compelled to re-cross the water. The flood was rising and Iwas all but swept down into an ugly cataract, but I caught abirch root on the far bank and pulled myself up to a rocky shelf,above which I saw the steep lift of the hill.

"It was there that I nearly met my end. For a man was waitingfor me, a man with a great ironshod staff. I swerved, and hestruck at me--struck to kill, for if I had fallen I should havegone over the cataract. By the mercy of God his blow did not hitme squarely, but sidelong on the edge of the forehead, tearing myscalp and blinding me with blood. But the sting of it steadiedme, for it was more sting than shock. I slipped from him,staggered along the shelf till I found open ground, and thenbreasted the hill. He was a heavy fellow and, shaken though Iwas, I had the pace of him.

"By that time the darkness had come. I laboured upwards, verysick in the pit of my belly, but when I had rested for a littleand got the blood out of my eyes, I had some accession ofstrength. Near the summit of the hill I found a shelter amongrocks, where I lay till the moon rose, for I was afraid ofreturning blindly on my tracks. After that I had a glimpse of thelie of the valley, and moved downstream, hoping soon to come upona path. But presently I realised that the blow had been severerthan I had thought, for I had a cruel pain in my eyes and beganto stumble giddily. It was borne in on me that I must find ashelter, or I would swoon upon the hillside and be taken, for Iwas certain that Cranmer would have his hounds out after me andbeat every covert in the glen. . . . There was a light beyond thestream which must come from a dwelling, and I decided that Iwould risk all and make for it and throw myself upon the charityof the householder."

The young man smiled wanly.

"The rest of the tale you know. My instinct was true, for Ihave found friends. Friends--and one enemy, but all honest folk.I have had food and care, and now I must sleep, but I cannotclose my eyes till I have made a plan. Am I safe here for thenight? For be sure they will follow me."

The housekeeper answered. "For the night, nae doubt. But afterthat I daurna say. Squire Cranmer has a lang airm."

The minister shook his head. "This place is as open as an innparlour, and there is no corner where you could be concealed.Somehow you must be off before dawn and make for Yondermouth,where you will be safe. They will not suspect your presence herefor some hours. Beyond that I cannot advise you. You, sir," andhe looked towards Sir Turnour, "you are a man of the world, whichI am not. Can you offer no counsel to this young man in hisperplexity?"

The baronet had recovered his composure which had beenmomentarily disturbed by Belses' story. He did not disbelieve it,for the voice had rung true, but he distrusted the narrator'sinterpretation. He would have nothing to do with the whimsies ofa romantic hobbledehoy.

"You have lived long in this place," he addressed theminister. "Have you any warrant for thinking the squire avillain?"

"I am loath to suggest evil," was the old man's answer, "whenI have no certain knowledge."

"Tut, sir," broke in the housekeeper, who had been stronglymoved by Belses' tale. "Ye needna be sae mim-mouthed. Naebodykens muckle o' Squire's works, but a'body kens that he's anitherthan a gude yin. The fear o' him lies like a cloud on Yonderdale.If ye stood in his road he'd thraw your neck like a hen's."

"Marget may be right," said the old man. "If he has a failing,it perhaps leans in that direction."

"Nevertheless, my lord, I think you are the victim of your ownheated fancies." Sir Turnour's hard precise tones fell on thecompany like a blast of cold air. "You have chosen to idolisethis lady, and you have imagined her a martyr to add to hercharms. Since you are in love with her you must needs make arogue of her husband."

"He canna be in love wi' her," the housekeeper protested."He's a dacent young lad and she's a married woman."

"I do not question your facts, but your reading of them is afairy-tale. You have offended somehow a boor, and, since he is atyrant in this outlandish place, he has taken the ancient way ofshowing his displeasure. My advice to you is to make your bestspeed homewards, and put this Cranmer family for ever out of yourmind. When we meet again in town I shall be ready to receive yourapologies on the matter between us--or some better form ofsatisfaction. Meantime, since I see you are recovered, I shallreturn to bed. . . . You," he turned to Mr Dott, "will have thegoodness to show me the path to the bridge by which you broughtme here."

Sir Turnour rose to go. The boy in the bed made a lastappeal.

"You are a gentleman, sir. You believe my word. Can you leavethings in this posture? Will you not help me to--to saveinnocence from wrong?"

"No, my lord, I am too old and too wise to interfere indomestic brawls. For all I care Cranmer may be the death of hiswife and swing for it--it is a result I should not deplore. I bidyou good night, and you, Mr Parson, and I advise you to bustlethis youth out of a neighbourhood which has becomeunhealthy."

"Do you go too?" Belses cried after the retreating MrDott.

"No me. I'm coming back when I've set this gentleman on theroad. Some time the morn I've got to see Mrs Cranmer on a smallmatter of business."

Sir Turnour smiled, not unkindly. "'Pon my honour, you're awell-plucked attorney," he said.

But the baronet, as he made his way, when his convoy had lefthim, up the steep track beyond the stream, was by no means inthat mood of sceptical composure which his last words at themanse had suggested. The irritation against Belses, which hadbeen for some days a thorn to his spirit, was now changed to avigorous distaste for the Hungrygrain household. He disliked thewoman from all he had heard of her, one of those emotionalhussies who brought poor fools like Belses to grief. And for thehusband he had acquired a strong detestation. The man was bullyand tyrant, a disgusting fellow who ruled at his pleasure in thisfilthy solitude. That was perhaps no concern of his, for he wasnot acensor morum for rustic louts. But he had lied tohim, lied grossly and insolently. That was to say, he had triedto bully him, him, Turnour Wyse, for whom the rest of the worldhad a wholesome respect. Could the thing be permitted to passunchallenged? He thought not. It was borne in on him that beforehe left Yonderdale his dignity required that he should have somefurther speech with the master of Hungrygrain.

Sir Turnour threaded his way among the scrub in a very uglytemper. As he came out into a clearer patch of ground a branchcaught his coat and pulled it apart, and three pairs of eyes,watching him with interest from the undergrowth, saw about hiswaist the belted pistols.

The first lamps were beginning to twinkle in the Yondermouthcottages, and the riding-lights were lit in its little harbourwhen Nanty and his two companions took the road up the left bankof the Yonder, where in a marshy haugh it had become a tidalwater noted for sea-trout. Behind them in theMerry Mouth,Eben Garnock was in conference with Davie Dimmock, theboat-builder, anent the damaged yard; it was his intention laterin the night to slip up the coast in the cutter's boat to Hopcrawand prospect that secret haven.

Nanty wore his second-best pantaloons and his frieze gaiters,but in place of coat and waistcoat he had a knitted jerseystrangely patterned in greys and browns which Eben had broughtfrom the northern islands. Jock Kinloch was in the fisher'sclothes which he had worn that morning at the Kitterston inn, andBob Muschat, a tawny young giant with arms like a gorilla's,chose to travel barefoot--the soles of his feet, he said, beingtougher than any shoe leather.

The cutter had stood well out from the land, and had escapedall but the fringe of the rain which cloaked the hills. Most ofthe voyage had been in blue weather, with a light wind on thestarboard beam, and Nanty, sprawling on a heap of tarpaulins inthe bows, had experienced the same lift of the heart that he hadgot the day before on the Burntisland packet. He dozed a little,but in spite of the night journey he did not crave sleep. Theleagues of dancing water around him were a sufficientrefreshment. This was very unlike the journey he had planned, aback-breaking coach ride from which he would have stifflydescended for grave conferences with Lord Snowdoun. It wassomething far better, for he had been whirled into the capricesof a boy's dream. He was not neglecting duty, for he had LordMannour's instructions, but he wondered what his colleagues inthe Senatus would say if they could see his present quarters andcompany. Eben was splicing a rope, looking like a patriarch froma lost world, Jock Kinloch was peeling potatoes and singingsnatches of dubious songs, and Bob Muschat at the tiller was theeternal seafarer who has not changed since the first hollowed logfirst adventured on the water. Nanty had the feeling that he hadslipped back through a crack in time to a life which he had trieda hundred years ago. It was comforting and familiar and yetdesperately exciting. He had a small quiver of fear somewhere inhis blood, for his three companions, even Jock, were of a tougherbreed than his own. "I've read too many books," he told himself,"and spoken too many idle words. God help me, but I mustn't shamethem."

They had their evening meal riding at anchor behind the smallbreakwater of Yondermouth, and as the dark fell Eben set thethree ashore a little way up the Yonder estuary. It was now thatthere descended upon Nanty an afflatus of which he was halfashamed. When he stretched his legs over the first miles of furzycommon he could have sung; when before moonrise the darknessclosed in thicker upon them and they all stumbled over ditchesand tussocks, he wanted to roar with laughter. The others ploddedstolidly on, but he strode with a shepherd's heather-step, andthere were moments when he longed to run, so compelling did hefeel the vitality in blood and sinew.

They reached a track, a faint marking in the bent, and swungto the left. "The road frae Hopcraw," said Bob, who acted asguide. A mile or two farther and they crossed a highway. "TheAlnwick road," said Bob. A little way on the first flush of themoon lit up the sky. Beyond them the lift of the hills was plain,and a dark cleft which was the opening of Yonderdale. The brackenwas wet, for they were now within the orbit of the day's rain."There's been a deluge," said Bob, "and the burns will be up.Yonder can be whiles as dry as the Well Wynd at Pittenweem, andwhiles it's a fair ocean and ill to ford. Bide a wee, sir, andlet's straighten out our plans."

Eben had had a rough chart of Yonderdale which Nanty and Jockhad studied in the afternoon, and Bob, who had more than onceprospected the ground, had it clear in his head. It was he whogave the orders.

"The mune will set or three, and by that time we maun be farup the glen. Ye mind where the village lies? We maunna gang nearit, for the folk there never gang to their beds, and if a crawflew up the street the hale town wad ken o't. But we maun takthat side of the water, the south side, for the north's owerdangerous, and we maun be at Tam Nickson's afore it's light, fordeil a body maun see us enter Tam's hoose."

"Nickson's is our military base," Jock explained. "We can't goferreting about this glen without a hidy-hole. Nickson's ourfriend. He came here from Annandale a donkey's years ago, and hisskill of sheep is so great that he had been kept on at highwages, though he's not exactly popular in the place. He's apack-shepherd--you know what that means?--and they say he has apack of ten-score ewes. He must have done well for himself. He'san old man, isn't he, Bob?"

"Auld as the Three Trees o' Dysart. He'll never see four-scoreagain, but he's a soople body for his years."

"Well, Nickson keeps himself to himself, and, since he is thechief support of the Hungrygrain flocks, the folk leave himalone, as he leaves them alone. There's not much happens in theglen that he doesn't know, but he lives by himself by a burnside,so his house is our natural headquarters. He's a friend ofEben's, and Bob stayed with him when he was here before, and hemanages now and then to send us word when there's trouble in thewind. It's likely Nickson's doing that we're here to-day."

"If he hates Hungrygrain, why does he stay on there at hisage?" Nanty asked.

"Ower auld to shift," Bob answered. "Besides, he doesna' hateHungrygrain. He telled me it was the bonniest bit God ever made,but sair defiled by man. He has a terrible ill-will to thesquire--some auld bicker--and he's no that fond o' Winfortune,and Hartshorn, and Meek, and the ither birkies. But he delves hisyaird and reads his Bible--he's a godly man, Tam--and shapes tuphorns into staff-handles, and cannily lets the world gangby--except at clippin's and speanin's, when they tell me he'sfiercer than a twa-edged sword."

"Are the Hungrygrain people ill to work with?" Nantyasked.

"Some say the Deil's deid and buried in Kirkcaldy," Bob quotedoracularly. "But he's no in the Lang Toun, and he's no deid. He'slive and weel and rangin' the earth, and if there's one bit he'schosen for his special habitation it's just Yonderdale. . . . Wemaun haste, sir, for we've nae time to dally. The highroad's nofor us, for there's folk on it at a' hours, and there'll be mairthe night, if, as Eben thinks, there's some special traffic wi'Hopcraw. When we're past the brig we'll tak a path I ken o' upthe burnside. Afore the night's out we may hae to scatter, so wemaun be clear about the rondyvoo. Tam Nickson's house aforedaylight--at a' costs afore daylight. If ony o' us is late hemaun just lie out in the shaw till the morn's night, for it'sdeath and damnation to us if we're seen, besides destruction toTam himsel'. Are ye clear, sir," this to Nanty, "how ye win toTam's. It's a mile abune the house of Hungrygrain where a burncomes down frae the north to Yonder--the one house on a' thehillside, cockit up amang rowan trees on a shelf like the poop o'a Hamburg smack. A man's unco' kempeckle gaun up till't, but oncehe's there he can spy out a' Hungrygrain. . . . We maun haste ifwe're to sup Tam's sowens for breakfast."

Bob led them at a round pace across the drove road, which MrDott had travelled earlier that day, into the dene of the Yonder.The stream was in spate, but not too high to forbid a passage,which was effected at the narrows between two boulders, whereNanty pleased himself by jumping more cleanly and surely thanJock, and not less well than Bob with his prehensile naked feet.After that progress was slower. Bob's alleged path was a thing offaith rather than of sight. Where the trees were pines and theground a carpet of needles and young whortleberries the going wasgood, but when whins intervened or burnt heather or the mattedstumps of fallen oaks, and the moon was shut out by thickundergrowth, it was necessary to walk as delicately as Agag.Moreover, Bob was taking no chances. He never turned a cornertill he had reconnoitred in advance on his belly. A sound whichhe could not at once identify sent him flat on his face.

"It wants a lang spoon to sup kale wi' the Deil," he whisperedapologetically to Nanty. "I've been here afore, and seenHungrygrain guardit like Edinbro Castle, and by folk that younever saw unless you went seekin' them. Besides, we're justfornent the inn. There's a brig nearby, and after that we'll taka slype up the hill, for we maun be high up to pass Hungrygrainpolicies and come in by the backside o' Tam's house. . . .Wheesht! What's that?"

All three lay prone among the whortleberries. There was a gapin the trees just ahead where the moon shone, and in that gap wasthe figure of a man. It was a tall man in a great-coat, and heseemed to be having difficulty in keeping his footing on theslippery path. A branch pulled his coat apart, and a brace ofpistols were revealed at his waist.

All three recognised him. Bob's hand went automatically tocover Nanty's mouth, and it was not till the figure had passedout of sight that the latter was permitted to speak.

"It's Wyse," Nanty groaned. "Good God. I may be too late! Heis armed. . . . Can he have met Harry? Or be on his way to meethim?"

"Not at this time of night," said Jock. "Comfort yourself,Nanty, you're still in time. But what in the devil's name takesthe man wandering at midnight in a black wood? Where does thatpath lead to?"

"It runs frae the inn to the Hungrygrain road," said Bob."It's no muckle o' a road, just a path ower a plank brig. . . .Wait on, sirs. It's the shortest way frae the manse to thevillage. The man had maybe some business wi' the minister."

"The minister? What's he like? And what could he want withhim?"

"He's a dacent auld body that gangs his ain gait like TamNickson and meddles little wi' Hungrygrain. . . ."

Nanty's anxiety made him take the lead.

"We must follow him," he whispered fiercely. "And one of usmust go to the manse and see what is there. Yon proud gentlemandoes not stroll out by night with pistols at his waist fornothing. You, Bob, must try the manse, for you know the road andyou know the minister. Come on, Jock, for there's not a moment tolose. There's light enough to fight by. Any minute my poor Harrymay come by his death."

Bob nodded, and with no more ado turned down the path towardsthe stream, with a final injunction of "Tam Nickson's, mind ye,afore it's light." Nanty seized Jock's arm and dragged him up thesteep bank of the dene, where their nailed shoes gripped betterthan Sir Turnour's riding boots.

"Canny, Nanty, my man," Jock grumbled. "I wish you wouldpractise the logic you teach. Belses is in Hungrygrain House--weknow that. Wyse cannot have arrived many hours ago. Is it likelythey would have arranged a meeting at midnight several milesaway? Be reasonable, man. Yon baronet's a stickler for all theforms, and a tried hand at the game. What about seconds and theother decencies? I hate the fellow like poison, but he's nohedge-murderer."

"God knows what he is. Our business is to follow him, and nottake our eyes off him till we know his purpose."

"I've got it," said Jock. "He's staying at the inn and is onhis way back after a breath of fresh air. He's a wise man to goarmed in a den of thieves like Yonderdale. . . . But maybe Belsesis at the manse? No, it's not possible. What would a spark likehim be doing with a country minister? Or he's at the inn? MaybeCranmer turned him away from his door."

The mention of the manse caused Nanty to halt in his trackswith a momentary thought of following Bob. It was a fortunateimpulse, for it prevented him from blundering into a party offour men who had begun to descend the track from the edge of thedene. They were moving fast, with heads down like hounds on atrail. The ground was open, with little cover, and there was onlyone chance of concealment. Jock darted to the left up the hill,and Nanty, obeying a different instinct, slipped downward to theshelter of a clump of elders.

Things happened fast. Jock was seen, a man shouted, and thefour fanned out to cut him off. Out of the tail of his eye Nantysaw this before he reached the elders. Some ancient impulse, bornof boyish games of hide-and-seek, made him attempt a diversion.He too shouted and waved his arms; he saw that he was observed,and that the pursuers had turned towards him. He saw nothingmore, for he dared not turn his head. Some of the hounds were onhis trail, and his sole purpose was to outdistance them. He racedup the stream side, with only his ears to tell him of thepursuit.

Spare living had kept his body lean and hard, and he hadalways been notably light on his feet. But never in his life hadhe been in danger from other human beings, and at first his heartfluttered in his throat. He had no doubt about the danger; hisinstinct told him that these men behind him, whoever they were,were bent on evil. He had broken on purpose into an unhallowedsanctuary and its custodians would not forgive him. At first hechoked as he ran, and his fear seemed to clog his breathing. . .. And then suddenly the suppleness of his limbs gave himconfidence. The sounds behind him came no nearer. His stridelengthened, for the ground was firm and open, and he found thathe leaped a tributary gully like a deer. . . . Something elseheartened him. He was conscious of being in a new world, a worldwhich he had always revered and dreaded, where his duty was notwith books and papers, but with primitive hazards and crude humanpassions. It was a professor of logic who was thus pitchforkedinto the primeval, and it lay with him to prove that a scholarcould also be a man.

But where was he running? The mischief was that he knewnothing of the ground, and at any moment might land in acul-de-sac. The dene had begun to narrow ominously and might soonbe a chasm. Was that why the pursuit was so sluggish? Was itshepherding him into a fatal corner? He had been running near thewater's edge, and now he began to draw farther uphill. In a gaplit by the moon he thought he saw his enemies behind, stumblingand slow but resolute as weasels. The undergrowth was growingthicker and would cripple his speed. At all costs he must find aplace less encumbered, or his youth and swiftness would be of noaccount. Or better still, could he put the hounds at fault?

He was now on a little knuckle of rock well above the stream,and in front it appeared as if crags were beginning to crowd inupon it. There was some sort of path by the water's edge and thepursuit was still on it. They must be confident that that waythere lay no escape, that they had him in front of them penned ona single narrow track. Could he increase that confidence? Hepicked up a stone and flung it far ahead so that it seemed tohave been loosened by his feet. He heard it plash in deep water.Twenty yards on he did the same, and then dropped in the fern,looking down upon the waterside path. He was staking all upon histheory of the mind of his pursuers. Suddenly forty feet below himthey came into sight, two men running steadily by the stream'sedge. They must believe that in a few hundred yards they wouldhave him cornered in some nook of cliff. . . . He let them pass,crawled upward through the bracken, and made for a patch of lightwhich was the open hill.

There was a broken-down dyke which separated the dene from themoor, and as soon as Nanty had crossed it his spirits rose. Hehad no fear now, no nervousness; these heavy-footed countrymencould never come up with him; he had the whole world before himand legs that could not tire. The moon was nearing its setting,but the land was still bright, and all Yonderdale was clear belowhim. He halted for a second to get his bearings. Behind him was atree-choked glen, with very far away the dimness of seawardplains. In front was the great hollow of the upper Yonder, thehills steep around it as if sliced by a knife, but, from thealtitude at which he stood, revealing further round-shoulderedtops huddled towards the north. And almost at his feet he madeout the demesne of Hungrygrain, with one light burning low in thehouse, perhaps from an open door.

Nanty prospected his road, for it would be very dark aftermoonfall. He must make a circuit round the glen head, and comeback on the north side to Tam Nickson's cottage--he saw the gashin the hill where it must lie. He must reach it before dawn, andthat meant three or four miles in black darkness, but he couldnot miss it so long as he followed the crest of the hill, for theburn which ran by its door was the only tributary of the Yonderfrom the north. He was in a mood of high exhilaration, for theseuplands, sweet with spring herbs, intoxicated him like thatsunlit sea over which he had sailed in the afternoon. He was in aclean world, the world of youth and spring, and his heart shoutedto it. He wanted to declaim poetry--

"Rumoresque senum severiorum
Omnes unius aestimemus assis. . . ."

What he did was to canter like a colt over the flats of grassand heather which sloped upward before him to the west. Anothertumble-down wall checked him, and he dipped into a tiny hollowthrough which a trickle of cold water slipped among yellowmosses. He drank from the spring and stood up to clear the dropsfrom his eyes, and as he did so he was aware that he was notalone.

Had the pursuit circumvented him? The thing moved, whatever itwas. Was it human, or a stray ewe or roebuck? It had seen him andfeared him--it was trying to escape. The slope made a patch ofdarkness in which he could discern movement but not form, but thething emerged from the patch, stumbled, and came to a suddenstandstill, as if its strength had failed it. Then came a soundfrom it, a small miserable sound of weakness or fear.

Nanty took three steps across the moss and stood beside arecumbent figure. It was a woman, and in the last ebbing ofmoonlight he saw that she was staring at him with terrifiedeyes.

"What ails you?" he said, and his voice was gruff in theextremity of his surprise. "Can I help you? How came youhere?"

His words wrought a miracle, for it seemed that they were notwhat she had expected. She rose to her feet; very slim she was,and her head was higher than his shoulder. She peered into hisface and saw something there which both comforted and perplexedher, for her voice lost its tension.

"Who are you? Oh, tell me who you are that travels the GreenDod at midnight? You are a stranger? You do not belong toYonderdale? Your voice is kind."

"I am a stranger," said Nanty. "But a midnight hill is fitterfor a man than a woman. It is you that should explain yourpresence here."

"Alas, I cannot. It is too long and cruel a story. I am introuble . . . in danger. By your speech, sir, you are fromScotland, and I am part Scotch. I think you are a gentleman. Letme come with you till we are beyond the hills. I will be no dragon you--"

She started, for a fox barked in a neighbouring cairn, and hermovement told Nanty that she had been lately through some extremeterror.

"Where do you wish to go?" he asked.

"Out of Yonderdale," she stammered. "Out of Yonderdale, evenif it means out of the world."

"I can escort you to the hills at the head of the glen," saidNanty. "I must beg you to hasten, madam, for I have myself a longroad to go."

She obeyed like a docile child. She wore the rough countryshoes and stockings of a dairymaid, and round her shoulders was aplaid of checked shepherd's tartan. Nanty observed that shewalked like a free woman, not mincing or shuffling, but with firmsteps that did not falter as the slope steepened. Once or twicehe offered to assist her, but she needed no help, and presentlythe moon went down, and in the darkness he was aware of her onlyby the rustle of her movement at his left side.

His mind was in a not unpleasing confusion. In two days he hadstepped out of order and routine into a world of preposterouschances. He had been hunted by those who sought to do him amischief; he was endeavouring to wrest a malign secret from amoorland fortress; he was trying to save a friend from death; andnow in the dark of the moon he was tramping the high hills withan unknown lady. That she was no countrywoman he was certain, forher slim body, her voice, her manner of speaking betokenedbreeding to one who had seen much of it while he lived in LordSnowdoun's household. She was like--now of whom did she remindhim? Incongruously enough it was Harry Belses. She had the samesoft intonation, the same slight drawling lisp. The thought ofHarry would ordinarily have set his mind off on the tack of hisduty, but duty had for the moment been ousted by something morecompelling.

Black as the night was, it was not difficult to find the way,for he had his countrymen's instinct for the points of thecompass and knew that he must keep due west to the head of theglen. Also he had the slope to guide him, since he was followingthe edge of a little tableland. But now and then he was uncertainof his course, and when he turned sharply he jostled hiscompanion's shoulder. Once he caught her arm and its softnessamazed him, for he had never before laid his hand on a woman.

Presently he was conscious that the steep slopes had bent tothe right and that they were turning the uppermost cleugh ofYonder.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked her.

"Beyond the hills. There is a village in the next valley--theycall it Grassmoor--I shall reach it in the morning."

"But what will you do there?"

"I will try--oh, I do not know . . . I need help, and theremay be Christians there. I would have tried to reach Yondermouth,but I was too late--they were before me--I was driven up into thehills--"

"Then we should part here, for I am going north."

"Let me stay with you till it is daylight. I am blindish inthe dark, and I might go astray, and return the road I came."

Nanty was conscious that she shivered as she spoke, and itcould not be with cold, for the air was mild.

It was that darkest moment of the night which precedes thedawn. Suddenly Nanty had a revelation. Part Scotch! Hamilton ofMells! It could be none other. He knew his companion. It was thatDelilah who had made a tool of poor Harry. That woman, half spyand half incendiary, who wove her foul plots in these wilds andfound cover in a loutish husband. Jock's violent words came tohis mind. He was tramping the hills with the high-priestess ofall evil.

It was Nanty's turn to shiver. He did not stop to ask why sopotent a conspirator should be a fugitive in the domain sheruled. He only knew that he was alone with a mystery of iniquity,and his flesh crept. There at his left hand went in the darknesssomething darker than Erebus. He had always been shy of women,and, having an acute sense of sin, he had been abashed by anyflagrant wickedness. He shrank from this presence at his side ashe would have shrunk from a loathly disease. He had the impulseto rush off on a road of his own, leaving the creature to theunclean spirits of the night . . . Yet her voice was still in hisear, and it had been low and gentle.

On his right hand the black changed to grey, and a thin waveof pale light ran up the sky. Very fast the grey thinned to adelicate web of blue, and the world beneath him sprang intoshape. He saw the contours of the hills, though the valley bottomwas still dim, and he realised that dawn would be upon him beforehe reached Tam Nickson's cottage.

"I must be off," he cried, and was just starting to cover thelast mile at a run, when he saw that the morning had alsorevealed his companion. He stopped short, for what he looked atwas not the Messalina of his fancies, but a pale girl with mosttragic and beseeching eyes.

The waxing daylight cruelly revealed her weariness anddishevelment. The clothes were clearly not her own, but had beenborrowed from some servant, yet they could not hide the grace ofher figure. Her hair, black as a sloe, was in some disorder, butthe head on the slim neck was exquisitely shaped. A delicate handheld the folds of her plaid about her breast. Her face was abroad oval, with a notable breadth between the eyes, and theseeyes seemed almost colourless, like deep wells of water.

As Nanty looked at her, one thought came to him with the forceof utter conviction. Jock Kinloch's tale was nonsense. This palewoman was not evil. He had pictured to himself meretriciousgraces, the allure of one skilled in all the arts of sex, and hesaw instead an heroic, bewildered child. He forgot his urgentneed of haste.

"You are tired," he said, and his voice was kind. "You mustrest before you can go on. But not here, where we are in view ofYonderdale. We must get behind the ridge. Take my arm--it is onlya step or two."

She obeyed, and it was plain by her dragging steps that shewas very weary. They climbed a few last yards of slope, and foundthemselves on a hummocky tableland which was the summit of thecontaining hills. There they were hidden from anyone lookingupward from the glen. Once he stooped and picked upsomething--two curlew's eggs from a scrape in the bent. "Thesewill make our breakfast," he said.

They came to a hollow where the turf was green and fine arounda tiny well. He pulled up some heather bushes and made her acouch. "Lie down," he told her. "Lie flat and let your body golimp. You are bone-weary, for I made you travel these hills likea deer. You must have food. I have some provender with me, and Iwill make a fire and roast these eggs. But first you will drinkthis." He mixed some brandy from a flask with water in a horncup.

She drank, and did as she was told, stretching herself on thecouch with a little sigh, while he gathered roots and bent forhis fire. It kindled with difficulty, for the moisture of theprevious day had not yet dried up, and when he raised his headfrom the smoke he saw that she was sitting up.

"Will you tell me your name, please?" she said.

Her face had changed. The brandy had brought back some colourto it, and the eyes were no longer vacant, but anxious andquestioning.

"My name is Anthony Lammas. I am a Scots man, as youguessed."

She narrowed her eyes as if in some effort ofrecollection.

"But what are you?"

"I am a minister of the Kirk, but without a parish. My callingis to be a professor of philosophy in the most ancient of ourcolleges."

"A servant of God! And a philosopher! Oh, but . . . Lammas!Anthony Lammas! Where have I heard that name?" Some link coupledin her memory and brought her to her feet, her eyes suddenlyablaze with excitement.

"Were you not--a friend--of Lord Belses?"

"For some years I was his governor and tutor."

She clasped her hands, and then held them out to him with agesture of infinite confidence.

"Oh, sir, I have been marvellously guided. It was for Harry'ssake that I fled last night--to find help for him, for I couldgive him none--and by God's mercy I have stumbled upon hisfriend. He has always told me that you were his truest friend inthe world. He is in deadly peril, sir."

"I know," said Nanty. "That is why I am here."

"You know! But you cannot know. No one can know except myself,and Winfortune, and--and my husband."

"I know that he has been challenged to fight by Sir TurnourWyse, and that Sir Turnour does not commonly miss his man."

Her face was uncomprehending.

"I heard some silly tale of a duel," she said. "But that is asmall thing. I have forbade Harry to fight."

"It is no small thing. Sir Turnour Wyse has come toHungrygrain to force a meeting."

"It is not possible."

"Alas, it is only too possible. I saw him yesterday morning inBerwick. I saw him some hours ago marching through the wood abovethe Yonder. I came here to protect Harry, and it was while Ifollowed Sir Turnour that I met others who would have disputed myroad. I outdistanced them, but was driven far up the hillside,and there I met you. There you have my story. I think you are MrsCranmer of Hungrygrain."

She dropped again on the heather. "What a wild tangle!" shecried. "Poor Harry has enemies on all sides, but Sir Turnour Wyseis not the deadliest." Nanty saw her face whiten, and dreaded afainting fit.

"Not another word till you have eaten," he said with thefirmness of his St Andrews classroom. "When did you last breakbread, I wonder? These eggs are ready, and a whaup's egg is finefare."

He had with him bread and cheese and cold mutton, brought fromtheMerry Mouth. She drank two cupfuls of water, and atehalf of one egg, while Nanty made a hearty meal. All the time hereyes were on him, appraising, questioning. She noted the firm setof his chin, his fresh colour, the fair hair growing a littlescanty at the temples, the well-knit shoulders under thefisherman's jersey. It was a wholesome presence belonging to aclean world, and, having dwelt so long among sidelong glances, itgave her hope. Also the night had gone and its terrors, and aboveher a spring dawn was flaunting its banners. The sun was highenough in the eastern sky to flood over the lip of the hollowwhere they sat. It was no stormy sunrise of gold and crimson, buta steady upwelling of pure light, as tonic to the body and mindas a plunge into cool water. The thin, sour smell of the wet bentwas changing to a thousand subtle odours. The earliest curlewswere calling, and a lark's song came sweet and shrill from theheavens.

"I am trysted at Nickson the shepherd's house," he told her,"but my orders were to lie in the hills till nightfall if I couldnot reach it before dawn. You know the man?"

She nodded. "He's honest, I think, but I have seen little ofhim. He does his own work, and keeps apart from the rest of theglen. But what takes you to him?"

"My orders. I am not here alone. Since we are both on Harry'sside, let us be frank with each other. The danger I fear is SirTurnour Wyse. You come from Hungrygrain, knowing nothing of SirTurnour, and you also are afraid. What is this other fear?"

"My husband," she said. "He is . . . but I cannot tell you.You must believe me when I say that Lord Belses has put himselfin my husband's power at a moment when--when he may be tempted touse that power cruelly. He has come to Hungrygrain in secret, andhe may never leave it. Do not press me farther. You are myfriend, and I beg you to take my word for it. Harry is in theutmost peril, and he must be delivered. That is why I ran awayfrom the house last night--to find a deliverer,somewhere--anywhere outside this glen where all are slaves toevil. Thank God I have found you, and you say there are others athand. We must make a plan at once--the urgency is desperate, forit will not be many hours till Hungrygrain is empty."

"Empty?"

"Empty." Her voice trickled away into languor. The single wordas spoken by her had an ominous sound in Nanty's ear, but he sawthat it was not the time for further questions.

"You are dropping with sleep," he said. "Lie down here wherethe sun will not reach you, and doze a little. You must, if wehave a heavy task before us. I will go for a walk and try to getmy head clear. When I come back and find you rested we will makea plan."

She obeyed, put the plaid under her head, and turned on herside like a tired child. Nanty walked north along the tableland,which was so full of hollows that there was no prospect beyondtwenty yards. He could not be seen from any point in Yonderdale,and his route was not commanded by any higher ridge; only someoneactually traversing the little plateau could find him. There wereno sheep, for the land was all peat-haggs and coarse bent, andthe ewes with the young lambs would be on the juicy lowerpastures. He felt himself for a moment secure, and could thinkhis own thoughts.

These thoughts were a fine confusion, but one conviction wascrystal-clear. This woman, with whom he had been breakfasting oncurlew's eggs on the hill tops, was not the beldame of Jock'stale. She had spoken of Harry as a sister might speak of abrother, or a mother of a lost child. Goodness and innocencelooked out of her sad eyes. She had risked much in running away,and she had been pursued; that blew sky-high the picture of anarch-plotter with a wild folk to do her bidding. She waspowerless, and her husband, the drunken boor of Jock's story, wasthe master. Harry was at his mercy, but why should he want to doHarry a hurt? Did he believe him to be his wife's lover? Thatseemed the likeliest explanation, and Nanty sighed, for that wasjust the kind of situation he had dreaded. To defend the boyagainst a bravo like Sir Turnour was one thing, but to shelterhim from a rightfully jealous husband was quite another, and hehad a strong distaste for the job. Rightfully jealous? No, hecould not credit that. Harry might have been a fool, but he hadgot no encouragement from the lady. He reflected ruefully that ina few hours his mind had swung to a new course, and that he hadbecome her hot partisan.

He sat down in the shade of an outcrop of rock, and tried tothink. But his eyelids drooped, for the heat of the sun and thestrong upland air had made him drowsy, and, except for fitfulslumbers on the Edinburgh Mail, he had had no sleep forforty-eight hours. Gently he slid into unconsciousness.

Something damp and warm was on his face, and he awoke to findhimself being licked by a young collie. An older and wiser dogstood a little way off, watching with some suspicion the anticsof the younger, and behind it was a human figure.

Nanty scrambled to his feet in alarm, but was reassured by avoice.

"Ye'll be the Professor?" it said. He who spoke was a tall oldman, a little bent, with shaven cheeks and a ragged white beardunder his chin. He leaned on a great hazel crook, and had removedhis broad bonnet to cool his forehead.

"Are you Nickson?" Nanty asked, now actively awake.

"Just so," the answer came in the soft slow drawl ofLiddesdale. "I'm Tam Nickson, and ye'll be the professor theytelled me o'. It's no often a learned man comes to Yonderdale.Since ye didna come to my house wi' the rest this mornin', I tooka cast up the hill to look for ye. I gie the tops a look everysecond day, for, though the lambin' is bye, there's maybetwae-three late yowes among the haggs. But dinna fash yoursel',sir, for there's nae foot but Tam Nickson's comes this road atthis time o' year. The rest o' Yonderdale has ither things tothink o'."

"The other two, are they safe in your house?"

"There's three o' them. There's Bob Muschat, an auld friendwhae has bode wi' me afore. There's a blackavised lad that theytell me is the son of a great judge in Embro. And there's apeely-wersh young man in braw clothes a wee thing the waur forwear. The threesome draibbled in at the back o' fowero'clock."

"The third?" Nanty cried excitedly. "Did you learn his name?Was it Lord Belses?"

"I speir nae questions, but I heard Bob ca' him my lord. Hehad gotton a clour on the heid, and lookit a wee thing gash. Thethree o' them made a gude meal o' milk and bannocks, and are nowsleepin' as if they had been streikit. But dinna you stir a foottill the darkenin', for Hungrygrain the day is like a byke o'swarmin' bees. Purdey frae the inn gae'd off wi' horses atskreigh o' day, and Winfortune has a beast saddled, and is forthe road. There's just Hartshorn and Meek and Sloan left at thehouse, forbye the Squire and his leddy."

Nanty forbore to correct him on the last point.

"Tell me of the lady?" he said. "Is she like the rest?"

"When she first cam here I thocht her a innocent bit bairn,but no doubt the pitch has defiled her."

"You know nothing of her?"

"Naething beyond a gude-day on the road. Ye maun ken, sir, Ilikena the broo o' Hungrygrain. There's nought for a believin'man to do in this glen but draw in his skirts if he wadna bespotted. I ken little o' what gangs on, for I hae nae pairt init, but this I can tell you--there's much gangs on at a' hours,and there's nane o' it gude by God's law or by man's law. But Imeddle not wi't, though I'm aye ready, like Rahab the harlot, togie bield to the Israelitish spies that come up against Jericho.. . . Gude day to ye, sir. It's a fine caller morn for the hills,but see that ye dinna leave the tops afore the darkenin'."

The old man raised his crook in a salute, and departed, withhis dogs frisking among the heather.

Nanty went back to his breakfast hollow, where he found thegirl asleep. But she slept light, for, though he stepped softly,the noise of his coming awoke her, and she sat up with startledeyes. She looked like one accustomed to painful awakings.

"I bring good news," he said. "I fell in with old Nickson onthe hill. My two friends have got safely to his cottage, and theyhave brought with them--whom do you think? Harry Belses."

"He has escaped? He is safe?"

"For the moment. But how they found him I do not know, nor didNickson know. He said that Harry had got a blow on the head andlooked pale, but that he had eaten well and was now soundasleep."

"O God be thanked! It is an answer to my prayers." She sat upand put a hand to her untidy hair. "Now I must leave you, sir. Itwas only Harry's danger that tore me from Hungrygrain. I must goback, for it is there my duty lies."

"But you cannot go like this. I will not permit it. I musthave some assurance of your safety."

She smiled sadly.

"No man or woman can give you that. I am walking a desperateroad, and I must walk it alone."

"Listen to me, Mrs Cranmer. Something is happening, or isabout to happen, at Hungrygrain, which bodes no good to you.Nickson is aware of it, and says it bodes no good to God's law orman's law. What that is you must tell me."

"It is no concern of yours, sir." He saw that she forcedherself to a brusqueness foreign to her nature.

"It may be no concern of mine, except that misdoings are theconcern of all good citizens. I came here for Harry's sake, andfor his sake only. But it is most intimately the concern of thosewho came with me. You have not heard my full story. I would nottell it you if I were not convinced that you are on the side ofdecency, and that what is done wrong is done against your will.For I am putting my friends in your hands."

He told her what Jock had told him--that the doings inYonderdale were known to the Government, that Hopcraw was beingwatched, that the net was closing. Her cheek flushed, and atfirst he thought it was with anger.

"Three fishermen," she cried. "What can three fishermen doagainst Hungrygrain?"

"They have much behind them," he answered.

"Yet they are but rabbits against weasels. Oh, I cannotexplain to you the bottomless futility of such ways. There isevil contemplated, horrible evil, and it is the work of desperateand subtle men. I am in the heart of it, and all that is left tome in life is the chance of thwarting it. I have little hope, butI can try. But you! And your fishermen!"

"Still we are on your side, and we can bring up potent allies.But we must know what the design is. If it is treason, there arethe forces of the law to enlist. I have my duty, as you haveyours."

"I cannot tell you," she said stubbornly. "I have reasoned outmy duty and I see it clear. But it is my own duty, and I ask forno helpers."

"Then we must go our own ways. You are for Hungrygrain, and Iam for Nickson's cottage."

"But you cannot," she cried. "You told me yourself that yourorders were to wait till the darkening. Nickson, you say, wasinsistent too. You will be seen. All Hungrygrain is on the alert,like troops before a battle, and Nickson's dwelling is as bare asa table-top. You will ruin yourself and your friends and you willruin Harry."

"Nevertheless, a risk must be run. My duty to Harry is not theovermastering one, as the dear boy would be the first to grant. Imust meet my friends at once, tell them what little I know, andprepare a plan."

Nanty's temper had stiffened. He felt like some bully whothreatens a child, but he saw no other way. The girl dropped herhead on her hands, but when she raised it her eyes were dry.Nanty was glad of that, for he was in dread of her tears.

"You would force me to unlock melancholy cupboards . . . andyou would not understand."

But as she looked at him something in his appearance brokedown her resolution. The long upper lip, the slightly prim mouth,the grave forehead disappeared, and she saw only youth like herown. Kindly wistful youth, eager to hold out a hand to distress.Competence, too, something audacious and masterful if the taskwere plain.

"Sit down," she said, in a changed voice. "Beside me, so thatI need not look at you. I am going to do what I have prayed thatI should never be forced to do--share my miseries with another.But I think this meeting of ours was predestined by God'spurpose. You are a philosopher and may see deeper than other men.And you are a servant of the Lord and will be merciful."

She rested her chin on her hand, and kept her eyes fixedsteadily on the green bank in front of her.

"I want you to see a picture," she began. "It is of a girlboth of whose parents are dead, brought up by servants and anancient aunt in a vast echoing house between the woods and thesea. That girl died long ago, but you must try to see her. Shehas few friends and none of her own age, and the world is aclosed book to her. But she has other books and roams wide in agood library. She is a great student, and her head is full ofhappy dreams. She is devout after her fashion, and had she been aCatholic might have found a vocation as a nun, for she shrinks alittle from the bustle of life. . . . And then, as she growsolder, vistas open for her, bookish vistas, for she is veryignorant. She is a romantic child, and has visions of wonderfulenterprises in which she is to share. Her heroes are all paladinsand saints and poets. She dreams of a lover, too, a fairy-taleprince who will some day ride under her windows."

She stopped. "Do you see the picture, sir? That girl died longago, but she died slowly. She had a fortune, and her guardianswere jealous that she should not be the prize of afortune-hunter, so when she had grown up she was given but asparing sight of men. Mostly they were heavy young squires,eldest sons, who thought only of horses and fat cattle, and whowere shepherded unwillingly by their mothers to her presence.They were a little afraid of her, and she cared nothing for them,but all the time in her innermost heart she cherished her dream.And then one day it came true, and the fairy prince rode up. Hewas sad and dark and beautiful, and the world was against him. Hewas a poet, and a student, and a rebel against all dullness andcruelty. He had a cause to fight for, the cause of the poor andthe downtrodden, and his beauty and his ardour melted her heart.They made a runaway match of it, and she became Justin Cranmer'swife."

"I can see your first picture," said Nanty. "Show me thenext."

"The next is a blurred one, for it is the change of a girlinto a woman, and of dreams into brutish reality. At first shewas happy and they lived in Arcady--here in Yonderdale beneathus, among streams and flowers and country faces. Her lover hadbeen a soldier, but he had resigned his commission out of honestscruples. He professed to be a friend of all humanity, and to besworn to the cause of peace and lovingkindness among men. Heliked simple hearts and the glittering world had no charms forhim. Presently they went abroad and dwelt in beautiful places towhich war had not come. He was always busy, and had many friends,some of them strange for one of his breeding, but she was tooinnocent of the ways of men to be surprised. . . . By and by shecame to share in his business. She became his amanuensis, for shehad a ready pen and was quick at foreign tongues. . . . In timeshe began to see the purpose of his work. It was to cripple thehands of those who made war and to force peace upon them. The endwas so humane and she was so blind, that it was long before sheunderstood that what she did was treason to England. And when sheunderstood it she had gone too far, and her name was compromised.For he, her husband, did the work, but stood back and kept her inthe foreground. There lay the strength of his position. In theeyes of the world he was a rustic squire who thought only of thehunt and the bottle, and that reputation he most jealouslyconserved. Who would suspect such a booby? And he had a secondscreen. If the name of Cranmer came into politics at all itshould be his wife's name. She was his second stalking-horse.

"I was slow to see it, for love made me blind. What firstopened my eyes was the knowledge that I had lost his love, ifindeed I had ever had it. I detected him in flagrantinfidelities. At first I bore it in silence and hoped againsthope, until the truth was too harsh to ignore. . . . My sufferingmade my mind more acute. I saw what complexion his doings andmine must wear to honest folk. There was one night when Isummoned up courage to demand an answer, and that answer Igot--as plain as a blow in the face. He flung off the mask he hadworn to me. He spoke frankly. His labour among the poor andoppressed in this land was not for charity and justice, but tokindle the flames of revolution. His dealings with othercountries were designed to cripple his own. His purpose was notlove of humanity but hatred of England. He defied me to betrayhim, for he pointed out that any revelation of his intrigueswould be visited upon me, since I would appear as the chiefconspirator. I was the spider that in the world's eye would befound to sit at the heart of this monstrous web, and who wouldbelieve that I was only a luckless fly? . . . Do you follow me,sir? I tell my story badly, but it is like opening graves tome."

Nanty bowed. He was getting Jock's tale, but from a strangenew angle.

"I come to my third picture," she went on. "It is of a woman,girl no longer, who knew the blackness of despair. I do not thinkI feared for myself. I could have gone to the Government, andtold all, and suffered with a light heart the consequences of myfolly. But if his love for me was dead, mine still burned forhim. I could not forget the fairy prince of my dreams. My hope, Ithink, was that I might find a way of changing his purpose andundoing the ill, so I worked at his bidding, and waited for mychance with a sick heart. It never came. . . . And with onedisillusionment came many. I learned more about his past. He hadnot honourably resigned his commission in the Army as I hadbelieved--he had been broken, and for some scandal which made himan outcast to the few who knew of it. Slowly I came to understandhim. He was consumed by a passion of hate. He hated the class inwhich he was born and the land that bore him. He hated all menexcept a few who were his slaves; but it was a cold, relentlesspassion with no honest fury in it, and it could brood and planand bide its time. The more I saw of it the more I was smittenwith a kind of palsy, as if I had looked on a snake. I had lostall power to act; I, too, was a slave, and he knew it. He wasostensibly kind to me, and had always an affectionate word and acaress, but I was as little to him as the pen with which he wrotehis name. A tool, his principal tool, no more."

"But had you no friends, no one to counsel you?"

She shook her head.

"I could seek no counsel, unless I told everything and that Idared not do, for I was a bird in a falcon's clutches. I hadindeed a friend, one who had been my guardian, and whom mymarriage had bitterly grieved. He was a good man, who had longago found God and served Him dutifully, but his goodness and hishigh position made me shun my cousin Spencer and repel all hisoffers of kindness."

"Spencer? Who is he?"

"Mr Spencer Perceval, the son of my father's brother. He whois now Prime Minister."

"Does he know anything? Does he guess?"

"He must know something, for the Government suspects me. Ihave evidence of it."

"So have I," said Nanty, remembering Jock's tale.

The April forenoon was bright around them, and a fresh, lightwind was blowing from the north-west through the passes ofCheviot. But to Nanty, looking at the girl's tortured face, theworld seemed a prison-house full of clanking chains.

"I had one other friend," she went on, and her voice quavered."You can guess who he was. We met abroad and quickly becamefriends. My husband was gracious to him, for he made a thirdstalking-horse--the son of my Lord Snowdoun, his Majesty'sSecretary of State. For a little Harry's friendship comforted me,for he saw in me only the woman I had once been. Many times I wastempted to tell him all, but I forebore for his sake, for Idreaded lest I should involve him in my miserable fortunes.Harry, as you know, is no temperate friend, and would have triedto cut the knot with violence. And soon I began to fear for him,lest my husband should treat him as he had treated me and leadhim in his innocence into treason, for Harry has all the generousimpulses which I once believed to be in Justin, and heeds nothingof worldly wisdom. So for his own sake I laboured to keep him ata distance. I forbade him to follow me, but he has disobeyed mybidding. Alas! I am born to be a grief and a peril to my truefriends."

"At any rate Harry is safe for the present," said Nanty, butshe interrupted him by springing to her feet.

"No, he is not safe. No one is safe. . . . I have delayed toolong--I must go back to Hungrygrain. I have not told you all. Inthe last month I have learned something new . . . somethingterrible. Out of hate has come madness. My husband is mad, mad asany poor creature in Bedlam."

"I had guessed as much."

"I do not guess. I know. A thousand proofs have convinced me.He sleeps little now, and talks much to himself, and his face haschanged. There are times when a distraught devil looks out of hiseyes. . . . I think I have lost the power of fearing or I shouldgo always in terror. He hates more than his kind and his countrynow--he has come to hate me. I have been his tool, and he wouldbreak me lest I should cut his hand. He used to treat me with acasual kindness. Now he is not brutal, for his voice to me isalways soft, but he is planning subtle cruelties. He speaks to mewith his lids half-closed, but sometimes they open and the devillooks out. I think I am about to pay the price of myweakness."

"Good God," Nanty cried. "You must never go back to him. Yourlife hangs by a thread."

"I do not think I mind that," she said, but there was noapathy in her voice. "My life is a small thing, and it would becheaply spent if I could atone for all my folly. . . . Butlisten, sir. We may never meet again, but it would comfort me toleave with you my testament. . . . Something has brought myhusband's plans to a culmination. He is no longer concerned tostir up revolution in England and to work treason abroad. It maybe that too much is known and that the Government has now thepower to unmask and checkmate him. But I think the reason isdifferent. I think that his madness is come to a climax, and thathe is meditating a more gigantic wickedness. . . . I do notthink--I know. He is bringing his old work to an end and blockinghis old channels. Hungrygrain is to be no more hisposte decommandement. He is gathering all his powers--and for all hismadness his powers are great--for some desperate stroke. Hispurpose is murder."

"Yourself?"

"Me, but not by a direct blow. I shall be charged withit--there will be documents--ample evidence. He himself willescape, and from some refuge abroad will laugh a madman's laughat the folly of mankind. But first some great one will die."

"The King? The Prince?"

"No, they are too well guarded, and in his eyes matter lessthan certain others. I think that if he had his will it would beLord Castlereagh, whom he virulently hates, but my lord is ill tocome at, for he is not in office. No, it is one whom he hates asa stalwart bulwark of England, and who may be accessible to himbecause of me. It is my cousin Spencer Perceval."

"But how? And when?"

"That I cannot tell. But it will be soon. Any hour my husbandmay leave Hungrygrain, and his errand is an errand of death. Hewill somehow find his chance, for he has an underground networkto help him, and he is very subtle and bold. That is why I musthurry back."

"It is a good reason why you should put all England betweenhim and you."

"No, for it is my only chance to redeem my wasted life. Hetrusts me as a creature wholly in his power, and soon I shallfind out his plan. He has his accomplices, men like Winfortuneand Meek from Yonderdale--and others, creeping things in theLondon kennels. But I am deeper in his secrets than they, and Godmay help me to defeat his purpose, though I have to receive hisbullet in my own body."

It was Nanty's turn to rise. He caught her by the arm.

"Your husband is not the only mad one," he cried. "You aregoing to certain death. You are only one against a thousand. Letthe Government know what you know, and crush this infamy in thebud. I will myself ride day and night to take the news."

"It is too late." She smiled gently at his vehemence. "Thepowder train is laid, and I only can hinder the spark that willfire it. Justin Cranmer is a match for any Government, for if oneplot were exposed he would go to earth like a fox, and next dayor the day after hatch another. You cannot conceive with whattriple steel he is guarded. No, I am resolved to bring this evilat any cost to an end, and I believe that God will help me. I amstrong now, since I know that Harry is safe. For a little Iwavered when I learned that he was a prisoner in Hungrygrain, forI feared that Justin in his madness would not scruple to do awaywith an unwanted witness of his doings. But God has heard myprayer for Harry, and I am free again."

"It is monstrous." Nanty strode up and down the hollow in hisagitation. "It cannot be permitted. You are undertaking more thanflesh and blood can bear."

"I must dree my weird, as you say in Scotland," she replied."I will not go back the way we came in the night, so that thiscorner shall be unsuspected. You will wait till the twilightbefore you move. You promise me."

"When do you leave Hungrygrain, and where are you going?" hecried in an agony of indecision, for it was suddenly borne in onhim that he was being cast for a part in a drama more fatefulthan the affair of Harry Belses.

"We leave at any hour, but not, I think, before to-morrowmorning. Where we go I do not know and can only guess. I thinkthat first we shall visit my house of Overy, for there are papersthere, some to be destroyed, some perhaps to be kept as evidenceagainst me. After that I am in the dark. I think that the dangerlies in London. . . . But stay, you shall have my full testament.I have gleaned one little fragment of knowledge. There is an inncalled the Merry Mouth, which plays the chief part in Justin'splans. I do not know where it is, but my belief is that it is nota hundred miles from Norfolk. It is a place of assignation, and Ithink it may be for my cousin--that my husband has summoned himin my name. I tell you that, for you may some day have the chanceof bearing witness that my heart was honest."

She gave him her hand, which he grasped in silence, for hecould not speak. Her eyes were still tragic, but her voice wascomposed, and the weariness had gone out of her air. He crept tothe edge of the hill, and saw her figure reappear on the far sideof the cleugh and descend into the glen of the Yonder. For a longtime she was visible among the links of the burn, till Yonderdropped into its green ravine, and she was lost in a sudden dipof the valley. . . . As he lay with the noonday sun warming hisbody he prayed fervently, and, having thereby lulled hisemotions, he set himself to think. He had given his word, orthere and then he would have risked it and made his best speed toNickson's house, for he saw ahead of him an urgent duty, whichwith bitter unwillingness he must undertake, or never again knowself-respect.

In the early dusk he crawled out of the boulders of a littleravine, circumvented the sheep-fold and the dipping-troughs, andreached the end of the cottage. Two nights before, he reflected,he had at that hour been dining with Lord Mannour a hundred milesaway, amid silver and candlelight and fine linen, and now he waspitchforked into a world where even lords of session werepowerless. He gave the agreed knock on the lower part of thedoor, and, when it was unbarred and he entered the kitchen, thefirst figure he saw was Eben Garnock.

But it was not the unexpected sight of the Chief Fisher thatheld Nanty's eyes. In Nickson's elbow-chair, an ancient thing ofoak padded with sheep skin, sat a pale young man with a bandagedforehead. In a second he was on his knees beside him.

"Harry, my dear Harry," he cried. "God be praised that I havefound you. You are ill? You are wounded?"

The young man patted the hand that had been laid on hisknees.

"If I were ill," he said, "the sight of you, old friend, wouldcure me. But I am well enough, though somewhat stiff in thejoints. My wound is a mere scratch. I have been dosing all dayhere, and feel ready for any exertion. . . . But tell me, Nanty,what heaven-sent chance brought you here?"

"I came in search of you--to save you. I was told of yourdanger. I saw Sir Turnour Wyse last night. Have you met him?"

"My brave Nanty, did you propose to act as my second? Or, likemy family, to spirit me away? Be comforted, for Sir Turnour and Ihave spoken together, and our feud is for the time pretermitted.Indeed, I think Sir Turnour may be in the same boat as the restof us. Ask Nickson."

The little kitchen had an earthen floor, except for the stoneflags round the hearth. There were the remains of food on thetable--a braxy ham and a plate of oaten farles, an earthenwarejug of ale, and a tun-bellied whisky bottle of the kind called a"mason's mell." The peat fire burned briskly, and everything inthe place was clean and bright as a new pin. Jock Kinloch hadcurled himself on a sheepskin by the hearth like a great cat, andBob Muschat balanced himself on a corner of the table. Nickson,the host, sat on the edge of the press-bed, and Eben Garnock,square as a Dutch lugger, stood in the centre of the floor,ruminating like a cow at pasture.

Nickson spoke. "If ye mean the gentleman that's bidin' at theinn, he got up this mornin' late and cried on Purdey. But Purdeywas awa' south afore day wi' horses, and there was naebody aboutthe place but servant lassies. So the gentleman sets off on hisfeet for Hungrygrain, tellin' his bodyservant that he wad be backor lang. But he's no back yet, and his man is rangin' Yonderdalelooking for him. He was seen to enter the house, but no to leaveit."

"He's likely to be in my own case," said Belses. "If you dropin at Hungrygrain you stay there. God! what a place! A man wouldbe safer among the Moors in Africa."

"Tell me your story," Nanty demanded. "There's a puzzle herewhich I must piece together."

Belses repeated briefly what he had told to Sir Turnour thenight before.

"Did Cranmer mean to do you a mischief?" Nanty asked.

"He meant to keep me shut up till after something happened--Ido not know what. When I escaped, he and his folk meant blackmischief. Muschat will tell you what befell after Wyse leftme."

Bob, from the edge of the table, took up the tale.

"Ye mind when we parted company, sir, and I was to look in atthe manse and get the news, and you were for followin' SirTurnour. Well, I wasna long ower to brig when I met in wi' a weebody--Dott was his name, and he said he was the town-clerk o'Waucht. It seemed he was bidin' at the manse, and he had beensettin' Sir Turnour on his road back. I saw that he was the manthat we saw drivin' off frae the King's Arms this mornin', and Iminded ye had said ye kenned him, so I spoke your name and he wasready to talk. The body was a' cockered up wi' excitement. Hetelled me about Lord Belses and Sir Turnour and the wildongaein's at Hungrygrain afore we got to the manse door. Now yemaun ken that the manse is on the bank o' Yonder, and when we wonto it we were just about fornent whaur you and Mr Kinloch were onthe ither side. I heard the scrapin' o' your feet, and then Iheard something mair--the sound of folk comin' the ither way thatwere no friends o' yours--I heard them cry out, and the noise o'rendin' busses and rowin' stanes. I jaloused what had happened,and I thocht to mysel' that if you and Mr Kinloch could jinkthem--which I considered maist likely--they would come on to themanse, since they maun be seekin' Lord Belses. So when the auldwife opened the door, I cried on her that there was nae time tolose, and that we must get my lord out o' bed and awa' to TamNickson's afore the Hungrygrain folk got there. She's a wise auldwife, and it wasna lang or she had my lord into his breeks and wewere ready for the road. The man Dott wadna come, though I pledsair wi' him. He said he had some law business wi' the mistresso' Hungrygrain and wadna stir a foot till he had settled it. Ihope he didna tak ony harm when the ithers got to the manse. Hewas fou' o' argyment, and Hungrygrain is no fond o' argyin'."

"He's maybe sorry now that he didna heed ye," said Nickson."He took no harm last night. But this mornin' naething wad servehim but he must gang up to Hungrygrain to see the leddy. GibbieWinfortune wasna there to shoo him awa', so he got inside thehouse, and gude kens how he's farin' there. He maun be a dour weebody."

"Stieve as a stane," said Bob, "but a stane can be broke wi' asmith's hammer."

"One thing more," said Nanty. "What brings Eben here? That wasnot in our plans."

The Chief Fisher had lit his deep-bowled pipe, and stoodstaring into the glow of the peats, a model of philosophicdetachment.

"That's easy telled," he said. "I found things changed atHopcraw. It's no an easy place to enter if there's ony wind, andthere are marks to tell the channel to them that ken whaur tolook for them. The marks are gone. The place is nae mair used,and the shop is shut. I argued the thing out wi' mysel', and myjudgment was that that side o' Hungrygrain's trade was done wi'and that the place for me was Hungrygrain itsel'. So I took theroad up the burn, and I got here no mony minutes afore you,Professor. Na, na, I wasna seen. For a' my buik there's few cansee Eben Garnock by day or night if he doesna choose."

"We've been maist michty lucky," said Bob, "for we have a'forgathered here at the richt time. I can tell you I was blitheto see Mr Jock when he stauchered in just afore daybreak. He hadhad a sore warstle ower half the Cheviots. And I was blither tohear frae Tam that you were safe on the high tops, Mr Lammas. Andwe've gotten my lord here snatched frae the jaws o' hispursuers."

"You are wrong," said Nanty. "The men you saw last night werenot seeking Lord Belses. Now you will hear my story. They wereseeking Mrs Cranmer, who had fled from the house."

Belses got out of his chair. "Great God! What new horror droveher to that? Where is she? Quick, Nanty," and he plucked theother by the shoulder.

"Sit down, Harry. It's a long tale. She ran away because shediscovered that you were a prisoner and feared for your life. Shehoped to get help from somewhere outside the glen."

"How do you know?"

"Because I found her--found her far up on the hill when I hadoutdistanced the pursuit. In the dark she accompanied me to thehead of Yonderdale, for she wished to cross the watershed. Webreakfasted together on the hilltop. Then, while she slept, Iwalked farther and met Nickson and heard that you were in hiscottage. I returned and told her, and she became a new woman. . ..

"Jock, you are a ram-headed fool. The story you told meyesterday morning was wildly wrong. If a saint of God walks theearth this day it is that lady."

"God bless you for these words," Belses cried. "She has foundanother champion. But where is she? Man, man, don't you see thatI am in torment?"

"She has gone back to Hungrygrain. Back to her duty. She is asbrave as Joan of Arc. Listen. Except for what you said of hercharacter, Jock, all your tale was true, but it was not half thetruth. For many a day there has been a factory of black treasonin Hungrygrain and elsewhere. You thought that the cover was adrunken boor of a Northumberland squire, but you were wrong--thecover was the poor lady. Cranmer is the devil of the piece. Shehas been drawn innocently into treason, and it is her name, nothis, that appears in the Government's books. You know him, Harry.You must have read his character."

"I think that he is altogether evil," said Belses.

"He is more--he is mad. That is his wife's verdict which Ihave heard from her own lips. The man lives and moves and has hisbeing by naked hate. He hates the army from which he was rejectedin disgrace. He hates the country which owns that army. This hatehas driven him distraught, so he has come to loathe all humanitysave the few whom he tolerates as his tools. Above all, he hateshis wife, who is his victim. But this madman is no blindblundering thing, for his brain is cool and subtle and he hasfull power over all his faculties. He is the most dangerous mannow alive on earth, and every hour makes him more dangerous. Hehas finished one campaign--he is leaving Hungrygrain, and Ebenhas told us that Hopcraw is done with. But it is only to beginanother and a more desperate. Formerly it was treason--now it ismurder. And he has laid his plot so cunningly that he himselfwill escape and from somewhere abroad will laugh at us fools inEngland. His wife will be left to bear the shame, and there willbe so damning a weight of evidence against her that she cannotescape the gallows."

Belses had gone as white as the scoured flagstones by thehearth. "How do you know?" he croaked.

"She told me so herself--unwillingly at first, and thenfrankly as to one whom she would never see again. It was a kindof testament before death. She has gone back to her husband inthe hope that somehow she will be permitted to frustrate hispurpose at the last moment. She has no care for herself, for sheis beyond fear, as she is beyond hope. This day on the hills Ihave seen such courage as I did not know God had given to Hiscreatures."

Nanty's solemn voice left a hush in the kitchen. The ChiefFisher broke it by shaking out the dottle of his pipe. In hisbroad comfortable speech he asked, "Wha's to be murdered?"

"The King's chief servant--Mrs Cranmer's cousin andguardian--the Prime Minister."

"Keep us a'! That canna be allowed ony gait."

The matter-of-fact words seemed to dissipate the awe inNanty's face and harden it into purpose. Suddenly he foundhimself taking command and giving orders.

"There is no time to waste," he said. "She has gone back toher husband because she believes that at any moment he may takethe road. Hopcraw is done with, Hungrygrain is done with. Theinnkeeper, you tell me, has gone off early this morning withhorses, and, Nickson says, so has the man Winfortune. Everythingis in trim for the journey, and Cranmer any moment may followwith his unhappy wife. They will move fast, for relays of horseshave been sent ahead. At all costs we must prevent them." Heturned to Nickson. "Who are left in Hungrygrain? I mean, thedesperate ones."

"They're a' desperate yins," was the answer. "There's vermindown in the village and along the waterside that are ripe for onyill. But o' Cranmer's rank-riders, now that Purdey and Winfortuneare gone, there's just the three left. There's Jerry Hartshorn,that's his first whip, as they ca' it, in the hunt. There's Sloanthat was chief o' the Hopcraw pack. And there's Meek, him thatthey ca' Luck-in-the-Bag--the thrawnest deevil in a'Cheviot."

"Three desperadoes--four, counting Cranmer himself. There'sfive of us here if Harry has got back his strength."

"I have the strength of three men," said Belses. "If Cranmeris mad, I shall presently be raving."

"Have we any arms?"

Eben shook his head. "The Free Fishers dae their fechtin' wi'their nieves, or maybe a muckle stick. We've our whittles, butwe're aye sweir to use them."

"We might borrow Tam's gun," said Bob, pointing to an ancientweapon above the chimney.

"It's bustit," said its owner. "Bustit thae ten years."

Jock rose from his sheepskin.

"What is this talk about weapons? We have our hands and ourfeet and our teeth, and that's enough. Nanty Lammas, you haveharrowed my soul. I have been maligning a dove and shielding akite, and now, by God! I'm going to have a hand in wringing thekite's neck.En avant, lads. We'll put a stopper on thisploy if we have to hough the horses and geld the men. The creditof the Free Fishers is at stake."

"Who knows the house and its environs?" Nanty asked, and histone was that of a regimental commander.

"I've snowkit round it," said Bob, "and ken the lie o' theland."

"And I," said Belses, "have some sort of notion of it."

"You must keep in the background, Harry, for you are the onlyone of us that they have seen before. . . . Here is the plan wewill follow. We will keep together till we are under the housewall--there are shrubberies of evergreens there which, accordingto Harry, make good cover. Then I detail Eben and Bob to go tothe stables--Bob knows the road--and do what they can to spoilCranmer's hopes of travel. It may have to be a brutal business,but that cannot be helped. Harry will remain in cover, as ourreserves, and also to form a link between the stable party andthe rest of us. Jock and I will get into the house by force or byguile and deal with Cranmer."

"How will you deal with him?" Belses asked.

Jock lifted a brawny fist and regarded it lovingly. "Knock himout--truss him up--whatever the Almighty permits us."

"Supposing he is not alone?"

"Oh, then, if his trusties are with him, there'll be a bonnyrumpus."

Eben took from his pocket a silver boat-call which hepresented to Nanty.

"Blaw that if ye want Bob and me, but no till we're needit,for there's like to be a heap o' wark in the stable."

Nanty pocketed the whistle. "The one thing to make sure of,"he said, "is that we get to the house. Some of the vermin Nicksonspeaks of may be on the watch, and we cannot afford to bedelayed. Thank God, there's no moon for hours. If we are forcedto separate, the rendezvous is this cottage. . . . Now give me abite of meat, for I haven't eaten since breakfast. In fiveminutes we take the road."

Jock regarded him with quizzical admiration.

"Man, Nanty, this is like old times. The professor's at thedesk and we bejants sit doucely at his feet."

There was a cart-track which crossed Yonder water within ahundred yards of the house, the very road by which the peats hadbeen brought that had been Harry Belses' means of escape. Thefive men had wormed their way to the bank of the stream withoutmishap. They had traversed the lower hill pastures, creeping bythe dyke edges so as not to stir the sheep, and had crawledthrough a mile of thickets black as a tunnel, where there was nosound except that of sleepy birds. But when they drew together atthe ford something struck on their ears above the rumble ofYonder. It was the sound of a horse's hooves.

A rider was crossing the water. There was an open glade thereand sufficient light to see his figure. As he emerged on theirside Eben--who considered anything to do with horses as hisbusiness--rose silently like a gnome from the bracken, and withhis great arm plucked him from the saddle. Bob took the bridleand quieted the frightened beast, but its plunging made littlenoise, for the grass was deep.

"It's Meek," he whispered. "It's Luke-in-the-Bag. Canny, Eben,for he'll bite like a weasel."

The man in Eben's arms was small and skinny, bareheaded, andin his shirt-sleeves. Eben's great hand was over his mouth.

"One cheep, my mannie," he said, "and your neck's thrawn."

The captive did not struggle, but remained passive, till Ebenlaid him on the ground. He looked up to see five faces bent onhim, for Bob had by this time soothed the horse, and it wasgrazing peaceably.

It was Nanty who spoke.

"You're the man Meek? Where are you taking that beast?"

"Ye would like to know, would ye? Well, it's bound for hell tomount the devil's grandma."

"Tie him up," said Nanty, and Eben, whose pockets alwayscontained tarry twine, made a workmanlike job of it. The prisonershowed no alarm, and suffered himself to be bound without astruggle, whistling softly through his broken teeth.

"Gag him," said Nanty, and Eben was about to obey, using a bitof a cork float from the same capacious pocket. But suddenly fromfar off came a sound like a magnified curlew's call, or ahuntsman's view-halloa borne from a great distance. The man onthe ground cocked his ears and grinned.

"Ye may gag me if ye please," he said, "but ye won't makenothing by it. Tod Meek's goin' to do ye no harm, seein' he'sleft all lonesome in this valley. That call ye heard was Jerry'ssignal that him and me agreed on. It means that Squire and partyare over Red Syke Edge. I'm afeard ye're come late for the fair,gentles, whomsoever ye be."

"Gag him, Eben," said Nanty, "and roll him under the bushes.We can attend to him later. And tie up the horse to yon tree. Theruffian is right, and I fear the birds are flown. On to thehouse, and no more manoeuvring. You, Eben and Bob, have a look atthe stables first--I doubt you'll find them empty."

He led the way through the shallow ford, raced up the bank,and came out on the shelf of ground which had been made into ashaggy lawn. Before them the house rose massive and dark, withoutone pinprick of light.

"Bide here, Harry," Nanty ordered when they were under thewall. "When you hear my whistle fetch Eben and Bob, if theyhaven't joined you. It would take a day to force the door, but wecan break in a window. There--that's the one for us." Theshutters were up on most, but this one was left unshuttered,though the sash had been bolted.

"That is the room where I last saw Mrs Cranmer," saidBelses.

Jock put his shoulder to the framework and the whole thingcrumbled inward with a crash of glass. "Rotten as touchwood," hesaid. "This place would never stand a siege. Wait on till I lightNickson's lantern."

Nanty and he squirmed through the aperture. There was still aspark among the ashes of the fire and the room smelt of recentuse. The table, which, when Belses saw it, had been laden withpapers, was bare, and the chairs stood about in disorder as if aconclave had just risen from them. Nanty cast an eye round.

"This was their last lair," he whispered. "Now forexploration. Caution is the word, for there may be an ambush atany corner."

They stole into a narrow passage, casting the lantern beambefore them, and then into the shabby hall. No one of the doorson the ground floor was locked, and room after room was revealedempty. Some had clearly not been lived in for many days. In thehuge kitchen, part of the old tower, there were hot ashes on thehearth, and, on a table, dishes with the remains of food. Theycrept up the staircase and found themselves in a maze ofcorridors, whose different levels marked successive stages in thehouse's architecture. Often they stopped to listen, but the nightwas calm, there was no sound to break the stillness, not a creakof woodwork or a drip of mortar, only the echo of their ownsteps. The place had suddenly lost its mystery. Man had used itand had finished with it, and it had been flung aside like an oldglove, to crumble unregarded in the winter frosts and the summersuns. The race of Cranmer had done with Hungrygrain.

"Hist!" said Jock. "I hear a step."

They listened, and then moved softly in the direction of thesound. It came from the end of a corridor. As they halted it wasrepeated--footsteps hasty and careless, and then what seemed likedimly heard human speech.

"There are folk beyond that door," Jock whispered. "More thanone. I have ears like a gled, and I can hear two differentvoices."

They waited, listening intently, and they heard the stepsagain. Then a crash as if a heavy foot had been driven againstwood.

"We'll get the others," said Nanty. "Back with you,quick."

They raced down the stair to the room by which they hadentered, and blew the whistle. In a second Belses was at thewindow, and behind him Eben and Bob. When the three were insideEben reported. "The stables are empty. Not a bit or a bridle or abeast to need them."

"This house is not empty," said Nanty. "In a room upstairsthere are men--two at least. Follow me, and be ready foranything."

In the room at the end of the corridor the steps had ceased.But there were voices, which came faintly through the thick door.Nanty tried the handle, but it would not turn. The key might bein the inside. "Open," he cried.

The voices ceased.

"Open," he cried again.

"How the devil can I open?" came from within, and the oak didnot muffle the fury of the words. "You have locked the damnedthing and got the key."

"I've heard that voice before," said Nanty. "It's none of theHungrygrain folk. Put your shoulder to it, lads."

Eben did the work himself. His broad back took the door like abattering-ram, and lifted it clean off its rotting hinges. Itfell inward and the lantern revealed a big wainscoted room whollybare of furniture. There were cobwebs in the cornices and in thecracks of the shuttered windows, and the floor was as deep indust as an August highway. In its centre stood a large man with avery red face. He seemed to expect an attack, for his fists werein a posture of defence. But, as he glared at the newcomers,bewilderment took the place of wrath in his eyes.

"Now who in God's name are you?" he stammered. "I have seenyou before." He looked at Nanty, but especially at Jock.

Jock bowed. "I was presented to you yesterday morning, SirTurnour, in the Red Lion at Berwick by Miss ChristianEvandale."

"The devil you were!" Jock's words seemed to restore to thebaronet some of his composure, as if they reminded him of a sanerworld than that in which he now found himself. "And you," heturned to Nanty. "You also were there. . . . And, God bless mysoul, there is my lord." The sight of Belses was the final straw.He put his hand to his brow and ruffled his crisp hair."Gentlemen," he cried, "have the goodness to enlighten me. Whatare you doing here?"

Belses spoke.

"We came here to hinder the going of the people of this houseand to prevent a great evil. Me you know already, SirTurnour--too well for your pleasure, I fear. This is my formergovernor, Mr Anthony Lammas, now professor in the college of StAndrews. This is Mr John Kinloch, son to my Lord Mannour, of whomyou have heard. The others are of the famous brotherhood of theFree Fishers. We are here on an errand which has the sanction ofGovernment, but we are here too late. The corbies have flown andleft in their place a most reputable gentleman. Now how did thatgentleman get into this dubious nest?"

The grave and slightly mocking courtesy of Belses' tone was aspark to the tinder of Sir Turnour's grievances. His precisespeech broke into a splutter of fury.

"Nest!" he cried. "A nest of carrion! . . . I came here thismorning to settle a private matter. The man Cranmer had lied tome; lied to me insolently, and I could not pass it by. I askedfor an interview, and was admitted to a den of a room where thedoor was locked behind me. I was not armed, or I would have shotaway the lock. Then came Cranmer with three ugly sprouts ofrascaldom at his back. He demanded the purpose of my visit, andwhen I told him he laughed in my face. Before I knew it the threeruffians had me pinioned, though I loosened the teeth in the headof one of them. Then, when I was at his mercy, this Cranmerpoured out his venom. He said that he took little count ofBrummels like me who should never leave St James's Street. Heinvited me to return to my dressing-glasses and powder-puffs andthe bullying of children, and not to meddle with the affairs ofmen. He said much more, but I shut my ears to it. They carried meto this place, cut my bonds, flung me in, and locked the door. Icould hear Cranmer's giggling laugh in the corridor. . . . Thatis my simple tale, my lord, and by God! for every letter of it Iwill make that man sweat blood."

Belses bowed. "We are now allied in a common enmity," he said."The help which I begged last night from you for charity will nowbe given for hate. The purpose. . . . What on earth is that?"

From beyond the other door in the room came a wailful voice. .. .

"Let me out, sirs," it moaned. "If it's you, Professor, let meout for the love of God. I'm half smothered with the stour."

"That," said Sir Turnour, "is my fellow prisoner. I think itis the little man who was with us at the parson's house."

Where the baronet's boot had failed Eben's shoulder succeeded.The door of what had once been a powdering-closet fell in, andfrom it staggered a melancholy figure. Its face was grimed withsoot, and its clothing was in sad disorder. What had once been aspruce dark coat was now riven down the back, and its pantaloonswere grey with dust.

"Losh, it's the wee town-clerk," said Bob. "I warned ye, MrDott, that ye were set on a daft-like plan."

"You did that," said the scarecrow, "and you were right, but Ihad my duty to perform, and this is where it has landed me. Icame here this morning seeking Mrs Cranmer on a small matter ofbusiness. I enquired for her at the door and they let me in, butthat was all the civility they showed me. A black-avised man withthe glower of the devil appeared--he wouldn't listen to me--hejust swore like a heathen--and the next I knew I was shut up inthis press and the key turned. I was left my lone for hours, andthen the door opened and a woman looked in. No, it wasn't MrsCranmer--I couldn't see her right, but I think it was a servantlass. She flung a bit paper at me and ran for it, but she firstlocked the door. After that I heard an awful stramash, which musthave been the arrival of this gentleman. I heard himswearing--such profanity I never dreamed of in all my days--so Iknew that he must be in the same creel as myself. We entered intoconversation, and he did his best to kick the door open, but thedonnered thing would not yield. . . . I'm as empty as a whistle,friends, for I haven't broken bread since the morning. Is thereno meat about the place?"

"Have you the paper?" Nanty asked.

He was given a torn and dirty slip which he held to thelantern. On it was written the words "Merry Mouth" in a finepointed hand.

"It's the name o' our boat," said Eben.

"It's the name of something else," said Nanty. "This house isan empty shell, and it's no place for us longer. We must back toNickson's, for there's much to be settled ere morning."

"Harry," said Nanty. "Will you do me a kindness? Lend me yourcoat and waistcoat and a spare cravat, for I assume you havebaggage with you, and take in exchange this woollen shift thatEben provided me with."

"You may have my last shirt. But why?"

"Because I propose to set off instantly in pursuit, and mypresent garb is not very decent for a journey on thehighroads."

At his words the assembly in Nickson's kitchen woke to a sharpattention. For a moment no one spoke; then Mr Dott, who had beenengaged earnestly with a plate of brose, dropped his spoon andsaid:

"With your permission, Professor, I'll accompany you. I havestill my bit of business to see to."

"Well done the town-clerk!" said Bob. "Man, ye're the gameone."

"Why do you take this upon yourself, sir?" Sir Turnour askedNanty haughtily. "Your concern in this affair is thesmallest."

"Not so. It is the chief, for I alone have heard from MrsCranmer's lips the true meaning of the journey. These others knowit. Have patience with me, sir, and I will tell it you."

Nanty repeated the tale of his morning on the hill tops andhis talk with the fugitive lady. He told it with a deeper emotionthan he had shown at the first telling to the others, for thesight of that husk of a house had convinced him of the darkpurpose of those who had left it, and he found himself keyed upto a great resolution. His mind hovered between fright andexaltation, and his quivering nerves put fire and colour into hiswords.

Mr Dott was profoundly impressed. He had a dog-like fidelityto his client, and was also prepared to think any ill of thosewho had hindered a decent Scots writer in his lawful avocation.Not so Sir Turnour.

"You believe this rigmarole?" he asked coldly. "Cranmer Igrant you. He is capable of any villainy, and you may be rightthat he is mad. His treatment of myself is warrant for it. But Icannot swallow this romantic lady. In my judgment she is astool-pigeon for her blackguard of a husband. I have seen her,and I mistrusted her foreign looks and her tragedy eyes. I haveheard too much of her to credit her innocence. In my judgment sheis the most expert coney-catcher alive, and to-day in these hillsshe has added another to her bag."

"You forget, sir," said Belses fiercely, "that we agreed thatfor the present we should be neutral in this matter."

Sir Turnour bowed. "I stand corrected. I will say no more ofthe lady except that I am not her champion. My business is withher precious husband. Him I follow instantly, and please God Ishall soon call him to account."

The baronet's high colour had deepened, and his eyes had thefixed stare of one whose mind is unalterably determined on apurpose about which it is not wholly clear.

"Where do you propose to seek him?" Nanty asked.

"At his wife's house of Overy in the first instance. Iunderstood from you that they will go there--must go there. If Imiss him be assured I will pick up the scent."

"I beg you, Sir Turnour, to listen to me," said Nanty. "Thisis a desperate affair, and those engaged in it are cunning menwho have been weaving their plots for years. You have a justquarrel with Cranmer, and the Government has one not less just.Put aside for a moment the innocence or guilt of the lady. We areface to face with a matter of deep national concern, and wouldbring the conspirators under the weighty arm of the law. If youmake your private vengeance your only thought and openly followhim he will escape you. Our only hope is to match secrecy withsecrecy. That is why I claim that the chief task falls to me. Youare known to Cranmer. Lord Belses is known to him. In vain willyou spread the snare in the sight of the bird. But of me he knowsnothing--he never saw me--he is ignorant of my name. I can followhim unobserved. But I am known to Mrs Cranmer, and I may be ableto give her that help which will permit her to circumvent him. Wehave an ally in the enemy's camp, but that ally cannot be usedexcept by one who is unknown to the enemy."

"What do you propose, sir? I know nothing of you. I saw youfor the first time an hour ago. Who are you?"

"You have heard that I am a professor of logic in Scotland.But I am also a young man, and I am privileged to be a member ofthat brotherhood of the Free Fishers to which those three othersbelong. I am as determined as you, sir, and my power lies in myobscurity."

"But what is your plan? Where would you follow them? ToNorfolk?"

Nanty shook his head.

"Not to Norfolk. They will go there, but the danger-point isnot there. It is at some place called the Merry Mouth."

"Merry Mouth! Merry Mouth!" Sir Turnour repeated. "An inn? Inever heard of it and I know most of the roads of England. Theremay be a score of Merry Mouths."

"I will find this one, and, having found it, I will trust theAlmighty for the rest."

"Gad, you're a well-plucked one, Nanty!" said Jock Kinloch."Are you for engaging the whole of that black crewsingle-handed?"

"Not single-handed. I will have Mrs. Cranmer with me."

"Stuff and nonsense!" Sir Turnour cried. "You come back tothat woman's honesty, in which I most utterly disbelieve. I willgo to Norfolk and pluck Cranmer out of his gang, and drub him asman was never drubbed before. If he has flown I will come up withhim. Norfolk is my own county, and my house of Wood Rising iswithin twenty miles of Overy. I am known to every man-jack in theshire, and can set a hundred scouts to work. I tell you I do notcredit a word of the woman's story. I swear on my soul thatwhatever mischief is afoot she is deep in it--"

Mr Dott interrupted. He had finished his meal, and rose to hisfeet, his solemn puckered face contrasting strangely with hisruinous clothes. The prominent eyes were ablaze.

"Swear if you like, sir," he cried, "by your broad acres andyour braw house and your chariot and your blood horses, but donot swear by what you value so little as your soul."

The unexpected passion of the words, the unexpected defianceas if a chicken had turned to outface a hawk, made a suddensilence. Sir Turnour flushed deeper, and seemed to be drawinghimself up for a violent rejoinder, when Eben's slow voice brokein. He had been puffing his pipe, and staring into the fire.

"Wait on, sirs," he said. "There's maybe gude sense in whatthe gentleman says. If them we seek gang first to Norfolk, whathinders us to try the same road? The wind is set in thenor'-west, and by my judgment it'll bide there for the nexttwa-three days."

"What the devil has the wind to do with it?" the baronetdemanded.

"Mair than ye might think. Them we seek will travel by land,and, post as they please, they'll do brawly if they cover ahundred miles in the day. Let them take the speediest coach andthey'll be little better off, for the road they seek is no thestraight highroad. I've heard forbye o' coaches that break downand beasts that founder. As I judge, it's every yaird o' twahundred mile--liker twa hundred and fifty--frae here to theNorfolk sands. If there's a quicker road it's common sense for usto take it, and birse in afore them."

"What quicker road can there be?" Sir Turnour criedscornfully. "I trust Cranmer to know all the short cuts."

"There's the sea," said Eben simply.

The baronet stared. "By God, I never thought of that. You'reright. It's the long elbow you must make to get round the Washthat stretches out the distance. There's a straight course fromthe coast here to Overy Bar. But what are we talking about? Whereis the ship? Have you a frigate lying offshore at yourcommand?"

"We've a boat at Yondermouth that will dae as weel as onyking's ship. Better, for there's better folk to handle it."

"Man, Eben, that's an inspiration," Nanty cried. "Will thewind hold?"

"Under Providence I think it will." The Chief Fisher, who hadseemed hitherto to be a silent spectator of the whole business,spoke now with the assurance of one used to plan and command.

"Do you know the Norfolk shore?"

Eben smiled slowly.

"No just as weel, maybe, as I ken the Fife coast and theBuchan nesses. But there's no a fleet or a deep frae Spurn Headto Brancaster Roads that I kenna the way o', and mony a time orthis I've waded the glaur o' the Wells sea-flats."

"Can you take us to Overy?"

"Ay. I've been there on lawfu' errands and on some not solawfu'. I wad maybe be a wee thing fickled if an easterly haarcame down on us, but still I think I micht smell my way in therein ony weather."

Sir Turnour unbent. "You seem an honest man and a capableseaman. I like your plan, so the sooner we start the better. Myservant will take my chaise back to Berwick. How far off is theharbour where your boat lies?"

"Fifteen mile, maybe less. I left theMerry Mouth wi'Davie Dimmock for some sma' repairs. They'll be done by thistime, and she can sail when it's our will."

"TheMerry Mouth?" Sir Turnour puzzled, then turned toNanty. "I thought that was the inn of your fantastic tale."

"It is also the name of Eben's cutter. A queer omen, and Ithink a good one. If we have luck with oneMerry Mouth atsea, we'll maybe have luck with another on land. . . . I have afavour to ask, Sir Turnour. I want the loan of your chaise andyour galloways."

"Are you mad, sir?"

"I am desperately sane. I have the land journey to make, andwhile you try to intercept fugitives in Norfolk, my business isto await them at their rendezvous, which I can assure you is thereal point of danger. Otherwise Mrs Cranmer would not have beenso urgent. My request is that you let me have your chaise toYork, where I can get a coach that will take me to Midlands. I amconvinced that the Merry Mouth, be it inn or hovel or mansion, isat some place where a road from Norfolk joins the main Londonhighway. I will find it, and I will wait there till I get someenlightenment."

"Then you will wait the deuce of a time, sir. Why should Ientrust my chaise to you, when I utterly discredit the tale towhich you have pinned your faith? Besides, you have not the lookof a whip. Can you handle cattle?"

Nanty shook his head.

"I never in my life tried. But I will have one with me whocan," and he looked at Jock. "Mr Kinloch is not in your class asa charioteer, Sir Turnour, but he has driven the Perth coach, andI have seen him make a fair show with a blood beast in acurricle."

Sir Turnour brooded with a sullen face.

"Can you handle a pair?" he turned to Jock.

"I have driven a pair of Barnton's roans," was the answer. "Ican promise you that neither the galloways nor your chaise willtake any hurt from me."

The young man spoke haughtily, for he had not forgotten hisgrievance against the baronet, but the latter was too preoccupiedto observe it.

"You are a man of sense," he turned to Eben. "I heartilyapprove your plan of the sea journey, but what do you say of thiswild-cat search for a place that may exist only in a madwoman'sfancy?"

Eben lit his pipe before he replied.

"I think it wise, sir, and I counsel you to do what theprofessor asks. I am an auld hand at this trade, and I never liketo put a' my weight on one foot. We fisher folk like what we ca'cross-bearin's. And this word 'Merry Mouth' comin' as it did isane we daurna neglect. . . . But the chaise hauds three, forthere'll be little baggage. The professor and Mr Kinloch maunnagang their lane. Bob maun be wi' them."

"Can you sail the boat alone?"

"Fine. Besides, I'll hae able-bodied passengers to gie me ahand if I need it. Bob maun gang wi' you, Professor, forotherwise the twa pairties will hae no way o' gettin' word to theither. Mr Kinloch is ane o' oursels, but he's a new member, andhe's no yet perfectly acquainted wi' our ways. Ye maun understandthat the Free Fishers gang far afield and into queer bits, andthere's few corners o' this land where they canna pick up afriend. We've our ain canny ways and our ain private lines set,and Bob has been lang enough wi' us to hae learned the set o'them. I can get word frae Norfolk to Bob wherever he is, and hecan get word to me, and wi'out Bob the twasome o' ye wad be likecoos in a strange loanin'. Forbye, there'll maybe be trouble atthe Merry Mouth or whatever they ca' it--waur trouble than may bewaitin' in Norfolk--and three stout fellows are better thantwa."

A change suddenly came over Sir Turnour. The hard lines inwhich his face had fallen mellowed into good humour. He stood upto his full height, stretched his arms, looked round the company,and burst into a great jolly laugh.

"Cranmer is mad," he cried. "So, I think, is his lady, thoughthat is denied. But we are all mad--mad as hares in March, mad asa Meath filly! I come raging up into this accursed north countryto read a lesson to a foolish youth who had forgotten hismanners. When I find this youth he is so humble that theschoolmaster is at a loss, and so bold that he reads theschoolmaster himself a lesson. I find a boor whom I heartilydetest and from whom I am compelled to seek satisfaction forgross insults. And then, to tangle further this already tangledbusiness, I stumble on a gang following the same boor's trail foranother purpose, and hear dark tales which lift my privatequarrel to the height of a patriotic duty. I am an orderly man,and you have made my life as disordered as a mob fair. So I amsetting out, I who detest salt water, in a boat I have never seenand in charge of a sailorman of whom I know nothing except thathe has an honest face. And I am asked to lend my chaise and thecattle I have hired to a bedlamite Scotch professor to go seekinga fantastic name through the length of England!Vive labagatelle! Motley is the only wear! I surrender, gentlemen. Ifall in with your crazy plans, and may the best man win!"

He turned to Belses.

"You, my lord, will, I take it, return to your distractedfamily?"

"With your leave, Sir Turnour, I will accompany you toNorfolk. I have the deepest interest of any in your errand."

"I guessed as much. You have certainly my permission, if youcan get that of our chief mariner."

"And me, too, by your leave, sir," spoke up Mr Dott. "I havestill my bit of business to despatch, and I cannot go home tillit is finished."

"Just listen to the town-clerk," said Bob, who had attachedhimself specially to Mr Dott. "There's staunch folk aboutWaucht."

"So be it," said the baronet. "I make no complaint. The morethe merrier when it comes to sea-sickness. I stipulate only thatyou do exactly as I bid you when we reach Norfolk, if we are everso fortunate."

"And now," he buttoned his coat and smoothed his beaver, "now,by God, for food. I have eaten nothing all day, and am as emptyas a bad filbert. I am in command, and my order to all is that wemake for the inn. The worst villains have gone out of Yonderdale,including the inn-keeper. If anyone tries to stay us on the roadthere are six of us and we will wring his neck. Food I must have,and if there is none in the inn we will get a sheep from thehills. I summon you to dine with me forthwith on whatever fare wecan find. Anyhow, there is good liquor, and my servant is apretty hand at compounding punch.En avant."

"We maun gang cannily out of this place," said Eben, "andcannily till we're a mile or mair off. Meek is still here, andthe Hungrygrain folk will return, and it would never dae to bringtrouble on Tam Nickson."

The moon lit them down the stream and up the hill to the inn.To Nanty it seemed that the glen had a new atmosphere. It hadlost that oppression which had weighed on his spirits from hisfirst entrance into it. Except on the high tops it had seemed atainted land. But now it was a hill valley in all the sweetnessof the spring night, a place of running waters and sleeping birdsand springing flowers. Mr Dott, whose perceptions were lessacute, seemed also to be conscious of the change, for his spiritsrose, and he was no longer the anxious and frustrate lawyer. Hecheered the road with songs of his native land. He it was who atthe inn managed to summon the pale wife, and, promising that allwould be handsomely paid for, demanded beds for the party and animmediate supper. He even, pursued by the gibes of Bob Muschat,made his way to the kitchen and cajoled a maid to make him a dishof toasted cheese after a recipe of his own.

Nanty shut down his thoughts, which waited like a great armyin the background, tumbled into bed, and slept for eight hours adreamless sleep. He awoke to a world of blue skies and light airsand the fresh scents of morning. He awoke also to a heavypreoccupation, which did not seem to be shared by the rest. A gighad been found to carry the party to Yondermouth. Jock Kinlochwould accompany it, and bring back some clothes more suited to alowland journey than fishermen's togs. The others seemed to takeeverything as a matter of course. Sir Turnour gave his orders asif he had been in his training stable at Newmarket, and wasnotably civil to Jock, who had awakened in a high mood foradventure. Harry Belses was silent, but there was hope andpurpose in his eyes. Eben Garnock smoked his first pipe as if hewere on the quay at Pittenweem. As for Mr Dott, he had againvisited the kitchen, and was accused by Bob of a purpose of loveand not of greed. Bob had a verse of a wicked song:

"A bonny may went out one day
Some fresh fish for to buy,
An' there she spied a wee toun-clerk,
An' he followed her speedily--
Ricky doo dum dae, doo dum dae,
Ricky dicky doo dum dae."

The singer almost got his ears boxed, and Mr Dott departed inthe gig with a high air of wounded dignity.

"That's a fine wee body," said Bob, as he looked after him. "Iwouldna' say but he's the teuchest o' the lot. Love and angerwill carry a man a lang gait, but when a Scots writer is out inthe way o' business, he'd walk barefoot ower the plainstanes o'hell."

Jock and the gig did not return till close on midday. Hebrought Nanty's baggage, who was now able, without borrowing fromHarry Belses, to present again that appearance of sober dignitywith which he had left St Andrews. Jock wore his green coat andcorduroy breeches, a sufficiently workmanlike attire for theroad, though at the Red Lion in Berwick it had shown up poorly incontrast to Sir Turnour's elegance. Bob had somehow managed toprocure a black coat of an ancient cut, and a shirt and neckclothin harmony with it. "Eben Garnock's," he explained. "Eben ayecarries his Sabbath coat in theMerry Mouth, for he's anelder o' the Kirk, and winna miss a diet o' worship if he's inport at a week-end. He lent them readily, for he says there's naemeans o' grace about Norfolk."

"What do we look like?" Jock cried, as he tested the bucklesof the galloways' harness. "You're the professor again, Nanty, ormaybe a stickit minister--no, your skin's too brown and your eyetoo bright for a stickit minister. I'm the country bumpkin off tosee the world--it's the devil's ill luck that I haven't my newsuit from McKimmie's. And Bob--God knows what Bob is--a crossbetween a Cameronian preacher and a fish-couper! Anyway, there'snothing randy about the look of us--just three quiet ladstravelling on their lawful occasions. It's the chaise thattroubles me. There's a Corinthian dash about it that doesn't setwell with its occupants, and there will maybe be questions askeddown the road."

Bob alone had some knowledge of the country, and he hadconsulted with Tam Nickson and Sir Turnour. The view-halloa ofCranmer's huntsman the night before showed that the party hadtaken the hill road to the south, and Sir Turnour had been clearabout their purpose. Relays of horses had been sent on ahead, andthey must mean to cross the Tyne at Corbridge, and make straightacross the Durham moorlands to the great Carlisle-London road atCatterick Bridge. There they would no doubt take coach for theirsecret destination in Midlands. Nanty, who felt himself incommand, had no other purpose than to follow their track, a trackwhich would soon be lost in the bustle of a great highway. He waslooking for a single inn in a vast unknown land, and all he knewwas that it must lie somewhere adjacent to the shire of Norfolk.He must go south--ever south--and trust to Providence.

Jock proved that he could handle the ribbons, and, moreimportant, that he could nurse his cattle. The galloways werefresh after their two days' rest, and, easing them on the hills,and giving them their heads on the flat, he took them at arattling pace over a switchback country in the bright afternoon.They crossed the bridge of Tyne long before sunset, and when thetwilight fell were high up on the Weardale moors. The road was ofhill gravel, often half overgrown with grass, but in the dryspring weather it was as good as the broadest highway. The airwas fresh and tonic, the countryside full of the sound of younglambs and curlews, and weather and scene would have ordinarilysent Nanty's spirits soaring. Yet he was profoundly depressed,and while Jock babbled cheerfully and Bob on the seat behind wasa fount of rustic music, he wrapped himself gloomily in histhoughts.

For he was convinced that somehow the main responsibility ofsuccess or failure would rest on him, and he felt himselfinadequate to the burden. What had become of the competent youngman who had hitherto prided himself on meeting each task with aneasy mastery? Not even the donning of his proper clothes hadgiven him back his former self. The professor of logic, the StAndrews Questor, the legate of the Senatus and of Lord Mannourhad been lost by the wayside. Also the boy who had been queerlymixed up in these personages and had longed hungrily foradventure. He felt himself to be crude, ignorant, callow, ablundering hobbledehoy who sought to match himself against thecunning of grown and desperate men.

Cranmer especially had become a figure that hag-rode hisfancy. He had never seen him, but Bob had, and Bob had drawn hispicture--a dead-white face--black, finely pencilledeyebrows--cold, wise, cruel eyes. He was afraid of Cranmer, heconfessed to himself, afraid not so much of any bodily hurtCranmer could do to him as of the malevolent power of his spirit.There lay evil incarnate, and he had never met evil, andshuddered virginally at the thought of it. Yet every mile wastaking him nearer to Cranmer. He had no doubt about theirmeeting. He would find the Merry Mouth inn, and terrible thingswould befall there. There his courage would be tested and mightfail him.

Yet he must not crack. His trouble was of the heart as well asof the head, for, if he failed, the pale woman he had met on thehills would be the victim. He remembered all her sad graces, thesudden child-like innocence of the eyes when they were freed fromtheir tragic preoccupation, the lines about the mouth of analmost forgotten mirth, the soft voice, the exquisite modellingof the small face. He had never seen, never dreamed of anythinglike that girl in her rough clothes, so fragile and yet soresolute, so fine and yet so massive in her hopeless fidelities.Was he in love with her? He knew one thing only, that this waswhat he had dreamed of all his days, and had cherished too deepin his heart ever to profane with his reason.

He shut down the thought of her, for it only increased hisnervousness, and tried to think coolly ahead, as became theleader of a forlorn hope. Sir Turnour had given him advice. Inhis inner pocket he carried several of Sir Turnour's modishcartes-de-visite with a line scribbled on the back askingcourtesy for the bearer, in case his journey took him intocompany where the baronet's was an honoured name. There was alsoa letter on Sir Turnour's personal note-paper to RichardMonckton, Esquire, of Flocksby Hall, a seat adjoining theCarlisle highroad, where the chaise was to be left when thetravellers took the London coach. . . . That night they hadbetter avoid a town, for he could not disguise from himself thattheir company was an odd one and might invite questions. Somewayside hostelry of the humbler kind was their mark. No need tochange horses, for the galloways would carry them next day toCatterick Bridge. . . . Nanty got some consolation fromrecapitulating his meagre plans, and a little beyondWilton-le-Wear he saw an inn which offered the sort of lodging hedesired.

It was a small place, but with good stabling, for it was anoted meet of the local foxhounds, and within a quarter of a mileof the local kennels. It proved to be empty of guests, thelandlord was friendly, they were shown clean bedrooms, and, whenJock had seen the galloways stabled and fed, they sat down to acomfortable supper. The curtains were not drawn on the windowlooking out on the road, and, while they were busy on a dish ofWear trout, there came a clatter of hooves which stopped at thetaproom door.

Bob, who was sitting on the window side, took one glance atthem, and then rose and, with a finger at his lips, left theroom. He did not return till the fish had been removed and a loinof mutton set in its place. The others had meantime heard thehooves again, and observed a rider, leading several horses, passon to the north.

"We're on the right road," said Bob. "Who think ye it was?Hartshorn, the Hungrygrain huntsman, nae less. Awa' hame wi' thebeasts they rode the first stage on. He's mighty dry, for he hadtwo-three chopins o' yill afore his thirst was slockened. Na, hedoesna ken me, but I ken him. Afore this I've lookit on theill-faured face o' him frae the back o' a dyke. I had a word wi'the landlord, and he tells me a party gaed by about midday, agentleman and a leddy and three serving-men. Hartshorn was ane o'them. Purdey the innkeeper will hae the beasts for the nextstage. We'll maybe hear him jinglin' by in the night."

Next day they topped the last ridge of intervening moorlandand came down on the broad haughs of Swale. Now they were on amuch-frequented highway, with on each side a wide ribbon ofgrass--no longer the smooth hill gravel, but a surface stillscored by winter ruts, which a dry spring and much traffic werebeginning to level out. At the inn at Catterick Bridge they hadtheir midday meal, and were there overtaken by the coach fromCarlisle to the south. The Rapid was crowded in every inch,outside and inside, and they were told that there would be novacant seat before York.

The landlord, a friendly Yorkshireman, scratched his head andgave them his best counsel. Clearly he took Nanty for some greatman's secretary, travelling in a hurry with two lesser servants."Give your cattle two hours' rest," he said, "and they will carryyou to Boroughbridge. There at one in the morning you can get theUmpire, which never to my knowledge has carried a full load.You're for the south, you say, and have no mind to call at York?Well, the Umpire's the thing for you. She'll carry you toDoncaster, where you can take your choice of coaches--forNottingham, Leicester, Brummagem, anywhere you please--or if it'sLondon you're making for, you can follow the Great North Road.You can sup as snug at the Green Willow in Boroughbridge as atany house in the dales."

The galloways took them all afternoon through a country whichto Nanty's northern eyes seemed the very tropics for richness.Every hedge was white with may, every orchard a sea of blossom,the ploughlands were green with sprouting corn, and in the fatmeadows there pastured cattle of an amplitude strange to oneaccustomed to the little lean kine of Fife. The landscape soothedand satisfied him; surely he had come into a land so warm andsettled that law-breakers would find their task harder than onthe bleak Northumbrian moors.

"A change from the East Neuk," he observed to Bob over hisshoulder.

"A sore change," was the answer. "I dinna like it. We're owerfar frae the sea. It wad choke me to bide here."

At a toll-bar the gatekeeper called their attention to thefact that one of the galloways had cast a shoe. There was an inna mile ahead, he said, and a blacksmith's shop behind it.Boroughbridge was a matter of six miles farther.

The inn proved to be a roomy place, for it served a widehunting country. The galloways were unyoked, the smith was found,and soon the music of his bellows was loud in the quiet evening.On the benches outside the door sat a row of countrymen with potsof beer, and from the inn parlour came the sound of men's talk.One galloway was tethered to a bridle-ring in the sign-post, andthe chaise with its pole erect stood in the space between thehighroad and the inn door. Jock clamoured for ale, but Nanty andBob declined refreshment. They stood a little shyly apart fromthe rustics on the bench, with that sense of mingled insecurityand distinction which attends all travellers.

To them there entered from the back parts a man with a stringof horses, a tall fellow wearing a homespun coat with bigpockets, corduroy breeches, and frieze leggings. At first he didnot see the chaise. The landlord came out to speak to him.

Bob dug Nanty in the ribs.

"It's Purdey," he whispered. "The Hungrygrain innkeeper. Ithought we wad hae passed him langsyne. He has come an unco waysouth. . . . Na, we're safe enough. He has never cast eyes on onyo' us, though I ken his thrawn face weel."

Purdey was talking to the landlord, as one professional toanother. He had a loud voice, and Nanty could hear everyword.

"Grand weather for the road," he was saying. "My gentlefolkhave the luck o't. No, I'm in no great hurry home. I'll bed thenight at Catterick Brig and be on Cheviot side the morn beforethe darkening, if I start at skriegh o' day."

A maid brought him a mug of ale.

"Here's health," he said. "I'll no be travellin' the roads fora bittie, but if ye hear of any young beasts of the kind we spokeof, ye can get word to me by Catterick Brig, or by Johnny Trottwhen he comes north to look at our yearlings. . . . Did ye saythat ye had a gude-brother a hostler down Huntingdon way?"

"Not in Huntingdon, but nearby. Fenny Horton, they call theplace. Been there for two and twenty years. Jem used to buycattle from the fenmen, and he had the fortune to marry a prettywench that was the only child of Bill Ashe--him that had thechange-house and likewise brewed his own beer. Ever heard ofBill? He was a great man in them parts. By and by he died, so Jemhung up his hat and ever since has been as snug as a flea in ablanket."

Purdey had finished his mug.

"That's what I told my master. Knowing yourself, he likes thebreed, and might put a bit o' business in your brother's way,when he's down there. Well, I maun ride. Hold these beasts whileI mount. . . . God in heaven, how came that here?"

He had turned round and seen the chaise--a type of vehicle,with its exceptional breadth, by no means common. It was plainthat he recognised it. Then he saw the galloway by the sign-postand conjecture became a certainty.

There was lively suspicion in his eye--anxiety, too, for hewas a faithful servant. Three days back he had seen the samechaise and the same horse in his own yard in Yonderdale. What hadwafted them into Yorkshire? His eye ran over the topingcountrymen, and then fell on Nanty and Bob. He was no longer theeasy-going traveller, but a man fiercely inquisitive.

"Who brought that here?" he demanded of the landlord.

The latter nodded his head towards Nanty.

"There's the gents," he said. "The other nag is being shod inthe smiddy."

Purdey marched up to Nanty, looked him over, and apparentlydid not like what he saw.

"Is that your chaise, sir?" he asked, and his tone wasmenacing.

"No. It has been lent to me by a friend," was the answer.

"Lent?" The stress on the word was insolent. "And where, may Iask, have ye brought it from?"

"I do not see how that concerns you."

"It concerns me very closely." Purdey's speech had lost theburr of the hills, and had become sharp and precise. He must, inhis time, thought Nanty, have filled other callings than that ofinnkeeper and dwelt in other places than Yonderdale. "Here'sdirty work, friend Robbins," he called to the innkeeper. "Thischaise put up at my place three days back. It is the property ofa man of fashion, a baronet, who was a guest with me, and whom Ileft residing there. Now I find it a hundred miles off in thecharge of God knows what. Who are these landloupers? I don't likethe cut of them. Lent, says they. Stolen, says I. It's a case fora constable and the nearest justice."

Jock had come out of the inn and joined them, and Nanty wasconscious that the trio might present an odd appearance--Bob in acoat that had not been made for him, Jock in his half-raffishprovincial clothes, and he himself like a cockerel in the companyof jackdaws. It was plain that the landlord regarded themunfavourably. The rustics on the bench had lifted their facesfrom their alepots and were looking at him with slow, suspiciouseyes. And there was Purdey bent on mischief. He saw in Purdey'sface something that was almost fear. The sight of this link withYonderdale had roused the dread of pursuit. He would stop atnothing to wreck their plans.

"Ye've got to give some account of yourselves," said thelandlord. He was a short, fat man with a superficial air ofgood-fellowship, but his eyes were shifty and his mouth wascunning. "This gentleman speaks sense. Ye're a queer crew to bedriving a gentleman's chaise, and unless ye can satisfy me asit's right come by it's my dooty to arrest ye pending furtherenquiries. There's been overmuch thieving on this road of late,and us honest folk has got to be careful."

The rustics had risen from their bench and were drifting roundthe disputants, foreseeing a better evening's amusement thangossip. Nanty realised the delicacy of their position in a placewhere they were unknown and suspect, and where Purdey was athome.

"I assure you, sir, you have no cause for your suspicion," hesaid. "We are lawful travellers and honest men. The chaise andhorses were lent us by a friend to expedite the first part of ourjourney. I will give you the friend's name. It was Sir TurnourWyse."

The landlord laughed.

"Ye've chosen the wrong lie. Sir Turnour Wyse, by God! There'sno man better known on the road. I knows Sir Turnour. We allknows Sir Turnour. He's as likely to lend his fine chaise tofellows like you as to come here seeking a job as stableboy."

"It's Sir Turnour's chaise," said Purdey. "He is the gentlemanI spoke of. I last saw him in my own house with his body-servantand his braw clothes and his shiny boots and his silverdressing-case, the very pattern of a Corinthian. And you have theimpudence to tell me that he lent his chaise to threeblackguards--one looking like a dominie, and one like a clerk inhis Sunday best, and one like a ploughboy."

The last word touched Bob on the raw, and his jaw set.

"Canny, my man," he said, "or I'll lowse every tooth in yourheid."

Purdey shrugged his shoulders. "He has a Scotch tongue. Thisis a new kind of Scotch packman. It's a case for the constable,friend Robbins."

Nanty drew from his pocket one of Sir Turnour's cards.

"Will this convince you?" he asked the landlord. "Here is SirTurnour's card with his name engraved on it, which he gave me asan introduction to any of his friends I might meet. There aresome words in his own handwriting on the back of it. You know SirTurnour, you say, so you know that he is an ill man to offend. Becareful, sir. If Sir Turnour comes to hear of this insolence hewill flay the skin off you."

The landlord was plainly shaken, but not so Purdey. "It'smaybe Sir Turnour's card," he cried, "but how was it gotten? Tellme that. Maybe the same way as the chaise--by violence orstoutrief. Sir Turnour is a braw fellow, but three to one isheavy odds, and these three are not weaklings. I tell you therehas been murder done. As like as not, Sir Turnour is lying in aditch with his throat cut."

At the mention of murder the interest of the rusticsperceptibly quickened. They drew off a little, but they nevertook their eyes from the three strangers. Here was entertainmentfor a fine evening. "Shall I fetch constable, master?" one ofthem asked, and the landlord nodded.

Nanty saw the position growing ugly. He feared, not only somemaddening detention, but the making public of an errand in whichsecrecy was everything. For one moment he looked round the groupwith a wild idea of knocking down anybody who barred their way.He was not accustomed to this kind of scene, but it stirred somelittle ancient devil of his boyhood.

Then suddenly the grown man replaced the boy. He rememberedSir Turnour's letter, and took it from his pocket-book.

"Whereabouts is Flocksby Hall?" he demanded, forcing his voiceto an assurance he did not feel. "I have this letter from SirTurnour to Squire Richard Monckton of Flocksby."

Utter silence greeted his words. Purdey looked sharply behindhim, embarrassment crept into the landlord's malevolence, therustics began to edge away. A high ringing boyish laugh camethrough the open window from the inn parlour.

"That be Squire Dick," said someone.

"Then I shall present my letter," said Nanty, and marchedindoors.

There was no doubt where his errand lay, for talk and laughterdrifted from behind a door on the left side of the little hall.He knocked, and a voice bade him enter.

Five gentlemen sat round a table discussing a magnum ofclaret. One had the look of a sporting attorney, an oldish manwith horn spectacles on his nose, and before him a sheaf ofpapers. Of the others, two were elderly and fat, and one was along lath of a man in a bright bird's-eye necker-chief. Thefifth, who seemed to be presiding, was scarcely more than a boy,with fair hair and blue eyes set wide apart in a freckled face.His cheeks were a little flushed, and his clothes, though cut inthe extreme of fashion, were worn with an air of country undress.He lifted his head at Nanty's entrance, but there was noincivility in his stare. Here was one who looked charitably uponthe world.

"Can I speak with Squire Monckton?" Nanty asked, and foursolemn heads nodded towards the boy.

"I ask pardon for my interruption, gentlemen, but I bear aletter to Squire Monckton from a friend. Sir Turnour Wyse."

"Sir Turnour!" the boy cried. "How goes that imp of fame?" Hetore open the envelope, read the page, and then held out a handto Nanty.

"You've hit it off to a marvel, sir. I'm as ill to find thesedays at Flocksby as a mayfly in August, and here you get me atthe first cast. These are my fellows of the committee of theFlocksby Hunt, met to review the season's sport." He named fournames. "And this, gentlemen, is Mr Anthony Lammas, just out ofScotland, commended to me as a cock of the right breed by a mostsovereign judge of cocks. No, by God, not Mister, but Professor.You abash me, sir. I'm too fresh from Brasenose College not tohave still some awe of the academic gown. Consider me as at yourservice. I'll see that Sir Turnour's chaise is returned to hisHalf Moon Street stable, and the cattle can go north to Berwickwith my next convoy, and meantime find stalls at the Hall. . . .Our sederunt is finished, and I move we adjourn to Flocksby.You'll sup with me, and I'll send you to Boroughbridge to jointhe Umpire. Tell you what, I'll post a man ahead to book you aseat."

"You are most kind, sir," said Nanty. "But I have twocompanions with me. One is a young man, the son of an eminentjudge in Scotland, and the other a fisherman who is essential toour business."

"We'll have 'em all," cried Mr Monckton. "Bless you, sir, atFlocksby we often sit down thirty to dinner and forty to supper.. . . Let us be going, for I am deucedly peckish! Your horse mustbe shod by now, and we five will attend you like a sheriff'smounted posse. The place is not three miles off."

"Thank God I found you here," said Nanty. "The landlord wasinclined to suspect our honesty, since he held that ourappearance did not match our equipage."

The boy drew down his brows in a way that showed that histemper lay handy. Then he laughed.

"Robbins is an oaf," he said. "God made him and doubtless hemust pass for a man, but he's a cursed bad judge of a gentleman.I'd get rid of him to-morrow but for his wife, who was myfather's kennel-maid. Hey, Robbins," he cried as he straightenedhis cravat and clapped a beaver on his unruly mop of hair. "Getthe other horse in the gentleman's pair, and quick about it."

But there was no need of the command, for when Nanty emergedfrom the inn he found the galloways being put to the chaise by anobedient ostler. The landlord stood obsequiously by their heads,the rustics were back on their bench, and Purdey and his horseshad disappeared.

The Squire of Flocksby accepted Jock and Bob with the samecomplacence with which he had received Nanty. "You're the whip,ain't you?" he asked the first. "Nice little tids, but too slowfor my taste. I could fit you with a pair of spankers." . . . Bobhe looked over with a connoisseur's eye, and consulted hisfriends. "Gad, what shoulders!" he cried. "He'd buffmagnificently. If your fish stop taking you try the ring. Come tous and we'll have you a champion in a twelvemonth."

At Flocksby they supped at a board at which dukes and drovers,peers and pugilists, were regaled indifferently. The fat memberof the Flocksby Hunt became drunk and slumbered. The attorney hadto leave half-way through the meal, and the lean man, who hadambitions to represent the county, talked politics when thedecanters had been thrice round, till he was silenced by hishost, after which he sang a song. They all sang, Jock in hisbass, Bob in his fine tenor, and Nanty gave the company"Dunbarton's Drums." At midnight Squire Monckton, still warblingchoruses, packed the three of them into his curricle and drovehis "spankers" tandem to Boroughbridge, where the Green Willowreceived them with open arms. "If there's no room in the Umpire,"was his parting injunction to the landlord, "fling out a brace ofbagmen. I'll pay the shot."

Presently, in a night as balmy as a Fife June, Nanty on thebox seat was watching in the glow of the headlights the ribbon ofthe great road unwind before him. The young Squire had given himan inspiration. Difficulties must be faced with a light heart andwith a high hand. He was almost happy. But he wished he did notlook like an unfrocked parson. The phrase rankled; he had heardit whispered by a member of the Flocksby Hunt.

Then he laughed and reminded himself of his true rôle.He was no swashbuckling youth roaming the land for sport andadventure, but a grave man to whom had fallen a heavy duty. Hisstrength lay in his head, not in his hands or heels. He had wonthe first point in the game, for he knew from Purdey's remarkthat somewhere by Huntingdon lay a place called Fenny Horton, andthat somewhere near Fenny Horton was Cranmer.

At nine o'clock on a very wet morning a chaise from Huntingtondeposited the three travellers in the market-place of FennyHorton, where, at the sign of the Roman Urn, John Blanchflowerinvited company. Two nights and days they had been on the road,for the coach from Boroughbridge had missed the regular day mailon the Great North Road.

To Nanty's surprise the little square was full of people, andthe landlord, two ostlers and three serving-maids awaited them atthe inn door. Soon it became clear that this was no accident, butthat they were really the object of popular interest. Every eyewas turned on them, an ostler ran to the horses' heads, thelandlord himself, smiling like a harvest-moon, assisted them todescend.

It was Bob apparently who caused the excitement. He wore hisbig seaman's coat, and had a blue woollen comforter knotted roundhis neck. "That's him," Nanty heard from the crowd. "That's theScotty. Lord, he do look a tough 'un."

Mr Blanchflower bobbed his head.

"Welcome, gentlemen. The Urn is honoured to entertain you. Wegot word to expect you, but heard nothing more, so I had given uphopes of you."

"Who sent you word?" Nanty finessed, for he was deep inbewilderment.

"It came down the road--I couldn't just say how--it's been ineverybody's mouth that Fisher Jemmy was on his way. A week agosome said he had passed Newcastle. Then, as the time went on andthe big day came nearer, there was word that he had gone to amill Darlington way. You've cut it fine, gentlemen, for thechampionship is only two days off--the first round to be foughtat ten o'clock on Thursday morning. Five of the boys has arrived,two at the Dog and Unicorn, one at the Duke's Head, and two withSir Miles Furmilow at Hay Hall. Now the Urn has got its man, too,for which I kindly thank you. Your rooms are ready, and I promiseyou they'll be as private as your own parlour, and the food ofthe Urn is reckoned the best in three shires. There's a nice barnfor sparring practice, and a quiet little meadow for a run in themorning. Follow me, gentlemen. . . . May I be honoured by yourname, sir?"

Jock took charge, since Nanty still blinked puzzled eyes."Hold your tongue," he whispered fiercely to Bob, who was theembarrassed recipient of many appraising glances. "As dumb as adoor-post till I give you the word." Then to the landlord,speaking broadly like a jockey from Cupar Fair: "This is MrAnthony Lammas, the gentleman that backs the Fisher and pays hisshot. I'm his trainer, and a damned pernickety one ye'll find me.We want three rooms--one for Mr Lammas, one for me and the Fisherthat'll bed thegither, and one for our meals, and for each doorwe want a key. Ye'll send our food to our room--the best ye'vegot for me and Mr Lammas, and underdone steak and wheaten breadfor the Fisher. We could manage fine with a second breakfast whenwe've washed our faces and dried our breeks."

Jock's tone had the mixture of authority and vulgarfamiliarity which the part required. The three in the landlord'swake withdrew from the gaze of the crowd, who raised a faintcheer in Bob's honour. Ten minutes later they sat before asea-coal fire in a room full of flowered chintz and ancientmahogany, drinking tumblers of rum and milk. Another twentyminutes and they were busy with a platter of bacon and eggs aslarge as a milk-pan. There was also a dish at which Bob took oneshuddering look and replaced the cover. "Eels," he cried. "Waurthan frogs. They're a queer folk, the English."

"This is a merciful Providence," said Jock, when called uponto face the situation.

"It's a calamity," said Nanty. "Here are we full in the publiceye, with every movement we make a matter of interest to somehundreds of idlers. We might as well have printed a handbill andsent it round with the bellman."

"Not so, Nanty my dear. Your logic is deserting you. We're afighting party and therefore privileged folk in Old England. Bobcan do what he likes within reason, and no one will questionhim--not till after Thursday's fight. He can lie all the time inhis bed. He can sit in his chair before the fire. He can trotround the meadow and break the nose of any man that looks at him.His privacy will be respected as if it were a royal accouchement,and you as his backer and I as his trainer will have the sameindulgence. We're sportsmen, hang it, and till we're beaten we'recocks of the walk. That's the grandeur of the English character.In Fife they'd jail us as suspicious characters."

"But we'll have people coming here--to talk about thefight--to look at Bob--"

"Not them. We're sacred characters, guarded like racehorses.Nobody will come near us. It would be a breach of the unwrittenlaws of the game. I had a word with the stable-lad who brought upour baggage, and it seems that the meeting on Thursday has beengot up by one Sir Miles Furmilow, a local sporting baronet, andthat fighting men are coming from all over the land, since thechampionship stake is a belt of five hundred guineas. They are todraw lots for their opponents, and to fight in bouts of tenrounds each till the best man wins. There'll be a lot of bloodlost in Mill meadow come Thursday."

"But supposing the real Fisher Jemmy arrives?"

"Bob's the real man, for he is first comer. Anyone else has toprove his title against Bob's fists. Are you prepared, Bob?"

"'Deed I am that," was the answer. "But, mind ye, I kennaething about fightin' inside a ring o' ropes wi' a clout roundmy middle. I've grand wind, and I'm light on my feet, and whenI'm thrawn I could fell a stirk, but naebody ever learned me whatthey ca' the science o't. I'll no stand up like a jumpin'-jaickand mak mysel a show for thae English."

"You'll not be asked," said Jock. "What we've got is ahidy-hole for the present. Long before Thursday we must be up andoff on our proper job. Man, Nanty, don't look so glum. We musttake what cards fortune gives us and play boldly. Up to now we'vehad the luck on our side."

But Nanty was not glum; he was thinking hard. Thursday, theday after the morrow, was the big day, and the countryside forthirty miles round would flock to the spectacle. Cranmer wouldknow of this, for a dispeopled land was what he wanted. Somewherenear must lie the Merry Mouth, a quiet place that day with FennyHorton as the magnet. Thursday must be the day he had fixed onfor his purpose--Thursday, or, more likely, Thursday night. Hewas now in Norfolk, for Gabriel (he thought of the girl only asGabriel) had told him that their first goal was her house ofOvery. Some time on Thursday he would return, and the crisiswould begin.

He told the others in conclusion. His spirits had risen again,for the hand of Providence seemed to have thus far guided them.The time of waiting was nearly over, and in two days theworst--or the best--would happen.

"I must bestir myself," he said. "You two stay here till Icome back, for I'm the least conspicuous of the three. I can passunnoticed in the streets, when every eye would be on the pair ofyou. I must find where the Merry Mouth is."

"Ask the landlord," said Jock.

"Not I. He looks a decent soul, but inns are thebreeding-ground of tattle, and if we mentioned the Merry Mouth tohim or to anybody about the place it would be over the town in anhour. I'll take the air like a curious traveller, and maybe I'llfind some native to crack about the countryside so that I canedge in my question. Don't stir a foot till you see meagain."

The rain had ceased, but the brimming gutters showed thatthere had been a heavy fall. With the collar of his greatcoatturned up and his hat low on his brows, Nanty passed unremarkedout of the inn door and mingled with the throng on the kerb. Thelittle town stood on a knuckle of high ground, and he followedthe main street which straggled eastward. He gazed with interestat the brick houses, some of them with stuccoed porticoes andfanlights, and with admiration at the great sprawling grey churchwhich looked as ancient as Largo Law. "But for John Knox," hereflected, "we should have had the like in Scotland and not beforced to put up with barns."

Clearly there were many incomers in the town, farmers intop-boots as thick as on a market day, raffish young gentlemen inwaxcloth coats, staring countrymen, dusky gipsy folk, and amotley of the lantern-jawed sporting breed which he had seen atCupar races and which is the same over all the world. The streetdescended and widened, and he found himself looking overstraggling cottages to a great expanse of flat country very clearunder the rain-washed sky. It was of a curious grey-green tint,without any of the brighter colours of spring, except wherepatches of mere caught the sun. The road in front of himpresently became a causeway, embanked above a sluggishwatercourse. The whole land seemed strangely foreign. The folk inthe street, rosy or sallow, were of a different race from hisown, and to an eye accustomed to sharp contours there wassomething infinitely dreary in the unfeatured vista and thesmudged horizon.

But when the sense of foreignness was most strong upon him, hesuddenly encountered a familiar face. It was long and white andmelancholic, and it rose above the folds of a voluminous whitemuffler. He recognised Mr Ebenezer Pitten, the Balbarnitbutler.

He was recognised in turn. The doleful features became almostcheerful, and a not very clean hand was thrust forward.

"It's the Professor," cried Pitten. "I'm blithe to see akenned face in this foreign land. What in the name o' a' that'swise has guidit ye here? I was just thinkin' I was the firstScotsman that ever set foot in this wersh countryside, which isa' glaur and flowe-moss."

"That is the question I would ask you," was Nanty's answer. "Ithought that you and your ladies were bound for London."

"So we are--so we are--in the hinder end, but there was aye anotion of stoppin' on the road to visit a young lassie that wasat the school langsyne wi' Miss Kirsty. Landbeach Manor they ca'the bit, but it's mair water than land. The lassie's name isLeddy Jean Hilgay, and she bides wi' her auld grannie theCountess o' Horningsea. Grand names and grand folk, but a dowiehabitation. We came here twa days syne in a post-shay, andyestereen it rained as if the Almighty had forgotten His promiseand ettled a new Flood."

"Do you stay long?" Nanty decided that he would not mention toJock that Miss Evandale was in the neighbourhood, fearing torevive black memories.

"They were speakin' about a week, and it'll be the sairestweek I ever put in. Miss Georgie is content eneugh sittin' sewin'her piece and crackin' wi' the auld leddyship. But Miss Kirstyyawns her heid off, for she has been accustomed to exercise likea young cowt, and the Leddy Jean is no that weel, and spends thefeck o' the day lyin' on a sofy. But it's me that's gotten thewarst job, for there's no a hand's turn o' work for me to dae,and I'm feared o' yon muckle English serving men wi' theirpouthered heids. It's a drouthy bit, too, for I dinna like theiryill, and there's naething else allowed in the housekeeper'sroom. I cam in here this mornin' to get a dram, for there'snought to be got at the Merry Mouth."

"The what?" Nanty cried.

"The Merry Mouth. A queer name and a queer house. It's thenearest public, about a mile frae the Manor yetts, but it's nothe kind o' canty public we're used wi' in Scotland. Merry Mouth,forsooth! I never saw onything less merry, and there's naethingin't for a man's mouth. It stands down by the edge o' the floodwater, a' by its lane among saugh trees, and there's a thrawnbitch o' a wife wha shoos ye awa like a tinkler dog. . . . But yehaena telled me what brings you here, Professor. I last saw ye inthe hottle at Berwick-on-Tweed wi' the Kinloch lad."

"A mere accident," said Nanty. "Like your mistress I had tovisit a friend before going on to London, and followed him here.My stay will be short, but it may last a day or two. I have adistant acquaintance with Miss Evandale, and we come from thesame shire, so while I am in the neighbourhood I may beprivileged to pay my respects to her. How far off is thisLandbeach Manor, and where does it lie?"

"About three Scots mile--five maybe, as the English reckon. Yecanna miss the road. Gang on as ye are gaun, tak the first turnto the north, and syne east again whaur ye see a muckle windmillthat pumps the water frae the sheughs. Then head straight on bythe Merry Mouth till ye come to the lodge yetts. I cam here in anhour and a half, but a young lad like yoursel' wad hae come inless. Will I gie Miss Kirsty ony message?"

"Not a word. I'll take my chance of finding her at home.Here's something for you to quench your thirst with."

Pitten pocketed a shilling with loud expressions of good-will,and Nanty continued his walk till he found a lane which enabledhim to double back and reach the market-place. He entered the innin a state of high excitement, to find Jock and Bob languidlyplaying cards with a dirty pack they had borrowed from thelandlord. Nanty locked the door behind him.

"Wonders will never cease," he cried. "The kingdom of Fife hasdecanted itself into the Fens. What do you think I met in thestreet but Pitten, Miss Evandale's butler? Miss Evandale and heraunt are staying at a house only five miles off."

Nanty had expected, and feared, that Jock's face would fall,and that he would resume the part of the wounded and desperatelover. Instead he received the news with extreme composure.

"There's nothing wonderful in that. Miss Georgie told us atBerwick, you remember, that they had a visit to pay before goingto town."

"I have other news, tremendous news. I have found the MerryMouth."

This brought Jock to his feet.

"It's not a mile from the gates of Landbeach, the house whereMiss Evandale is staying. About five miles from here."

"The Lord be thanked!" Jock cried. "This makes me feel solemn.A word on the top of Cheviot--a name overheard from yonblackguard Purdey--and here without a false start we are hot onthe scent. But the next step, Nanty Lammas? That's the puzzler.Tell me your notion of the logic of it, my wise professor."

"Here's the logic of it. On Thursday, when every man, womanand child will be drawn to Fenny Horton and will be slow inreturning, Cranmer has arranged his villainy. He has Winfortuneand Sloan with him, and the man they call Aymer, and I do notknow how many more of his London sewer-rats. Some of them areprobably now hanging about the Merry Mouth, and Cranmer himselfwill arrive presently from Norfolk--Cranmer and his wife. It is along road, and I do not think they will come before Thursday.That day, in the evening doubtless or the early night, MrPerceval will appear, summoned by his ward. The stage is prettilyset for a quiet murder, of which the lady will be permitted tobear the guilt. No doubt in her house of Overy, and in theGovernment's pigeon-holes, there is ample damnifying evidence.That is the first proposition in the syllogism. The second isthat we are here to prevent it, to save the life of the PrimeMinister and to rescue the lady from an intolerableservitude."

"So far the court is with you," said Jock. "But the thirdproposition, Nanty lad? That's the rub. How the deuce is it to bedone?"

"Let us set out our assets. We are three against a multitude,so nothing is to be done by our frail strength. We are opposed toa subtle brain, so we are not likely to succeed by guile. Thereis no help to be got from the countryside, which that day will bean empty barrel. We cannot appeal to the authorities of theshire, even if we knew where to find them, for we have nocredentials and would not be believed. . . . Ergo, we must add toour forces. In Norfolk, if God has been kind, there is now, orwill presently be, the crew of theMerry Mouth--four men,two of whom are as resourceful as Ulysses. With their help wemight do much, for Eben is a master of wiles, and Sir Turnour isas formidable as any man in England. But Overy is sixty milesdistant by the shortest road, and we have sixty hours tospare--not more. Read me that riddle, Jock, and I'll take off myhat to your wits. We're confronted with the eternal categories ofspace and time that have always puzzled philosophers.

"It cannot be done," was the doleful answer. "We're like threepigeons purposing to attack a colony of eagles, and without aweapon among the lot of us."

Bob put his hand through his tow-like locks.

"Wait on, sirs. Sir Turnour is a great man for horses, and ifhe kent where the Merry Mouth was he'd drive like Jehu. Norfolkis his ain countryside, and his word there gangs far. Now the wayI look at the thing is this. If he gets to Overy while Cranmer isstill there, there'll be a bloody battle, and whatever comes o'tCranmer's ither plan will be knocked endways. If he finds atOvery that Cranmer has gone, he'll follow him like ahound-dog--make your book for that. I ken the teuch breed o' him.Keep in mind that Cranmer has nae suspicion o' ourwhereabouts--doesna ken that he's followed. Now my dread is thatCranmer will hae ower big a start, and may get here and work hiswill lang or Sir Turnour meets up wi' him. From what I mind o'this countryside there's queer jinkin' roads atween here andNorfolk. Our first job therefore is to get word to Sir Turnourabout the Merry Mouth inn."

Bob took a pull at a mug of ale, for he was not accustomed tolong speeches.

"It a' depends on Eben. There's one thing certain, thatwhatever road Cranmer rides and Sir Turnour follows, it will bethrough the burgh-town they ca' King's Lynn. Now we maun try andread Eben's mind. I had word wi' him afore we started and we madethis plan. Sir Turnour will no delay at Overy, but tak the roadas soon as he can get beasts. Eben will follow in the cutter, andif this wind holds--as there's every sign it will--he'll be atLynn afore him. If we can get word to Eben there I'll no say butwhat we'll hae Cranmer beat."

"But it's forty miles to Lynn," said Jock. "I asked thelandlord. Four hours by the fastest coach."

"We can spare four hours--maybe six--maybe ten," said Bob."Onyway, I'm for tryin'."

"By water?"

"Water!" Bob cried. "Nae fears. If I were aside the sea it'swater I would try, for it's the thing I ken. But here amang thaefen slodgers ye'd be a week working a wherry down the dykes, andthere's no open water till ye get to Lynn and the lamentable seathey ca' the Wash. We o' the Free Fishers have aye been guidfriends wi' the fenmen, and I've but to speak a certain word dounby ane o' their watersides to get a' the help I want. But there'snought the fen camels--that's the name we gie them, for they gangon stilts--there's nought they can dae to help. They're a doucefolk, and a sure folk, but they're no a speedy folk. Na, na,there's just the one thing for us. We maun put our trust inhorses, as the Bible says. We maun be off to Lynn afore thedarkenin', and tak our chance o' findin' Sir Turnour and Ebenthere."

"I believe you're right," said Nanty. "We must get a chaiseand the best beasts, and Jock must force the pace. No post-boysfor us. . . . But wait a minute. We cannot all go. One of us muststay here to keep an eye on the Merry Mouth. We're like soldiersin a campaign, and while some bring up the reserves others musthold the front."

He sunk his head in his hands and brooded.

"I have it," he said at last. "My meeting with Pitten wasprovidential in more ways than one. Jock, what kind of a woman isMiss Christian Evandale? Is she one to ride the ford with?"

The boy's face clouded. "Confound you, Nanty, why do you askme? I'm done with her--I'm done with all women. Mars for me, andVenus can go hang."

"But is this particular Venus a kind goddess? Will a sad talemove her? Has she bowels of compassion? Above all, has she astout heart?"

"She is a cold-blooded hussy, but she has spunk enough. Askthe Fife Hunt."

"That's all I want to know. If she has courage she has likelyenough got the softer virtues. Here is my plan. You two leave mebehind, and tomorrow I pay a visit to Landbeach Manor and ask forMiss Kirsty. I'll see the dragon Miss Georgie, too. I'll tellthem the truth--and maybe they'll believe me. If they do, I havegot me an advanced base--how I am acquiring the military talk!--asecret base, too, within a mile of the enemy. Off the two of yougo to Lynn. We'll have up that landlord that has a name like aminor poet."

Jock looked glum.

"I don't like it, Nanty. I see the sense of it, but it'sleaving you to the post of danger. You'll go snowking round theMerry Mouth and get your throat cut."

"Not I. I'm too much of a coward. It's the game Bob and Iplayed longsyne bird-nesting in the Dunnikier woods, and Bob willtell you that I'm as cautious as other folk. My joints are assupple as they were in those days, and I've learned more wisdom.The worse risk I run is to fall in love with Miss Kirsty."

It was the right word. "You're welcome to her as far as I'mconcerned," said Jock, and made no more question.

To the landlord Nanty was high and mighty, a great man givingorders and not condescending to explanations. They had alteredtheir plans, he said. The Fisher and his trainer would set out inthe evening for a place where sparring practice had beenarranged. A chaise and pair of the best must be provided, and hewould pay a deposit of twenty pounds for its hire, since the timeof its return would be uncertain. No coachman or postboy wasneeded, for, as the landlord would understand, there must needsbe some secrecy about their movements. He himself would spend thenight at the Roman Urn, but the following night he might lodgewith the Countess of Horningsea at Landbeach. Mr Blanchflowerbowed at the name, and promised exact compliance; he bowed againwhen Nanty counted him out twenty pounds from money destined bythe University of St Andrews for a very different purpose, andwas given a laboriously written receipt.

After a meal, which Bob ate heartily and at which Nanty onlypecked, the two set out in the early twilight. Bob, wearing a bigovercoat and a mighty comforter, was again an object of interestto the crowd, who would have been more inquisitive but forNanty's severe face on the doorstep. For Nanty had suddenlyswelled into a formidable dignity. All the consequence ofprofessor and questor and university ambassador was now in hiscarriage, and something, too, of Lord Mannour's envoy, theconfidant and friend of great men. He gave his orders in a firmvoice, and his eye was magisterial, so that stablemen and maidsand the landlord himself ran to serve him. . . . But within hefelt hollow, and his magnificence was only bravado, designed tocover a fluttering heart.

He confessed to himself that he was black afraid. He hadalways been--ever since he had felt the oppression ofHungrygrain, and had seen Meek's evil squint, and had hadCranmer's picture drawn for him. A pale face, with the heavy darkbrows bent and the thin lips parted in mockery, was ever beforehis eyes. It ousted another face, a woman's, on which he wouldhave loved to muse. He had made his plan in a sudden moment ofclear vision, and the making of it had given him a boyishexaltation. But now he realised that it had sent his two comradesfrom him and left him alone. His solitariness weighed on him likea mountain of lead. Horrid little tremors shot up his spine, andtook the strength from his knees. He was alone in a very queerplace, and on the morrow, still alone, he must make acquaintancewith a queerer. His thoughts recoiled with a spasm of terror fromthe dark inn among the willows.

He sat in his room while the darkness crept in striving tobring the powers of philosophy and religion to his aid. Hethought himself into a kind of resolution, but his body stillplayed him false, for his imagination had got the better of hislogic. Then he forced himself to action. This would never do. Hemust stir his legs and drink the air of heaven, for his troublenow was of the shrinking flesh, and lethargy would only heightenit.

The streets were more crowded than in daytime, and it seemedthat many of the citizens and incomers of Fenny Horton had lookedtoo kindly upon the bowl. Quarrelsome little groups crowded thecauseway. A company of strolling acrobats had arrived, and in acorner of the market-place were performing under flaringlanterns. Nanty sought the quieter streets, and presently foundhimself above a pool of water where one of the fen canals openedinto a basin. In the clear spring dark he could see wherries andbarges drawn up by the quayside, and farther out stumpy masts.There was no sign of life except a stray dog, but in thesemicircle of low-roofed houses beside the quay a bright lightand a hanging sign revealed an inn. He longed for the proximityof his fellows, something to swing his thoughts from their dismalorbit. The place, judging by the sounds that came from it, wascrowded, and in the then condition of the town his presence wouldcause no remark. He entered the taproom, and found a seat on abench near the door.

The room was lit by two smoking lamps and a bright fire. Itwas crowded, and, so far as Nanty could judge, most of theoccupants were of the heavy-built, sallow, fenland breed. One ortwo were clearly strangers--gamesters, and jockeys out ofengagements, the riff-raff drawn hither by the coming fight. Beerin mugs and spirits in thick, footless glasses circulated freelyby means of two slatternly maids with hair in elf-locks. Itappeared that the company had drunk well, but were not drunken,for they were singing. A man would give a verse of a familiarsong, and all would join in the chorus. Even the raggle-tagglesportsmen shaped their lips to some kind of noise.

Most of the songs were unfamiliar to Nanty, slow drawlingballads of the fens and the cornlands which reminded him how farhe was from home. Their words he did not understand, and thetunes had none of the brisk lilt of his own land. They wereheavy, earthy, placid as the fen waters. As he sipped his ale hiseye roved round the company, and he remarked one man, near thefire and very clear in its light, who was different from therest. He was tall, with a horseman's stoop in the shoulders; hewore a frieze coat and corduroy breeches, but, plain as hisclothes were, he seemed to be of a slightly higher social gradethan the others; his face was lean and long, his jaw slightlyunderhung, and when his thin lips opened they revealed a gap inhis upper teeth. Clearly he was regarded as a person of someconsequence, for he had the best armchair. He sat with his head alittle turned away from the company, sucking a churchwarden pipe,and staring at the fire.

Someone was mulling ale on the hearth, and the man held outhis mug to be filled.

"A tune for your drink, friend," said the muller. "Give us acatch out of the north. We've got Fisher Jemmy down for thechampionship, and there's many as fancies him. I've a crown onhim myself, for they tell me he has a drive like a smith'shammer. Pipe up a tune of the Fisher's country."

"I'll give you a tune of my own country," was the answer. "I'mno lousy Scot. Here's to the bonny hillsides and the green howmso' Northumberland."

He raised his mug, and broke into a brisk song with thequick-step of dancing feet in it. It was about a Lentron Fair towhich all the dales gathered, a gross and merry ballad, given ina rich tenor and accompanied by the beating of time on the chairarms. The man scarcely opened his mouth as he sang, and the wordsmust have been meaningless to the company, but the lilt of itcaught their fancy and all joined lustily in the chorus.

"O the laughin' and the daffin' and the quaffin'" went therefrain, and Nanty, as he listened, and watched the leanweathered face, had a sudden conviction. This was one ofCranmer's men. It must be the chief of them, Winfortune himself,for had not Tam Nickson described him as "lang and blackavisedand broken-chaftit"?

"Another," was the cry as he finished, for the quick-step hadstirred the muddy company to a new vivacity. Even the slow fenmenhammered their applause.

"I'll give you another, and then I must take the road," saidthe dark man, and, looking into the fire, he hummed a little tohimself and then broke into a song which was very different fromhis first. It had a slow sad rhythm, which died away now and theninto an infinite regret.

"It's up and farewell unto you, Spanish ladies,
It's up and farewell to you, ladies of Spain,
For we are a-sailing beyond the bar of Cadiz,
And never, no never, we'll come back to you again."

The man who sang had changed his character with the song. Hewas no longer the rustic gloating over coarse jollities, but anold man and a sorrowful man, who had seen the glories of theworld and found them ashes. He was the eternal wanderer, outsideall class and rank, free of all bonds of honour and duty, butwith a shrunken heart within him. As Nanty watched hispassionless face and listened to the tragic passion of the voice,he wondered in what strange doings, in what strange corners ofthe globe, this man had amassed this melancholy burden for hissoul.

The song finished in silence. With a curt good nightWinfortune pushed through the crowd and left the room. In passinghis coat brushed Nanty's cheek, and from it came the unmistakableodour of peat-smoke. Nanty paid his modest lawing and followed aminute later, and it was with squared shoulders and a brisk stepthat he walked back to his inn. For the chanty, which toWinfortune was the confession of his heart's bitterness, was tohim the trumpet-call of youth. The larger world called him; hewas on the high-road now, far away from his dusty class-room; andif the high-road brought peril it also brought shining rewards.He had stopped thinking about Cranmer. The face that now filledthe eye of his mind was a woman's.

Nanty wandered down a road which ran from the main highway tothe little fenland boroughs of the north. He had read the nameson the first milestone out of Fenny Horton--Ely, Downham, King'sLynn; that was the road Bob and Jock had travelled the nightbefore, and now by the grace of God they should have reachedtheir journey's end. He had the day before him with only one dutyto fulfil, and he deliberately sauntered to quiet his nerves.

He remembered that it was the last day of April. Spring wasalmost past, and in this soft southern land summer had alreadybegun. The reedy watercourses were ablaze with marsh marigolds,the wayside banks were white with marguerites, the fat pasturesbetween the dykes were gay with daisies andbuttercups--"enamelled" was the word that rose to his mind--heremembered it from Dunbar and the old Makars. At the turn of theroad the sails of a huge old windmill were slowly turning, and heheard the chack-chack of the pump. Beyond like a pale green cloudlay what must be the woods of Landbeach, and somewhere on theleft, where the tall trees declined to sallows and brushwood,must be the ominous inn. Larks were singing high up in the blue,and wailing lapwings skimmed the fallows. There were two hawks inthe air, and the russet gleam as they turned told him that theywere kites. Only once before had he seen a kite, and the sightbrought back to him the bird-nesting of his childhood.

But these were not the friendly woods of Dunnikier. Therichness of the flowers was strange, and strange, too, the sweetrotting smell of the marshlands. Only the spring wind wasfamiliar, and he took off his hat and let it blow through hishair. That wind and he were old companions, and it had not failedhim now, though his learning and philosophy had gone by theboard. He had lost the painful sinking of the heart which hadtroubled him yesterday. He told himself that he was cool andwary, but he knew that he was strung as tense as a bow.

A mile from the windmill the side-road, still oozing waterfrom recent floods, rose slightly to a ridge of hard land whichmade the park of Landbeach. To the north lay a great fleet, nowglittering in the sun, and covered with a multitude of wildfowl.Then came a tangle of willows already in leaf, and a clump ofancient oaks, many of them with broken boughs, some of them laidprostrate by winter gales, all of them gnarled and stunted. Inthe midst of this decaying grove stood a decaying house.

The Merry Mouth had no sign, for above the door only the ironstump remained of the bar on which had once swung its nameboard.It looked like the shell of a very old house which a hundredyears before had been encased in a square Palladian frame. It hadthe solid sashed windows of the early Georges, and a portico fromwhich the stucco was peeling, so that the pillars had hollows inthem, like trees from which branches had been lopped. Once it hadbeen a gentleman's dwelling, for to left and right there were theruins of a pleasance--crumbling terraces and shaggy bowers. Itstood by the roadside, but it had none of the welcoming air of aninn. Pass by and leave me alone, it seemed to say, for I am sickand old, sick and weary.

There was a side entrance which appeared to lead to thetaproom. Nanty pushed his way in and found himself in a dirtypassage. He tried one door and found it locked; another, whichgave under his pressure, and showed only a lumber room full ofsheepskins and broken furniture. He hammered with his staff andshouted, and presently an old woman limped in from the backparts.

"A mug of ale, mother," he said. "I have had a long walk and Ihave a longer in prospect."

She blinked, as if she did not understand him, and he repeatedhis request. Her eyes were red with rheum, and she had a foulmutch atop of her dishevelled grey hair.

"We are not serving customers," she said at last, and he notedthat, like Winfortune, she had not the speech of a peasant.

"You are bound to serve me. It is the law, for this is aninn."

"Not these seven years," she replied. "The sign is down, ifyou had eyes in your head to see."

"Then where can I get a drink?"

"Go six miles on and you'll come to Twyford, or five milesback to Fenny Horton. Good day to you. I have no time to chatterwith idle men." And before he knew he was jostled by the croneback to the open air, and the door shut behind him. The blotchedwhite façade of the house seemed to grin at hisdiscomfiture. It was utterly silent, and the banging door hadmade a startling echo. Two moorhens scuttled across the roadtowards the mere.

Nanty left the place, and turned to his right into the groveof oaks through a gap in a mossy brick wall. He wanted toprospect the house and get a view of its back parts. Not knowingwho might be about, he went stealthily, keeping out of sight ofthe windows. But he found that in that flat place there was nochance of a view, so he climbed a tree and sat in a crutch ofit.

There he could reconnoitre at ease. He was looking at the eastside of the house, but he could also see the back quarters. Atthe rear someone had built on a low wing, beyond which lay whatseemed to be a stableyard. There was a tower which had once helda clock--the empty hole gaped like an eyesocket. In the yard wasa huge litter of straw, as if a stack had been pulled to piecesand flung about wantonly. The place seemed empty, but his sharpeyes noted fresh horse-dung. Most of the outbuildings were ofbrick, but one or two were of old lichened wood, and against themthe straw was piled like drifts of dirty snow.

From his perch Nanty got a new impression of the loneliness ofthe place. There was that flapping windmill in the west, and tothe east lay Landbeach. But the windmill had no dwellers, andLandbeach was the home of a very ancient lady and an invalidgirl, and no doubt a host of fatted alien servants. There were nocountrymen near with the countryman's curiosity, and whateverhappened in the Merry Mouth there were none to know or to tell.To the north lay mere and fen, and to the south leagues ofdesolate pasture. It was a lonelier place than the most distantglens of Tweed, which had hitherto been to him the Ultima Thuleof solitude.

He was just about to descend, when he saw a figure cross thestableyard. There was no mistaking the long lean body and thehorseman's stoop. He had had a lucky escape, for he had no desireas yet to come under Winfortune's eye.

Nanty crept out of the shadow of the oaks and regained theroad, and he was not easy in his mind till he had put half a milebetween him and the Merry Mouth. Presently a high brick wallbegan on his right, which must mean the park of Landbeach. Hescrambled up at a part where the coping had been broken, andlooked into a wide demesne of bracken and turf and young oaks.Then he came to a lodge with a thatched roof and absurd Ionicpilasters, and turned in at the gates.

The drive wound in meaningless curves through the pastures,and dipped to a reedy lake. It was a very untidy drive, and Nantyinferred that the domain in the hands of an aged lady was notover well managed. Fallen timber lay rotting, and the windfallsof the winter had not been removed--very different from thespruce little Fife estates where not a penny's worth was allowedto waste. But this great park had a noble spaciousness, and thefallow deer under the trees and the fantastic turreted boat-houseon the lake were proofs of a past magnificence. The place, too,was riotous with light and colour, full of bird-song and flowers,and after the gloom of the inn seemed a haven of honesty andpeace. He had a glimpse of a big house on his right at the end ofan avenue of trees, and, since the drive seemed determined onfoolish circuits, he left it and struck across the turf. He wastrying to think just what he should say to Miss ChristianEvandale.

His thoughts would not marshal themselves, for they weredistracted by the beauty of the carpet on which he trod. It wasall of blue and gold, the blue of the tiny bugle and the gold ofranunculus and primrose, and in the adjacent shadow of the treeswere great drifts of wild hyacinths. . . . He would begin withFife. He had never met the lady there, but he knew many of herfriends, and he could speak of Balbarnit, of Jock, too, thoughthat might be a perilous subject. He had been seen by her atBerwick, and she might recall his face. He remembered that he hadbeen struck by her beauty, though not by her manners. Still, Jockhad said that she had spirit. . . .

He raised his head to see, coming out from the trees, a girlwith an armful of hyacinths.

She wore green, not yellow as on the former occasion, and evenin that bright place she shone like a jewel. All pink and white,and golden, she was as dazzling to Nanty's eyes as sunshine. Heswept off his hat, and his words came stammeringly.

"Miss Evandale?" he faltered. "Have I the honour--"

Her face was surprised, but not unkindly.

"I am Miss Evandale," she said. And then recognition woke inher eyes. "I have seen you, sir--only a few days back. AtBerwick, was it not?"

"I was there with young Mr Kinloch. I would present myself toyou as a Fife neighbour. My name is Anthony Lammas, and I professlogic and rhetoric in the college of St Andrews."

The lady laughed, a pleasant ringing laugh. She seemed no morethe modish miss, but a country girl. Nanty began to understandJock's infatuation. This young Diana leading the Fife Hunt wouldturn any boy's head.

"And what does a St Andrews professor in the Fens, Mr Lammas?"she asked.

"That is a tale which I ask permission to tell you. YesterdayI met your man Pitten and heard that you were here. I have cometo appeal to you--for your sympathy, and maybe your help. We arein a very desperate perplexity."

Nanty's solemn voice made her face grave.

"We?" she asked. "Who are we?"

"Besides myself, there is Mr John Kinloch, whom you know. Andtwo Fife fishermen. And Sir Turnour Wyse. And my lordBelses."

Again she laughed.

"La! What a company! Jock, my madcap comrade, and twokail-suppers. Sir Turnour Wyse? That was the splendid gentlemanwho befriended us at Berwick? And Harry Belses! You have sweptthe ends of the earth for your companions. What high businessdoes this mission portend, and what does it in this outlandishspot?"

"It is a mission of life and death, and it concerns a placeclose by called the Merry Mouth. We are racing against time forthe life of a great man and the soul of a greater woman."

The girl's face sobered. Something of the shrewdness enteredit which had made the Ebbendaal fortunes. She looked steadily atNanty.

"You look a man of sense, sir," she said. "You can have nopurpose in coming to me with a fairy-tale. I will hear it. Butfirst let me summon my aunt, who is somewhere hereabouts. You sawher at Berwick, I think--Miss Georgina Kinethmont, my mother'ssister. She has somewhat the air of a dragon who would haveaccounted for twenty St Georges. But she is a kindly dragon, andvery, very wise."

She gave a high, shrill, view-halloa. There was an answer inthe voice of a pea-hen, and presently from a side-walk emerged astriking figure. Though the day was mild, Miss Georgie washeavily cloaked, and her hat was tied to her head by a Paisleyshawl which ended in a great bow beneath her chin. She carried astaff like a weaver's beam, which she must have borne as a weaponof offence, for she did not walk like one in need of artificialaid.

"Aunt Georgie, I present to you Professor Anthony Lammas of StAndrews, of whom you had but a glimpse at Berwick. He has come tobeguile us with a tale--come from Sir Turnour Wyse and my beauHarry Belses."

Miss Georgie rested her gloved hands on the handle of herstaff, and made a silent and searching inquisition of Nanty'sface and person. It appeared that the result was notunfavourable, for when she spoke her voice was civil.

"Lammas! Lammas! I have heard of you, lad. The auld Principalspeaks well of you, and our neighbour Lord Mannour says the fecko' the brains of the college is under your hat. This is asing'lar bit to forgather. You say you come from Sir TurnourWyse? How the deil did you fall acquaint with him?"

"Mr Lammas has a story to tell us," said the girl. "Hepromises that it is exciting. Let us get inside one of Jean'sarbours and hear it."

She led the way to a little summer-house, with a rustic tableand benches. Miss Georgie disposed herself comfortably in acorner, with Nanty beside her, while Miss Evandale sat on thetable. "On with the good work, sir," said the old woman, "asBurley said when he stuck the Archbishop on Magus Muir."

Nanty found a difficulty in beginning, the story had so manyfacets. Then he resolved to make his narration a diurnal of hisown doings. He told of his St Andrews mission, his dinner withLord Mannour, and the lamentable quarrel between Sir Turnour Wyseand Lord Belses. He spoke of Mr Cranmer, and at the mention ofthe lady and the young man's infatuation Miss Kirsty laughed.Clearly Harry had made no conquest of her affections.

Miss Georgie's thoughts were on a different tack.

"Cranmer!" she cried. "The wife owns half this countryside.All from the Merry Mouth public for five miles west and ten milesnorth. I had it yestreen from the auld Countess. Like me she'sfond of redding up folk's pedigrees and knowing who owns whatlands, and she's like a gazetteer for these parts. Perceval wasthe wife's maiden name--a fine house in the auld days, she said,but sore declined."

Nanty told of his visit to Yonderdale, of the chase in thenight, and the vigil with the lady on the hilltops. He told hisstory well, for as he recapitulated the events he revived theemotions that had accompanied them. He pictured Hungrygrain as aDark Tower from which a web of intrigue had been spun over allEngland. He told of the colloquies in Nickson's cottage, of thevisit to the empty house, of the plan of campaign, and of thecoming to Fenny Horton. With the point of his stick on theearthen floor of the summer-house he drew a map. "See," he said."Here am I. There is the Merry Mouth inn. There, if the fates arekind, is now, or will soon be, theMerry Mouth boat.Somewhere between us is Cranmer. Soon, too, there will be anotheron the road, and that is the Prime Minister of England. To-morrowthe two last will draw together on the Merry Mouth, and unlessSir Turnour and his men arrive in time there will be murder done.Cranmer will not suffer, for he has made his plans cunningly forescape, but it will be the death of his lady."

The two women listened intently to his story, and it seemed tohim that Miss Kirsty's cheeks lost something of their roses. ButMiss Georgie snorted.

"Havers, Professor! Heard you ever such a daft-like tale? Thisis a law-abiding country, and none of your Muscovies. Whathinders you the morn to raise the countryside and make a tolboothof the inn? That is, if you're right in your conjecture, which Itake leave to doubt."

"Cranmer has chosen to-morrow well!" said Nanty. "It is thefight for the championship in Fenny Horton, and every male thingthat can stagger will be there. That's the English way of it, ifyou strip two men to the buff and set them up to pound oneanother."

"Mr Lammas is right," said the girl. "I had it from Jean'smaid, and from Pitten. All the outdoor servants will be offtonight, and will camp in the open so as to be in time. To-morrowwe will feast upon cold mutton, for there won't be a man in thehouse."

"We'll see about that," said Miss Georgie fiercely. "We'llcompel the bodies. A servant's a servant."

"Not in England when the word sport is breathed," said herniece. "Besides, what good would they be? The Landbeach keepersand stablemen are mostly ancient and doddering, and have beenused to the slack sway of an old woman. The Landbeach footmen aretrencher-fed hounds. Our Pitten is the best of them--he might atleast fire a blunderbuss before he ran away."

The old woman had knit her brows and was thumping her greatstick on the ground. "Maybe you're right. At Balbarnit we couldhave raised a dozen stout fellows, but this is not Balbarnit. Abonny kettle of fish, Professor! Murder--and the King's chiefMinister! An unholy blackguard that maunna be allowed to have hisway! And a madman, too, says you. And the lady! To be honest it'sjust the lady that sticks in my throat. I've heard of her, and ofHarry Belses' infatuation. A daft Methody, I was told, and a wildJacobin. And here you come with a story of a suffering saint.I've nothing to say against Harry, except that he's a young manand what they call romantic, which means a head stuffed withmaggots. And you--well, you've ower long and serious a face to belightly regarded, but you're a philosopher and a minister of theKirk, and therefore maybe not very well acquaint with the thingsof this world. As for John Kinloch, he's no more than a will o'the wisp. But Sir Turnour now--there you have a muckle, massy manof sense. Do you tell me that Sir Turnour takes your view ofCranmer's wife?"

"I will be frank," said Nanty. "He does not. But I wouldremind you that Lord Belses and I are the only ones of ourcompany who have seen the lady. Sir Turnour is still sceptical ofher virtue. It was on that point that he quarrelled with myHarry, and he is not a man to give up readily a prejudice. ButSir Turnour is wholly convinced of Cranmer's villainy, andassured that some time to-morrow it will come to a head in theMerry Mouth. Therefore he is now hurrying here as fast as wind orhorses can carry him."

Again the stick thumped. It thumped rhythmically as if it wasan aid to Miss Georgie's thoughts.

"You come seeking help?" she cried. "What help can you gethere? There's me and Kirsty, two weak women. Inbye there'sanother pair that's a hantle weaker, an auld Countess and anailing lassie. As Kirsty has told you, there's not a man aboutthe place to depend on. What is it you seek?"

"I do not know," Nanty shook a weary head. "I hoped forcounsel from kind and honest folk. I wanted a refuge at hand forMrs Cranmer if she should need it. I think that I also hoped forlodging, for it is imperative that I should be near the MerryMouth."

"I can promise you the latter two. But counsel--faith, it'shard to see what counsel you can get. Have you riddled the thingout? Have you a plan in your head?"

"I have set out the case to myself a hundred times, but I canreach no finality. There are too many unknown things that must beleft to fortune."

"Fortune is a hussy that's likely to be in a better temper ifyou meet her half-way. Hearken to me, and I'll give you an auldwife's reading. I'll set out the facts, as I've many a time hadto do on Kirsty's business to glaikit Edinburgh writers."

Miss Georgie settled herself on the bench, and laid her staffacross her knees so that it looked like the mace in a court ofjustice.

"First, for Sir Turnour and Harry Belses. They must have wonto Norfolk to-day, or the whole plan flies up the lum and Cranmergets his will. If they reach Overy--is that the name of theplace?--before the Cranmers go, what next?"

"I do not think that Cranmer will ever go."

"Well, that's the best that could happen, though it mightleave something to be redd up at the Merry Mouth. Now, say thatthey find Cranmer gone. They will follow?"

"Like the wind. Sir Turnour is a master whip, and in Norfolkhe can command what horseflesh he wants."

"So be it. Sir Turnour must make up on Cranmer on the road, orreach the Merry Mouth before the mischief begins. Otherwise hemight as well have stayed at home. You are right, Professor.There's a feck o' things we must leave to fortune. There's got tobe a fight at Overy, or on the road, or at the Merry Mouth, orthe kail-pot's coupit. . . . Now turn your mind another gait. MrSpencer Perceval is hasting here to his niece's summons, and willarrive some time the morn. If the mountain is coming to Mahomet,is it not possible to set Mahomet off on another road? There'snothing we can do to stop Cranmer or hasten Sir Turnour, but cannothing be done to shoo away the Prime Minister?"

"I have thought of that. But we do not know where he is comingfrom. It may be from a neighbouring country-seat. If it is fromLondon he has a choice of roads. He may come from Huntingdon, orhe may come by way of Cambridge."

"It's the last day of April and Parliament is sitting. He'llcome from London, and so there's but the two roads to watch.He'll be coming post, and he'll have his body servant, and he's anotable wee body with his white face and his perjink clothes.There's maybe nobody about Landbeach that's much good in a fight,but somebody might be found to watch the roads and carry aletter. That wants thinking on. . . . Meantime, what are your ownplans? You can get a bed at the Manor, but what will you do withyourself for the next four and twenty hours?"

"I must keep watch on the Merry Mouth. Tomorrow, if no helparrives, I must see what I can do alone."

"Alone! But you're a man of the long gown and not of thesword. Bethink you, Professor, you'll have desperate folk toface, if the one-half of what you tell me is true."

Nanty shivered.

"I am a broken reed, I know well. . . . But I cannot fail MrsCranmer. . . . I should never know another moment's peace."

Miss Georgie did not look at him. She was addressing herstaff, and her tone was unwontedly gentle. "Maybe he'll not knowmany more moments either of peace or dispeace. . . . It's a queerthing, but they've at last gotten a man in the Senatus of St.Andrews. I must see the Cranmer wife--she must be fairby-ordinar."

In the early twilight Nanty slipped through the bracken of thepark to the western corner of it, which was within a stone'sthrow of the Merry Mouth. He had been duly presented to theladies of Landbeach, the old Countess who sat all day stiff in achair with a head nodding like a china mandarin's, and the youngLady Jane, who each spring suffered from a feverish languor. Agroom had been sent to bring his baggage from the Fenny Hortoninn, and he had made his toilet in a bedchamber which would haveheld, with room to spare, the whole of Mrs McKelvie's dwelling.He had donned the breeches and buckled shoes of ceremony, andbefore dinner had strolled with Miss Kirsty down the great avenueto the lodge-gates, and then along the road to within sight ofthe Merry Mouth. In the mild bright afternoon it had seemed aninnocent place, silent, tenantless, gently decadent. No chimneysmoked, and there was no sign of human life--only a mallard inthe adjacent sedge, and the first swallows skimming the mere.

"You are certain?" the girl asked. "You are clear that you arenot on a wild-goose chase? That place looks as harmless and asempty as the old doocot at Balbarnit."

"I am certain," Nanty answered, "that very soon it will wakeup into a hellish life."

But he had not been certain, and that was his worst trouble.He could have keyed himself up for some desperate trial offortitude, but this doubt was fraying his nerves. At any momenthis manhood might be tasted; yet again it might not; a thickcurtain was over the future, and he could only wait miserably byits fringe. He had scarcely listened to Miss Kirsty's chatter.She was curious about many things, Jock's behaviour, Sir Turnour,Harry Belses, notably Mrs Cranmer; but when she saw hisdistraction she turned the talk to Fife and the friendly tattleof its burgh-towns. He saw her purpose and was grateful. Sheunderstood that he had his own private battle to fight, in whichshe could give him no aid but good-will.

Dinner was a business of stiff ceremonial, and Nanty, when theladies rose, was left to a ripe port and his own thoughts. Thiswaiting was maddening him, and he felt the need, at any cost, foraction. So he changed again into his second-best pantaloons andfrieze leggings. The moon was in its last quarter, and night whenit fell would be very dark. Now was the time to reconnoitre theMerry Mouth and see if life was yet stirring in it. He had asense like a cat's for movement in the dark, and it might be wellto get the topography of the place into his head, for he did notknow what might await him on the morrow.

Kirsty, with a silk scarf over her golden hair, found him onthe terrace about to drop from its balustrade into the park. Sheknew his purpose without asking it.

"You will not be late?" she said. "I will give orders to theservants to sit up for you. And you will be careful--promiseme."

"I will be careful. There is no danger, and this night-hawkingis a game I played often as a boy. I am very quick and light onmy feet, though I have sat so much at a desk. I cannot bide stillto-night, for my thoughts trouble me."

"I understand," she said. "Aunt Georgie is preparing foraction. She has got herself a road-book and a map, and isstudying them with two pairs of spectacles. She means businessto-morrow. God be kind to you, Mr Lammas."

Nanty waited till the oak grove was in deep dusk before heentered it. Before him were the rugged back-parts of the inn, andthe only sound was the cry of a hunting owl. He reached thecontaining wall, scrambled up on it, and looked down into thestable-yard.

Here there was sound. It came from a building apart from therest, which seemed of newer build. The yard was empty and thehouse was silent. He dropped from the wall and crept in thedirection of the sound.

There were horses there--he could hear their impatientmovement, and the champing of their jaws. They had just been fed;therefore Winfortune or some other was in the neighbourhood. Thebarred windows were too high for him, and the door was locked, sohe could not inspect them, but he knew their purpose. No doubtthey were blood beasts, and tomorrow would be fresh for the road.They would be the means of escape for Cranmer and his gang.

Nanty was happier now, for he had business on hand. He hadfound one thing of moment, and he might find out others. But hemust be very wary, for Winfortune was near.

He crept round the yard, finding himself much impeded by theimmense litter of straw which he had seen that morning from hiscrutch in the oak-tree. Straw was everywhere, except in thevicinity of the stabled horses. It was pitched in great driftsagainst the wooden sheds which abutted on the house. . . . Now heguessed the explanation. Some time soon the place would befired.

Again he was comforted. This mission of his was not fruitless.The telling of his story had made it seem almost too fantastic,and there were moments when he had been inclined to MissGeorgie's scepticism. But now he had confirmation--the horses andthe straw. The stage was being duly set for a black drama.

His assurance of this fact gave him confidence. The house wasstill silent and utterly dark, with not a glimmer of light in anywindow. Somewhere on the west side the old woman must have herlair, and she might well be asleep. But Winfortune would beabout, for he had fed the horses within the last half-hour. Hemust be very careful of Winfortune, who was no doubt indoorseating his supper. But he must find out the lie of the land inthese back parts, for it might be fateful knowledge in acrisis.

He skirted a kind of pent-house, and came to a line of lowbarred windows, with many broken panes. Feeling his way he foundthe hollow of a door, and to his surprise it yielded to hispressure. He stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts, andsee if he had the plan of the building in his mind. This was theback entrance, leading into a wing, a storey lower than the rest,which had been added to the main block. Why should he not enter?He was quick on his feet, and could move as softly as a cat.Also, he had the gift of half-vision in the dark which the Greekssaid that Artemis gave to her votaries. If Winfortune was therehe might spy on him, but he was pretty certain that he could notbe spied upon by Winfortune.

He found himself in a passage as dark as the inside of a nut.The floor was flagged and uneven, and he had to pick his steps.Presently it bent to the left, and he was aware of a thin line oflight below a door.

There was no sound in the room beyond, but the lightflickered, as if it came not from a lamp but from a fire. Gentlyhe felt the door, and found that it was ajar. Gently he pressedit open, and looked in. The room was empty. A small fire burnedon the hearth, and there was a table which held the remains ofsupper--a loaf of bread, the knuckle of a ham, and an empty beerjug. It held something more--a quantity of papers arranged inlittle piles as if someone had just been sorting them.

It was borne in upon Nanty that here was matter of extremeimportance. At all costs he must see these papers. He movedforward to the table, and had his hands on one packet. . . .

Suddenly he realised that the door has closed. More, there wasthe sound of a key turning. Someone had entered the room. Heheard flint struck upon steel, and a candle flared up.

It was Winfortune. And Winfortune had not come there byaccident. He had been following him, for his dark face showedthat he had found what he expected, and his gap-toothed mouth wasstretched in a grin.

"Ay," he drawled. "And who may you be, mannie?"

Nanty, whose heart had missed a beat at the sight of him,forced himself to a forlorn boldness.

"Are you the landlord?" he demanded. "I am a traveller whocould find no way into your accursed inn by the front door, so Iwas forced to try the back. Are your people all dead orasleep?"

"Just so. Dead or asleep. But I am uncommon alive andwakeful."

Winfortune raised the candle and let it fall upon Nanty as hestood by the tell-tale papers.

"You tried at the front door, did you, and got no answer? Andbeing hungry and drouthy you would not be denied, so you cameround by the back seeking the kitchen? You'll be for a bed and abite o' supper."

Nanty nodded. He did not like the bantering drawl or thebright, malevolent eyes.

"You're a traveller," Winfortune continued. "Where from, may Ibe so bold as to ask?"

"From Scotland."

"Ay, you'll be for the great fight the morn in Fenny Horton.But if you come from Scotland you've come in on the wrong side ofthe town. What's your trade? You've the look of a schoolmaster,or a preacher, or maybe an attorney's jackal."

He drew the candle back.

"I'll tell you your trade. You're a liar. I watched yousnowking in the yard and I set a trap for you, and you're caught.You're some damned kind of spy. Well, your travelling is done fora bit, my bonny lad. The Merry Mouth has no liking for you andyour kind."

"You're an uncivil fellow. Open the door and I will go myway."

"Nay, nay. Here you are and here you bide. You'll get anight's lodging, though I'll not speak for the comfort of thebed, and maybe a long, long sleep."

The figure in the flickering candle-light was so uncanny thatNanty had to put a strong compulsion upon himself to choke downfear. But anger came to his aid. It would be ruin to all hisplans if he were trussed up in the Merry Mouth, and prisonerbefore the battle was joined. Now he knew a different kind offear, not of the man before him, but of his own failure.

"I require you to open that door," he said, and his voice wasfirm.

"I'm listening. Any more commands from your worship?"

Nanty measured his opponent with his eye. He was a big man,lean and bony, but he must be a score of years his elder. So faras he could see he was unarmed. There was nothing for it but theancient appeal. He swept up a packet of papers and dashed it inhis face, and at the same moment struck hard with his left handat the gap-toothed mouth.

He found himself caught in a hug like a bear's. He was liftedfrom his feet, but crooked his legs in the table, while hebelaboured the man's face with his fists. He might have beenbattering a smith's anvil. A great wrench dragged him from hisanchorage, he felt himself swung in the air, and the next secondhis head crashed on the stone flags of the floor.

About the time when Nanty was dropping from the wall into thestable-yard of the Merry Mouth, the cutter of that name wasmoving with the tide up a dark channel among mudflats over whichthe waters were steadily rising.

TheMerry Mouth had crossed the bar with the flood, itsonly piece of good fortune on the voyage. For, though the windhad not moved from the northwest, it had threatened to die awayaltogether. Off Flamborough Head the boat had lain becalmed forthe better part of a day, and no seamanship of Eben Garnock's hadbeen able to conjure up a breeze. The result had been blackdepression on the part of Harry Belses, and explosive irritationon the part of Sir Turnour. Eben, accustomed to the fickleness ofthe sea, had sucked his pipe in silence, and Mr Dott, who hadnever before embarked on salt water, and had dreaded nausea, hadbeen sunk in deep bodily content.

But that afternoon the wind had been brisk, and they had madelandfall well before the darkening. Eben, who seemed to have aspecial sense and had been there before, nosed his way into themouth of a narrow channel between the sand-dunes, and the lastlight revealed wide samphire-covered flats gleaming pale underthe steady lipping of the tide. Then darkness had fallen, andpresently theMerry Mouth was at a rude landing-place,above which rose a black mass which must be trees.

"God's curse on all winds," Sir Turnour cried, stretching hisstiff limbs and shaking himself like a big dog. "Cranmer willhave been gone for hours. Overy House is a mile off, and Overy'sour mark. I'd give a thousand guineas to catch the hound beforehe leaves his kennel. Make haste, Eben, and tie up that damnedboat of yours. If the fellow has left we must pick up his scentbefore it is cold."

Beyond the trees lay pasturelands, which to east and westbecame saltings where the tide crept among the little creeks. Atfirst the four of them ran, Mr Dott labouring heavily, but soonthey dropped into a jog, and then into a walk, for the voyage hadcramped their legs. They crossed rushy meadows, full of nestingsnipe, and came to a mossy brick wall which fringed the park.After that they were on cropped turf, and made better going. Theytook no precautions, for under Sir Turnour's leadership they werenot secret spies, but brazen pirates new landed from the sea.

The house rose before them, a huge Palladian structure, within one window far up a solitary spark of light.

Sir Turnour unbuckled one of his pistols and handed it toBelses.

"You're something of a marksman, my lord? Take that, but useit discreetly. Remember that Cranmer is my portion. Noeavesdropping. Straight for the door."

There was a big old-fashioned bell which woke a babel ofechoes. Sir Turnour rang it a second time, and a third, and thenwith his fists he beat a heavy tattoo on the door. "The place isa shell," he said. "I greatly fear that the birds have flown.Another minute and we break in by a window."

But, though there was no sound of feet inside, the door wassuddenly opened, and in the crack was the light of a candle and awoman's white face. Harry Belses recognised it.

"It is her maid," he cried. "Mollison, where is yourmistress?"

The voice was familiar to the woman, and she advanced thecandle so that it shone on the wrathful visage of Sir Turnour,the gravity of Eben, the solemnity of Mr Dott, and on Harry'sface, which she knew well. The fear went out of her eyes, and hercry was of relief.

"Oh, my lord," she cried, "she is gone. Not an hour ago. Sheand the master and the others. I thought it was my ladyreturning, for she said that--"

"Let us have the story indoors," said Sir Turnour, "for thisdoorstep is a trifle conspicuous. Go first, Belses. The womanknows you and may think the better of us on your account. Phew!The place is dank. It has not been lived in for atwelvemonth."

The maid led the way into a big square hall, and the thin rayof the candle showed only a line of forbidding Roman busts andthe rims of great dusky pictures. She lit a bunch of candles inwhat had once been a Spanish altar-lamp, and the light made theplace less ghostly. She was a thin, elderly woman, in feltslippers and a night wrapper.

"Mollison, my dear," said Harry. "You must forgive our haste.We come on your mistress's behalf, and you know me for a friend.Who is in this house?"

"I am alone," she said, and shivered.

Harry slipped off his great-coat and put it over hershoulders.

"There! You will be warmer now. You say your mistress left anhour ago. Where has she gone? Quick, for it is a matter of lifeand death to her."

"I do not know. She did not tell me. I was to wait here tillword came for me."

"It was you who at Hungrygrain gave this man a paper withwords written on it," and he pointed to Mr Dott.

She nodded. "It was by her order, and a difficult job I had ofit."

"The words on it? The Merry Mouth. Where is that place?"

"I do not know." Her face had again become stupid with fear."My lady--I do not think she knew either. I once heard her askthe master, and he laughed at her."

"When did you come here?" Sir Turnour demanded, and hisperemptory tone frightened her into stammering.

"Last night--I cannot remember when--but it was dark. I wasblind-weary with travel--and my lady, too. Blind-weary." Hervoice tailed away into a moan.

"What scares you, woman?" Sir Turnour demanded. "We are yourfriends."

There was more spirit in her reply.

"It is my lady. I love her and she has gone from me. I amterrified for her sake. All this day she had a face like death,and when she left she was weeping--and she does not often weep.She is threatened by some terrible thing--and I do not know--Icannot help her."

"Then by God we're all on the same side. No need for moretalk. Action's the word, for Cranmer's on the road with an hour'sstart. We must get horses and follow. There'll be no beasts inthe Overy stable--Cranmer would see to that. Wood Rising, curseit, is twenty miles off, so I cannot get my own. . . . Wait aminute. There's the Cup and Cross not a mile off. John Cherrybookhas the inn, an honest fellow that can breed a good greyhound.John will find us horses. Is there any man about the place totake a message?"

"I do not know," the maid faltered. "I know no one on theestate. When I have been here before I have never left thehouse."

"Then, Eben, you must go. You know the inn?"

Eben nodded. "Ay, the auld house aside the mill-dam?"

Sir Turnour scribbled something on one of his famouscartes-de-visite.

"Any conveyance he has got--curricle, gig, chaise, drag--anyblessed thing so it be not a farm cart. Four horses if he canfind them--if not, a pair--but they must have pace. John can puthis hand on good blood. I've seen him win a race at the huntmeeting on a tit of his own breeding. There's ten guineas inJohn's pocket if he can fill the bill, beside a handsome pricefor the hire. Quick, man, not a moment's delay, and if John makesdifficulties, fetch him up here for me to handle. . . . What areyou after, my lord?"

Harry Belses had been talking apart with Mollison and was nowlighting two tall pewter candle-sticks which she had fetched.

"I am about to make an inquisition of these chambers. Cranmerdid not come here merely to give his wife a chance of biddingfarewell to her old home. He had some damnable purpose which Iintend to unravel."

Sir Turnour grunted. "I'm for forty winks, for God knows whenI may get sleep again." He made a bed out of a great leatherdivan and a couple of rugs, and flung himself down on it. Mr Dottdid the same, and since the salt air had made him drowsy, wassoon asleep. Unfortunately he snored, and did not desist till SirTurnour stretched a long leg and kicked him in the ribs. Afterthat for the better part of an hour there was peace.

It was broken by Eben's return and the inrush of wind from thehall door. Sir Turnour, a seasoned campaigner, was in an instanton his feet.

"The landlord will dae his best," Eben reported. "He sent hishumble respects to your honour, and he'll get the beasts and acurricle for them to run in, but ane o' them is five mile off ata farm-toun, so it'll be the back o' midnight afore they'reready. His word was that he'll have breakfast at the Cup andCross whenever we like to come, and that we can start if we'rewilling on the chap o' one. He kenned that Cranmer had been here,but nae mair, for it seems the body gangs and comes like awarlock, and though he's the mistress's tenant, he has littlewark wi' the maister."

Sir Turnour consulted a massive watch. "Then I've time foranother snooze," he said. But at that moment candlelight waveredon the staircase, and Belses and the maid appeared.

Harry's face was white in spite of the weathering of the seawinds. He had made some sort of toilet, and his fair hair wasbrushed neatly back from his brows. Again Sir Turnour was struckby his unpleasing resemblance to that young Lord Byron whom hedid not love.

"Will you come with me, sir?" Harry said. "I have foundsomething of moment, something which explains much."

Sir Turnour rose grumblingly to follow and so did Mr Dott,rubbing sleep from his eyes. Eben, after a word with the maid,joined them.

On the first floor was a pilastered upper hall, out of whichopened a drawing-room and a library, and what seemed once to havebeen a boudoir. Much of the furniture was under dust-sheets, andthe great chandeliers were in linen bags, but in the librarycertain articles had been cleared. In particular the dust hadbeen partly rubbed from a low book-case intended for folios,which had also a long drawer. There was a big writing-table wherethe same thing had happened, and in the boudoir a littleescritoire showed signs of recent use.

"Mollison has the keys," said Harry, "for these pieces offurniture are for her mistress's special use. Look at thecontents, Sir Turnour."

In the drawer of the book-case were plans and maps, which atfirst sight seemed innocent enough. But a second glance dispelledthe impression. There was a chart of a patch of Suffolk shorewith soundings marked, and certain routes traced and annotated.These annotations were in the French tongue, and seemed to be forthe guidance of a hostile landing, for there were notes on thestrength of the coast defences. The thing may have been a cleverinvention, but, to anyone scrutinising it, it had the look of thework of an enemy intelligence department, prepared with theassistance of an ally. There were other papers of the same kind,including an elaborate list of east coast garrisons, with detailsof proposed troop movements.

"You see the purpose, sir?" said Harry. "This house issearched, and the first thing to be discovered is this damningevidence. But that is only the beginning. Look at this," and heopened two drawers in the library table. In these lay piles ofneatly docketed correspondence, some of it in a cypher, some inFrench in a variety of hands, but also various copies in Englishof letters to gentlemen of strange names mainly derived fromLatin literature.

"I have skimmed some of these, and find them mostlyunintelligible. But that is because I have not the knowledgewhich would give the key. Others, the agents of his Majesty'sGovernment, will possess that knowledge. I have no doubt abouttheir meaning. They are the papers of a secret organisation whichhas now served its purpose and has been disbanded. Mark you, manyof them are in Mrs Cranmer's hand, which I know well. To anysearcher she will seem to have been the arch-intriguer. There isno line written by Cranmer, and I'll be sworn that there is nomention of him.

"But there is worse to come," said Harry, as he led the wayinto the boudoir. The paint on the panels was dim with age anddirt, the curtains were shabby, and the silk of the embroideredsofa was tarnished, but the gilt mouldings on the escritoire wasbright, as if this were the only cared-for object in anuncared-for house.

"There is little in the drawers," he said, "but there is, ofcourse, a secret receptacle which was not hard to find, and whichany searcher would look for. Mollison had no key to it, so Ibroke it open." He plunged his hand into an inner crevice.

"Look at these. Not docketed and tied with silk, but hurriedlystuffed away as if in haste. They are a queer motley. Here areill-written and foully ill-spelt scrawls from some of Cranmer'sLondon vermin. No names, of course, but the Secretary of Statecould doubtless throw light on the correspondents. . . . And hereis a letter from Mr Perceval dated a week ago, making anassignation for to-morrow night."

"To-morrow night!" Sir Turnour exclaimed. "Gad, we have run itfine. In a few minutes it will bethis night. Where in thedevil's name is John with his horses? Let us have done with thistrifling and get us down to the inn."

"It is no trifling," said Harry. "I show these things to youto convince you of the reality of the lady's danger--and of herinnocence. That last letter of the Prime Minister is enough tohang her. . . . And mark this other bundle. They are Cranmer'sletters, the bungling schoolboy epistles of an oafishNorthumbrian squire from whose mind treason is as remote asphilosophy. Written to his wife, and treasured by her lovinghands! They are sufficient to acquit Cranmer--and to destroy hislady. I take off my hat to his cunning. Are you a convert, SirTurnour?"

"I am convinced of the man Cranmer's devilry."

"And of the lady's innocence? Would any human being with aguilty heart thus build up a damning accusation?"

"I am convinced of her peril. About her innocence I do notknow. She may be a rotten-hearted baggage, albeit a fool."

"Yet she told the truth to Nanty Lammas on the hill. This isprecisely what she feared. Had she been in any plot would shehave thus exposed it?"

Sir Turnour's patience was exhausted. "A plague on her and allher works," he cried. "This folly is delaying us. It is Cranmerwe seek, and whether his wife be guilty or guiltless is noconcern of mine. Let's to the Cross and Cup, a speedy breakfast,and the road!"

He strode from the room, but at the top of the staircase cameto a sudden halt. There was an alcove which may once have held astatue. In that alcove there was a wicker basket, and in thatbasket there was a dog.

He was a small black cocker spaniel, and his wet nozzle andflapping ears were raised just over the rim of the basket. SirTurnour stood over him.

"Now I wonder where you come from?" he said, and stooped downto scratch his head. The spaniel heaved his shoulders, and madeas if to rise, thought better of it, and reclined over the rim,lifting his melting eyes to Sir Turnour. He knew with thecertainty of all wise dogs that here was a friend.

Mollison hastened to explain.

"It's Benjamin, sir--I beg pardon--my lord. Benjamin is mymistress's dog. She thinks the world of him, but he ain't allowedto go north in case he should be killed by them wild hounds atHungrygrain. He has hurt his leg, poor little dear, and my ladywas nursing him and crying over him. She tied the leg up all niceand comfortable, and she gave me instructions about doctoringhim, and money to pay for his bits of meat. Last word she sayswas, 'Mollison!' she says, 'be kind to Benjamin, and see thatwhatever happens he has a home.'" At the recollection the woman'svoice trailed off into tears.

Sir Turnour continued to gaze at the dog, and as he gazed hismind suffered a violent dislocation. He was slightly ashamed,though he did not realise it, of his speech in the boudoir. Hisdislike of Cranmer seemed to make it imperative to include thelady in his disfavour. Also his pride forbade him to renounce anopinion which had been the cause of his still unredressedgrievance against Harry Belses. But he was an honest man, and hewas beginning to feel that his harshness could not be whollyjustified by facts. Also he was a lover of all dogs, and thespectacle of this little beast, the last thought of his mistressas she went out into darkness and danger, suddenly melted hisheart. He stooped again and patted the black head, and thenturned to the others with a very red face.

"Belses," he cried, "I'm an oaf, a lout, a cur, a curmudgeon.Don't contradict me. I make you a present of these confessions touse as you please. I've been talking like a common blackguard.Damme, she must be a good woman, and I defy any man to deny it. Awoman with her own neck in peril who would think about her dog isa fine woman, a great woman. Damme, she's a saint."

He stooped, poked in the basket, and felt the bandaged leg.The spaniel got to his feet and lifted the wounded paw.

"A deuced workmanlike job, too! Feeling pretty bobbish, littledog? Not much the matter, says you. Good job, for by God you'recoming with us. You'll see your mistress in twenty-four hours, ormy name's not Turnour Wyse. I'll wring Cranmer's neck for my ownsake, but first of all I'll wring his nose for the sake of hislady. March," he cried, picking up the dog in his arms.

Then a thought struck him.

"Woman, have the goodness to kindle a fire," he told Mollison."Belses, get that stuff out of those cursed drawers. We have fiveminutes to make a bonfire of it."

Harry protested. "Let us take the papers with us. There isevidence which may be useful"--but he was cut short.

"Burn every dangerous paper--that was my father's rule, and Imean to follow it. They are safer in charcoal than in the handsof meddlesome lawyers. Won't Cranmer be mad when he hears ofit?"

Like a tornado Sir Turnour swept them downstairs and on thehall hearth superintended the burning of an armful of documents.Like a tornado he swept them out of the house. "You stay herewith a quiet mind," he told Mollison. "You'll have your mistressback to you within the week, and I'll be shot if you ever clapeyes again on your master. Benjamin is my particular charge, andI'm a good hand with dogs." Like a tornado he stormed across thepark at the head of his little party, saying no word to them, butspeaking much to himself. The part of champion of distressedbeauty was new to Sir Turnour, but he would not fail in it forlack of zeal. The fury of his purpose was like an equinoctialgale.

John Cherrybook was a little man of forty, with the sallowskin of the marsh-men, and that indescribable rakishness of gait,that wise cock of the head, and that parsimony of speech whichmarks all those whose work is with horses. He knew Sir Turnour asa famous figure in the shire, and he had laboured to do hisbidding. Horses he had got, a pair not over well matched, one abay four-year-old with obvious good blood in him, the other a bigrangy chestnut which looked more like a 'chaser than a roadster.They were waiting in an ostler's charge, and at the inn doorstood an odd conveyance, a kind of rustic curricle seated fortwo, with immense red wheels and a pole which might have belongedto a stage-wagon. Indeed, the whole concern looked like a coachwhich had somehow lost about three-quarters of its body on theroad.

"Best I could do, your honour," said John. "The quads is allright, barrin' that the bay is blind o' the left eye, and thechestnut a bit weak in the off fore. Bad firing's done that.You'll find they run nicely together, and if it's pace you wantsyou won't get a faster rig in Norfolk."

Sir Turnour examined the horses with a critical eye.

"A devilish bad match," he said. "It looks to me as if theirpaces would be like a peal of bells. And where in God's name didyou find that Noah's Ark?"

"'Twas Mr Walcot had her built--him we called Mad Jack Walcot,wot broke his neck a year come Martinmas. I reckon 'twas thefastest turn-out in Jack's hands between here and Norwich."

"About as much balance as a hay-wain," Sir Turnour saidsourly.

"Maybe so, your honour," John replied cheerfully. "But ifyou're for the south your honour knows that the roads is easygoing, and on good roads them 'osses will make as light work ofthat curricle as if they was yoked to a baby-cart. Speed, you'llmind, was your honour's word."

"So be it. Now for breakfast."

The landlord ushered them indoors. "I've lit a fire in theblue room, and there's a tasty bit of mutton from the saltings.Follow me, gentlemen, and mind the step down!"

Sir Turnour was a stern commander. In a quarter of an hour hehad bustled them through the meal, to the disgust of Mr Dott."Damn it, sir," he told him, "if you are still hungry, take ahunch of bread in your pouch." Then he gave his orders. "My lordand I will take the curricle. And the spaniel--I won't beseparated from the dog. You two must follow as you can. I'm forKing's Lynn. If Cranmer is bound for the Midlands he must passthrough it."

Eben looked out of the window and appeared to be making acalculation. "In anither half-hour we'll get the ebb. Me and MrDott, if a' gangs right, will be at Lynn as soon as yoursel'. Thewind's better than weel. If ye're there afore us, wait on us, andif we're first we'll wait on you."

"What's the sense of that?" Sir Turnour demanded. "We'rechasing Cranmer and dare not lose a moment."

"But how will ye chase him, sir? By speirin' along the road ifsuch or such a party has passed that way. That'll dae fine as faras Lynn, for up to Lynn there's but the one road for him to take.But ayont Lynn he has the wind o' ye, and has the choice o' adozen ways. We dinna ken where the Merry Mouth inn may be, but hekens, and he'll gang straight to it like a solan goose fleein'hame to the Bass. It's a slow job speirin' for a man that kenshis ain purpose."

"And that's God's truth. But how will it help matters toforgather with you at Lynn? You're as much in the dark about theMerry Mouth as I am."

"I'm in the dark, but maybe Bob Muschat's no. Bob and theProfessor has come by anither road, and it's possible--I'll nosay mair--that they've found the whereabouts o' the Merry Mouth.If they havena', weel, the Almighty's no kind to us. If theyhave, Bob will try to get word to us. He kens we're at Overy, andhe'll say to himsel', 'Eben will be lookin' for me, and there'sbut the one place for a tryst, and that's Lynn. Eben will come bysea, the wind and tide bein' what they are'--ye'll no fickle Bobwi' wind and tide. 'Eben,' he'll say, 'will mak a plan wi' SirTurnour, for it wad be daft-like to part company, and someway orither I'll find the hale clanjamphry at Lynn. So, kennin' what Iken, Lynn's the port to steer for.' Ye maunna pass Lynn, sir,till ye've seen huz and Bob."

"Ye seem mighty sure of your friend's habits of thought."

"Aye. We o' the Free Fishers ken each ither's minds, or we wadbe as feeble a folk as the coneys."

Sir Turnour burst into a laugh, which made the spaniel by hisside shiver delicately.

"You're talking horse sense, and I'll do as you say. But byGod I believe you've another reason. You and that pirate Dott aredetermined to be in at the finish."

A slow smile flickered over Eben's iron face. "I wadna say,"he admitted, "but that my thoughts were workin' that road."

So while Sir Turnour and Harry Belses, with a little black dogat their feet, were bestowing themselves in the curricle, Ebenand Mr Dott were stumbling over a dark mile of saltings to thechannel, where theMerry Mouth was beginning to strain ather moorings with the turn of the tide.

Nanty came to himself in a darkness which smelled foul andoppressive. It was a long time before he had any clearconsciousness, for his head throbbed maddeningly, there was aband of hot fire above his brows, and he had fit upon fit ofretching nausea. And when the physical misery subsided a little,he could not get his brain to work. His one active sense wassmell, and he puzzled hopelessly over the rank odour. It seemedto him like a tan-pit, and he knew only one tan-pit, that besidethe harbour at Dysart. He struggled to think how he had gotthere, and the effort brought back his sickness, so that he couldonly lie still and moan. Slowly he dropped again into uneasysleep.

That second sleep wrought a cure. He woke from it with thewheel in his head almost stopped, and only a flicker of pain leftabove his brows. He was fully conscious now, and could search forhis injury. This, apart from an aching shoulder and sundrybruises on his thighs, proved to be a deep cut on the left of hisforehead, the blood from which had congealed into a big spongyclot. Cautiously he moved his head, and found that the action didnot greatly pain him. He felt his arms and legs and they seemedto be unbroken. . . . Then, bit by bit, the recent past returnedto him. He remembered nothing of the fight with Winfortune, buthe remembered Winfortune's fierce eyes, and he assumed that therehad been a fight. His head was a witness.

He had got thus far--that Winfortune had struck him down. Thenext thing was to find out where he was. The purlieus of theMerry Mouth were his last memory from his former consciousness,and he concluded that he was somewhere in its back premises. Thesmell of the place assailed his nostrils again. It was not atan-pit--or a lumber-room of old harness--or acharnel-house--though there was rottenness in the air. It wasblack dark, so sight gave him no aid. . . . Then, as he sat up,his hands touched something soft on the floor, and the impactseemed to send up stinking wafts. He had it--there were fleecesand hides all round him. This was a country of sheep and cattle,and at one time the tenant of the Merry Mouth may have done somefarming. . . . His mind was now clear; he was in a loft or attic,at the back of the inn, a prisoner, but an unshackledprisoner.

He had no means of striking a light, and his watch hadstopped. It must be long after midnight, for he believed thatmany hours had been passed in unconsciousness or sleep, but hecould not tell whether it was now early morning or broaddaylight. It might be far on towards noon, or even later, for,though he felt no hunger, that might be due to the nauseafollowing his wound. The thought maddened him, for here was theday of the crisis, and he was a helpless log. It got himpainfully to his feet, and set him groping round the place. Ifhis eyes were useless he could at least use his hands.

Stumbling over bales of rotting sheepskins he found his way toa wall. The skins were heaped far up on it, and in his effort toreach it he was half suffocated by the stench. Feeling his wayalong he came to a blank space, and his fingers touched the jambsof a door. The door was a heavy thing, and it was securelylocked. He ran his hand over it and reached one conclusion. Hewas not in any outhouse or attic, but in a principal room of theinn, for the edges of the panels were ornamented--he could feelthe cup-and-ball pattern.

Beyond the door he found a wall at right angles where therewere no skins. He groped along it and judged the length to bemore than twenty feet, so the room must be an important one. Inthat wall there were two windows, each at some considerableheight above the floor, and each shuttered heavily and boltedwith huge transverse bars which fitted into sockets and werefirmly locked. He tried to remember the look of the inn as he hadseen it from the road. So far as his memory served him thewindows on the ground floor had extended to within three feet ofthe ground, and on the first floor they had also been tall. Thisroom was therefore not on the main front. It must be at the eastor west end, and the windows must look down the road from FennyHorton or over the oak grove.

These speculations were useless enough, but they served tokeep his mind from raging at his complete futility. He had noweapon, not even a pocket-knife, with which he could assault dooror window. He turned to the last wall and found it a blank space,though the floor was cumbered with old barrels and boxes. He hadnow explored all four walls, and a question suddenly occurred tohim. There must be another door somewhere. If, as he believed,the door he had already found opened upon the garden or possiblyupon a staircase, there must be another entrance, for a chamberso grandiose could not be a merecul-de-sac. If there wasa second door, it must be in the wall against which the skinswere piled. It would probably be bolted like the others, but hemust do something or go mad.

The first plunge into the skins brought back his nausea, andhe had to sit on the floor and gasp till the fit passed. Neverhad he encountered so fiendish a stink, for at every movement ofthe pile an effluvia arose which took the breath from him. Hepersevered, and very slowly got sufficiently behind the skins toenable him to touch the panelling. . . . Suddenly his hands founda cornice, and he realised that here was a door, a narrower andshallower thing than the one he had just examined. He pressed itand found it unyielding. . . . Yes, but it might open inwards.Retching and half-blinded, he set himself to remove the hides infront of it.

That task must have occupied him the better part of an hour,for the foul air and his wound seemed to have taken the pith fromhis arms. But he wrought steadily, for he had an odd illogicalfeeling that some hope might lie this way, that the fates whichhad thus far been kind to him would not leave him in the lurch.Especially he had the mystical belief that he was destined tomeet Cranmer, and he could not meet Cranmer if he were caughtlike a rat in a stopped hole. His expectation grew so high that,when he had cleared the skins and made a passage to the door, hehad to stop and take a grip on his nerves. His heart was behavinglike a gate in a high wind, and he tried to steady himself with aprayer before he touched the handle.

The door was not locked--that was plain. The pile of hides hadbeen considered sufficient to block it. But while the handleturned it would not open, though it gave ever so little, for thegrime of ages had clogged its hinges. Nanty wrestled and strovetill the sweat ran into his eyes. Three times he stopped to rest,and three times returned to the struggle. Then a sliver of woodseemed to crack at the top, and the thing swung back on him.

He listened with anxious ears, for the opening had been noisy,but he might have been in a cavern for all the sound there was.Before him there was the same black darkness, but by stretchinghis arms he found that he was in a corridor. . . . Suddenly atiny spear of light shot out--a slender line close to the ground,and a star twinkled at the level of his waist. Someone had lit alight in a room in the corridor.

From that moment dated the resurgence of Nanty's courage.Hitherto he had been battling like a cornered animal, but now hewas human again. A sponge seemed to wipe the film from his mind,and the energy of youth flowed back to his limbs. He was warynow, and resolute to face anything, for was not the way mademiraculously plain before him? In that room was someone whom Godpurposed that he should meet. He tiptoed stealthily along thebare boards towards the door.

There was no sound from within. He turned the handle gentlyand peered inside. The light was ghostly, and he saw that it camefrom a big lamp with a green shade which stood on adressing-table. That lamp must have been lit only a minutebefore, but the lighter had disappeared--gone out by the otherdoor. The room was a bedroom, for there was an old-fashionedfour-poster with dark damask curtains, and the table on which thelamp stood was a dressing-table. The windows were uncurtained andheavily shuttered. There were other articles of furniture--a bigDutch armoire, a chair or two, a couch, and in a corner a tallneedlework screen. Once this had been a principal guest-chamber,for the plaster ceiling was delicately wrought, and inlaid withpainted medallions now black with dirt.

The silent room with its eerie green light had the effect ofchecking Nanty's new ardour. He stood perplexed, listening forsome clue, but no sound from the outer world came through thethick shutters. Outside it might be any hour--high noon,afternoon, evening--but here it was a timeless dusk, like somecountry under the sea. Nanty shivered, for it seemed a stage setand lit for any evil.

Suddenly there was sound--someone was approaching the otherdoor, someone with heavy feet. Nanty slipped behind theneedlework screen, and put his eye to a hole in it. He was lessfrightened now, for soon there must be a call to action.

A man entered, carrying a saddle-bag which he flung on thebed, a big rough fellow with the air of the hills rather than ofthe fens--perhaps the man Sloan from Hungrygrain. He stoodsideways in the doorway to let someone pass him. That someone wasa woman.

She wore a short riding-habit and ill-cleaned boots, a bodiceof some white stuff, and a loose green coat. On her head was alittle tricorne hat, which might have been coquettish, had it notbeen pathetic. For the woman's air when she found herself alonewas one of utter weariness and dejection, as if solitude at lastgave her the chance of doffing a cruel mask. She pulled off herhat and flung it beside the saddle-bag, but she did not go to themirror on the dressing-table to arrange her hair. Instead shedropped on the couch, and lay back with her head resting on oneof the arms and her eyes closed. Nanty from behind the screen sawher face in profile against the damask bed-curtains, and it wasthe face of a child tired beyond endurance, too tired to rest,almost too tired to breathe. Her cheeks had no longer the clearhealthy pallor that he had seen on the hills, but were pale as adeath-mask. Her limbs sprawled in an extreme listlessness. Shemight have been dead but for the slow rise and fall of herbodice.

Nanty slipped from behind the screen. Not for one moment couldhe eavesdrop on this tragic figure. For a second he stood lookingdown at the heavy, closed eyelids. Then, "Mrs Cranmer," hewhispered. "Mrs Cranmer! Gabriel!"

Her eyes opened as if she were hearing voices in a dream. Hespoke again, for he had got a glimpse of his own appearance inthe mirror, and knew that he was no pretty sight, his foreheadfoul with congealed blood, his coat torn, face and hands black asa collier's, and his hair in wild disorder. She would think him amaniac unless reassured by his voice.

"Gabriel," he said gently. "Don't be afraid. . . . I'm here tohelp you. You remember . . . the hills above Yonderdale."

Her eyes were not startled--they were beyond the surprise offear, and that in itself was the most tragic proof of hersuffering. But for a moment they were mystified. Then it seemedas if a light flickered in their darkness. She sat up, and herhand flew to her hair.

"You are the Scotch professor? Mr Lammas? Oh, what cruel fatehas brought you here."

"I have followed you. You spoke the words 'Merry Mouth' to me,and you wrote them on a paper for another. I sought for theplace, as I was bound to do, and by the mercy of God I have foundit."

She put her hands over her eyes.

"I am to blame," she moaned. "I am born to bring ill to myfriends. Oh, why did you follow me? Why did I speak those foolishwords?"

Her dejection was a goad to Nanty's spirit. For this littlelonely figure he felt such an uprush of tenderness that itwrought on his head like wine. No more the leaden compulsion ofduty for him, but the swift spur of youth and love.

"There's one friend of yours who wouldn't for worlds beelsewhere. I've had a weary time getting to you," and he toldbriefly of his journey. Life came into her face, but at themention of Winfortune it clouded again.

"He thinks you are his prisoner in the room of the sheepskins?Any moment he may look for you there, and if he finds you gone hewill . . . But no, he is away for the present--I saw him when wearrived--my husband sent him on an errand to see that the roadswere guarded. . . . We have a short breathing-space in which toplan your escape."

"Not mine," said Nanty. "Yours, Mrs Cranmer. If we can get youout of here there is a house nearby with friends in it, kindwomen who will take care of you--"

"You do not understand," she said wearily. "I cannot go out ofthis place. I fear that you cannot, but for me it is beyond hope.I am the centre-piece in their game. This day, as you know, is aholiday in all the countryside. To-night, and I think for most ofto-morrow, it will be as empty of life as a grave. We have comefrom Overy, where my husband has done what he wished. He is here,and Winfortune and Sloan, and Vallance has brought his Londoners,and the roads are watched, and the place is a fortified castle.To-night, as I told you, my cousin will arrive at my summons, andunless God works a miracle he will not go away. What can you doto help me, except share in my danger? You are weaker than themouse with the caged lion."

"You have forgotten the fable," said Nanty briskly, "for themouse released the lion. I have not come all this long road tofail you. There are others besides me, for there are three stoutfellows at Overy, and there are two more that I sent off fortyhours ago to guide them here. Any moment they may arrive, andyour fortified castle will have its resolute besiegers. One ofthose at Overy is Harry Belses."

"Harry," she cried--and her eyes had the same troubledmaternal look that he had noted in them when he had firstmentioned Belses' name on the hill. "Oh, I thought that Harry wassafe out of my troubles. Who is with him?"

"Sir Turnour Wyse--the man who challenged him, and who has nowtransferred his wrath to your husband. I had rather not be theone who offended Sir Turnour Wyse."

She scarcely listened. "Harry at Overy!" she repeated. "Hewill see Mollison . . . and Benjamin. . . . We often talked ofOvery. . . . Oh, Heaven send that he be not in time."

"Heaven send that he be. I think, madam, that you underratethe devotion of your friends. Harry has but the one thought, andthat is to be at your side, for your own salvation and tofrustrate your husband. When he and the others arrive they willblow this infamous plot into fine dust. They have still ampletime. I do not know the hour of the day, for I have been livingin the dark, but it cannot yet be the afternoon."

"You are mistaken," she said. "When I came here it was afterfour o'clock. Soon it will be twilight. We have but an hour ortwo's grace."

"God bless my soul! Then we must be up and doing. There is noway out by the road I came, for the outer door is locked andwould resist a battering-ram. What lies that way?" And he pointedto the door by which she had entered.

"My husband," she cried. "Any moment he may come for me. Hist!There he is. Quick, behind the screen."

It was not Cranmer, but Winfortune, and he entered softly asif he had come on a private errand. He seemed embarrassed, too,and he took his hat from his head with an effort at courtesy. Hestood with his back against the door, his long dark face likegreen bronze in the light of the lamp.

"The master will not be here for a bittie," he said. "I want aword with you, my lady, before he comes. There'll be rough workto-night, and rougher to follow. I've no ill will to you, foryou've always treated me honest, so I make bold to say somethingin your ear."

He hushed his voice to a whisper.

"Master is sending you north--with Sloan. Things will be doneto-night, as you maybe guess, which won't make the countryhealthy for some of us. Lucky we've got our bolt-holes waiting.But you, my lady, will be in the worst pickle, for you're thedecoy to draw the chase."

He lowered his voice still further, and, leaning forward,spoke in her ear.

"You can't get away, for you aren't meant to get away. Sloanwill ride cunning and save his own bacon, but you will be ta'en.It's not for me to question the master's plans, but here is one Icannot like. You're young, and there's some would call you bonny,and you've always been kind to Gibbie Winfortune, which is not ascommon a thing as it should be. So I've come here with a word foryou. You'll ride through Huntingdon and bait at the Dun Cow.There you must give Sloan the slip and get to the house of GoodyTwynham in Church Row. It'll be the dark o' the morning, but hersis a door that never shuts. Give her this writing from me, andshe'll take you in and hide you so that all the King's army wouldnever find you. It'll be coarse fare and coarser lodging, but youcan bide safe with her till you get word to your friends."

He handed her a letter folded and sealed with a blob of greenwax.

"That's the best I can do for you, my lady," he said, "and themaster must never hear of it. I'm off, with a God bless you."

There were tears in Gabriel's eyes when the door had closed onhim. She looked at the letter which had no superscription, and,as Nanty came out from behind the screen, put it in her bosom. "Idid not know," she said, "that Winfortune had a kindness for me,and now I know it too late. Had I known sooner he might havehelped me, for I did not dare to turn to any at Hungrygrain."

"There are elements of decency in the man," said Nanty, "whichmay stand him in good stead in the next world, but will scarcelysave his neck in this. Have no fear--you are not going toHuntingdon, and will not need Goody Twynham's ministrations.Here, in this place, an end will be set to yourtribulations."

Nanty's voice matched his words. He had got a sudden uplift ofspirit which made it needless to counterfeit cheerfulness. Thispale woman woke in him an utter certainty and a desperatevalour.

She shook her head. "Your friends will not arrive in time.Overy is a long journey, and they may not be at Overy. What ifwind and tide have delayed them? We travelled with relays ofhorses and we did not linger, and yet we have but new come,though we started yesterday evening and rode through thenight."

"Then I must do the business myself," said Nanty.

She looked at him with wonder in her eyes, but no hope, andthat nettled him.

"What can you do, my brave friend?" she asked. "You are ascholar and a man of God, and you have not been bred to strugglewith ruffians."

"Nevertheless, I am young, and strong, and God will show me away."

"You are unarmed among armed men."

"I have my right hand, and an exercised body."

Suddenly her face flushed, and her eyes, which had been openand fearful, clouded and looked down.

"I am armed," she said. "That is my one hope."

From a leather hand-bag she took a pistol.

"I have schemed and lied for this. It is loaded and primed andready, and I too am ready. There is only one way. Innocent bloodcan only be saved by the shedding of guilty."

"Can you shoot?" Nanty asked.

"I have never tried, but no one will suspect that I have this. . . and I will be very near . . . and I do not think I canfail."

"Give it me," he said, and reluctantly she laid it in hishand.

It was a heavy two-chambered cavalry pistol. Nanty, who knewlittle about such weapons, fingered it, balanced it in his palm,and regarded it with a kind of awe. It was David's sling againstthe two-handed sword of Goliath. This frail woman clung to it asher solitary hope, and the pathos of her lonely valour smote onhis heart till his eyes blurred.

"This is for me," he said slowly. "If your husband is to findan executioner I must be the man. It cannot be you, for it wouldbreak your heart. Once you loved him--and you have lain in hisarms. His death at your hands would be a righteous judgment, butthe memory of it would haunt you all your days."

"Give it me back," she cried piteously. "I have no length ofdays to look for. I shall soon be dead. Oh, you cannot be socruel! It is my child, my only hope."

"I will use it, have no fear. You are right, Cranmer must die,but I will fire the shot. That is no work for a woman's hand,still less for a wife's. But it is work for me, since I have beendivinely guided into this business, and must see it through tothe end."

"But you cannot," she cried, her eyes wild and imploring. "Ishall be alone with him. He is here and soon he will call me. Youcannot follow. You will be taken--"

His uplift of spirit was now mated with a pleasantcoolness.

"You forget that I have the master hand in this game. No oneknows I am here, except Winfortune, and he thinks that I am lyinghelpless among the sheepskins. They mean to fire this place, andhe doubtless imagines that I will burn with the rest of it.Wherever you are taken I will follow, and the chance of surpriseis with me. I will cherish this pistol as I cherish my hope ofsalvation, and I swear when the time comes the bullet will gotrue, though I have to press the muzzle against his heart."

Suddenly she dropped before him, all the power gone out of herlimbs. He caught her in his arms, he whose arms had never beforeheld a woman, and the scent of her hair was like spring flowers.He pressed his lips to it.

"Courage," he whispered. "God will not desert us. In a littlewhile--a very little--"

There was a voice from beyond the door.

"Gaby," it cried. "Come to meat." And when there was noanswer, it sank into a mutter, "What ails the bitch?" and a stepsounded on the floor without.

Nanty, behind the screen, saw the woman with a great effortcompose herself and move to the door. He could not see the manbeyond it. The door was left ajar, so he heard the footsteps inthe short corridor. There was the creak of another door opening,a door very near at hand, and then silence.

He waited for a few minutes, while he thought out his course.Cranmer had talked of meat, so nothing was likely to happen for alittle. He must not be premature, but must put off the decisiveact to the last moment, to give his friends the chance ofarriving. Oh, where in heaven's name were all the others? If theydid not come, he himself would be torn in pieces. Not thewoman--Winfortune would protect her. And Mr Perceval wouldescape--if Cranmer were dead, it was likely that his satelliteswould not have the nerve to consummate the plot, if indeed theyknew of the proposed consummation. Cranmer must die, but at theright moment.

To his surprise he felt no fear. Coming events seemed to fallinto a scheme as exact as a set of propositions in logic, andfully as abstract. He calculated his own chance of living muchlonger at about one in a hundred--if his friends did not come.The latter contingency he could not assess, for he had no data.He was not greatly perturbed. He had heard of drowning men livingover again in their extremity their past lives, but his thoughtshad no inclination to travel back. His one anxiety was that atthe due moment he should not miss, and he lifted the pistol andpointed it at the green lamp. It was a heavy thing--if he missedhe thought he could brain a man with the butt. He had a notablypowerful right arm.

He must have waited a quarter of an hour before he decided tomove. It would be well to find out what Cranmer was doing, for hemust not miss his market. He pushed wider the door, and verystealthily tiptoed into the passage. The light of the green lampfollowed him, and revealed a closed door at the end of it. Hestood and listened outside it, but no sound came. The Cranmerswere making a silent meal.

Suddenly he heard an oath, and then a cry followed, a smallstifled cry like some small thing in cruel pain. It was thesmallness and feebleness of it that stabbed his heart and woke aprimeval passion. He opened the door.

The light was dim, but it was not of lamps but of daylight. Hesaw nothing of the place save two figures, a man's and awoman's--the woman crouching as if she had been struck. They werepreoccupied, and would not have noticed his entrance had not hisboots slipped upon a grease stain on the floor. He recoveredhimself with a scrawl of nails on wood, and the man swung roundto face him.

Nanty, having no confidence in his marksmanship, came at abound within a yard of the man, held the pistol to his breast andpulled the trigger. The priming must have been faulty, for thehammer only clicked on the nipple, and before he could use thebutt the man had leaped aside, and swung a heavy chair beforehim. The next second Nanty was looking into the barrel of anotherpistol.

He hurled his own weapon at his adversary, and at the sameinstant ducked his head. Something bright flashed in his eyes,and something hot and sharp furrowed his scalp. Now he wasberserk mad, and sought only to grapple with his foe, though hecarried a whole armoury. But the foe did not shoot again--insteadhe blew a whistle. He slipped like an eel from the clutch ofNanty's arms, and in a trice had put the table between them. Indoing this he flung from him the third occupant of the room whohad tried to impede him.

Then things began to happen to Nanty with a furious speed.Other figures appeared on the scene, and a hundred hands seemedto be reaching for his throat. He struggled desperately, but agiddiness came over him, and something of the nausea he hadsuffered that morning. The next he knew was that his legs werebeing trussed up with ropes and his arms bound to his sides. Heresisted no more, for the strength had gone out of him.

"Bring a lamp," he heard Cranmer's voice. "I must have a lookat him."

The green lamp was fetched and set on the table, Nanty wasplaced in a chair beside it and Cranmer stood opposite him. "Getout till I call you," Cranmer told the others. "I want to bealone with this madman." Nanty had a confused vision of men withevil faces passing him, and Winfortune was not among them.

The film of passion had gone from his eyes, and he was at lastfully conscious of the scene. He was in a long room with threewindows which let in the hazy purple twilight. Once it had been anoble apartment, but now cobwebs hung in the cornices andfestooned the window shutters, and the panes were leaden withgrime. The floor was of bare boards, and there was no furnitureexcept the table and several chairs, and an ancient oakencupboard of which the door swung half-open on broken hinges. Theremains of food were on the table, and a case bottle of brandy.Every detail Nanty saw with an acid clearness.

He could not see Mrs Cranmer, for she was behind her husband,who stood opposite him beyond the table. Cranmer was plain in thegreen circle of lamplight. Unlike his wife, he had made histoilet since his journey from Norfolk, and was now a resplendentfigure in a blue coat, a double-breasted satin waistcoat cuthigh, dark pantaloons and strapped boots. He was busy reloading apistol and meticulously measuring the charges. His slim whitehands moved in what was almost a caress, and as he wrought hespoke--not to Nanty, but to the figure behind him in theshadows.

"One of your many lovers, my dear? Nay, do not deny it, for heis the kind that would follow yourbeaux yeux. A mostdetermined fellow. He would have made you a widow, but for anunlucky misfire. His foul hands were very near my throat. Yourtaste was always for the kennel, my sweet, but I had thought youmight have chosen something cleanlier."

He laid down the pistol and looked at his watch.

"Seven by the clock. You are nearest the window, Sister Anne.Do you see anybody coming? I must finish with this carrion beforeeight. Eight, I think, was the hour our friend fixed, and, asbefits the head of the State, he is a punctual gentleman."

He was looking at Nanty now. "You have only a matter ofminutes to live, sir," he said. "You may care to satisfy mycuriosity as to who in hell you may be. On the other hand, youmay not. I do not press you."

Confidence and enterprise now utterly fled from Nanty's soul,and every spark of hope. He was confronting Cranmer, the man whohad haunted his dreams, and the reality was more dreadful thanhis fear. The figure before him had a demoniac air of mastery.The oval of dead white face, exquisitely modelled, the horseshoeeyebrows, the mocking mouth had a corrupt Satanic beauty. Theeyes, large, luminous and impenetrable, had lost all humanquality; they were only windows from which looked out cruelty andunutterable hate. Here was no madman in the common sense, but animmense perverted genius. Strangely enough the picture of SirTurnour Wyse flashed across his vision. Once he had detested thatbluff figure, but now it seemed to embody all in the world thatwas sane and wholesome and human. Oh, why had his pistol missedfire, and not sent this spirit of the Pit to its begetter?

Mingled with his repulsion was the acutest fear. His earlyboldness had been only the valour of ignorance. His bondssupported him or he would have crumpled in a heap. It was terrorthat made him answer Cranmer's question.

"I came here last night," he said in a voice which trickledfrom a parched throat and between dry lips. "I thought it an inn,and I looked for hospitality. I was attacked by a servant andstruck down and locked up in a lumber-room. I found means ofescape and groped my way in the dark to this room. Here I saw youin the act of maltreating a lady, and I--I--endeavoured to shieldher."

Cranmer grinned, but with an unsmiling face.

"A very pretty tale," he said. "Some of it may well be true,but some of it is manifestly false. What kind ofpreuxchevalier are you that draws on a man merely on thesupposition that he has spoken harsh words to a woman? Will youswear, you that have so short a time to live, that you have neverseen my wife before?"

Nanty remained silent, for it seemed hardly worth burdeninghis conscience with a lie. Cranmer spoke to the darkness behindhim. "As I thought, Gaby dear. It is another of your lovers."Again he looked at his watch. "The quarter-past--nearly thetwenty minutes. I will finish with him at the half-hour. SisterAnne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?"

He stopped to listen. "I thought it was horses. It is only theswallows chackering."

Then he turned to Nanty.

"I am not interested in you, so I will let your past alone.Soon it will be all past, for at the half-hour I propose to killyou. You have a few minutes to make your peace with whatever godsyou worship."

The words restored Nanty to his manhood. His life was over,with all its pleasant ambitions and quiet dreams. No more for himthe blown sands of Forth, and the broomy uplands, and his snuglittle study in whose drawers lay the unpublished masterpieces ofyouth. He renounced these things with scarcely a regret, for hiswhole soul was consumed with a passion of pity for the woman whomhe had so tragically failed. His brave words had been folly, andnow she must tread her bitter road alone. To where? The answer toCranmer's question came back to him out of the memory of hischildhood's fairy-tales. "Only the wind blowing and the grassgrowing." For the youth of both of them wind and grass would soonbe but the appurtenances of a grave.

Cranmer seemed to read his thoughts, for he spoke again. "Youwill have a pyre like an ancient Roman. In an hour or two thisplace will be crackling, and to-morrow it will be ashes."

He took his watch from his fob, and what he saw there made himstretch his hand to the pistol on the table. But as he moved thefigure behind him rose and plucked his arm. "Justin," she cried."Someone is coming. Listen. There are horses on the road."

He listened, and then shook her from him.

"You lie. The time is up, and I am a man of my word." Again heput out his hand.

Suddenly upon Nanty's strained ears fell the sound of ahorn.

The curricle with its oddly matched pair swung out of theinn-yard as the moon rose above the poplars. Sir Turnour sat inthe best Four-in-hand Club style, head erect, shoulders squared,hands well down, elbows close to his side; but though immobile asa Buddha, his delicate fingers were testing the mouths of hiscattle. Beside him Harry Belses was buried in the folds of hisgreat-coat, and in the narrow space at their feet, his headagainst Sir Turnour's apron, lay the spaniel Benjamin.

They passed through a sleeping hamlet, and debouched from thenarrow parish road into the broader Lynn highway. Here SirTurnour gathered up the ribbons and proceeded to try the qualityof his horses. In a trot their paces did not match, and thecurricle swayed unpleasantly, but when he sprung them into ashort gallop they went better together.

"John was right," said Sir Turnour. "There's blood in both ofthem, and willing blood. No need for fanning or towelling orchopping 'em. But they're not a sweet pair to drive, and I don'tknow how the chestnut will last the course. He has come down toooften over the sticks, I'll swear, and his off fore-leg may giveout before we're done with him. The bat-eyed bay is right enough.As they say on the road, he'll go through to hell orHackney."

The highway climbed from the dim moonlit fields to a ridge ofheath, where the going was sandy, and then to a long flat stretchbetween young woodlands. Harry, with no task to distract hismind, sat twining his fingers with impatience, and grudging everymoment when they slowed down at a turn or an ascent. But SirTurnour, immersed in his proper vocation, seemed to have shed hiscares. His manner to Belses had hitherto been civil and stiff,but now it took on the freedom of a comrade. At a rise, where thewaning moon gave a prospect, he pointed out the direction wherelay his own house of Wood Rising; he expatiated on what he couldhave provided in the way of horse-flesh had his stable beentwenty miles nearer; he had tales of the road and of the localhunts, which he recounted as to a brother sportsman; and, as thepearly spring dawn crept up the sky, he burst into a song whichhe said his own father had composed in honour of a squirrel of amare Called "Iron Devil." "Hirondelle she was christened," hesaid, "but that Frenchy jargon won't go down in Norfolk."

With that melody disaster came upon them. The off horse, thechestnut, suddenly began to jib and hang back. "Scotching it,"Sir Turnour cried. "What on earth is the matter with you? Theroad's good and the pace is easy." Then in a moment the animalseemed to go dead lame. He pulled up, flung the reins to Belses,and the next second was on the ground, passing his hands over thechestnut's legs.

"God," he cried. "I wouldn't have believed it! He has brokenhis off thigh--the bone's sticking through the skin. JohnCherrybook is an infernal tailor not to have known of this, andI'm another not to have spotted it sooner. The poor devil musthave been crocked at the start, and the mild springing I've given'em has put the cap on the mischief."

Sir Turnour took off his beaver and surveyed the rosy heavensand the wide empty landscape. "There's an inn a mile on," hesaid, "a rotten little beer-shop, but we may be able to pick upsomething. Something we must have, though it be a punch from theplough-tail."

So they limped on for a mile, Sir Turnour being wholly takenup with redressing the extravagances of the bay, who seemed tohave developed a vile trick of shouldering. The beer-shop provedto be a very small place, with a half-obliterated sign whichseemed to represent a rising or a setting sun. The landlord hadto be fetched out of bed, and appeared in a red-cotton nightcap,which was hastily doffed at the sight of Sir Turnour. He was verywilling to help, for Sir Turnour's was a name to command respect,but he had only the one beast in his stable. "He's not what I'doffer to your honour," he said, scratching his head, "for I dunnoas he has ever run in a gentleman's pair. He come to me by way ofa bad debt from my cousin Barnaby. But fetch him out, Jim," hetold his boy, "and let his honour cast an eye over him."

The horse which was produced was a big, wild-looking brown,all over flea-bites, with a queer uncertain eye. Sir Turnourexamined him critically, and nearly had his hand bitten off,while a flying hoof grazed his thigh.

"Pace," he pronounced, "and the strength of an elephant, butas shy as a trout. Don't blame me, Belses, if he pitches us bothinto a field or kicks this contraption to pieces. But there's nochoice before beggars. Put him to, my lad, and quick aboutit."

The harnessing was a dangerous business, and the innkeeper'sfinal act was to strap over the horse's eyes a piece of blackleather like the half of a coal-scuttle. "It's what we callmoping," he explained. "It's the only way to drive a hot devillike him. A gentleman like your honour will teach him manners,and I'll be bound he'll carry you to Lynn."

They departed like a whirlwind, the bay disliking hiscompanion and shying violently, and the new horse apparentlydetermined to run a race on his own account. For ten minutesHarry believed that each one would be his last. The curricleswayed and swung like a bough in a gale, and had the road notbeen straight and smooth there would have been instant disaster,for they needed every inch of its breadth. So erratic was theircourse that, in spite of their fury, they covered the groundslowly. Sir Turnour's face turned from red to purple, and themuscles stood out in knots on his wrists. He used the whipvigorously, but not all his arts could produce a decent harmony.Finally he slowed down.

"I can hold the brute," he grunted between his clenched teeth,"but, damme, I can't drive him. Soon I'll be reduced to clubbinghim, a thing I've never done in my life. He wants weighting--Icould manage him in a coach if he were one of four--but in thiscursed bandbox he plays cup and ball with me. I apologise,Belses, for giving you such a bucketing."

"Never mind me," said Harry. "All I want is to get on. Can'tyou spring them again?"

But to get on was just what Sir Turnour could not achieve. Thepair would walk uneasily and could even manage a shambling trot,but any increase of pace set the new animal plunging and the baymisbehaving in tune. Fortunately, the road was empty, and theywere passing over heathy downs where a prospect could be had fora mile ahead. But soon the country became more enclosed andpopulous, and farm wagons appeared on it, and now and then abagman's trap; and at every such encounter there was aperformance like a demented circus. . . .

The sun rose higher in the sky, the hours moved towardsmidday, and Harry's impatience grew beyond bounds.

"We have lost the trail," he cried. "Cranmer will have beenout of Lynn by dawn, and we'll never get word of him."

Sir Turnour growled assent.

They passed no villages bigger than a hamlet, and no innbetter than an alehouse, but Harry was urgent to stop at one ofthem and seek better horses.

"No earthly good," said Sir Turnour. "We're out of the horsecountry now and could pick up nothing but a farm nag. Besides,I've never yet been beat by anything that walked on four hooves,and I'll be shot if I'll begin now. I swear I'll bring these twodevils into Lynn, though I nave my arms palsied--they're devilishnear it now, I can tell you. Then they can go to the knacker'syard, which is all they're fit for. We'll get something better inLynn."

"But we'll have lost Cranmer," Harry moaned.

"Very likely. But confound you, Belses, let's take one job ata time."

At last they saw before them a far-away strip of water withthe sun on it, which was Lynn Deeps, and nearer the twin towersof a great church, and came into the outskirts of a town.

"We'll leave these brutes at the Three Tuns," Sir Turnoursaid, "for I'm not going to make a spectacle of myself with themon the Lynn cobbles."

It was very plain that the brutes were of the same mind, foras houses closed in on the road, and a boy appeared trundling ahoop, and a brick-layer with a hod, and a posse ofschoolchildren, they became all but unmanageable. The lasthundred yards of the journey saw a crab-like motion which took upthe whole width of the street. The curricle came to a standstillwith the bay on the pavement and his nose inside the inndoor.

"Get to their heads," Sir Turnour shouted to a couple ofostlers who, recognising him, pulled their forelocks. "Get themout of my sight." He and Belses tumbled off different sides ofthe vehicle, so cramped and bruised that they all but fell ontheir faces. Sir Turnour felt his fore-arms as if he wereuncertain whether they still belonged to his body. . . . Then thetwo saw a sight which caused them to forget their aches. For onthe sidewalk stood the square figure of Eben Garnock, and BobMuschat in his borrowed blacks, and the wondering Mr Dott, andJock Kinloch with a grin of welcome broadening intoamusement.

"We have forgathered, sir, as ye observe," said Eben. "Man,I'm blithe to see ye. I was feared ye had fallen by theroad."

Sir Turnour strode into the inn, beckoning the rest with a nodover his shoulder. "A room," he cried to the landlord, "andsomething to eat. Something to drink, too--ale in buckets--for mythroat is like the nether millstone." He shepherded the othersbefore him, and, when the ale came, buried his head in a quartpot.

"Now," he said. "What news? Good, I hope, for we've need ofit. My lord and I have been enduring the tortures of the damnedbehind two fiends of the Devil's own siring." He looked round thecompany, and his eyes fell on Jock, and it was Jock who took upthe tale.

"Eben and Mr Dott arrived two hours ago," he said. "Bob and Ihave been here since yesterday morning waiting for you, and ananxious wait we've had."

"Where is Mr Lammas--the Professor?"

"He stayed behind to keep guard. A place called Fenny Horton.We have found the Merry Mouth inn."

"The deuce you have!" Sir Turnour cried, and as Jock expoundedthe whereabouts of the inn, he got to his feet and strodeexcitedly about the floor.

"Fenny Horton! I know the place. Not far from Landbeach, whereold Madame Horningsea roosts. That is forty miles off--nearerfifty--and the fen roads are not like Norfolk. I know their foul'droves' as they call 'em, which they plough up when they want tomend 'em. Six inches of black dust and as hummocky as a fallow.But at any rate we know where to point for. We'll have Cranmerout of his earth by to-morrow morning."

"To-morrow will be too late," said Jock. "This is the day.Tonight is the night." And he told of the great fight at FennyHorton, at that moment in full blast, of an empty countryside,and of all things secluded and guarded for a secret purpose. Hetold his tale diffidently, for he knew that Sir Turnour wasincredulous about Mrs Cranmer's revelations.

But Overy had made the sceptic a believer.

"And that poor woman is alone!" he cried. He looked at thespaniel Benjamin, which sat on its haunches gazing at him withlanguishing eyes, and the sight stirred him to action.

"Where do you say Lammas is?" he demanded.

"God knows," said Jock. "I hope he be not in peril of hislife. Nanty's a paladin before he's a professor."

Sir Turnour plucked his watch from his fob.

"Half an hour after midday! Your Merry Mouth is five hours offby the best going--more, for the last part of the way will be acart track. It means turning from the London road at Ely andbearing west across-country by the Cottam River. There's no greatchoice of horses in Lynn fit for that pace, and we daren't riskbad cattle. A moment, sirs! At two sharp the Rover Mail startsfrom the Crown with a team of short-legged cats as prettilymatched as Mr Bicknell's greys on the Holyhead road. I've handled'em more than once, and I'd wish for none better. It's horseddown the road by old Jabez Bellwether who has a conscience and aneye for blood. . . . By God, gentlemen, there's but the one wayof it. We must play highwaymen and take possession of the Rover.Robin Trimmle will be driving her, and Abel Cross is the guard,both of 'em friends of mine. I have purchase enough in this shireto condone the villainy, and if we save the life of his Majesty'sPrime Minister, how the deuce should his Majesty's Post Officecomplain? Swallow your food, sirs, and let us be off. It's aplaguey long mile through Lynn streets to the spot beyond theSouth Gate where I hope to have a word with Robin!"

"Sir, I do not like it," said Mr Dott, alarmed by the fire inthe baronet's eye. "Cannot you persuade the proprietor and getlawful possession?"

"Not a chance," said Sir Turnour cheerfully. "Old Utterson isas stiff as a poker and would keep us arguing till midnight.We're six stout fellows, and might's right in a good cause.Nothing for it but to hold up the Rover. I reckon to persuadeRobin and Abel."

"But the seats will be taken. There will be no room forus."

"Then by heaven we'll decant the passengers! Come along. It'sthe Saturday market, and all the wharf side will be packed like abarrel of herrings. I know the place, and can lead you by quietstreets. Belses, you walk with me, and the rest scatter andfollow. Pick up the dog if he looks like straying. Our baggagecan abide in the oneMerry Mouth till we have done withthe other. Sharp's the word, for it's neck or nothing."

Half an hour later his Majesty's Mail, in all the glory ofcrimson paint and gilding, scarlet-coated guard and emblazonedroyal arms, drew up sharply at the first turning, out of Lynn onthe London road. It carried but three passengers--a younggentleman on the box seat, and inside a very pretty young ladyand an elderly man who held on his knee a portfolio of papers. Bythe wayside, in the lee of a copse, stood an odd little companyof six.

The driver saluted with his whip in response to the imperioussummons from the roadside.

"Do I see Sir Turnour Wyse?" he asked. "How can I oblige 'ee,sir?"

"You see Sir Turnour Wyse, and you can oblige him mightily. Iand my friends are travelling with you, Robin."

"Have you your tickets took, sir? There's no other names on myway-bill."

"No, we're shouldering! We're coming with you, for it's amatter of life and death. When I tell you it concerns hisMajesty's service, knowing me you'll take my word for it."

The driver looked embarrassed, and Abel the guard climbed downfrom his perch.

"I dunno as I can, Sir Turnour. . . . You see, it's amazin'irregular. I've got my orders, and I knows my dooties--"

"Of course, of course. But I promise you it will all be setright. You have my word for it that Abel and you will not beblamed. The responsibility is mine, and you never heard of mebacking out of a promise."

"But . . . but . . . I'm bound to say it, Sir Turnour,supposin' my dooty compels me to refuse?"

"Then my duty will compel me to pitch you off the seat andtake the ribbons myself. Call it a highway robbery. I summon youto stand and deliver."

Robin's broad face expanded into a grin at words which at lasthe understood. "Well, sir, if you puts it that way, I'm bound togive in. Abel, you just present your blunderbuss at his honourfor form's sake, so as we can say we made a fight of it. It ain'tloaded."

"Good," said Sir Turnour, "and now for form's sake we mustmake room for ourselves. Madame," and he took off his hat with aflourish to the young lady whose face showed sign of alarm. "Youare half a mile from the Duke's Head, from which in one hour'stime the coach called the Norfolk Hero will carry you to whateverdestination you desire. I grieve to incommode you, but I and myfriends are on a desperate errand which involves the safety ofthe realm, and we are forced to desperate shifts."

"But I will be too late," she said. "Aunt Tabitha was to sendher carriage to meet me five miles beyond Downham, and I was totravel by the Mail."

"Your aunt's horses, my dear, will take no harm from an hour'swait in this brave weather, and I assure you we will take all theharm in the world if we do not instantly start."

She still looked doubtful, but the young man who had descendedfrom the box-seat proved an unexpected ally. He was her brother,a member of the University of Cambridge, and of a sportinginclination, as his cravat and waistcoat revealed. Also herecognised Sir Turnour, who had once been gracious to him at acocking at Holkham.

"Nonsense, Sophy," he said. "Aunt Tabby's fat geldings are notworth a thought, and coachman Rufus will be glad of an extra hourin The Grapes. Sir Turnour, I have the honour of a slightacquaintance with you, and I think you know my father, SquirePetting of Langrish. Sophy, I present to you Sir Turnour Wyse.There's no good Norfolk man who won't bustle to oblige SirTurnour. If he says his business needs haste, then other businessmust wait."

The attorney proved more difficult. He flatly refused tobudge, maintaining his right as a lawful traveller, quoting theregulations for a Royal Mail, and alleging an urgent duty thatnight in Cambridge. With the help of young Mr Petting, SirTurnour very gently lifted him from the coach, and set him by theroadside. His portfolio burst open and his papers flew out, andas he collected them he threatened a variety of actions intort.

"You'll stand by me and Abel, Sir Turnour," said the alarmedRobin, to whom the legal jargon seemed ominous.

"I'll stand by you against any attorney in England. Hang it,man, don't look so glum. You're more likely to get a letter ofthanks from the Government for this than a wigging. Let's see tothe harnessing, for we have the devil of a course before us."

Very carefully Sir Turnour went over every detail. He examinedthe bitting and the coupling, saw that the traces were the properlength, the pole-chain in order, the curb properly adjusted, andthe collars, pads and harness fitting sweetly. He made certainthat each buckle and strap was in its right place. Then Eben andBob and the dog Benjamin ensconced themselves in the inside,where they promptly went to sleep, while the others mounted tothe top. Sir Turnour took the reins and gave the team the office.But first he looked at his watch. The time was two o'clock.

Fifty miles away at the same time Nanty had come out of hisdazed sleep, and was beginning to feel his way round the room ofthe sheepskins. . . . Miss Kirsty Evandale at Landbeach had spentan unquiet forenoon. Nanty's failure to return the previous nighthad filled her with anxiety, and, when no news had come of him inthe morning, she had been the prey of acute forebodings. As hehad predicted, the fight at Fenny Horton had drained the men fromthe estate. There was not a groom or a gardener left on theplace, and in the house only the old butler remained and aconsumptive footman. About eleven o'clock she had walked to theMerry Mouth inn, and had found it apparently shuttered and empty.She could not, in spite of much knocking, find the old woman whohad received Nanty, though she thought she had a glimpse of awicked old face at an upper window.

Two hours later she had walked in the same direction, but someinstinct had kept her inside the park, and had taken her to aknoll from which she could overlook a patch of road near the inn.There she saw what she feared to see, the bustle of an arrival.Horses were being led round to the stable-yard, and she saw morethan one figure by the inn-door, though she was too far off tomake out the details. She noted that their movements were quietand furtive, and in a few moments the inn had swallowed them up,and was again a blind face in the sunlight.

The spectacle confirmed her worst fears. That was happeningwhich Nanty had foretold, and not a shadow of doubt remained toher. Nanty, she feared, was dead, the victim of his foolhardycourage. Somewhere in the inn was an unhappy woman, an innocentand unwilling murderess. Some time in the dusk or in the darkwould come the victim.

There was nothing she could do, and she wept at her impotence.To her aunt she wearily recounted what were no longer fears, butawful certainties.

"There's just the one thing possible," she said. "I might warnMr Perceval. There are horses in the stable, and I could scourthe road if I only knew which one he will take. I know what helooks like, and could not miss him. He may come by either of tworoads, by Cambridge or by Huntingdon--I can't see any third wayif he is coming from London, and poor Mr Lammas was certain hewould. But I can't be on two roads at the same time."

Then Miss Georgie surprised her niece, and maybe surprisedherself.

"You're not the only one, my bonny lamb. If there's two roadsto ride, there's two folk here to ride them. I'm an auld woman,but you'll admit I'm an active one, and I can back a horse aswell as ever. What hinders you to take the one road and me theother? I'll wager if I see anything in the living image of thePrime Minister I'll have it stopped, for I can screech like awild-cat."

So about the time when Sir Turnour took the reins of the Roveroutside the town of King's Lynn, two ladies were busy in thestables of the manor of Landbeach. Only one lady's saddle couldbe found, so Miss Kirsty rode astride. They spun a crown todecide which roads they would take.

Till his dying day Harry Belses remembered the hours whichfollowed, when in the golden afternoon, through a world ofessential light and clear spring shadows, he moved swiftly to theplace of destiny. The fear which had been consuming him for days,which had made the time on the boat a purgatory, and the hours onthe road that morning a hell, seemed to have left him. He had thesense that he was in the grip of fate, and must wait humbly onthe pleasure of the gods, since all that man could do had beendone. He did not look at his watch, he paid no heed to SirTurnour's shouted bulletins which chronicled their speed; thesmooth, swift movement lulled his aching body into peace and waslike an opiate to his nerves. He did not even pray, as he haddone fervently for so long. His inward vision was filled with awoman's face, and, whereas the same vision had hitherto shown himtragic eyes and the pallor of death, it now revealed what he hadfirst loved in her, a spring-like innocence and an elfin mirth.He was comforted, but every now and then a pang of terror shotthrough his heart at his comfort. For the end was not yet. Themoment of crisis was still to come.

Sir Turnour had often driven this road, and knew all the timesallowed to the stages. He took five minutes to feel the qualityof the team and then he handled what he had described as"short-legged cats" in a way which drew from Jock Kinloch acontinuous mutter of praise. They were so perfectly balanced thatthe coach ran on even wheels, the surface was good, the hillseasy, and for miles he sprung them in a steady gallop. The hornof Abel the guard advised the toll-keepers well in advance, andthere was no slowing down. At the first change, which was done infifty seconds, a team of blue roans replaced the greys, biggeranimals with more promise of pace. "I've knocked three minutesoff your time on that stage, Robin," Sir Turnour observed, "andplease God I'll knock five minutes off the next. We must stretch'em while the going's good, for the Lord knows what we may findafter Ely."

"There's nothing to fear after Ely," said Robin. "We reckonsEly to Cambridge one of the best bits of road, unless the watersbe out."

"We're not going to Cambridge," was the answer. "We're forFenny Horton by the Cottam Dyke."

Robin cried out. "That ain't no road for the Mail. It's one ofthe wust of the droves."

"All the same it's our road. You cut out Cambridge, but I'llpromise you you'll be at the Golden Cross in London up to time.No trouble for you on that score, though the Cambridge folk maycomplain."

Jock Kinloch sat in an ecstasy of content, watching suchcoachmanship as he had never dreamed of. Mr Dott, having overcomehis first terrors, fell asleep, for he had much lee-way to makeup. Harry, wrapped in his own dreams, was only dimly conscious ofthe celestial landscape through which he swept. Now they werebetween hedges white with blossom, and in aisles of chestnut justbreaking into bloom; now in lush green meadows with sheep andcattle at graze; now skirting a slow stream, where dark currentsdrowsed among pollarded willows. They passed hamlets of ancientbrick houses festooned with honeysuckle, and through the cobbledstreets of little market-towns. And sometimes from a rise theyhad a glimpse of infinite grassy levels studded with windmillsand seamed and laced with shining waters. The afternoon wasbeginning to mellow towards evening when the white tower of ElyCathedral rose before them over the plain like a lighthouse atsea.

The change at Ely took time, for Sir Turnour descended andexamined afresh every detail of the harnessing. He shook his headover the team, two heavy chestnut wheelers, a black off leader,and for the near leader a big rawboned grey. "The worst matchwe've had," he said, "for the most critical stage. I don't likethe look of the grey. Too young and raw."

Robin also shook his head.

"That's Empson's way. He's the poorest horsemaster on theroad--always looking to skimp a penn'orth. We don't complain,because it's an easy run to Cambridge."

"It won't be an easy run to Fenny Horton," said Sir Turnourgrimly, as he remounted to the box.

Their journey now lay through a different land. They left theturnpike for a road which followed a wide dyke, and which was souneven that it shook Eben and Bob out of their slumbers. To Jockit seemed that the coach, which on the highway had been anelegant, almost a dainty, thing, had now suddenly becometop-heavy and out of proportion to the landscape. Down in theseflats among the long grasses and the water-weeds it looked aprecarious, lumbering contrivance, which any moment might stopfrom its own unwieldiness. Sir Turnour had difficulties with hiscattle, for the road was narrow, and the near leader was onlyhalf-broken to harness. It had perpetually to be checked as ittried to break its pace into a canter. As for Harry Belses, henoticed none of these things--only that the sun was gettingominously low in the west, and that the twilight was drawingnear.

Presently to Sir Turnour's relief the road climbed to the edgeof a big drain which had been embanked high above the surroundingflats. On one side was a steep descent to marshy fields, and onthe other the dyke, carpeted with water-buttercups andforget-me-nots and the broad leaves of water-lilies. The surfaceof the track was inches of powdery dust, and now and then camedeep hollows, but it ran as straight as an arrow, and it had notoll-bars or side-ways. Few men would have dared to take a coachalong such a road at the speed at which Sir Turnour took it, themore so as the team was not running sweetly. A jib on one sidewould have sent it into the water, and on the other down fortyfeet of slope into the marsh.

For the first time that afternoon Sir Turnour showed signs ofimpatience. He looked at his watch and then at the darkening sky.To Robin the driver he said: "Ten miles to Fenny Horton--five orsix to the Merry Mouth inn, which is short of the town. There weleave you to make up speed on the Huntingdon turnpike. I daren'tspring 'em as I would like, partly because of this cursed blacksoil and partly because of the grey. He's only waiting his chanceto get to his tricks."

"Pray God he don't," said Robin, who sat with tight lips. "IfI didn't know your honour for the best whip in England, I'd beout of this here concern to save my neck. I've never drivenbefore along the rigging of a roof, and s'help me if I ever doesit again."

About this time Nanty was fumbling at the door which led intothe cobwebbed room where the Cranmers were at meat. . . . Tenmiles away on the road from Cambridge a carriage, with fourhorses and postilions, was moving northward, a carriage in whichsat a slim, elderly gentleman, much wrapped up, for the eveningswere chilly and his throat was weak. Beside him sat a youngerman, who had the discreet air of a secretary. Suddenly thecarriage slowed down, there was a cry from the postilions, andthe noise of a ridden horse violently reined up. The elderlygentleman thought for a moment of highwaymen, till he wasreassured by the rider's voice, which was clearly that of awoman.

A head most curiously wrapped up in shawls looked in at thewindow, and out of the shawls an old face showed in the waninglight. The voice which spoke had a rasp and a burr which remindedthe occupant of the speech of his friend Lord Melville.

"Are you Mr Perceval? Him that's the Prime Minister? Well,I've a word for you from Landbeach, where I'm biding with theauld Leddy Horningsea. Your cousin, her they call Mrs Cranmer, isin a sore trauchle. Her scoundrel of a husband is proposing thenight to make away with you, and you've been brought here forthat purpose, and the poor lassie has no power to prevent it. Butword came secretly to us of the ploy, and my niece--that's MissChristian Evandale, whom you've maybe heard of--her and me cameout to warn you. So back you go where you came from. It's not youand your postilion lads that can cope with desperate men."

Mr Perceval had faced this kind of thing before. One glance atMiss Georgie's face convinced him of her honesty. He hopped fromhis carriage.

"There is no evil which I would not look for in JustinCranmer. But my cousin told me she would be alone at the MerryMouth, and I had many things to discuss with her. I do not knowyour name, madam, but I know Lady Horningsea well, and I amdeeply beholden to you. I shall most certainly continue myjourney, for I cannot fail the unhappy child. But I am happily ina position to protect myself."

"Unharness the leaders," he told the postilions. "Hibbert," hetold his secretary, "take one of them and ride back to theBirdcage inn. We passed it ten minutes ago. There are ten of ourmounted runners there, who have come down on Sir GilesWintringham's business. Bring them here--the Prime Minister'sorder. Meantime, madam," and he bowed to Miss Georgie, "I inviteyou to pass the time of waiting for our escort over a smallcollation. I have brought the materials for supper with me, for Idid not trust a Fenland inn. . . ."

Sir Turnour held his watch close to his eyes, for the dusk haddeepened from amethyst to purple. "I must spring 'em again--atall cost--'tis devilish late." And he tickled the leaders underthe bar, causing the grey to close up to his neighbour. To Jock,who was watching, it looked as if he was about to stretch theminto a gallop, when suddenly there appeared in the road a woodenpost, not in the middle, but about three-quarters of the distancebetween the drain on the right and the steep descent to the left.There was room enough for the coach in careful hands to passbetween the post and the water, but as luck would have it thenear leader, the grey, chose that moment to edge away from hispartner. He was going to the left of the post and nothing wouldprevent him. Jock clutched the rail, confident that the nextinstant coach and horses would be precipitated down the bank.

But in that instant the impossible happened. Sir Turnour sawthat the leader's bar would be caught by the post. He had hiswheelers tight in hand and sharply drew back their reins, causingthem to throw up their heads, which, acting on the pole chains,jerked the bar over the post's top. At the same moment, hittingthe near wheeler, he brought the splinter-bar clear. Neithercoach, horse, nor harness touched the post. As Jock drew a longbreath of relief, he saw a mile or two ahead a gleam of lightreflected in water.

"By God, sir," Robin gasped, "that's the nicest bit ofcoachmanship I ever seen. An everlasting miracle, I callsit."

"Simple enough," said Sir Turnour coolly, "if you keep yourhead and know the meaning of proper harnessing. I couldn't havedone that if the pole chain hadn't been the right length--and thewheelers properly curbed up. That's why I took such pains at Ely,and it's the truth I'm always preaching to youprofessionals."

Then he too saw the light ahead.

"That's the Merry Mouth," he cried. "That's the glow of thewindows in the mere. There you drop us, and get you on toHuntingdon and ask no questions. I owe you ten guineas for thisperformance, Robin, my lad, and five to Abel. Now for a bit ofpace down the straight."

The close shave at the post seemed to have pulled the teamtogether, for the last miles were covered at a gallop which wouldhave been fast on the Bath road. The track left the dyke side anddescended into the highway almost opposite the lodge gates ofLandbeach. The team turned neatly to the right, and, cheered bythe better surface, swung unerringly through the dark of thetrees to where the glow from the inn made a ribbon of light.

But the miracle of their escape and the quickened speedproduced no exhilaration in the four men on the top of the coach.Suddenly there descended upon them a sense of fate which caughtthe breath and chilled the heart. The light towards which theywere rushing was a bale fire which might beacon desperate things.It was like riding a finish to death rather than to victory. SirTurnour knew at last the meaning of fear, and, being unfamiliarwith the thing, could only set his jaw and curse silently. JockKinloch clutched at the rail and kept his eyes fixed on the lightahead, choking down an inclination to scream. Upon the town-clerkof Waucht there fell a sickening apprehension of horror unknownto his sober life. Harry Belses, with pale lips, fell topraying.

Then to Abel the guard came an inspiration. He plucked fromits case his yard of tin and blew a rousing blast. That was thesound which Nanty heard as he sat pinioned in the chair.

Nanty watched the hand move to the pistol. Cranmer took a longtime about it, for he was enjoying himself, and he had stillnearly a minute by his watch before the half-hour struck. Theecho of the horn was in Nanty's ear, but it might have been ahorn of elfland for all that it meant to him. He was shut up in aprison with death. His own fate did not trouble him, for he hadthat strongest provoker of courage, a burning anxiety about thefate of another.

Cranmer's hand lifted the pistol, and as it did so two otherhands closed on it. Gabriel had come out of the shadow--Nanty sawher face white in the green lamplight--and she flung her slightweight upon her husband's arm. Her clutch was so desperate thathe could not shake her off. He brought round his left hand andpushed her face away from him, but he did not loosen her grip.Her neck must have been almost dislocated, the slim arms were ata cruel tension, but still the fingers held. Nanty, in a coldsweat of misery, saw the woman he loved in an extreme of bodilypain.

Cranmer saw it too, and there was that in the sight whichroused the fiend in him. Perhaps he had never before physicallymaltreated her; his hate had revealed itself in subtler tortures.But now the sight of her suffering was like the smell of blood toa tiger. To Nanty's eyes his face lost its evil beauty, for itlost humanity. Suddenly the features seemed to dissolve and blurand the eyes to become pits of fire. It was now the face, not ofa devil, but of a maniac.

He wrenched his right hand loose and held the pistol at herbreast. He had forgotten his deeply meditated plan, by which hehad reserved her for a long torment of public shame. He was awild beast now, hot with the lust to kill. Her arms were bound byhis left arm to her side, and the pistol barrel was an inch fromher heart. His mad eyes were waiting to exult over her mortalfear.

But fear she showed none. There was no drooping despair nowabout her, for she was a free woman again. She faced himsquarely, her eyes mocking and challenging.

Nanty saw her purpose. She was luring him to shoot, in thehope that her death might be the salvation of the other. Thepistol was single-barrelled; if it had to be reloaded there wasthe chance of interruption, of some miraculous deliverance. Heread her soul, and he went crazy. His bonds made movementimpossible, but he had his voice. He shouted insults at Cranmer,the hoarded insults which had been shaping themselves for days inhis subconscious mind. His voice rang in the silent place with afury that might well have brought his enemy tooth and claw uponhim. But the enemy did not turn his head. He was savouring theobscene delight of the torturer, holding the woman in hismadman's grip and gloating over her helplessness. . . .

The shot rang out. . . . Nanty's bursting eyes saw Gabrielstagger backward and collapse on the floor. But he saw anotherthing. Cranmer had dropped over the arm of a chair and hung limp,while his pistol clattered on the boards. . . .

Then came a riot of confusion. Gabriel, not dead but living,was kneeling before him. She was tearing at his bonds with weakhands. "Quick, quick," she muttered, as she wrestled with theknots. "Let us get away. God has smitten him. Quick, oh,quick."

Then a hand not hers slit the cords. Nanty's cramped limbs hadno power in them, and he would have fallen out of the chair ifstrong arms had not sustained him. He dimly recognised that hewas being held by Harry Belses.

A face rose like the moon in the green lamplight--a rosy but asolemn moon. He saw that it was Sir Turnour. He was returning apistol to the case at his belt.

"You have come," Nanty cried. "Oh, thank God! Thank God!"

Sir Turnour was looking at the figure huddled in the chair."Stone dead," he said. "Pretty shooting in this foul light. Itwouldn't have done to miss, or it would have been the lady'sturn. Don't let her look this way, for it ain't a pleasant sight.Hold her, Belses. I'll get this thing out of sight. Gad, she'sgoing to faint."

But Gabriel did not faint. While Nanty, relieved from hisbonds, had leaned forward on the table for support, Belses hadtaken her in his arms. She seemed to be half in a stupor. Shestroked Nanty's face as if to convince herself that he was alive,and then looked blindly round the room. Suddenly she broke fromBelses, ran round the table, and stood looking down at her deadhusband.

"I killed him," she sighed, and her voice was like asleepwalker's. "He was mad, but he was my husband, and I killedhim. I tried to force the pistol round so that I could shoot him.I did not know I was so strong. . . . Oh, I did not know."

"Nonsense, my dear," said Sir Turnour. "I shot the blackguardjust when he was going to pistol you." He picked up Cranmer'sweapon from the floor. "See, it is still loaded. Will thatconvince you?"

But Gabriel was beyond argument. The cumulative anxieties ofmonths and the tension of the last hour had numbed her mind, andleft only a fevered imagination. She covered her eyes, and herfortitude broke down in hysterical sobs.

In vain Harry Belses strove to comfort her. She was stillliving in a nightmare world, and, since action was no morerequired of her, she was left at the mercy of its terrors. Nanty,watching her with deep concern, feared for her reason. . . . Hesaw other faces appear in the room--Jock Kinloch, with tousledhair and blood on his cheek--the scared and homely visage of MrDott. He saw Eben's great arms carry away the dead Cranmer. Heheard Bob Muschat's voice. "The redbreasts have gotten thema'--a' but Winfortune, wha slippit off on a horse. But first hefired the stables, and soon the hale place will be in a lowe.D'ye no smell the reek?" It was Gabriel only that he thought of.Gabriel hovering on the verge of a mindless horror, and it wasplain from the faces of Belses and Sir Turnour that they saw theperil.

Then Sir Turnour had an inspiration.

"Where's that dog? Where's her spaniel? Somebody fetch thedog. It may do the trick."

Into the room rushed Benjamin, squandering himself about thefloor, his paws slipping on the boards, his ears floppingdementedly. He found his mistress and leapt on her, pressing awet nose against her, as she sat crouched in a chair. In a secondhe was in her lap, wildly endeavouring to lick her face.

She stared at him stupidly, and then something died out of hereyes. The panic and horror disappeared, and were replaced bytenderness. Once again she knew the habitable and homely world."Benjamin," she crooned, as she fondled his head and pressed himto her. "Oh, Benjamin, you clever dog to have found me! I did notthink ever to see you again." Tears came, but they were healingtears.

With Benjamin were others, one a slight little man with akindly pinched face between the high collars of his great-coat.He sat on the table beside her and stroked her arm. "Courage, mydearest Gaby," he said. "It is all over. You have been a lambamong wolves, but the Lord has shown you His mercy."

He slipped from the table, for two women had entered the room.One was young, and flushed, as if she had just come from thehunt. She flung off her riding gauntlets and took Gabriel in herarms. The other had a head most wonderfully wrapped up in shawls,but her air was that of a grenadier. She issued masterfulorders.

"What are you folk staring here for?" she cried. "D'you notsee that the poor lassie is clean forfochen? Bed's the place foryou, my bairn. Your cousin's carriage is below, and in an hourwe'll have you between the sheets with a hot pig at your feet.Give her your arm, my lord," she told Belses, "and don't standglowering like a stookie. The house is burning."

As the others turned to follow, Mr Spencer Perceval addressedSir Turnour. "You have conferred infinite obligations upon me,sir," he said in his precise tones. "You have preserved my dearward's life, and you have been the means of bringing to justice agang of very dangerous miscreants. Also you have saved the Statethe expense of a hanging. I fear you will have to tarry here forthe inquest, when the full story can be told. Be assured that hisMajesty's Government owe you a debt of which they will not beunmindful."

"Not me," said Sir Turnour. "My part was only a trifling bitof coachmanship and a lucky shot. There's the fellow that playedthe master hand," and he pointed to Nanty, who was raisinghimself on very shaky legs.

The Prime Minister bowed. "Pray, sir, will you tell me thename of my benefactor?"

"My name is Anthony Lammas. I am a minister of the Kirk ofScotland and a professor of logic in a Scottish college."

The little man beamed.

"A divine and a philosopher and a man of deeds. I think yournation has the monopoly of that happy combination."

Two days later Nanty sat in the very summer house at Landbeachin which he had first talked with the Balbarnit ladies. It wasagain a morning of sun and light spring airs, and the turf roundthem was starry with flowers. He himself still bore marks of illusage in a bandaged head, but his sturdy nerves had sufferedlittle damage, and the healthy colour of youth was back in hischeeks. The woman by his side had undergone an amazingtransformation, as if the soul which had been long absent fromher body had now returned to it. Her face was pale, but it was nolonger a mask of tragedy. The ladies of Landbeach--and Lady Janein her desire to care for another had forgotton to be aninvalid--had provided her with clothes that became her betterthan the rough garments of the hill and the road in which Nantyhad hitherto seen her. He saw that she was lovelier than he hadthought, and that she was very young.

Mr Spencer Perceval, after assuring himself of the safecustody of the prisoners, and sending certain express messages totown, had taken his leave, promising that he would return in aweek to claim his ward. To Nanty he had been very gracious in hisshy, precise way. He had promised that the St Andrews businesswould be expeditiously settled. "You have put us all in bonds ofgratitude," he had said. "Lord Snowdoun is your debtor--I knewsomething about the affair of young Belses--and as for my wardand myself we owe you our lives. Under God, Mr Lammas," he hadadded. "Let us never forget the great Disposer."

With him had gone Sir Turnour Wyse, a man once more at peacewith the world. Sir Turnour, regretting loudly that more urgentduties had prevented his seeing the championship fight at FennyHorton, had hastened to that town to get hold of one Tarky Bald,who had won the belt after desperate battles, with a notion ofmatching him, for the honour of Norfolk, against his own localchampion. For Sir Turnour Nanty had now not only that respect dueto one who represented in all things his exact opposite, butaffection for a human creature so massive and so nobly secure inits own code of life. It was Jock Kinloch who had delivered thetrue judgment. "Yon's England," he had told Nanty. "We don'tbreed them like that in the north. We're maybe cleverer andquicker, and we're just as brave when it comes to the pinch, butwe're cockleshells compared to yon even keel. If I saw much ofhim I'd be always differing from him, but, man, I should also bedumb with admiration. I've no fear of Boney when I think of Wyseand his kind. He's like the stone in the Bible--whoever falls onit will be broken, and on whomsoever it shall fall it will grindhim to powder."

Sir Turnour had paid proper homage to Miss Kirsty's charms,but he had departed without regrets, for indeed no woman was everlikely to bulk large in his life. It was as well, for he wouldhave had no chance. Jock was again the chosen cavalier, for theevents of the past days seemed to have changed the modish youngwoman back to the country girl. It was of Fife that they spoke inthat foreign lowland place, of Fife and of their childish doings.Jock, too, had altered, and out of the hobbledehoy was emergingthe man, a stiff-jawed, masterful, mirthful being, with, as Nantyobserved, some of his formidable father's ways. Even Miss Georgiehad taken him into her favour. It was comforting to have someoneamong those kindly alien grandees who spoke her own tongue.

So one love affair seemed to have happy auguries. Nantyapproved with a sigh, for he had been forced to admit thedownfall of his own. The first sight of Gabriel and Belsestogether had shown him the truth. Compared with her strengthHarry was only a windlestraw, and set against her spiritualfineness no more than a clod. But this was a woman to whom alover must be a child. Her eyes as she looked on the young manhad had the maternal glow of a Madonna's. She would shape himinto something worthy, for she had the fire in her to fuse thecoarsest ore and draw out the gold. . . . As for Nanty himself hehad not the same need of her, and assuredly she had no need ofhim. The cobbler, having had his vision, must return soberly tohis last.

Yet, as she sat by his side, she seemed to have disturbingthoughts.

"I cannot repay you," she said. "You were willing to give yourlife for me. . . . When I saw you bound in that chair waiting ondeath, I seemed to be looking at a Crucifixion. I shall never getyour face out of my mind. . . . Why did you do it? You did notknow me as Harry knew me. We shared nothing together. Yourconduct was far beyond the obligation of manhood or chivalry. Itexceeded the duty of the most dutiful Christian. I cannot fathomit, and I cannot repay it. . . . What will you do now? You aretoo great for the common road of life."

"No," said Nanty. "You flatter me, for I am the commonestclay. But I will say something to you which, as soon as it isuttered, I want you to forget. I have been in love with you sinceI first saw you that morning on the hill. I have been happy evenwhen I was most afraid, for I would gladly have died for you. Ihave been living in a dream, and all the time I knew it was adream. . . . I am wide awake now, and I have put it behind me.Some day you will marry Harry Belses. Be kind to him, for he ismy dearest friend--"

Pain was again in her face.

"Oh, I am born to bring unhappiness to those who love me!" shecried. "You have given me everything and I can give younothing."

"You can sometimes remember me," he said gently.

Round the corner of the summer-house came the apologetic faceof Mr Dott. He had a bundle of parchments in his hand, anink-horn, and a quill.

"Your pardon, mem," he said. "Your pardon, Professor. If I maymake so bold I would like Mrs Cranmer's name appended to thesedocuments. Just the scart of a pen and my job is done, and,gudesakes, it has been a weariful job. Little I thought when Istarted from Waucht that I was to travel through the feck ofEngland, not to speak of fires and slaughterings."

Nanty laughed and was back again in the light of commonday.

"Mr Dott reminds me," he said, "that I too must be getting onwith my business."

Very early on a morning in mid-May theMerry Mouthcutter landed Nanty at the harbour of St Andrews. He had comenorth by the Leith packet, and, falling in with Eben Garnock inthat port, had been set across the Firth in the summer night, andhad reached his destination when the first cocks were crowing inthe East Neuk farms. A letter had apprised Mrs McKelvie of thetime of his arrival, but the packet had been slow, and but forEben he would have been twenty-four hours late. As it was he wasonly a night behind his time. His landlady, expecting that hewould post from Kirkcaldy, would even now be preparing hisbreakfast. As his feet touched the harbourside stones the townclock was striking seven.

The familiar smells of salt and tar and herrings greeted him,and on his ear fell the babble of awakening life in the littlecity. The jackdaws were busy in the towers of St Regulus, and hecould hear the voice of a man crying the morning baps. Thehousewives in the wynds were fetching water from the pumps--hecaught the distant clack of their tongues. The Professor ofHumanity, who had a weak digestion, would be returning from hispre-breakfast walk. He felt himself welcomed by the gentle handof old homely things. Pleasantly he thought of his little studyand the drawer with the manuscript of his great treatise on therelation of art and morals, and the poem on Cardinal Beatounwhich was to rival Mr Walter Scott. As he climbed the steepcobbles he reflected that he had successfully accomplished hismission. He saw the pleased surprise in the Principal's face thatso much should have been done so expeditiously; he heard hiscongratulatory words, and observed the sour smile of DrWotherspoon, his Moral Philosophy rival.

The thoughts that had filled his mind on his journey had nowdispersed like an early mist. Sad thoughts they had been, some ofthem--regrets which he tried in vain to stifle. Memories of aface and eyes and voice which were still too vivid for his peace.But he had also had his comforting reflection that he had provedthe manhood of which he had not before been wholly certain, andrecovered that youth which in a poet must never be suffered todie. There had also been at the back of his head the thought thathe was returning to dear and familiar things. Now as he enteredMid Street this last had dominated and expelled the rest. He wasvery content to come home.

As he entered his lodgings a faint smell of burning came tohis nostrils.

"Babbie," he shouted, "you are letting the porridge burnagain. Have I not told you a hundred times that I cannot abideburnt porridge?"

THE END

This site is full of FREE ebooks -Project Gutenberg Australia